“Appu,” Baby chided, glancing at the verandah where Devanna sat. “He might be asleep.”
“What, at ten in the morning? What’s the matter with this bloody household? This is the Olympics, Baby. The Olympics.” He turned the volume even higher.
Baby glanced unhappily outside, but despite the racket Devanna did not so much as stir.
It was Tukra who finally intervened. “Devi akka,” he said, standing in the doorway of Nanju’s room and twisting the ends of his dish cloth. “You must come down. This is not good. Devanna anna, he doesn’t speak at all, his garden, he doesn’t care anymore, he hardly eats, and the plants, look, just look.”
Devi blinked, taking in the garden as if for the first time. Where had all the flowers gone?
“You must talk with him,” Tukra repeated. “He doesn’t talk to me. I ask him, ‘Shall I weed under the banyan tree, shall I rake the leaves?’ and he doesn’t even speak.”
“You have four children, don’t you, Tukra?” Devi asked. Three girls and a boy; she had helped to get all of them married. “You are blessed,” she said simply.
“Nanju anna … ” Tukra’s voice wobbled. “You still have a son. You are Appu anna’s mother,” he said tearfully. “You still have a son.”
Pain sliced through Devi, so sharp that the bile rose in her throat. She pressed her forehead against the window. That last terrible exchange of words … Watching Appu sleep, Avvaiah, Nanju had accused her. Not me, never me, but Appu.
Devi flinched as she remembered. “Not true,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, conjuring an image from the past. Nanju kunyi, asleep in the nursery. Both her boys, swaddled safely in their dreams.
All that came forth was a confused medley of images. The light from the oil lamp spilling about her feet, casting spirit shapes upon the windows and wooden rafters. The tiger snarling from the wall. An owl, hooting low and long somewhere in the night. And there, look, her sons. Brothers both, lying sound asleep. There was Nanju, curled in a ball …
And right here, Appu. Arms flung wide and smiling at some dream, his dimple so deep it made her want to cry.
“Iguthappa Swami,” she used to pray, unable to take her eyes off him, “keep him safe. Take me, take whatever else I have, but spare me this child.”
Watching Appu sleep, Avvaiah. Appu.
Devi’s eyes flew open. “I watched over you too, kunyi,” she whispered, anguished. “I watched over you too.” A light breeze flitted through the windows, making the curtains billow. Devi shivered.
That night too, Devi barely slept, but as dawn broke she at last gathered up her hair, left so long unbound, and fastened it into a bun. She opened the door and, clutching the balustrade as if she might lose her balance, went downstairs. The house was silent, a thin gray light seeping through the rooms.
Pausing by the old photograph, she touched her fingers first to Machu’s face, then to the baby on her lap.
She had asked Baby once, soon after the news arrived. “You told me you see those who have passed on, that they reveal themselves to you,” she said tersely. “Have you seen my Nanju?”
Baby had slowly shaken her head.
“I knew it!” Devi had turned toward the garden, a fierce light in her eyes. “He isn’t dead, he cannot be.” For if he were, she had reasoned, surely his spirit would have found a way to return home? It’s like breathing, he had said to her, that was what Tiger Hills had meant to him. Abruptly the light had died from her eyes, as she recognized the absurdity of her hope.
She lay her palm now over the photograph. Nanju kunyi.
Devanna was on the verandah, slumped as usual in his chair. She seated herself beside him as shadow melted into light and the parrots in the banyan tree began to glide down to the grass.
“Forgive me,” she said then, her throat tight.
“He had your smile.” His voice was rusted, hollow. “You always said he looked just like me, but it was your smile he had.”
“Devanna, I—”
“It should have been me. Not him. Me.”
Devi’s eyes filled with tears. “You? I was the one who said those things and drove him away.”
He turned to her with haunted eyes. “Should I hate you, Devi? For saying those things? Or should I thank you for keeping the circumstances of Nanju’s birth from him all these years? I was the one responsible for his birth; I am therefore responsible for his death.
“‘I am poured out like water,’” he quoted, his voice so raw it seemed to cut into her, “‘and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me.’ He was the distillation of all that was good in you and in me. If he too is gone, then what’s left? What’s left but these sorrowing bones?”
