The Solitude of Emperors

by David Davidar

  Although the FCM was only a private association of gardeners, the Brigadier ran its annual meeting as though it were the board meeting of some large conglomerate. He was a director on the board of a few companies in Madras and Delhi and thought, no doubt, that his cronies in Meham could do with some business discipline. The Chair was duly elected, apologies accepted, and then we got on to the agenda proper. I had received a poor photocopy of the single sheet of paper entitled ‘Agenda’ and this is how it read:

  Election of the Chair

  Apologies

  Minutes of the previous meeting

  Petition to the Collector

  De Groot’s Happiness

  Jack Stanway

  Hidden Treasure

  Brian M. Cox

  Forfar’s Pride

  Wally Yendell

  Any Other Business

  As there weren’t enough copies of the minutes to go round, I shared with the building contractor. He had a heavy cold and smelled of onions and Vicks VapoRub so I tried to keep as far from him as possible. As with any meeting, some of the participants were more active than others—the Brigadier and the doctor dominated the proceedings with the forestry officer chipping in from time to time on technical points. The nuclear scientist seemed profoundly bored by everything and didn’t say a word. There being no dissenting voices, the minutes were swiftly passed, and the next items on the agenda were taken up. The Brigadier held forth at length on the attempts of the club to get the press office of the Flower Show in Ooty to include a picture of the year’s prize-winning fuchsia garden with the press release handed out to the media. For reasons that weren’t quite clear to me, this had not yet happened, although talks on the matter had been initiated more than two years previously. The Brigadier proposed that a delegation visit the authorities before the details of the current year’s show were finalized.

  ‘We should, it’s only right,’ the nuclear scientist said vehemently, and then, just as suddenly, he subsided into the somnolence he had displayed since the beginning of the meeting. The Brigadier instructed the forestry official, who was recording the minutes, to note that a three-person delegation comprising the Brigadier, the building contractor and the forestry official would visit Ooty within the next fortnight. The group then began to discuss passionately items 5—10 on the agenda, varieties of fuchsia that the club was trying to develop with varying degrees of success. The nuclear scientist spoke for only the second time that evening about his attempts to get the Brian M. Cox variety to thrive in his garden, which seemed to be going rather well. The others around the table had less success to report, and none of them seemed to be able to get the hottest fuchsia in all the Nilgiris, the Wally Yendell, to sprout in their gardens; the Brigadier had passed around seeds and advice from the affiliated club in Somerset but all the members reported that they had failed to propagate the flower.

  ‘Our climate is much like the climate of the plant’s native habitat in Peru and Colombia. If our friends in England, where the conditions are much less conducive to the proper growth of fuchsias, can breed these plants, why can’t we?’ the Brigadier said irritably to the gathering. A flower bloomed in my mind, its pink petals gorgeously flounced and crinkled like a ballerina’s tutu, and I wondered how these gentlemen would react if they knew that the fuchsia they coveted grew in solitary splendour in the lee of a cemetery wall? I listened to the Brigadier ranting on for a while but grew bored and, shutting out his voice, I began to look around surreptitiously.

  The meeting had been going on for nearly an hour, and in this time the room had begun to fill up. Five large card tables had been installed and on four of them games were in full swing. Dotted across the wooden floor were clumps of sofas, and most of these were occupied by large men and women, the men in suits and the women in heavy formal saris, sipping drinks and gossiping as they waited for the dining hall to open. From the neighbouring billiard room came the sharp crack of balls.

  A tall young woman, beautiful in a way that dimmed the lamps in the room, walked in and every man present felt a momentary pang that she was not his. Trying hard not to stare, I took in her shoulder-length hair that matched the black sari she wore, the feline eyes, the straight plane of her nose that would look imperious when she grew old, the complexion of ivory and cream and the perfectly made-up face. Her gaze passed over me and the others in the room, made the slightest gesture of acknowledgement to someone outside my direct line of vision, and then she was gone, leaving a long afterglow in my mind. I wondered who she was; she seemed to belong in a sophisticated city setting, not in the Meham Club bar on New Year’s Eve. I heard my name being mentioned, and dragged myself reluctantly back to the meeting. The Brigadier was saying, ‘If we don’t have any other business, gentlemen, then I’d like to invite Vijay, my young friend from Bombay, to say a few words.’

