I said, “You are new here, aren’t you?”
He was taken aback at being spoken to. “I travel wherever Sa’ab goes,” he stammered. His voice was a mismatch, too deep for his slight, young body. He gave me a smile that showed a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I am Kundan Singh,” he said. “I am not really a bearer, I am the cook.”
Ramesh, sitting beside me, spoke before Kundan Singh could say anything more. “You know, once I had a cook who was not really a cook. In Lucknow when I was teaching there. His name was George. Anglo-Indian fellow — they all used to join the Railways then, but George was a cook. So one day I asked him, George, how did you become a cook? Why didn’t you join the Railways? You’re an Anglo-Indian, I say. And you know what he said?”
“Tell us.” I said. Kundan lingered with his tray, stealing a fearful glance over his shoulder in case his lingering was noticed.
“You know what he said? He said that for most of his life, he had been an engine driver.” Ramesh slapped his chair’s arm, roaring with mirth. “At least that explained why his cooking was so third rate. But that is not the end of it, my boy” — Kundan had shown signs of leaving — ”that is not the end of it. He was an engine driver for fifteen years and then the railways sacked him. He was very puzzled, you know — they told him to leave after so long in service. Why? On one medical check-up they had found that he was colour blind. The railway people said an engine driver had to know the difference between red and green — for the signals, you know — but George was very upset. He said to me, Sir, I understand that an engine driver must distinguish between red and green, but as life is all shades of grey, and as for fifteen years I could tell red’s shade of grey from green’s, I ask you, Sir, what does colour blindness mean to those who can see what’s what? But this was really too much! So much philosophy from an engine driver I could not take. Besides I realised why his food tasted so bad — the man didn’t know when he was putting chilli and when turmeric or cumin into food! All the spices looked like blue powder to him.”
Ramesh picked up a pakora from Kundan’s tray and said through his munches, “Beta, what were you before you were a cook? You didn’t drive a bus, or write poetry, did you? One never knows.” He waggled his head sagely in my direction.
Kundan opened his mouth to answer. But then noticed something. He hurriedly put his tray down on the table and ran towards the far end of the garden.
Three cows and two buffaloes were browsing at the edge of the lawn, quite close to the Brigadier. The bells around their necks tinkled as they reached for leaves just above their heads. I recognised Gouri, who let out a bellow as Kundan Singh reached her, slapped her rump, and shouted. Gouri gave a dismissive shake of her head, seeming to know at once a man who had no notion of herding cows. Kundan Singh looked around for the gardener and the chowkidar who knew how these things were done, but they were nowhere to be seen. The second bearer came to help move the cattle away from the people and the food, but now there were two amateurs, shouting to little purpose. One of the cows ambled down the slope, while a buffalo lumbered towards a laden table, scattering the captains and majors sitting at it. A few goats paused enquiringly at the edge of the slope and then skipped onto the lawn, eager to join the party. I spotted the delicate, long-legged little kid that Charu had named Pinki and necklaced with a red rope and bell.
“Quite a dairy industry here, Chauhan,” the Brigadier said with a dry laugh. “So what if Ranikhet lacks other industries.”
Mr Chauhan looked around with agitated swivels of his head for the cowherd responsible. I could see the culprit at a distance: it was Charu’s uncle, Sanki Puran, half asleep in a sliver of sunlight on a warm boulder far down the slope that led away from the house, smoking a beedi which was very likely spiked with dope. The forest around Puran was stabbed here and there by the first scarlet explosions of rhododendron and there was a white cloud of plum blossoms not far from him. Those patches of colour apart, his clothes merged so perfectly with the green and brown of the foliage that nobody else had noticed him. Puran wore the same khaki and olive army camouflage uniform all year, never taking it off save to bathe a few times when the summer grew too hot. Summer or winter, he also wore an army-issue leather-patched olive pullover, his elbows glistening through its holes. He had trousers that ended five inches above his ankles and a woollen cap that covered half of one eye.
By now, much of the party had converged in the centre of the lawn, looking as if they had never seen cattle before. The goats scampered about making for the discarded plates on the grass, chewing pakoras and paper napkins with gusto. Pinki executed perfect twirls and leaps near the birdhouse, to the delight of the children who had been watching T.V. inside all this time. Kundan scoured the valley for Charu, and when at length he sighted Puran, he clambered down the hillside towards him in relief, shouting, “Arre O Puran-da!”
Puran came to life at last. Something was the matter — he grasped that — and he clambered up towards us yelling his herding calls. Alarmed and confused by clashing shouts from Kundan and Puran, the cows and buffaloes began to blunder off in different directions. Then I saw a flash of purple streaking uphill at great speed from far away: Charu.
The Brigadier side-stepped a buffalo and said to his flustered host, “Difficult proposition having a lawn, eh? You need more staff — and fencing, you need fencing. What’s the point of signboards saying trespassers will be prosecuted? Can you prosecute a cow?” He gave everyone a wide smile and Mr Chauhan said, “Well put, Sir, well put.”
Ramesh said, “No, no, Brigadier! Cows are — holiness apart — natural lawn mowers. Best way to use resources, I say! Two for the price of one — they get food, you get a neat lawn.”
Puran’s exhortations were more effective than Kundan’s, and the cows began to head for the valley where Charu now stood. Puran clicked his tongue against his teeth, urging them on. The Brigadier, the hotel manager, and Mr Chauhan stood aside, pretending they were not flat against the garage, trapped between thorny rose bushes on one side and the garage door on the other. Diwan Sahib observed them with a savage smile and muttered “Perfect” under his breath, while the women cheered to encourage the cows. The smell from unbathed Puran made the Brigadier put a napkin to his nose, and two or three others followed suit.
“Why is this cowherd in fatigues?” the Brigadier asked Mr Chauhan over the sounds of laughter and mooing. “Where did he get them? Are the army stores secure? Must look into it.” He had turned away from the cattle towards Mr Chauhan as he spoke, and did not notice a young cow aiming a kick at him as she passed. The Brigadier yelped and sprang away, and then, ashamed, said into the middle distance, “Pahari cows! It’s only hill cows that kick like this. Nervous beasts.” He glanced around to see if anyone was laughing at him, but everyone, all at once, had gone quiet. The hotelier stared at the cattle with a fixed gaze of horror, shredding a paper napkin into tiny pieces. Bits of white tissue paper settled on the lawn around him.
Mr Chauhan lost his composure. “Enough!” he shouted towards Puran. “Enough is enough! I’m going to lock you up! With your damned cows and goats!” He noticed people staring and lowered his voice. “Every single day since I’ve been posted here,” he said to the Brigadier, “I’ve seen this madman sitting on Mall Road in that dirty uniform, feeding stray dogs, and I’ve said, Is this the way? Can this be allowed? I pitied him because he is poor. No more, Sir, not another day! I will tackle this with immediate effect.”