The Rose of Tibet (8 page)

This explanation in the clear light of day seemed so very much more convincing than any of his cockeyed assumptions of the night before that he felt himself smiling suddenly with a sense of jubilant release.

‘It is very amusing, sir, isn’t it, to see the goats playing?’

He had been addressed by a slender young Bengali; he wore a European shirt and trousers and his eyes glistened gaily behind steel-rimmed spectacles.

‘The goats?’

‘On the hills.’

The bus was groaning up an incline, along the steep green sides of which a flock of goats bucked and kicked skittishly.

Houston said hastily, ‘Oh, very. Very amusing indeed.’

‘I saw you smiling at the spectacle. It always makes me smile also. But they are very useful animals, most essential to our economy, sir.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. I am studying the goat at the moment.’

‘You’re a vet, are you?’

‘Oh, no, sir, I am not a vet,’ the young Bengali said, politely covering his amusement with a thin brown hand. ‘I am a teacher.’

‘Are you?’ Houston said, glad to be taken out of himself. ‘So am I.’

‘Oh, indeed. This is a pleasant meeting, sir. My name is Mr Pannikar,’ the Bengali said, extending his hand.

Houston said his name was Houston, and shook it.

‘And what business brings you here, Mr Houston, if I may ask?’

Suddenly, Houston wanted to tell him; all of it. He didn’t quite do that, but he heard his own voice, with some surprise, explaining that his brother and three friends had gone to Tibet last year and had not yet returned, and that he had come to find out why.

‘Ah, yes, I see. There are many difficulties with the Tibetans these days.’

‘All these omens, you mean?’

‘Oh, the omens and prophecies. I don’t listen to such childish things myself. The key to the situation is the Chinese. They feel that Tibet belongs to them. Of course this makes the Tibetans very nervous. They feel they must bend over backwards not to offend the Chinese. I expect this is what your brother has found, Mr Houston?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They are regarding him as a spy, are they?’

‘A spy?’ Houston said, taken aback. ‘Why should they?’

‘Oh, forgive me, sir. I do not know the facts of the case. I merely thought, if they won’t allow him to go just now… . I don’t know if you read Chinese, Mr Houston?’

Houston said he didn’t.

‘I am studying the language. I sometimes see the
People’s
Daily
from Peking. They are very suspicious people the. Chinese, and they think every European in Tibet is a spy.
They quite often print names of people. This is what makes the Tibetans so nervous.’

‘You think that’s why they won’t let him out?’

‘I have no idea at all, Mr Houston. It was only a suggestion. Have they told you anything?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Ah. That is understandable. And they would naturally try to discourage you from making inquiries. They certainly don’t want any international incident or bad publicity this year. But it’s possible they might be holding them for an inquiry to convince the Chinese… . What exactly was your brother doing in Tibet, Mr Houston?’

Houston told him; and presently went on to tell him what subjects he taught in school, and heard what subjects Mr Pannikar taught, and learned a good deal more about the Indian goat; and he realized the situation had turned upside down again. He realized something else also. Every bit of straw-clutching, every bit of hope that Hugh might be alive was followed instantly by a reaction of dismay, of reluctance to pursue it. And as he sat and chatted with Mr Pannikar he came suddenly upon the reason.

If Hugh was dead, there was nothing he could do about it. If Hugh was alive, there was still nothing he could do about it. He dare not produce evidence that he was alive; for then, whoever had said he was dead would be forced to prove it. There was only one effective way of doing that. He didn’t think they wanted to take that step. He thought last night’s little encounter might have been designed to dissuade him from pushing them into taking such a step.

So to keep Hugh alive he must pretend he was dead. And to pretend he was dead, he would have to go home. But how could he go home, believing Hugh to be alive? And how could he stay, knowing that he might contribute to his death?

He couldn’t go, he couldn’t stay. He wondered in that case where in God’s name he
could
go to escape from this limbo, and suddenly realized where he would go, and paused in mid-flow.

