Maharani

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Don’t know as yet. We left our bags at the station.’

  ‘I’ll help you find a place.’

  When Leela had finished eating, we left the restaurant and went in search of a hotel room in the CP area. It was the tourist season and all the hotels were full.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Sheela. ‘We’ll sleep at the station and take a taxi to the airport early in the morning. The flight’s at eight.’

  ‘You can stay with me,’ I said impulsively. ‘I’ve got a room nearby. You two can sleep on the bed and I’ll put a mattress on the floor for myself.’

  Friends and relatives of the guests were constantly in and out of the guest house, with the result that the caretaker was never too sure about who was tenant, guest, casual visitor or stranger. Such places were rare, but they did exist in some parts of Delhi.

  I took the sisters out to dinner, and Leela did full justice to the chicken sizzler and a chocolate sundae. Then we collected their bags and I brought them home in a taxi. All this had set me back about a thousand rupees. No holiday in Kathmandu for me!

  Leela and Sheela made themselves at home in my room. Very sportingly, they slept on the floor, having first removed the Dunlopillo mattress from my bed. Normally I’m a good sleeper but plywood isn’t the ideal surface on which to enjoy a good night’s sleep. Even with the lights out, the girls kept chatting away till past midnight. I slept fitfully, dreaming one of my repetitive ‘travel’ dreams, in which I arrive in a foreign country having lost my money and my passport and end up in jail.

  I woke to the sound of moaning and groaning from ground zero. My watch showed 2 a.m. Presently I became aware of someone climbing into bed with me. It was sister Leela. Was she a sleepwalker, or was she just uncomfortable on the floor?

  She wasn’t sleepwalking, she was cuddling up to me. Her full breasts were pressed against my palpitating chest, and her lips were exploring mine. Who was I to resist such a voluptuous creature?

  I kissed her lightly, put my arm around her waist, drew her towards me. She put her lips to my ear. She was whispering something.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said, loud enough to wake the dead.

  I sat up with a start. The beautiful moment had passed. There was to be no frantic lovemaking at two in the morning. Instead, a picnic.

  I got up, switched on the light, and went to the larder.

  ‘Is there something to eat?’ asked Leela hopefully.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

  ‘You’re so kind. I could kiss you.’

  ‘You already have.’

  I found some eggs and several buns. I fried an egg and made her a bun-omelette. Leela gobbled it up.

  Sheela was now wide awake, demanding her share of this predawn breakfast. I made her a bun-omelette too.

  ‘It’s super,’ said Leela, licking her lips. ‘Can I have another?’

  I made her another bun-omelette. I made one for myself too. I was getting to be quite good at it.

  Two hours and several bun-omelettes later, the girls were ready to leave for the airport. I retrieved my mattress and returned to dreamland. Arriving in a foreign land, I was met by H.H. holding out a pari of handcuffs.

  16

  Three years slipped by quickly, enlivened only by another brief visit from sisters Sheela and Leela, who took advantage of my hospitality on their way to Goa. They were always going somewhere during their holidays. And I was always stuck in one place, struggling to survive on an invisible income.

  I was becoming quite fond of the sisters. Their youth and vitality made me feel ten years younger when I was with them. Sheela was the more attractive; she took care of herself, had the figure of a tennis player and the looks of a Far Eastern movie star. Leela was chubby, which was only to be expected in view of her voracious appetite, but she was not ungainly or obese. I think she lost weight simply by trying to keep up with her more athletic sister.

  It had been over a year since they last met me, and they brought me the latest Mussoorie gossip; also a letter from Dr Bisht.

  I should have mentioned that when I left Mussoorie I had given up the cottage and kept some of my things with the good doctor, who had let me use one of his storerooms. Now he wanted the room in order to expand his dispensary. I told the girls about my problem, and Sheela told me not to worry, she’d collect my stuff (books and files and those posters of Pablo’s) and look after it until I could come and collect everything.