Birds began to throng the garden, barbets and sweet-voiced koels, filling the estate with song.
“You’re forgetting something,” she said huskily. The sun began to move in the east, staining the clouds rose. “You have another son. Appu. He needs his father. If you give up like this…You… ” She paused, fighting back her tears. “Devanna, we have another child.”
He started to cry then, soundlessly, tears streaming down his cheeks, the tic in his hands so pronounced he didn’t even attempt to wipe them away.
They sat down to breakfast that morning, all of them together at the dining table. Devi pulled out her chair and hesitated. Then, instead of at her usual place at the head of the table, she sat in Nanju’s chair instead.
“Appu,” she ordered, to mask the sharp stab of pain even this simple action had wrought, “stop dawdling and drink your coffee before it grows cold. And turn down the gramophone, for goodness’ sake. Is this a home or a hotel?”
Baby thought he might object, but Appu grinned. “Yes, Avvaiah,” he agreed, getting up at once, the relief obvious in his voice.
In the summer of 1934, Gandhi came to Coorg. Despite the sweltering sun, the crowd that turned out to hear him speak was nearly ten thousand strong. He talked almost exclusively that morning of the lower castes. How heinous a notion it is, Gandhi said, the concept of untouchability. That a man may or may not be granted entry somewhere just because of his birth. In God’s eyes, all are one …
Some months later, Timmy Bopanna approached Appu at the Club. “Have you considered running for office, Dags?”
“Politics and me?” Appu chuckled. “My dear chap, have you paid no heed at all to the politicos of today? One needs to be clad in a loincloth and weigh no more than a hundred pounds to be taken seriously.” He shook his head. “Politics and me, you must be joking.”
Timmy smiled. “Not quite such a far-fetched notion, I’d wager. Gandhi is only the face of the nationalists, Dags. The austere, humble hook that reels in the votes. Behind the curtain—ah, it’s a stage filled with people like you and me.” He leaned forward to make his point. “Educated. Cultured. From old established families, of a certain … standing.” He gestured about the billiards room, lowering his voice. “When the English leave, to whom do you think they will entrust the reins of government? Homespun nationalists? Or men like us, men of the world who can smoke a cheroot with them and talk to them as equals?”
Appu clicked his fingers for the waiter. “Another gin.” He turned amused eyes on Timmy. “And why ever would we want to meddle with all that?”
“Because,” Timmy said slowly, “money without power gets awfully dull. The old days are gone, Dags. You and I, we each come from some of the most venerable families in Coorg, but nobody gives a damn. It’s all this nationalistic rubbish—landowner and worker, both equal. Bloody nonsense. And it’ll only get worse, mark my words. Unless people like us stand up and fight for what is rightfully ours.
“Look what happened after Gandhi gave that speech. Our temples, thrown open! And this is only the beginning,” warned Timmy. “If we don’t stand up for what is ours, we stand to lose all of Coorg.”
Appu was unconvinced. “Come, Timmy. Nothing of the sort will happen. Never mind money without
power, you are the one being awfully dull.”
Timmy flushed. “What’s the matter with you, Dags? Don’t you want to make a name for yourself ?” He gestured again at the smoke-filled room. “Is this enough for you then? Well, it certainly isn’t for me.” Rising to his feet, Timmy walked away in a huff.
Appu looked around him as he nursed his gin. The same old room, hardly changed through the years. The billiards table, the velvet curtains. Glasses tinkling, women laughing. He thought of Kate. Where was she, he wondered, the wanton Mrs. Burnett? He had been in the billiards room, hadn’t he, when he first spotted her? Suddenly restless, he downed his drink in one swallow and clicked his fingers at the waiter. “Another.”
“Dags!” someone called to him from across the room. He pretended not to notice. At least that KCIO fellow, that Kipper Cariappa chappie, was not here this evening. He was in Coorg for a month’s holiday, and Appu kept running into him at the Club, him and his blasted Staff-College-graduate, army-man, KCIO stuffed shirtedness.
Don’t you want to make a name for yourself ? Timmy had asked incredulously.
