by Ruskin Bond
Published in Red Turtle by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2015
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002
Sales centres:
Allahabad Bengaluru chennai
Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu
Kolkata Mumbai
Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2015
Page 203 constitutes an extension of the copyright page.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First impression 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Printed and bound by Thomson Press India Ltd., Faridabad
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
Contents
Introduction
The Room of Many Colours
All Creatures Great and Small
The Four Feathers
Growing up with Trees
The Funeral
Coming Home to Dehra
Our Great Escape
The Last Tonga Ride
The Night Train at Deoli
The Coral Tree
Love and Cricket
The Night the Roof Blew off
The Photograph
The Tunnel
The Overcoat
The Girl on the Train
The Woman on Platform No. 8
The Fight
A Long Walk for Bina
A Case for Inspector Lal
The Thief’s Story
The Trouble with Jinns
Adventures in Reading
The Blue Umbrella
Acknowledgements
Introduction
To say something about the ‘essential Bond’, makes me feel as though I am an essential ingredient in a recipe for some exotic dish. I wouldn’t mind the exotic dish provided I’m not an ingredient. I’m told that an ancestor of mine fell prey to a group of cannibals on a remote Pacific island, and was served up with breadfruit and shark-fin soup. If that be the case, I’d rather remain ‘inessential’.
Occasionally I have to look in a mirror. And what do I see? Purple nose, double chin, double tummy. That’s the ‘essential’ Bond at eighty, I suppose. And in many ways I am a very physical person. I still write by hand. My ball-point or roller-ball pen glides over the surface of the paper without any effort. It has had years of practice. It is the link between my hand and my heart, or between my mind and the letters that form on this writing-pad. Nothing else will do now. I find typing too mechanical. I tried dictating once, but became self-conscious, unable to express myself in ‘true sentences’.
Everyone has his or her own way of writing. The ‘essential’ Bond likes the physical contact with paper.
This volume is a pretty good mix of stories written over a period of sixty years of putting pen to paper. I must have gone through two or three thousand pens during that time. I did not keep the pens, but I kept most of the stories—a few hundred of them, anyway, starting with The Room on the Roof when I was just out of school. In those days, most of us in India travelled by train, the air services still being in their infancy, and a number of my early stories took place on trains or at railway stations. You had only to spend an hour on a railway platform to get a story!
After a few years in London and New Delhi, I came to live in the hills, and this is where I have written most of my stories, even those that look back upon my childhood and boyhood in Dehradun and elsewhere. But they are not presented in any particular order. Each story stands on its own. It could have been written anywhere and at any time. Sometimes a young reader comes up to me and asks, ‘What happened to that girl on Deoli platform—the girl with the baskets—the one you couldn’t forget?’
Well, that story was written over fifty years ago, and it’s nice to know that the young reader of today is touched by it. I am now ‘old and grey and full of sleep’, but that girl on the platform is still there, as young and beautiful and sweet as ever, and I still see her in my dreams. That’s the ‘essential’ Bond—still dreaming…
Ruskin Bond
May 2015
The Room of Many Colours
LAST WEEK I wrote a story, and all the time I was writing it I thought it was a good story; but when it was finished and I had read it through, I found that there was something missing, that it didn’t ring true. So I tore it up. I wrote a poem, about an old man sleeping in the sun, and this was true, but it was finished quickly, and once again I was left with the problem of what to write next. And I remembered my father, who taught me to write; and I thought, why not write about my father, and about the trees we planted, and about the people I knew while growing up and about what happened on the way to growing up…
And so, like Alice, I must begin at the beginning, and in the beginning there was this red insect, just like a velvet button, which I found on the front lawn of the bungalow. The grass was still wet with overnight rain.
I placed the insect on the palm of my hand and took it into the house to show my father.
‘Look, Dad,’ I said, ‘I haven’t seen an insect like this before. Where has it come from?’
‘Where did you find it?’ he asked. ‘On the grass.’
‘It must have come down from the sky,’ he said. ‘It must have come down with the rain.’
Later he told me how the insect really happened but I preferred his first explanation. It was more fun to have it dropping from the sky.
I was seven at the time, and my father was thirty-seven, but, right from the beginning, he made me feel that I was old enough to talk to him about everything—insects, people, trees, steam engines, King George, comics, crocodiles, the Mahatma, the Viceroy, America, Mozambique and Timbuctoo. We took long walks together, explored old ruins, chased butterflies and waved to passing trains.
My mother had gone away when I was four, and I had very dim memories of her. Most other children had their mothers with them, and I found it a bit strange that mine couldn’t stay. Whenever I asked my father why she’d gone, he’d say, ‘You’ll understand when you grow up.’ And if I asked him where she’d gone, he’d look troubled and say, ‘I really don’t know.’ This was the only question of mine to which he didn’t have an answer.
