The Truth

by Michael Palin

  He heard voices below the window; the slow, subdued chatter of families rising before dawn to prepare for the day ahead. Since leaving London he had kept his mind firmly on the job in hand, deliberately trying to keep at bay other, less welcome, trains of thought. But the voices below, and the intimate sounds of a family waking, brought his own fractured family to the forefront of his mind. Mabbut thought of his daughter, head over heels in love with someone he hardly knew, and Sam, receding into the distance. Most of all, he thought of Krystyna. In particular the new dilemma posed by his relationship with Rex Naismith. Rex, more than anyone, had helped him in his quest to find Melville, and yet at this moment Rex was probably climbing into bed with his wife. And he was completely powerless to do anything. Apart from think about it. Which, now, of course, he could not stop doing.

  Mabbut switched on the light, walked to the window, shook out his sweat-soaked blanket and picked up a book, but nothing could comfort him.

  It was only as dawn broke that sleep, irresistible sleep, finally embraced him.

  THREE

  He was woken by a loud hammering on the door. Light and noise streamed in from outside. The hammering stopped and he heard Mr Singh shouting, ‘Sir! Sir! There is telephone for you. Downstairs!’

  It was Farud. He sounded concerned.

  ‘It is the feast day of King Rama. If we go to see the Temple of the Sun, we must go very early.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll see the temple today, Farud, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘The giant chariots process at midday, Mr Keith, but you would not have to follow them with everyone else. We shall have a balcony in the old palace. There will be water for you and some small food. I will make sure I get you there. I think maybe we can be with you in less than one hour. Please be ready.’

  ‘Farud, please. I. Don’t. Want. To see. The temple. Today.’

  But the line had already gone dead.

  Mabbut went back to his room. He found his mobile but realised he didn’t have Farud’s number. He sat down on the bed and tried to think. If Steiner/Melville really wasn’t coming back to the guest house then Mabbut’s first task had to be to find him before the trail went completely cold.

  He washed as best he could in the tiny bathroom along the passage, dressed then went down to breakfast. As he went by the reception area he saw, to his surprise, three very white men. They were dressed casually, but not cheaply, in heavy checked shirts and jeans. One was staring hard at a BlackBerry, another stood near the door, looking out at the yard with barely concealed disgust, while the third, an older man who seemed to be the leader of the group, was talking to Mr Singh.

  ‘Mr Steiner left yesterday, sir.’

  ‘We were supposed to meet him here. Today.’

  They were Americans.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. He is not here.’

  ‘Did he leave any message for us, any word where he might be?’

  ‘I think he was going to Kolkata, sir.’

  Two of the men exchanged glances.

  ‘Calcutta?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I think he is doing some business there.’

  ‘Where does he stay, d’you know?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, sir.’

  ‘You can’t tell me, or you don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You don’t have a sister hotel in Calcutta?’ asked the man with the BlackBerry.

  ‘Great Undiscovered Shitholes of The World,’ muttered his companion.

  The older man took out a wallet and leant across to Mr Singh.

  ‘A name would be helpful,’ he said quietly.

  It was at that moment that all three of them became aware that there was someone else in the hallway. Four sets of eyes turned on Mabbut.

  ‘Er . . . breakfast?’ he asked Mr Singh brightly.

  Mr Singh seemed grateful for the diversion.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He indicated the dining room. ‘I will come through.’

  To Mabbut’s surprise three or four tables were occupied. All by Indians, all of whom seemed to know each other. They were young to middle-aged men, who probably worked in business. They slouched on their chairs, listening and laughing every time the fattest one talked. The plate of sweet pastries on the table in front of them was rapidly diminishing.

  Mabbut finished his banana and this time he left the orange. The room had emptied. He checked his watch. Farud would be here in half an hour and he would lose another day looking at temples. He was thinking what to do with a sticky sweet cake he regretted biting into when Mr Singh appeared at the doorway. He looked in Mabbut’s direction for quite some time, forcing Mabbut, out of politeness, to take another bite of the titbit. Mr Singh came over to his table and sat down.

  ‘Good breakfast, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Very . . . very tasty.’

  Mr Singh reached into a pocket.

  ‘Your passport.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’

  The proprietor sat watching Mabbut eat the cake. When it was finished, he leant forward and spoke quietly.

  ‘Why are you here, sir?’

  Mabbut was caught unawares. He was still trying to frame a response when Mr Singh spoke again, and as he did so he cast a swift glance out into the hallway.

  ‘No one like you comes here by accident.’

  ‘I assure you, I’m just the kind of person who prefers a place like this. Somewhere I can find the real people, the real India . . .’

  Mr Singh leant back and looked at Mabbut the way Melville had looked at him when he’d last burbled on about wanting to find the real people.

  ‘Sir, forgive me, but I think we must be honest with each other.’

  Mabbut was aware for the first time of an electric clock ticking softly on the wall.

  ‘What do you want with Mr Melville?’

  Mabbut nodded slowly. Be honest, he thought, but how honest?

  ‘Hamish Melville is someone I admire and when I heard that he often stayed here I thought it was a good enough recommendation. Give it a try, I thought.’

