Maharani Read online

  ‘So are we,’ said Mrs Montalban.

  We had put up with over two months of monsoon rain and we were all longing for blue skies.

  And of course something did happen to break the monotony; although, as the old mali had predicted, it came with the suddenness of a flash flood.

  Mr Montalban returned a little earlier than expected.

  Nothing extraordinary about that, for he came and went as he wished, being his own master to a certain extent.

  He was a hot-blooded man, obsessive about his possessions—his family (which he took for granted), his wife (whom he practically ignored, so confident was he of his dominance), and his mistress, Neena, whom he was beginning to take for granted too.

  Even though I was a regular visitor at his family’s home, he did not for a moment suspect his wife of any infidelity; nor had he reason to do so. I liked her for her modesty and homeliness. I liked the children; I had a special relationship with Pablo. Montalban ignored me. He did not see me as a threat. Even in his relationship with Neena, he did not view me as a rival. Neena and I had been friends from our schooldays. That, somehow, nullified any physical attraction we might have had for each other.

  So when he returned to Mussoorie he dropped off his luggage at his house, along with the presents he had brought for his children, presented me with a bottle of wine (I happened to be on the premises); declared that he felt like a walk; and set off in the direction of Hollow Oak, fully confident that he was master of that house too and that a royal welcome would be awaiting him.

  Indeed, he would have been welcomed with open arms had Neena been prepared for his return. Easily bored, and restless during his absence, she had looked around for other diversions, and had found one in the person of Mr Lobo.

  Mr Lobo was a good little pianist, and there was also an amorous side to his nature. Neena’s piano lessons went on till late at night and ended in the early hours. Sometimes they began again in the afternoon. From the music room to the bedroom it was only a few steps. And when it suited her, Neena could move with the speed of a Usain Bolt, or a bolt of lightning.

  Naughty Neena, she must have known it was a bit risky, since all the servants know exactly what was going on. And in a small town, prone to gossip, exaggeration and fabrication, 2+2 equals 22.

  Ricardo Montalban strode into Neena’s bedroom just as she and Mr Lobo were getting ready for a nocturnal musical session. It wasn’t very late, but piano lessons were over and an early supper had been washed down with some excellent Bordeaux wine (supplied at an earlier date by Ricardo Montalban), and Mr Lobo was about to demonstrate his prowess with the baton rather than the piano when he caught a glimpse of Ricardo framed in the doorway.

  Mr Lobo had not seen Ricardo before, and mistaking him for another of H.H.’s lackeys, said, ‘We’ll ring if we need another bottle’—words calculated to inflame the passions of any jilted lover, let alone a hot-blooded Spanish diplomat.

  A revolver appeared quite suddenly in Ricardo’s hand, and he was pointing it straight at Mr Lobo’s heart.

  And how did Mr Lobo respond?

  He did what any sensitive musician would have done in the circumstances. He had a heart attack.

  Even as he clutched his chest and opened his mouth in a silent scream, Neena emerged from the bed sheets, half tipsy but in fine fettle, and screamed at Montalban to get out of the room and head for South America.

  Montalban pointed the gun at H.H. She responded by picking up a bottle of tomato sauce and flinging it at him. A terrible waste of Crosse & Blackwell’s. Even as the bottle bounced off his shoulder, splattering his shirt front with sauce, the revolver went off, the bullet embedding itself in a portrait of his late Highness which hung above the bed. At the same time two pekes ran in from the bathroom, barking furiously and snapping at Ricardo’s legs.

  This was when I came in.

  Anticipating trouble, I had been following Montalban at a discreet distance; and now, hearing a revolver shot, I dashed up the stairs to witness this strange tableau in H.H.’s bedroom.

  Mr Lobo was on his back, his legs convulsing, a gurgling sound issuing from his throat. H.H. was still swearing at Ricardo, and the pekes were having a party of their own, now snapping at poor Mr Lobo, whose convulsions appeared to have upset them more than the gunshot.

  Always level-headed when it was someone else’s emergency, I took the gun from Ricardo and slipped it into my pocket. I then went to the phone and telephoned for Dr Bisht.