But I was quite happy living alone with my father; I had never known any other kind of life.
We were sitting on an old wall, looking out to sea at a couple of Arab dhows and a tram steamer, when my father said, ‘Would you like to go to sea one day?’
‘Where does the sea go?’ I asked.
‘It goes everywhere.’
‘Does it go to the end of the world?’
‘It goes right round the world. It’s a round world.’
‘It can’t be.’
‘It is. But it’s so big, you can’t see the roundness. When a fly sits on a watermelon, it can’t see right round the melon, can it? The melon must seem quite flat to the fly. Well, in comparison to the world, we’re much, much smaller than the tiniest of insects.’
‘Have you been around
the world?’ I asked.
‘No, only as far as England. That’s where your grandfather was born.’
‘And my grandmother?’
‘She came to India from Norway when she was quite small. Norway is a cold land, with mountains and snow, and the sea cutting deep into the land. I was there as a boy. It’s very beautiful, and the people are good and work hard.’
‘I’d like to go there.’
‘You will, one day. When you are older, I’ll take you to Norway.’
‘Is it better than England?’
‘It’s quite different.’
‘Is it better than India?’
‘It’s quite different.’
‘Is India like England?’
‘No, it’s different.’ ‘Well, what does “different” mean?’
‘It means things are not the same. It means people are different. It means the weather is different. It means tree and birds and insects are different.’
‘Are English crocodiles different from Indian crocodiles?’ ‘They don’t have crocodiles in England.’ ‘Oh, then it must be different.’
‘It would be a dull world if it was the same everywhere,’ said my father.
He never lost patience with my endless questioning. If he wanted a rest, he would take out his pipe and spend a long time lighting it. If this took very long I’d find something else to do. But sometimes I’d wait patiently until the pipe was drawing, and then return to the attack.
‘Will we always be in India?’ I asked.
‘No, we’ll have to go away one day. You see, it’s hard to explain, but it isn’t really our country.’
‘Ayah says it belongs to the king of England, and the jewels in his crown were taken from India, and that when the Indians get their jewels back the king will lose India! But first they have to get the crown from the king, but this is very difficult, she says, because the crown is always on his head. He even sleeps wearing his crown!’
Ayah was my nanny. She loved me deeply, and was always filling my head with strange and wonderful stories.
My father did not comment on Ayah’s views. All he said was, ‘We’ll have to go away some day.’
‘How long have we been here?’ I asked. ‘Two hundred years.’ ‘No, I mean us.’
‘Well, you were born in India, so that’s seven years for you.’ ‘Then can’t I stay here?’ ‘Do you want to?’
‘I want to go across the sea. But can we take Ayah with us?’
‘I don’t know, son. Let’s walk along the beach.’
We lived in an old palace beside a lake. The palace looked like a ruin from the outside, but the rooms were cool and comfortable.
We lived in one wing, and my father organized a small school in another wing. His pupils were the children of the raja and the raja’s relatives. My father had started life in India as a tea planter, but he had been trained as a teacher and the idea of starting a school in a small state facing the Arabian Sea had appealed to him. The pay wasn’t much, but we had a palace to live in, the latest 1938-model Hillman to drive about in, and a number of servants. In those days, of course, everyone had servants (although the servants did not have any!). Ayah was our own; but the cook, the bearer, the gardener and the bhisti were all provided by the state.
Sometimes I sat in the schoolroom with the other children (who were all much bigger than me), sometimes I remained in the house with Ayah, sometimes I followed the gardener, Dukhi, about the spacious garden.
Dukhi means ‘sad’, and though I never could discover if the gardener had anything to feel sad about, the name certainly suited him. He had grown to resemble the drooping weeds that he was always digging up with a tiny spade. I seldom saw him standing up. He always sat on the ground with his knees well up to his chin, and attacked the weeds from this position. He could spend all day on his haunches, moving about the garden simply by shuffling his feet along the grass.
I tried to imitate his posture, sitting down on my heels and putting my knees into my armpits, but could never hold the position for more than five minutes.
Time had no meaning in a large garden, and Dukhi never hurried. Life, for him, was not a matter of one year succeeding another, but of five seasons—winter, spring, hot weather, monsoon and autumn—arriving and departing. His seedbeds had always to be in readiness for the coming season, and he did not look any further than the next monsoon. It was impossible to tell his age. He may have been thirty-six or eighty-six. He was either very young for his years or very old for them.
Dukhi loved bright colours, especially reds and yellows. He liked strongly scented flowers, like jasmine and honeysuckle. He couldn’t understand my father’s preference for the more delicately perfumed petunias and sweetpeas. But I shared Dukhi’s fondness for the common bright orange marigold, which is offered in temples and is used to make garlands and nosegays. When the garden was bare of all colour, the marigold would still be there, gay and flashy, challenging the sun.