Mr Pannikar looked at him inquiringly. ‘You were telling me about a greetings card you had done.’

‘There was a border on it. I copied it from a tile in the
British Museum, an Indian tile. It attracted more interest than anything else I did last year,’ Houston said, staring at him in shock and amazement.

‘Oh, that is very interesting,’ Mr Pannikar said, smiling a little uncertainly at the strange expression on his face. ‘It is most interesting indeed. What a pity we have arrived in Darjeeling. Speaking for myself, I have found the conversation most stimulating.’

‘Very stimulating indeed,’ Houston said.

‘I wonder if you would care to enter into a correspondence when you return to England. I have my card here.’

Houston did not have a card, but he wrote his name and address in Mr Pannikar’s notebook, and shook hands with him and wandered away from the bus station in a daze.

He saw a bookshop in The Mall and walked over to it, telling himself that there was no harm whatever in playing with the idea, and bought a twenty-five miles to the inch map, and turned into the Mount Everest Hotel with it. He wondered if he could keep a gin and tonic down, and ordered one and opened out the map.

Yamdring was a few inches across the Tibet frontier, not more than six inches from Darjeeling, from where he sat in the Mount Everest Hotel with his gin and tonic. A hundred and fifty miles as the crow flew; under an hour in a plane.

He felt his heart beginning to thud. He took a cautious sip at his gin and tonic. He lit a cigarette.

He wondered how many miles it really was, and how long, going deviously, it would take. Ten days, a fortnight. There and back in a month. He had been away nearly two months already.

He finished his gin and tonic without ill effects, and an hour later tackled a light lunch, and managed to retain that also. He went back to Kalimpong on the afternoon bus.  

He found his way back to the house that night, and took a large monkey wrench with him, against contingencies; he had bought it in a garage in the town before dinner.

He took the youth through his story again, and could find no variation. There were also no additions, which seemed to him satisfactory; he had offered various bits of information
which could have been embellished if the boy were lying or merely anxious to please.

He said at last, ‘Ringling, you know the way to Yamdring?’

‘Yes, sahib. I’ve been there many times.’

‘Could you take me there?’

‘If you get a chitty, sahib, yes. I need to mention it to Michaelson Sahib.’

‘Without a chitty. Without mentioning it to Michaelson Sahib.’

The boy grinned at him uncertainly.

‘We both need chitties, sahib. You can’t get into Tibet without one.’

‘Across the border, secretly. The two of us. No chitties.’

‘I don’t understand, sahib.’

Houston made it clearer.

The boy was sweating slightly when he had finished, and his smile was a pale shadow of itself. He went out and brought a bottle of arak and poured two glasses, and drank off his own right away.

‘It’s very dangerous, sahib,’ he said at last.

‘I’d pay you well for the risk.’

‘Dangerous for you. Have you ever climbed high?’

‘Not very high.’

‘Maybe we have to go over twenty thousand feet. I don’t know if you could manage it, sahib.’

‘It would be a good time to learn,’ Houston said, smiling faintly.

The boy shook his head. He drank another glass of arak. He said, ‘Could you get a chitty for Sikkim, sahib?’

‘I could try. Why?’

‘There are mountains there. If you stay a few days at ten thousand feet, maybe we could tell.’

‘All right,’ Houston said. ‘I’ll try.’

He kept the monkey wrench in his hand all the way back. But nobody was waiting for him this time.

Houston went to Calcutta a few days later. He went to his bank, Barclay’s Peninsular, and drew out three hundred and
fifty pounds in fifty-rupee notes, and changed two hundred pounds’ worth of these at other banks for two- and five-rupee notes. He booked in again at the Great Eastern and had a shower and left his suitcase there; and then he went to see Lister-Lawrence.

He had telephoned him already from Kalimpong, and had explained what he wanted. The official had not sounded very encouraging; and was scarcely more so now.

‘Sorry, old chap. No joy.’

‘Why not?’

‘No reason. They just don’t want you. I did explain that Hopkinson can’t hand out the chitties himself. If Tibet doesn’t want you, then Sikkim won’t, either. They work in very closely with each other.’

