Crumpling the ruined sheet into a ball, he flung it from him with a force that made Nancy leap from his knee. She bounded up the curtains in alarm, scolding and nagging at him from her perch until at last he sighed and turned to look at her. “I am sorry, milady,” he said, holding out a placatory arm. “You are right. I should not be so impatient.” Nancy cautiously descended, still making reproachful noises. Devanna capped his pen and drew her into his lap. He stroked the squirrel’s fur, the anxiety that had gripped him receding.
The laughter from the ground floor had ceased; a halt, presumably, had been called to the ragging. There was the faint clatter of footsteps on the stairs. He hugged Nancy close to him, unsettled by the evening and loath to give up this brief pocket of solitude. He looked unhappily outside. Somewhere to the west, dusk must be claiming the hills. She would be lighting the lamp atop the courtyard pillar. Unconsciously biting her lip as she stood on tiptoes, carefully now, carefully, so as not to spill the oil. Lamplight flickering across her face, a stray tendril of hair curling across her cheek.
The squirrel, as if sensing his mood, curled herself about his neck, not even so much as looking up when the rest of the dorm trooped triumphantly in.
Martin was sullen and irritable all through the field trip, pondering the faggot chokra. Maggot chokra faggot. Something seemed to have changed over the holidays, Martin knew it had. But what?
By the time they returned to the college some weeks later, even his cronies gave him a wide berth, sensing the blackness of his mood. He sat at the very back of the coach, occupying the entire seat and broodingly cracking his knuckles. It was mid-afternoon when they arrived. The hostel was silent, all the students in class. On a sudden whim, Martin strode to the second-year dorms. He flung open the door to Devanna’s room and then yelled in fright, as Nancy flew through the air to land on his head. “Gerroff. Gerroff me!” he shouted, and the squirrel scampered up the curtains and perched there, angrily chiding him.
“What the … ?” Martin peered upward. He shook the curtains and whistled softly. Whatever was that thing? “Heeere … Come here.” He held out his hand. Nancy descended slowly, pausing every couple of seconds to scold him. “Come heeere.” Barely had she put her nose in his palm, when he clamped down hard with his other hand, trapping her in his grasp. Struggling in panic, Nancy opened her mouth and dug her tiny, needle-sharp teeth into his thumb.
He threw her off with a howl of pain and she bounded up the curtains again, chittering in fright. Martin shook them so hard that she fell off. She righted herself in midair and landed on the sill. Flying across the room, she made straight for Devanna’s bed and dived trembling beneath her pillow.
Nursing his sore hand, Martin began to laugh. Chokra.
Devanna knew immediately, as soon as he returned to the dormitory, without even entering the room, that something was terribly wrong. The huddle of boys around his bed, the horrified pitch of their voices. He stood in the doorway, turned to stone. “Dev. Dev, old chap … I am so sorry.” Someone took his books from his arms, the crowd parting as he approached his bed with leaden feet.
Nancy lay splayed upon his—her—pillow. Someone had performed a vivisection on her, pinning her to a dissection board and cutting her open from chin to tail. Devanna could not but help notice the precision of the cut even through the fog swirling in his brain. Impeccable. Absolutely impeccable. A clean slicing, right through the epidermis, the specimen presented in perfect dorsal perspective. The neatness of the labels affixed to the innards.
OESOPHAGUS.
KIDNEY.
HEART.
Nancy twitched feebly on the board. “She’s still alive,” someone to his right said, sickened. “The bastard didn’t even use chloroform.”
Devanna unpinned Nancy’s paws and lifted her into his arms. “Nancy?” he whispered, his face pallid. “Nance?” The squirrel tried to turn toward him, failed, opened her mouth in a yowl of agony. “Hush. Shhh … No Nance, hush.”
He carried her to the hostel garden, whispering to her all the while. That lush, vibrant red tail spilling over his arms, a crowd of somber boys following in his wake. He set her down in the grass by the rockery. Nancy twitched again, trying feebly to rub her head against his thumb. “My good girl, my best girl. Nancy, my good Nancy … ” His voice faltered and he stroked her fur. Then, lifting a large rock, Devanna raised his arm high above his head and brought it smashing down upon Nancy’s skull. The squirrel’s paws jerked once and then she was still.