  Grateful for their help, I took them to dinner at the Imperial, blowing a month’s earnings on a sumptuous meal. Leela drooled over the menu, ordering kababs and a tandoori chicken for herself. Sheela, to my relief, ordered spaghetti in tomato sauce. I settled for fish and chips. When the waiter brought us the wine list I looked at the price and shuddered. Fortunately for my pocket and my peace of mind, the girls said they didn’t touch alcohol. I suggested mulligatawny soup, praising its health-giving properties, and looking up at the waiter I said, ‘It’s a speciality of the house, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ he responded, without batting an eyelid.

  ‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ I said with feeling.

  Actually, the dinner went off quite well, and the mulligatawny soup brought forth a flood of Mussoorie gossip.

  ‘And how is the Maharani’s Brigadier?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Dead,’ said Sheela just as casually.

  It took me two or three spoonfuls of mulligatawny soup to get over my surprise.

  ‘Already? What was it—a heart attack? Neena needs a battalion, not a lone brigadier.’

  ‘No dear, it wasn’t that. She was very fond of the old soldier. But making her will in his favour did it for him.’

  ‘The expectation of so much wealth may have been too much for him. His blood pressure must have shot up.’

  ‘Nothing like that. He was run over by a car.’

  ‘Bad luck. Neena must have been devastated.’

  ‘She was very upset,’ said Sheela, tucking into her spaghetti. (Leela had by now begun her assault on the chicken.) ‘Especially so because the driver of the car happened to be her younger son, Karan.’

  I almost choked on a potato chip. ‘Well, well,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Well, well … And how did it happen? Purely an accident, of course.’

  Leela looked up from her chicken, now sadly diminished, and spoke one word, ‘Impurely,’ with emphasis, before resuming her nourishment.

  ‘It happened in Dehra,’ said Sheela. ‘The Brigadier had been shopping in Astley Hall. He had just bought some flowers for the Maharani. A bouquet of red roses and a bunch of gladioli. He was crossing the road, arms full of flowers, to get to his car on the opposite side, when another car came down the road, going very fast. It struck the Brigadier and sent him flying. His head hit a lamp post. He lay there in a heap, all covered with flowers. The shopkeepers knew him and took him to the military hospital, but he was already dead.’

  ‘And the car, didn’t it stop?’

  ‘Not at first. But further on, it went out of control and ended up against the park railings. Prince Karan was at the wheel. He was drunk, of course. He was locked up, but released the next day. Said the Brigadier wasn’t looking when he walked across the road.’

  ‘H.H. must have been very upset.’

  ‘Didn’t stop drinking for a week. Declared that Prince Karan wouldn’t get a rupee when she died.’

  ‘More wills in the offing. Well, let’s hope there are no more accidents.’

  ‘You stay away from her, my friend. Those two sons of hers are no good. They might think you are one of her lovers. They’ll do anything to get their hands on her money. And as soon as she’s dead, they’ll sell all her properties.’

  Dinner over, we stepped out into a chilly December night. Delhi was getting its winter rain and a light drizzle swept across the city.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ I asked the girls.

  ‘W
ith you, of course. Where else?’

  17

  Lights! Camera! Action!

  Hollow Oak was a hive of activity. Early evening, and there were people all over the place: some in colourful costumes, some in jeans and T-shirts, some in formal dinner suits. Someone was calling out instructions on a megaphone, his voice drowned out by the shrill barking of several Pomeranians. The entire scene reminded me of a childhood nursery rhyme:

  Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,

  The beggars are coming to town.

  Some in rags and some in bags,

  And some in velvet gowns!

  I had returned to Mussoorie after several years, had taken a gentle stroll down to Barlowganj, and found Hollow Oak to be the location for a Bollywood film. I was feeling a little depressed. In my extended absence, my manuscripts and papers had suffered from damp, leaking roofs and the depredations of rats. Most of the damage had occurred while they were in the good doctor’s keeping; he’d been far too busy to check on their condition.

  Pablo’s posters had been eaten through or had simply rotted away. Just recently I had read that old film posters were being bought at fabulous prices by collectors in the USA. A fortune had been disintegrating in the doctor’s godown. My fault entirely; I should have retrieved them much earlier. But fortune was always eluding me. And H.H. was always asking me to witness her wills—a sure sign that I was not a beneficiary!