‘But what trouble would I give? All I want is to see the sirdar of this caravan in Gangtok and hear his deposition and get him to make his mark. I’ve told you all this.’

‘And I told Hopkinson. And I expect he told the visa authorities. They just don’t seem to want to know you, old boy. Of course there’s nothing to stop you writing to this man in Gangtok.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘Yes. Well,’ Lister-Lawrence said, standing up. ‘I’ve got rather a lot on just now… . If you’ll take a word of advice you’ll pack up and go home. You’ve done all anyone could expect.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Do that. And look in to see me before you go, won’t you?’

‘Before I go,’ Houston said.    

Five days after leaving Kalimpong, he was back. Ringling met him as he got off the bus in the square.

‘All well, sahib?’

‘All well, Ringling.’

‘You have the chitty?’

‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

‘And the money, in small notes.’

‘Everything. I shouldn’t hang about too much here. I’ll come and see you tonight.’

He had started packing when they rang up to tell him Michaelson was below. He went down, cursing.

‘Hello, sport. Why didn’t you say you were going to Calcutta?’

‘Something cropped up in a hurry.’

‘Something cropped up here, too,’ Michaelson said gloomily. ‘Come and have a drink.’

Michaelson had had another interview with Sangrab over the matter of his black tails; but this time the consul had not set himself out to ingratiate. He had merely pointed out that he could not discuss his government’s methods of allocating licences, and had made a somewhat oblique reference to Michaelson’s own methods as being perhaps out of date.

‘Out of date,’ Michaelson said gustily, signalling for another round. ‘You know what he means by that? My face doesn’t fit round here any more. Maybe none of our white faces will fit soon. The bloody Indians have their own government now… .’

Houston said nothing, waiting for Michaelson to take himself off.

‘There’s no government behind me, sport. I’m just bloody old Michaelson who’s been giving them a living for thirty years. Even my teamsters are leaving. Your friend Ringling – a bloody family I’ve kept for years.’

‘Where’s he going?’

‘Christ knows. Climbing, he says. Won’t be able to oblige me for the next two trips. My oath!’

‘You’d take him on again, would you?’

‘You’ve got it wrong, sport,’ Michaelson said with morbid hilarity. ‘I don’t take people on any more. They take me on. Ah, it’s time I left this sodding place… . Just let me get my hands on a bit of money, and watch me!’

‘Well… . I should be packing myself.’

‘One for the road,’ Michaelson said.        

It was after nine before he was rid of him, and his head was swimming. He went up to his room, collected his papers, passport and flight return ticket and tied them with string and brown paper. He addressed the parcel to himself at the Great
Eastern in Calcutta, and wrote ‘registered post’ on top, and paused.

It looked a bit on the slim side. More bulk was needed to provide a reason why he should not be carrying it with him; so he untied the parcel and included a suit and odds and ends until he was satisfied. He wondered what else he might have overlooked, and cursed Michaelson for befuddling his wits when he needed them most.

He had promised Ringling a hundred pounds for the trip. He thought in view of the changed circumstances he had better make it a hundred and fifty, and unlocked the case and took out the larger notes. He went downstairs with the parcel and the suitcase of money, and told them to lock up the case overnight. He sealed the parcel with hot wax at the reception desk and left it there for posting next day.

‘I’m going back to Calcutta tomorrow,’ he told the clerk. ‘I’d like the bill made up tonight.’

‘Yes, sahib.’

‘And an early shake in the morning. I want to catch the seven-thirty bus for Gielle-Khola.’

His voice was showing a tendency to boom, and he thought he might be overdoing it, but the clerk seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Seven-thirty, sahib. Gielle-Khola.’

‘That’s it,’ Houston said; and went out to tell the boy.

T
HE
first stop from Kalimpong to Gielle-Khola is at the village of Gelong, some six and a half miles away. It is a small, pleasant spot on the east bank of the Teesta river, less hilly than Kalimpong and for that reason the site of the polo ground and country club of the former European Sporting Society. There is a comfortable rest house and a smattering of summer bungalows. Houston got off here.

