Hillstation by Robin Mukherjee

Author:Robin Mukherjee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oldcastle Books
Published: 2016-06-22T04:00:00+00:00

8

Under the zealous supervision of my two sisters, half the village seemed to be in the clinic, writing on cardboard, arranging pens, sorting wood, or nailing the pieces together. Even Dev, precariously perched on a heap of placards, had closed his eyes to bring a hammer smartly down on his thumb.

‘No, no!’ shrieked one of my sisters at an elderly gentleman. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘But is it not neatly written?’ protested Mr Dimpas.

‘Neat? It’s microscopic. Look at it. I thought you’d squashed a fly.’

‘I’ll have you know that I was once highly regarded for my calligraphic accomplishments,’ he sniffed.

‘It has to be bold,’ shouted my sister. ‘It has to be big. It has to be legible from more than three inches away. Don’t you get it? This is for Pushkara, for the mountains that surround us, the valleys that protect us and the world that shall heed our cry.’ She took a breath, smoothing her bun with a trembling hand. ‘This is for Shiva,’ she hissed.

‘I could add an exclamation mark,’ said Mr Dimpas, squinting at the paper.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she yelled, snatching the pen and flinging it across the room. ‘Do you think he’s going to strain his eyes staring at your puny scribble? Do you think he’ll reach for his glasses? This isn’t a note to the baker. This isn’t a polite suggestion. This is the voice of truth proclaiming its destiny, the spirit of Shiva wreaking vengeance upon the crooked back of The Turtle himself. I want big letters. Until the paper screams, until the mountains shudder and the very rocks beneath us crack with the onslaught of your convictions.’

‘Big letters,’ said Mr Dimpas, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Big letters,’ said my sister looking round. ‘You!’ she shouted. ‘Why do you stand around gawping when there’s work to be done?’

‘Um ah, I ah…’ I said.

‘If you are not helping,’ she intoned menacingly, ‘you are hindering.’ A number of villagers had stopped to watch as she jabbed at my chest. ‘There are those who stand at the barricades,’ she continued, ‘proud and defiant. And those who fraternise with the enemy. Beware, Rabindra, of who you are, for we shall not permit fraternisers, malingerers, or saboteurs. Where are you going?’

‘To my office,’ I said.

‘Why?’ she said, her voice rising.

‘Well, because it’s my office.’

‘Is that so?’ sniggered Father who had just arrived in his gown and wig. ‘And where is this door marked, “Rabindranath Sharma”. Let me have a look. Hmm. No. All I can see is a small sign sporting the words, “Minor Ailments”.’

My sister straightened her shawl, smiling. It was common knowledge that I’d once stuck my name to the door in a moment of youthful bravado only to be downgraded from Clinical Assistant to Hygiene Supervisor for three months as a punishment.

‘I just thought if there’s going to be a battle then we ought to be prepared, medically speaking,’ I said. ‘Amputations, for instance, require morphine, a selection of saws depending which bones need to be cut and rubber wedges for the patient to bite on while we hold them down.

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