The Rose of Tibet

by Lionel Davidson

He did all these things before 24 January 1950; and early in the morning of 25 January he walked out with his bag into Fitzmaurice Crescent and whistled for a taxi to take him to the air terminal in Kensington High Street. He thought he would be taking one back again within two months.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1

  JANUARY is the first month of the cold season in Calcutta, and though the temperature, in the low seventies, was brisk by local standards, Houston found it spring-like after the damp chill of London. He walked tirelessly about the town, and by his fourth day reckoned to have covered the major part of it. He had ample time to do this. Lister-Lawrence was away. Nobody knew when he would return.

  Twice a day, morning and afternoon, Houston walked from his hotel, the Great Eastern, to Chowringhee where Lister- Lawrence had his office in the offices of the Commissioner for the United Kingdom, and stated his business to an eager succession of Bengali clerks. Although each seemed to be called Mukherjee or Ghosh, he had never somehow managed to strike the same one twice.

  ‘Yes, sir. How can I help you, please?’

  ‘You might remember I called yesterday. To see Mr Lister-Lawrence.’

  ‘Ah, you would have seen a colleague of mine. I am Mr Mukherjee, sir. If you will tell me your name I will make a note for Mr Lister-Lawrence. He is away at the moment.’

  ‘Is he going to be away much longer?’

  ‘Oh, no. This afternoon, perhaps, he will return. What is your business, please, sir?’

  Houston was at first mildly amused by the appetite of the Bengali clerks for information about himself, but by the fifth day, found himself becoming a little impatient of the delay. After breakfast that morning, he strode up Chowringhee determined to wrest some information from Mr Mukherjee or Mr Ghosh himself.

  He said, ‘I’ve been waiting for the last four days, and I can’t wait much longer. Can’t you tell me where I can get in touch with Mr Lister-Lawrence?’

  ‘Ah, you must have seen one of my colleagues, sir. I am Mr Ghosh. What is your name, please?’

  Houston gave it, but he declined to provide the basis for another note, pointing out that eight were already awaiting Lister-Lawrence.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. I must know your business –’

  Houston said, pleasantly, that he wasn’t going to state it, and after a somewhat rambling argument had begun to turn away, when Mr Ghosh caught his sleeve.

  ‘Oh, wait, sir!’ he cried. ‘Mr. Lister-Lawrence is here. He returned last night. He is very busy but if you will only tell me your business – It is a most strict rule –’

  A few minutes later he was shaking hands with Lister- Lawrence.

  He was a tall, thin man in a duck suit, with heavy shadows under his eyes and nicotine stains on his fingers. He looked as if he had not had a good night’s sleep for some time, and his grasp was brief and limp.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to keep calling. I’ve been away for a few days. It’s really very hard to know,’ he said, waving Houston to a chair and sitting down himself, ‘what we can do for you here. I’m sure we sent every scrap of information as it came in to your Mr Stahl.’

  Houston told him what he thought might be done.

  ‘Yes. Well, you can try. I’m sorry about the death certificates. I’d stretch a point if I could, but my hands are tied. I don’t know if I’ve quite got it,’ he said, offering his cigarettes, ‘about the corroboration. There’s not very much to corroborate, is there? We’ve only got the single signal from Lhasa.’

  ‘I wondered if I could borrow that, and the rest of the correspondence, to copy.’

  ‘I expect you could do that.’

  ‘And see any Press reports there might have been about the avalanche.’

  Lister-Lawrence pursed his lips. ‘I doubt if you’ll get much joy there. There must be dozens of avalanches every day in that part of the world. Still, you never know.’

  ‘Also this business of the caravan they were supposed to join – I thought it might be an idea to get a signed statement from someone who was with it.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About conditions on the way. It seems a possible avenue.’

  ‘Oh, quite. The difficulty there would be to find the people. It’s really something for the Tibetan trade man in Kalimpong – he issues the licences and personal chitties for everyone who goes in and out. I could drop him a line, if you want,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘Or better still you could go up there.’

  ‘To Kalimpong?’ Houston said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Isn’t it a long way to go?’

