Free Hillstation by Robin Mukherjee Page A

I thought it was a bundle of rags mewling and wriggling, but then I thought, rags on their own don’t.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Mrs Bister,’ I said, easing myself into the hall, ‘perhaps another time.’
    â€˜It was dark. Obviously. I know it gets dark at night, I’m not an idiot, but this was… a darkness beyond darkness.’
    â€˜It was nice to see you,’ I said, carefully opening the front door.
    â€˜And from somewhere distantly a dog howled.’
    I heard nothing more except the sound of a tea cup striking the door through which I had just left.
    Mr Chatterjee was hurrying down the street with a box of lever-arch files.
    â€˜Mr Chatterjee,’ I called in a genial but urgent way.
    â€˜Young Mr Sharma,’ he said, stopping. ‘You have correctly identified me on this beautiful morning. And with the early mist cleared by a soothing breeze, are the mountains not revealed in all their majesty? I have often wondered why the mornings are so misty, especially in the bathroom after a shower, unless one wakes up with a fuzzy face!’
    I laughed politely.
    â€˜Of course,’ he continued, ‘it might get cloudy later. Or not. Who’s to know? That is the thing about the weather. In the end, it will be exactly as it is and there’s really nothing we can do about it, whether we want to or not. No pun intended.’
    I chuckled again. ‘Do you happen to know where Pol is?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes, that is a worry,’ said Mr Chatterjee, shaking his head. ‘I mean, he’s a fine young man, don’t misunderstand me, but he lacks a certain… I’m not sure what the word is…’
    â€˜Being easy to find?’ I suggested.
    â€˜Indeed,’ said Mr Chatterjee. ‘Although that’s a phrase, I’m afraid. The word itself like its subject proves elusive. You know how it is,’ he continued, into his stride now, ‘that exact sense you can’t quite put your finger on, or at least not its verbal locution, so you go poking about under dusty piles of old clauses…’
    I let him carry on as I turned to the mango-seller, Mr Premar, who was passing by with his empty cart.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ I said, ‘have you…?’
    â€˜If you’re hoping to buy some mangos,’ he interjected, ‘you’re out of luck.’
    â€˜Then why do you push that cart?’ asked Mr Chatterjee.
    â€˜Why do you carry that box?’ said Mr Premar, mysteriously, moving on.
    â€˜You see, a proper businessman is predictable,’ said Mr Chatterjee. ‘Take Mr Bister. One always knows where to find him. Sometimes, having found him, one wishes one hadn’t but that is beside the point. I’m not saying he’s perfect, of course. Who is? And though some people like to think unkindly of him, I have to say that he has always been fair to me. Firm but fair. And if I fall short in my duties from time to time, is it unfair of him to call me a fat-headed hoity toity?’
    â€˜I suppose not,’ I said, wearily.
    â€˜And to administer a curt flick across the top of the aforesaid?’
    â€˜He does that?’ I said.
    â€˜Sometimes with the application of his foot to my rear quarters as I am hurrying out to put a damp cloth over the smarting consequences of the heretofore.’
    I stared at him.
    â€˜Hope is with the son,’ sighed Mr Chatterjee. ‘At least I hope so. For can one truly prosper in matters of commerce without kicking people in the bottom? I don’t know. Perhaps he is too soft. For instance when I saw him at the Hotel Nirvana a few minutes ago, having gone to ask if I should sort the stock-inventories by traditional means or according to my new index system in spite of the chaos it caused last time, not to mention a sore head and rear end, he said, “Mr Chatterjee, whatever makes you happy”. “Do you mean that, young sir?” I replied.