  ‘Heard from whom, sir?’

  ‘Someone in London, who admires him as I do.’

  Mr Singh leant back as if calculating his next move. Then, abruptly, he called out to the kitchen.

  ‘Vinoo! Chai!’

  He regarded Mabbut a moment longer. He seemed to be in no hurry. Indeed, the longer he paused the more his authority seemed to grow and the more Mabbut’s confidence diminished. A clatter from the kitchen brought a welcome diversion, and they both looked round as the tousled boy who had served Mabbut the previous night brought out two glasses of caramel-coloured tea and set them on the table.

  ‘You like Indian tea, Mr Keith? I have black tea if you prefer.’

  ‘No, this is fine. Thank you.’

  Mr Singh picked up his glass, held it for a moment, then set it back on the table.

  ‘Mr Keith. It is not well known that Mr Melville stays at the Farhan Guest House. Forgive me, but if you know this information then it is from someone close to him, or from someone who means him harm.’ He spread his hands. ‘Please?’

  ‘I mean him absolutely no harm,’ Mabbut protested vigorously. ‘How could I? He’s a legend. A hugely influential figure for anyone who . . . who . . . cares about the world.’

  The proprietor nodded gently and waited expectantly. Mabbut knew the game was up. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I was hoping to make contact with Mr Melville to tell him how much I admired him. That’s all.’

  ‘You’re an admirer?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You’re not a journalist?’

  The spicy tea made Mabbut cough, conveniently presenting him with a split second breathing space.

  ‘I was once a journalist, a long time ago,’ he said cautiously.

  Mr Singh’s head moved, almost imperceptibly, to one side.

  ‘You won an award.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  Mr Singh sm
iled and nodded towards the kitchen.

  ‘I have a computer out there, as well as a kettle.’

  Mabbut nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You stood up for the underdog, Mr Keith.’

  ‘Well, it was a while ago, and it didn’t do me much good.’

  Mr Singh narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice.

  ‘There are also people poisoning the water here, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I read some of the background. Big industry in rural areas. No safeguards.’

  Mr Singh glanced out at the hallway again. The Americans had gone. He seemed relieved.

  ‘You have heard of Astramex?’

  The name rang a bell. It had come up in his research.

  ‘Astra Mining and Exploration?

  Singh nodded.

  ‘Are they the ones poisoning the water?’

  ‘And doing many other things besides, sir. Many very bad things. But they are a very big company. They have offices in Dubai, New York, Brussels. Here they work far from the cities. They build their plants up in the hills, away from prying eyes.’

  He looked thoughtfully at Mabbut for a moment.

  ‘You should investigate them. You could have a scoop.’

  Sensing Mabbut’s wariness, Mr Singh sat back and his face relaxed into a smile.

  ‘As you may have guessed, Mr Keith,’ he tapped the passport, ‘Mr Keith Mabbut, I am not a hotelier.’

  He looked quickly over his shoulder as a man and a woman came in. He half stood then watched as they went to their table.

  ‘Vinoo!’

  When the boy came out of the kitchen, he turned his attention back to Mabbut.

  ‘I was a lecturer at the university here. My studies concerned the social conditions in our province, particularly the impact of industrial development on the adivasi – the original inhabitants, tribes who have lived in the interior for two or three thousand years. They are a very ancient Proto-Australoid people, and their way of life is now threatened by the mining company. My work came to the attention of Mr Melville and we have become quite close. Like you, I believe him to be a great man. One of those rare people whose gift it is to change many lives. For this reason he has enemies . . .’

  He paused, appearing once more to be on the point of making some decision.

  ‘Mr Keith. I don’t know you but I feel that you are a good man. I read some of your articles online.’

  ‘Really?’

  Mabbut’s astonishment clearly amused him.

  ‘Oh yes, one can find anything if you know where to look. Even in India.’ He smiled. ‘I was impressed. You wrote with feeling, Mr Keith.’

  Mabbut took a sip of his chai. By now it was tepid.

  ‘You haven’t posted anything for a long time. What happened?’

  ‘I made enemies too. And I had a wife and family to support.’ Mabbut gave a short, dry laugh. ‘Protest doesn’t pay the bills.’

  Mr Singh nodded earnestly. He picked up his tea then spoke to Mabbut with quiet passion.

  ‘Last July I was asked to leave the university. Conflict of interest. Support the adivasis or support the new science building. To be called Astra Hall. I made myself persona non grata for choosing the adivasis.’ He smiled, but Mabbut thought he detected the merest flicker of anger in the back of his eyes. ‘This is my university now.’

  Mabbut returned the smile then looked at his watch.

  ‘When is your man coming?’ asked Mr Singh.

  ‘Very soon, I’m afraid. He’s taking me to see more temples.’

  Mr Singh sighed.

  ‘And very beautiful they are. The finest in India.’

  He lowered his voice.

  ‘But they will always be here. Which will not be true of our tribal peoples out in the hills if Astramex get their way. If you like I can give you information and the name of some contacts who would be only too pleased to tell you what they are going through. I think this is a story that would interest you. And it needs to be told.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure you’re right.’ Mabbut paused. ‘But I’m not here as a journalist. I’m just a tourist who’s keen to meet Mr Melville, if that’s possible.’

