Sarwat Chadda: Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress

“She’s enjoying it because she’s only ten, and she’s stupid.”

“I am not stupid!” Lucky poked her elbow into his ribs.

“Oh, was that meant to hurt?” said Ash. “I didn’t notice.”

“That’s because you’re so fat.”

“I am not fat!” fumed Ash.

“For God’s sake, just stop it, both of you,” said Aunt Anita. “It’s too hot.”

Uncle Vik folded his handkerchief away. “I thought coming to India was your idea, Ash.”

Ash shut up. His uncle was right.

Ash’s love for history and ancient culture had come from his uncle. They’d never met face to face until this year, flights were prohibitively expensive for a man on a teacher’s salary, but ever since Ash could remember there’d been letters, books, photos and emails from Uncle Vik telling him all the grand tales of India’s past. Stories of maharajahs, of tiger hunts and of legendary wars between heroes and terrible demons. Ash’s room back home was full of books on Indian weaponry and myths, most of them presents from his uncle.

So when the summer holidays had come round and his parents, both of whom worked full time, had suggested he and Lucks go over and visit their relatives, Ash had practically packed his bags there and then.

But that had been before the infernal heat, the flies and the cobras.

How was he going to survive another four weeks here?

“There he is. At last.” Vik pointed along the road. Somewhere in the hazy heat Ash spotted an old black and yellow Ambassador taxi.

But the car couldn’t move. The cow had brought the traffic to a complete stand-still. A couple of men pulled at the rope round its neck, but the white beast remained stubbornly immobile.

The old man, the snake charmer, ambled up to them, hands cupped.

Uncle Vik handed him a ten-rupee note. “You can have a hundred if you get that cow moving.”

The sadhu nodded his thanks and strolled off towards the cow.

“What’s he doing?” said Lucky.

The sadhu swished his bamboo stick back and forth in front of the beast. It blinked, then began to sway its head side to side, watching the stick as it swung wider and wider.

Then he smacked the cow’s nose.

The cow bellowed and jumped to its feet. The sadhu smacked it again and the beast stumbled backwards. Seconds later engines started up, horns honked and the traffic got moving.

The sadhu returned, grinning broadly.

Vik prodded Ash and put a hundred-rupee note in his hand. “Give it to him, quickly.”

Ash frowned, but passed the note over. Their eyes met and Ash froze. Beneath the thick bushy eyebrows the old man’s eyes were startling blue.

He drew the note from Ash’s stiff fingers.

Ash looked back as they climbed into the taxi and saw the old man staring back at him, staff resting on his shoulder. Then the crowds spilled on to the now open street and the sadhu disappeared.

Ten minutes later they were out of the city and rolling along the dusty country road. Ash closed his eyes, leaned out of the window and let the dry breeze wash over his face. The heat still hung over the arid countryside, but the sun would be gone in an hour and he’d have a little relief from the otherwise inescapable furnace-hot temperatures.

Right now his mates would be out and about in London. If he were there, he, Akbar and Sean would hook up their computers for all-day sessions – all week, in fact. They’d spent last summer holed up in Sean’s basement, which, thanks to his dad who was head of IT at some bank, was a gamer’s paradise.

All day gaming sessions. McDonald’s. Going down to the multiplex on Friday. These were the best things in life.

Oh, and Gemma. Gemma was a new addition to the list.

Ash had to face it, India wasn’t for him. The sooner this trip was over, the better. It wasn’t worth all the sweat and heat and flies.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He did think the castles were cool. England did castles, but not like India did castles. India’s castles could have come straight out of The Lord of the Rings. They were vast and intricate. Halls filled with statues and fountains and gardens of wandering peacocks. The fortresses weren’t built for horses, but elephants. India didn’t do small, intimate and quiet. From the castles through to the palaces, and the Himalayas to the north and the Thar Desert to the west, India was all big-screen cinema, trumpets and deafening noise.

“You OK?” Ash asked Lucky. She looked pale. “Sit here,” he said, and swapped places with her so she could sit next to the window and get some fresh air. She hadn’t adjusted to the food the way he had and all this jumping up and down surely wasn’t helping her digestion.

The sun left a bloody smear across the sky as it sank below the horizon. Their driver, Eddie Singh, took them off the main road and they bounced down a winding track. The car seemed to have a supernatural knack for finding the largest rocks and deepest pot-holes. The old Ambassador wasn’t designed for off-road. It barely managed on-road.

“Taxi service and full body massage, no extra charge,” laughed Eddie as he wrestled with the steering wheel.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Auntie Anita, struggling to keep her sari in place. “I thought the main road led to the bridge.”

“The bridge is down. Loose foundations or something,” said Vik. “Lord Savage has made arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” asked Ash.

“There.” Lucky pointed ahead.

Cars lined the river’s edge, their drivers chatting and smoking. A woman in a white cotton suit directed guests into a flotilla of rowing boats, tied up along a rickety wooden platform on the bank. A steady stream of guests were being rowed to the opposite bank while boys ran back and forth with lanterns. Eddie parked up beside the other cars.

Dammit, that hurts. Ash stretched as he got out, uncurling his spine and hoping no permanent damage had been done. His bum felt as if the seat springs had left deep impressions in both buttocks.

Brittle leaves rustled in a nearby bush and something moved within it. Lucky grabbed Ash’s sleeve as a scrawny vulture, stringy red intestine trailing out of its beak, raised its head out of the bush to watch them. It twisted its neck back and forth and the guts tore free.

Ash stepped closer to inspect the feast. A dead water buffalo lay on the muddy bank, its hind legs gone. Its eyes were open and big, shiny and black. The vulture dipped its beak into the socket and drew out the plump ball. Ash thought he heard it pop as the vulture swallowed.

“That is totally pukey,” Lucky said, her nose wrinkling.

“Professor Mistry?”

The woman in white approached them, smiling in greeting. She was Caucasian and very tanned, and despite the oncoming darkness, she still wore a pair of sleek sunglasses. Her thick unkempt blonde-streaked hair was loosely held in place with ivory pins. She pressed her palms together. “Namaste. I’m Jackie, Lord Savage’s personal assistant.” Her accent was English, and posh.

“Vikram Mistry, at your service.” He took Aunt Anita’s hand. “And this is my wife.”

“Namaste, Mrs Mistry,” said Jackie.

“Call me Anita,” she replied, smoothing out the creases in her silk sari. The cloth was a shimmering pearly silver embroidered with gold. She only wore it for special occasions, like visiting rich aristocrats.

“What a perfectly beautiful child,” said Jackie, catching a glimpse of Lucky. She knelt down and stroked Lucky’s cheek with a long nail, her smile widening. “Why, you look good enough to eat.”

Lucky cringed and took a step behind Ash. Jackie’s smile thinned, then she slowly straightened up and faced Uncle Vik.

“Lord Savage is very keen to meet you,” Jackie said. “He’s a great admirer of your work.”