  One poster did survive in a reasonably good condition—Hitchcock’s Vertigo—and I was tempted to put it up on the wall of my bedroom, as a sort of tribute to Pablo. But realizing that it would soon become prey to fish ants, I folded it up and put it away in a trunk.

  I was now living in a different part of town, some distance from Hollow Oak, but I was still a good walker, and it was early October, a month when the hill slopes are showing off their post-monsoon foliage in a variety of hues—dahlias gone wild, in shades of mauve, magenta and startling red; tall cosmos swaying in the breeze; wild geranium tucked away among the ferns; asters flourishing on retaining walls; and bronzed chrysanthemums vying for attention with massive marigolds. Gardens both natural and man-made are at their best in the brief autumn before Diwali. This is what always draws me back to the hills.

  Good weather brings in visitors, including moviemakers, and every autumn there are one or two films being shot on location in and around Mussoorie. In the old days they set up studio at the Savoy, but after it burnt down they had to look elsewhere, and it was not surprising that they should have been attracted to the spacious lawns and chalet-type architecture of Hollow Oak. And of course H.H. would have extracted a huge amount of money from the producers, who would also have been expected to replenish her bar on a daily basis, with the best single malts and other life-enhancing liquors and liqueurs.

  Once the evening’s shooting was over, the bar came to life, closing only at two or three in the morning when the revellers were more dead than alive.

  And what of the film? It was a big production, and there were stars and starlets, supporting players, directors and assistant directors, cameramen and clapboard boys, make-up artistes, costumiers, consultants of all kinds, and lurking on the fringes a producer who looked as though he was convinced that he was about to lose a fortune. And he was probably right.

  Into this cauldron I wandered that day, and was promptly mistaken for the catering manager. I suppose I looked like one.

  ‘Where’s the canteen?’ asked a bright young starlet, exhibiting a large expanse of midriff. ‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’

  ‘That’s why you have such a good figure,’ I said by way of flattery, but she did not look amused.

  ‘Never mind my figure, I’m starving.’

  ‘If you follow that man with the bulging waistline, you’ll find the canteen.’

  ‘But that’s our star, Nasha Naveen.’

  ‘Well, he’s not wearing his waist-constrictor today. What’s your name?’

  ‘Lily.’

  ‘Nice name. You’ll go far with it.’

  A flashy young man in below-the-knee shorts grabbed her by the arm. He had hairy legs and splayed feet. Another leading man, no doubt.

  ‘Come on, Lily, help me rehearse my lines,’ he said, and led her away; he looked back and gave me an unfriendly stare. ‘Aren’t you with the makeup crew?’

  ‘Catering manager,’ I said. ‘Eat well, sleep well, live well. We look after your well-being. For beautiful feet try spaghetti with meat.’

  He hurried away, probably thinking I was an escaped lunatic.

  They were shooting a scene under the horse chestnut tree. The female lead was singing very badly (she’d be dubbed later no doubt) while she cavorted round the tree, followed by a lascivious-looking fellow who was the hero’s rival in love. It being October, the chestnuts were ripe and ready to fall. One did fall. It struck the randy anti-hero on the bridge of the nose and brought him to a halt.

  ‘That’s the second time I’ve been hit by a chestnut. Must we shoot under this tree?’

  ‘The script calls for it,’ said the director, who was making his first film (he was the producer’s brother-in-law). ‘Let’s give it another try.’

  They did another take, and this time a chestnut struck the heroine on her ample bosom, disappearing down her blouse. She gave a shriek, presumably of distress (although it may have been of delight), and did a little jig, but to no avail; the chestnut had vanished.

  ‘Now that’s a trick worthy of the great Mustafa Pasha,’ I said, referring to a magician of yore. ‘A great scene. Keep it for the film.’

  Everyone stared at me.

  ‘And who do you think you are?’ asked the leering anti-hero.

  ‘Yes, who are you?’ asked the director.

