Voting at Fosterganj

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘One of your class-fellows dropped in,’ said his mother. ‘He said your reports were sent out today. They’ll arrive tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow! Suraj felt a great surge of relief.

  But then, just as suddenly, his spirits fell again.

  Tomorrow…a further postponement of the dread moment, another night and another morning something would have to be done about it!

  ‘Ma,’ he said abruptly. ‘Somi has asked me to his house again tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know how his mother puts up with you so often,’ said Suraj’s mother.

  Suraj lay awake in bed, planning the morrow’s activities: a game of cricket or football on the maidaan; perhaps a dip in the canal; a half-hour watching the trains thunder past; and in the evening an hour in the bazaar, among the kites and balloons and rose-coloured fizzy drinks and round dripping syrupy sweets… Perhaps, in the morning, he could persuade his mother to give him two or three rupees… It would be his last rupees for quite some time.

  Home

  ‘The boy’s useless,’ said Mr Kapoor, speaking to his wife but making sure his son could hear. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do with himself when he grows up. He takes no interest in his studies.’

  Suraj’s father had returned from a business trip and was seeing his son’s school report for the first time. ‘Good at cricket,’ said the report. ‘Poor in studies. Does not pay attention in class.’

  Suraj’s mother, a quiet, dignified woman, said nothing. Suraj stood at the window, refusing to speak. He stared out at the light drizzle that whispered across the garden. He had angry black eyes and bushy eyebrows, and he was feeling rebellious.

  His father was doing all the talking. ‘What’s the use of spending money on his education if he can’t show anything for it? He comes home, eats as much as three boys, asks for money, and then goes out to loaf with his friends!’

  Mr Kapoor paused, expecting Suraj to reply and give cause for further scolding; but Suraj knew that silence would irritate his father even more, and there were times when he enjoyed watching his father get irritated.

  ‘Well, I won’t stand for it,’ said Mr Kapoor finally. ‘If you don’t make some effort, my boy, you can leave this house!’ And having at last addressed Suraj directly, he stormed out of the room.

  Suraj remained a few moments at the window. Then he went to the front door, opened it, stepped out into the rain, and banged the door behind him.

  His mother made as if to call out after him, but she thought better of it, and turned and walked into the kitchen.

  Suraj stood in the drizzle, looking back at the house.

  ‘I’ll never go back,’ he said fiercely. ‘I can manage without them. If they want me back, they can come and ask me to return!’

  And he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked down the road with an independent air.

  His fingers came into contact with a familiar crispness, a five rupee note. It was all the money he had in the world. He clutched it tight. He had meant to spend it at the cinema, but now it would have to serve more urgent needs. He wasn’t sure what these needs would be because just now he was angry and his mind wasn’t running on practical lines. He walked blindly, unconscious of the rain, until he reached the maidaan.

  When he reached the maidaan, the sun came out.

  Though there was still a drizzle, the sun seemed to raise Suraj’s spirits at once. He remembered his friend Ranji and decided he would stay with Ranji until he found some sort of work. He knew that if he didn’t find work, he wouldn’t be able to stay away from home for long. He wondered what kind of work a thirteen-year-old could get. He did not fancy delivering newspapers or serving tea in a small tea shop in the bazaar; it was much better being a customer.

  The drizzle ceased altogether, and Suraj hurried across the maidaan and down a quiet road until he reached Ranji’s house. When he went in at the gate, his spirits sank.

  The house was shut. There was a lock on the front door. Suraj went round the house three times but he couldn’t find an open door or window. Perhaps, he thought, the family have gone out for the morning—a picnic or birthday treat; they were sure to be back for lunch. With spirits mounting once again, he strolled leisurely down the road, in the direction of the bazaar.

  Suraj had a weakness for the bazaar, for its crowded variety of goods, its smells and colours and the music playing over the loudspeakers. He lingered now at a tea-and-pakora shop, tempted by the appetizing smells that came from inside; but decided that he would eat at Ranji’s house and spend his money on something other than food. He couldn’t resist the big yellow yo-yo in the toy-seller’s glass case; it was set with pieces of different shine, coloured glass which shone and twinkled in the sunshine.

