Authors: Shakuntala Banaji
Nothing Karmel said seemed to calm the young foreigner. With her shabby sandals and her refined nose, she stared at him and wept until he thought she would wear a channel down her own face. And they had barely begun. Softly he paced the room, waiting for her anguish to exhaust her or for his own patience to dissolve.
The boy they were keeping separate, in a small chamber designed for the secretarial aides of visiting diplomats; it contained a sofa and a plastic potted plant. He had chosen for himself and the girl a room that adjoined a tiny interior garden, hoping that the smell of fresh earth might remind her of pleasant things or that the sight of flowers would cheer her up. Twice Hàrélal had padded up to the door like a restrained tiger and peered impatiently at him and the dripping face of the girl. Hàrélal could never see the point of obtaining the story of an event several times and had tried to tell him what was the matter the moment he stepped through the office door. But Karmel always wanted to hear witnesses speak.
Thus far he had ascertained only basic information such as her name, which was Sara Ann McMeckan, her companion's name, which was Adam Loach, and her reason for visiting India which was, allegedly, to meet up with a friend of theirs called Cameron Croft, who had written to them about a remote and delightful Himalayan idyll. She kept referring negatively to a book called
The Beach
and imploring him to understand that they had not come to India to smoke dope or to take part in any protest about trees. They were just tourists, hikers, there for the experience. She wore a twisted thread bracelet on her left wrist and as she spoke she twisted it violently around until her skin reddened to a mirroring line beneath it. Karmel wondered what Hàrélal had said to her to make her this fearful. Or what she had seen.
He studied her twitching face and then seated himself beside her. She looked charmingly dishevelled and there was no wedding band on either of her hands.
'Miss McMeckan.'
'Sara, please.' She sniffed.
'Okay, Sara.' He nodded at her; English words still tasted foreign on his tongue, but exciting, and full of possibility, not dry and formal as they seemed when Hàrélal spoke them. 'Why don't you try to describe your experiences, yes? That way I can judge what is dangerous and you can feel that your problem is being looked into. That's what we're here for.'
She seemed inclined to disagree; was, perhaps, on the verge of telling him that the Indian police were known for almost everything but helping normal people and she'd have been right, he thought; but she changed her mind and began the tale that ended with himself, Karmel, on an Interstate bus at midnight, with a crammed rucksack and a head full of tears, torn flesh and suspicion.
In preparation for his journey, Karmel had gone shopping. He'd bought a few things and borrowed a few from still-faced men at the backs of shops, acquaintances who loaned him their torches and walking boots, their soil manuals and their envy – for who wouldn't give up the stinking heat of a Delhi summer for the cooler, crisper air of the Himalayan meadows?
He'd been purposeful in his preparations and stopped only once, by a glittering array of scarves in Khan Market, wondering whether he might need some objects with which to soften up the locals. Common sense dictated that he take only the essentials with him on a journey that might involve a lengthy climb, but his heart was always melting at the sight of beauty and his wallet was open even before the engine of his motorbike was quite dead. The Kashmiri youth who sold him the scarves eyed his Honda with lust; normally Karmel would have chatted for a while but he knew he had no time for gossip.
At a traffic light on the way to his apartment, Karmel took a deep breath; petrol fumes lay thick and heavy at the intersection and bare feet sizzled faintly on pavements, scenting the air with an aroma of singed skin. The foreigners' faces shot back across his brain. A muscle at the side of his mouth began to twitch rhythmically, keeping time to the thud of his engine.
The bus terminus at eleven was a roiling mass of hysterical Delhiites, hell-bent on getting away from their city, and desperate vehicles circling, backing, parking and leaving from various stalls, pavements and restricted areas. The jammed interior of his bus reminded him again of his frustration, for Hàrélal had decreed that he could not go on his bike and had further added to his humiliation by refusing him the use of one of the department jeeps on the slight excuse that it would attract too much attention. Karmel knew for a fact that Hàrélal had four of their jeeps on standby at all hours of the day and night to follow his daughter around the city. That kind of paranoia made no sense to him and the curses he smothered were for himself but also on behalf of the beleaguered girl.
