smarting. His nose ached, and his throat felt raw. He wondered what additional damage the journey had inflicted on the poor proofreader’s ravaged vocal cords.
“Bye-bye, Mr. Valmik — all the best,” he said, struggling outside with his suitcase and boxes.
Standing woebegone on the platform, looking around for his retired sergeant-major, Vasantrao Valmik was hardly able to croak a reply. He raised a hand in farewell, which stroked his pens on the way down.
Maneck’s taxi from the train station to the college hostel made a small detour around an accident. An old man had been hit by a bus. The conductor flagged down passing buses, transferring his passengers while waiting for the police and ambulance.
“Have to be young and quick to cross the street,” mused the taxi driver.
“True,” said Maneck.
“Bastard bus drivers, they buy their licence with bribes, without passing the test.” The driver took an angrier tone, moving into the opposing lane of traffic to overtake. “Should all be sent to jail.”
“You’re right,” said Maneck, only half-listening. Filtered through his exhaustion, the city seemed to roll past the taxi window like the frames of a film reel. On the pavement, children were pelting pebbles at a dog and bitch joined in copulation. Someone emptied a bucket over the animals to separate them. The taxi narrowly missed hitting the dog as it darted into traffic.
At the next signal light, police were arresting a man who had been beaten up by a gang of six or seven young fellows. The mohulla’s residents had spilled into the road to witness the culmination of the drama. “What happened?” the taxi driver leaned out his window to ask an onlooker.
“Threw acid in his wife’s face.”
The signal changed before they found out why. The driver speculated that maybe she was fooling around with another man; or she may have burnt the husband’s dinner. “Some people are cracked enough to do anything.”
“Could have been a dowry quarrel,” said Maneck.
“Maybe. But in those cases they usually use kerosene, in the kitchen.”
It was late evening when Maneck reached the hostel. At the warden’s office he was given his room number, keys, and a list of rules: Please always keep room locked. Please do not write or scratch on walls with sharp instruments. Please do not bring female visitors of the opposite sex into rooms. Please do not throw rubbish from windows. Please observe silence at night time…
He crumpled the cyclostyled list and tossed it on the little desk. Too enervated to eat or wash, he unpacked a white bedsheet and went to sleep.
Something crawling along his calf woke him. He rose on one elbow to deliver a furious swat below the knee. It was dark outside. He shivered, and his heart thumped wildly with the panic of not being able to remember where he was. Why had his bedroom window shrunk? And where was the valley that should lie beyond it, with pinpoints of light dancing in the night, and the mountains looming darkly in the distance? Why had everything vanished?
Relief covered him like a blanket as his eyes were able to trace the outline of his luggage on the floor. He had travelled. By train. Travelling made everything familiar vanish. How long had he slept — hours or minutes? He peered at his watch to unravel the puzzle, pondering the glowing numbers.
He started, suddenly remembering what it was that had woken him. The crawling thing on his leg. He jumped out of bed, kicked the suitcase, knocked into the chair, and felt around frantically on the wall. The switch. Click. His finger gave life to the naked ceiling bulb, and the bedsheet gleamed like a fresh, dazzling snowfield. Except for the side where he had slept, smudged by the dust from his face and clothes.
Then he saw it on the edge of the white expanse. Under the glare of the light it scuttled towards the gap between bed and wall. He grabbed a shoe and smacked wildly in its general direction.
It was a very poor shot; the cockroach disappeared. Chagrined, he fought off his fatigue and tackled the problem with more determination. He pulled the bed away from the wall, slowly, not to alarm the fugitive, till there was a space for him to squeeze in.
The exposed bit of floor revealed a conference of cockroaches. He crouched stealthily, raised his arm, and unleashed a flurry of blows. Three succumbed to his shoe, the rest disappeared under the bed. He got down on his hands and knees, resolved that they would not escape to haunt him later. Meanwhile, his ankle began to itch, and his scratching fingers felt a red swelling. He discovered similar itchy bumps on his arms.
There was a knock on the door. He hesitated, loath to leave his prey — if they managed to hide, he would be at their mercy for the rest of the night.
A voice called, “Hi! Everything okay?”
Maneck crawled out from under the bed and opened the door. “Hi,” said the visitor. “I’m Avinash. From the next room.” He put out his right hand; the left held a spray pump.
“I’m Maneck.” He dropped the shoe and shook hands, then glanced quickly over his shoulder in case the enemy was trying to flee.
“Heard the banging,” said Avinash. “Cockroaches, right?”
Maneck nodded, picking up his shoe again.
“Relax, I got you some advanced technology.” Grinning, he held up the spray pump.
“Thanks, but it’s okay,” said Maneck, vigorously scratching the red trophies on his arms. “I killed three and — ”
“You don’t know this place. Kill three, and three dozen will arrive marching in single file, to take revenge. It’s like a Hitchcock movie.” He laughed and came closer, lightly touching the red bumps on Maneck’s arms. “Bedbugs.”
His advice was to fumigate the room and wait outside for forty-five minutes. “It’s the only way you’ll be able to sleep tonight, believe me. This is my third year in the hostel.”
They removed the sheet, lifted the mattress, and treated the frame and slats. The rest of the room was also sprayed — along the window ledge, in the corners, inside the cupboard. The suitcase and boxes were moved to Avinash’s room, to keep the bugs and cockroaches from seeking refuge in them.
“I feel bad using up so much of your spray,” said Maneck.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have to buy your own can of Flit. You can do mine later. The rooms need spraying at least once a week.”
They settled down to wait for the insects to die, Maneck on the only chair, Avinash on the bed. “So,” he said, leaning back upon his elbows.
“Thanks for your help.”
“It’s okay, yaar, no big deal.” There was a pause, to see which way the conversation would go. It didn’t. “You want to play chess, or draughts or something, to pass the time?”
“Okay, draughts.” Maneck liked his eyes, the way they looked directly into his.
It was easier to start talking once they began the game, their heads bowed over the board. “So where are you from?” asked Avinash, obtaining his first king.
The account of the hill-station, the settlements, the mountains, the langurs, the snow fascinated Avinash. He confessed, as he won the game and set up the board again, that he had never travelled anywhere.
“The house was built by my great-grandfather, on a hill,” continued Maneck. “And because of the steep slope, we have steel cables to keep it tied in place.”
“Wait a sec — you think I was born yesterday?”
“No, really. There was an earthquake, and the foundation shifted downhill. That’s why the cables were connected.” He explained how the repair work had been done, and described technical details.
His earnestness convinced Avinash. The idea of a house on a leash, tethered to mountain rock, amused him. “Sounds like a house with suicidal tendencies.”
They laughed. Avinash moved up one of his men and said, “Crown me.” A few moves later, he won again. “So what does your father do?”
“We have a shop.”
“Ah, a businessman. Must be making solid money, sending you all the way here to study.”
The slight jeer in his voice offended Maneck. “It’s just a small store, and very hard work for my parents. They sent me to study because the business is going downhill and — ”
They looked up at the same instant, laughing at his chosen word. Maneck decided he had answered enough questions. “What about you? You’re also studying here, your father must be well off to afford it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. I got a scholarship.”
