by Ruskin Bond
We were struck with amazement at this and so, it seemed, was the bird. Had the painful lesson already been forgotten, that too by a member of the elephant tribe noted for its ability never to forget? Another dose of the same medicine would serve the booby right.
The cassowary once more began to draw up its fighting leg with sinister determination. It was nearing the true position for the master-kick, kung-fu style, when all of a sudden the baby elephant seized with his trunk the other leg of the cassowary and pulled it down. There was a clumsy flapping of wings, a tremendous swelling of the bird’s wattle, and an undignified getting up, as if it were a floored boxer doing his best to beat the count of ten. The bird then marched off with an attempt to look stately and unconcerned, while we at the breakfast table were convulsed with laughter.
After this the cassowary bird gave the baby elephant as wide a berth as possible. But they were forced not to coexist for very long. The baby elephant, getting bulky and cumbersome, was sold to a zoo where he became a favourite with young visitors who loved to take rides on his back.
As for the cassowary, he continued to grace our veranda for many years, gaped at but not made much of, while entering on a rather friendless old age.
A New Flower
It was the first day of spring (according to the Hindu calendar), but here in the Himalayas it still seemed mid-winter. A cold wind hummed and whistled through the pines, while dark rain-clouds were swept along by the west wind only to be thrust back by the east wind.
I was climbing the steep road to my cottage at the top of the hill when I was overtaken by nine-year-old Usha hurrying back from school. She had tied a scarf round her head to keep her hair from blowing about. Dark hair and eyes, and pink cheeks, were all accentuated by the patches of snow still lying on the hillside.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘A new flower!’ It was a single, butter-yellow blossom, and it stood out like a bright star against the drab winter grass. I hadn’t seen anything like it before, and had no idea what its name might be. No doubt its existence was recorded in some botanical tome. But for me it was a discovery.
‘Shall I pick it for you?’ asked Usha. ‘No, don’t,’ I said. ‘It may be the only one. If we break it, there may not be any more. Let’s leave it there and see if it seeds.’ We scrambled up the slope and examined the flower more closely. It was very delicate and soft-petalled looking as though it might fall at any moment.
‘It will be finished if it rains,’ said Usha. And it did rain that night — rain mingled with sleet and hail. It rattled and swished on the corrugated tin roof; but in the morning the sun came out. I walked up the road without really expecting to see the flower again. And Usha had been right. The flower had disappeared in the storm. But two other buds, unnoticed by us the day before, had opened. It was as though two tiny stars had fallen to earth in the night.
I did not see Usha that day, but the following day, when we met on the road, I showed her the fresh blossoms. And they were still there, two days later, when I passed by, but so were two goats, grazing on the short grass and thorny thickets of the slope. I had no idea if they were partial to these particular flowers, but I did know that goats would eat almost anything and I was taking no chances.
Scrambling up the steep slope, I began to shoo them away. One goat retreated, but the other lowered his horns, gave me a baleful look, and refused to move. It reminded me a little of my grandfather’s pet goat who had once pushed a visiting official into a bed of nasturtiums; so I allowed discretion to be the better part of valour, and backed away.
Just then, Usha came along and, sizing up the situation, came to the rescue. She unfurled her pretty, blue umbrella and advanced on the goat shouting at it in goat language. (She had her own goats at home.) The beast withdrew, and the flowers (and my own dignity) were saved.
As the days grew warmer, the flowers faded and finally disappeared. I forgot all about them, and so did Usha. There were lessons and exams for her to worry about, and rent and electricity bills to occupy a freelance writer’s thoughts.
The months passed, summer and autumn came and went, with their own more showy blooms; and in no time at all, winter returned with cold winds blowing from all directions.
One day I heard Usha calling to me from the hillside. I looked up and saw her standing behind a little cluster of golden star-shaped flowers — not, perhaps, as spectacular as Wordsworth’s field of golden daffodils but, all the same, an enchanting sight for one who had played a small part in perpetuating their existence.
Where there had been one flowering plant, there were now several. Usha and I speculated on the prospect of the entire hillside being covered with the flowers in a few years’ time.