Meanwhile, lying beside his snoring wife in their oddly bare bedchamber, Hàrélal pondered the actions of his day and came to the conclusion that he had put the situation into safe hands. Kailash Karmel would handle it. If there was any truth to this horrifying tale – and schooled by experience, Hàrélal knew that corpses were not rare, anywhere in the country – Kailash could be relied upon to find out. He was an astute boy.
He then turned his mind to the more immediate problems of his digestive system, which was beginning to give way under an assault from imported prunes, parboiled vegetables and watery yoghurt, and his daughter, Tanya, who had announced that she wanted to go on a skiing holiday in Austria or, failing that, to practise in the profession for which her law degree had qualified her. Both thoughts appalled him.
Knowing the kind of sleazy blokes who hung around outside courtrooms and preyed on human suffering, he was far from inclined to oblige her wish to practise. But something had to be done – the girl was too old to be going to discos and too obviously single to be allowed on a skiing trip.
A bird called tenderly outside in the dark.
They lived in a nice neighbourhood; not as posh as Hàrélal would have liked but still, fairly exclusive, only a few minutes walk away from some
really
rich
people. How could he ensure that Tanya did nothing to jeopardise his reputation in this community? Or her own. How could he keep her safe?
Perhaps when Kailash had wrapped up the Himalayan mystery he could take the girl out a few times, show her the Real World and tune her in to a more obedient frame of mind. Then she'd let her mother choose her a suitable boy. Yes, that was it. Kailash would help him tame her. On the verge of sleep, Hàrélal caught himself thinking in an almost fatherly manner of his young subordinate. He was worth more than those whiney Scottish kids; he smiled, having placed the accent at last.
*
'Sara. Sara? Babe, wake up. We gotta’ pack.' Adam, the second of Harélal’s two bedraggled tourists, stood over his companion with her jeans and shirt in his hands. They were in a large, beautifully decorated room, with yellow silk curtains and an antique bed. It was still dark outside and there were no sounds at all to suggest that anyone else was awake in the house. She turned over and felt around, the golden hairs on her naked arms glimmering faintly. After rummaging around in his rucksack for a few minutes and waiting for a response, he threw her clothes at her and whispered, 'I'll be outside.'
Ten minutes later, having showered in the en suite bathroom and brushed her teeth, she was dressed and at his side. Her eyes were puffy and she looked worse than she had in the morning. Adam dropped a half-smoked cigarette onto the turf and stubbed at it desultorily with the toe of his sandal.
'Where're we off to, Ad?'
'Flight out of here.' Was the terse response.
She looked around in surprise and noted Sadrettin in one of his immaculate linen suits. Her eyebrows shot up in consternation.
'I thought . . . I thought that Antonio had arranged for us to go fly home
day after
tomorrow
? Hadn't he, Ad? Adam?'
'Don't know, babe. Obviously we got our wires crossed. This flight’s internal I think. To Goa, isn’t that right, Mr. Sadrettin? Anyway, we may as well go now that Antonio’s taken the trouble. Is there a chance we'll get free accommodation in Goa on any other vacation? Besides, classes don't start for a month.' Despite his cheery words, Adam looked gloomy and confused, even shabbier and more sunburnt than he had the day before. He placed an arm along her shoulders, but more as a gesture of silencing than comfort, for he sensed that she was going to argue. Sadrettin, Antonio Sinbari’s taciturn personal assistant, who’d ignored Adam’s earlier question, turned suddenly and summoned them both.
'Car's here. Shall we move?' They acquiesced to his quiet command and were soon whizzing through the capital's deserted streets. At the airport there was noise and bustle but to Sara it all seemed dreamlike. A Sikh family with pretty twin daughters and lots of luggage squashed up next to then in the lounge. Holiday excitement or natural exuberance made them voluble and the mother turned to Sara and Adam as if to include them in the general mirth. With lowered lids, pretending to sleep, Sara listened to the girls’ chatter. How childlike they seemed. How untroubled. Not so different from some girls she knew back home.
