PUFFIN BOOKS

FACES IN THE WATER Ranjit Lal has written fiction and non-fiction for both adults and children. His most recent books for Puffin were The Caterpillar Who Went on a Diet and Other Stories, When Banshee Kissed Bimbo and Other Bird Stories and The Battle for No. 19.

RANJIT LAL

PUFFIN BOOKS USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Puffin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com Published by Penguin Random House India Pvt. Ltd 4th Floor, Capital Tower 1, MG Road, Gurugram 122 002, Haryana, India

First published in Puffin by Penguin Books India 2010 Copyright © Ranjit Lal 2010 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 ISBN 9780143331063 Typeset in Sabon by Eleven Arts, New Delhi Printed at Repro India Limited

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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This book is for Meena and Mala—naturally!

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There are two things my family is very proud of. The first is the fact that only boys have been born in our family for generations—they say no one can really remember when a girl was born the last time. The second thing is that we all keep tip-top fit—again, no one can remember when anyone in the family fell sick—we don’t even have a family doctor. Of course people in the family do die (my dadi was the last)—but they’re usually about 102 by then and simply fall down and die one day or fail to wake up. No long, lingering illnesses and stuff like that. Actually this can be quite a pain if you’ll excuse the use of the word—I mean I haven’t been able to take a single day off from school for being sick and so far haven’t had any of those exotic diseases like chickenpox or mumps. This good health thing is thanks to the water we drink— it’s from a special well in the family’s huge ancestral farm. I’ve been drinking this water since the day I was born, and we get it delivered in big containers to our home in Delhi every week. The well is very deep, and it is thought that exotic health-giving minerals leach into the water turning it into a sort of elixir. Actually the farm isn’t all that far away—it takes about an hour and twenty minutes to drive

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there (and it takes forty-five minutes to reach school from home) and is located at the base of the Aravalli Mountains, which they say are the oldest in the world. My father and my two uncles—his brothers—aren’t farmers or anything like that; they’re businessmen and have a huge factory that makes all kinds of small, powerful electric motors, both AC and DC, many of which are used in toys like remotecontrolled cars, SUVs and robots. Actually it’s great because my father often imports fleets of these cars from places like Japan, China and Korea and rips out their motors and replaces them with those of Hanuman Motors—and then gives them to me and my cousins to test to destruction. (Of course it would have been even better if he didn’t have such a lousy temper and shout at us when we do smash up the cars.) My great-grandfather, however, was a farmer as were the guys before him. But the farm has been with the family for aeons and there has never been any plan to sell it thanks to the water in its well. As my father puts it, even local hooch tastes like a twenty-four-year-old single malt Scotch when mixed with it. He should know; he drinks quite a lot of the stuff—and I collect the bottles. Strangely, I never went—or was taken—to the farm and our ancestral house (simply called the ‘Badi Kothi’) until I was fifteen. Actually even Mama and Papa rarely visited the farm, and if they did go there it was only for an hour or so. And now I think I know why. Not that I missed it or anything, what with school, cricket, computers and hanging around the malls and multiplexes, who had the time; and anyway, what would one do out there? Stare at the sky? As Mama said, ‘It’s not all that far away, but it seems so remote—like it is in the middle of nowhere.’ Actually I have been to the farm at least once, not that I remember anything about that visit. You see like my

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grandfather and father, and uncles and cousins, I was actually born there, which I guess is another reason why it’s never going to be sold—that’s yet another tradition of the great Diwanchand family. But why not born at a hospital, like other kids, you might ask. Well, I don’t know about the other members of the family (my father and uncles I mean), but I was brought into the world by Surinder aunty—Balvinder uncle’s (my father’s elder brother’s) wife—who is a qualified gynaecologist, specialized in bringing babies into the world. She looks like a warthog with a painted face, what with her orange hair and small black eyes, and can be as dangerous and unpleasant. (It’s amazing when you morph her face with that of a warthog on the computer: how naturally they merge into one another!) She’s got this wheedling voice, as annoying as a dentist’s drill, and will have her way at all costs. My mother said she had set up an entire operating theatre in one of the rooms of the house, and that’s where I was born, as were my cousins, Arnav, Varun and Donny. Oh yes, I’m a single child, no brothers (yet) or sisters (god forbid—never!). I’m nuts about computers, not only games and stuff but more about fooling about with images—for example, giving people faces I think they ought to have (like the warthog mentioned above), though this can get you into trouble if you’re careless. And of course, I’m also into making and testing to destruction radio-controlled models, especially of planes and SUVs. One morning, shortly after the summer holidays had begun, my mother just informed me cool as you please, ‘Gurmeet, you’ll be spending the summer at the farm this year. You know the house here has to be renovated. Papa is, as always, busy and will be travelling a lot, and I’ll have to oversee the renovation work here. You’ll stay at