He sat on the seat by the bus stop and smoked a cigarette
until the bus had gone. He had slept badly, and he felt weary and hopeless. The idea of walking into Tibet struck him, as he sat with his suitcase and raincoat in the warm and brilliant morning, as more preposterous than ever. He waited till the alighting passengers had dispersed, and threw away his cigarette and followed in the direction the bus had taken.

He walked across the river bridge to where the main road forked, left for Gielle-Khola and right for Darjeeling. He turned right. After twenty minutes he was sweating in the hot and spicy morning. A few people in the fields looked curiously at him as he passed with his suitcase and raincoat. He looked sombrely back.

He spotted the line of telegraph poles marching off over the hills to Sikkim on the right, and presently the rough track that ran alongside. He turned up this and a few hundred yards farther spied the hut. It was built of logs and had a corrugated tin roof; a little rusting enamelled plate said it belonged to the Department of Posts and Telegraphs. He sat down beside the hut in the shade of a tree and waited.

Ringling appeared after about an hour, riding one bicycle and propelling another. He had a haversack on his back and a large bundle tied to one of the bicycles.

‘All well, sahib?’ he said, grinning as he dismounted.

‘Yes. You’re quick,’ Houston said.

‘The market was empty.’

‘Did you manage to get everything?’

‘Everything,’ Ringling said, and leaned the bicycles against the hut and opened the padlock.

Once, months before, Ringling had come upon a telegraph linesman lying in the road; he had a broken leg. The man had given Ringling his key and asked him to run to the hut to telephone for help. Ringling had done this, and had also seen the man safely to hospital. The linesman had forgotten to ask him for the key back, and Ringling for his part had not offered it. He had since experimented with several huts belonging to the Department of Posts and Telegraphs and had found that the key opened them all.

Houston followed him into the hut and watched as Ringling untied the bundle. There were several sets of clothes inside. The boy took out a pair of khaki shorts and a dirty olive bush
jacket, and shut the door for Houston to change into them. He undressed awkwardly, stumbling about between coils of wire and crates of insulators in the cramped and airless space. Before dressing, he opened his suitcase and distributed the money between them; there were a hundred pounds each in small rupee notes. He stuffed his own share in a body belt.

The boy repacked the bundle and retied it on the back of the bicycle, while Houston walked cautiously up and down the track in his new footwear; a pair of old brown officer’s boots that were, Ringling said, in common use among the Sherpas. They returned to the hut together to tidy up; and both were thus aware at the same moment of the next, and quite unforeseen, problem. They stared at each other. There had been no provision for the disposal of the suitcase or the discarded clothing.

Houston cursed Michaelson again. He said, ‘Now what?’

The problem was not an easy one. They could not bury the suitcase and clothing; for as Ringling pointed out someone might find the place and alert the police. They could not burn them, for the smoke would be seen, and the operation would in any case take too long.

They decided in the end on a slight change of plan. Ringling knew of another track that would take them in the desired direction; it branched off the main road half-way to Darjeeling. He would leave Houston to wait at this point while he rode into town and deposited the suitcase in the Left Luggage Office at the station. Although the diversion would cost them the best part of two hours, it had certain advantages, for the new track was less hilly and they might even be able to gain something in terms of mileage on the day.

This, accordingly, is what they did.

(Houston never reclaimed his case, which sat quietly awaiting him in the Darjeeling Left Luggage Office for the next four years; it ultimately fetched, with its contents, fifty- five rupees in a sale of lost property in May
1954
.)        

