by Anuradha Roy
“Yes of course you do, Mr Chauhan,” I had said. “You must not waste it.”
But today Mr Chauhan seemed not to remember who I was. He spoke only to the manager and the Magistrate, pursing his lips and saying, “A little guidance at the right time is very valuable.” He had a small, officious-looking moustache, and though he was otherwise skinny, a paunch the size of a watermelon pushed out his navy-blue pullover. The bazaar gossip, which Mr Qureshi reported to Diwan Sahib daily, was that Chauhan had made enough from kickbacks in his six months here to build himself a three-storeyed house in Lucknow.
“It is also good that you are going to replace the parapets. These old stone ones are so untidy, grass and wild plants growing out of them,” the manager was saying.
“I am putting benches also,” Mr Chauhan said in the Magistrate’s direction. “You will see. Ranikhet has to become the Switzerland of India. Or at least it must be another Shimla. I am making a View Point. With telescope. For one rupee anyone can worship Nanda Devi-ji through zoom lens. And furthermore I am getting many roads re-laid.” After each of Mr Chauhan’s statements, which came with stately pauses in between, the manager murmured, “Point taken, Sir. Point well taken.”
“The roads, that’s urgent,” said the Sub-divisional Magistrate. “Has to be done on a war-footing.” He looked well-informed and important. A uniformed bearer hovered by his elbow holding a tray laden with little samosas. The Magistrate paid him no attention at all.
“Will the metalling of Mall Road go so far as our properties?” the hotel manager enquired in a hesitant voice. “You know, tourism is ruined by bad roads. This road was last repaired ten years back, I hear, but now – ”
“Not this time, not this time,” Mr Chauhan said. “I would like all of Ranikhet to have smooth roads, but this time our budget allows repair of only one part of Mall Road, for administrative purposes.”
I cleared my throat and said, “If only you could repair the road going to St Hilda’s! Our children have a hard time.”
The Magistrate and my host noticed me at last. Together they said, “Madam, you must be – ”
“Maya Mam,” Mr Chauhan said, beaming at me in an unlooked-for burst of bonhomie. “A teacher at the Convent. A valuable citizen! She teaches her children to make jams and jellies.”
“They do schoolwork,” I said. “But they need practical skills too.”
I opened my mouth to expand on the topic, but the men had moved on already to another: who would be the candidates for the elections coming up? The two main contenders for the Nainital seat had already begun campaigning. Surely the B.J.P. would win – the time was ripe for Hindus to govern their own country, show the world, they agreed. “Will the Minister change?” the manager said to the Sub-divisional Magistrate, who replied, “I am a mere servant of the people and have to humour whichever Minister I get.” They laughed together and raised their glasses in a mock toast. The hotel proprietor, unsure of lunchtime protocol in a new town, had served no alcohol. They had to say their “cheers” with plain Coke and Kissan orange squash. His wife was in Delhi still, he said to me, apologetic. “That’s why things are a bit disorganised.” She would come in a month, when it was a little warmer.
I looked around for Diwan Sahib, whom I spotted sitting at a plastic table under a plum tree snowy with blossom, tipping his hip flask into his glass, making no attempt to be discreet. He had come in a dark-blue shirt against which his white shock of hair and beard looked whiter and more dishevelled than usual, giving him a raffish air. He threw a twisted half-smile in my direction and nodded to me to come across. The wives of the other guests, who sat in a separate group further away, sipped their squash and darted him exasperated looks. One said as I was passing, “We must have more lunch parties, but only for select people.”
They looked around the relaid garden and admired the geometric precision of the flowerbeds. Within the beds, segregated by colour and type, were the plants that would flower in summer. Several flowers already bloomed in the martial lines of tulips, lilies, and carnations, staked and tied with string so they could not stray. Some of the women got up from their chairs to examine the flowerbeds closer too, so as to show off their saris. When one of them bent down to sniff the tulips, her companion broke into giggles and exclaimed, “Oh Mrs Sood, those flowers have no smell! They are tulips. They come from Holland. I went there once on a Thomas Cook tour! Whole fields of tulips, as if they are wheat or rice – this is nothing.”