An hour later they were airborne. There had been only one hitch in their strangely smooth departure and it had come when a grim-faced woman guard ran the metal detector over Sara's body. The source of the noise had fast been located, however, as an oversized platinum-plated watch that she had in her pocket. Glancing surreptitiously at Adam, who had already passed through his body search and was now ahead of her, she retrieved it from the tray into which it had been dropped and clutched it silently as they were ushered onto their flight. Seated behind Adam with a row of empty seats to sleep on, she curled herself into a ball and opened her fist.
The watch face clicked and glinted at Sara like a lewd admirer, familiar yet threatening. Her eyes began to sting and her heart thudded sickeningly. She turned the watch over and read the minute, spidery inscription on the back though she knew it off by heart,
Darling
Cam, find time for me. Always.
In another part of the country entirely, Karmel’s bus climbed and climbed. Sooty villages had flickered past in an equally sooty dark yet, now that they had left the plains behind and hints of colour were beginning to tease the sky, he could see nothing but nature.
Bred in the city and accustomed to its odours, its noise and myriad human constructions, he felt discomfort stirring in his blood as shadowy rocks and trees hissed past. The air streaming in from open windows was chilly and fragrant. Even the most uncomfortably placed passengers had dozed off and he felt as if there was no one conscious except for himself and the driver. A sudden sharp turn brought them within sight of a tattered village.
Several passengers alighted and the bus seemed to squat less heavily on its wheels. Steaming tea was offered and accepted. Women took their children off to urinate in nearby greenery and Karmel borrowed a smoke from the man who'd used his shoulder all night long.
'Long night, huh brother?'
'I hear there've been roads collapsing further ahead.'
'Wife's sick. Got to get back.'
'Tobacco?'
'Damn the roads.'
Wisps of speech drifted around and made them feel like a small community. Karmel flicked ash out of the window and felt his mind loosen. Motion induced nausea receded.
The bus stalled continually after that stop. Some miles beyond another village, the driver asked the male passengers to get off and push the bus over a fallen heap of mud and stones. The fall was fresh but at least there had been no rain and the bus thudded, ungainly but manageable, over the rubble. As they drove on, higher and higher, the sun illuminated old waterfalls and sparkled off the thin trickles splashing the roadside.
Karmel slept fitfully, anxiety about his trip mixing with older memories and images in his dreams. He had never left Delhi before but he had a disconcerting sense that he was going back to something familiar.
By the time they reached Dilghum, their destination, there were only twelve people left on the bus and they were all, apart from Karmel, locals. Their sun-chapped skin and high cheek-bones would have marked them as different from him if their clothing and the alacrity of their disappearance once the bus halted had not confirmed his suspicion that he was the only 'tourist' in the area. Struggling to suppress a groan, he hefted his rucksack down to the ground and stood staring after the receding locals.
The driver switched off the engine and alighted beside Karmel, then went off to drink, wash and gossip before turning his vehicle and driving it down to the depot at the base of the foothills.
Looking around him, Karmel saw dark forested slopes disappearing against the light on three sides. Dilghum was cut into the hillside above him, squat houses interspersed with sharply terraced rice fields and there was no road downwards visible – apart from the one along which he had arrived. A narrow cobbled path appeared to lead up through the centre of the village.
The sun was directly overhead when Karmel wandered into Dilghum's only teashop. There were three men inside, though the interior was low-ceilinged and dark. They were all aged, stooped and crinkled. Their pipes seemed welded to their lips and the tin jug in front of them was scratched and dented.
'Getting away from the heat?' one of them cackled at him, through a row of stained teeth. Feeling cheered by the directness of this approach, Karmel replied in a friendly manner that he was climbing, but for business not pleasure. The same old man enquired what business and there followed an elaborate tale of soil analysis and deforestation from Karmel that obviously caused his listeners more mirth than concern.
