The House of Blue Mangoes (62 page)

The President of the Planters’ Association called the meeting to order. The bar was not big enough to hold all the invitees so the doors to the library and the Snakepit were opened and bearers bustled about arranging chairs. The President requested those who wished to speak to raise their voices so that those outside the bar could hear them.

Freddie looked around and was surprised to see that Kannan was missing. He leaned across to Michael and asked where he was. Fraser didn’t know.

The meeting got under way and various planters got up and suggested ways and means of dispatching the tiger. But most of their proposals had been tried before with little success or were impractical.

‘Let’s organize a subscription drive and get that Corbett fellow down here. He’s had some experience of shooting ghost tigers,’ a planter from Periyar shouted. Nervous laughter broke out which the President quickly brought under control.

‘I’m sure that the honourable member is aware that the deputation that waited on the Governor had attempted to get the Government to procure the services of Colonel Corbett to rid us of the menace. A message was sent to him but he declined, saying he was too old to shoot any more man-eating tigers.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else?’ the same planter shouted.

‘What about Harrison? He must still be around,’ a voice called from the far corner of the room.

‘You must be joking,’ the planter from Periyar said in reply. ‘Nobody’s seen the old soak in decades, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to crawl under some coolie-woman’s sari to find him.’

It suddenly dawned on the planter that there were women present and he stammered out his apologies. He was a portly man, with a fringe of dirty brown hair and a thick moustache. Freddie swivelled around to look at him. He decided he didn’t like his moustache and from there his thoughts drifted to facial hair in general. Why did men wear moustaches and sideburns? It looked so unimpressive on most of them . . . Where was Kannan? It was not like him to be late. Perhaps he was being held up by the striking workers. If that was the case he could be quite late. Freddie remembered the first time he’d had to deal with a strike, three hundred or more men against one, i.e. himself. He’d been waved to a stop on the road leading to the factory and surrounded by yelling, gesticulating men, some of whom brandished sticks and pruning knives. He had been terrified at first but, after about half an hour, had grown calmer when he realized the protesters didn’t intend to harm him. Unless he did something foolish, of course. It had all seemed like some elaborately choreographed ballet: the workers would scream themselves into a frenzy, wave their sticks and knives threateningly at him, and then, unable to sustain the pitch, would begin to subside, until they gradually perked up again. They had finally let him pass, after demonstrating for about an hour, and he had driven straight to Michael’s bungalow to tell him proudly that he had survived his first strike. It became something of an annual ritual: every year the workers would agitate for a day or two, usually demanding a higher bonus, and every year the management would give in, ostensibly with reluctance. It was just one of the things that were part of estate life. But this time, the flash strike was actuated by fear, and who knew what they were capable of doing? He hoped Kannan would be all right.

When Freddie tuned back in to the meeting, a Peermade planter was talking – the strike would have to be resolved quickly, the plucking must go on, the factories could not be allowed to remain idle.

‘If we let this continue, the coolies will start deserting and then it will be impossible to get them back. Who knows how long this menace is going to be around? A few more months and the rains will start, the roads will become impassable and . . .’ The planter shrugged his shoulders.

‘Perhaps we can give the supervisors guns. They could stand guard in the fields where there is plucking or pruning. At least . . .’

‘Damned bad idea,’ interrupted a thin, weedy-looking planter, whom Freddie didn’t recognize (probably an owner-planter from some small estate, he thought). ‘You just can’t trust Indians these days. Have you forgotten what happened to the padre?’

‘I say, that’s rubbish,’ Fraser said, springing to his feet. ‘You can’t tar every Indian with the same brush. Indians died by the hundred in the Burma campaign just so that life for us could go on. Slim has said on the record that the Fourteenth Army couldn’t have done what it did without its Indian troops and officers.’ His outburst drew a couple of approving nods, but most of the planters displayed no emotion.

‘I’m not saying that all Indians are not to be trusted,’ the weedy planter said; ‘it’s just that these are difficult times . . .’