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the farm, with Rama and Negi. It’ll be nice for you.’ I could see by her face that there was no arguing with her— she’d probably been snapped at by Papa again because she had that sourpuss bitter expression on her face, which she exuded pretty much most of the time. My mother looks a bit like a large, round, soft cushion which was probably why she was always being sat upon by both Papa andSurinder aunty all the time. Some people say she had a sweet cherubic face, and she does look very pretty in her wedding photos. My father is pretty hefty and bristly, six feet three inches tall and built like a heavyweight boxer, with a flattened pakora nose and a snarling temper. So it is pretty sensible to stay out of his way when he’s in a mood to snap and bite, which is pretty much most of the time. (His bite is certainly worse than his bark.) So, I was to spend the summer at the farm. Sure, I thought shrugging sarcastically, it would be so nice to spend something like three months in the back of beyond; I’d probably be bored to death in three hours flat. I mean what does one do at such a godforsaken place? And that too with only Rama and Negi for company! Rama was the maid my mother had employed to look after me—do the bed, wash and iron my clothes, be a nuisance really— and she tended to follow me around everywhere I went (sometimes with a glass of milk and two Marie biscuits, I tell you), nagging shrilly, which could be extremely uncool when you went to meet your friends. She had been with the family for as long as I remember. She was fat and waddled, and sounded like a duck, so it wasn’t too difficult to outpace her. Negi was the dogsbody who usually droveme around and also kept me company pretty much all of the time, like a bodyguard or something. But he could be useful for sending on errands and summoning up enough

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of the staff for a game of cricket, when my friends weren’t around. Best of all we had an understanding: as long as I didn’t tell Papa about his habit with the hooch bottle and gutka pouches, he mostly let me do what I wanted. I decided I’d take my remote-controlled Spitfire along; it needed some repairs after a recent crash-landing, so I could work on it and test-fly it; and my two current favourite SUVs—a Humvee and VW Touareg, recently equipped with the most powerful motors to come out of Hanuman Electric Motors Pvt. Ltd. Well, we drove out to the farm—and by the time we reached I was, I admit, a little curious and excited. We’d left the main highway and driven along a narrow country road and suddenly there was this high stone wall, like that of a mini-fortress right in front of us. There was a black iron gate punched in the wall, through which we drove and up the long driveway, shrouded with huge trees. And there on a slight hillock, surrounded by trees, stood the old stone mansion, like some ancient hulking mausoleum built of iron-coloured rocks, with creepers crawling up the walls and deep verandas running all around it. ‘My god, that’s the house?’ I said incredulously. ‘It looks like a holiday resort for Dracula.’ Mama sniffed sharply. ‘Don’t be disrespectful. This is the house where you, your father and grandfather were born.’ At the door, about eight servants, or rather farm hands, stood at attention to welcome us. Satvinder, the caretakercum-manager, was a small hunched fellow with a couple of yellow crooked teeth sticking out of his mouth and rheumy yellowish eyes; he looked like a hunched hobgoblin about a hundred years old. But he had been running the place tip-top for donkey’s years.

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‘So where’s the magic well?’ I asked my mother, looking around as we sipped the ice-cold nimbu paani that was promptly offered. The house was built around an open courtyard and had a broad wooden-floored veranda running around it on both the floors. You entered a lobby, there were doors leading off on either side, and straight ahead was a broad wooden staircase leading upstairs. Just ahead of the stairs were the doors leading to the open courtyard. I moved towards the courtyard and looked out hopefully ‘Is the magic well in the courtyard?’ I asked again. ‘No! And wherever it is, you’re not to go there,’ my mother said sharply. ‘I don’t want you falling in. You’re to keep away from it, understand?’ Parents are so stupid sometimes. Naturally that became number one on my agenda of things to do. My mother rounded up all the staff and told them that I’d be staying here for a while and to keep an eye on me—and, of course, that I was not allowed to go anywhere near the well. ‘But why not?’ I asked stubbornly. ‘Is it uncovered or something?’ ‘No, it has a grille on top, but yes that may be rusted. So you’re not to go there. Understand? I don’t want you falling in; it is very deep. I have enough to do as it is.’ ‘Yes, Ma,’ I said quietly, and really any parent ought to have heard warning sirens screaming deafeningly in their heads. I mean . . . ‘So where do I sleep?’ I asked. ‘Upstairs,’ she said. ‘The bedrooms are upstairs. Negi and Rama will show you.’ I followed them up. The house had a very simple, square plan really, and reminded me of a hotel. There was a

