Acclaimed author of The Dollmakers’ Island, Anu Kumar brings a treat for the readers of Unboxed Writers in the form of an unpublished novella that will be carried in nine parts. Here is a brief introduction. 

Three generations of a family have maintained a hotel that suddenly finds itself close to a new boundary line when India and Pakistan are partitioned. And as guests become witness to the  drama that plays out on the border, little do they realize the drama unfolding within the hotel precincts itself : a grandfather who is a war veteran, a love affair, a friendship with a British officer who himself turns strangely senile; a disinterested father who develops a maniacal obsession with the hotel and then the narrator grandson whose love for melodrama has tragic consequences. In this surreal story, real life borders mingle with borders between what is real and what could be almost so.

This is part eight of the long tale…

The Diabolical Plan

For some days, Hans had been on a tour of the surrounding area. Just to look around. “Our family has only heard descriptions of this place, I need to see whether the real thing is as good,” he said. Of course, I arranged for a jeep and a guide, all the while pushing away guiltily all kinds of evil thoughts – of Hans meeting with an accident, because of the rough roads, faulty brakes. I thought of even bribing the guide to murder him – in his sleep, or when he was trekking, or from the poison in his food. But all such things happen in plays, never in real life. It was an idea I later put down in my notebook, to fit into a play sometime.

Hans came back, looking even more like me than before. He had a tan, an excitement in his eyes, even the way he walked was mine. You would think he had gone away just to rehearse me. I saw the two of them, father and him, in the back row, whispering away very animatedly, though they took care to break away to nod encouragingly at the rehearsal in progress. I wished the kid goat that was also part of the play was actually a sharp-toothed Doberman or an Alsatian, that would give Hans a sharp nip around the ankles.

But he cheered us all rousingly when we were done with the first rehearsal. “It is a really good play,” he told everyone as we came off, and then shook my hand heartily. “It is a difficult thing to pull off, but I am sure you will. Everyone thinks that once peace is declared, it will create a natural atmosphere of bonhomie, but the enmity that lies here,” and he tapped on his forehead several times as if hammering a point in, “is difficult to erase. History is too thick, its foundations too strong to be bulldozed away.”

I pondered over that statement the rest of the day and even later. Was it meant as a message for me? That I should acknowledge that he was part of my grandfather’s past, the past with Martha that Robertson had hinted at. I wished now that Robertson had been alive to tell me the story but he had been dead a long time back.  Father had already embraced Hans with open arms. I shuddered to think what steps father would take next. However late things were, it was time I knew I  asserted myself.

Father seemed pleased with the attention I paid him though. I pulled someone out from the play and assigned him as father’s bodyguard. Of course, the actor was none too pleased and father joked about. After a few days however, I insisted that father not step out of his room. The bodyguard had seen him trip on several occasions when he was out with Hans on his walks. “You stay in your room, father,” I said and he was already too dazed from the strong medicine specially recommended by a specialist from Delhi who had promised to visit him in a couple of days.

Hans proved more difficult to bring around. “Father needs rest. I am sure he does, he said pleasantly,” putting away his notes, bundling up the sheaves of paper he had been reading, as soon as I came up. “I am just helping him get more of it,” extending a hand then, he  invited me, to sit down then. I stood where I was, smiling, making sure he understood the irony of the gesture. But then things had been that way for some time. They were moving much too fast for anyone’s liking. “I was proposing buying his share out of the hotel,” Hans said leaning back in his chair, watching me carefully.

I had to sit then. Father, I knew had been all along planning it. He had been so disappointed in me. I saw the words emerge from Hans, some garbled, so that I missed their true intent and other words  unfurling lazily into razor sharp talons that scratched at the skin of my face, leaving me exposed, vulnerable.  He could not do this. But he said, in that hatefully calm voice,  “I have to sympathize but Grandfather…”

Grandfather! That was when I knew would do nothing but hate him all my life, or even if he was dead.

Grandfather had indeed left half his shares to his grandson. In his will, his handwriting appeared spidery and shaky, as if he was willing itself to write the words in his last days, picking up his last dregs of strength that left his body spent and exhausted.  But still he had been unable to finish. I saw that now. The abrupt manner in which it ended, leaving the entire matter of  inheritance unsettled, his hand giving way on the pen so that his writing swung abruptly away, as if it had encountered a sudden declivity. And for a long time, I had allowed myself to believe that I was his only grandson.

Father was smiling at me, at the guests who milled around, but his eyes had a glazed look in them, his fingers trembled. Hans rose and attempted to pacify me,“Look, its not fair to you. But I have a letter he wrote to my grandmother….Martha.  But I promise you a good deal.”

Father tapped with his stick on the floor. In the music that had just struck up, only I could hear its steady tapping, like a hammer knocking the last nails into the coffin…my head.

“You can’t get away with this,” I longed to put my fingers around his neck, squeeze it and then I felt the breath tighten in my own chest. I was breathless, I needed to drink in a strong draught of fresh air. “I will settle this matter later,” I brushed his hand away calmly,almost insultingly and I saw my own wild anger reflected in his eyes.  “I need to see to tonight’s performance. Perhaps, with your permission, I can still get ahead with it,” I said.

He stared, unable to speak. I could see his puzzlement. Always keep them guessing. I remembered an  old-time  theatre director shouting out repeatedly to his actors. Keep the suspense alive.

“I hope you enjoy the play,” I told him as I walked away, trying to erase the memory of the last few minutes. “I am sure I will,” he replied, in the same light tone.

The play that night, would be my best ever, I was determined to ensure that. It would also be my first outdoor production. The moon was right and the wind was full, the guests, as I insisted before father, would enjoy it.  I was gripped with a maniacal energy, barking orders, screaming, even pushing people into hurrying up.

And then an hour before the curtain lifted,  I insisted on  a final rehearsal. The actors protested.   This was considered unlucky but I was adamant, “I have changed the ending somewhat, so we must go through it again.”  And in the darkened stage,  a theater now emptied of chairs,  I heard them shuffling away into their positions, ignoring their muffled remarks, the baleful look they would have on their faces.

Anu Kumar’s latest book is The Dollmakers’ Island. (http://www.flipkart.com/dollmakers-island-anu-kumar-book-8190939130)