by Ruskin Bond
‘I’ll try to please everyone,’ said Rusty.
‘You’re a clever person if you can. But I think you are clever.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rusty, and was inwardly amazed at the way he spoke.
*
As Rusty had now met Kishen, Somi suggested that the two should go to the Kapoors’ house together; so that evening, Rusty met Kishen in the bazaar and walked home with him.
There was a crowd in front of the bazaar’s only cinema, and it was getting restive and demonstrative.
One had to fight to get into this particular cinema, as there was no organized queuing or booking.
‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Rusty.
‘Oh, no,’ said Kishen, ‘it is just Laurel and Hardy today, they are very popular. Whenever a popular film is shown, there is usually a riot. But I know of a way in through the roof, I’ll show you some time.’
‘Sounds crazy.’
‘Yeah, the roof leaks, so people usually bring their umbrellas. Also their food, because when the projector breaks down or the electricity fails, we have to wait a long time. Sometimes, when it is a long wait, the chaat-walla comes in and does some business.’
‘Sounds crazy,’ repeated Rusty.
‘You’ll get used to it. Have a chewing-gum.’
Kishen’s jaws had been working incessantly on a lump of gum that had been increasing in size over the last three days; he started on a fresh stick every hour or so, without throwing away the old ones. Rusty was used to seeing Indians chew paan, the betel-leaf preparation which stained the mouth with red juices, but Kishen wasn’t like any of the Indians Rusty had met so far. He accepted a stick of gum, and the pair walked home in silent concentration, their jaws moving rhythmically, and Kishen’s tongue making sudden sucking sounds.
As they entered the front room, Meena Kapoor pounced on Kishen.
‘Ah! So you have decided to come home at last! And what do you mean by asking Daddy for money without letting me know? What have you done with it, Kishen bhaiya? Where is it?’
Kishen sauntered across the room and deposited himself on the couch.‘I’ve spent it.’
Meena’s hands went to her hips. ‘What do you mean, you’ve spent it!’
‘I mean I’ve eaten it.’
He got two resounding slaps across his face, and his flesh went white where his mother’s fingers left their mark. Rusty backed towards the door; it was embarrassing to be present at this intimate family scene.
‘Don’t go, Rusty,’ shouted Kishen, ‘or she won’t stop slapping me!’
Kapoor, still wearing his green dressing-gown and beard, came in from the adjoining room, and his wife turned on him.
‘Why do you give the child so much money?’ she demanded. ‘You know he spends it on nothing but bazaar food and makes himself sick.’
Rusty seized at the opportunity of pleasing the whole family; of saving Mr Kapoor’s skin, pacifying his wife, and gaining the affection and regard of Kishen.
‘It is all my fault,’ he said, ‘I took Kishen to the chaat shop. I’m very sorry.’
Meena Kapoor became quiet and her eyes softened; but Rusty resented her kindly expression because he knew it was prompted by pity—pity for him—and a satisfied pride. Meena was proud because she thought her son had shared his money with one who apparently hadn’t any.
‘I did not see you come in,’ she said.
‘I only wanted to explain about the money.’
‘Come in, don’t be shy.’
Meena’s smile was full of kindness, but Rusty was not looking for kindness; for no apparent reason, he felt lonely; he missed Somi, felt lost without him, helpless and clumsy.
‘There is another thing,’ he said, remembering the post of Professor of English.
‘But come in, Mister Rusty …’
It was the first time she had used his name, and the gesture immediately placed them on equal terms. She was a graceful woman, much younger than Kapoor; her features had a clear, classic beauty, and her voice was gentle but firm. Her hair was tied in a neat bun and laced with a string of jasmine flowers.
‘Come in …’
‘About teaching Kishen,’ mumbled Rusty.
‘Come and play carom,’ said Kishen from the couch.‘We are none of us any good. Come and sit down, pardner.’
‘He fancies himself as an American,’ said Meena.‘If ever you see him in the cinema, drag him out.’
The carom board was brought in from the next room, and it was arranged that Rusty partner Mr Kapoor. They began play, but the game didn’t progress very fast because Kapoor kept leaving the table in order to disappear behind a screen, from the direction of which came a tinkle of bottles and glasses. Rusty was afraid of Kapoor getting drunk before he could be approached about the job of teaching Kishen.
‘My wife,’ said Kapoor in a loud whisper to Rusty, ‘does not let me drink in public any more, so I have to do it in a cupboard.’
He looked sad; there were tear-stains on his cheeks; the tears were caused not by Meena’s scolding, which he ignored, but by his own self-pity; he often cried for himself, usually in his sleep.
Whenever Rusty pocketed one of the carom men, Kapoor exclaimed,‘Ah, nice shot, nice shot!’ as though it were a cricket match they were playing. ‘But hit it slowly, slowly …’ And when it was his turn, he gave the striker a feeble push, moving it a bare inch from his finger.
‘Play properly,’ murmured Meena, who was intent on winning the game; but Kapoor would be up from his seat again, and the company would sit back and wait for the tune of clinking glass.
