Collected Short Stories Page 10

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘The train was delayed. I was feeling bored. And so I got off.’

  He did not believe that but he didn’t question me further. The sun was reaching up over the forest but the road lay in the shadow of tall trees—eucalyptus, mango and neem.

  ‘Not many people stay in the hotel,’ he said. ‘So it is cheap. You will get a room for five rupees.’

  ‘Who is the manager?’

  ‘Mr Satish Dayal. It is his father’s property. Satish Dayal could not pass his exams or get a job so his father sent him here to look after the hotel.’

  The jungle thinned out and we passed a temple, a mosque, a few small shops. There was a strong smell of burnt sugar in the air and in the distance I saw a factory chimney. That, then, was the reason for Shamli’s existence. We passed a bullock cart laden with sugarcane. The road went through fields of cane and maize, and then, just as we were about to re-enter the jungle, the youth pulled his horse to a side road and the hotel came in sight.

  It was a small white bungalow with a garden in the front, banana trees at the sides and an orchard of guava trees at the back. We came jingling up to the front veranda. Nobody appeared, nor was there any sign of life on the premises.

  ‘They are all asleep,’ said the youth.

  I said, ‘I’ll sit in the veranda and wait.’ I got down from the tonga and the youth dropped my case on the veranda steps. Then he stooped in front of me, smiling amiably, waiting to be paid.

  ‘Well, how much?’ I asked.

  ‘As a friend, only one rupee.’

  ‘That’s too much,’ I complained. ‘This is not Delhi.’

  ‘This is Shamli,’ he said. ‘I am the only tonga in Shamli. You may not pay me anything, if that is your wish. But then, I will not take you back to the station this evening. You will have to walk.’

  I gave him the rupee. He had both charm and cunning, an effective combination.

  ‘Come in the evening at about six,’ I said.

  ‘I will come,’ he said with an infectious smile. ‘Don’t worry.’ I waited till the tonga had gone round the bend in the road before walking up the veranda steps.

  The doors of the house were closed and there were no bells to ring. I didn’t have a watch but I judged the time to be a little past six o’clock. The hotel didn’t look very impressive. The whitewash was coming off the walls and the cane chairs on the veranda were old and crooked. A stag’s head was mounted over the front door but one of its glass eyes had fallen out. I had often heard hunters speak of how beautiful an animal looked before it died, but how could anyone with true love of the beautiful care for the stuffed head of an animal, grotesquely mounted, with no resemblance to its living aspect?

  I felt too restless to take any of the chairs. I began pacing up and down the veranda, wondering if I should start banging on the doors. Perhaps the hotel was deserted. Perhaps the tonga driver had played a trick on me. I began to regret my impulsiveness in leaving the train. When I saw the manager I would have to invent a reason for coming to his hotel. I was good at inventing reasons. I would tell him that a friend of mine had stayed here some years ago and that I was trying to trace him. I decided that my friend would have to be a little eccentric (having chosen Shamli to live in), that he had become a recluse, shutting himself off from the world. His parents—no, his sister—for his parents would be dead—had asked me to find him if I could and, as he had last been heard of in Shamli, I had taken the opportunity to inquire after him. His name would be Major Roberts, retired.

  I heard a tap running at the side of the building and walking around found a young man bathing at the tap. He was strong and well-built and slapped himself on the body with great enthusiasm. He had not seen me approaching so I waited until he had finished bathing and had begun to dry himself.

  ‘Hallo,’ I said.

  He turned at the sound of my voice and looked at me for a few moments with a puzzled expression. He had a round cheerful face and crisp black hair. He smiled slowly. But it was a more genuine smile than the tonga driver’s. So far I had met two people in Shamli and they were both smilers. That should have cheered me, but it didn’t. ‘You have come to stay?’ he asked in a slow, easygoing voice.

  ‘Just for the day,’ I said. ‘You work here?’

  ‘Yes, my name is Daya Ram. The manager is asleep just now but I will find a room for you.’

