Tiger Hills

by Sarita Mandanna

  Devi stirred in her sleep. “Go a little carefully, Tukra,” Thimmaya chided. “Must you aim for every pothole along the way?” He pulled the blanket higher around Devi and then, setting himself to the matter at hand, turned to Devanna, who had decided to travel back with them to the Pallada village.

  “Tell me, monae,” he asked softly, so as not to wake Devi, “this cousin of yours, Machaiah, he seems like a well-brought-up lad. No parents, that’s what he told me. Do you know if he owns any land?”

  He quizzed Devanna until satisfied with Machaiah’s antecedents, then settled himself against the wall of the cart. “You are a good child, monae,” he said affectionately, patting Devanna on his shoulder. “Truly like a son to me. My second son.”

  He yawned sleepily as he looked out of the cart. Kambeymada Machaiah. Muthavva, you would approve, he thought, smiling to himself. A tiger killer for our child. I believe he is interested too, why wouldn’t he be? He has said he will visit us soon. Thimmaya yawned again and shut his eyes.

  The light faded and the first stars appeared. There was silence in the cart, broken only by the thunking of the wooden bells about the necks of the bulls and the soft “Har-ra … Har-ra … ” from Tukra as he urged the oxen forward.

  Devanna stared unhappily at the gathering dusk. My son, Thimmaya anna had called him. His second son. All the while asking him questions about Machu anna. Did Devanna think Machu would make a good match for Devi? Would he make a good husband?

  Devanna had been too taken aback to do anything but nod. He would be the one to marry Devi, no one else, he had wanted to protest to Thimmaya. Hadn’t the whole village said, right from the time that Devi and he were little, that the two of them were inseparable? Like the skin of an orange and its pith, they used to say, that was how close they were, like a grain of rice and its husk. Why should it change now that they were older?

  They had not talked about it of course, Devi and he … some things did not need to be said aloud. At least that was what Devanna had always believed. When Tayi complained to him about Devi turning down yet another proposal, talk some sense into her head, Devanna, inwardly Devanna would smile. Crotchety she may be toward him—and thoughtless and irresponsible, he thought, frowning slightly at the memory of her shenanigans at the temple tank—but he knew Devi was waiting for him.

  At least nothing would come of an alliance with Machu anna, he thought, still troubled. He had seen with his own eyes, how pert she had been with the poor man today on the mountain. It had been the same at the tiger wedding all those years ago. So inexplicably rude she had been then, and again today … It would never happen, Machu anna and her. That tongue of hers, it could cut deep.

  All he needed was some time. He would finish his studies, be able to stand on his own feet. “Harr-ra … Harr-ra … ” Tukra murmured, urging the bulls faster, the wooden bells about their necks clacking in the dusk. Devanna’s shoulders gradually relaxed. A little more time, that was all … Absently, silently, he began to recite the names of his beloved books in his head, in time to the bells. Flo-ra Sylvatica. Flo-ra Indica. Spi-cile-gium Neilgherrense. Icones Plantarum. Hor-tus Bengalensis. Hortus Cal-cut-tensis. Pro-dro-mus Flo-rae. Pe-nin-sulae Indicae.

  The memory of Thimmaya’s words cut abruptly through his reverie. You are truly like a son to me, monae, he had said. My son.

  All rational thought, all reasoning, was pushed suddenly from Devanna’s mind, a strange foreboding raising the hair on his arms. He turned toward the sleeping Devi. “You are mine,” he mouthed emphatically. “Mine. I am not your brother.”

  Chapter 10

  Your lemon soda, sir,” the bearer repeated patiently. Gundert looked up with a start. “Yes, thank you, Chimma,” he said, lifting the glass from the tray. The bearer smiled, revealing a row of startlingly white teeth, before melting back into the shadows of the club. Gundert pressed the cool glass to his forehead and sighed inwardly as he looked around once more at the gathering.