I sat down next to Diwan Sahib and he said, “Had enough of the Burra Sa’abs?” His eyes twinkled and his wrinkles deepened when he smiled. I felt immediately at ease. I stretched out my legs, swivelled my ankles, and rested my head against the backrest of my chair.
“Why come,” I said to him, “if you will not meet anyone?”
“I am happy enough meeting only you,” he said. “But I never seem to see you. Even when you come in the afternoons you hide behind a newspaper.”
The General began talking at us as he advanced, tap-tapping the Naga spear he used as a walking stick, although it was much taller than him. His voice had long ago acquired the ability to reach the last row of soldiers in a parade. “I never read the papers. And look at my eyesight, perfect! Still driving. Why? Because I never read anything smaller than the headlines. Nothing but anarchy, I say, bombs and terrorists everywhere, waste of time reading about it. ‘Improve your Eye Sight, Never Read or Write’: I told Chauhan to nail that one to a tree – right next to the Central School.”
“Don’t come anywhere near our school,” I said. “It’s hard enough as it is, getting the classrooms filled.”
He frowned at me. “What? Who – ah it’s you, Maya. Better off empty, I say, those classrooms. You’re ruining those pretty village girls by teaching them to read. Social misfits.” Though his head was just about level with mine, the General was confident of his authority. He held himself very straight, and like a cartoon general, he had a thick, white moustache that was curled at the tips. He adjusted the Kumaon Regiment cap he invariably wore and looked at the empty chair beside us.
Diwan Sahib held his flask out and said, “Sit down, General Sahib, I know why you’re interested in my company all of a sudden.”
The General lowered himself into the chair and held a glass out towards the hip flask. “Where’s that boy of yours? Hasn’t he come? Heard he lives here now.”
“He’s gone off somewhere. Wandering. Trekking, he calls it.” Diwan Sahib said, concentrating on his pouring of careful drops from his flask into the glass.
“Strange to see him after all these years, our young Veer. Don’t mind me, Diwan Sahib, he’s your nephew, of course. But – Maya, I knew this boy when he was just this high – and even when he was a little child he was like a grown-up. You know? I’d make jokes – every other child would laugh his head off – but this boy? Nothing. Not a smile even. Couldn’t get a word out of him.” The General gave a loud laugh after his first sip of rum. “Takes after his uncle, doesn’t he? Yes, Diwan Sahib?”
Ramesh ambled across and patted the General on the shoulder. He was the only man in Ranikhet who would take such a liberty. “I say, General,” he boomed, “you have named your house General’s Retreat, but Generals should never retreat, they should always advance.” His face turned pink as he chortled with merriment. Ramesh was a retired economist from Harvard whom everyone called Professor. He told people to their faces what others did not dare to say behind their backs. He got away with it because of his unquenchable good humour. Now he settled down with a sigh, helped himself to Diwan Sahib’s hip flask, and said, “Next time we should meet at home. I brought lots of Kingfisher beer from Delhi. And I have a new recipe for mutton biryani.”
“I didn’t know you cooked,” I said.
“Oh no, Maya, of course I don’t cook.” Ramesh waved his hand grandly as if to gesture at his battalion of cooks. “I will make the biryani only in the way that Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal.”
The Brigadier
stood at the far end of the garden with an earnest-looking woman, who seemed to be an outsider. She was asking him, “What happens when a soldier has doubts about war, sir? What if they don’t want to fight?”
“We call such people bullshitters,” the Brigadier said. “That’s what we say, damn bullshitters!”
The woman mustered courage and said, “Sir, what about all this we hear, of army men raping and molesting women in the Northeast – and in Kashmir – ”
The Brigadier interrupted her in a sharp voice that we heard across the lawn. “One rotten fruit here or there, Madam, doesn’t make a bad basket. We deal with deviants, we do it more swiftly than anyone else.”
The hotel manager tried drawing the woman away. “Ah, Kusumji,” he said in arch tones, “now why don’t you have another samosa? And look, all those ladies at the flowerbed there want to show you something. You remember the rule, Kusum-ji, parties and politics don’t ever mix, isn’t that what they say?”
Mr Chauhan thumped a table and said, “That I will put on a signboard right away! And also, Politics before Food, Does your Digestion No Good. In fact, this I may prepare and send you for display in your hotel’s lobby.”
