The Magic of Hobson Jobson Read online

  ‘Hobson-Jobson rolls around every year, along with these scruffy soothsayers and their mangy parrots,’ Papa said, rubbing Ma’s back. Her hair had come undone and spilled over her back. The sprig of jasmine flowers lay on the floor.

  Ma, now recovered, gave them a fierce look, abruptly ending the merriment. ‘Obviously all of you think I’m mad to even worry about this sort of thing,’ she said.

  Floyd felt a slow burn rising in his chest. How could he convince Ma not to worry?

  He forced himself to stare into Jaadu’s eyes. He would confront this liar. Yes, he would end Ma’s fears.

  Floyd turned to Jaadu. ‘Read our cards,’ he commanded, his pulse racing. Papa’s eyebrows flew up.

  ‘No—’ Ma gasped, her brown, fish-shaped eyes wide.

  ‘I’m not unlucky.’ Floyd tried to convince, straightening his shoulders. Oh yes, you are, a small voice inside him said. Remember Raoul Shah? The quiz star who was struck with measles a day before the inter-school competition, causing their school to fall to fourth place. Raoul had had all his immunizations too. He’d met Floyd the day before. And what about that time when Aryaa, the school’s star gymnast, broke her arm on a field trip when she was paired up with Floyd, right before the Commonwealth Island Games-Junior (CIG-J)? Bad things kept happening to people around him. It was a miracle no one had noticed. Except for Ma, that is. Every such event had been followed by a meeting with an astrologer, a faith healer or a clairvoyant, all of whom had looked at him gravely and pronounced that he was indeed the unluckiest boy who lived in Durjipore.

  Papa put his hand on Ma’s arm and nodded. ‘If Floyd wishes,’ he said, breaking Floyd out of his reverie.

  ‘Ah, the pied-eyes-wala sahib is not afraid,’ Jaadu said. He pulled out a pack of dusty pink and gold cards from his sleeve, shuffled them rapidly and laid them on a rickety table.

  In spite of himself, Floyd felt a thrill pass through him.

  ‘Twenty-seven cards, each one a prophet.’ Jaadu emphasized each syllable. ‘Hira will now choose one.’

  Hira clawed its cage open and fluttered up, perching on Jaadu’s forearm. ‘Grand Hira, your instrument, Jaadu requests you to read the cards,’ said Jaadu with a flourish of his hand.

  Floyd held his breath. The parrot waddled over to the deck, plucked a card with its bright orange beak, then clambered over to Papa’s feet and screeched. Floyd smiled. This would be interesting.

  Jaadu’s face broke into a smile as he examined the card. ‘Most auspicious, Inspector Sahib. You will receive a big, a very important promotion.’

  Papa shook his head. ‘That’s deputy inspector, and not only am I not up for promotion, Mister Jaadu, I’m at risk for a demotion.’ His voice had gone soft, as if he were trying not to choke on his own words. ‘If this glorified pigeon can part the veils of time, pray, ask him why eighty-seven children from Durjipore have gone missing this past year?’

  ‘Regent, that’s completely out of line,’ Ma said, her delicate features contorted. Papa’s face was stony.

  Floyd shivered. For a moment, in this silly tent, they had all forgotten about the pressures of Papa’s job. The disappearing street children of Durjipore, who were being quietly snatched up by an invisible predator, had caused outrage amongst the public, and people were demanding answers.

  Every one of those children had had visions a month before their disappearance. Their friends, families and foster parents had all reported that the children had become fearful, even paranoid, and insisted they’d seen a shadowy woman in the waters around Durjipore.

  Floyd chewed on his lower lip as his thoughts whirled. Papa had no answers for the people of Durjipore, who felt let down by their police. Yet this astrologer had the cheek to claim he could see the past and the future with the help of nothing more than an oily deck of cards and a shrieking bird.

  The parrot then walked over to Floyd and flapped its wings. ‘This one,’ it screeched.

  ‘Bring the card to Jaadu, my precious petal,’ the soothsayer cooed, composing himself.

  The parrot quivered, dropped two cards at Jaadu’s feet and fluttered back into its cage. It tucked its head into its chest and cowered.

  ‘This is most astonishing, never seen … two cards chosen by Hira? Remarkable indeed. They say twins have special vibrations—no doubt their fates are intertwined.’ Jaadu turned the cards over and went silent.