  ‘You’ve come a long way already,’ Lister-Lawrence said reasonably. ‘And I think you’d find Sangrab a very decent old chap. Mind you, I should point out that they’ve all gone a bit funny up there this year. They’ve fallen out with the devils and are holding prayer meetings all over the country. They’re not too keen on answering foreigners’ questions.’

  ‘They’d save themselves, and us, too,’ Houston said diffidently, ‘a lot of trouble if they’d just answer one simple one. For instance, they must have some register of foreigners who die there. A burial record of some kind, say.’

  ‘Yes, well, they don’t actually bury people.’

  ‘Whatever they do. Cremate them, then. Someone’s got to keep score,’ Houston said lightly, fighting down the deep revulsion for his task that swept over him again.

  ‘I’m afraid they don’t cremate them, either.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘Oh, well they have their own sort of customs, you know,’ Lister-Lawrence said, energetically tapping his cigarette ash. ‘I doubt if this is a very profitable field.’

  ‘What do they do?’ Houston said again after a few silent moments.

  ‘Well. Vultures, actually,’ said Lister-Lawrence, apologetically. ‘I’m frightfully sorry, old chap. We all have our own customs, though, you know. They say it’s really very hygienic and all that… . There isn’t much point in pursuing it, is there? But there’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t trot up and see old Sangrab. And you could certainly ask around in Kalimpong about the caravan. They make up all the teams there. It’s rather a jolly place, Kalimpong,’ he ended, somewhat out of breath.

  Houston felt suddenly very sick. He stubbed out his cigarette. He said presently, ‘Supposing I don’t get very far in Kalimpong, is there any other Tibetan representative in that area I might see?’

  ‘There’s a chap up in Gangtok. But that’s in Sikkim, and you’ll need a chitty to get in there. It’s a protected State. I’ll get off a line to Hopkinson for you – he’s our man there.’

  ‘Would there be any point in having one more try at Tibet? At the British representative there?’

  ‘We haven’t got one, old boy. That’s the trouble. Old Hugh Richardson is in Lhasa, of course, but he’s acting on behalf of the Indian government, and we mustn’t embarrass him. The snag is, these Tibetans are rather a suspicious shower. They don’t get the point about insurance policies. They think we’re trying to manoeuvre them into an admission of liability. However, I’ll do what I can,’ he said, jotting down a few notes on a scrap of paper. ‘Meanwhile you have quite a few avenues to explore. Drop in whenever you feel like it.’

  2

  Houston remained a further three weeks in Calcutta, awaiting his ‘chitty’ and exploring avenues. He went through the files of the English language newspapers and extracted several items relating to Tibet and avalanches in the Himalayas. These appeared to have been numerous in October, but no details were given of individual ones. The astrological correspondent of the Hindustan Standard warned of grave trouble impending for ‘a Buddhist land in the north’ and suggested that a major spiritual effort would be required to avert it; and from the same authority Houston learned that according to occult formations for his birthday his sexual powers would be vigorously tested during the next year. Although aware that the solid columns of rejuvenator advertising on the same page might have had somethi
ng to do with this forecast, Houston, mindful also of the fact that he had not yet written a line to Glynis or Lesley, pondered somewhat gloomily over it.

  Lister-Lawrence had left instructions with his Bengali clerks to give him all the assistance he needed, and he kept the Messrs Mukherjee and Ghosh fully extended looking out all the correspondence that had passed between Lhasa, Kalimpong, Calcutta, Katmandu and London. The sheer weight of the correspondence and the dearth of information it had produced were highly dispiriting; but he plodded on, copying and compiling all the material in his hotel bedroom with the aid of a hired typewriter.

  By the end of February, however, it was obvious he could do little more in Calcutta. Lister-Lawrence was away most of the time, and there seemed to be no answer from Gangtok or Lhasa. He decided to go to Kalimpong.

