Voting at Fosterganj

by Ruskin Bond

  Voting at Fosterganj

  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and now has over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of short stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys Prize in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award.

  Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2017

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2017

  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.

  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.

  ISBN: 978-81-291-4494-2

  First impression 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  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 Old Lama

  The Long Day

  Home

  At the Bank

  Monkey Trouble

  Snake Trouble

  The Kitemaker

  Most Beautiful

  Voting at Fosterganj

  Landour Bazaar

  A Night Walk Home

  Foster of Fosterganj

  A Magic Oil

  The Garlands on His Brow

  A Guardian Angel

  The Zigzag Walk

  The India I Carried with Me

  Introduction

  There is a sense, that many of those who live in cities share, that life in the smaller towns, away from the glitz and glamour of the modern urban life is strangely quiet and uneventful. Nothing could be further from the truth. By virtue of being a dweller of one of these so-called quiet places, I can say for sure that not a day goes by when there is not some excitement that upturns the gentle rhythm of life if even for a short period of time.

  Telling the stories of the people who live in small places carries its own dangers. Most people know each other by name or reputation if not more intimately. Now, however, with the constant influx of tourists and those in search of a spot of calm, there are plenty more unknown faces that one sees on the roads and cafes. Many a time there has been a knock on the door and I opened it to find a small child holding out a book to be signed or some not so small men and women who want to come in and hold forth on their love of books.

  Yet it is in describing the people who live here, their concerns and the drama in their lives that I get a lot of pleasure. The Fosterganj of the title has a motley collection of characters, many of who appear in my book Tales of Fosterganj. Election time here is a chance for everyone to air their grievances knowing they are going to be heard only once in five years. Now, there are cell phones that ring with calls and messages from canvassing politicians. Even till a few years back, though, it was all completely dependent on meeting the voters and convincing them that putting their stamp on a particular election symbol would be a good way to end much of their woes.

  Another place where I find that a lot of locals tend to gather and have much to discuss, is the bank. The bank manager is someone everyone knows. Unfortunately, he too knows everyone a bit too well—their account balance that is. Yet, most managers I have met have not been the straightfaced businesslike city bankers. Here there is time for a cup of tea, for others to stroll in and discuss the weather, cricket score or the political scenario, and in all of this the manager is more than happy to put forth his opinions while the work gets done though perhaps a bit more leisurely than elsewhere.

  The biggest draw of the small town remains its sense of quiet. After dark, I can still hear the crickets, spot a lone fox dancing as I walk back home, feel rather than see the mountains looming all around me and stop to listen to the nightjars or hear the sudden hoot of the owl.

  But finally, wherever one lives, human nature remains constant. The kindnesses, the companionship and the fellow feeling can be found anywhere, as can cruelty, cunning and envy. It’s what we look out for that we finally see in front of us.

  Ruskin Bond

  The Old Lama

  I meet him on the road every morning, on my walk up to the Landour post office. He is a lean old man in a long maroon robe, a Tibetan monk of uncertain age. I’m told he’s about 85. But age is really immaterial in the mountains. Some grow old at their mother’s breasts, and there are others who do not age at all.

  If you are like this old Lama, you go on forever. For he is a walking man, and there is no way you can stop him from walking.

  Kim’s Lama, rejuvenated by the mountain air, strode along with ‘steady, driving strokes,’ leaving his disciple far behind. My Lama, older and feebler than Kim’s, walks very slowly, with the aid of an old walnut walking-stick. The ferrule keeps coming off the end of the stick, but lie puts it back with coal-tar left behind by the road repairers.

  He plods and shuffles along. In fact, he is very like the tortoise in the story of the hare and the tortoise. I see him walking past my window, and five minutes later when I start out on the same road, I feel sure of overtaking him half way up the hill. But invariably I find him standing near the post-office when I get there.

  He smiles when he sees me. We are always smiling at each other. His English is limited, and I have absolutely no Tibetan. He has a few words of Hindi, enough to make his needs known, but that is about all. He is quite happy to converse silently with all the creatures and people who take notice of him on the road.

  It is the same walk he takes every morning. At nine o’clock, if I look out of my window, I can see a line of Tibetan prayer-flags fluttering over an old building in the cantonment. He emerges from beneath the flags and starts up the steep road. Ten minutes later he is below my window, and sometimes he stops to sit and rest on my steps, or on a parapet further along the road. Sooner or later, coming or going, I shall pass him on the road or up near the post-office. His eyes will twinkle behind thick-lensed glasses, and he will raise his walking-stick slightly in salutation. If I say something to him, he just smiles and nods vigorously in agreement.