  The day had not gone as anticipated. The response to his letter had come that afternoon, along with the usual piles of mission correspondence and last month’s issue of the Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft. Gundert had immediately spotted the college crest on the envelope, the lion rearing upon the shield, bearing in its paws the scepter of knowledge “Lucet et Ardet,” he read under his breath. It Shines and It Burns. He had balanced the letter in his palm, gauging its heft, trying to judge from its weight the nature of the words within.

  Gundert had written to Father Dunleavy, the Dean of the Bangalore Medical College, a month earlier. He had introduced himself, citing common acquaintances within the Church.

  He was writing, he explained, on behalf of his star pupil, Kambeymada Devanna. The boy was gifted with uncommon intelligence and a diligence of spirit that routinely evaded men twice his age. He came from impeccable lineage, a landed family that traced back through many illustrious generations, and although he was neither born nor yet baptized a Christian, Gundert would personally vouch for his character and the strength of his moral fiber. The boy had sailed through the mission school with an exemplary academic record. It was clearly evident that he was ordained for larger things than a mere apprenticeship with the local government. “Devanna is well suited to the medical profession,” wrote Gundert. “Indeed, in all my years in this country, never have I happened across anyone as suited as he to enter the portals of your esteemed institution.” He had ended the letter with a modest postscript. He was enclosing, he wrote, a paper authored by him on the commonalities of the Sanskrit language with Latin; he had heard that the Father was an enthusiastic polyglot, and he hoped that the enclosed paper would be of some interest to him.

  Gundert had carried the letter with him to the chapel for morning Mass before he sent it in the post, going over the carefully worded paragraphs a dozen times in his head even after the letter had gone. It had been the perfect pitch; he had built a strong case, he knew, and the only thing he could do now was wait.

  Smoothing Father Dunleavy’s long-awaited response on his lap, he began to read. Of course he had heard about the Reverend, Dunleavy had responded. If Devanna came recommended from someone as erudite as he, the Bangalore Medical College would be fortunate to have him enrolled as one of its students.

  However, Dunleavy continued, he believed he had an even better idea. The boy’s academic prowess seemed remarkable. Had Gundert considered England? Why not apply to Oxford? Dunleavy was sure he would pass the examinations with some coaching. Additionally, wrote Dunleavy, the Vice Chancellor was a personal friend, and he would be happy to write him a letter of recommendation on Devanna’s behalf. “Intellects of the caliber you say he possesses are few and far between,” he wrote, “and are the beacons of our efforts on behalf of the Church here in India. While I would be privileged to have Devanna study here in our college, I believe we would be doing him far more justice by sending him to the hallowed grounds of Oxford itself.”

  Gundert’s face remained impassive as he read through the letter, only a small tic jumping in his cheek. He reread the letter twice and then carefully folded it and slipped it into its envelope. The mission cat jumped into his lap and Gundert absently stroked her fur as he sat lost in thought.

  England. He had never even considered the possibility. There had always been, in his mind, a clear path for Devanna to tread. After graduating at the top of his class from the mission school, he would go on to study at the finest medical college in the South. Returning as a doctor to the mission, he would then be baptized. Here he would stay, by Gundert’s side, using his profession and the respect it would accord him among the Coorgs to convince them also to convert to the Christian calling.

  It had all worked well—almost too well, it would seem. Dunleavy’s response had been far better than he had hoped. England. Gundert knew what a tremendous opportunity it represented. And yet, a little voice reasoned in his head, was it truly required? Where was the necessity for Devanna to be gone all those years, across al
l that distance, when he could be a mere carriage ride away in Bangalore? Besides, even if he were to go to England, it was not as if he was headed for one of the large cities, Madras or Bombay or Calcutta, even, upon his return. No, Devanna would return here to the mission, back to tiny Coorg after he completed his studies. And, realistically speaking, how much medical pedigree was truly needed here?

  You know it would be an honor beyond reckoning for the boy’s family, another voice pointed out. A doctor, educated in England. You have to let them make the final decision.

  But to send him so far. What if something were to befall him? A change of heart, a dire illness, what if something were to tear Devanna away from him? Olaf … No, thought Gundert, the long-buried stench of the Madras hospital oozing clammily from his pores, he would not, could not, withstand it again.