The once-desolate bungalow was painted and polished. Its once-dislocated windows sat squarely within their frames, its roof shone red with fresh paint. The hotel manager’s profession had trained him in setting up a pretty home: the tablecloths had frilled edges, vases sprouted fresh flowers, wrought iron lampshades hung from the trees. There was a new terracotta birdhouse, too small for the long tail of the magpie struggling to enter it. Huge striped canvas umbrellas shaded the tables. Two bearer boys went from person to person with trays of drinks and pakoras. One of them held his tray out to me. I was intrigued by his face, which had the startling beauty of young boys in the paintings of Renaissance Italy.
I said, “You are new here, aren’t you?”
He was taken aback at being spoken to. “I travel wherever Sa’ab goes,” he stammered. His voice was a mismatch, too deep for his slight, young body. He gave me a smile that showed a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I am Kundan Singh,” he said. “I am not really a bearer, I am the cook.”
Ramesh, sitting beside me, spoke before Kundan Singh could say anything more. “You know, once I had a cook who was not really a cook. In Lucknow when I was teaching there. His name was George. Anglo-Indian fellow – they all used to join the Railways then, but George was a cook. So one day I asked him, George, how did you become a cook? Why didn’t you join the Railways? You’re an Anglo-Indian, I say. And you know what he said?”
“Tell us.” I said. Kundan lingered with his tray, stealing a fearful glance over his shoulder in case his lingering was noticed.
“You know what he said? He said that for most of his life, he had been an engine driver.” Ramesh slapped his chair’s arm, roaring with mirth. “At least that explained why his cooking was so third rate. But that is not the end of it, my boy” – Kundan had shown signs of leaving – ”that is not the end of it. He was an engine driver for fifteen years and then the railways sacked him. He was very puzzled, you know – they told him to leave after so long in service. Why? On one medical check-up they had found that he was colour blind. The railway people said an engine driver had to know the difference between red and green – for the signals, you know – but George was very upset. He said to me, Sir, I understand that an engine driver must distinguish between red and green, but as life is all shades of grey, and as for fifteen years I could tell red’s shade of grey from green’s, I ask you, Sir, what does colour blindness mean to those who can see what’s what? But this was really too much! So much philosophy from an engine driver I could not take. Besides I realised why his food tasted so bad – the man didn’t know when he was putting chilli and when turmeric or cumin into food! All the spices looked like blue powder to him.”
Ramesh picked up a pakora from Kundan’s tray and said through his munches, “Beta, what were you before you were a cook? You didn’t drive a bus, or write poetry, did you? One never knows.” He waggled his head sagely in my direction.
Kundan opened his mouth to answer. But then noticed something. He hurriedly put his tray down on the table and ran towards the far end of the garden.
Three cows and two buffaloes were browsing at the edge of the lawn, quite close to the Brigadier. The bells around their necks tinkled as they reached for leaves just above their heads. I recognised Gouri, who let out a bellow as Kundan Singh reached her, slapped her rump, and shouted. Gouri gave a dismissive shake of her head, seeming to know at once a man who had no notion of herding cows. Kundan Singh looked around for the gardener and the chowkidar who knew how these things were done, but they were nowhere to be seen. The second bearer came to help move the cattle away from the people and the food, but now there were two amateurs, shouting to little purpose. One of the cows ambled down the slope, while a buffalo lumbered towards a laden table, scattering the captains and majors sitting at it. A few goats paused enquiringly at the edge of the slope and then skipped onto the lawn, eager to join the party. I spotted the delicate, long-legged little kid that Charu had named Pinki and necklaced with a red rope and bell.
“Quite a dairy industry here, Chauhan,” the Brigadier said with a dry laugh. “So what if Ranikhet lacks other industries.”