“Why?” he asked raggedly. “Why her, why in God’s name, why my squirrel?”
“What squirrel?” Martin asked innocently. “Did you have a pet in the hostel? I am sure not, chokra, it is against the rules.”
“I know it was you.”
A sheen of pleasure passed across Martin’s face. “Finally.” He stepped closer to Devanna, flexing his massive arms. “So? What are you going to do about it, fag?”
Hatred, compacted so determinedly inside him, flaring alive. The room around them was very still. Devanna’s heart was hammering so loud, he was certain everyone must hear it. “Come on, faggot,” Martin whispered. “Give me a reason, just give me a reason.” Devanna’s fingers bunched into a fist and with a wild, inarticulate cry, he launched himself at Martin.
Martin swatted at him as he might a bug, laughing as he effortlessly fended off Devanna’s blows. “My turn, chokra.” Devanna never even saw him move, but he found himself suddenly sprawled on the ground, the sweet-salty taste of blood in his mouth. Martin bent over him, grinning. “Chokra faggot.” Devanna tried to rise but Martin punched the side of Devanna’s head with all his strength. Devanna gagged. “Say it out loud,” Martin coaxed, raising his fist and hitting his head again. “Say it, fag. Pets Are Not Allowed.”
“Stop it, Martin,” someone said. “Let him go.” Martin swung about to tell the person to bloody mind his own business, but something about the crowd, the hostility in their faces, made him hesitate. “Stop it,” someone said again, and fear prickled along Martin’s spine.
“Not worth my time anyway,” he blustered, his voice unusually high, and calling to his cronies, he pushed his way out of the room.
Behind him, the crowd slowly started to dissipate. “Come on, man, get up,” they urged Devanna.
Devanna lay unmoving, his head buzzing unbearably, grief and humiliation grainy upon his tongue.
He left for Coorg that same afternoon. It was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. Devi … He wove unsteadily out of the hostel gates, heedless of the classmates who tried to stop him. He needed to go to the infirmary, they said. “You’re concussed, man, you need to rest. Come on, get back inside before the warden does his rounds.” When they saw it was futile, they shoved a few rupees in his pocket and gave him whatever grub they could lay their hands on: a small tin of biscuits, plum cake, even a precious quarter-liter bottle of gin.
He caught the coach to Mercara, a delicate crusting of blood in his hair. It kept playing over and over in his head, the image of Nancy, splayed open. The sound her skull had made as the rock came crashing down, a crunchy, brittle sound like an eggshell coming apart. He began to shake. A brisk breeze wafted through the open windows, cold upon his face; he lifted a hand to his cheek and found to his surprise that he was crying.
The coach broke down midway; they managed eventually to repair it, but by the time the lights of Mercara came into view, it was well after two the next morning. Devanna’s scalp ached as if someone had taken an ax to it, and the buzzing in his ears was even louder than before. He stumbled off the bus into a blanket of mist so thick it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Mercara was deserted; even the beggar who ordinarily trawled the coach stop was missing, curled up somewhere asleep. Devanna glanced once, shivering, toward the mission, and then, turning westward, he set off at a blundering run toward the Pallada village, despite the wild elephants and the ghost who frequented the trail.
Chengappa anna used to scare Devi an
d him with tales of the ghost when they were little. “Very tall, she is, and beautiful, ah, so beautiful that a man can burn with fever just by laying eyes on her. But if you look down, beyond her ankles to her feet, that is when you know she is a pisachi. Her feet, you see, are turned backward.” Devi would slip her hand into his and he would resolutely clutch her fingers, frightened, too, but trying not to show it.
He raised an arm now, pushing through the mist. If he saw the ghost tonight, he would push right through her. Right through her. He giggled. He touched his fingers to the side of his head. The swelling was worse, he noted detachedly, but at least the bleeding had stopped. The buzzing in his ears, though, was even louder, like a hive of jungle bees swarming over his scalp. “Flora Sylvatica, Flora Indica,” he muttered to himself, his teeth chattering. “Spicilegium Neilgherrense, Icones Plantarum.”