  Floyd felt a chill pass over the back of his neck. Why, Jaadu was shaking like a candle flame. What was wrong with the man?

  ‘I wish to make something clear. It is Hira, not I, who has the sight. I … I only report what he tells me.’ The soothsayer’s voice was tremulous and he looked petrified.

  Ma gripped Papa’s hand, her knuckles pale. ‘Go on, Maharaj,’ she whispered.

  ‘Aiyyo,’ the soothsayer moaned as he viewed the cards. ‘Aiyyo, Hira. Jaadu never questions your wisdom, but this is most terrible.’ Jaadu’s eye began to twitch and a small puddle of spittle collected in the left corner of his mouth.

  Floyd looked at Papa, who mouthed, ‘It’s an act.’

  Was it? Jaadu seemed genuinely scared—but why?

  The parrot shrieked. Floyd’s hand flew to his mouth at the sight unfolding in front of him, as his stomach slowly bunched into a hard knot. Great Garuda, impossible!

  Jaadu rose into the air, jerking like a ghoulish puppet on invisible strings, the whites of his eyes showing like unearthly orbs. He now spoke in a very different voice, one that sounded as if he were at the other end of a long, empty tunnel.

  ‘A brother leaves …’

  Floyd felt his chest collapse. Jaadu’s outstretched arm pointed directly at him.

  2

  Hobson-Jobson

  Floyd felt like his feet had grown roots through the grimy carpet, into the ground beneath. How could this be possible? How could it? Jaadu floated phantasm-like, his bare, gnarled feet only inches away from their heads.

  ‘She comes. The empress of the seas,’ Jaadu snarled, the sleeve of his ragged orange tunic flapping. Out of the corner of his eye, Floyd could see Farook gnawing on a knuckle.

  ‘Stop it,’ Floyd yelled hoarsely. Jaadu didn’t appear to be listening, and continued in his hollow voice, ‘A flying beast carries him, the summoned one.’

  ‘Get down, you old scoundrel!’ Papa thundered.

  Ma covered her eyes with her hands and whimpered, her small frame shivering.

  ‘The summoned one must complete the tasks …’ The whites of Jaadu’s eyes glowed. ‘Forest and ocean in terrible conflict as the sun shrouds itself in black …’

  Floyd’s neck prickled. The parrot flapped its wings, sounding like wind rushing through a leafy tree.

  ‘A horrific sacrifice …’ Jaadu’s voice trailed off as he floated to the ground, his pupils sliding back into view.

  Ma gasped as Jaadu staggered, grabbing the central pole and making the tent see-saw.

  Jaadu stared at them, wild-eyed, clutching his hand to his chest. There was a moment of silence.

  Papa clapped his hands. ‘What a show. Very entertaining. Let’s go, boys! Come on, Maya,’ he said.

  ‘Hai, misery!’ Ma crumpled to the ground. Papa lunged forward, scooped her up in his arms and pushed through the tent. Farook bolted after them.

  Floyd threw a handful of copper tolas on the table and stepped outside, trying to push away the thought that scraped at him like sandpaper. This is all because of me. The night’s coolness slapped him softly. His bad luck again.

  Ma twisted her delicate fingers as Papa sat her down on a bench and hugged her.

  She broke away and wiped her sweaty forehead with her sari pallu. ‘Banu Auntie said this would happen … that he was—’

  ‘Oh yes, Banu’s infinite wisdom.’ Papa knitted his brows. ‘Really, Maya, the boys turned thirteen two months ago. Nothing’s happened. Durjipore’s still afloat.’

  Floyd exhaled for the hundredth time that night and silently prayed. Thank you, Garuda, great celestial bir
d, for giving me at least one rational family member.

  Papa pulled them all into an embrace. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to anyone. Okay?’ Papa’s shoulder studs were cold against Floyd’s face.

  Floyd gulped the soggy air. ‘Yes sir,’ he said, with a shaky mock salute. Papa grinned at him and saluted back. Floyd avoided Ma’s eyes.

  ‘Regent, what if—’ Ma wiped at her tears with her sari pallu.

  ‘What if nothing. That old mischief-maker uses every dusty Durjipore fairy tale he can to put on a good show. A battle between the earth and the sea? That poppycock flies about at every Hobson-Jobson.’ Papa’s mouth was a thin line now.

  ‘How did he fly?’ Farook asked.

