The Truth (22 page)

‘And no one knows it was you?’

Melville shrugged and smiled.

‘Only those who need to know.’

‘But it was your idea?’

‘It was Gandhi’s idea originally. We just brought it up to date.’

Mabbut and Melville had met at Kindara Junction, Mabbut brought by Kumar and Melville by Kinesh. There had been emotional reunions followed by equally emotional leave-takings. Melville hugged the boys like some demented grandfather and even Mabbut was given a warm embrace by Kumar as they climbed aboard.

As the train pulled out of a long curve and began to gather speed, a rush of cool air flung Melville’s thatch of grey hair this way and that, making him look like Moses about to part the Red Sea. He handed the flask to Mabbut.

‘Try it.’

Mabbut grimaced as he took a sip. ‘Not bad.’

‘Amrut whisky. Distilled in Bangalore. You can get it in New York now.’

He laughed.

‘It will help you sleep. And believe me, on this train you’ll need all the help you can get.’

Mabbut took another sip and handed the flask back to Melville. There were so many questions he wanted to ask.

‘All those people you organised. Tribes that don’t even engage with each other, let alone the rest of the world . . .’

‘Look, Kumar is a Masira. His family came from the hills. They used to chop wood and walk ten Ks to sell it for charcoal. They’d never seen a white man till the missionaries arrived. He was brought
up at the bottom of the food chain. Well, tell me, you’ve spent time with him, is there anything you can do that he can’t? Given the right opportunities, those who want to can achieve anything.’

The train was racing now, swinging alarmingly. From somewhere beneath them sparks flew off into the night. Melville pushed up the window until it was merely ajar.

‘So they do
have
to change?’ asked Mabbut, grabbing at the door handle. ‘The Masira and the Gyara, and all the others who live in those hills. Even if it’s just to help them fight change?’

Melville took a long drink then paused for a moment’s appreciation.

‘Put it this way. It’s not their fault that they live on top of all these resources, but they do, and those who want to get at the resources are never going to give up. Not while you and I need our phones and computers and cars and trains and aeroplanes. So, yes, they need to change, even if it’s only to become aware of what’s going on and find ways of dealing with it.’

‘That village Kumar showed me . . . Below the sacred hill.’

Melville nodded. ‘Nakya Marund.’

‘It was like a different world. A different pace of life. Completely different values from our own. I couldn’t say if the people were happy or unhappy, but they seemed to be content. They’ve lived with the forest for a thousand years, not, as far as I could see, oppressing anyone or destroying the planet. Shouldn’t we be learning something from them, rather than wanting to change them?’

‘Forgive me, Keith, but you sound like someone who’s just woken up from a very long sleep. I’ve been working in these places, with people like the Gyara, since I left the City. That’s thirty-five years ago now. And everywhere the problem is the same. The modern world is closing in, it’s inescapable and very hard to resist. Now, in Kumar’s case – that’s not his real name, of course.’

‘No?’

Melville shook his head. He’s been in quite a lot of trouble. A bit of a hothead until I got hold of him. But in Kumar’s case the missionaries got to his village before the bulldozers did, so – now they have more options. The people you saw living below the hill don’t have to say their Hail Marys or live with trucks rolling by on a
brand-new road but they have very few other options. If some minister in Delhi allows Astramex to strip-mine there’s not a great deal they can do about it. They can either move out to government accommodation or wake one morning to the sound of men shouting, trees falling, children yelling and bulldozers tearing their sacred hill to pieces.’

Mabbut opened his mouth but Melville raised a hand.

‘Don’t say it. It’s obscene. Everyone who comes here, everyone who hears about it for the first time, says it’s obscene. Unfortunately that doesn’t help the Gyara. They don’t have a word for obscene. Nor do they have a blog or a Facebook page. If the worst comes to the worst they will simply have to do as they’re told. They are powerless.’

He handed the flask to Mabbut, who held it, without drinking.

‘I thought that was why you were here. To save people like that.’

Keith, you’re the same as everyone who “cares” about these things. You go from indignation to despair in one bound. There
is
a way to help the powerless, and that is give them power. That’s what we do. That’s what last night was all about. Astramex has huge resources, massive funds, and an international PR machine. What they don’t have is the culture of the hill tribes. They’ve forgotten that the ancestors of these people have fought against bastards like them many times before. They fought off the British Raj, and they fought off the Indian rajahs. Independence is in their genes.’

Mabbut was thrown forward as the train gave a violent lurch. The lights went off and came on again. Melville hardly seemed to notice.

‘So, that’s the first thing we can use to our advantage. The Gyara and the Masira may not want to live together but neither wants anyone else moving into these hills. That’s a force we can use, something my guys, people like Kinesh and Mahesh, instinctively understand and can use to mobilise people. The other thing to remember is that to survive the way they have done, the
adivasi
have had to be resourceful. These are not stupid people. Like Kumar, they learn fast. This gives them the advantage of surprise when dealing with people who dismiss them because they didn’t go to college. So let outsiders think they’re stupid. We can use that too.’

The train braked sharply, shuddering as wheels ground against
rail. Mabbut lost his balance again and found himself clinging to his companion.

‘D’you think they can still win?’ Mabbut asked, recovering his balance.

‘In this scenario nobody wins. But I think there’s a real chance they could limit the damage. And a real chance that their land might be saved. And don’t forget, one success gives heart to a hell of a lot of people. The ripple effect. But do I think they can live cut off from the modern world? Sad to say, Keith, I don’t.’

The train had come to a halt. Mabbut could see a red light and the hear the hum of the engines up ahead. Melville straightened up, stretching his arms above his head until they touched the roof of the carriage. He yawned mightily, and shook his head from side to side. For some reason Mabbut was reminded of a lion after a kill.