  ‘How much?’ asked Suraj.

  ‘Two rupees,’ said the shop-keeper. ‘But to a regular customer like you I give it for one rupee.’

  ‘It must be an old one,’ said Suraj, but he paid the rupee and took possession of the yo-yo. He immediately began working it, strolling through the bazaar with the yo-yo swinging up and down from his index finger.

  Fingering the four remaining notes in his pocket, he decided that he was thirsty. Not tap-water, nor a fizzy drink, but only a vanilla milkshake would meet his need. He sat at a table and sucked milkshake through a straw. One eye caught sight of the clock on the wall. It was nearly one o’clock. Ranji and his family should be home by now.

  Suraj slipped off his chair, paid for the drink—that left him with two rupees—and went sauntering down the bazaar road, the yo-yo making soothing sounds beside him.

  Ranji’s house was still shut.

  This was something Suraj hadn’t anticipated. He walked quickly round the house, but it was locked as before. On his second round he met the gardener, an old man over sixty.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ asked Suraj.

  ‘They have gone to Delhi for a week,’ said the gardener, looking sharply at Suraj. ‘Why, is anything the matter?’

  Suraj had never seen the old man before, but he did not hesitate to confide in him. ‘I’ve left home. I was going to stay with Ranji. Now there’s nowhere to go.’

  The old man thought this over for a minute. His face was wrinkled like a walnut, his hands and feet hard and cracked; but his eyes were bright and almost youthful.

  He was a part-time gardener, who worked for several families along the road; there were no big gardens in this part of the town.

  ‘Why don’t you go home again?’ he suggested.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ said Suraj. ‘I haven’t really run away as yet. They must know I’ve run away. Then they’ll feel sorry!’

  The gardener smiled. ‘You should have planned it better,’ he said. ‘Have you saved any money?’ ‘I had five rupees this morning. Now there are two rupees left.’ He looked down at his yo-yo. ‘Would you like to buy it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how to work it,’ said the gardener. ‘The best thing for you to do is to go home, wait till Ranji gets back, and then run away.’

  Suraj considered this interesting advice, and decided that there was something in it. But he didn’t make up his mind right away. A little suspense at home would be a good thing for his parents.

  He returned to the maidaan and sat down on the grass. As soon as he sat down, he felt hungry.

  He had never felt so hungry before. Visions of tandoori chickens and dripping spangled sweets danced before him. He wondered if the toy-seller would take back the yo-yo. He probably would, for half the price; but, as much as Suraj wanted food, he did not want to give up the yo-yo.

  There was nothing to do but go home. His mother, he was sure, would be worried by now. His father (he hoped) would be pacing up and down the verandah, glancing at his watch every few seconds. It would be a lesson to them. He would walk back into the house as if doing them a favour.

  He only hoped they had kept his lunch.

  Suraj walked into the sitting-room and threw his yoyo on the sofa.

  Mr
Kapoor was sitting in his favourite armchair, reading a newspaper prior to going back to his office. He stood up for a moment as Suraj came into the room, said ‘You’re very late,’ and returned to his newspaper.

  Suraj found his mother and his food in the kitchen. She did not speak to him, but was smiling to herself.

  ‘Feeling hungry?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Suraj, and seized the tray and tucked into his food.

  When he returned to the sitting-room he was surprised to see his father fumbling with the yo-yo.

  ‘How do you work this stupid thing?’ said Mr Kapoor.

  Suraj didn’t reply. He just stood there gloating over his father’s clumsiness. At last he couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

  ‘It’s easy,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’ And he took the yo-yo from his father and gave a demonstration.

  When Mrs Kapoor came into the room she did not appear at all surprised to find her husband and son deeply absorbed in the working of a cheap bazaar toy. She was used to such absurdities. Men never really grew up.

  Mr Kapoor had forgotten he was supposed to be returning to his office, and Suraj had forgotten about running away. They had both forgotten the morning’s unpleasantness. That had been a long, long time ago.

