everywhere, it is a big problem in Ranikhet, not only Ranikhet, all of India. I have seen it in Lucknow, Bareilly, Dehra Dun – wherever I have been posted. Foreigners rightly remark that India is a country ruined by us Indians. We requisition dustbins, but nobody uses them. As for the old graves, and angels’ wings, even stone has a lifespan, and these are two hundred years old. And your late husband’s grave? – I will send someone to check. We will look into it. We have correct procedures for everything.”
I was about to retort with something acid when a pleased expression spread over his face. The Army band had just struck up. The first notes of brass music were rolling over the hills. Sounds of instruments being tuned reached our ears. A baritone voice joined them, with a line from a sentimental Hindi film song. “Ek akela is shahar mein, raat mein aur dopahar mein”, the voice warbled mournfully. “Alone in this city, all alone, at night and through the afternoon.”
Mr Chauhan stood with his eyes closed in pleasure until the song was interrupted by the General’s barks. The General rounded the bend, thwacking Bozo with his Naga spear in an effort to stop the dog from tugging at his leash to get at Bijli, who was growling back from a parapet across the road. “What is the reason, Bozo?” the General demanded as he pitted his wispy strength against his dog’s muscle. “I fail to understand. What is the reason?” He glimpsed the bird-watching couple and called out to them: “Hello there! Spotted anything yet?”
“Before the regimental reunion,” Mr Chauhan said, walking towards the General with a wide smile, “I will make it all new. This town will be the star of the hills, that is my promise.”
* * *
I gave up on Mr Chauhan and headed for the Light House. I was earlier than usual and Diwan Sahib, expecting no visitors at that time, was sitting in his garden practising birdcalls. Once a year, he went to St Hilda’s and put on a performance, educating the children about forest sounds and signs. He had done so for the past sixteen years and it was now part of the school’s Annual Day celebrations. The assembly hall would ring with his leopard and barking deer and owl calls while the children sat in rows on the floor, shrieking in delight and terror. He had got the idea from Corbett, who used to put on similar performances at schools in Nainital. I was not able to make sense of it in someone as irritable and solitary as he was, but he took it seriously and began practising months ahead, so I stood still, waiting for him to finish. After a long while he noticed me, and stopped a chital’s call midway with a frown.
I handed him the receipt for his electricity bill, and his newspaper.
He looked at the receipt and said, “Today? You were supposed to pay it two weeks ago. It’s long overdue, there must be a fine.”
My knees and fingernails were sore. The cloud of my headache hovered as if it would return at the least inkling of distress. Diwan Sahib’s tone made my head throb. “Not two weeks ago, one,” I said, and then, for no reason that I could think of, I lied. “I did pay it then, just forgot to give you the receipt.” Diwan Sahib raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“It’s paid, isn’t it? That’s all that matters.”
I turned away to go, without waiting for tea or our newspaper session. He said, “What is it? Why do you look as if you walked into a tree?”
Diwan Sahib could be perverse. When you least thought you would find sympathy he could be kindness personified. Yet when you felt battered, afraid, uncertain, he might turn it all into a joke. It was with some reluctance that I told him what had happened at the graveyard. A mocking smile began curling his lips before I had finished.
He said, “A few drunks go berserk and you report it as if the end of the world has come. They must have been college boys, looking for a lonely place to go wild in … and the bazaar booze shop is down the road from that graveyard.”
“It is not down the road from the booze shop, the bazaar is two kilometres away.”
“What is two kilometres these days? Boys have motorbikes.”
“It’s not a few drunks,” I said. “Don’t you read the papers? Haven’t