Himmat was more than proficient at arithmetic and Batliwala thought it was time to introduce the boy to algebra and geometry. He got the hang of geometry as if he was born to it but had no head at all for the ‘x multiplied by y equals to’ stuff. Batliwala was a patient man and he explained the principles of algebra over and over again to his student. Himmat nodded his head sagely but that didn’t mean he had followed a damn thing.
‘Why are you pretending you’ve understood what I am teaching you when what you write on the page proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are entirely clueless?’ Batliwala lost it then and slapped Himmat. Heera burst into tears. Three elders taking their evening walk in the garden stopped and the one who was bald spoke up. ‘How dare you raise your hand on that poor boy? If you ever do that again, I will personally report you to the police.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Himmat had found his voice. ‘He’s my teacher and I deserve a thrashing for being so stupid.’
Then Himmat picked up Heera and started to leave. Cawas Batliwala, age fifty-three, bachelor and lawyer, could not have been more stunned if the boy had told him to bugger off or had flung a stone at him.
‘I’m not good at algebra. You’re wasting your time on me. I won’t be coming from tomorrow.’
‘Put the little one down,’ Batliwala thundered and the three old men turned around to look at him once again. ‘If you ever talk of not coming back to class, I assure you I will thrash the daylights out of you.’
There was no algebra the next day; just physics, chemistry and biology. The next week there was no teacher and the week after that too. Himmat had been expecting something like that. He understood that even the best teacher in the world couldn’t teach a stone.
Sangram Singh had been running a temperature for the past week and had the runs for the last four days. He said he had picked up some awful infection from the water and that he would not be able to fetch the daily paper from Jalta. He had been to the vaid in the next village but the ghastly bitter powders he had given had only made his condition worse and now he was vomiting too. What he needed to do was to see the allopathic doctor at Sharana who would give him a sui. The injection was his only hope but how was he to get to Sharana? He was sinking rapidly. It didn’t look good. He lay in bed and hardly touched the meals Vahidullah brought him.
Every morning His Highness yelled for Sangram Singh and when he didn’t show up, Vahidullah was asked to fetch him, dead or alive. ‘You tell that chronic liar and shirker that I am not running a dharamshala. It’s been a week since I saw a newspaper and I have had to wheel myself around the Palace on my own. For all I know he expects me to be at his beck and call and serve him his meals and polish his shoes. Run down, Vahidullah, and inform Sangram Singh that he will not be served any meals from now on. As a matter of fact…’
‘Ghanikhama, Huzoor,’ Vahidullah interrupted the Prince hesitantly, ‘but Sangram Singh has not touched food for the last week.’
‘Kindly have the courtesy to let me finish. First of all, I don’t for a minute believe that that perpetual prevaricator is skipping meals. I am sure he’s feeding himself behind your back and eating twice as much. Kindly convey to him that even if he’s on his deathbed, I will personally throw him out bag and baggage if he doesn’t present himself within the next five minutes. Tomorrow is the Kojagari full moon night and I expect him to take me to the terrace to witness it and pray to the moon god as is my custom every year.’
Sangram Singh didn’t make it in the stipulated five minutes but he came up tottering and then collapsed on the floor outside the royal drawing room where the Prince was waiting for him.
‘Enough of your histrionics. No one’s buying your thirdrate sickly acting.’
Sangram Singh stayed put. His Highness shoved his foot under the factotum lying on his face and turned him over. Sangram Singh seemed to be in a dead faint, more dead than faint really. His eyes had somersaulted inside their sockets. His mouth was open and there was a revolting green goo leaking out of the right corner.
Parbat Singh shuddered and frantically wheeled his chair backwards. ‘Cholera, he’s got cholera. The bastard’s going to infect me. Is anyone there? Vahidullah, Jairam, Kripanidhi, get this man out of my sight. Bury him before we all get his disease.’