  Papa hesitated only a moment. ‘These fellows will go to any lengths to separate you from your money. Can we go watch the festivities now? Please?’ He took Ma’s face in his hands and kissed her on each eye.

  Flickering diyas floated on the waterways that gave Durjipore its name—Venice of the East. Stringed lights twinkled among fragrant garlands of marigold, frangipani and jasmine. The catamarans unloaded giggling, costumed partygoers at the busy Twickenham Catamaran Stop. People had gone all out for their costumes this year and brought them from various parts of the world. A cowboy’s lasso tripped a hapless whirling dervish in flowing white robes, causing the dervish’s cylindrical Sekke hat to fall with a splash in a nearby waterway. Belly dancers performed the Dance of the Seven Veils nearby.

  How light-hearted everyone looked—not a care in the world, Floyd mused. The aroma of roasting naan would normally make his mouth water in an instant, but today the pit of his stomach felt like a cold pebble.

  ‘Regent and Maya Foxwallah! You do exist!’ A Zulu warrior waved his spear as he approached them, his costume jingling.

  ‘Alfie?’ Papa said. It was Alfie Pepperwallah, ‘Alfie Uncle’ to Floyd and Farook, head constable of the Durjipore police, dressed in feathers and body paint, holding a spear and shield.

  He winked at the boys. ‘Undercover costume,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper. Floyd looked at Farook, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. Nope. Not convincing.

  ‘A fennel beer is most definitely in order,’ Alfie ‘Zulu Warrior’ Uncle said. He nodded and called for a beer. A waiter, a giant-sized dragonfly, materialized with a pitcher.

  ‘Congratulations! Quite unexpected, eh?’ Alfie said. ‘And with the old bulldog gone, this will finally give us a chance to do things the way we want, right, Regent?’

  ‘Congratulations?’ Papa asked. ‘What on earth for?’ He took a sip of fennel beer.

  For some reason, Floyd felt an uncomfortable sensation along the nape of his neck.

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard? I’m the first to break the news?’ Constable Pepperwallah’s smile faded as he looked at all their serious faces. ‘Chief Tarapore has been transferred. The official word is special operations in Onyxpore, but …’ his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The rumours are that he just wasn’t the right man for the job. This whole kidnapping thing … nasty business … anyway, no matter. You’re the new police chief, Regent, for all of Durjipore.’ Alfie Uncle slapped Papa on his back. ‘You’ll be reporting to the big man himself.’ He was referring to Colonel Ravi Rana, the chief of the Commonwealth police, an ex-army man known for fixing things. But this situation was confounding even for him, and public hysteria was rising.

  Papa avoided everyone’s eyes and nodded his thanks, then took an exceptionally big swig of his fennel beer. Ma sank to a bench, her head in her hands. Papa lowered himself next to her and began talking in a low voice.

  Floyd’s spinning thoughts were interrupted by Farook’s whisper, ‘Please tell them, Floyd.’

  Floyd’s heart raced. He shook his head and looked away. Farook just didn’t get it!

  Farook shrugged again, went up to the bar and came back holding two glasses of mangosteen juleps. ‘Floyd, they need to know what’s happening to you.’

  ‘I’m fine, Farook. Stop it.’ Floyd sucked hard on his mangosteen julep.

  ‘I’ve heard you yelling in your sleep, you know.’

  ‘Just drop it Farook, please.’ Floyd felt a lump in his throat.

  ‘Okay, Floyd. But you know I’m your bestie. If you want to talk about it, ever …’ Farook’s voice trailed off.

  Floyd nodded, but he knew he would never be able to. How could he tell Farook about his nightmares? Nightmares in which Farook died …

  Sucking their sour mangosteen juleps, the twins edged into the crowds at Dalhousie Harbour, surrounded by the sprawling greens of Cubbon Park, the venue of the festival. On the edge of the water, a platform had been erected. Here, Rufus Jhaveri, the Nabob, or the Commonwealth Islands’ beloved prime minister, would officiate the holiday. All of Durjipore was thrilled he had chosen their island to kick off the celebrations. It was the first time in decades, apparently, that Durjipore had been chosen to be the officiating site. Some insisted it was to quell fears in the public about the kidnappings.

  For now, the platform had eight green-faced Kathakali dancers entertaining the gathering crowds. Even though they were male, they wore puffed skirts and ornate headdresses. Their mudras, combined with exaggerated eye movements, gave grace to the bulky costumes. Fire-eaters moved around them and drummers shook their heads as they slapped leather drum skins.