  As the members focused their attention on me I became acutely conscious of the laboured breathing of the building contractor and the hairless dome of the forestry official. I could feel my confidence ebbing away, so there was nothing for it but to jump right in: ‘I have been told that a week from now a Hindu extremist is planning to attack the Shrine of the Blessed Martyr.’

  If I had been expecting a dramatic reaction to my announcement, I was disappointed. The nuclear scientist, Das, looked at me severely and said, ‘Young man, where on earth have you got this information from?’

  ‘From Brother Ahimas, or rather his people, sir,’ I said. ‘You know there was a demonstration earlier this month—’

  The Brigadier cut in. ‘You don’t have to teach us about this town, old chap. But there is nothing to worry about; this is Meham in the Nilgiris. It has the lowest record of violence in the country. This is not Ayodhya, this is not Gujarat, this is not Bombay… I am a good Hindu, and I am quite happy to live with a Shiva temple and a Christian shrine side by side, and I believe the majority of Hindus here feel the same way. Even if this group is going to take out a morcha, as you say, all there will be is a small group of people marching, some slogans, some banners. Bas. And if it rains, not even that.’

  ‘Sir,’ I remonstrated, ‘I would agree with you if it weren’t for the man leading them. He is believed to have participated in the Bombay riots.’ I realized I was deliberately embellishing the facts as I knew them, for I had no proof that Rajan was involved in the Bombay riots, nor that he was planning to attack the shrine on Feast Day, but I had to pique the interest of this group somehow.

  ‘What is he? A professional mercenary? In Meham? Impossible,’ the doctor said with a vehement shake of his head.

  ‘But the custodian and others at the shrine are very afraid. They feel there will be violence…’

  ‘They should go to the police or the Collector; nothing for us to worry about here.’

  I gave it one last try. Professor Menon’s fear had been real. ‘In that case, could you talk to the inspector and the Collector? I’m sure they will listen to you. This man Rajan is supposed to have a lot of influence.’

  ‘Did you say Rajan, D.P. Rajan?’ the Brigadier asked, leaning forward.

  ‘Yes sir, Rajan, I’m not sure about the initials, but he’s—’

  ‘Oh, I know Rajan, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s a businessman visiting us from Bombay, in the sari business. I think he already has a shop here, but he’s thinking of setting up another one, also one in Ooty. Met him at the club recently.’

  ‘Pleasant young man, respectful, polite, not at all what I expected from a Bombayite…’ the doctor chimed in.

  ‘And what might that be, Kuruvilla?’ Das asked in his sonorous voice. ‘Do we Bombay people have two heads or maybe a tail?’

  There was laughter at this sally, and the Brigadier began to speak, edging into his closing remarks. Realizing that this was perhaps my last opportunity, I cut him off, gesturing with my hands to show that I meant no disrespect.

  ‘Please, sir, give me a couple of days and I’ll prove to you that I’m not being alarmist. This cou
ld become Meham’s greatest tragedy, and if we don’t prevent it, we will only have ourselves to blame. Sir, Meham might be the most peaceful place in the whole country, but it’s also a poor town. I’ve heard that unemployment has been high ever since the tea business collapsed, and I’m sure there are plenty of things mischief-makers can exploit: land disputes, old debts, other simmering hostilities that just need a spark to ignite them. Think of the trail of havoc that was set off by the breaking down of a centuries-old mosque in a town that none of us had even heard of…’

  Still nobody reacted and the Brigadier stepped smoothly into the silence.

  ‘Well, that was most fascinating. I will look into my young friend’s concerns personally and take whatever action is necessary. And now, if there is no other business, I hereby adjourn this meeting. Gentlemen, we have some serious drinking to do to bring in 1994.’

  He signalled to a passing bearer, and drinks were ordered. As the others rose to head towards the increasingly noisy celebrators at the bar, he gestured to me to remain seated.