‘For Indians as well as for us,’ Fraser retorted. ‘I’m sure my Indian colleagues will bear me out.’ He sat down, looking around as he did for Kannan, then for the Parsi planter from Peermade. But there wasn’t a single Indian face in the room, apart from those of the bearers in their white jackets and trousers.

‘Dammit, sir.’ Freddie’s anger was evident as he got to his feet. He had realized why Kannan was absent. ‘I’ve just realized that there is not a single Indian planter in the room. Have they been left out of this meeting?’

‘Mr Hamilton, the decision was taken in the best interest of everyone, including our Indian colleagues, so we could speak freely and arrive at some decisions that would benefit us all,’ the President said quite calmly.

Freddie felt like flying at the man. When he found his voice, he said, ‘You, sir, must surely realize that if the Indian Assistants were not to be trusted, if the vast majority of Indians were not to be trusted, we wouldn’t be sitting around in our comfortable bungalows today. Actions like yours, sir, are driving our Indian friends from us. Damned bad form, I say.’ Just then the enormity of what he was doing dawned on him. He, Freddie Hamilton, a junior Assistant of the Pulimed Tea Company, was standing up and accusing the President of the Planters’ Association of being foolish and, furthermore, using the sort of abusive language that was rarely heard at PA meetings. His anger drained out of him. He looked around for support. Michael and Belinda Fraser looked sympathetic, but he did not see any encouragement on the faces of the other planters. Mrs Stevenson looked furious and Major Stevenson was gazing at the floor. Good God, he thought unhappily, what on earth have I done?

A chair scraped back and Michael Fraser got up. ‘Mr President, I don’t condone his language but I absolutely support my colleague’s view that our Indian friends should not have been excluded.’ The bar buzzed with excitement. Major Stevenson continued to look down at the floor. He would have to reprimand Freddie. There would be a scene, and he would have to be firm and explain away something that was patently unjust. And what if he resigned? And Kannan too? With two of his Assistants gone, how on earth was he going to run the show? Why did everything have to be so infernally complicated?

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Freddie gunned his motorcycle down the deserted estate roads, anger flaring inside him. His embarrassment and shock at his own impertinence had faded after a while, to be replaced once more by a sense of outrage. It was a glorious day, but Freddie didn’t notice, he was much too distracted. Could he be fired for his outburst at the club? A junior Assistant quite simply did not abuse a senior planter in public. So what? He didn’t care. If this was what planting was all about, then he was better off doing something else. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he almost missed the turn to the Morningfall bungalow. He slowed the motorcycle down, coasted to a stop by a wild guava tree. Its foliage was alive with screeching and squabbling rosy pastors. He watched them for a while. Until now, everything within him had itched to tell Kannan of the humiliation that had been visited on him, but now he began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Perhaps he should just go on home. Kannan would get to hear of the PA meeting anyway, and would probably feel bad for a while, but these things happened in British India. More than likely he would find a way of accepting it. Then he thought of his friend trying to call up the tiger, and the anger rose up hotly again. Stupid, pompous bastards! How could they even think that Kannan was untrustworthy? He kicked the motorcycle into life and roared up the hill to the bungalow.

The butler led him into the living room.

‘Hullo there, Freddie,’ Kannan said brightly, ‘unexpected pleasure. I was thinking of going to the club, get in some tennis maybe, didn’t want to waste a fabulous day. Then got a bit too lazy, you know how it is. Beer?’

‘No, no. No, thank you. Tea will do fine, if you’re having some.’

Kannan called for tea.

Now that he was here, Freddie didn’t know how he was going to broach the subject. Kannan was the first to break the silence.

‘How are we going to sort out this strike? I’ve been sitting around thinking about it, and short of giving the supervisors guns, there doesn’t seem to be any way to get them back to work. The President of the PA should convene a meeting . . .’

The tea arrived and Kannan poured. He should tell him now, Freddie thought. But how did you tell a man, whose sense of self-worth and pride were high, that he was less than he was, in the eyes of his fellows?

‘I think we should put our heads together, hammer out a solution quickly, before things get out of hand,’ Kannan was saying. ‘The PA . . .’