  He pulled on his vest and pyjamas and accompanied me back to the veranda. Here he picked up my suitcase and, unlocking a side door, led me into the house. We went down a passageway. Then Daya Ram stopped at the door on the right, pushed it open and took me into a small, sunny room that had a window looking out on to the orchard. There was a bed, a desk, a couple of cane chairs, and a frayed and faded red carpet.

  ‘Is it all right?’ said Daya Ram.

  ‘Perfectly all right.’

  ‘They have breakfast at eight o’clock. But if you are hungry, I will make something for you now.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. Are you the cook too?’

  ‘I do everything here.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘No,’ he said. And then added, in a sudden burst of confidence, ‘There are no women for a man like me.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave, then?’

  ‘I will,’ he said with a doubtful look on his face. ‘I will leave . . .’

  After he had gone I shut the door and went into the bathroom to bathe. The cold water refreshed me and made me feel one with the world. After I had dried myself, I sat on the bed, in front of the open window. A cool breeze, smelling of rain, came through the window and played over my body. I thought I saw a movement among the trees.

  And getting closer to the window, I saw a girl on a swing. She was a small girl, all by herself, and she was swinging to and fro and singing, and her song carried faintly on the breeze.

  I dressed quickly and left my room. The girl’s dress was billowing in the breeze, her pigtails flying about. When she saw me approaching, she stopped swinging and stared at me. I stopped a little distance away.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘A ghost,’ I replied.

  ‘You look like one,’ she said.

  I decided to take this as a compliment, as I was determined to make friends. I did not smile at her because some children dislike adults who smile at them all the time.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Kiran,’ she said. ‘I’m ten.’

  ‘You are getting old.’

  ‘Well, we all have to grow old one day. Aren’t you coming any closer?’

  ‘May I?’ I asked.

  ‘You may. You can push the swing.’

  One pigtail lay across the girl’s chest, the other behind her shoulder. She had a serious face and obviously felt she had responsibilities. She seemed to be in a hurry to grow up, and I suppose she had no time for anyone who treated her as a child. I pushed the swing until it went higher and higher and then I stopped pushing so that she came lower each time and we could talk.

  ‘Tell me about the people who live here,’ I said.

  ‘There is Heera,’ she said. ‘He’s the gardener. He’s nearly a hundred. You can see him behind the hedges in the garden. You can’t see him unless you look hard. He tells me stories, a new story every day. He’s much better than the people in the hotel and so is Daya Ram.’

  ‘Yes, I met Daya Ram.’

  ‘He’s my bodyguard. He brings me nice things from the kitchen when no one is looking.’

  ‘You don’t stay here?’

  ‘No, I live in another house. You can’t see it from here. My father is the manager of the factory.’

  ‘Aren’t there any other children to play with?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know any,’ she said.

  ‘And the people staying here?’

  ‘Oh, they.’ Apparently Kiran didn’t think much of the hotel guests. ‘Miss Deeds is funny when she’s drunk. And Mr Lin is the strangest.’

 
‘And what about the manager, Mr Dayal?’

  ‘He’s mean. And he gets frightened of the slightest things. But Mrs Dayal is nice. She lets me take flowers home. But she doesn’t talk much.’

  I was fascinated by Kiran’s ruthless summing up of the guests. I brought the swing to a standstill and asked, ‘And what do you think of me?’

  ‘I don’t know as yet,’ said Kiran quite seriously. ‘I’ll think about you.’

  As I came back to the hotel, I heard the sound of a piano in one of the front rooms. I didn’t know enough about music to be able to recognize the piece but it had sweetness and melody though it was played with some hesitancy. As I came nearer, the sweetness deserted the music, probably because the piano was out of tune.

  The person at the piano had distinctive Mongolian features and so I presumed he was Mr Lin. He hadn’t seen me enter the room and I stood beside the curtains of the door, watching him play. He had full round lips and high, slanting cheekbones. His eyes were large and round and full of melancholy. His long, slender fingers hardly touched the keys.

  I came nearer and then he looked up at me, without any show of surprise or displeasure, and kept on playing.

  ‘What are you playing?’ I asked.

  ‘Chopin,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s nice but the piano is fighting it.’