  An agreeable man. He was one of those who came to India in 1959, fleeing the Chinese occupation of Tibet. His Holiness the Dalai Lama found sanctuary in India, and lived in Mussoorie for a couple of years; many of his followers settled here. A new generation of Tibetans has grown up in the hill station, and those under 30 years have never seen their homeland. But for almost all of them—and there are several thousand in this district alone—Tibet is their country, their real home, and they are quick to express their determination to go back when their land is free again.

  Even a twenty-year-old girl like Tseten, who has grown up knowing English and Hindi, speaks of the day when she will return to Tibet with her parents. She has given me a painting of Milarepa, the Buddhist monk-philosopher, meditating beneath a fruit-laden p
each tree, the eternal snows in the background. This is, perhaps, her vision of the Tibet she would like to see, some day. Meanwhile, she works as a typist in the office of the Tibetan Homes Foundation.

  My old Lama will, I am sure, be among the first to return, even if he has to walk all the way, over the mountain passes. Maybe, that’s why he plods up and around this hill every day. He is practising for the long walk back to Tibet. Here he is again, pausing at the foot of my steps. It’s a cool, breezy morning, and he does not feel the need to sit down.

  ‘Tashi-tilay!’ (Good day!) I greet him, in the only Tibetan I know.

  ‘Tashi-tilay!’ he responds, beaming with delight.

  ‘Will you go back to Tibet one day?’ I ask him for the first time.

  In spite of his limited Hindi, he understands me immediately, and nods vigorously.

  ‘Soon, soon!’ he exclaims, and raises his walking stick to emphasise, his words.

  Yes, if the Tibetans are able to return to their country, he will be among the first to go back. His heart is still on that high plateau. And like the tortoise, he will be there waiting for the young hare to catch up with him.

  If he goes, I shall certainly miss him on my walks.

  The Long Day

  Suraj was awakened by the sound of his mother busying herself in the kitchen. He lay in bed, looking through the open window at the sky getting lighter and the dawn pushing its way into the room. He knew there was something important about this new day, but for some time he couldn’t remember what it was. Then, as the room cleared, his mind cleared. His school report would be arriving in the post.

  Suraj knew he had failed. The class teacher had told him so. But his mother would only know of it when she read the report, and Suraj did not want to be in the house when she received it. He was sure it would be arriving today. So he had told his mother that he would be having his midday meal with his friend Somi—Somi, who wasn’t even in town at the moment—and would be home only for the evening meal. By that time, he hoped, his mother would have recovered from the shock. He was glad his father was away on tour.

  He slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen. His mother was surprised to see him up so early.

  ‘I’m going for a walk, Ma,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll go on to Somi’s house.’

  ‘Well, have your bath first and put something in your stomach.’

  Suraj went to the tap in the courtyard and took a quick bath. He put on a clean shirt and shorts. Carelessly, he brushed his thick, curly hair, knowing he couldn’t bring much order to its wildness. Then he gulped down a glass of milk and hurried out of the house. The postman wouldn’t arrive for a couple of hours, but Suraj felt that the earlier his start the better. His mother was surprised and pleased to see him up and about so early.

  Suraj was out on the maidaan and still the sun had not risen. The maidaan was an open area of grass, about a hundred square metres, and from the middle of it could be seen the mountains, range upon range of them, stepping into the sky. A game of football was in progress, and one of the players called out to Suraj to join them. Suraj said he wouldn’t play for more than ten minutes, because he had some business to attend to; he kicked off his chappals and ran barefoot after the ball. Everyone was playing barefoot. It was an informal game, and the players were of all ages and sizes, from bearded Sikhs to small boys of six or seven. Suraj ran all over the place without actually getting in touch with the ball—he wasn’t much good at football—and finally got into a scramble before the goal, fell and scratched his knee. He retired from the game even sooner than he had intended.

  The scratch wasn’t bad but there was some blood on his knee. He wiped it clean with his handkerchief and limped off the maidaan. He went in the direction of the railway station, but not through the bazaar. He went by way of the canal, which came from the foot of the nearest mountain, flowed through the town and down to the river. Beside the canal were the washerwomen, scrubbing and beating out clothes on the stone banks.

  The canal was only a metre wide but, due to recent rain, the current was swift and noisy. Suraj stood on the bank, watching the rush of water. There was an inlet at one place, and here some children were bathing, and some were rushing up and down the bank, wearing nothing at all, shouting to each other in high spirits. Suraj felt like taking a dip too, but he did not know any of the children here; most of them were from very poor families. Hands in pockets, he walked along the canal banks.