  He had gone about his day with his usual efficiency, but by the time evening had come around, a headache tugged dully at his temples. The letter lay in his pocket, weighing him down as he had made his way to the Mercara Planters Club for the fortnightly game of billiards.

  He was in no mood to attend, but Gundert knew the import of social visibility. How else would the funding be arranged for the newspaper press the mission had established in Mysore or the permits for the land in South Coorg? So, donning his whitest cassock and turning on his charm, Gundert attended the dos at the Club, accepted the invitations for lawn tennis parties, and made a point of dancing at least one graceful waltz with the Resident’s daughter at the annual ball held in the Mercara Fort.

  Gundert had hoped to speak privately with the conservator of forests this evening about an apprenticeship for two of his students; however, he was nowhere to be seen. He was about to leave when Mrs. Hutton, the wife of one of the planters, poked her head around from the women’s section. “Reverend,” she trilled. “Yoo-hoo, Reverend. Come, sit here with us and talk with us for a while.” Gundert had no choice but to go over. “Here,” Mrs. Hut-ton commanded, coyly patting the velveteen sofa where she sat, “sit here, right by my side.”

  She proceeded to describe to him in tedious detail the Huttons’ recent visit to Bombay, as Gundert held the glass of lemon soda to his temples again and suppressed a sigh. When she began to chatter about the Lumière cinématographe show they had seen, he perked up somewhat. He had seen the advertisements, of course, in The Times of London; it was the first time the cinematographe had visited Indian shores. His irritation mounted rapidly, however, as it became evident that it was the social nature of the event, rather than the merits of the films themselves, that had captivated the lady.

  “Hmm? Yes, five films,” she said vaguely, in response to his question. “It was six, Mama,” her gangling daughter corrected, glancing shyly at Gundert. “Arrival of a Train, The Sea Bath, Ladies, and Soldiers on Wheels … ” Her voice trailed off uncertainly as Gundert stared impassively at her, his blue gaze pinning her like a butterfly to a board.

  Really, he thought, what a stupendously unattractive female. He usually made a point of sitting and talking with Miss Hutton awhile, noting with a certain mild satisfaction the color mounting in her cheeks at the unaccustomed attention. Tonight, however, his headache was too painful for him to care for such niceties.

  Gundert abruptly set down his glass and rose to his feet. “Ladies … ,” he murmured, and, making his excuses, left. Slowly he walked back to the mission. The gatekeeper rushed to open the gates, and Gundert nodded at him. The lights were turned out in the hostel, with only a couple of lamps, their wicks turned low, kept burning in the hallways and in Gundert’s apartments. Moving softly through the darkened building, Gundert headed for his study. He shut the door behind him, seated himself at his desk, and turned up the wick of the lamp. He took the letter from his pocket, balancing it once more in his palm. Devanna should be given the opportunity. He should go.

  Rising to his feet, Gundert began to pace the length of his study. What should he do? England … But was it truly required? Wouldn’t it be better for Dev if he remained closer to home? Back and forth he went, and then, removing the key from around his neck, he unlocked once more the drawer in the bureau. He took out the parcel of silk, the fabric more cream than white with the passing years, then adjusted the wick of the lantern so that the light shone more fully upon the cloth, and examined its desiccated contents. “Such purity of form, such clarity of delineation.” Gundert stroked the delicate pistil, running his thumb along the striated surface of a petal. “Bambusa indica olafsen.”

  He stared at the bamboo flower for a long time, the panic within him slowly dissipating. And then, mind made up, Gundert rewrapped the flower and placed it carefully back in its drawer. He reached for his inkwell, took out a sheet of foolscap, and began to write.

  “Dear Father Dunleavy,” he began. “Thank you for your kind response, received this afternoon, December 9, 1896.” Wealthy though they undoubtedly were, the boy’s family was unfortunately conservative, he wrote. Although they were keen to foster Devanna’s education, under no circumstances would they agree to send him out of the country. Indeed, all things considered, Bangalore appeared to be the optimal solution. If the Father would be so kind as to have his office send Gundert the relevant forms for the entrance examination, Gundert would get Devanna to fill them out.