  ‘Catering manager,’ I said, and made my escape while they were gathering fallen chestnuts.

  I found H.H. on her back veranda, sipping a Bloody Mary. She had put on a little weight, and her hair was quite grey, but she had lost none of her bounce, her vivacity. Three hysterical Poms emerged from behind her easy chair and darted at me, snapping at my heels. Very gently, I kicked them away.

  ‘How dare you assault my little ones!’ shouted Neena. ‘I’ll report you to People for Animals. Now sit down and have a drink. Where have you been all these years?’

  ‘Here and there. Making a living.’

  ‘How terribly boring. You should have married me—then you’d have been rich.’

  ‘I could have put up with your lovers,’ I said, ‘but not with your dogs.’ And fended off another counter-attack from the Poms, who had replaced pekes as her favourite breed.

  ‘Have you come to see me, or to take part in this film they’re shooting on my property?’

  ‘I know nothing about the film. Saw all this activity from the road, and thought the mob had taken over the palace as in the French Revolution.’

  ‘My head’s too beautiful to be chopped off.’

  ‘So was Marie Antoinette’s. Didn’t someone steal the basket in which it fell?’

  ‘You’re the storyteller.’

  ‘How much are those film people paying you?’

  ‘What makes you think they’re paying me anything?’

  ‘Your charitable works don’t extend to Bollywood. It must be a good amount. And most of it in black.’

  ‘Go away, you horrible man. Why have you come back after so long? I heard you were starving somewhere on the outskirts of Delhi. Those girls kept me informed.’

  ‘And you didn’t think of sending me a money order.’

  ‘Didn’t have your address. No, don’t go. Pour yourself a drink. I want to talk to you about my will.’

  I poured myself a drink. There was no one else to pour it.

  ‘Kartik is a helpless drunk. And the other boy—he’s a criminal. I don’t want them inheriting my money, or my property, or my jewels.’

  ‘Give it all to me.’

  ‘What a waste that would be. You’d go through it in a year.’

&nbs
p; ‘Six months. I’d go to Timbuctoo, Honolulu and Kalamazoo; I’d go to South America and look up the Montalbans.’

  ‘Don’t mention them to me. Just pour me a small drink. Then we’ll watch them shooting this awful film. And listen to me. I’m not so mean and I’m still quite fond of you. I’ll leave you something in my will on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ll have to look after my dogs.’

  I spilt vodka all over my trousers.

  ‘What a horrible suggestion. You know I dislike dogs—especially the yapping, snapping breeds that you favour. I don’t think you’ll find anyone to keep them. Not for all the pearls in the world.’

  ‘Hans will take care of them. I’ll leave him the property. He’ll look after Hollow Oak and the dogs. Let’s go and look at the stars,’ said Neena, getting up with some difficulty.

  ‘They don’t shine so brightly,’ I said. ‘Fading stars, mostly.’

  ‘You’re just jealous. Wouldn’t you like to be in films?’

  ‘I’m not sure. There’s something to be said for anonymity.’

  She took me by the arm and we staggered around to the front of the house. They had given up shooting under trees (too hazardous) and were doing a scene on the lawn.

  ‘They’ve trampled all over the flower beds,’ said H.H. ‘Not a chrysanthemum survives.’

  Someone brought her a chair and she subsided into it. A young woman stepped out of the crowd, ran over to us, and touched Neena’s feet.

  ‘Somebody loves you,’ I said.

  ‘Everybody loves me.’

  ‘And your rubies and your pearls.’

  ‘Shut up, you impoverished hack.’

  I shut up.

  Nasha Naveen was doing a scene with the little starlet who had spoken to me on my arrival. I couldn’t catch the dialogue, but he was promising her something and she was expressing her thanks; then her expression changed and she lunged forward, a dagger in her hand. It looked quite realistic. Nasha retreated, and in doing so, stepped all over H.H.’s snapdragons. Neena’s reaction was equally realistic.

  ‘Get out of my flower bed, you fat fool!’ she screamed. And rising from her chair, she made for him with a garden rake. Naveen fled the scene.