  ‘I’ll get us sea straw,’ Floyd said, as the turbaned vendor came around with bales of the island’s famous glowing seaweed that sprouted only for fourteen days of the year, during Hobson-Jobson. No one knew why, but there were many theories about it. The most popular one was that it was a gift from their magical protectors, the Ressuldars, to the people of Durjipore. Floyd smiled at the unlikely couple ahead of him buying a bale. They looked as if they had walked off the pages of his history book—an unamused Queen Victoria and a spry, smiling Mahatma Gandhi. Floyd fished out two tolas from his jeans pocket. The vendor, in a white tunic and a brilliant blue turban with a peacock feather plume, handed him two bundles of sea straw. People applauded as the straw was flung into the lagoon. It hissed and released its faint ghostly light as it hit the water.

  Suddenly the drums stopped and the dancers cleared the stage. A collective cheer went up from the jubilant crowd as the portly Nabob climbed on to the platform, his orange silk robes billowing, his gold turban see-sawing. The fire-eaters spat orange and red flames.

  The Nabob cleared his throat and spoke into a gold megaphone.

  ‘Greetings, all! Welcome, welcome. It’s Burra Din, the first day of the auspicious fortnight of Hobson-Jobson! A time of magic and wonder, when anything can happen.’

  The crowd cheered, whistling and throwing turbans and scarves into the air. Floyd shivered. Was it the magic of Hobson-Jobson that had caused the soothsayer to go into a trance?

  ‘Children, do you know why we celebrate Hobson-Jobson?’ The Nabob’s smile made his face look like a cracked pumpkin.

  ‘WHY?’ the audience screamed in unison. Floyd grinned at Farook. Every year, people willingly pretended as if they were hearing this story for the first time.

  ‘Generations live and die waiting to see their beloved legend come true. When the Merrows will finally be defeated and stop pulling the island of Durjipore down into the sea,’ the Nabob said, throwing a bale of seaweed into the water. It hissed and glowed green. ‘During one very special Hobson-Jobson, our protectors, the Ressuldars, will help a hero save Durjipore.’

  A cheer arose from the crowd. People followed the Nabob’s example and threw sea straw into the water that now glowed in patches.

  The Nabob continued, ‘For many years, our beautiful islands had two masters, India and England. They may stake their claim, but we belong to neither and retain our own unique culture and traditions.’

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘We celebrate our individuality every year. We will ALWAYS be our own people,’ the Nabob’s disembodied megaphone voice screeched.

  The crowd screamed in pleasure, as t
hey always did when any politician said such things. It confirmed what many felt—that they were different from the great, bustling country they now belonged to. India, it seemed, didn’t care about them. The islands were too small, too remote and too quaint to bother with. There was a comfortable distance between them and no one, at least for now, seemed to want a change.

  The Nabob bellowed, ‘Let the celebrations begin!’

  Now, as it happened every year, the immortal legend of Durjipore would be sung. The mythical story of the boy who would save Durjipore from destruction warmed everyone’s hearts each year, as they exchanged baskets of fruit and special sweetmeats and rang in the spring season.

  On the stage, six dancers in leafy green robes stood across from their theatrical nemeses, six men and women with scales in shimmering purple cloaks. It was time to enact the mythical battle between the forest-dwelling Ressuldars and the water-people, the Merrows. These were mythical ancient beings from the natural world, who had been living on the islands for ages before humans inhabited them. The Ressuldars were the guardians of the islands, and the Merrows, their foes. No one in Durjipore was quite sure what made the Ressuldars and the Merrows such bitter enemies. The most popular story was that the Merrows had stolen a precious treasure belonging to the Ressuldars. In revenge, the Ressuldars had banished the Merrows to a life under water. Since then the angry Merrows kept pulling the islands down into the sea until one day they would be completely submerged and the land-dwellers would have to be displaced to other islands.

  ‘People of Durjipore, gather now for the song of Hobson-Jobson,’ the Nabob announced. A centaur strummed a giant harp. The song started from the crowd, soft at first:

  In a forest, one night grey,

  A boy will find himself astray

  The anchor, holding a floating firepit, was released. The crowd sang louder. The clanging of sword against shield on the stage was rhythmic. Floyd closed his eyes and swayed to the song.

  Away from home he’ll set his gaze