‘And now, I think, time for bed.’

Mabbut wasn’t tired. There was too much going through his mind. India. The children in the threatened village. The girls who had stared at him. Kumar’s father singing. The fires in the forest, the dogs, the goons in their SUVs. He hadn’t expected it all to affect him quite as much. His reflections were interrupted by a shout from the track. The signal changed to amber and the train began to move arthritically. As it gathered pace, the squeaking and squealing resolved themselves into a series of soothing rhythmic clicks. Lowering the window, Mabbut could see that they were crossing a bridge. Below them a broad river shone brightly in the moonlight.

He was elated that he’d found Melville, and was aware that he had enjoyed extraordinarily privileged access, but the journalist in him recognised that he still needed to find out more about the man. About his future plans. About his supporters and his seemingly unlimited funds. About his ability to move so swiftly and silently across the world. As the train clattered on through the night he realised that if the fine details about his subject were still opaque one thing was clear and unequivocal. What he’d seen in the Masoka Hills had aroused an indignation that Mabbut thought he’d grown out of long ago. The hack work he’d been involved in recently had made him immune to shock or surprise. He’d fallen for the spirit of consensus. Well, this was his chance to retrieve some of the anger
that had once motivated him. Whatever Melville’s decision about the book, Mabbut felt it was his duty to record everything he’d seen. He took out his notebook, balanced himself against the door and began to scribble down as much as he could remember.

It was an hour or more before he at last made his way to bed. On the bunk below him Hamish Melville was spread out, the heavy, dark grey railway blanket barely covering half of his long, rangy body. He was fast asleep.

By the morning, the train was over an hour behind schedule, and the passengers, many of them families with young children, having washed, tidied away their bedding and drunk tea from the urn that passed for on-board catering, seemed resigned to another day that wasn’t going to plan.

Melville had risen early. He’d managed to find the only food on the train, two packets of salty biscuits, one of which he’d lobbed up to Mabbut’s bunk, before retreating to the end of the carriage ‘to make some calls’. Mabbut had got used to this pattern: the convivial companion by night, the man of action in the morning. He would just have to be patient and hope that they’d have a few more nights together before he had to leave India.

It was only when he and Melville were in the neutral territory of a crowded Bhubaneswar station that Mabbut realised he was going to have to be the one to raise the question of their meeting again.

‘Will you be going back to the Farhan?’ he asked, as they marched in step up the long platform.

Melville threw Mabbut a sideways look.

‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

It was now or never.

‘That’s up to you. I feel privileged to have seen what I’ve seen. I’ve enough material to write a book about you, though I’d never make a move without your say-so. And yes, if I’m honest, I think it could be a great book. Especially if you wouldn’t mind talking to me again.’

Melville said nothing. He was looking ahead, scanning the crowd at the end of the platform.

Finally he turned to Mabbut.

‘Look, I’ve some people to see. Why don’t we meet for dinner? Then you can ask me whatever you like.’

Mabbut restrained an urge to hug the man.

‘Seven thirty at the Pearl Room? Everyone knows it.’

They shook hands.

‘See you then.’

Mabbut thought he saw an arm raised somewhere ahead of them and Melville moved, surprisingly nimbly, past the oncoming crowd and disappeared through a side door into the shimmering sunshine.

Mabbut had called ahead from the train and re-established contact with Farud, who sounded immensely relieved, having last seen his client in a village run by the Maoists. He had booked Mabbut back into the Garden Hotel, and here Mabbut ordered a late breakfast, took a long shower and a leisurely shave, bundled up his filthy clothes and sent them to the hotel laundry. Slowly, during the course of a long and lazy afternoon, he reoriented himself to the world he’d left behind the day he took the decision to visit the Hotel Farhan. He talked to Jay, left messages for Sam and Krystyna and promised to accompany Farud to a half-dozen ‘unmissable’ temples over the next few days. It was with a distinct hint of smugness that he picked up the phone to Ron Latham. Without giving away everything that had happened, he could sense that Latham was just the tiniest bit impressed. The initiative was no longer just with Urgent Books.

Mabbut wrote up his notes, slept a little, and then, as if to complete his return to the modern world, he switched on CNN News. He was only half watching when his eye was caught by a ‘breaking news’ strapline rolling along the bottom of the screen. He didn’t catch it all the first time so had to wait for unemployment figures, bank profits, a small earthquake and a shock Test match result to roll by before it scrolled round again. But there it was, large as life, in one side, out the other: ‘Kowprah Sit-In: Judge puts restraining order on bauxite mine’.

Selecting a crisp, clean shirt from those newly hung in his wardrobe, Mabbut dressed, slipped a voice recorder into his trouser pocket, and, checking the clock one last time, made his way to the lift and down to reception.

‘The Pearl Room?’

A slim, immaculately dressed young man looked up from his screen.

‘Good choice, sir. Shall I make a reservation?’

Mabbut smiled politely.

‘It’s all right. I’m expected.’

TEN

‘I
’m so sorry, Mr Mabbut, but Mr Melville has had to fly to Delhi. He sends you his apologies.’

Even as he’d approached the restaurant something hadn’t felt quite right. For a start the Pearl Room looked to be the sort of place from which Melville would normally run a mile. It was glamorous and high profile, part of a luxury hotel chain. There had been elaborate security checks of his taxi’s engine and interior even before they’d reached the entrance. Ahead of him, a large white Mercedes had disgorged a group of silk-clad, sari-swirling women who had chattered their way through a door held open for them by a tall, dignified Sikh complete with turban and waxed moustache. This was corporate India. Jackets and ties were in evidence. Mabbut was shown to a table for two where a homely, attractive, slightly plump Malaysian lady greeted him warmly.