  He lived nearby, and within a few minutes I heard his scooter coming up the driveway. A servant brought him into the room. He looked around, saw tomato sauce splattered all over Ricardo’s shirt front, and assuming it was blood, made straight for the diplomat, who did indeed look pale and somewhat subdued.

  ‘Not him, you fool!’ shouted Neena. ‘That’s just tomato sauce. The one on the bed. My pianist’s had a heart attack.’

  Mr Lobo had stopped convulsing but he was still in bad shape. Dr Bisht made a quick examination, looked troubled, and said we should get the patient to hospital.

  ‘Will he live?’ asked Neena.

  ‘Can’t say,’ said Dr Bisht, never one to make a hurried prognosis.

  ‘Well, we can’t have him dying in my bed. Just think of the scandal! So what are you staring at, all of you? Get him to the hospital, you idiots!’

  Encouraged by the pekes snapping at our heels, we carried Mr Lobo downstairs, got him into H.H.’s old Daimler, and drove him to the mission hospital. That is, Ricardo drove while the good doctor and I sat in the back seat with the expiring Mr Lobo.

  14

  Mr Lobo did not expire. His symptoms had been more alarming than his condition warranted. Confronted by a jilted rival in love flourishing a revolver, many of us would have had a similar reaction.

  Sedated and placated, Mr Lobo soon felt better. But he decided to remain in hospital for a few days. He felt safer there. He had no intention of returning to the perils of giving piano lessons to Neena. And at the uninhabited Savoy he would have no protection. He felt reasonably secure in the private ward that had been paid for by H.H. He lingered there for a week. H.H. did not visit him, but she sent him hampers of food, toiletries, magazines and several pairs of pyjamas. She also bought his rail ticket, first-class air-conditioned, to Bombay. And if he wanted a job, well, there was that hotel in distant Pondicherry, and she would convince the management of their need for a pianist.

  ‘You can see him off, Ruskin,’ said Neena, squeezing my arm in a sisterly fashion. ‘I rely on you in these matters. What are friends for, after all? Take the Daimler, and make sure you put him on the Bombay Express. I don’t want any more fireworks around here.’

  So I took the Daimler, picked up Mr Lobo from the hospital, drove him down to Dehra Dun, and saw him off on the Bombay Express. He seemed happy to be going home.

  Returning to Mussoorie, I was told by the servants that H.H. was drunk and in a foul mood. So I parked the Daimler and walked home. She could thank me another day.

  And of course it was time for the Montalbans to leave. Ricardo’s affair with Neena was definitely over. That shot fired in anger had been his mistake. And Mr Lobo had been Neena’s mistake. So they were quits and free to go their own ways and have as many lovers as they pleased.

  ‘We are leaving next week,’ said Mrs Montalban, informing me of their impending departure. ‘It has nothing to do with H.H. My husband has a new posting in Jakarta, and the children will go to school there. The children will miss you, dear friend. They have grown quite fond of you. Especially Pablo. Tell him you will visit us in Jakarta.’

  I couldn’t see how I was going to visit them in Jakarta or anywhere else, my funds being particularly low at the time; but Pablo, with all the optimism of youth, seemed convinced that we would meet again. Financial constraints did not figure in his life, and probably never would; his father was in the diplomatic service, and his mother came from a wealthy, aristocratic background. It occurred to me that Montalban had, i
n fact, received good postings due largely to her wealth and influence. A plain woman she might have been, but she had the whip hand and knew full well that his amorous adventures were no more than interludes. There was no way he was going to leave her.

  So our parting was not a sentimental one. The children were excited at the prospect of living in a different country. Mussoorie was, after all, a dull sort of place, unless you happened to like walking in the hills or consuming ice creams on the Mall.

  Still, Pablo showed his genuine regard for me by making me a present of all his film posters.

  The day before they left, the old mali came down the path to my cottage with a large bundle containing nearly all the posters Pablo had collected—some fifty to sixty posters, all neatly folded and well preserved. I put them away in a cupboard. I wasn’t going to turn my cottage into the foyer of a cinema hall. But I was touched by the gesture. I knew that he treasured his collection—and he felt that they would be safe with me. So Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, Elizabeth Taylor, Hema Malini and Meena Kumari all found their way into my cupboard—and were to remain there, untouched, for several years.

