A House Called Askival Read Free

again to his father’s rule, which was even stricter. All things weighed up, though, the greatest benefit of being out of boarding, was the food. After the stolid fare of the dorm, Aziz’ cooking was manna from heaven and James ate like one starved.
    On one Saturday in August 1942, James’ rapturous eating was shared by his best friend, Paul Verghese. The boys were both ten, skinny and worm-riddled, their hair cut brutally short, knees rough as cheese rind. They polished off Aziz’ masala dosas like a pair of locusts, while Leota clucked at James over his belching and his elbows that were either resting on the table or poking out at right angles. Verghese seemed able to keep his neatly by his side, and did not get sauce all over his face. Matters only worsened for James when the mangoes were served. There was, in his opinion and experience, no decorous way of eating a mango; in fact, any effort to do so spoiled the pleasure. On this rare point, he and his father were agreed, and because of it, Leota turned a blind eye.
    But Verghese proved them all wrong. While James sucked and slurped – an orange aureole widening around his mouth – Verghese made a series of cuts across his mango till it resembled one of the wooden Chinese puzzles sold in the bazaar. He then drew out the pieces, one ata time, and ate the plump flesh with such precision and delicacy that he was left with no more damage than glistening finger-tips and a sheen on his lips.
    â€˜May I lick, Aunty,’ he asked Leota, lifting his hands to her.
    â€˜Why, sure you can, hon,’ she chuckled. ‘James here is slobbering all the way down to his elbows, so why not you.’
    Verghese slipped each fingertip into his mouth, then licked his lips with a flicker.
    â€˜Where’d you learn to cut a mango like that, anyway?’ she went on. ‘Ammachi teach you?’
    He nodded, his brown eyes huge and luminous in his solemn face.
    â€˜Well you’re gonna have to teach me. That was real special.’ Leota grinned and rubbed his bony shoulder. ‘Now, you boys go wash and give those mango stones to your beetles.’
    â€˜Hooray!’ cried James as their faces lit up and Verghese clapped his hands.
    Beetle collecting was the foremost passion for Oaklands boys, ignited in one’s first weeks in the dorm when older lads paraded their trophies, then fanned by the thrill of catching one’s first – ideally in lower kindergarten – then pursued with religious fervour throughout elementary and on into the early years of high school. After age fourteen or so there was only a faithful remnant that carried on, while everyone else gradually converted to the more virile hunting of wild game (if you were lucky enough to have a gun) or, more commonly – but arguably with greater danger – the opposite sex.
    For devotees, monsoon was the high point in the beetle calendar, and for those who had eyes to see, the creatures were everywhere. Just the night before at dusk, James and Verghese had slipped quietly along the chakkar road from Askival with bamboo poles in their hands and milk powder tins clinking in James’ pack. The road that curved through the dark forest on the north side of the mountain was ghostly with mist. It led to the graveyard and was haunted with stories of headless riders and women in white. The boys giggled nervously, skin prickling as they crept towards a lamppost, the bulb a floating blur in the cloud. They couldhear the humming of the beetles and saw throngs of them massed on the metal shade and flying around the light in a wildness. The boys lifted their poles and on a whispered one, two, three from James, brought them down in a mighty whacking on the lamppost, shrieking and laughing. A cloud of beetles buzzed about the light in panic while others landed on the ground at the boys’ feet. James snapped on his torch and crowed at the sight of dozens of helpless creatures on