But the outline had vanished. Try as he might, he could not bring back the picture. The imagined lizard had escaped as cleanly as the real one.
The morning after the cremation, Maneck and his mother set off with the wooden box to scatter his father’s ashes on the mountainside where he had loved to walk. He had wanted to be strewn throughout these vistas, as far and wide within the panorama as human effort could accomplish. Hire a Sherpa if you have to, he had joked. Dont dump me in one spot.
“I think Daddy is forcing me to take at least one long walk with him,” said Mrs. Kohlah, brushing away her tears with the back of her hand, keeping her fingers dry for the ashes.
Maneck wished he had accompanied his father more often on his outings. He wished the delight, the eagerness he had shown as a child could have endured in later years, when his father needed him most. Instead, he had succumbed to embarrassment in the face of his father’s growing effusiveness about streams and birds and flowers, especially after the townspeople started talking about Mr. Kohlah’s strange behaviour, his patting of rocks and stroking of trees.
The air was calm this morning. There was no breeze to help disperse the ashes. Maneck and his mother took turns dipping into the box and sprinkling the grey powder.
When half the ashes were gone, Aban Kohlah felt a pang of guilt, felt they were not doing it as thoroughly as her husband would have liked. She ventured into more difficult places, trying to throw a fistful in a hesitant waterfall, mingle some in an inaccessible clump of wildflowers, spread a little around a tree that grew out of an overhang.
“This was Daddy’s favourite spot,” she said. “He often described this tree, how strangely it grew.”
“Be careful, Mummy,” warned Maneck. “Tell me where you want to scatter it, don’t lean so much over the edge.”
But that would not be the same thing, she thought, and persevered in her precarious clamberings down steep paths. Finally, what Maneck had feared came to pass. She lost her footing and slipped down a slope.
He ran to where she crouched, rubbing her knee. “Ohhh!” she said, rising and trying to walk.
“Don’t,” he said. “Just wait here, I’ll get help.”
“No, it’s okay, I can climb up.” She took two steps and sank to the ground again.
He tucked the box of ashes safely behind a boulder, then hurried to regain the road, shouting to someone going by that his mother was injured. Within thirty minutes, a group of friends and neighbours came to the rescue, headed by the formidable Mrs. Grewal.
The wife of Brigadier Grewal had become more and more leaderly in her demeanour since her husband’s death. Wherever she found herself, she automatically took control of things. Most of her friends welcomed this, for it meant less work for them, whether it was planning a dinner party or arranging an outing.
Sizing up Mrs. Kohlah’s predicament, Mrs. Grewal sent for two porters who now worked as waiters in a five-star hotel. In the old days, the duo would carry elderly or infirm tourists in a long-armed viewing chair along the mountain paths and trails to enjoy the scenery. When the new road was built, wide enough to accommodate sightseeing buses, it put the porters out of business.
But the two were happy to get the palkhi out of storage for Mrs. Kohlah. Maneck asked if they would be able to carry her safely, since they might have lost their surefootedness after years in their soft hotel jobs, padding between kitchen and dining room.
“Have no fear, sahab,” they said. “This work was our family tradition, it is in the blood.” They were visibly excited about the chance, however brief, to exercise their old skills.
“Maneck, will you stay and finish the box?” asked Mrs. Kohlah, as she was helped into the palkhi.
“Yes, he will stay,” said Mrs. Grewal, deciding for them. “Maneck, you finish the ashes and catch up with us later. Your mummy will be safe with me.”
She motioned to the porters; they hoisted the palkhi to their shoulders and trotted off in perfect unison, their legs and arms moving like well-oiled machinery, finding a smooth rhythm over the rugged paths to spare the passenger unnecessary jolts. Maneck was reminded of the steam engine his father had once shown him at close quarters … Daddy lifting him in his arms at the railway station, the engine-driver blowing the whistle … shafts and cranks and pistons, darting and thrusting in a powerful, clanking symmetry…
“Oh, if only Farokh could see this,” said Mrs. Kohlah, smiling and crying. “His wife going home in a palkhi after scattering his ashes. How he would laugh at my stylish clumsiness.”
Maneck watched the porters disappear around the next bend, then retrieved the box hidden by the boulder. He resumed scattering the ashes. By and by, a wind came up. The slow clouds, drifting lazily, now began a rowdy race across the sky, their shadows threatening the valley below. He let the ashes trickle from his fingers into the clutches of the wind. He scraped the inside of the box, turned it over, and tapped on the outside. The last traces flew away to explore the vastness.
From time to time, Mrs. Grewal, striding right behind the porters, called out instructions for them. “Careful, that branch is very low. You don’t want Mrs. Kohlah to bang her head.”
“Have no fear, memsahab,” they panted. “We haven’t forgotten our work.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Grewal, doubtful. “Watch out now, that’s a very big stone, don’t stumble.”
This time, Mrs. Kohlah did the reassuring on the porters’ behalf. “Don’t worry, they are experts. I am very comfortable.”
The friends and neighbours following after them gave the two palkhiwallas a round of applause as they emerged from the mountain path and continued along the road into town. It had been years since anyone had seen a palkhi float through the streets. The ghost from the past was greeted with delight by all who met it on its journey. Many decided to tag along, swelling the ranks of the spontaneous celebration.
Now and again, the chair party had to stop at the side to allow lorries and buses to pass. After the fifth such halt, Mrs. Grewal became indignant. “Enough of this nonsense,” she said. “Come on, everybody. Step out, all the way out — into the middle of the road. We shall not move for anybody. Not today. Mrs. Kohlah has the right of way, this is a special day for her. The traffic can wait.”
Everyone agreed with Mrs. Grewal, and for thirty-five glorious minutes they marched into town in a determined procession, trailed by lines of impatient vehicles, the drivers honking and shouting. For the most part Mrs. Grewal ignored them, determined not to dignify their cheap cacophony with a retort. Occasionally, though, her outrage made her pause and shout back, “Show some respect! The woman is a widow!”
About an hour after they had started, the rescue party reached home safely, and Mrs. Kohlah was made comfortable in an easy chair, with an ice pack round her knee. Mrs. Grewal sat opposite her in a straight-backed chair, erect as a sentry. She refused to leave with the others, declaring firmly, “You cannot remain all by yourself on the day after the funeral.”
Mrs. Kohlah was a little amused at her manner, and grateful for the company. They reminisced about the General Store, the prosperous old times, the tea parties and dinners, the cantonment days. How wonderful life used to be, how sweet and healthy the air — any time you felt sick or tired, all you had to do was step outdoors, breathe deeply, and you felt better immediately, no need to swallow any medicine or vitamin tablets. “Nowadays the whole atmosphere only has changed,” said Mrs. Grewal.
Just then Maneck walked in, and there was an awkward silence. He wondered what they had been discussing.