  It was hard to tell just what H.H. felt about the departure of the Montalban family. Ricardo had left early, still in a mighty huff; the family was to pack up and follow.

  When, on one of my walks, I met Neena outside her gate, she seemed terribly upset.

  ‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘You’ll soon find other friends and admirers.’

  ‘Shut up, you idiot,’ was her response. ‘I’m not concerned about those Mexicans leaving.’

  ‘Bolivians.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m upset because I’ve lost one of my dogs. One of the servants took them out for a walk early this morning, and a leopard sprang out from the bushes and carried off poor little Lao-tze.’

  This was the first good news of the day, but all I said was, ‘Too bad. It couldn’t have been much of a meal. Merely an aperitif. But you’ve still got his partner, Ming-ling.’

  ‘Ming-ling is grieving. She won’t eat anything.’

  ‘Wait till she gets her teeth into someone’s calf. Dr Bisht is still limping.’

  ‘You have no heart, Ruskin.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m all heart. And that leopard will be around again, looking for another snack. Nothing like a succulent little peke. So please keep Ming-ling securely locked up. Don’t let her out for a few days—preferably weeks. Better still—why not send her away to your palace in Mastipur? She’ll be safe down there. No leopards in Mastipur.’

  ‘Only hyenas.’

  ‘Hyenas don’t eat pekes. It’s like dog eating dog.’

  Neena gave me a quizzical look. ‘You really are concerned, aren’t you, Ruskin?’

  ‘Poor little Lao-tze,’ I said. ‘I shall miss him.’ And God forgive me for being such a liar, I might have added.

  Departure day arrived, and I joined the Montalbans in the taxi that took us down to the railway station in Dehra. Seeing people off was becoming a habit.

  I had known the Montalbans for just over a year, but I was already feeling a part of the family. Those who have no family of their own soon grow attached to welcoming families, no matter how imperfect they may be. One has to belong somewhere. But families were always going away and leaving me behind.

  I did not think I would see Pablo again, but I put on a brave face, held his hand, and bade him a cheerful goodbye.

  ‘See you in Jakarta,’ I said. ‘Or even in La Paz.’

  He murmured the last line of his little song, ‘A story of “I love you” has no ending,’ and kissed my hand. The train drew out, and he vanished from my life.

  I returned to Mussoorie, to its maniacal man-eater, the rich Maharani of Mastipur.

  15

  After the Montalbans’ departure, I was feeling listless, uneasy. I had put down an anchor, but the ship had sailed off anyway. I liked being moored to one place; a houseboat person, not a yachtsman. Tranquil waters were preferable to stormy seas. But there were very few who could put down their anchor in the same way.

  I was also keen to escape from H.H. for a while.

  I spent the winter in Delhi, exploring old tombs and monuments and writing articles for the Sunday papers. The small fees I received helped me to pay for the tiny room I had rented in a guest house just behind Connaught Place. Summer too passed in this manner. Then the next year.

  Sometimes I ate at a small café on a side street. The food was very ordinary, and the place wasn’t popular, but that meant I had a table and a corner to myself at almost any time of the day. I lived on hamburgers and coffee for about a year, and gave myself a peptic ulcer.

  One evening, while I was in my corner sipping coffee and making notes for a story on the history of Chandni Chowk, a couple of smartly dressed young women walked in and took the table next to me. They ordered tea and pakoras before noticing me in my gloomy corner.

  ‘Why, it’s Ruskin!’ exclaimed one of them, who looked slightly familiar. Dimpled, bobbed hair, pink toenails. I couldn’t quite place her.

  ‘You came to our school sometimes, to see a play or a concert. I teach English in the junior school. My name’s Sheela. I’m a cousin of your friend the Maharani, but she doesn’t bother with us—we work for a living.’

  ‘I remember you now,’ I said politely but untruthfully. ‘You must be having your holidays.’

  ‘That’s right. Two and a half months with nothing to do. Super! So I’m off to Nepal to stay with friends. This is my sister Leela.’

