Mr Iyer Goes To War by Ryan Lobo

Author:Ryan Lobo
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781408881637
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2016-09-07T11:07:42+00:00

19

So I return.

His clothes, folded in a plastic packet in his backpack and kept under the floorboards of the boat, are miraculously dry. Bencho brings him a clean shirt and dhoti, and gets a fresh shirt for himself. Bencho’s swollen knee has gone down a bit by now, and he feels more like his old, cheerful self.

‘Sir, you are looking top class,’ he says, beaming at the thought of a hot breakfast waiting for him. Mooga offers Iyer a bowl of frothy milk, fresh from that morning’s milking, miming that Iyer should drink it.

‘An angel, Bencho,’ Iyer says, smiling at Mooga. ‘He is an angel sent to ease our way.’ Iyer accepts the milk and takes a deep draught without noticing the flecks of opium in it.

‘One must not say no to an angel’s offerings,’ he says, handing Mooga back the bowl.

The festival of Holi is in full swing outside the buffalo shed. Children and adults alike run this way and that, spraying people with large water syringes. Most people are high on bhang. A few young men wait for an opportunity to shoot coloured water at passing women, and more so for a chance to cop a feel ‘by accident’, as today is a day when they may be able to get away with it without being slapped in return.

‘Come, it is time!’ Iyer says, flinging open the shed door and eyeing the streets warily.

Iyer has a problem. He needs to make it to his family home looking presentable, because Tamil Brahmins celebrate Holi on a different day altogether, and he is about to enter a sombre family gathering where he knows they’ll be washed and starched as always. Feeling the opium blossoming in his veins like a sunflower, Iyer has an idea.

‘Run!’

Adjusting his collar, combing his beard and smoothing his hair down for the last time, Iyer bolts from the stable door, Bencho in pursuit. They are immediately spotted and chased by a group of children. Though Iyer is exerting himself, he feels like he’s floating – his legs moving of their own accord.

‘Get them,’ shouts a sour-faced girl, magenta from head to foot, and her cohorts train their pichkaris on the two men. Bencho ducks into an alley, but Iyer runs ahead, spotting a large white cow. He ducks behind it as the children fire, its white side going pink as the blast of colour hits it. Snorting in surprise, the cow bucks, scattering the children. Iyer thanks it and races on, the pain in his bad knee returning as he approaches his brother’s home, just ahead: modest, serene, clean. For a moment, it’s as if he has just returned to it from a trip to the market. Home.

Bencho is nowhere to be seen. Unlatching the low gate, Iyer walks up to the door and takes a deep breath. As he reaches for the doorbell, the sour-faced girl springs up from behind the rhododendrons, holding her plunger full of mangeta dye.

‘No!’ cries Iyer, trapped between the girl and the door.

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