Free Hillstation by Robin Mukherjee Page B

“Please,” he laughed, “You may call me Pol. It is too ridiculous for someone of an elevated birth to act deferentially towards one who has not only failed thus far to achieve a respectable embodiment but after last night is most unlikely to.”’
    â€˜The Hotel Nirvana?’ I said.
    â€˜Indeed. But what a young man of aspirational intent could possibly find there to occupy his attentions…’
    The rest of which was lost to me as I hurried down the hill.
    The Hotel Nirvana was a place which good people were said to avoid. According to Father, its many windows were darker than even the morning sun could pierce. Elders would sometimes mutter about a drinking den though nobody could ever quite say who organised it or how. It was merely observed that some of the men, disappearing from time to time to ‘discuss matters’, would come back disoriented. One night a small but angry delegation of wives had descended on the hotel to ‘catch them at it’. After an hour or so of running up and down the baffling labyrinth of staircases, many of which led to precipitous drops or simply nowhere, they eventually found the men sitting around with cups of tea discussing the difference between moral certainty and phenomenal chance. Some of the wives swore they’d searched that very room when they’d first arrived but the men just shrugged, pointed to their tea and carried on with the discussion. It was rumoured that one of the staircases led to a roof but nobody bar its initiates ever knew which.
    Today, however, the two roads outside its main entrance were packed with villagers, mostly tradespeople. Even Mr Premar had arrived shouting, ‘Mangos, mangos, tasty fresh mangos!’ in spite of his empty cart.
    â€˜It’s an outrage,’ snorted Mrs Ghosh clutching a chicken under her arm. ‘Bister’s got the foreigners locked up with him so he can sell them his own produce.’
    â€˜But Mr Bister doesn’t sell chickens,’ I said.
    â€˜No, but he will,’ she retorted, chasing the chicken as it broke free and flapped up the road.
    I managed to squeeze between Mr Jalpur who was waving one of his saucepans on the end of a stick and Mrs Knapp who was shaking an aubergine.
    â€˜I’ll bet even now he’s trying to buy moth-eaten, over-ripe aubergines from down the hill,’ said Mrs Knapp thrusting one of hers under my nose. ‘The Queen of vegetables,’ she said. ‘Peerless among foods for its fragrance and texture.’
    â€˜Personally,’ I said, ‘I have always found them somewhat inedible.’
    â€˜And if they want a saucepan?’ said Mr Jalpur. ‘You know he’s gone into kitchenware now? “Kitchenware”!’ he spat. ‘Hammered-out bits of tin that don’t last five meals. Look at this.’ He lowered the stick. ‘What do you see?’
    â€˜A saucepan?’ I offered.
    â€˜No, no, you are not looking.’
    â€˜A most excellent saucepan?’
    â€˜Your face, you idiot! You can see your face in it. And after twenty meals you can still see your face. After twenty hundred meals, properly cared for, notwithstanding the terms of the warranty, please refer to the notice behind me, you will still see your face!’
    â€˜But why should our visitors wish to buy a saucepan?’ I said.
    He stared at it for a moment seeing his face, presumably, but no answer.
    I pushed past the two chocolatiers who were ramming their wagons into each other while denouncing the quality of each other’s nut bars. Closer to the steps, people were pushing forward while those at the top tumbled back, saris and chapatis flying over their heads. In front of the door stood the Buddhist Cook, his bald pate catching the sunlight, bare feet planted lightly, ready for the next assault.
    â€˜Salutations, holy one,’ I said with a bow. ‘I am looking for Pol Bister who is, I believe, presently