  The sun had risen and was pouring through the branches of the trees that lined the road. The leaves made shadowy patterns on the ground. Suraj tried hard not to think of his school report, but he knew that at any moment now the postman would be handing over a long brown envelope to his mother. He tried to imagine his mother’s expression when she read the report; but the more he tried to picture her face, the more certain he was that, on knowing his result, she would show no expression at all. And having no expression on her face was much worse than having one.

  Suraj heard the whistle of a train, and knew he was not far from the station. He cut through a field, climbed a hillock and ran down the slope until he was near the railway tracks. Here came the train, screeching and puffing: in the distance, a big black beetle, and then, when the carriages swung into sight, a centipede.

  Suraj stood a good twenty metres away from the lines, on the slope of the hill. As the train passed, he pulled the handkerchief off his knee and began to wave it furiously. There was something about passing trains that filled him with awe and excitement. All those passengers, with mysterious lives and mysterious destinations, were people he wanted to know, people whose mysteries he wanted to unfold. He had been in a train recently, when his parents had taken him to bathe in the sacred river, Ganga, at Haridwar. He wished he could be in a train now; or, better still, be an engine-driver, with no more books and teachers and school reports. He did not know of any thirteen-year-old engine-drivers, but he saw himself driving the engine, shouting orders to the stoker; it made him feel powerful to be in control of a mighty steam-engine.

  Someone—another boy—returned his wave, and the two waved at each other for a few seconds, and then the train had passed, its smoke spiralling backwards.

  Suraj felt a little lonely now. Somehow, the passing of the train left him with a feeling of being alone in a wide, empty world. He was feeling hungry too. He went back to the field where he had seen some lichi trees, climbed into one of them and began plucking and peeling and eating the juicy red-skinned fruit. No one seemed to own the lichi trees because, although a dog appeared below and began barking, no one else appeared. Suraj kept spitting lichi seeds at the dog, and the dog kept barking at him. Eventually, the dog lost interest and slunk off.

  Suraj began to feel drowsy in the afternoon heat. The lichi trees offered a lot of shade below, so he came down from the tree and sat on the grass, his back resting against the tree-trunk. A mynah-bird came hopping up to his feet and looked at him curiously, its head to one side.

  Insects kept buzzing around Suraj. He swiped at them once or twice, but then couldn’t make the effort to keep swiping. He opened his shirt buttons. The air was very hot, very still; the only sound was the faint buzzing of the insects. His head fell forward on his chest.

  He opened his eyes to find himself being shaken, and looked up into the round, cheerful face of his friend Ranji.

  ‘What are you doing, sleeping here?’ asked Ranji, who was a couple of years younger than Suraj. ‘Have you run away from home?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Suraj. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘Came for lichis.’

  ‘So did I.’

  They sat together for a while and talked and ate lichis. Then Ranji suggested that they visit the bazaar to eat fried pakoras.

  ‘I haven’t any money,’ said Suraj.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Ranji, who always seemed to be in funds. ‘I have two rupees.’

  So they walked to the bazaar. They crossed the field, walked back past the can
al, skirted the maidaan, came to the clock tower and entered the bazaar.

  The evening crowd had just begun to fill the road, and there was a lot of bustle and noise: the street-vendors called their wares in high, strident voices; children shouted and women bargained. There was a medley of smells and aromas coming from the little restaurants and sweet shops, and a medley of colours in the bangle and kite shops. Suraj and Ranji ate their pakoras, felt thirsty, and gazed at the rows and rows of coloured bottles at the cold drinks shop, where at least ten varieties of sweet, sticky, fizzy drinks were available. But they had already finished the two rupees, so there was nothing for them to do but quench their thirst at the municipal tap.

  Afterwards they wandered down the crowded street, examining the shop-fronts, commenting on the passers-by, and every now and then greeting some friend or acquaintance. Darkness came on suddenly, and then the bazaar was lit up, the big shops with bright electric and neon lights, the street-vendors with oil-lamps. The bazaar at night was even more exciting than during the day.

  They traversed the bazaar from end to end, and when they were at the clock tower again, Ranji said he had to go home, and left Suraj. It was nearing Suraj’s dinnertime and so, unwillingly, he too turned homewards. He did not want it to appear that he was deliberately staying out late because of the school report.

  The lights were on in the front room when he got home. He waited outside, secure in the darkness of the verandah, watching the lighted room. His mother would be waiting for him, she would probably have the report in her hand or on the kitchen shelf, and she would have lots and lots of questions to ask him.

  All the cares of the world seemed to descend on Suraj as he crept into the house.

  ‘You’re late,’ said his mother. ‘Come and have your food.’

  Suraj said nothing, but removed his shoes outside the kitchen and sat down cross-legged on the kitchen floor, which was where he took his meals. He was tired and hungry. He no longer cared about anything.