So pink, so unbearably tiny, that pink, pulsing heart. She had waited for him, he knew, held on to life until he found her. “Hortus Bengalensis, Hortus Calcuttensis, Prodromus Florae, Peninsulae Indicae.” He started to shiver uncontrollably. Butchered wide open, and yet again, he had been unable to do a thing. There was such a thirst in his throat … Remembering the bottle in his pocket, he took a long swig, coughing as the gin hit his mouth. She had been his. She had been HIS. Devi … He started to run even faster, lurching from side to side along the trail.
Dawn was breaking, gunmetal gray, as he approached the Nachimanda house. The mist began to thin, but nonetheless, it would be a subdued sunrise this morning, a throng of clouds advancing grimly in the sky. A chorus of bullfrogs started up, serenading the clouds and thrilling to the smell of rain in the air. He stumbled on.
The dogs, after a few sharp barks, rushed toward him, gamboling in delight as they recognized him. “Yes, yes,” he mumbled as he abstractedly patted their heads. He would sit awhile, he decided, wait on the verandah perhaps, until this ache in his head subsided. Before he spoke with Devi and proposed. Silver flickered in the east, a rooster crowing from somewhere behind the house.
“Flora Sylvatica, Flora Indica… ”
Devanna wove forward, then stopped abruptly, his blood turned to ice. There, down below, near the fields. Was that a woman? The ghost … He stood frozen, his breath escaping in little puffs into the leaden air. The buzzing in his ears grew louder as the figure slipped from sight.
And then he started. “Devi,” he said thickly. “Devi,” he called, louder this time. “Devi!”
She had always liked mornings such as these, even as a child. Devanna would still be half asleep, extracting every extra minute of warmth from the blankets, when she would run into his room and fling open the windows. “Oh, stop your grumbling,” she would say. “Here, breathe this in. The fragrance, Devanna, the perfume of rain. There is nothing like it.”
“Devi,” he called again, the mist muffling his voice as he stumbled after her.
She had gone surprisingly far, almost to the paddy tanks, by the time he caught up with her. “Devi!” he called, and this time she heard.
“Who … ?” She turned, startled, the shawl slipping from her shoulders. “Devanna? Devanna? Whatever are you doing here at this hour?”
It rose within him like a tumult then, the memory of the previous afternoon. Nancy … Martin, standing over him and laughing, laughing…
“Devanna?” she said incredulously again, and then shaking her head, she began to smile. “Silly fellow, I cannot believe my eyes. What are you doing here? Is the semester over already?”
“Devi, I … ” He began to tremble. He shut his eyes to calm himself, then opened them once more.
“What is it? Your head, is that … ?” She stepped closer, worried, and blanched as she smelled the gin on his breath. “You’ve been drinking?”
Where to begin? What could he even begin to say to her, were there even words to describe … Wrapping his arms about himself, Devanna moaned softly and began to rock back and forth on his heels. “Spicilegium Neilgherrense. Icones Plantarum.” This time, he would not simply stand by. This time …
“Mm … marry me.”
“What? What? Come now, Devanna, what is all this—who has put you up to this joke?”
“Joke? This is no … ” He ground his teeth together to stop the shivering. “Marry me,” he said again.
The smile vanished from her face. “Stop this nonsense. I am going back to the house. Are you coming?”
She turned to go, but he caught hold of her wrist.
“Let go of my hand.”
He let go at once, starting at the sharpness of her tone. This was not going at all the way he had imagined it. This sawing in his head, as if it were being cleaved in two. He shook his head slowly, to clear it. Martin, laughing down at him.
He reached clumsily for her hand again.
“LET. GO. Whatever is the matter with you?”
“What is the matter with me?” He stared, tormented, at her. “Nothing, except that I am completely, irrevocably, in love with you.”
Devi went very still. “Stop it,” she said, then, tremulously, “just … stop this.”
Jungle bees swarming over his scalp, buzzing in his ears. Sliced open like a laboratory specimen, her tiny heart, still beating, OesophagusKidneyHeart.