  Sister Leela bit into a chicken sandwich. ‘Hello,’ she said, her mouth full. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ And she took no further part in the conversation, concentrating all her energies on demolishing an entire plate of sandwiches.

  Sheela, more diet conscious, sipped her tea and said, ‘We haven’t seen you around for some time.’

  ‘I haven’t been up to Mussoorie. I’ve missed two summers. Have I missed much?’

  ‘Don’t think so. The old Savoy hotel burnt down.’

  ‘Poor old Savoy. No one died, I hope.’

  ‘No. But they found two skeletons in the cellar.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The headmaster of Tara Hall shot himself. Nobody knows why. He’d been there for forty years.’

  ‘That’s probably the reason.’

  ‘You sound so cynical. Let me think of some good news.’

  She thought hard and long, but there wasn’t much in the way of good news to pass on. Her companion ordered more pakoras, and offered me one. I accepted graciously.

  Sheela brightened up. ‘Oh yes! Your friend, the Maharani—but you must be in touch with her?’

  ‘Long out of touch. But what has she been up to?’

  ‘She’s always up to something, isn’t she? Well, last summer she was into religion, and the place looked like an ashram, with babas and godmen and their followers all over the place. There were rumours that she was going to take sanyas in the mountains and gift the palaces to her favourite guru. But which guru? There was some competition for the honour. Because the Mastipur palace was also involved. A valuable property. There were some who felt it was ideal for the purposes of meditation and mental wellness; others who felt it should be a centre for yoga in its physical form.’

  ‘And what did the Maharani decide?’ I asked, intrigued by all of this. I had never known Neena to meditate or contemplate or even cogitate. And as for yoga, she wasn’t the sort to tie herself into knots or stretch her body to its limits. But who was I to judge? Perhaps she had a mystical nature beneath her sensual exterior.

  ‘Is she still drinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Not openly. But she takes a nightcap regularly. Quite a large one.’

  ‘You are well informed, Sheela.’

  ‘Mussoorie’s a small place. And Barlowganj even smaller.’

  ‘So she hasn’t decided yet?’

  ‘Oh, she decided months ago. Threw them all out. With a little help from Brigadier Baghpat.’

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bsp; ‘Who’s he? Don’t know him.’

  ‘The new man in her life. She met him on the way to Badrinath. He took her to the Mana Pass and they fell in love. When they got back to Mussoorie he took over the management of her affairs, and there was an end to all talk of ashrams and health farms. He’s moved into Hollow Oak, and they plan to turn the Mastipur palace into a luxury hotel.’

  ‘Is he retired or still in the army?’

  ‘Only just retired. A bit paunchy. Droopy moustache. She’s quite fond of him. Calls him her Bugger-dear.’

  ‘The Brigadier stands for that?’

  ‘Oh, he dotes on her. Waits on her hand and foot. Does all her odd jobs—even keeps her sons away; they are always scrounging off her. And I think she’s making a will, leaving one of the properties to him. So my lawyer friend tells me.’

  ‘Lawyers are great gossips. And over the years she’s always been making wills. I’ve witnessed at least two. She’ll make another next year, when she tires of the Brigadier. Or her sons get rid of him. They’re desperate characters, I hear … I wonder if she insured her jewellery?’

  ‘Don’t know about that. But she’s a queen, even if retreaded. Must have some jewellery.’

  ‘Lots of it. Rubies and pearls. Emeralds and diamonds. Opals. Sapphires. I had a glimpse once, when she was showing off. Don’t know where she keeps them, though.’

  ‘In a safe-deposit box, probably.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t trust banks. Somewhere in Hollow Oak. Hidden away.’

  ‘In some hollow,’ said Sheela thoughtfully. ‘In the hollow of a tree?’

  ‘Someone might find them there. In a hollow of the mansion. Under the floorboards, probably.’

  Sheela clapped her hands. ‘How exciting! The treasures of Mastipur.’ Sister Leela wasn’t listening. She had ordered a hamburger and was attacking it with some ferocity. I had to admire her single-mindedness. Better to have a hamburger in hand than a diamond in dreamland.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ I asked.