The Mountain Shadow

‘With unadulterated pleasure,’ he smiled, sad for what she’d been through, but glad that she was up and out again. ‘To the psychic resuscitation it is.’

‘And not a death certificate too soon,’ Naveen added.

I looked at the Indian–Irish detective, who was talking to Randall while he prepared the car, and wondered what thoughts roamed his mind: for three weeks, Randall had been dating the woman Naveen loved. I liked Randall, and I liked Naveen, almost as much as they seemed to like each other. Naveen hugged Randall, and Randall hugged Naveen. It looked genuine, and it was confusing: if things got ugly, I wouldn’t know which one to hit.

‘I’ll leave my bike, and ride with Randall,’ Naveen said, as Karla and I saddled up the bike.

We rode between satin banners of traffic to the Colaban hive of ancient housing, near Sassoon Dock. The night smell of dead and dying sea things followed us past the dock, and lingered to the colony of verandas where Dennis reposed.

There was a crowd on the street. Huge buses on the regular route ploughed fields of penitents, who moved aside in waves of heads and shoulders to let the metal whales swim through.

We worked our way to a place near the front with a view of the veranda where Dennis, it was expected, would emerge from his long self-induced coma.

People were holding candles and oil lamps. Some were holding bunches of incense. Others were chanting.

Dennis appeared, standing in the doorway of his rooms. He looked at the wide veranda for a moment as if it was a red-tiled river, and then looked up at the crowd of supplicants gathered on the street a few steps below.

‘Hello, all and everyone, here and there,’ he said. ‘It is quiet in death. I have been there, and I can tell you that it is very quiet, unless someone kills your high.’

People shouted and cheered, calling out names for the Divine. Dennis took tentative steps. The crowd screamed and chanted. He walked across the balcony, down the steps, onto the road, and then collapsed in the centre of the crowd.

‘Now, this is entertainment,’ Karla said.

‘You figure?’ I asked, watching believers rain tears on Dennis, who was horizontal again.

‘Oh, he’ll get up again,’ Karla replied, leaning against me. ‘I think the show only just started.’

Dennis sat up suddenly, scattering the crowd awaiting his blessing.

‘I have it,’ he said. ‘I know what I must do.’

‘What is it?’ several voices asked.

‘The dead,’ Dennis said, his deep voice clear in the hush. ‘I must serve them. They, too, need ministry.’

‘The dead, Dennis?’ someone asked.

‘Exclusively the dead,’ he replied.

‘But how to serve them?’ another voice asked.

‘First of all,’ Dennis appealed to them, ‘do you think I could smoke a very strong chillum? Being alive again is killing my high. Will someone prepare a chillum, please?’

Dozens attended to that, making the task more complex than required, until Billy Bhasu finally squatted beside the stricken monk of sleeping, and offered him a chillum.

Dennis smoked. People prayed. Someone rang temple bells. Someone else clanged finger cymbals, while a faint voice recited Sanskrit mantras.

‘This guy is a movie,’ Karla said.

She cocked her head over my shoulder to look at Randall, half a pace behind us.

‘Are you clocking this, Randall?’

‘Quite a spectacle, Miss Karla,’ Randall said. ‘Spontaneous canonisation.’

‘You’ve got to give it to Dennis,’ Naveen added. ‘He’s his own universe.’

Dennis struggled to his feet. A palanquin arrived, borne by sturdy young men threading their way through the crowd with shouts and grunts. It was the same bier that carried the dead to the burning ghats, but it had been modified to accommodate a chair, covered with silver imitation leather.

The young men put the palanquin on the ground, helped Dennis into the chair, then raised it to their shoulders and carried Dennis away on their long march to the Gateway of India monument.

Dennis smiled benevolently, blessing upturned faces with the chillum in his hand.

‘I love this guy,’ Karla said. ‘Let’s follow the parade.’

We rode beside and around the procession, winding through leafy streets to the Gateway monument. The crowd of people grew, as drummers and dancers and trumpet players left their homes to join the march. By the end of the procession there were more people who had no idea what it was all about than people who started the parade.

And by the time we rode to a vantage point, Dennis was in the centre of a frenzy that welcomed him home, whether they knew it or not, from years of silent penance.

A hundred metres away in the chambers of the Taj Mahal hotel, men who ruled the Overworld were networking: a pro-business government had been selected by them, and elected by the poor, and successful men were throwing nets into a new sea of commercial corruption.