Mr Chauhan looked around with agitated swivels of his head for the cowherd responsible. I could see the culprit at a distance: it was Charu’s uncle, Sanki Puran, half asleep in a sliver of sunlight on a warm boulder far down the slope that led away from the house, smoking a beedi which was very likely spiked with dope. The forest around Puran was stabbed here and there by the first scarlet explosions of rhododendron and there was a white cloud of plum blossoms not far from him. Those patches of colour apart, his clothes merged so perfectly with the green and brown of the foliage that nobody else had noticed him. Puran wore the same khaki and olive army camouflage uniform all year, never taking it off save to bathe a few times when the summer grew too hot. Summer or winter, he also wore an army-issue leather-patched olive pullover, his elbows glistening through its holes. He had trousers that ended five inches above his ankles and a woollen cap that covered half of one eye.
By now, much of the party had converged in the centre of the lawn, looking as if they had never seen cattle before. The goats scampered about making for the discarded plates on the grass, chewing pakoras and paper napkins with gusto. Pinki executed perfect twirls and leaps near the birdhouse, to the delight of the children who had been watching T.V. inside all this time. Kundan scoured the valley for Charu, and when at length he sighted Puran, he clambered down the hillside towards him in relief, shouting, “Arre O Puran-da!”
Puran came to life at last. Something was the matter – he grasped that – and he clambered up towards us yelling his herding calls. Alarmed and confused by clashing shouts from Kundan and Puran, the cows and buffaloes began to blunder off in different directions. Then I saw a flash of purple streaking uphill at great speed from far away: Charu.
The Brigadier side-stepped a buffalo and said to his flustered host, “Difficult proposition having a lawn, eh? You need more staff – and fencing, you need fencing. What’s the point of signboards saying trespassers will be prosecuted? Can you prosecute a cow?” He gave everyone a wide smile and Mr Chauhan said, “Well put, Sir, well put.”
Ramesh said, “No, no, Brigadier! Cows are – holiness apart – natural lawn mowers. Best way to use resources, I say! Two for the price of one – they get food, you get a neat lawn.”
Puran’s exhortations were more effective than Kundan’s, and the cows began to head for the valley where Charu now stood. Puran clicked his tongue against his teeth, urging them on. The Brigadier, the hotel manager, and Mr Chauhan stood aside, pretending they were not flat against the garage, trapped between thorny rose bushes on one side and the garage door on the other. Diwan Sahib observed them with a savage smile and muttered “Perfect” under his breath, while the women cheered t
o encourage the cows. The smell from unbathed Puran made the Brigadier put a napkin to his nose, and two or three others followed suit.
“Why is this cowherd in fatigues?” the Brigadier asked Mr Chauhan over the sounds of laughter and mooing. “Where did he get them? Are the army stores secure? Must look into it.” He had turned away from the cattle towards Mr Chauhan as he spoke, and did not notice a young cow aiming a kick at him as she passed. The Brigadier yelped and sprang away, and then, ashamed, said into the middle distance, “Pahari cows! It’s only hill cows that kick like this. Nervous beasts.” He glanced around to see if anyone was laughing at him, but everyone, all at once, had gone quiet. The hotelier stared at the cattle with a fixed gaze of horror, shredding a paper napkin into tiny pieces. Bits of white tissue paper settled on the lawn around him.
Mr Chauhan lost his composure. “Enough!” he shouted towards Puran. “Enough is enough! I’m going to lock you up! With your damned cows and goats!” He noticed people staring and lowered his voice. “Every single day since I’ve been posted here,” he said to the Brigadier, “I’ve seen this madman sitting on Mall Road in that dirty uniform, feeding stray dogs, and I’ve said, Is this the way? Can this be allowed? I pitied him because he is poor. No more, Sir, not another day! I will tackle this with immediate effect.”
Puran shuffled past them, uncomprehending. Touching his woollen cap in an improvised salute, he said, “Namaste Sa’ab,” in a hoarse voice that sounded as if it came from the depths of a barrel, then shambled after his cows and goats, retreating bit by bit until we could only see the bobbing top of his cap.
Charu was still in the valley below, miniaturised by the distance. She was looking up the hill in our direction, at nobody but Kundan Singh as he struggled with Pinki, who had remained there to chew one last napkin. Before Kundan came into her life, her uncle Puran had been her closest friend. He was as defenceless as a child, he had always been. He could talk to animals, but people left him confused and mumbling. He gave dead bats and birds tender burials and allowed monkeys to pick lice off his head. People might think him mad but Charu stood up for him if anyone harassed him or called him crazy.