  At the Bank

  Yes, those monkeys are at the bank too. They are there before it opens, doing their best to damage the roof; and they are there when it closes, tearing up the geraniums so lovingly planted by the manager.

  I am also there when it opens, having, as usual, run short over the weekend, with the result that all I have in my pocket is a damaged fifty rupee note which I have attempted to repair with Sellotape.

  The bank opens promptly at 10 a.m. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have any money. No, it has not collapsed like the old Mansaram Bank, for which Ganesh Saili still has his father’s chequebook showing a balance of three hundred rupees in 1957; the taxi with the cash (which comes from the main branch) has been caught in a traffic jam due to an unprecedented influx of tourists. This happens occasionally, as there are only two ways in and out of Mussoorie and only one way to Char Dukan.

  Anyway, I pass the time by having a cup of tea with the manager and discussing the latest cricket test match with the cashier.

  He is of the opinion that the result of a match depends on who wins the toss, while I maintain that the game is won by the team that has slept better the night before.

  The cash arrives safely and I emerge into the sunshine to be met by several small boys who demand money for a cricket ball. I part with a new fifty rupee note (the old one having been obligingly changed by the cashier) and then run into several members of Tom Alter’s cricket team, who insist that I join their Invitation XI in a game against the Dhobi Ghat Team, about to be played up at Chey-Tanki flat. (This was before the area got fenced off by the Defence establishment as cricket balls kept sailing into their offices and smashing their computers.)

  Forgetting my age, but remembering my great days as a twelfth man for the Doon Heroes, I consented on condition that a substitute would field in my place. (No longer would I be a twelfth man.)

  Well, the Dhobi Ghat Team put up a good score, and Tom’s Invitation XI was trailing by some sixty or seventy runs, when I came in to bat at number seven. Tom was at the other end, holding the innings together.

  The bowler (who ran a dry-cleaner’s shop in town) was a real speedster, and his first ball caught me in the midriff. I am well padded there (by nature) but I resolved not to use that dry-cleaner’s shop again. The second ball took the edge of my bat and sped away for four.

  ‘Well played, Ruskin!’ called Tom encouragingly, and I resolved to write a part for him in my next story.

  I tapped the third ball into the covers and set off for a run, completely forgetting that I hadn’t taken a run in fifty years. Still, I got to the other end, gasping for breath and trembling in the legs. Next, Tom tapped the ball away and called me for a run! There was no way I was going to join the brave souls sleeping in Jogger’s Park (the name for the Landour cemetery), so I held up my hand and remained rooted to the crease. Tom was halfway down the pitch when the ball hit his stumps and he was run out. The look he gave me as he marched back to the pavilion was as effective as any that he had essayed in his more villainous roles.

  I managed another streaky four before being bowled out, and when I returned to the ‘pavilion’ (the gardener’s shed), Tom sportingly said, ‘You should stick to writing, Ruskin’—quite forgetting that I had out-scored him!

  After that, I had to pay for the refreshments and contribute towards the prize money (won by the Dhobi Ghat Team), and all this necessitated another trip to the bank before closing time. I was home well in time for lunch. My favourite rajma-bean curry with hot chapattis and mango pickle. As it was a Saturday, the kids were home from school, and we all tucked in—except for Gautam who was on a hunger-strike because his promised Saturday ice cream was missing. Then his father arrived and took us for a drive to Dhanaulti, where there was ice cream aplenty.

  Gone are the days when a picnic involved preparing and packing a lunch basket, and then trudging off into the wilderness on a hot and dusty road. People don’t walk anymore. They get into their cars and drive out to a crowded ‘picnic spot’ where dhabas will provide you with national dishes such as chowmein or pizzas. While Indian cuisine has taken over Britain, Chinese and Italian dishes have conquered Indian palates. That’s globalization for you.

  But I miss those picnics of old days. They were leisurely, strung-out affairs. We seemed to have more time on our hands and a picnic meant an entire day’s outing.