  ‘You are a young man, Vijay, and when you have seen enough of life as I have, you will realize that often things have a way of working themselves out, even if they seem at first sight to be potentially very dangerous. Now I don’t know how reliable your information is, but I want you to make thorough inquiries and I will do everything I can to help including introducing you to Rajan, who might be here tonight. He’s a nice chap and I think you’ll find your worries are groundless.’ The bearer materialized at his elbow with the drinks and the Brigadier helped himself, gave me mine, then said to me, ‘I don’t hold with all this fundamentalist nonsense myself. Religion is for the puja room and the mandir, and that’s it. I was an army man for nearly forty years and there was never any of this trouble in all the years I was in active service. You probably weren’t born when the ’71 conflict took place but I was present at the surrender of the Pakistani Army in Dacca and I can tell you that if anyone wanted to know whether India was secular or not, they just had to take a look at the officers commanding the Indian Army. The chief was a Parsi, the great Sam Maneckshaw, who lives nearby in Coonoor, the officer orchestrating the surrender was a Sikh, his second-in-command was a Jew, and his field commander was a Hindu—all this in stark contrast to the Pakistani Army. This fundamentalist goondagiri will blow over, I tell you, old boy… nothing but politics. They should let the army run the country, then there will be discipline, none of this bakwas… How’s your drink?’

  ‘It’s fine, sir.’

  ‘Oh come on, Papa, stop boring this young man,’ a voice said behind me, and even before I clambered to my feet, I knew who it was—the precisely pitched, convent-bred accent could have belonged to only one woman in the room.

  ‘Vijay, I’d like you to meet my daughter Maya,’ the Brigadier said. Thrown into confusion by the name the Brigadier had mentioned, I turned to shake her hand, barely managing to maintain my composure. Her gaze was cool, containing within it just a hint of amusement. ‘Vijay’s from Bombay,’ the Brigadier said, ‘and Maya is visiting me as she does every year at this time. Unfortunately her husband Rahul couldn’t come down—business, you know—you city folk lead such hectic lives, even holidays aren’t exempt anymore.’ Just then I became aware of a sharp pain, and looking down I found a small boy kicking me ferociously on the shin. Maya noticed what was going on, and said, ‘Sanjay, stop it, or you’ll be sent home with the ayah this instant.’ The little monster paid not the slightest attention to his mother, and continued to kick me as I tried to manoeuvre out of range. His mother cuffed him, and he promptly burst into tears, whereupon, throwing an exasperated glance at her father and me and muttering, ‘Nice to meet you, Vijay,’ she headed off, pushing her wailing brat ahead of her. The Brigadier smiled indulgently at the antics of his grandson. ‘You mustn’t mind him, he’s got far too much energy for any of us to be able to cope, but Maya does a good job. Pity she’s leaving tomorrow, otherwise I would have had you over to the house to meet her. Come along now, let me introduce you to someone your own age, enough of this old fogey.’ Drinks in hand we walked over to the bar, which was lined with earnest tipplers. The barman, his forehead shiny with sweat, scuttled crab-wise from one end to the other, pressing drinks into outstretched palms. The crowd at the bar was exclusively male, overweight and elderly for the most part, although here and there I could see a younger man nodding dutifully as he was harangued by some old bore. The room had grown exceptionally noisy and it was difficult to make oneself heard. This did not seem to bother the Brigadier, who merely raised his voice a couple of decibels as he greeted every man seated at the bar with thunderous enthusiasm. We made slow progress. I nodded politely every time a new name was cast my way, but I was having a hard time concentrating because suddenly things were falling into place—the Brigadier’s intense dislike of Noah, so he was the enraged father who had tried to have him expelled from school… I could see why Noah had fallen for her, she must have been just as beautiful as a teenager. Did she remember her one-time boyfriend, did she think about him every time she visited Meham or was her husband her antidote just as Iva had been Noah’s? And what about Noah, surely his informants would tell him every time Maya came to town, did he not want to try to get in touch with her?