'You are a university man, ha ha ha. I lived once in Delhi. You folks don't know the meaning of soil! Here, have some tea.' Scrambling to his feet the old man poured tea into a diminutive tin mug and offered it to Karmel, who accepted gratefully and unclenched his teeth for the first time since he'd left Delhi.
Taking enormous strides so as not to let his feet be sucked into mud, Karmel manoeuvred his way up through Dilghum. Sweet faces peered at him from the shadowy interiors of huts and small brick dwellings, children smiled and ran beside him for a few minutes.
Old men and boys had clustered around him as he headed up the track, offering advice and food, inviting him to stay in their homes when he returned from his soil harvest, his earth hunt. People admired his mobile phone, even though it would neither send nor receive at this altitude; someone shyly asked if he was married and, when he shook his head, suggested that he should be. Caught off guard by the unasked for familiarity, his pride melted at the ease of conversation.
A few of the older men and women had heard of Saahitaal but none knew precisely where it was. Eleven days journey some said; others thought only five. None were certain what he would find there but all held it to be a sacred place of some sort, a lake by a clearing high on one of the peaks beyond present sight. The old men with whom he had first conversed had offered to find him a guide but he had declined. To his persistent enquiries about any other climbers also looking for the village so that he might be able to get company on his journey they all replied in the same way: no one had asked the way to Saahitaal in a very long time, no one going that way would seek it from the east, no strangers apart from himself had been to Dilghum in at least nine weeks and the last was an Indian man.
*
In Goa, where their plane had landed, the heat was more humid than it had been up north. Sara McMeckan noticed the difference whenever she left her room to swim or stroll around. Her armpits and back felt sodden within seconds and the sea appeared through a thick white haze. So she preferred to stay in their suite with the air conditioning turned up high. Unlike some of the other resorts on this tiny stretch of coastline, the Randhor-Sinbari at Aguada beach ran to every conceivable luxury. Its high bamboo walls were discreetly electrified at the top and the sharp shine of electric cabling disguised artfully with palm fronts and bougainvillea.
Adam had absconded to a local bar almost as soon as they'd disembarked from their journey: making the most of a fabulous ‘doper-tunity’, he'd called it.
Running away from me
? was what she'd wanted to say.
Desultorily, Sara switched on the television. She didn’t normally watch the box, preferring an eclectic selection of novels and music, but here she had no library, no cd collection to fall back on.
Discovery
was screening a 30-minute documentary on 'ethical tourism'. She stared at the screen unblinking for a few moments, then scrabbled for the remote control, mouth working in panic, a sense of déjà vu clutching at her stomach as his face appeared before her, large as life. He was saying something about the vast challenges that lay ahead for India, the manifold ways in which tourism, rightly handled, could be the saving of the country. A scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen identified the speaker as 'Cameron Croft'. When had he given that interview? Why hadn’t she known? God! He looked so well there, chatting to the camera in that breezy way he had. She clutched at her stomach.
Collapsing against her pillows, Sara switched off the set, pressing the remote button until it was imprinted upon her thumb. Then she remembered when he'd been interviewed; recollected his purpose and destination.
Unbidden, images of the Himalayas flashed across her mind, the thrilling magnificence of the outer scenery and inner anticipation, the isolation, the disquiet, and finally the terror. With a shudder, she buried her face in chill linen and gave herself over to unquenchable weeping.
Karmel too woke weeping on the sixth night of his climb. Stretching out blinded fingers, he touched smooth canvas and rope. His hand fell to the ground beside him and he turned on his side, curling around the lumpy earth beneath his bag.
He was no good at this. The darkness intimidated him and the isolation was becoming an affliction, but that was not what had brought tears. Rather, some bizarre dream of privation and loss had carried him back to a boyhood usually too terrible to recall and, unable to switch on a radio or dispel the dream in city ways, he was forced to dwell on it. The Manek Foundation for Boys always acted like a dead star on his imagination; the absence of light inside his tent seemed a fitting mantle for thoughts of that era.