MY father, Appu thought blackly to himself, was a tiger killer. An army hero… His thoughts trailed away, the prick of superiority that they induced not lasting long.
“Make a name for yourself,” if you please. Suddenly he longed to be far away, where, he didn’t know, just away from all these clowns. “Dags,” someone called again. With a muttered imprecation, Appu drained his drink, slammed the glass down on the side table, and strode to the bar.
“Even if we wanted to get into politics, where would we begin?”
Timmy turned around, a satisfied expression on his face. “Ah,” he said, “I’m glad you asked.”
“The Viceroy?” Devanna asked, astonished. “The Viceroy, here in Coorg?”
Appu nodded. The family was gathered in the library before dinner. It was a new ritual begun on Appu’s insistence—“a little music, Avvaiah, some civilized conversation.” He reached for an LP record, blowing on it as he slipped it from its cover.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “The reigning Viceroy of all of British India, his importantness Lord Willingdon, or Lord Willie Ding Dong as some of us have, with the utmost affection, christened him. The word is that he may be convinced to visit Coorg. I suggested to the chaps at the Club that we should build a hall in his honor in Mercara. Get him to inaugurate it, they do seem to love that sort of thing, these fellows.”
“And if he does come… ”
“Well, if he does come, then we host him at the Club and press our case for renewed coffee subsidies and a railway link from Coorg to the rest of the state.”
Devi looked, startled, at her son. Since when had he started worrying about coffee subsidies?
“Too little too late,” Devanna said slowly. “Subsidies can help us only so much… ”
Coffee prices had tumbled, impacted by the Great Depression. Unless a planter had vast holdings, it had become a tricky business to run a coffee plantation profitably in Coorg.
Appu grinned. “Well, it isn’t solely about coffee, is it now?” He tapped a finger to his temple. “This country is going to be independent of British rule sooner or later. The question is, to whom are they going to leave the reins of administration?”
Devi shook her head. “Since when have you become interested in politics, Appu?”
“Well, Coorg, Avvaiah. We must get more involved with its administration, otherwise once the British leave … ”
“I see. And this Viceroy of yours, you think he is going to look at this hall and name you his successor in gratitude?” She sighed and shook her head again. “How much is this hall of yours going to cost?”
He shrugged, a little hurt by her dismissiveness. “Ten, fifteen thousand? Hard to tell just yet. I have promised to contribute five.”
“Five thousand?” Devi exclaimed in dismay. “That is a lot of money.”
“Oh, I don’t think we will have to part with even half of that. People are already clamoring to be part of the donor pool. Everyone wants in, Avvaiah.”
He placed the needle of the gramophone on the record, and music filled the room.
“Whatever is Coorg coming to?” Devi said, bemused. “People are happy to spend fifteen thousand rupees without blinking an eye, and all for the privilege of shaking this white man’s hand … ”
Appu had risen to his feet. “Enough politics for the evening,” he said, lifting Baby gracefully to her feet. “How about a dance then, my lovely, before we head to the Club?”
Baby glanced shyly at Devi and Devanna as he drew her close. Laying his cheek against her hair, Appu began to sing along.
Devi swirled the snifter in her hands, the brandy sloshing golden against the crystal. It had become a habit with her now, this daily peg in the evenings. Ever since Nanju … she took a hasty swallow of the brandy, grateful for its heat against her throat. Without the liquor, it was hard to sleep.
She turned slightly, to look at Devanna. He was watching Appu and Baby dance, not smiling, no it was far too soon for that, for either him or for her, but nonetheless, there was a softness in his expression, smoothing the lines in his face.
Appu twirled Baby around in his arms, still singing along, Baby’s earrings flashing green and gold as they caught the light.
Such a beautiful couple. Devi sent up a silent prayer as they glided about the drawing room: Please, Iguthappa Swami, let them…let no more…let us…
She stopped, fumbling with the words, unsure anymore of how best to petition the Gods for their protection.