  I was jostled out of these thoughts by the Brigadier’s baritone in my ear. ‘Here we are, old chap,’ he said, and I noticed we had arrived at the far end of the bar, around which a group of young planters was lounging. ‘Take good care of my young friend from Bombay,’ the Brigadier said somewhat imperiously to one of them. ‘He must leave with a good impression of our renowned Meham hospitality. OK, Kamath?’ He nudged the planter jovially almost causing him to spill his drink.

  Kamath was a man in his thirties with a goatee and a serious air about him. When the Brigadier was out of earshot, he whispered to me, ‘Old fool thinks he’s still a big shot. It isn’t a problem, though, he is easy enough to handle.’ And then he said worriedly, ‘You’re not a friend of his, are you?’ I said I wasn’t, and he relaxed. ‘So what brings you here?’ When I told him I was on holiday he said, ‘Best place in the world to holiday. But after two weeks, you need to get the hell out, otherwise you’ll go mad. Just joking, of course.’ He nodded to himself and said, ‘So who’s been showing you around, not the Brigadier, I hope?’

  One of the things I had learned as a journalist was never to give away too much information about yourself to people when you first met them, and although Kamath seemed harmless, I didn’t mention Noah or any of the other people I had met in Meham. Not that it mattered, for Kamath didn’t seem to want to know too much about me; he was a talker, and whatever reserve he might have possessed had been eliminated by the rum and Coke he was drinking at a rapid clip. Within a few minutes of our meeting he had finished the drink he was holding and had taken a large gulp of the replacement. He seemed to be able to hold his drink well, I didn’t notice any obvious waywardness of speech or manner, except that he was adamant that I quickly finish my whisky and soda and start another. ‘Only way to bring in the New Year is to be totally pissed, man. If you start with a hangover so bad that you feel like killing yourself, there’s no place to go but up.’ The whisky was starting to give me a pleasant buzz and a deeper appreciation of every banal comment Kamath made. I took a hefty swig from my glass and he looked approving. He knocked back what was left of his drink, and while he tried to attract the attention of the bartender carried on talking, about himself, his wife Lalitha—a pleasant-looking woman with an oval face and big dark eyes, who sat chattering animatedly with a group of women some distance away—their two young children and the tough times the tea industry was going through. He wanted desperately to get out of Meham, he said; he would like to go to Bombay or Delhi, perhaps even America, but who would take a thirty-two-year-old planter with no qualifications besides a BA and the ability to tell the quality of a batch of tea by swirling its brew around in his mouth?

  ‘I envy you, man, living in B
ombay and all. What do you do?’

  I told him I was a journalist, and he nodded. He ordered another rum and Coke from the harassed bartender, and raised his eyebrows when I declined to follow suit. I quickly explained that I was taking it slowly, I wasn’t much of a drinker and couldn’t keep up with him. He looked very pleased to hear this. ‘That’s OK, man,’ he said magnanimously.

  The alcohol was beginning to make me feel light-headed, but it had also begun to wash away my apprehensions about Rajan and his designs on the Shrine of the Blessed Martyr. The noise and the laughter swelled around me and I felt the last remaining knots of tension dissolve in my head. I looked around for Maya but it was difficult to spot anyone in the crowded room.

  ‘Have you seen the sights, man? Have you been to the Tower of God?’ Kamath bellowed into my ear.

  ‘Yes,’ I said happily, ‘I climbed those hundred and eight steps and felt every last one of them. Unlike Noah—’

  ‘Did you say Noah? The charasi?’ Kamath enquired. ‘I haven’t heard any gossip about him in years. What’s he up to?’ He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say for the first time since I had met him. I was beginning to answer his question when I realized with a rather fuzzy sense of dismay that the liquor wasn’t helping me be discreet. However, it didn’t seem so important any more, and I said airily, ‘Oh, not a whole lot. But he’s a good guy, I’ve spent quite a lot of time with him.’

  ‘Really, and the Brigadier knows this?’

  I sobered up a little at the note of incredulity in his voice, Noah’s warning loud inside my head. ‘No, he doesn’t,’ I said. ‘Please do me a favour, don’t tell him, he might take it amiss.’