Free Hillstation by Robin Mukherjee

either to throw his shoe or report me to my Father, in both of which I had been wrong. Lazy particles of light tumbled across the window. A cackle of crows rose and fell over the rubbish outside. A crunch of scooters gave way to the sound of raised voices. And yet nothing changed. As if all the movements of the world couldn’t ruffle the silence beneath.
    I wondered if my inaugural meeting with Martina had gone as well as it might have. Perhaps I’d been too anxious to show off my clinical expertise, like those young men strutting the market place, shirts unbuttoned to the first chest hairs. I thought of all the little spaces in which I should have flung myself across the desk to smother her in kisses. I recalled her look of quizzical bewilderment that seemed to say, ‘My love, why are we talking about rectal inflammation when you know what brings me here?’ But then again, what did I know of these things? My only romantic encounter thus far had been with an ephemeral woman who turned into a goat when I attempted to fondle her breasts. It wasn’t a happy experience and I had woken up considerably embarrassed.
    The waiting room was vacant again, everyone having melted to wherever people melt when the object of their fascination has elbowed its way out the door with a few choice words not listed in the Pushkara Lexicon of English Usage. A little thrill coursed through me, quite suddenly, as I wondered how long before I too would melt into the hot bliss of a thousand whispered endearments. Not long, I thought. But then, how long is not long? Today? Tomorrow? What if not long, in Pol’s Grand Scheme of Things, is forever to a little fellow wanting only to be with his beloved? In so far as it was in my power to determine how long not long might be in this instance, I decided that I had to move fast.
    As usual, however, Pol was impossible to find. His mother pointed to a pillow on the floor.
    â€˜That!’ she screamed.
    â€˜I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs Bister,’ I said, ‘but I’ve looked everywhere and nobody seems to know where he is.’
    â€˜Oh, he’s too clever for that,’ she snickered, ‘he’ll be far away by now, gloating in the luxury of his crimes. That!’ she said again pointing at the pillow.
    â€˜A pillow?’ I said, getting drawn into one of her conversations, something I always vowed never to do again.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s exactly what it is. You’re quite observant for someone a little bit dim if you don’t mind me saying. To be precise, the pillow he tried to smother me with. My jewels!’ She clutched her hair. ‘They were all I had to remind me of my great grandfather, the Maharaja, whose lands and titles I would have inherited had it not been for the wickedness of my evil step-brother, may he rot in hell with his fast cars and swimming pools, the scheming bastard.’
    â€˜When did this happen?’ I asked.
    â€˜When I was but a child,’ she whispered. ‘Innocent as the new-born day.’
    â€˜I mean Pol trying to smother you, not the evil step-brother business.’
    â€˜I’m not sure.’ She fingered her throat. ‘I think I may have passed out. Was it a moment ago? I can still feel his murderous hands, and those wicked eyes, devoid of remorse or compassion…’ She leaned forward, lank hair flopping across her face. ‘He is not my son. This is the truth. Listen to me…’
    Sensing a tale epic even by Mrs Bister’s standards, I began to edge towards the door.
    â€˜You see, I found him,’ she glanced nervously towards the window. ‘On the night of my lover’s untimely demise at the hands of blood-hungry robbers.’
    â€˜That’s very interesting,’ I said, ‘but if he turns up, could you tell him I’ve been looking for him?’
    â€˜A bundle of rags, mewling and wriggling by the side of the road. For a moment