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corridor running all around the inner perimeter. On one side of the corridor were the bedrooms—nine of them altogether, three each in a row on three sides; the fourth side was an open living area with sofas, chairs and tables, which looked horribly like dead people, draped as they were with dust covers. The corridor overlooked the courtyard. I peered down through the windows, but there was no sign of a well in the courtyard, though there was a lily pond with huge round lily pads and pink blooms. Our bedrooms were along the ‘Left Wing’; the bedrooms on the ‘Right Wing’ and ‘Rear Wing’ belonged to my two uncles and their families. From the bedroom given to me I got a good view of the big lawn down below and of course the huge brooding trees that surrounded the place. The veranda that ran around the outside of the house was deep and dim and allowed in a mossy green light, making the bedrooms quite dim and cool. You could make loud thumping noises if you goose-stepped on the wooden floor and there were sections which creaked in a way which could give you goose pimples. The ceilings were about three storeys high. We had lunch in the huge, gloomy dining room downstairs and then my mother huffed up the stairs for a rest. But before she lay down, she looked at me and said, ‘Come on, let me show you the room where you were born . . .’ The room was on the floor above. It was what you might call an attic room, complete with a low slanting roof. We climbed up the narrow wooden and, yes, creaky stairs which led to a small hall that looked like a small waiting area, what with its chairs arranged on either side. At the end of this was a door. From her bunch of keys my mother picked one and unlocked the door. A current of damp, musty air, with the unmistakable hint of spirit and

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disinfectant, wafted out of the door. When I touched my forehead I was surprised to find it clammy and cold, and beaded with moisture as if I had been sweating. The room, built directly above the ‘Front Wing’, was long and dim, with heavy curtains drawn across the windows. At one end was a big hospital-type bed, neatly made up but empty of course. There were a couple of large steel cupboards, a chest of drawers and again a hospital-style bed-table, all painted white. But what caught my eye was the console-like multiple plug points behind the bed, you know like they have in hospitals where they rig up monitoring equipment. That and the operating theatre-type lights that hunched somewhat malevolently over the bed and the stands from which they hang glucose bottles. My mother smiled. ‘So, Gurmi, this is the room where you were born. And hopefully some day, this is the room where your son will be born.’ ‘Were Arnav, Varun and Donny also born here?’ I asked. ‘And do those lights work?’ ‘Yes, they were,’ she said still smiling. ‘I tell you, it was quite a race between you and Donny; you beat him by a few days. Varsha aunty and I were both camped here for weeks.’ There was something sad about her smile as she said this. ‘Who fetches water from the well?’ I asked her later that evening, looking at a glass of the clear sparkling elixir (for that’s what it was surely) and holding it up against the light. ‘Eh?’ She looked at me suspiciously. ‘No one,’ she said. ‘We’ve installed a pump and pipes. It is piped directly to the house.’ ‘And it’s not boiled or filtered or anything? We just drink it straight from the tap?’

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‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Now I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. You should be all right here with Rama and Negi; you’ve got your television and your computer games. I’ve told Satvinder to keep the generator running whenever the electricity goes off, so you’ll be comfortable. There’s one more thing: you are not to roam around after dark without informing Negi or Satvinder.’ ‘Why?’ I asked pointblank and a little irritated. For god’s sake this was my house and the farm had this high fortresslike wall running around it, topped off with razor wire and glass. ‘Because that’s when the dogs are let loose,’ my mother said. ‘Dogs?’ ‘Rottweilers.’ ‘I didn’t see or hear any dogs . . .’ ‘They’re in the kennels at the back. That’s where they stay during the day. They roam free at night. That’s why you must inform Satvinder if you want to go for a walk after dark. He’ll call them in.’ ‘How many are there?’ ‘I don’t know—maybe six.’ ‘We have a pack of six Rottweilers guarding this place? Wow! But what’s here to steal?’ Suddenly I knew. Of course there was something here to steal: water from the magic well! Perhaps the rumor had got around that it was an elixir; perhaps there were people out there who wanted to get their hands on it; some maybe to heal their own sick near and dear ones, others to bottle it and sell it for profit. Man, things were actually getting interesting here, and now I’d simply have to find that well. My mother went on talking, not bothering to know whether I was actually listening to her.

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Fiction

Cover illustration by Somesh Kumar Cover calligraphy and design by Aparajita Ninan

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