Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
through
the tiles. It was a small snake, which, after I'd drowned it in
Flit, I learned was deadly poisonous. Yes, a palace was exactly what
I needed.
'My father owned one thousand horses and three hundred
elephant,' the rajkumar told me.
He kept adding these tidbits, whetting my appetite for life at the
palace. Returning there himself, finally, he gave me his address and
phone number - Venkatagiri 1 - urging me to call whenever I liked.
It was now nearly summer, and the sun had once more turned the
brilliant blue sky to a burning mist of pale gold dust. The heat
effectively halted the working day by 10:00 a.m. Along with everyone
else, I'd been rising at four, often delivering a lecture at five, when it
was still pitch-dark outside, having lunch at eight, then spending a
delirious day splayed beneath a ceiling fan that turned precisely three
and a half times per minute, when the current was available.
When the shade on my veranda finally registered 123 degrees
Fahrenheit, I decided to call Venkatagiri 1. This took three hours in
the swarming, sweltering post office and provided me with a line
about as clear as you get from two tin cans joined by a length of
string. I think it was the rajkumar that I eventually spoke to, and I
think he understood I intended to visit him, but I wasn't certain.
The morning I was due to leave, my septic tank overflowed. With
the incredible heat, the smell was sumptuous and overpowering. I
pointed out the problem to Bogan, the alcoholic old crook allegedly
in charge of the bungalow and its other seven helpers. He seemed
horrified that I would suggest
he
could involve himself with such an
unclean task. While packing, I heard his raucous, rasping voice adopt
the tone it employed when dealing with those he considered inferiors.
Then there was a shout and a mighty splash. Going out to investigate,
I found two dark, skinny men up to their naked chests in the reeking
tank, cheerfully shovelling its indescribable contents into wicker
baskets, then leaping out in dripping pyjama-striped shorts, hoisting
the dribbling baskets onto their heads, and bearing them off
somewhere. They soon returned and plunged back into the pit with
cries pitched somewhere between sheer delight and utter horror.
Bogan watched from a safe distance.
'Sweeper mans,' he informed me, indicating the sanitary experts.