  He finished the letter, read and reread it until he was satisfied, and then, innocent of the wheels he would set in motion, of the catastrophic consequences his actions would bring, Gundert turned out the lamp and went finally to bed.

  Chapter 11

  Devi! Where are you? Devi!” Devanna shouted, pounding up the path that led to the Nachimanda house.

  Tayi came out to greet him, fumbling with her glasses. “Devanna? Is everything all right, monae?”

  Devanna touched her feet, gasping for breath. “Yes, Tayi,” he grinned. “Devi, where is Devi?”

  “She is there by the cattle shed, but wait, monae, what is the matter?”

  But Devanna was already gone, sending the hens scattering and squawking in alarm from under his feet as he raced around the house. Devi was kneeling, her back to him as she fertilized the pumpkin pit. Devanna grinned. He crept forward stealthily, stepping soundlessly past the tomato beds and through the trailing vines of butter beans. Devi continued to work, completely unaware of his presence as she mixed cow dung and wood ash together, reaching deep into the pit to slap handfuls of the manure against its sides. He stole up behind her and then pounced with a wild whoop. “Uyyi!!” Devi screamed in fright, the vessel of ash tipping from her hands.

  She glared at Devanna as he stood laughing. “What’s the matter with you? Are you still five years old that you must play these silly tricks?”

  “Huh. Just because you are growing old and your hearing is failing…”

  “Devanna, I don’t have the patience for your foolish games. Look!” she cried. “All the ash has fallen in. Do you think I have nothing better to do than go back and forth from the fireplace all day?”

  “De-vi! It was only a joke. Don’t be upset. Here,” Devanna offered, “give me the pot, I’ll get you some more ash.”

  “No. I … it’s all right,” Devi said grudgingly. “Silly fellow … ” She stared moodily into the pit.

  “Ayy, Devi … ,” he said gently, as he squatted beside her. “With this temper that you are in, I can almost see thunderstorms around your head.” She looked daggers at him and he pretended to cower. “Oh, now that was a flash of lightning!”

  She struggled to keep a straight face, but despite herself, she giggled. “There!” he cried. “Finally, a hint of sun!”

  “Silly fellow!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “So tell me, to what do we owe the honor of your visit on a school day?”

  He took a deep breath. “You are never going to believe this. I was accepted into medical college!”

  She looked uncomprehendingly at him. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? I’m going to become a doctor!”
r />   “A doctor? Like Dr. Jameson?”

  Devanna nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said grinning. “Just like Dr. Jameson. Dr. Kambeymada Devanna.”

  “Uyyi!” Devi screamed again, this time in excitement. “A doctor!” She thumped him on the arm. “Whatever will you do next? Do you have brains of gold or what? A doctor?! Does Tayi know? Come on,” she said, jumping to her feet, “we have to tell everyone!”

  Devanna filled them in on the details as Tayi hurried to light the lamp in the prayer room. The Reverend had had him take the entrance examinations a month ago. He’d said nothing of it to anybody, preferring to wait for the results to come in, which they finally had this morning. He glanced at Devi. He’d run straight here as soon as he’d heard, to give them all the good news.

  “Monae,” Thimmaya interrupted, concerned, “have you not been to see Pallada Nayak yet? He should have been the first person to know.”

  “It was just … I wanted to … ” Devanna’s eyes strayed toward Devi. “I am going there now,” he finished lamely.

  “College begins in June,” he told Devi later on the verandah, as he laced his shoes. “I will leave for Bangalore in a month or so.”

  “Bangalore?” asked Devi, taken aback. “I didn’t know you were going so far. I thought you would be closer, in Mysore, perhaps. Are there no medical schools there?”

  Devanna grinned. “Medical college,” he corrected. “The Bangalore Medical College is the best medical college there is. Why? Will you miss me?”

  Devi slapped her forehead. “Look at this boy,” she said archly, “about to become a doctor and still he says the most foolish things. Of course I’ll miss you. You’re one of my dearest friends, aren’t you?”

  A shadow passed over Devanna’s face. “Yes. A friend.” He hesitated. “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to—”