by Ruskin Bond
A sapphire, azure, sparkling in a silver neck-chain. A sapphire from Sri Lanka? And a garnet in a ring of gold. I could recognize a garnet because my grandmother had one. When I was small and asked her what it was, she said it was a pomegranate seed.
So there I was, with a small fortune in my hands. Or may be a large fortune. I had never bothered with gemstones before, but I was beginning to get interested. Having them in your hands makes all the difference.
Where should I hide them? Sooner or later someone would disturb my books. I looked around the room; very few places of concealment. But on my desk was a round biscuit tin. One of Hassan’s boys used to keep his marbles in it; I had given him more marbles in exchange for the tin, because it made a handy receptacle for my paper-clips, rubber bands, erasers and such like. These I now emptied into a drawer. The jewels went into the biscuit tin—rubies, emeralds, sapphire, garnet—just like marbles, only prettier.
But I couldn’t leave that biscuit tin lying around. One of the boys might come back for it.
On the balcony were several flowerpots; two were empty; one was home to a neglected geranium, another to a money-plant that didn’t seem interested in going anywhere. I put the biscuit tin in an empty pot, and covered it with the geranium, earth, roots and all, and gave it a light watering. It seemed to perk up immediately! Nothing like having a fortune behind you.
I brought the pot into my room, where I could keep an eye on it. The plant would flourish better indoors.
All this activity had sharpened my appetite, and I went down to the bakery and had a second breakfast.
Foster Makes a Sale
In our dear country sensational events come and go, and excitement soon gives way to ennui.
And so it was in Fosterganj. Interest in the murder and the fire died down soon enough, although of course the police and the palace owners continued to make their enquiries.
Vishaal tried to liven up the hillside, spotting another leopard in his back garden. But it was only a dog-lifter, not a man-eater, and since there were very few dogs to be found in Fosterganj after the last rabies scare, the leopard soon moved on.
A milkman brought me a message from Foster one morning, asking me to come and see him.
‘Is he ill?’ I asked.
‘Looks all right,’ said the milkman. ‘He owes me for two months’ supply of milk.’
‘He’ll give you a laying hen instead,’ I said. ‘The world’s economy should be based on exchange.’
‘That’s all right,’ said the milkman. ‘But his hens are dying, one by one. Soon he won’t have any left.’
This didn’t sound too good, so I made my way over to Foster’s and found him sitting in his small patch of garden, contemplating his onions and a few late gladioli.
‘No one’s buying my gladioli, and my hens are dying,’ he said gloomily. An empty rum bottle lay in the grass beside his wobbly cane chair. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. I’ve run out of booze.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I don’t drink in the daytime. But why don’t you sell onions? They’ll fetch a better price than your gladioli.’
‘They’ve all rotted away,’ he said. ‘Too much rain. And the porcupines take the good ones. But sit down—sit down, I haven’t been out for days. Can’t leave the hens alone too long, and the gout is killing me.’ He removed a slipper and displayed a dirty bare foot swollen at the ankles. ‘But tell me—how’s the murder investigation going?’
‘It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.’
‘Probably that boy,’ said Foster. ‘He’s older than he looks. A strange couple, those two.’
‘Well, they are missing. Disappeared after the fire.’
‘Probably started it. Well, good luck to them. We don’t want a flashy hotel in the middle of Fosterganj.’
‘Why not? They might buy your eggs—and your gladioli.’
‘No, they’d go to town for their supplies.’
‘You never know… By the way, when did Fosterganj last have a murder? Or was this the first?’
‘Not the first by any means. We’ve had a few over the years. Mostly unsolved.’
‘The ones in the palace?’
‘The disappearing maharanis—or mistresses. Very mysterious. No one really knows what happened to them, except they disappeared. Any remains probably went in that fire. But no one really bothered. The raja’s life was his own business, and in those days they did much as they wanted. A law unto themselves.’
A large white butterfly came fluttering up to Foster and sat on his ear. He carried on speaking.
‘Then there was that school principal, down near Rajpur. Fanthorne, I think his name was. Suspected his wife of infidelity. Shot her, and then shot himself. Nice and simple. Made it easy for the police and everyone concerned. A good example to all who contemplate murder. Carry out the deed and then turn yourself in or blow your brains out. Why leave a mess behind?’
‘Why, indeed. Apart from your brains.’
‘Of course you can also hang yourself, if you want to keep it clean. Like poor old Kapoor, who owned the Empire. It went downhill after Independence. No one coming to Mussoorie, no takers for the hotel. He was heavily in debt. He tried setting fire to it for the insurance, but it was such a sturdy old building, built with stones from the riverbed, that it wouldn’t burn properly! A few days later old Kapoor was found hanging from a chandelier in the ballroom.’
‘Who got the hotel?’
‘Nobody. It passed into the Receiver’s hand. It’s still there, if you want to look at it. Full of squatters and the ghost of old Kapoor. You can see him in the early hours, wandering about with a can of petrol, trying to set fire to the place.’
‘Suicide appears to have been popular.’
‘Yes, it’s that kind of place. Suicidal. I’ve thought of it once or twice myself.’
