down on my table and said, “This is too much, Maya! I told you twice yesterday to inform Mr Chauhan that the school will not be used as a voting centre. Don’t you hear a word I say? Now you go and handle him. He’s already come with some orderlies and he’s selecting classrooms.” Sometimes stirring a vat of jam at the factory I would go on and on stirring while my mind and body were far away, under the lacework of deodar in the forest, until one of the girls would say, “Maya Mam?” and take the long ladle from my hand.
I had to force myself not to barge into Veer’s working day, when he was immersed in his e-mails and his telephone, to suggest an expedition in his jeep. I waited for him to finish work and notice me. I waited every minute, when he was away, for him to come home.
Veer’s days were unpredictable. He worked from a room in the Light House. On some days he would lock himself away in it and, apart from the low hum of his voice on the telephone, there would be no sign of his presence. On other days he did no work at all and would sit in the veranda chatting with Diwan Sahib and Mr Qureshi, or go down to the bazaar to pick up his mail, stock up food for an approaching trek, and idle with people he met. The wool shop owner’s son, who was a budding politician, had become a friend of his, and there was a hotelier in the bazaar who would buttonhole Veer to try and persuade him to bring his clients to his hotel for a few days of relaxation after their treks. Veer played along, pronouncing it a great idea, but he never did bring his clients to Ranikhet. Instead, he picked them up from the railhead at Kathgodam, from where they drove directly to wherever they would begin the trek. I had only the foggiest understanding of his work and if I asked questions about routes and clients, he would answer with a smile, “Were you thinking of signing up? The next trek is to the Pindari glacier. Leeches and high-quality instant noodles guaranteed.”
Sometimes it worried me that he could disappear for weeks, when no-one had any way of telling, except in the most general sense, where he was. After one of his trips to Delhi in early July, when I went into his room for something or the other I found he had left his dirty clothes in a heap on the floor next to his bag. Out of a corner of my eye, I saw that one of the shirts was discoloured. I looked closer at it. The shirt’s blue denim was smeared all over with blood. The large stains looked fresh, still red, perhaps still damp. I did not want to touch the shirt to find out, but I was so startled I sat on a chair in his room and studied it from a safe distance to make sure I was not mistaking ink or paint for blood.
Veer had only returned that morning and was out in the veranda. He had changed into clean jeans and a loose grey T-shirt and sat on a low chair with a tea mug beside him. His feet were bare, he was whistling “Hey Jude” and staring at the screen of his laptop. When I went out and asked, “What’s all that blood on your shirt?” his face became such a mask of annoyance that I winced. Then his expression changed to one of amused tenderness. He gave me the half-smile that I found irresistible and said, “I have something to confess? Will you forgive me? I killed someone.” He looked around to see if there was anyone watching, then gave my cheek a quick pinch. “Look at your face: did you believe me? No, something else happened,” he said. “I overnighted in a hotel in Kaladhungi. Weird place: all night they kept shifting metal furniture across the floor of the room upstairs and walking up and down, knocking a walking stick or something like that on the floor above my head. Total silence in between and then the sounds again. The dead of night in the middle of jungle – I wondered if there were ghosts upstairs. Then someone began to sing songs – very beautifully – old folksongs – but that was the last straw, I couldn’t sleep