  Mr Singh nodded, giving Mabbut the briefest of smiles.

  ‘The two are not incompatible.’

  He stood and picked up the glasses from the table.

  ‘You are a good man, Mr Keith, but a very bad liar. With your permission, I shall draw up an alternative tour for you. It will give you the chance to see something different.’

  Mabbut opened his mouth to protest, but there was something unobtrusively persuasive about Parval Singh and he was intrigued. Beneath the humble appearance Mabbut sensed the powerful intellect and sharp focus of a genuine radical. What he was doing in a place like this seemed inexplicable, but he was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  When Farud arrived Mabbut was up in his room packing. While Nirwan dusted the bodywork of the Toyota, Mr Singh took Farud to one side and explained the new itinerary he had drawn up. Farud nodded grimly, his face tightening as he listened. He looked up accusingly as Mabbut came down the stairs.

  ‘This is not what I would have chosen, Mr Keith,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’

  FOUR

  They were a few hours out of Bhubaneswar. Farud, so loquacious the previous day, was barely speaking to Mabbut now. It was abundantly clear that Farud found the whole new direction of their tour beneath him. He was a temple man. A highly qualified architectural archivist and historian with a wealth of knowledge available, for a relatively modest sum, to like-minded clients. He was not an outback man, or an adventurer, or a humper of heavy things up steep slopes. He was a scholar. Only this morning he had secured, after considerable effort, privileged access to some of the more erotic corners of the famous Black Temple of Kanark, thought by many to be the finest example of Hindu architecture in the entire country. There would be nothing like this up in the hills. But he was a professional. The fact that he had been persuaded to abandon the glorious temples and explore instead the aesthetically threadbare interior was because he was also a good company man and as far as the company was concerned the client was always right. This, and a small, personal down payment for the extra inconvenience, had secured his agreement.

  They had left Bhubaneswar mid-morning, Mr Singh having produced two copies of his new itinerary and in return taken Mabbut’s mobile number as a contact. After collecting supplies and fuelling up the car, they had headed out on the less busy back roads.

  For most of the day they rolled along through a flat and fertile plain.

  Paddy fields, awaiting the second harvest of the year, stretched away in brilliant shades of green. The villages were frequent and attractive, with long houses, many of them thatched. The shops were busy and craftsmen worked away by the side of the road, fashioning baskets or mending bits of agricultural equipment. The women and children were mainly to be found beside the water tanks, large ponds dug in the centre of the village, which served as communal baths, washing machines and quite possibly sewers. There was little sign of modern technology, though Mabbut noticed the occasional satellite dish. Out in the fields, rice cutting and sowing were still done by hand, and building materials such as bamboo and laterite, a reddish-brown toffee-like stone, were moved about using wooden bullock carts. This new dimension to India was very appealing to Mabbut: a rural way of life persisted here, unfussily, organically and, from what he could see, efficiently. It was a living thing, as attractive to him as any temple. Not even Farud’s pantomime sulk could prevent him surrendering to a buoyant and quite unfamiliar sense of wonder.

  They had lunch at a dhaba, a roadside shack, beside a sluggish river, in whose shallows women were doing their washing, constantly readjusting saris that slipped from their shoulders, while farther downstream, near the hefty chunk of concrete that served as a bridge, young men were cleaning their motorbikes. Two or three other customers ate with quiet concentration, breaking off every now and then to talk
to the patron. In a corner, high on a wall pasted with pictures of the gods, a cricket match played on a silent television screen. Mabbut ate his thali with enthusiasm, wiping his tin tray clean with the last piece of chapati.

  They turned off the main road and followed a slow and tortuous route which wound up from the coastal plain into low hills covered with trees and straggly undergrowth. As they moved farther away from the sea, the soft sedimentary rock gave way to smooth, sometimes monumental granite boulders. The road surface deteriorated, the settlements became fewer and the paddies smaller and less busy. With one last flourish, the sun swelled into a huge red ball then tucked itself away behind the hills. The light faded fast and the car fell quiet. Even Nirwan, who was wont to engage Farud in long, disputatious conversations, seemed aware that this was a time for silence. In the hills, way ahead of them, something caught Mabbut’s eye. He wound down his window and felt a warm blanket of air envelop him. There was a line of lights in the forest, stretching like a giant necklace from the crest of the hill down towards the valley and then up again to meet the ridge.

  ‘What are those lights, Farud?’

  Farud spoke to Nirwan in Hindi.

  ‘They are fires, sir. Lit by the local people.’

  Nirwan added something.

  ‘They make ash, sir. For cultivation. They are very simple people.’

  They were still climbing when Nirwan swung the wheel round and they turned into a driveway. Farud spoke into his mobile in Hindi and when they pulled up in front of what looked like an Alpine chalet, two men in white kurtas stepped forward, peering into the vehicle. Farud imparted only the bare essentials.

  ‘This is Government Guest House Number Forty-two.’

  Mabbut stepped out of the car. There was a sharp moist smell coming from the trees and the air was perceptibly cooler.

  ‘Who normally stays here? It seems very out of the way.’