“You are mine, Devi. Mine, do you hear? Only mine.” Unexpectedly, he giggled. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” he recited, his eyes aglitter, and then, bending his head, he awkwardly kissed her.
She struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he held her so tightly that his fingers raised angry red welts along her arm. She began to shout, her free hand flailing at him, the sounds in his head so loud that he could not make out her words. The shawl fell from her shoulders, he grabbed reflexively for it, connected with a breast instead. She gasped in shock.
It sent a thrill through his body, that sound, as if a fire had suddenly been lit in his blood. He began to kiss her in earnest, her face, her throat, her shoulders, pulling her closer. “You are mine.” She fought him, hard, biting and scratching and kicking, but in his muddled state, it only served to inflame him.
He couldn’t think anymore. Nothing mattered except this, being with her, the fire raging inside him, this insistent pressure in his groin. His breath was coming very fast; he was almost panting despite the chill. Her nails raked his cheek, and he pushed her backward onto the grass, falling on top of her as he fumbled urgently with his clothes. She cried out, bit his shoulder; he grimaced and held her even more tightly.
Bend over, chokra, Martin had said to him that afternoon last year, stroking the ulna bone. You leave me no choice.
“You leave me no choice, Devi, you leave me no—”
He had dropped his trousers and slowly bent over. Martin had waited, deliberately prolonging the tension as Devanna’s knees began to tremble and his hair flopped forward onto his forehead. And then, in one quick, savage movement, Martin had jammed the bone in hard, high into his anus. A pain so intense that Devanna had screamed out loud. To teach you respect, Martin had gasped from behind him, the sweat pouring into his eyes as he had pushed and thrust, harder and harder, his pelvis moving unconsciously, keeping rhythm as he tore into the chokra.
Bitterness, blossoming beneath his skin. Petal by petal, unfurling, spreading, black as tar.
Devanna pushed his hand up her thigh, fumbling, searching. Beneath him, Devi froze, her pupils dilated in shock.
This was to teach her respect; it was for her own good. Thunder boomed and a few drops of rain began to fall, splattering fatly into the earth. A fragrance, such a fragrance all around, “the scent of rain, there is nothing like it.” He shuddered. Shifted over her, thrust, missed. Thrust again. Soft skin tearing under unyielding pressure, offering up warm passage, silk cotton soft. Devanna shut his eyes and moaned. He began to thrust, faster and faster. This was who he was made for, this was the one he had waited for.
Close as two spores on a fern they had been, ever since he could remember.
; Rain pattered down upon Devanna. He grunted softly and rolled onto his back. His head felt cleaved in two, the gin crooning love songs in his ears.
I love thee. To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the rain. What … where … The previous night came back to him in flashes. The bus ride to Mercara. Gin, the sear of it down his throat. Devi …
Devanna convulsed. He tried to get up, shaking so hard that he kept slipping forward onto his hands and knees. She had begged, he remembered, fought, pleaded, and then she had grown very still. He began to retch, throwing up into the grass until there was nothing left to bring up. He had … what had he … Devi. Chengappa anna would kill him, he would take his gun and blow out his brains. Tayi, Pallada Nayak … What had he done?
He staggered upright. The rain grew heavier, plastering his hair to his skull. The house loomed far above, silent. He took an unsteady step toward it. Devi. He must … The front door was opening, someone was coming out. They would kill him. Devanna ran. He crashed through the fields in a wild panic, weeping hysterically as he fled toward the mission.
Gundert took one horrified look at him and dragged him into his study. “Sit,” he ordered, his heart pounding. “Here, water. Drink this. Steady yourself, son. What happened? Why are you not at college? Dev, look at me. LOOK at me. What happened? Who did this to you?”
Devanna shook his head, struggling to get the words out. “For … forgive me, Reverend. Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” he sobbed.
A cold fear began to unfurl inside Gundert. “What happened?” he asked tersely again. He grabbed Devanna’s shoulders. “Calm down, Dev. What happened? Tell me.”
Devanna clutched his head in his hands and began to rock wildly back and forth. “She … I … Devi … last night … She is mine, Reverend, I only took what is mine.”
Tiger Hills Page 16