  The journey to Kalimpong is a somewhat complicated one, but one of the Mr Mukherjees had made all arrangements for him, and Houston found the change welcome. The first stage was from Calcutta to Siliguri in the north of Bengal, and he made it in reasonable comfort on the main line railway. At Siliguri he had to change to a little local wood-burning train which ran through village and jungle as though on tram-lines, swaying and panting and stopping every now and again to raise enough steam to tackle the increasingly sharp inclines.

  It was still warm and sunny, but there was a certain feeling in the air of mountains and of a keener and more bracing atmosphere. In the jungle, monkeys had dropped from the trees on to the roof of the train and had swung head down before the open windows, snatching the bits of chocolate and biscuit that Houston offered. By the time he reached his final train-halt, the village of Gielle-Khola, the monkeys had gone. It was noticeably cooler; he could feel the sharp air in his lungs; and the people on the platform seemed to be of a different shape. They were wearing capes and padded jackets, and the facial features to which he had become accustomed in the past few weeks had subtly altered. He was approaching the Himalayas.

  The arrangement was for a car to pick him up at Gielle- Khola and take him to Kalimpong; but when after a couple of hours no car appeared, he realized he must have over-extended Mr Mukherjee, and took a bus instead. He had spent one and a half days getting to Gielle-Khola, and it was afternoon when he embarked upon the last leg of the journey.

  He got to Kalimpong at dusk on 27 February; the bus set him down in a busy market place as the lamps on the stalls were being lit. Several boys rushed to take possession of his luggage, and he distributed it among three of them. The smallest of the boys had secured only his raincoat, but he could speak a little English, and he trotted importantly beside Houston, chattering, as they pushed their way through the crowded market to the hotel.

  Houston had noticed here and there small groups of men in fur caps, warmly clad except for their arms which were left bare, and he inquired who they were.

  ‘Tibet men,’ the boy said, gesturing upwards to the darkening sky; and Houston who had been gazing up at the curiously massive cloud formations, gazed again. The clouds were mountains.

  Tibet men and mountains. He thought he was near his journey’s end.

  3

  As Lister-Lawrence had said, Kalimpong was a rather jolly place. Houston liked it. He had dined well at the hotel and had slept soundly between clean sheets, and he was up and out early in the morning. The air had the kind of snap and brilliancy that he associated with the Vosges mountains in France, and the surrounding landscape, although on a more massive scale, had the same nature: great green hills that crept towards the sky, and a feeling of high places beyond. The peaks that had closed in with nightfall were far away.

  He went to the offices of the Tibetan representative, and found a substantial building with a courtyard that was thronged with people. A few mules and horses stood blinking in the bright sun, and groups of men squatted on the ground, chattering and smoking. The small porter of the preceding evening had been waiting for him as he left the hotel and had attached himself again. He ran into the building before Houston and came out again, grinning.

  ‘No room in there, sahib,’ he said. ‘Many men there today.’

  Houston inspected the interior himself and found that this was the case.

  ‘Is it always like this?’

  ‘No, sahib. Caravan comes today. All caravan men here.’

  ‘Will they be here all day?’

  ‘Two, three days, maybe. They get chitty,’ the boy said, pounding an imaginary rubber stamp with his small brown hands.

  Houston was somewhat at a loss. He could see nobody who was obviously an official. He wondered whom to consult.

  The boy had the answer for him. ‘You come to see Michaelson Sahib, sahib,’ he said. ‘I take you.’

  They returned through the market square and down a maze of busy streets to a part of the town that seemed to be occupied by warehouses. Lines of mules were being unloaded and their burdens swung up on ropes to first-floor lofts. Directing operations outside the largest warehouse was Michaelson Sahib, who proved to be an enormously fat, elderly man in a bushwacker’s hat; he was checking off invoices and smoking a small black cheroot.

  Houston introduced himself.

  ‘Glad to know you, sport. You’ve caught me at a busy moment.’

  ‘So I see. I’ve been trying to get in to see the Tibetan consul. There seems a bit of a crowd there.’

  ‘A caravan’s just arrived. I’d give it away for today, sport, if I were you.’

  ‘I hear it’s going to be like this for two or three days.’

  ‘You don’t have to bother about that. Look, I’ll drop by for a quick one with you this evening. I’m just too tied up now.’