I still do not know the botanical name for the little flower. I can’t remember long Latin names anyway. But Usha tells me that she has seen it growing near her father’s village, on the next mountain, and that the hill people call it ‘Basant’, which means spring.
Although I am just a little disappointed that we are not, after all, the discoverers of a new species, this is outweighed by our pleasure in knowing that the flower flourishes in other places. May it multiply!
POETRY
Boy in a Blue Pullover
Boy in a faded blue pullover,
Poor boy, thin, smiling boy,
Ran down the road shouting,
Singing, flinging his arms wide.
I stood in the way and stopped him.
‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Why are you happy?’
He showed me the nickel rupee-coin.
‘I found it on the road,’ he said.
And he held it to the light
That he might see it shining bright.
‘And how will you spend it,
Small boy in blue pullover?’
‘I’ll buy —
I’ll buy a buckle for my belt!’
Slim boy, smart boy,
Would buy a buckle for his belt
Coin clutched in his hot hand,
He ran off laughing, bright.
The coin I’d lost an hour ago;
But better his that night.
We Three
We three,
We’re not a crowd;
We’re not even company —
My echo,
My shadow,
And me.
Granny’s Tree-Climbing
My grandmother was a genius. You’d like to know why?
Because she could climb trees. Spreading or high,
She’d be up their branches in a trice. And mind you,
When last she climbed a tree, she was sixty-two.
Ever since childhood, she’d had this gift
for being happier in a tree than in a lift;
And though, as years went by, she would be told
That climbing trees should stop when one grew old
And that growing old should be gone about gracefully
She’d laugh and say, ‘Well, I’ll grow old disgracefully.
I can do it better.’ And we had to agree;
For in all the garden there wasn’t a tree
She hadn’t been up, at one time or another
(Having learned to climb from a loving brother
When she was six) but it was feared by all
That one day she’d have a terrible fall.
The outcome was different; while we were in town
She climbed a tree and couldn’t come down!
We went to the rescue, and helped her descend . . .
A doctor took Granny’s temperature and said,
‘I strongly recommend a quiet week in bed.’
We sighed with relief and tucked her up well.
Poor Granny! For her, it was more like a season in hell.
Confined to her bedroom, while every breeze
Whispered of summer and dancing leaves.
But she held her peace till she felt stronger
Then sat up and said, ‘I’ll lie here no longer!’
That a house in a treetop was what she now wanted.
My dad knew his duties. He said, ‘That’s all right
You’ll have what you want, dear, I’ll start work tonight.’
With my expert assistance, he soon finished the chore:
Made her a tree house with windows and a door.
So Granny moved up, and now every day
I climb to her room with glasses and a tray.
She sits there in state and drinks mocktails with me,
Upholding her right to reside in a tree.
Love’s Sad Song
There’s a sweet little girl who lives down the lane,
And she’s so pretty and I’m so plain,
She’s clever and smart and all things good,
And I’m the bad boy of the neighbourhood.
But I’d be her best friend forever and a day
If only she’d smile and look my way.
In a Strange Cafe
Waiter, where’s my soup?
On its way, sir, loop the loop!
Straight from our famous cooking pot,
Here it comes, sir, piping hot!
But waiter, there’s a fly in my soup.
That’s no fly, sir,
That’s your chicken.
The smaller the chicken the better the soup!
Please take it away.
I’ll just have the curry and a plate of rice . . .
The curry’s very good, sir, full of spice!
Waiter, what’s this object that’s floating around?
Just a small beetle, sir,
Homeward bound!
Never mind the curry, just bring me some bread,
I have to eat something before I’m in bed.
What’s on the menu? Hungarian Goulash?
I suppose it’s served up with beetles and mash.
Isn’t there anything else I can eat?
Yes sir, you could try the crow’s feet.
Highly recommended and good for the teeth.
All our best guests
Are most happily fed here.
And where are they now?
All happily dead, sir.
If Mice Could Roar
If mice could roar
And elephants soar,
And trees grow up in the sky;
If tigers could dine
On biscuits and wine,
And the fattest of men could fly!