The sun was about to set but a chubby yellow moon with bursting cheeks was already on its way up. His Highness’s shahtoosh shawl had got caught in the spokes of his wheelchair and he was having a difficult time manoeuvring it. Suddenly, his wheelchair shot forward and he was nearly thrown off. ‘What the f…’ The TV in the bedroom was on full blast and Prince Parbat Singh had to raise his voice to be heard. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. Don’t you ever creep up on me like that.’ His Highness wrapped the shawl tightly around his shoulders. ‘I thought you were dead. You certainly look it.’
‘Vahidullah mentioned that you would need help to get to the terrace and be taken around to see the Kojagari moon.’
‘Yes, I do. But not if you are going to give me some horrible infection.’
Sangram Singh pushed the wheelchair slowly forward so that His Highness could get a better view of the moon. The Prince brought his hands together, closed his eyes and recited a long Sanskrit shloka. He bowed low to the moon and opened his eyes. ‘Did you know that my family is descended directly from the moon god? You do know that we are his regents on earth, don’t you?’
‘Will the moon cease to be if Kantagiri no longer has an heir to the throne?’
‘Do you know what they do with tongues that don’t fit in the mouth? They chop them off from the root. Now I have a question for you. Do you remember what you told me some months ago?’
‘I’ve said many things to you, Huzoor.’ Sangram Singh smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Though not half as many as you’ve told me.’
‘What you said was, “You know you can trust me never to breathe a word of what I heard you say.”’
‘You certainly may trust me, Huzoor.’
‘Sure, I can. But you also said that it was not worth getting a stroke because of some dream I was having. Now tell me, Sangram Singh, what dream would leave me paralysed for the rest of my life?’
‘Best to let sleeping dogs lie, Huzoor.’
‘I know only one dog.’
‘Who might that be?’
‘You don’t know? Only one dog here. Guess who? So let’s hear the dog’s story. What did I say in my dream?’
Sangram Singh hesitated. He cleared his throat. He looked around for some way to escape but realized he was trapped.
‘Now, will you tell me or would you rather that I threw you down these stairs?’
‘What you said, Huzoor, was, “Nothing special about what I did. It’s an honourable tradition all over this country and has been so for thousands of years. Only the weak and ineffectual follow the law of primogeniture. The difference between my twin brother’s time of birth and mine was a mere three minutes. A kingdom needs a strong and decisive Warrior-King who will lead his people. My people needed me and I rose to the occasion.”’
‘Is that what I said?’
‘Yes, Huzoor, those were your very words and noble sentiments. You are right. Only the strong and capable should rule this land.’
Sangram Singh and his master were near the edge of the marble stairs. There was a beatific smile on the Prince’s face as he breathed in deeply and looked at the enormous yellow orb of the moon as it rose in the sky. Sangram Singh tipped the wheelchair forward with a slight push. His Highness went thud, thud, thud, thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud for another forty-four steps and then lay on the floor. Sangram Singh walked down slowly. His Highness’s neck looked a trifle misaligned. When he spoke, his mouth dripped saliva. The words got jumbled so badly, they were indecipherable. The more inchoate he became, the more angry he got and slithered on his own words. ‘Youdon’thavenono no fever. Youwere justpretendingto be shick. Andyoumadeupallthosedreams, nightmaresreally, didn’tyo
u?’
‘Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. But that’s how your brother disappeared, am I right?’
The Princeling closed his eyes. The sun had set. Winter twilights had a very short life in these parts. Sangram Singh checked His Highness’s pulse. It was faint and erratic. He took off his shoes and climbed the stairs softly. The TV was still blaring in His Highness’s bedroom. He peered through the tiny gap between the two doors. Raat Rani was staring spellbound at the mother-in-law putting a hex on her son’s wife on the TV screen. Sangram Singh tiptoed to his room, pulled the blanket over his head and went to sleep.
It must have been midnight when there was frantic knocking on the door. It took Sangram Singh a while to wake up. The banging had become desperate and he could hear Raat Rani yelling his name. Before he could pull the bolt back fully, Raat Rani had flung the door open and was blabbering frantically. Vahidullah was with her.