‘And how would you go about it?’
‘Oh, just keep boozing until I pass out permanently.’
‘Nice thought. But don’t do it today—not while I’m here.’
‘I was coming to that—why I asked you to come over. I was wondering if you could lend me a small sum—just to tide me over the weekend. I’m all out of rations and the water supply has been cut too. Have to fill my bucket at the public tap, after all those washerwomen. Very demeaning for a sahib!’
‘Well, I’m a little short myself,’ I said. ‘Not a good time for writers. But I can send you something from the bakery, I have credit there.’
‘Don’t bother, don’t bother. You wouldn’t care to buy a couple of hens, would you? I’m down to just three or four birds.’
‘Where would I keep them? But I’ll ask Hassan to take them off you. He’ll give you a fair price.’
‘Fine, fine. And there’s my furniture. I could part with one or two pieces. That fine old rocking chair—been in the family for a century.’
I had seen the rocking chair on my previous visit, and had refrained from sitting in it, as it had looked rather precarious.
‘I would laze in at all day and get no work done,’ I said.
‘What about Uncle Fred’s skull? It’s a real museum piece.’
‘No, thanks. It’s hardly the thing to cheer me up on a lonely winter’s evening. Unlike your gramophone, which is very jolly.’
‘Gramophone! Would you like the gramophone?’ The white butterfly jumped up a little, as excited as Foster, then settled back on his ear.
‘Well, it only just occurred to me—but you wouldn’t want to part with it.’
‘I might, if you made me a good offer. It’s a solid HMV 1942 model. Portable, too. You can play it on a beach in Goa or a mountaintop in Sikkim. Springs are in good condition. So’s the handle. Four hundred rupees, and you get the records free. It’s a bargain!’
How do you bargain with a Scotsman? Foster’s urgent need of money overrode his affection for the ballads of Sir Harry Lauder. I offered him two hundred, which was all the money I had on me. After a goo
d deal of haggling we settled on three hundred. I gave him two and promised to pay the rest later.
In good spirits now, Forster suddenly remembered he had some booze stashed away somewhere after all. We celebrated over a bottle of his best hooch, and I stumbled home two hours later, the gramophone under one arm and a box of records under the other.
That night I treated myself to Sir Harry Lauder singing ‘Loch Lomond’, Dame Clara Buck singing ‘Comin’ through the Rye’, and Arthur Askey singing ‘We have no bananas today’. Hassan’s children attended the concert, and various passers-by stopped in the road, some to listen, others to ask why I couldn’t play something more pleasing to the ear. But everyone seemed to enjoy the diversion.
Treasure Hunt
The nights were getting chilly, and I needed another blanket. The rains were over, and a rainbow arched across the valley, linking Fosterganj to the Mussoorie ridge. A strong wind came down from Tibet, rattling the rooftops.
I decided to stay another month, then move down to Rajpur.
~
Someone had slipped a letter under my door. I found it there early one morning. Inside a plain envelope was a slip of paper with a few words on it. All it said was: ‘Chakrata. Hotel Peak View. Next Sunday’.
I presumed the note was from the boy or his mother. Next Sunday was just three days away, but I could get to Chakrata in a day. It was a small military cantonment half way between Mussoorie and Simla. I had been there as a boy, but not in recent years; it was still a little off the beaten track.
I did not tell Hassan where I was going, just said I’d be back in a day or two; he wasn’t the sort to pry into my affairs. I stuffed a change of clothes into a travel bag, along with the little box containing the jewels. Before hiding it, I had taped the lid town with Sellotape. It was still under the geranium, and I removed it carefully and returned the plant to its receptacle, where it would now have a little more freedom to spread its roots.
I took a bus down to Dehradun, and after hanging around the bus station for a couple of hours, found one that was going to Chakrata. It was half empty. Only a few village folk were going in my direction.
A meandering road took us through field and forest, and then we crossed the Yamuna just where it emerged from its mountain fastness, still pure and unpolluted in its upper reaches. The road grew steeper, more winding, ascending through pine and deodar forest, and finally we alighted at a small bus stop, where an old bus and two or three ponies appeared to be stranded. A deserted church and a few old graves told me that the British had once been present here.
There was only one hotel on the outskirts of the town, and it took me about twenty minutes to get to it, as I had to walk all the way. It stood in a forest glade, but it did provide a view of the peaks, the snowcapped Chor range being the most prominent.
It was a small hotel, little more than a guesthouse, and I did not notice any other residents. There was no sign of a manager, either; but a gardener or handyman led me to the small reception desk and produced a register. I entered my name and my former Delhi address. He then took me to a small room and asked me if I’d like some tea.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘And something to eat.’
‘No cook,’ he said. ‘But I’ll bring you something from the market.’ And he disappeared, leaving me to settle down in my room.
I needed a wash, and went into the bathroom. It had a nice view, but there was no water in the tap. There was a bucket half filled with water, but it looked rather murky. I postponed the wash.
I settled down in an armchair, and finding it quite comfortable, immediately fell asleep. Being a man with an easy conscience I’ve never had any difficulty in falling asleep.