It was touch and go for a while with the Viceroy. His military attaché insisted his schedule was simply too tight to accommodate a trip to Coorg. It was Appu who had come up with the idea of the races. The planters sent the Viceroy a gift, a finely tooled silver peechekathi, its hilt inlaid with gold. The dagger was wrapped in muslin and placed in a brass trunk filled nearly to the brim with rich, brown, perfectly cloven coffee beans. Together with the gift, there was an invitation printed on heavy cream stationery.
The coffee planters of Coorg are honoured to invite His Excellency to inaugurate the Mercara Derby.
And while he was their guest at the races, the invitation added, it would be their privilege to share with him the finest coffee in the world. Intrigued, the Viceroy informed his disgruntled attaché that they would be stopping for two days in Coorg.
Once the Viceroy’s attendance had been confirmed, the funding for the hall was completed within a matter of weeks. So plentiful were the donations that Appu contributed no more than a few hundred rupees from his promised five thousand. People kept coming, despite being told that no more donations were being accepted, citing connections, demanding to be allowed to contribute, so that their names would be listed in the founding annals of the hall.
The day of the visit drew closer and preparations intensified for the Derby. The organizers raised a massive purse of fifty thousand rupees, and the finest jockeys had signed up, from Madras, Calcutta, and Bombay. The horses came in and were stabled at the Club. Extra help was hired for the ball from the sister club in Bangalore, and Appu cajoled Devi into funding new brass-buttoned tunics for all the waiters.
Women bought new saris, veils, and ball gowns for the event and sent their best jewelry to be polished. Appu selected Baby’s wardrobe, and not a word of protest did she utter over the low-backed gown he had chosen for the ball. This visit was important to him, she knew. She must look her absolute best.
On the morning itself, she dressed carefully in the drop-waisted chiffon frock he had laid out for her. She fastened the diamanté-edged buckles of her heels and, smoothing her hair into a chignon, looped a strand of perfect pink pearls around it. Appu was pacing back and forth in his suit, practicing his spiel. “It is an honor, your Excellency. We are delighted to have you with us. And may I present my wife … ”
He stopped midstride as Baby walked out of the dressing room and then Appu grinned. “Perfection. What a vi
sion. Baby, you’re going to knock his socks off.”
With a blare of horns, the Viceroy’s entourage drew up. He was handed a pair of scissors and, with a graceful flourish, the Viceroy cut the ribbon draped over the entrance to the hall, inaugurating it to thunderous applause. His Excellency turned and waved, and a cheer rippled through the crowd.
The queue moved quickly, and soon it was their turn to be introduced. His Excellency glanced appreciatively at Baby as Appu introduced himself. “And this,” Appu said proudly, “is my wife, Baby.”
Baby smiled shyly at the Viceroy. “How do you do?” she asked.
“Quite well, my dear, for such an early start. So tell me, do you think this coffee is indeed the finest in the world?”
Baby stared at him, flustered. She should respond, she knew she should. The pressure of Appu’s arm increased ever so slightly on her back. She should say something. “Yes, your Highness,” she stammered. “I mean, yes, your Royalty … yes, it is, Sir Willie Ding Dong.”
The row later in the car was the worst they had ever had. “How could you,” Appu said. “How could you? Wiped my face in the mud, that’s what you did. Didn’t I tell you how important this was to me? I’m trying to make something of myself, Baby, or don’t you care? Yet there you go, insulting the Viceroy, the blasted VICEROY of India to his blooming bloody face. Willie Ding Dong?”
“It was a mistake, Appu,” Baby said tearfully. “You were the one who called him that.”
“Not to his face.”
“It was a mistake,” she wept. “I just got so nervous—”
“Nervous? About what? Can’t you speak, don’t you have a mouth? Look at Daisy, look at all those other women, how gracefully they conducted themselves. They looked like queens. While you—”
“Then why did you take me along? You know I am not that comfortable with these things. And did it not go off well regardless?”
Despite her awful blooper, the morning had indeed gone well. The Derby had been a thundering success, and the Viceroy had even seemed to enjoy himself. But Appu was still shaken. They fought all the way back to Tiger Hills, where Devanna took one look at Baby’s tear-stained face and asked, alarmed, “What happened? The nationalists … ”
Tiger Hills Page 44
