the most sought-after healer in Asia. Of course, the Teacher engineered it all.’ This, to be sure, was Swami Bopi Gul. ‘How that divine man surrounds us with light. How lucky we are!’
‘But that’s at least another week,’ Jason objected.
‘I know it is, Jay. But we’ll find lovely things to do, happy things. You’ll see. Look at it,’ she threw a hand largely at the sky in a gesture which took in the dazzling blue, the green-tiled arch with its gold lions, the variegated tumult through which they had just passed. It also took in the First Tantric Temple of the Left-Handed Shaktas, Malomban Rite, crouching among its vines over the road.
Zoe heard her catch her breath. ‘Is your back bad, Mum?’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Tessa. ‘Or nearly. All the same, though, I’d rather like to spend this afternoon in the Botanical Gardens. The book says they’re spectacularly beautiful. There’s a Buddha and a butterfly house and a meditation grove. That sounds restful after this morning.’
‘I don’t want to come,’ said Jason.
‘Well, you’ve got to,’ his sister told him.
They had a conciliatory lunch in a Chinese restaurant.
‘Then what would you like to do instead?’
‘We could go on the train.’ This was a miniature railway which was apparently laid out around the boundary of the Botanical Gardens. ‘Then you could go and look at your butterflies and meditate and things.’
‘He’s so spiritual,’ Zoe said.
‘The spirit affects us in different ways at different ages,’ her mother observed, expertly picking a raisin from a pile of rice with her chopsticks. ‘And you’d go back to the hotel?’
‘Probably,’ said Jason.
Malomba was not a large town and there was little which could not be reached on foot. Twenty minutes’ walking and they arrived at the park. Here was a blistering expanse of coarse tropical grass worn to the roots and dotted with trees which gave off a subtly depressed air of not yet having been felled as opposed to having been encouraged to grow. Packed densely in the shade between them Malomban couples were sitting. Across the wastes between these oases plodded ice-cream vendors, their aluminium boxes slung over one shoulder, and children selling newspaper screws of unshelled peanuts. A few hundred yards away a belt of forest trees marked the beginning of the Botanical Gardens, which seemed to merge with the coconuts and bamboos of the closer foothills.
Directly in front of the Hemonys was a miniature railway station, bizarrely stylised to look like an English country halt – Adlestrop, perhaps – complete with raised platforms and white picket fencing. Waiting at it, exhaling gently, stood a little green steam-engine with a dour Malomban in a peaked cap hunched on its tender, a heap of firewood at his back. Coupled to it were three open carriages with tin benches and canvas awnings. Several families were sitting patiently with their children, sucking soft drinks from polystyrene cups whose straws poked through their lids.
‘And this is what you wanted to go on?’
‘Why not?’ said Jason. While Tessa bought the tickets he went to look at the engine and exchange a few words with the driver. ‘It’s Taiwanese,’ he informed them, climbing aboard.
‘I hope that makes you feel better.’
‘Don’t nag, Zo,’ her mother said gently.
‘But Mum, this is for children. ’
‘No, it’s not,’ Jason told her. ‘It’s for people who don’t want to see butterflies and meditate.’
A guard’s whistle sounded, a tiny signal fell, the enginedriver unslumped and tooted a shrill blast which sped flatly across the park, and they were off. It was, even Zoe had to admit, agreeable and even quite restful in its own way. The engine chuffed, the wheels made a subdued iron clicking, they never went faster than a brisk trot. Now and then as the track wove around the trees small boys would detach themselves from the shade and race alongside, generally outpacing
‘But that’s at least another week,’ Jason objected.
‘I know it is, Jay. But we’ll find lovely things to do, happy things. You’ll see. Look at it,’ she threw a hand largely at the sky in a gesture which took in the dazzling blue, the green-tiled arch with its gold lions, the variegated tumult through which they had just passed. It also took in the First Tantric Temple of the Left-Handed Shaktas, Malomban Rite, crouching among its vines over the road.
Zoe heard her catch her breath. ‘Is your back bad, Mum?’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Tessa. ‘Or nearly. All the same, though, I’d rather like to spend this afternoon in the Botanical Gardens. The book says they’re spectacularly beautiful. There’s a Buddha and a butterfly house and a meditation grove. That sounds restful after this morning.’
‘I don’t want to come,’ said Jason.
‘Well, you’ve got to,’ his sister told him.
They had a conciliatory lunch in a Chinese restaurant.
‘Then what would you like to do instead?’
‘We could go on the train.’ This was a miniature railway which was apparently laid out around the boundary of the Botanical Gardens. ‘Then you could go and look at your butterflies and meditate and things.’
‘He’s so spiritual,’ Zoe said.
‘The spirit affects us in different ways at different ages,’ her mother observed, expertly picking a raisin from a pile of rice with her chopsticks. ‘And you’d go back to the hotel?’
‘Probably,’ said Jason.
Malomba was not a large town and there was little which could not be reached on foot. Twenty minutes’ walking and they arrived at the park. Here was a blistering expanse of coarse tropical grass worn to the roots and dotted with trees which gave off a subtly depressed air of not yet having been felled as opposed to having been encouraged to grow. Packed densely in the shade between them Malomban couples were sitting. Across the wastes between these oases plodded ice-cream vendors, their aluminium boxes slung over one shoulder, and children selling newspaper screws of unshelled peanuts. A few hundred yards away a belt of forest trees marked the beginning of the Botanical Gardens, which seemed to merge with the coconuts and bamboos of the closer foothills.
Directly in front of the Hemonys was a miniature railway station, bizarrely stylised to look like an English country halt – Adlestrop, perhaps – complete with raised platforms and white picket fencing. Waiting at it, exhaling gently, stood a little green steam-engine with a dour Malomban in a peaked cap hunched on its tender, a heap of firewood at his back. Coupled to it were three open carriages with tin benches and canvas awnings. Several families were sitting patiently with their children, sucking soft drinks from polystyrene cups whose straws poked through their lids.
‘And this is what you wanted to go on?’
‘Why not?’ said Jason. While Tessa bought the tickets he went to look at the engine and exchange a few words with the driver. ‘It’s Taiwanese,’ he informed them, climbing aboard.
‘I hope that makes you feel better.’
‘Don’t nag, Zo,’ her mother said gently.
‘But Mum, this is for children. ’
‘No, it’s not,’ Jason told her. ‘It’s for people who don’t want to see butterflies and meditate.’
A guard’s whistle sounded, a tiny signal fell, the enginedriver unslumped and tooted a shrill blast which sped flatly across the park, and they were off. It was, even Zoe had to admit, agreeable and even quite restful in its own way. The engine chuffed, the wheels made a subdued iron clicking, they never went faster than a brisk trot. Now and then as the track wove around the trees small boys would detach themselves from the shade and race alongside, generally outpacing
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