The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck by Rory Nugent

Author:Rory Nugent [Nugent, Rory]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: NA
Publisher: Open Road Distribution
Published: 2013-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

9

Hindi by Yourself

The train ride from Darjeeling to New Delhi takes more than forty hours, and as I walk from the station to the Grand Life Hotel, I come upon a puzzling scene: Swedish Christmas carolers, dressed in wool caps and bright red and green costumes, singing in the sweltering sun. One of the singers, a blonde with unusually large hands, doles out samples of eggnog. Bystanders accept them gratefully, but I don’t see anyone going back for seconds. Thoughtfully, the Lutheran church has printed a Hindi translation of the Christmas songs. People glance at the lyrics, scratch their heads, and politely return the brochures.

Everyone at the hotel is in a jolly mood, especially Mahout, a sure sign that business has been good.

“Wonderful, things are just wonderful… No snags in Bombay, the airport here is cooperating, Calcutta is wide open… We are going to celebrate, and you are just in time for the party.”

Crates of champagne are stacked in an ice truck hired by Mahout. Workers are decorating the ground floor to resemble a discotheque. The front desk has become a bar, with liquor bottles and glasses covering every square inch. Mirrored globes, strobe lights, bunting, and crystals hang from the ceiling. The caterer, a wiry man in a brown suit much too large for him, fusses over the details.

“Everything must be perfect… Mahout has promised me a color TV if he likes it.”

The guests start to arrive around seven. Most of the women are wearing elegant cocktail dresses or saris, a few of the daring sport miniskirts; the men are decked out in tuxedos or silk suits, and many flash gold ID bracelets. Mahout, the perfect host, greets each guest warmly.

“Good evening. I’m so glad you could come… I would like to introduce you to my new friend, the last great white hunter. Did you know that this man has just…”

He then proceeds to exaggerate my adventures, embellishing them with whatever strikes his fancy. “He followed the spoor of the abominable snowman for three weeks… He climbed Mount Kanchenjunga without oxygen, says he smoked a pack of cigarettes on the peak … subsisted on yak for two months…”

Since Mahout refuses to let me pay for my room or anything else, I feel obliged to let him brag all he wants about me. During the course of the evening, various people offer to help me secure a permit for my trip down the Brahmaputra. I decline, assuring them that the paperwork has already reached the highest level. One man persists, however.

“I have much influence,” says Jawaharlal by way of introducing himself. He buzzes around me like a horsefly. No doubt he has friends in the government; indeed, many of the guests at the party are politicians or well-placed government officials. Even so, I feel uncomfortable around him. I pull Mahout away from a beautiful woman—no easy task—to ask about Jawaharlal.

“Oh!” he says, looking at the pudgy man and laughing. “He is a good friend. We prepped together. He works for RAW.

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