  ‘I know. This piano belonged to one of Kipling’s aunts. It hasn’t been tuned since the last century.’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘No, I come from Calcutta,’ he answered readily. ‘I have some business here with the sugarcane people, actually, though I am not a businessman.’ He was playing softly all the time so that our conversation was not lost in the music. ‘I don’t know anything about business. But I have to do something.’

  ‘Where did you learn to play the piano?’

  ‘In Singapore. A French lady taught me. She had great hopes of my becoming a concert pianist when I grew up. I would have toured Europe and America.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘We left during the War and I had to give up my lessons.’

  ‘And why did you go to Calcutta?’

  ‘My father is a Calcutta businessman. What do you do and why do you come here?’ he asked. ‘If I am not being too inquisitive.’

  Before I could answer, a bell rang, loud and continuously, drowning the music and conversation.

  ‘Breakfast,’ said Mr Lin.

  A thin dark man, wearing glasses, stepped nervously into the room and peered at me in an anxious manner.

  ‘You arrived last night?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I just want to stay the day. I think you’re the manager?’

  ‘Yes. Would you like to sign the register?’

  I went with him past the bar and into the office. I wrote my name and Mussoorie address in the register and the duration of my stay. I paused at the column marked ‘Profession’, thought it would be best to fill it with something and wrote ‘Author’.

  ‘You are here on business?’ asked Mr Dayal.

  ‘No, not exactly. You see, I’m looking for a friend of mine who was last heard of in Shamli, about three years ago. I thought I’d make a few inquiries in case he’s still here.’

  ‘What was his name? Perhaps he stayed here.’

  ‘Major Roberts,’ I said. ‘An Anglo-Indian.’

  ‘Well, you can look through the old registers after breakfast.’ He accompanied me into the dining room. The establishment was really more of a boarding house than a hotel because Mr Dayal ate with his guests. There was a round mahogany dining table in the centre of the room and Mr Lin was the only one seated at it. Daya Ram hovered about with plates and trays. I took my seat next to Lin and, as I did so, a door opened from the passage and a woman of about thirty-five came in.

  She had on a skirt and blouse which accentuated a firm, well-rounded figure, and she walked on high heels, with a rhythmical swaying of the hips. She had an uninteresting face, camouflaged with lipstick, rouge and powder—the powder so thick that it had become embedded in the natural lines of her face—but her figure compelled admiration.

  ‘Miss Deeds,’ whispered Lin.

  There was a false note to her greeting.

  ‘Hallo, everyone,’ she said heartily, straining for effect. ‘Why are you all so quiet? Has Mr Lin been playing the Funeral March again?’ She sat down and continued talking. ‘Really, we must have a dance or something to liven things up. You must know some good numbers, Lin, after your experience of Singapore nightclubs. What’s for breakfast? Boiled eggs. Daya Ram, can’t you make an omelette for a change? I know you’re not a professional cook but you don’t have to give us the same thing every day, and there’s absolutely no reason why you should burn the toast. You’ll have to do something about a cook, Mr Dayal.’ Then she noticed me sitting opposite her. ‘Oh, hallo,’ she said, genuinely surprised. She gave me a long appraising look.

  ‘This gentleman,’ said Mr Dayal introducing me, ‘is an author.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she said, without taking offence, ‘no one in this house seems to be married.’

  ‘I’m married,’ said Mr Dayal.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘And what brings you to Shamli?’ she asked, turning to me.

  ‘I’m looking for a friend called Major Roberts.’

  Lin gave an exclamation of surprise. I thought he had seen through my deception.

  But another game had begun.

  ‘I knew him,’ said Lin. ‘A great friend of mine.’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Lin. ‘I knew him. A good chap, Major Roberts.’ Well, there I was, inventing people to suit my convenience, and people like Mr Lin started inventing relationships with them. I was too intrigued to try and discourage him. I wanted to see how far he would go.

  ‘When did you meet him?’ asked Lin, taking the initiative. ‘Oh, only about three years back, just before he disappeared. He was last heard of in Shamli.’

  ‘Yes, I heard he was here,’ said Lin. ‘But he went away, when he thought his relatives had traced him. He went into the mountains near Tibet.’