If pebbles could sing
and bells never ring
And teachers were lost in the post;
If a tortoise could run
And losses be won,
And bullies be buttered on toast;
If a song brought a shower
And a gun grew a flower,
This world would be nicer than most!
My Best Friend
My best friend
Is the baker’s son,
I gave him a book
And he gave me a bun!
I told him a tale
Of a magical lake,
And he liked it so much
That he baked me a cake.
Yes, he’s my best friend —
We go cycling together,
On bright, sunny days,
Or in rain and bad weather.
And if we feel hungry
There’s always a pie
Or a pastry to feast on,
As we go riding by!
The Cat Has Something to Say
Sir, you’re a human and I’m a cat,
And I’m really quite happy to leave it at that.
It doesn’t concern me if you like a dish
Of chicken masala or lobster and fish.
So why all these protests around the house
If for dinner I fancy
A succulent mouse?
Or a careless young sparrow who came my way?
Our natures, dear sir, are really the same:
Flesh, fish or fowl, we both like our game.
Only you take yours curried,
And I take mine plain.
As a Boy
As a boy I stood on the edge of the railway-cutting,
Outside the dark tunnel, my hands touching
The hot rails, waiting for them to tremble
At the coming of the noonday train.
The whistle of the engine hung on the forest’s silence.
Then out of the tunnel, a green-gold dragon
Came plunging, thundering past —
Out of the tunnel, out of the dark.
And the train rolled on, every day
Hundreds of people coming or going or running away —
Goodbye, goodbye !
I haven’t seen you again, bright boy at the carriage window,
Waving to me, calling,
But I’ve loved you all these years and looked for you everywhere,
In cities and villages, beside the sea,
In the mountains, in crowds at distant places;
Returning always to the forest’s silence,
To watch the windows of some passing train . . . .
Mountains in my blood.
The Demon Driver
At driving a car I’ve never been good —
I batter the bumper and damage the hood —
‘Get off the road!’ the traffic cops shout,
‘You’re supposed to go round that roundabout!’
‘I thought it was quicker to drive straight through.’
‘Give us your licence — it’s time to renew.’
I took their advice and handed a fee
To a Babu who looked on this windfall with glee.
‘No problem,’ he said, ‘your licence now pukka,
You may drive all the way from here to Kolkata.’
So away I drove, at a feverish pitch,
Advancing some way down an unseen ditch.
Once back on the highway, I soon joined the fray
Of hundreds of drivers who wouldn’t give way:
I skimmed past a truck and revolved round a van
(Good drivers can do anything that they can)
Then offered a lift to a man with a load —
‘Just a little way down to the end of this road.’
As I pressed on the pedal, the car gave a shudder:
He’d got in at one door, got out at the other.
‘God help you!’ he said, as he hurried away,
‘I’ll come for a drive another fine day!’
I came to that roundabout, round it I sped
Eager to get to my dinner and bed.
Round it I went, and round it once more
‘Get off the road!’ That cop was a bore.
I swung to the left and went clean through a wall,
My neighbour stood there — he looked menacing, tall —
‘This will cost you three thousand,’ he quietly said,
‘And send me your cheque before you’re in bed!’
Alas! my new car was sent for repair,
But my friends gathered round and said, never despair!
‘We are all going to help you to make a fresh start.’
And next day they gave me a nice bullock-cart.
Read More in Puffin
The Room of Many Colours: A Treasury of Stories for Children
Ruskin Bond
‘The subtle nuances in Ruskin Bond’s writing can be experienced while reading the collection of tales brought together in this treasury of stories for children. Bond’s ability to get across the richness of childhood experience gives these tales unusual insight and universality’ — The Hindu
For over five decades, Ruskin Bond has written charming tales that have mesmerized readers of all ages. This collection brings together his finest stories for children in one volume. Filled with a rich cast of characters and superb illustrations, The Room of Many Colours: A Treasury of Stories for Children is a must-read for all Ruskin Bond fans.
THE BEGINNING
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PUFFIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
This collection published 2014
Copyright © Ruskin Bond, 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-143-33262-6
This digital edition published in 2014.
e-ISBN: 978-9-351-18800-1
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 and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.