I woke up about an hour later, to find the cook-gardener-caretaker hovering over me with a plate of hot pakoras and a pot of tea. He had only one eye, which, strangely, I hadn’t noticed before. I recalled the old proverb: ‘In the country of the blind the one-eyed man is king.’ But I’d always thought the antithetical was true, and a more likely outcome, in the country of the blind, would be the one-eyed man being stoned to death. How dare he be different.
My one-eyed man seemed happy to talk. Not many tourists came to Chakrata; the intelligence department took a strong interest in visitors. In fact, I could expect a visit from them before the day was out.
‘Has anyone been asking for me?’ I asked. ‘A young man accompanied by his mother?’
‘They were here last week. Said they were from Nepal. But they left in a hurry. They did not take your name.’
‘Perhaps they’ll be back. I’ll stay tonight—leave in the morning. Will that be all right?’
‘Stay as long as you like. It’s ten rupees a day for the room and two rupees for a bucket of water. Water shortage.’
‘And it’s been raining for three months.’
‘But we are far from the river,’ he said. And then he left me to my own devices.
It was late evening when he appeared again to inform me that there were people in the hall who wanted to see me. Assuming that the boy and his mother had arrived, I said, ‘Oh, show them in,’ and got up from the armchair to receive them.
Three men stepped into the room.
They were total strangers.
One of them asked to see my passport.
‘I don’t have one,’ I said. ‘Never left the country.’
‘Any identification?’
I shook my head. I’d never been asked for identification. This was 1961, and border wars, invasions, insurrections and terrorist attacks were all in the future. We were free to travel all over the country without any questions being asked.
One of the three was in uniform, a police inspector. The second, the man who had spoken to me, was a civilian but clearly an official. The third person had some personal interest in the proceedings.
‘I think you have something to deliver,’ he said. ‘Some stones belonging to the royal family.’
‘You represent the royal family?’ I asked.
‘That is correct.’
‘And the people who looked after the property?’
‘They were servants. They have gone missing since the fire. Are you here to meet them?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m a travel writer. I’m writing a book on our hill stations. Chakrata is one of them.’
‘But not for tourists,’ said the official. ‘This is purely a military station now.’
‘Well, I have yet to see a soldier. Very well camouflaged.’
‘Soldiers are not deployed here. It is a scientific establishment.’
I thought it better to leave it at that. I had come to the place simply to deliver some gemstones, and not as a spy; I said as much.
‘Then may we have the stones?’ said the third party. ‘You will then be free to leave, or to enjoy the hospitality of this hotel.’
‘And if I don’t hand them over?’
‘Then we may have to take you into custody,’ said the inspector. ‘For being in possession of stolen property.’ And without further ado, he picked up my travel bag, placed it on a table, and rummaged through the contents. With three men standing over me, and the gardener in the background, there was no point in trying to be a hero.
The biscuit tin was soon in his hands. He shook it appreciatively, and it responded with a pleasing rattle. He tore off the tape, pressed open the lid and emptied the contents on the table.
Some thirty or forty colourful marbles streamed across the table, some rolling to the ground, others into the hands of the inspector, who held them up to the light and exclaimed, ‘But these are not rubies!’
‘My marble collection,’ I said. ‘And just as pretty as rubies.’
The Great Truck Ride
What had happened, quite obviously, was that Hassan’s children, or at least one of them, had seen me secrete the box in the geranium pot. Wanting it back, they had unearthed it while I was out, removed the gemstones and replaced them with their store of marbles.
But w
hat on earth had they done with the jewels? Hidden them elsewhere, perhaps. Or more likely, being still innocent children, they had seen the gems as mere rubbish and thrown them out of my window, into the ravine.
If I got back safely, I’d have to search the ravine.
But I was still in Chakrata, and my interlocutors had told me not to leave before morning. They were still hoping that the boy and his mother, or someone on their behalf, might have followed me to Chakrata.
The three gentlemen left me, saying they’d be back in the morning. I was left with the one-eyed gardener.
‘When does the first bus leave for Dehradun?’ I asked.
‘At ten tomorrow.’
‘Are there no taxis here?’
‘Who would want a taxi? There is nothing to see. The best view is from your window.’
I gave him five rupees and asked him to bring me some food. He came back with some puris and a potato curry, and I shared it with him. He became quite chatty, and told me the town hadn’t been off-bounds in the past, but security had been tightened since some border intrusions by the Chinese. Relations with China had soured ever since the Dalai Lama and his followers had fled to India two years previously. The Dalai Lama was still living in Mussoorie. Chakrata was, in a way, a lookout point; from here, the passes to the north could be better monitored. I’d come to the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘I’m no spy,’ I said. ‘I’ll come some other time to enjoy the scenery. I’ll be off in the morning.’
‘If they let you go.’
That sounded ominous.
The gardener-caretaker left me in order to lock up for the night, and I lay down on my bed in my clothes, wondering what I should do next. I was never much good in an emergency, and I was feeling quite helpless. Without friends, the world can seem a hostile place.
After some time I heard the door being bolted from outside. I’d been locked in.