‘The PA is of no use to you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s the reason I came. There was a PA meeting to discuss the killings, and the Indian planters were excluded and Michael and I were outraged by it, and I protested . . . and . . . and that’s why I’m here . . .’ Freddie said in a rush.

‘I see,’ Kannan said slowly. He didn’t speak for a while, then said, ‘Remember my friend Murthy?’

‘Yes, I do, an intense man.’

‘Yes, intense. And focused. He told me my desire to excel here, to make something of myself in the white man’s world, was counterfeit. Nothing I’d ever achieve would stand up to scrutiny. He was right.’ There was another long pause, then Kannan said gravely, ‘It was really good of you to stand up for me.’

‘It was nothing,’ Freddie said.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some thinking to do . . .’

‘Of course,’ Freddie said. He got up hastily, almost dropping his cup in the process.

Some time after Freddie left, Kannan decided to get some fresh air. Around noon he found himself high in the hills overlooking his bungalow. It was a view similar to the one that had first entranced him in Pulimed. But he saw nothing of its enchantment for the rage that swept over him. What do you have against me, God, he stormed, that you trip me up at every stage in life, wreck my every safe haven? First appa, then Helen, now this.

Angrily, Kannan scanned the brilliantly lit panorama below. This had been the world he had escaped to; this was the foundation on which he was to rebuild his life. It had proved hollow . . .

Something Murthy had said during his visit seeped into his mind.

When we are young, his friend had said, the truths we have acquired are pristine and pure, they admit of no other. Our heroes, our opinions, our convictions – we are passionate about these to a degree that will never again be matched by such intensity. When these are corroded, our disappointment is extreme; we are full of a rage that is so keen, so real, so vigorous that it takes us over completely. Middle age is tired, which is why it is tolerant. Youth is when we are most primed to act as our heart tells us. We are dismissive of our fears, ready to reject caution and advice, and willing to be what we most truly want ourselves to be. Murthy was right, Kannan thought, at this point he was willing to do whatever was necessary to attain his objective, which was to redeem himself in his own eyes. But what should he do? To whom should he turn for advice? For support? Helen was no longer available to him, nor was his father. Freddie (he was ashamed as he thought this) was white. The enemy and not to be trusted . . .

In an attempt to purge himself of the anger and frustration, he began walking hard, trying to exhaust himself. An hour or so later, he had achieved a measure of calm, and had decided on a course of action. He would find and destroy the Pulimed Tiger or whoever or whatever was the killer, thereby erasing the suspicion in his colleagues’ minds. And then he would show them what it meant to meddle with a Dorai. He would resign from the company and help his countrymen throw the white ingrates out. Brown would overwhelm white in a great surging wave; the oppressors would be nothing more than flecks of foam on a seething brown torrent.

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The next morning he sent Stevenson and Fraser chits to say he was unwell, and wouldn’t be at work for the next two days. Then he shut himself up in the small room off the drawing room that he used as a study, and drank. Kannan wasn’t much of a drinker, and by noon he had passed out.

The butler found him stooped over his desk in the evening, and unsure of how to deal with the situation, went off and got him a pot of coffee. Kannan stared blearily at the man as he unloaded the contents of the tray on to the desk. The minute Manickam placed the coffee pot on the table, Kannan snatched it up and flung it out of the window, the savage gesture executed with scalpel-fine economy. Completely unnerved, the butler dropped the tray. Kannan instructed him to clean up the mess and dragged himself out of the study. The brief display made him feel much better. Then he felt sick. He took himself off to the bathroom and then to bed.

He began drinking again the next morning. All through that day and night he nursed his hurt with all the rancour and anger he could muster. All the other slights and setbacks he had received in his life, some as clear as the day they had happened, others only dimly remembered, pressed down and further oppressed him, and then, dimly through the anger, pain, confusion and bitterness, he began to perceive how he must implement the decision he’d arrived at . . .

On the morning of the third day, tired and hung-over, Kannan was trying to get some porridge down when he heard the sound of a motorcycle. Freddie walked into the dining room, and if he was surprised to see the normally neat Kannan unshaven and dishevelled he didn’t say so.