  ‘Did he?’ I said, unwilling to be instructed further. ‘What part of the country? I come from the hills myself. I know the Mana and Niti passes quite well. If you have any idea of exactly where he went, I think I could find him.’ I had the advantage in this exchange because I was the one who had originally invented Roberts. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to end his deception, probably because I felt sorry for him. A happy man wouldn’t take the trouble of inventing friendships with people who didn’t exist. He’d be too busy with friends who did.

  ‘You’ve had a lonely life, Mr Lin?’ I asked.

  ‘Lonely?’ said Mr Lin, with forced incredulousness. ‘I’d never been lonely till I came here a month ago. When I was in Singapore . . .’

  ‘You never get any letters though, do you?’ asked Miss Deeds suddenly.

  Lin was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘Do you?’

  Miss Deeds lifted her head a little, as a horse does when it is annoyed, and I thought her pride had been hurt, but then she laughed unobtrusively and tossed her head.

  ‘I never write letters,’ she said. ‘My friends gave me up as hopeless years ago. They know it’s no use writing to me because they rarely get a reply. They call me the Jungle Princess.’

  Mr Dayal tittered and I found it hard to suppress a smile. To cover up my smile I asked, ‘You teach here?’

  ‘Yes, I teach at the girls’ school,’ she said with a frown. ‘But don’t talk to me about teaching. I have enough of it all day.’

  ‘You don’t like teaching?’

  She gave me an aggressive look. ‘Should I?’ she asked. ‘Shouldn’t you?’ I said.

  She paused, and then said, ‘Who are you, anyway, the Inspector of Schools?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Day
al who wasn’t following very well, ‘he’s a journalist.’

  ‘I’ve heard they are nosey,’ said Miss Deeds.

  Once again Lin interrupted to steer the conversation away from a delicate issue.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Dayal this morning?’ asked Lin.

  ‘She spent the night with our neighbours,’ said Mr Dayal. ‘She should be here after lunch.’

  It was the first time Mrs Dayal had been mentioned. Nobody spoke either well or ill of her. I suspected that she kept her distance from the others, avoiding familiarity. I began to wonder about Mrs Dayal.

  Daya Ram came in from the veranda looking worried. ‘Heera’s dog has disappeared,’ he said. ‘He thinks a leopard took it.’

  Heera, the gardener, was standing respectfully outside on the veranda steps. We all hurried out to him, firing questions which he didn’t try to answer.

  ‘Yes. It’s a leopard,’ said Kiran appearing from behind Heera. ‘It’s going to come into the hotel,’ she added cheerfully.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Satish Dayal crossly.

  ‘There are pug marks under the trees,’ said Daya Ram.

  Mr Dayal, who seemed to know little about leopards or pug marks, said, ‘I will take a look,’ and led the way to the orchard, the rest of us trailing behind in an ill-assorted procession.

  There were marks on the soft earth in the orchard (they could have been a leopard’s) which went in the direction of the riverbed. Mr Dayal paled a little and went hurrying back to the hotel. Heera returned to the front garden, the least excited, the most sorrowful. Everyone else was thinking of a leopard but he was thinking of the dog.

  I followed him and watched him weeding the sunflower beds. His face was wrinkled like a walnut but his eyes were clear and bright. His hands were thin and bony but there was a deftness and power in the wrist and fingers and the weeds flew fast from his spade. He had cracked, parchment-like skin. I could not help thinking of the gloss and glow of Daya Ram’s limbs as I had seen them when he was bathing and wondered if Heera’s had once been like that and if Daya Ram’s would ever be like this, and both possibilities—or were they probabilities—saddened me. Our skin, I thought, is like the leaf of a tree, young and green and shiny. Then it gets darker and heavier, sometimes spotted with disease, sometimes eaten away. Then fading, yellow and red, then falling, crumbling into dust or feeding the flames of fire. I looked at my own skin, still smooth, not coarsened by labour. I thought of Kiran’s fresh rose-tinted complexion; Miss Deeds’ skin, hard and dry; Lin’s pale taut skin, stretched tightly across his prominent cheeks and forehead; and Mr Dayal’s grey skin growing thick hair. And I wondered about Mrs Dayal and the kind of skin she would have.