Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard

24

By 4.00 a.m. in the District Collector’s bungalow, the DC was awake and dressed so as to be ready when Mr Gupta arrived, which he did soon after, bundled in a copious number of woollen scarves and a cheerful yellow hat, knocking excitedly in staccato fashion on the door. Together, they were to go in the government jeep to the cantonment area. Here they would join the army, who would be armed with the nets, and together they would proceed to the orchard, where they would meet the police, who were to be on special alert for any disturbance that might interrupt these sensitive operations. Sampath would be brought down from the tree into police custody, the nets would be unloaded, the soldiers would get into the battle formation drawn up by the Brigadier and capture the monkeys. By the time the sun was properly in the sky, it would all be over.

But when, at 4.05 a.m., according to schedule, the DC and Mr Gupta were seated in the government jeep going down the driveway that led from the bungalow to the road, they had not proceeded more than a few yards when suddenly the driver braked. There, blocking the driveway, spread out all over, was a huge and motley collection of bundles and bed rolls, of broken chairs and tables, battered pots and pans galore, some dirty quilts and old pillows with stuffing coming out of them … Even an ancient rustyspring bed and two skinny goats were visible in the predawn light! What was more, they could hear a dreadful banging and clanging, and a loud scraping coming from the servants’ quarters that stood just to the side of the driveway.

‘What on earth is going on there?’ said the DC as Mr Gupta leapt from the jeep to find out. The air was filled with the musty smell of mouldering objects that had clearly not been out in the open air for years.

Mr Gupta returned a minute later. ‘It is the cook — he is leaving for his ancestral home. He says he is not going to stay here to be insulted in his old age. I think, sir, it is all unfortunately about the cutlets. I told him: “Kindly move your belongings from the driveway immediately.” But he says he is too old to do anything quickly and as it is he does not care at all.’

‘Oh dear, we will be late,’ said the DC, and they were forced to descend from the jeep and move for themselves, all the odds and ends the cook had collected over sixty-five years in government service. Who knows how the old man had managed to drag it all out in the first place? As they worked, the cook continued the racket he was making from inside his lodgings.

It was quite some time before they had nudged the stubborn goats into the bushes and succeeded in clearing all the cook’s belongings from the path. In fact, a whole half-hour was wasted before the driver, the DC and Mr Gupta were able to continue upon their way.

At precisely this time in the army cantonment area, the lights were blazing from the barracks and men, already dressed in khaki uniforms, were gathering about the flag pole. At the appointed time the Brigadier appeared as well and, marching to the main gates, spick and span, he got into his personal jeep.

‘Ready?’ he barked. ‘Well, then, onward mar—’

It was at this point, even though the sky was only just beginning to lighten, that he spotted, with his eagle eyes, his heart’s desire: there, in the old mulberry tree by the gate, the modest green pigeon who had so long teased, maddened and seduced him with its liquid notes, its reminders, sweet … piercing … of the old film songs that his mother had listened to when he was a child. Ah, that haunting sadness, that limpid voice pouring heart-rendingly from the throat of Lata Mangeshkar, a voice that sang of death and lost love, of lotus-flower feet and sandalwood skin, of long dark eyes, of loneliness, and the ache, the dreadful ache, of memory. All this and more he remembered from the few notes that sounded in the trees by his house. All this and more, he thought, from this small, drab bird sitting silent now upon the branch.

‘A net!’ he hissed. ‘Quick, a net, a net …’ Urgently, he prodded a surprised soldier with his baton. Then, snatching a monkey net from the startled man, he jumped from the jeep and threw it at the green pigeon in a blind desire to capture this elusive bird, to keep it by him as he lived in the army cantonment, to torture himself with the memory of his childhood, of his mother, whom he had loved so fiercely …

The net was far too big and too heavy, of course, for a single man to toss after a bird, and it travelled only a few feet before falling to the ground with a heavy thump, a pile of cumbersome nylon rope. With a slight flutter past his ears, the green pigeon rose and, before his horrified eyes, flew away, high over his head, to who knows where.

‘Damn!’ The Brigadier smashed his fist down upon his palm. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ It was a bad omen. But then, who was he to believe in omens? ‘Forward march, you damn fools,’ he said angrily to his men when he became aware of the stares turned in his direction. And they hurried off, having forgotten meanwhile to wait for the DC and Mr Gupta, who finally alerted their attention by blowing their horn loudly as they approached, driving full speed about the bends in the road, catching hold of whatever part of the jeep they could as they rattled and leapt over the rubble. When they caught up and the procession was complete, they started again. Now, hopefully, there would be no more delays. ‘Come on now. Move quickly, we are late … Double march … Left, right … Left, right … One, two … One, two … Left, right. Left —’

And they double-marched, it is sad to report, left right left, straight into another pile of suitcases and bedding rolls spread mysteriously upon the road.

‘Oh, no,’ roared the Brigadier. ‘What now?’

‘Who would have thought there’d be so many problems at this hour?’ said Mr Gupta, lowering a scarf he had wrapped about his mouth to keep the chill out. ‘We especially chose this time for lack of traffic and obstructions, and now just see what is happening.’

There, swaddled in even more woollens than Mr Gupta, in the midst of a sea of suitcases, was the CMO, giving orders to a small army of servants in front of his bungalow. Several cars spilled from his driveway on to the road.

‘What are you doing, fatso?’ shouted the Brigadier.

The CMO turned pale. ‘Are you referring to me?’ he asked with dignity. ‘If so, I think you should keep your words to yourself until you know the state of my health!’

‘Move,’ shouted the Brigadier. ‘Move, move, move yourself and your bloody belongings. Now!’

‘But where are you going?’ asked Mr Gupta.

‘Don’t start up a conversation … We are late, can’t you see?’ The Brigadier turned on him.

‘Due to health problems, I have been forced to take vacation leave in Kasauli. Every now and then, you know, in times of stress —’

‘Just move,’ shouted the Brigadier in purple rage. ‘Move your hundreds of damn suitcases.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the DC, watching the ensuing hullabaloo, ‘and I myself signed that vacation leave. I suppose it was my fault.’ He was feeling very nervous and miserable again. Clearly all the decisions he had made had been bad ones. First the cook and the insult to his cutlets and then the CMO and his vacation. Now the problem with the monkeys would just get worse, a scandal would erupt, his father would hear of it and feel embarrassed … Oh, it was a terrible business. If only he had gone into computers, that would have been a nice quiet life …

In a while they began to move again. But: ‘Do not go that way, sir,’ advised an alert sweeper man from the CMO’s house. ‘You will be stopped again in front of Vermaji’s house as soon as you turn the corner. His wife is moving out. It is a very shameful matter.’

Dark as a monsoon cloud, the Brigadier spat out orders for the cavalcade to back out of the road they had come on and to take another and, for that matter, much longer route out of town. By the time they finally reached the orchard, no doubt the monkeys would have disappeared and they would have to repeat this ridiculous charade another day.

They turned the corner on to the new road and, no sooner had they proceeded a short way down its pot-hole-ridden length than, there in front of them, they spotted the dumpy shape and brightly painted sides of the Hungry Hop van.

‘Pinky or Miss Pudding and Cake …’

A black stream of dirty exhaust billowed and puffed into the army men’s faces.