Nine years of bowel-gripping sickness caused by infected food, fighting off rape by older boys, by assistants, watching younger boys stripped and molested, finding their poor crushed bodies when they couldn't take it any more – and still deciding to go on, that it might be worth it some day, that one could only get stronger, that God might exist – these years did not show on Karmel's face, nor in his eyes or around his mouth. The wounds on his scalp had healed long ago; abundant hair served to keep the scars from prying eyes and few were allowed close enough to see the other mutilations.
Throwing off his bag and unzipping the flap, Karmel crawled out of the tent and gazed into the darkness around him. His watch made it twenty to four and daylight was just beyond the horizon, even though he could see neither. Working by touch, he began to pack up his things.
By eleven a.m. he had descended several kilometres into another wooded valley. Two days ago the whole mission was beginning to seem utterly ridiculous. The problem was, he had not seemed any closer to reaching Saahitaal than he had been in Dilghum. Passing shepherds who stopped to chat or share their tea with him all said the same thing, '
much easier to reach from the north-west
' or '
bear
west'
. He felt as if he had climbed and descended thirty hills, although it was more like seven.
It took him all of the second day finding his way out of a strange tropical wood that contained sighing bamboo and sharp thorny plants bearing an odd resemblance to hedgehogs.
On the fourth night he had slept in a shepherd village, gratefully sharing the food and companionship offered, for his dehydrated noodles were beginning to choke him.
Unable to accept that the boss had dispatched him, alone, instead of a team of men familiar with the hills, he had been considering fleeing back to Delhi until the previous day when he had finally met a group of travellers returning from a climb.
Affable and young, all of them had seemed filled with the joy of the climate and had not been looking forward to rejoining their various colleges on their return to the plains. Their enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of the hills had gradually put him in a more positive frame of mind and he had continued walking with renewed vigour.
He recalled now the conversation he'd had with their leader who not only had heard of Saahitaal but had also, or so he claimed, been very close to it on a previous climb.
'But why are you approaching it in this direction?' The young man had wanted to know. 'The river Saahi is much easier to follow as a guide and you could have gone to Malundi, in the Northwest, and reached it in less than two days. Someone gave you very bad directions.'
'Too late for regrets now', Karmel had murmured, wishing he had been given more time to prepare whilst in Delhi; but the young enthusiast seemed not to hear him and continued gossiping.
'It's funny that you should be asking about Saahitaal, yaar, it's not a very popular destination because so few people go that far west. It's not considered to be as beautiful during the climb although the place itself is quite special. Now, this is strange, you could say a coincidence, but a month ago when I passed by Malundi, I was told that some other climber, a woman, they described, had also been asking directions. Another of your people maybe? What is it you belong to? Department of Horticulture? Soil and irrigation?' He paused to let Karmel answer but receiving only a shrug continued unperturbed, 'No! No! She was foreign I remember!
Phirung.
Not that it matters to people round here. We're all like foreigners to them!'
Before the group left him on their return journey, Karmel scribbled a note to Hàrélal asking him to check a point in the foreigners' stories by ringing the Immigration Department:
when exactly had they entered India?
– and to get signed statements from them just in case the whole thing were to blow up in some way. He had a hunch, he wrote, but the boss as not to worry. He had met climbers who confirmed that at least one of the youngsters had been looking for Saahitaal but at a later date than they'd suggested and in a different part of the territory; so perhaps these were a different set of foreigners.
Addressing the letter hastily he enclosed it in the envelope. The young leader promised to post it for him.
Now, as he walked, Karmel began to recognise aspects of the landscape that had been described to him. A feeling of euphoria chased away his fatigue and eased the grasp of his nightmare.
He climbed faster, stopping seldom and passing many splashing streams. The ground became moister and he found himself examining the soil as if it really were his occupation and mission to do so. For some hours he had noticed that there were no birds of any description, nor had he seen any animals save sheep or goats and the occasional wild-looking dog; plants too had been getting scarcer as the land turned more rocky and barren. Then, ascending still further, he came upon a ridge from which he looked down into a valley that was once more green with foliage and resounded with the rush of fast moving water, its tiered sides looking, to his unaccustomed eyes, as if they had been meticulously cultivated.