Acclaimed author of The Dollmakers’ Island, Anu Kumar has been bringing over the past few weeks, a treat for the readers of Unboxed Writers in the form of an unpublished novella. 

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 the concluding part of the long tale.

The play

 In the darkness, the first sound was the distinct tread of  soldiers patrolling the borders still, never once relaxing their guard. Walking with  heavy steps, deliberate, as if measuring warnings. Every once in a while, raising their guns to their shoulder and then down again, the distinct click that appeared with each movement, itself a dire warning. It was dark except for the light that flashed every so often on the watchtowers. Not for a single moment did anyone let down his guard. Even the night was still, holding its breath, waiting for the moon.

But people who had lived on the border know its ways. They know the shifting moments of darkness as the  tower lights swivel and arch, lighting up at every moment, parts of the scruffy gray countryside. Earlier, during my childhood, there would be skirmishes on both sides, if lights on one side lit up the enemy country. Sometimes the lights would clash, lighting up things with an unnatural brightness, like a stage production. But with peace, an agreement had been reached on this matter. The lights on either side would rotate in such a manner that they would never cross each other, so that in effect, both sides were lighting up the each other’s territory, without the lights clashing violently. 

For years, as the enmity progressed, Rustom and Rani had watched each other from across the fence. They had never spoken to each other but they loved one another with a fierce desperation. The desperation that comes with the foreknowledge of doom. But Rustom sent his pigeons across with lovelorn missives, and every evening, as the border guards changed duty, they would stand separated by the barbed wire, staring at each other, smiling shyly, not minding that every once in a while their vision was blocked often by the guards marching away and moving into place. They were both teased by their families. Of course nothing would come out of it.  It was like mooning over a film star, someone who was very near, who you could conjure up at will, but in effect, forever unattainable.

But with peace, there was a sudden shift in mood. The border guards exchanged sweets. Now peacemongers crossed over with a regular frequency at the border. Leaders of both countries made speeches on the new dawn that was beginning. But the change caught people unprepared, off guard. It was difficult to shed old ways of being, old thoughts. Without the fear and the tension, people were bored.

Rustom and Rani did not know what to say to each other when they met. She fingered the flower he gave her, he folded and then unfolded the muffler she had specially knitted for him. Her kid goat played around their legs. They had never spoken to each other before and now did not what to say. Rani did not want him to speak.. She realised she liked the idea of simply having someone to write to. And Rustom looked at all the pretty girls from the other side of the border, milling around, giggling to themselves and realised that he did not want to be tied down so easily. But they did not say this to one another, only promising to meet again the next evening.

Their families however did not like it. He was from across the border, the enemy side. “How can we still trust them?”  Her family said. And his warned him not to take matters further. It was all right to write letters and put up her photo, but to think of anything more was beyond the possible. And as the tension sprouted between their families, their love grew, found reasons for its rejuvenation.

“The story is too complicated,” my actors had complained. But I was persuasive, “life itself is that way. Art should try and reflect the real world?” But they did not put their hearts into it.

 Yet I continued developing the story. Rustom and Rani’s  families were earnest in their efforts but their ardour only grew. “Let’s run away,” he told her one night.

 In the morning, no one knew where they had disappeared. No one had seen them but it  was assumed they had gone together. Search parties roamed the countryside, the friendly soldiers on both sides were helpful to each other, allowing  free entry and exit. After all, it was the question of family honour. No stain could be allowed to ruin it. I added the last line, delighted with the afterthought. Hans, I hoped would take the hint. For all my grandfather’s indiscretions, there was no way I was going to be cheated out of my legacy. Lately, I had more plans for the hotel. Of hosting an annual theatre festival, of putting up for permanent display, some of the props used in the more popular plays. Rustom and Rani would be my magnum opus.  I was determined to make it the most perfect of all my productions.

 How the fire started no one knew but it engulfed Rustom and Rani’s hut in seconds. It was only a rehearsal but it was as effective as the final production.  Only their kid goat squeezed through the gap in the window, through which the lovers had been spotted and he received a standing ovation. Of course, even though peace had settled in, some things did not change. The police and the fire brigade arrived late on the scene. By that time, the fire had spread, swallowing up other houses too, in the vicinity, including the exclusive lodge Hans had been occupying. His whereabouts too no one was sure about.

 Of course, I had to go to the police station for questioning but was soon let off with a gentle reprimand, “You should be careful when handling such stuff – they can explode in your hand.” They had availed too much of the hotel’s hospitality to do anything more. But it did give the police a chance to score some brownie points over the army. The police accused them of gunrunning, of secretly selling the arms, they no longer needed much, in the illegal market. The furious exchange that followed, of allegations traded freely on both sides, allowed me to get away unscathed. I had all the time to devote to the hotel, that in the wake of the fire, had sustained extensive damages.

 I moved father to his own exclusive cottage on the very periphery. That way he was left alone and would not intervene too much in my plans. Of course, the hotel had to expand. Now there were more and people to cater to. The soldiers had moved away, and in their place, came the rich backpackers, the hikers, the peaceniks, and the ones I hated especially, the honeymooning couples.

They usually made a complete nuisance of themselves. So absorbed were they in their own selves that they took little interest in the attractions the hotel had to offer. My grandfather’s memorabilia strewn around, the many photos he had taken in the special gallery. The props my father had added. The ones, I had added. 

The well where the village women had thrown themselves into, in fear of the enemy, remained. If you leaned over the edge, you activated a switch that let you hear their whispers, the rippling of water, and a sudden last splash.  Father’s old telescopes I placed at strategic locations along the corridor. They added to the decorations. His rifle I put up in the hotel’s lobby. As for the lodge Hans had been lodged in, that  became one of the hotel’s central attractions. In the plaque I had put up, the words ran, “Here lies Hans Dammer, who died while trying to rescue Rustom and Rani from the flames. A real-life tragedy.”

 The hotel did well. Of course, as is inevitable in this business, there were some years not so good. The year it rained heavily for instance, when the highway was so flooded that no one could reach us. Of course, we returned all their advances. In this business, goodwill is equally important to sustain.  But the bad years were not many. I ensured that by getting good reviews of the hotel in foreign journals via people I especially invited over to visit and write, at no cost.  That was actually a worthy investment, because it brought in more and more people.  The hotel added more cottages, more tours, and performing troupes from all over the world. Hans seemed like a bad nightmare now.

 The fire incident did affect father and his memory became terribly impaired.  It was rather sudden, the way it happened. I noticed it from the manner he fell abruptly silent when recounting the hotel’s history to new guests. Guests, he fairly grabbed by the hand and dragged away, for really I made sure to keep them away from him. Who is interested in history these days?  If we were, would there have been more wars between two countries fated to be neighbours? Father would talk of grandfather’s time, his innovations, frown disapprovingly when he came to me and then his voice would taper away. He just couldn’t bring himself to mention the fire. 

I said it was his memory. Considering his age, he had seen a lot, and there was only so much one’s memory could hold.  And guests are always fairly easy to   convince. They had come to build their own memory albums of a nice holiday, not be confused by someone else’s rambling reminiscences.

I was kind to father, and moved  him to the same lodge Robertson stayed in towards the end.  The lodge was of course off bounds for most people, except some trusted servants,  who had been especially trained by me.  They were not to believe anything father said – about Martha, about Hans, the play and the fire. That had been an accident anyway.  And the plaque I put at the entrance  deterred those who got overly curious. It simply said – Madman’s Sanatoria. Proceed at your own risk.

People came, stood by the plaque, shivered and moved on. It became another of the hotel’s attractions.

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