  ‘All right,’ Houston said, a bit put-out, and wandered away with the boy.

  His feeling of offence did not persist; for the more he saw of the town the more he liked it. There was a smell of wood- smoke and spices in the clean air, and a sensation of heights. He found himself smiling, with the heady feeling he had felt before in mountains.

  There were a number of small teashops in the town; ramshackle sheds with trestle tables containing tea urns and trays of sweetmeats; and he had several cups of sweet, frothy tea as he loitered about the streets with the boy. Caravan teamsters strolled everywhere; but although many different races seemed to be represented, he noticed no Tibetans. He asked the boy why.

  ‘They sleep, maybe, sahib. Tibet men no like it down here. They like Tibet.’ He raised his eyes again to the sky as he spoke, and Houston was amused and yet vaguely disturbed at this suggestion, even in the northernmost point of India, of a still more remote land, almost a mythical land, towering in the sky.

  He said, smiling, ‘Is that where Tibet is – in the sky?’

  ‘In the mountains, sahib.’

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No. Too young, sahib. I go with my brother in five, six years.’

  ‘With the caravans?’

  ‘With the caravans, sahib.’

  ‘Is your brother away now?’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Ten days away. He work for Michaelson Sahib.’

  ‘What do they call your brother?’

  ‘Ringling. My name is Bozeling, sahib,’ the boy said, grinning.

  ‘All right, Bozeling. Let’s move on.’

  Michaelson Sahib looked in that evening, as promised. He had changed into a white suit, and he came in briskly, rubbing his hands and nodding to the barman who mixed him what was evidently a familiar drink. Houston had waited for some time in the empty bar; he seemed to have the hotel to himself.

  ‘Nippy in the evenings,’ Michaelson said. ‘Sorry I was a bit abrupt this morning. There’s a big load in and the boys get things arsey-turvey if you take your eyes off for a minute. No offence, sport?’

  ‘No offence,’ Houston said, and shook hands again.

  ‘It’s the first caravan we’ve had in for some time. Everything’s overdue because of the bloody weather. What brings you here?’

  Houston told him.

&nb
sp; ‘Yes. I saw the others a few months ago. I doubt if you’ll get any change out of the Tibetans, though. They don’t want to know about foreigners this year.’

  ‘I heard they’d fallen out with the devils.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Michaelson said, seriously. ‘There’s a lot of bad omens for this year. Still, you’d better have a go now you’re here. I sent a note across half an hour ago asking if he’d see us tonight. I expect he will. He thinks I’m offended,’ he said, baring a set of long, yellow dog-like teeth. ‘The old sod has crossed me up on a shipment of black tails I’ve been expecting for six months.’

  ‘Black tails?’

  ‘Best yak. Long hair,’ Michaelson said, drinking.

  ‘What is it you do exactly?’

  ‘Trader. Been here thirty years. I’m the institution here. There are a few other European traders, but they flit off during the winter. I practically keep the place going,’ he said, showing his teeth again.

  ‘You import yak hair from Tibet?’

  ‘Wool staples of all sorts. Black tails give the best staple. It makes a very hard, tough cloth.’

  ‘And you send goods in?’

  ‘Manufactured goods, food, cloth, anything. There’s not much doing now. Caravans are in and out all summer, but it’s not too profitable this time of year. The teams sit around eating you out of house and home. I’ve got one now, been gone ten days and still holed up in Sikkim in a blizzard.’

  ‘You’ll have a young man called Ringling on that one. I was talking to his brother.’

  ‘That’s right. I took him on when his father was killed on a trip a couple of years ago. I keep him going steadily right through the winter so they’ve got something coming in at home. He’s a good kid, Ringling.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ Houston said, ‘if I could find the team my brother and his party were supposed to meet in October.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sport. That kind of arrangement they make themselves. It gives them a few extra ackers. It couldn’t have been one of my teams, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I had no caravan in October or November. The weather was too bad. I think it’s the earthquake that shook everything up. I’ve never known conditions like it. You having another of these?’ he said, looking into Houston’s glass.