  In Simla, we picnicked at the Brockhurst tennis courts (now apartment buildings), or out at Jutogh or Summer Hill, or beyond Chota Simla; but not at Jakko, where the monkeys—hundreds of them—were inclined to join in.

  In Dehradun, we picnicked at Sulphur Springs, or in the hills near Rajpura, or on the banks of the Tons or Suswa rivers. You could also go fishing at Raiwala, just before the Song joins the Ganga. Equipped with rod and line, some friends and I went fishing there, but being inexperts, caught nothing. Some soldiers who were camping there had caught dozens of fish (by stunning them with explosives, I’m afraid) and were generous enough to give us a couple of large singharas. We returned to Dehra with our ‘catch’, and impressed friends and neighbours with our prowess as anglers.

  Here in Mussoorie there was Mossy Falls, the Company Bagh, Clouds End, Haunted Houses and the banks of the little Aglar river.

  I won’t go down to the Aglar again, at least not on foot. Climbing up, ascending from 2,000 to 7,000 feet within a distance of three or four miles takes it out of you. On my first visit, some thirty years ago, I was accompanied by several school children. On our way back, we took the wrong path and lost our way (a frequent occurrence when I’m put in charge), and it was past ten o’clock when we were located by a bunch of anxious and angry parents accompanied by villagers who’d seen me going down. Fortunately, there was a full moon and there were no mishaps on the steep and stony path.

  We went to bed hungry that night.

  On another occasion, well provisioned with parathas, various sabzi, pickles, boiled eggs and bananas, two young friends—Kuku and Deepak—and I, tramped down to the Aglar and spread ourselves out on a grassy knoll. A pool of limpid water looked cool and inviting. We removed our clothes and plunged into the water. Great fun! We romped about, quite oblivious to what might be happening to our provisions. Then one of us looked up and yelled, ‘Monkeys!’ At least six of them were tucking into our lunch. We scrambled up the bank, and the monkeys fled, taking with them the remains of the parathas, the last bananas, and most of our underwear. They had left the pickle for us.

  We were a sorry looking threesome by the time we returned to the town. But we did not go to bed hungry. We had enough money between us for a meal at Neelam’s—the then most popular restaurant on the Mall—and we did full justice to various kababs, koftas, tikkas and tandoori ro
tis.

  ♦

  By now my readers will have come to the conclusion that I am perpetually persecuted by monkeys. And you would not be far wrong, gentle reader. Even as I write, I see one grinning at me from my window. Fortunately the window is closed and he cannot get in. I stick my tongue out at him, and he takes off, finding me far more hideous than his friends and relations. But it wasn’t always like that. Some years ago, when I lived in Maplewood, on the edge of the forest, a little girl monkey would sometimes perch shyly on the windowsill and study me with friendly curiosity. The rest of her tribe showed no interest in me as a person, but this little girl—and I think of her as a human rather than as a monkey—would turn up every morning while I was at my typewriter, and sit there quietly, her eyes intent on me as I tapped out a story or article. Perhaps it was the typewriter that fascinated her. I like to think it was my blue eyes. She had blue eyes too!

  Now it isn’t often that girls take a fancy to me, but I like to think that the little monkey had a crush on me. Her eyes had a gentle, appealing look, and she would make little chuckling sounds that I took for intimate conversation. If I approached, she would leap onto the walnut tree just outside the window and gesture to me to join her there. But my tree-climbing days were already over; and besides, I was afraid of her peers and parents.

  One day I came into the room and found her at the typewriter, playing with the keys. When she saw me, she returned to the window and looked guilty. I looked down at the sheet in my machine. Had she been trying to give me a message? It read something like this—*!;!_1;:0—and there it broke off. I’m convinced she was trying to write the word ‘love’.

  However, I never did find out for sure, and the tribe went away, taking my girl friend with them. I never saw her again. Perhaps they married her off.

  ♦

  Talking of marriages, I am often asked by sympathetic readers why I never married. Now that’s a long, sad story which would be out of place here, but I can tell you the story of my Uncle Bertie and why he never married.