‘She wants to know whether you’ve seen His Highness.’
‘I saw him last morning.’ Sangram Singh’s voice was a whisper. ‘And he thought I had got cholera and he sent me back.’
‘No, you fool,’ Raat Rani yelled. ‘Did you see him this evening or rather, at night?’
‘No, he didn’t want to see my face again. Anyway, I was too weak to get up.’
‘He’s gone missing, I can’t find him anywhere.’
‘Where’s his wheelchair?’
‘We can’t find that either.’
‘How can that be?’
‘That’s why we want you to find him.’
‘I’ve been sick for over a week now.’
‘Just find him. I’ll make sure you are duly rewarded for your trouble.’
Sangram Singh could barely walk but he dragged himself from room to room and from passage to passage. He scoured the Palace. He went to the kitchen, the dining room, the billiards room, the guest bedrooms, the servants’ quarters, he climbed up to the garret. He was so weak he had to hold on to Vahidullah and even then he passed out twice but he didn’t give up. It was nearly four in the morning when he walked down the slope on which he used to roll His Highness’s wheelchair to the Palace grounds.
‘Don’t waste your time going to the stables and offices,’ Raat Rani shouted out to him. ‘You know very well that he couldn’t negotiate any incline on his own.’
‘We’ve looked everywhere but that’s not enough. Like you said, come what may, we have to find His Highness. Vahidullah and I will comb the stables and the grounds just in case…’
‘Wait, I will come with you.’
She had a torch with her and she directed the beam at the empty stables and then at the office rooms, which had not been used since the time the scant staff had left Kantagiri because of the drought. They were near the bottom of the marble stairs when the beam caught the spokes and rim of the wheelchair. His Highness was lying awkwardly on his side on the floor, knees drawn halfway to his chin. He was frozen to the touch. Raat Rani called out to him again and again and attempted to shake him awake. She flopped down next to him. Sangram Singh and Vahidullah attempted to get His Highness back on the wheelchair. But try as they might, they couldn’t manoeuvre him onto the seat, for he kept sliding down.
Raat Rani burst out crying. ‘Is he dead? Is my Prince dead? Oh no, I loved him so. What will happen to me?’
Sangram Singh cut her weeping short. ‘Madam, please fetch your pocket mirror. It will tell us whether His Highness is alive or dead.’
‘I’m not leaving him. Let Vahidullah fetch my vanity case. It will have a mirror.’
Within a few minutes Vahidullah was back, panting. Raat Rani got out the mirror and held it close to the Prince’s nose. They were fortunate that it was Kojagari night and the moon shone brightly. The mirror clouded with a thin film of the Prince’s breath. Raat Rani couldn’t control her joy. ‘Oh, Sangram Singh, he is alive. Yes, there’s the breath of life in him. Thank God and thank you.’
Raat Rani insisted on His Highness being carried up to his bed. Perhaps the exercise might have succeeded if either of the two men had been able to heft the Prince single-handedly, since he had folded into three parts like a large ‘z’. Finally, Vahidullah and Sangram Singh managed to carry him up the first six steps but before Sangram Singh knew what was happening, he found himself lying with the Prince atop him. Raat Rani took charge now. She took off her odhani and after much effort sat the Prince down in the wheelchair even as he involuntarily tried to leap out. Then she tied him to the back of the chair with the help of other two. It took a while but together they wheeled him up the slope and into the bedroom and covered him with a heavy blanket.
‘Vahidullah, make some strong hot coffee for him, strong enough to wake up the dead.’ The old man was about to rush out when she stopped him. ‘No, wait. I’ve a better idea.’ She went to the bar in the room and picked out a single malt. ‘This will do the job.’ She spooned the drink into the Prince’s mouth, tilting his head back to ensure that at least some of it went down his throat.
After twenty minutes of this spoon-feeding, Raat Rani gave up. ‘This is not working. Take the Rolls and fetch the doctor from Sharana, Sangram Singh.’
‘That will take a few weeks, Madam Sahiba.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the Rolls will not roll. Its gearbox needs to be replaced.’
