The prize
By Ruskin Bond

THEY were up late, drinking in the old Savoy bar, and by 1 a.m. everyone was pretty well sloshed. Ganesh get into his electric-blue Zen and zig-zagged home. Victor Banerjee drove off in his antique Morris Minor which promptly broke down, forcing him to take a taxi. Nandu, the proprietor, limped off to his cottage, a shooting pain in his foot the presage of another attack of gout. Begum —, who had starred in over a hundred early talkies, climbed into a cycle-rickshaw that had no driver, but it hardly mattered, as she promptly fell asleep. The bartender vanished into the night. Only Randy Rahul, the romantic young novelist, remained in the foyer, wondering where everyone had gone and why he’d been left behind.

The rooms were full. There wasn’t a spare bed in the hotel, for it was the height of the season and the hill-station’s hotels were overflowing. The room boys and kitchen staff had gone to their quarters. Only the night chowkidar’s whistle could occasionally be heard, as the retired havaldar prowled around the estate.

The young writer felt he’d been unfairly abandoned, and rather resented the slight. He’d been the life and should of the party (or so he’d thought), telling everyone about the huge advance he’d just get for his latest book and how it was a certainty for the Booker Prize. He hadn’t noticed their yawns; or if he had, he’d put it down to the lack of oxygen in the bar-room. It had been named the Horizontal Bar by one of the customers, because of a tendency on the part of some of them to fall asleep on the carpet — that very same carpet on which the Duke of Caonnaught had passed out exactly a hundred years ago.

Rahul had no intention of passing out on the floor. But he’d had one drink too many and he longed to lie down somewhere. A billiard-table would have been fine, but the billiard-room was licked. He staggered down the corridor; not a sofa or easy chair camp into view. He entered the huge empty dining-room, now lit by a single electric bulb.

The abandoned piano did not look too inviting, but the long dining-table had been cleared of everything except a curry-stained table-cloth, left there for early morning customers. Rahul managed to hoist himself up on the table and stretch himself out. It made a hard bed, and already bread-crumbs were irritating his tender skin, but he was too tired to care. The light bulb was directly above him. Although there was no air in the room, it swayed slightly, as though an invisible hand had tapped it gently.

For an hour he slept, a deep dreamless sleep, and then he became vaguely aware of music, voices, footsteps, laughter. Someone was playing the piano. Chairs were pulled back. Glasses tinkled. Knives and forks clattered against dinner plates.

Rahul opened his eyes to find a banquet in progress. On his table, the table he had been sleeping on! And the diners seemed unaware of his presence. The men were old-fashioned dress-suits with bow ties and high collars; the women wore long flounced dresses, but with tight bodices that showed their ample bosoms off to good advantage. Out of long habit, Rahul’s hand reached out for the nearest breast, and for once he did not receive a stinging slap; for the simple reason that his hands, if they were there at all, hadn’t moved.

Someone said, "Roast pig — I’ve been looking forward to this!" and stuck a knife and fork into Rahul’s thigh.

He cried out, or tried to, but no one heard; he could not hear his own voice. He found he could raise his head, so he looked down at his own legs, but all he saw were pig’s trotters instead of his own feet.

Someone turned him over and sliced a bit off his backside.

"A most tender leg of pork," remarked the woman on his left.

A fork jabbed him in the buttocks. Then a giant of a man, top-hatted, with a carving-knife in his hand, leaned over him. He wore a broad white apron and on it in large letters was written: Chairman of the jury. The carving-knife glistened in the lamplight.

Rahul screamed and leapt off the table. He fell against the piano, recovered his balance, dashed past the revellers, and out of the vast dining-room.

He ran down the hotel corridor, banging on all the doors. But not one opened to him. Finally, at room no 16, a door gave way. Out of breath, shaking all over, our hero. stumbled into the room and bolted the door behind him.

It was a single room with a single bed. The bedclothes appeared to be in some disarray but Rahul hardly noticed. All he wanted was the end of his nightmare and a good night’s sleep. Kicking off his shoes, he climbed into the bed fully dressed.

He had been lying there for at least five minutes before he realised that he wasn’t alone in the bed. There was a body lying beside him, covered by a sheet. Rahul switched on the bed-lamp. Nothing moved; the body lay still. On the sheet, in large letters, were the words: Better luck next time.

He pulled the sheet back and stared down at his own dead self.