Dukhi was very fond of making nosegays, and I liked to watch him at work. A sunflower formed the centrepiece. It was surrounded by roses, marigolds and oleander, fringed with green leaves, and bound together with silver thread. The perfume was overpowering. The nosegays were presented to me or my father on special occasions, that is, on a birthday or to guests of my father’s who were considered important.
One day I found Dukhi making a nosegay, and said, ‘No one is coming today, Dukhi. It isn’t even a birthday.’
‘It is a birthday, Chota Sahib,’ he said. ‘Little Sahib’ was the title he had given me. It wasn’t much of a title compared to Raja Sahib, Diwan Sahib or Burra Sahib, but it was nice to have a title at the age of seven.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And is there a party, too?’
‘No party.’
‘What’s the use of a birthday without a party? What’s the use of a birthday without presents?’
‘This person doesn’t like presents—just flowers.’
‘Who is it?’ I asked, full of curiosity.
‘If you want to find out, you can take these flowers to her. She lives right at the top of that far side of the palace. There are twenty-two steps to climb. Remember that, Chota Sahib, you take twenty-three steps and you will go over the edge and into the lake!’
I started climbing the stairs.
It was a spiral staircase of wrought iron, and it went round and round and up and up, and it made me quite dizzy and tired.
At the top I found myself on a small balcony, which looked out over the lake and another palace, at the crowded city and the distant harbour. I heard a voice, a rather high, musical voice, saying (in English), ‘Are you a ghost?’ I turned to see who had spoken but found the balcony empty. The voice had come from a dark room.
I turned to the stairway, ready to flee, but the voice said, ‘Oh, don’t go, there’s nothing to be frightened of!’
And so I stood still, peering cautiously into the darkness of the room.
‘First, tell me—are you a ghost?’
‘I’m a boy,’ I said.
‘And I’m a girl. We can be friends. I can’t come out there, so you had better come in. Come along, I’m not a ghost either—not yet, anyway!’
As there was nothing very frightening about the voice, I stepped into the room. It was dark inside, and, coming in from the glare, it took me some time to make out the tiny, elderly lady seated on a cushioned gilt chair. She wore a red sari, lots of coloured bangles on her wrists, and golden earrings. Her hair was streaked with white, but her skin was still quite smooth and unlined, and she had large and very beautiful eyes.
‘You must be Master Bond!’ she said. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You’re a lady with a birthday,’ I said, ‘but that’s all I know. Dukhi didn’t tell me any more.’
‘If you promise to keep it secret, I’ll tell you who I am. You see, everyone thinks I’m mad. Do you think so too?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, you must tell me if you think s
o,’ she said with a chuckle. Her laugh was the sort of sound made by the gecko, a little wall lizard, coming from deep down in the throat. ‘I have a feeling you are a truthful boy. Do you find it very difficult to tell the truth?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Sometimes. Of course, there are times when I tell lies—lots of little lies—because they’re such fun! But would you call me a liar? I wouldn’t, if I were you, but would you?’
‘Are you a liar?’
‘I’m asking you! If I were to tell you that I was a queen—that I am a queen—would you believe me?’
I thought deeply about this, and then said, ‘I’ll try to believe you.’
‘Oh, but you must believe me. I’m a real queen, I’m a rani! Look, I’ve got diamonds to prove it!’ And she held out her hands, and there was a ring on each finger, the stones glowing and glittering in the dim light. ‘Diamonds, rubies, pearls and emeralds! Only a queen can have these!’ She was most anxious that I should believe her.
‘You must be a queen,’ I said.
‘Right!’ she snapped. ‘In that case, would you mind calling me “Your Highness”?’
‘Your Highness,’ I said.
She smiled. It was a slow, beautiful smile. Her whole face lit up.
‘I could love you,’ she said. ‘But better still, I’ll give you something to eat. Do you like chocolates?’
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
‘Well,’ she said, taking a box from the table beside her, ‘these have come all the way from England. Take two. Only two, mind, otherwise the box will finish before Thursday, and I don’t want that to happen because I won’t get any more till Saturday. That’s when Captain Mac Whirr’s ship gets in, the SS Lucy, loaded with boxes and boxes of chocolates!’
‘All for you?’ I asked in considerable awe.
‘Yes, of course. They have to last at least three months. I get them from England. I get only the best chocolates. I like them with pink, crunchy fillings, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes!’ I exclaimed, full of envy.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I may give you one, now and then—if you’re very nice to me! Here you are, help yourself…’ She pushed the chocolate box towards me.