They reached the Sikkim border soon after one o’clock, and dismounted and walked along parallel with it for some time. Apart from an occasional sign in two languages there was no indication that this was the frontier. The boy was somewhat
nervous, however; he said observers were stationed in the hills. Houston thought he saw an occasional flash of glasses from high up in the green mounds, and was prepared to believe him. He had begun, despite his trepidation, to enjoy himself. They were wheeling the bicycles through a lush and rolling pasture; the fields sparkled with little wild flowers and their scent hung heavily on the air. They had cycled slowly, for Ringling had warned him not to extend himself too much. All the same he could feel the effect of the unusual exercise. He was sweating slightly, and glad of the liberating shorts and the light, short-sleeved bush jacket. He was also very hungry, with an appetite he had not had for weeks; the boy had said they would stop to eat in Sikkim.

Ringling had been picking a large posy of flowers, for the benefit of any observer, but when they came to the timber he got rid of them. He did this in a curious and touching way that Houston was later to recall in very different circumstances. A little stream bisected the wood, and the boy knelt by it and cupped his hand in the water and sprinkled a few drops on his head and on the flowers; then he cast them into the stream. They were carried quickly away.

Houston did not ask the reason for this performance, and the boy did not offer one. He merely got on his bicycle and rode across the stream.

‘We can eat now, sahib,’ he said at the other side.

‘Is this Sikkim?’

‘Yes. No more India, sahib.’

Houston looked at his watch and saw it was a quarter to two. So with only the smallest of ceremonies he had crossed his first frontier. The date was
18
April
1950
, and he was not due to recross it again for a long time.

The wood extended quite deeply into Sikkim territory, and the boy stopped several times to consult his compass. They rode slowly and silently on pine cones. But presently the ground began to climb steeply and the trees grew denser. They got off and pushed, in single file.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Houston asked after
half an hour of this. He was breathing heavily and the sweat was smarting in the creases of his arms and legs.

‘Everything O.K., sahib,’ the boy said, grinning back over his shoulder. ‘Only a small hill. We come to the top soon and ride down. Very nice. You like it.’

It was nearly another half hour before they reached the top; but as Ringling said, it was very nice and Houston liked it. The wood ended abruptly and a broad, smooth hill ran into a river valley. The river was quite two miles away; the turf sloped gently all the way. They coasted down to it, and Houston felt the sweat drying on his body in the cool breeze.

They passed a flock of goats, but no sign of human habitation.

‘Aren’t there any people here?’

‘Yes, people.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Plenty of people, sahib. Even in the wood. We don’t stay long in Sikkim. How you feel now?’

Houston had been aware earlier of the boy’s nervousness; it made him nervous too.

‘I’m all right. Why?’

‘We must cross the river. There are two ways. There is a bridge, but we might meet people, or there is a rope bridge. It’s much quicker, sahib, but the water is high and you are heavier than me. You think you’re strong enough?’

‘I don’t know,’ Houston said, perplexed by these technical considerations. ‘What does it involve?’

‘There are two ropes. You walk along one and hang on to the other with your hands. You hold the bicycle also.’

‘Whatever you think. I’ll give it a try.’

The valley, he saw when they were more than half-way down, was in effect a vast saucer; it sloped longitudinally as well as laterally. The river ran downhill fast. It was surprisingly wide, fifty yards at least across, the water white and foaming. They rode uphill along the bank for a mile or two until the river curved and narrowed sharply; the rope bridge spanned it at this point.

They stopped and dismounted. The boy had to shout in his ear above the roar of the water. ‘Watch me, sahib. If you can’t manage, wave and I’ll come back.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll take your bundle. It will lighten the weight.’

Houston watched as the boy tied the bundle to his back and picked up the bicycle by the crossbar. With palms still open he grasped the upper rope, shaking it to demonstrate the hold, and then, feeling for the lower one with his feet, began edging sideways across. A few yards from the bank, he seemed to learn forward sharply on the upper rope, and turned to Houston, mouthing and grinning. His feet were lost in the white foam.

Houston did not very much like the look of it, but he nodded and the boy continued across. Half-way, Houston lost him in the boiling spray; but he saw the outline emerging again at the other side, and presently the boy was on the bank, grinning and waving.

Houston took a deep breath and picked up the bike and got moving. The roar of water battering against rock, and the flying spray, confused him. He felt for the lower rope with his feet and kicked both heels hard against it, and edged away.