‘What about the old Maruti Esteem?’
‘It’s got no petrol.’
‘Is that true, Vahidullah?’
‘How would I know, Sahiba? I know nothing about cars.’
‘There’s no time for guesswork. His Highness and I haven’t taken a ride in it for six months, maybe more. I guess there’s no alternative but for you to take the cycle and fetch the doctor on the double, Sangram Singh. His Highness needs to be attended to immediately if he’s to recover. Will you do it for your master?’
Sangram Singh flopped down on a chair. ‘I certainly would if a dead man could cycle.’
Just then the Prince opened his eyes. Raat Rani’s face lit up and she jumped up and thanked each one of the thirty million gods and kissed the Prince till he nearly gagged. ‘Oh, I’m so relieved you are all right. We looked for you all night and finally found you at the bottom of the stairs. What were you doing there?’
After a while it was clear that the lady’s effusiveness didn’t seem to register and wouldn’t elicit any response. It was decided that as soon as it was morning, Sangram Singh should locate a villager who would cycle down to Sharana and fetch the doctor to treat His Highness.
No one had taken a census of Kantagiri and the two hundred and fifty-seven villages which Parbat Singh was supposed to have inherited from his ancestors, but it would have been something of a major event if the data gatherers had run into man or beast in Paar in the course of a day in the last few years. The five or six noble families had left the ‘arse-end of the world’ soon after the drought had gripped the region. By the fourth year of the famine, most of the farmers, traders, priests, untouchables and journeymen had left their homes and migrated to different parts of the country. As for those who had stayed put, they had very likely headed for that nameless address where the dead congregate.
It took till eight in the morning for Sangram Singh to find a man who could ride a bicycle and was willing to go all the way to Sharana and get the doctor. His name was Pitamberdas and he said he had worked as a postman. Raat Rani handed over fifty rupees to persuade him to go to the railway junction town and another two hundred and fifty rupees for the doctor as an advance payment.
It was long past midnight and there was still no sign of Pitamberdas or of the doctor. By the next morning, it was clear that the postman had either died on the way or more likely had gone away with the cycle and the three hundred rupees, never to come back.
For some reason, Raat Rani never did believe that the man had been hired in the first place. She was sure Sangram Singh had pocketed the money.
Two days had gone by but there was no improvement in the Prince’s co
ndition. He was running a fever and looking gaunt. When he opened his eyes, he did not recognize Raat Rani or any of the help. The mistress went over to Sangram Singh’s suite of rooms and knocked on the door. It was a long while before he opened it.
‘I fear for His Highness’s health. He’s definitely sinking.’ For the first time since Sangram Singh had come to know her, her voice sounded conciliatory. ‘I know you are unwell but please go and fetch the doctor from Sharana. Cycle down or get a ride from Jalta in one of the trucks on the main road. Here’s my gold bangle. Sell it and that will take care of the doctor’s fees. The rest is yours.’
Sangram Singh sat on the bed, not responding.
She was not sure that he was all there or registering what she said. She held his hand. ‘I will give you the other bangle too when you return. It will be yours. For keeps.’
Sangram ignored her and headed for the Prince’s bedroom. The Prince looked a dead grey. He was having severe difficulty breathing. He realized he would have to give in to Raat Rani’s request. He left for Jalta and was back with the doctor by late afternoon.
‘He should have been taken immediately after the fall to the hospital in Sharana,’ the doctor said after he had examined the patient at length and had put his twisted and broken arm in a makeshift plaster. ‘Better still to Ahmedabad or Mumbai. No guarantee, mind you, but that might have checked the damage. My guess is that he has also had a paralytic attack. I am going to prescribe some medicines to make it easier for him to breathe. They will also take care of his fever and the shock to his system but I don’t want to raise your hopes. Even if he survives, he will remain bedridden the rest of his life.’
‘What do you mean “even if he survives”?’
‘Just that. We have no idea how badly his vital internal organs have suffered. It might be better if he didn’t.’