A few yards out the rope sagged with his weight and his feet were in the water. He hung grimly on to the slimy upper rope, feeling the current strong against his boots, and the next moment was clutching for his life as his legs were rushed from under him. He tilted sharply forward, jack-knifing so violently against the crossbar that the breath was knocked out of his body. He couldn’t feel his legs in the maelstrom. He thought he had lost the lower rope. He kicked frantically, and found it, and hung there for a moment, gasping, at an angle of forty-five degrees between the quivering ropes.

He could see the bicycle wheels directly beneath him, and feel his legs numbing in the icy water. He thought he had better move quickly while he could still hold on to both, and inched his way sideways. A few moments later, he was utterly alone, both banks lost to sight in the white, rushing tumult. He saw then what Ringling had meant about his weight; he seemed to be entirely in the river. The solid wall of water blinded and half drowned him as he lay spreadeagled on the ropes. All his weight was on his arms, and he thought he had better let the bicycle go or he would go himself; but he managed
to hang on and presently, in a mindless vacuum, to begin moving again.

Ringling dragged him out at the other side, limp and exhausted, and he collapsed on the turf gasping like a spent fish.

‘I’m sorry, sahib. The river is swollen with snow.’

‘Are there any more of them to cross?’

‘Not today… . We should move on quickly, sahib. We can’t stay here.’

Houston got back on his bicycle and they set off again. Having coasted down one side of the valley, they now had to ascend the other. The boy steered a diagonal path to keep the gradient gentle; even so by the time they reached the top Houston felt himself completely done in.

They came out of the valley to an extraordinary spectacle. Beyond, the green hills rose in tiers; gigantic folds of land that dipped and fell as far as the eye could see like some petrified ocean. Houston’s heart sank. It was now five o’clock and they had been going, with only a short break, for six hours. He said, ‘How much farther are we riding today?’

‘A few miles more, sahib.’

‘Because I’m bloody tired. Do you think it’s a good idea to go so hard the first day?’

‘We are still near the frontier, sahib. There are people who could see us and tell the police.’

‘I haven’t seen any all day.’

‘Maybe they see us,’ the boy said, still grinning but shaking his head obstinately. ‘No sense in getting sent back now, sahib.’

‘All right,’ Houston said. There wasn’t much sense in it. He wished the boy would take the grin off his face all the same. He was sick of his continuous cheer and the sight of the small muscular legs pedalling so tirelessly in front of him all day.

The few miles more took another three hours; it was eight o’clock, dark and chill, when they stopped for the night beside a small river. Houston practically fell off the bicycle. He sat sullenly on the turf, every bone in his body aching, while the boy went busily about his tasks. He fetched water for tea from the river, and boiled it on a small spirit stove. He opened a tin of meat and laid out the sleeping bags. He brought
more water in a collapsible rubber bucket and offered it to Houston.

‘You wash now, sahib. You’ll feel better.’

‘I couldn’t feel any worse.’

‘Tomorrow will be easier. We go slowly.’

‘Whereabouts are we?’

‘Thirty miles across the border. Well into Sikkim. It’s been a good day, sahib. Tomorrow we go into Nepal.’

Houston washed and ate and smoked a cigarette and presently did feel very much better. He got into his sleeping bag and looked up at the diamond bright stars and an extraordinary sense of well-being came over him. He smiled in the darkness, astonished at his achievement. Riding a bicycle, he had made measurable progress on the map of the Himalayas. When he closed his eyes he could see every mile of it, the great green valley that they had gone down and up; the rivers; the tiers of rolling hills they had pedalled so slowly across. A good day, the boy had said; not so bad for a man who was in no condition for this sort of thing.

He had a conviction at that moment that he was going to manage it, and breathed deeply of the sharp air, intoxicated with the vision of himself lying there in the enormous emptiness of the hills with the universe swinging all around, and of the further, mysterious places he could reach by going on like this, spending himself a little bit at a time.