It was a very irritating game. Kapoor insisted on showing Rusty how to strike the men; and whenever Rusty made a mistake, Meena said ‘thank you’ in an amused and conceited manner that angered the boy. When she and Kishen had cleared the board of whites, Kapoor and Rusty were left with eight blacks.
‘Thank you,’ said Meena sweetly.
‘We are too good for you,’ scoffed Kishen, busily arranging the board for another game.
Kapoor took sudden interest in the proceedings, ‘Who won, I say, who won?’
Much to Rusty’s disgust, they began another game, and with the same partners; but they had just started when Kapoor flopped forward and knocked the carom board off the table. He had fallen asleep. Rusty took him by the shoulders, eased him back into the chair. Kapoor’s breathing was heavy; saliva had collected at the sides of his mouth, and he snorted a little.
Rusty thought it was time he left. Rising from the table, he said,‘I will have to ask another time about the job …’
‘Hasn’t he told you as yet?’ said Meena.
‘What?’
‘That you can have the job.’
‘Can I!’exclaimed Rusty.
Meena gave a little laugh.‘But of course! Certainly there is no one else who would take it on. Kishen is not easy to teach. There is no fixed pay, but we will give you anything you need. You are not our servant. You will be doing us a favour by giving Kishen some of your knowledge and conversation and company, and in return we will be giving you our hospitality. You will have a room of your own, and your food you will have with us. What do you think?’
‘Oh, it is wonderful!’ said Rusty.
And it was wonderful, and he felt gay and light-headed, and all the troubles in the world scurried away. He even felt successful: he had a profession. And Meena Kapoor was smiling at him, and looking more beautiful than she really was, and Kishen was saying:
‘Tomorrow you must stay till twelve o’clock, all right, even if Daddy goes to sleep. Promise me?’
Rusty promised.
An unaffected enthusiasm was bubbling up in Kishen; it was quite different to the sulkiness of his usual manner.Rusty had liked him in spite of the younger boy’s unattractive qualities, and now liked him more; for Kishen had taken Rusty into his home and confidence without knowing him very well and without asking any questions. Kishen was a scoundrel, a monkey—crude and well-spoilt—but for him t
o have taken a liking to Rusty (and Rusty held himself in high esteem), he must have some virtues … or so Rusty reasoned.
His mind, while he walked back to Somi’s house, dwelt on his relationship with Kishen; but his tongue, when he loosened it in Somi’s presence, dwelt on Meena Kapoor. And when he lay down to sleep, he saw her in his mind’s eye, and for the first time took conscious note of her beauty, of her warmth and softness; and made up his mind that he would fall in love with her.
10
Mr Harrison was back to normal in a few days, and telling everyone of Rusty’s barbaric behaviour.‘If he wants to live like an animal, he can. He left my house of his own free will, and I feel no responsibility for him. It’s his own fault if he starves to death.’
The missionary’s wife said,‘But I do hope you will forgive him if he returns.’
‘I will, madam. I have to. I’m his legal guardian. And I hope he doesn’t return.’
‘Oh, Mr Harrison, he’s only a boy …’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘I’m sure he’ll come back.’
Mr Harrison shrugged indifferently.
*
Rusty’s thoughts were far from his guardian. He was listening to Meena Kapoor tell him about his room, and he gazed into her eyes all the time she talked.
‘It is a very nice room,’ she said,‘but of course there is no water or electricity or lavatory.’
Rusty was bathing in the brown pools of her eyes.
She said, ‘You will have to collect your water at the big tank, and for the rest, you will have to do it in the jungle …’
Rusty thought he saw his own gaze reflected in her eyes.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘You can give Kishen his lessons in the morning until twelve o’clock. Then no more, then you have your food.’
‘Then?’
He watched the movement of her lips.
‘Then nothing, you do what you like, go out with Kishen or Somi or any of your friends.’
‘Where do I teach Kishen?’
‘On the roof, of course.’
Rusty retrieved his gaze, and scratched his head. The roof seemed a strange place for setting up school.
‘Why the roof?’
‘Because your room is on the roof.’
*
Meena led the boy round the house until they came to a flight of steps, unsheltered, that went up to the roof. They had to hop over a narrow drain before climbing the steps.
‘This drain,’ warned Meena, ‘is very easy to cross. But when you are coming downstairs be sure not to take too big a step because then you might bump the wall on the other side or fall over the stove which is usually there …’
‘I’ll be careful,’ said Rusty.
They began climbing, Meena in the lead. Rusty watched Meena’s long, slender feet. The slippers she wore consisted only of two straps that passed between her toes, and the backs of the slippers slapped against her heels like Somi’s, only the music—like the feet—was different …
‘Another thing about these steps,’continued Meena,‘there are twenty-two of them. No, don’t count, I have already done so … But remember, if you are coming home in the dark, be sure you take only twenty-two steps, because if you don’t, then’—and she snapped her fingers in the air—‘you will be finished! After twenty-two steps you turn right and you find the door, here it is. If you do not turn right and you take twenty-three steps, you will go over the edge of the roof!’
They both laughed, and suddenly Meena took Rusty’s hand and led him into the room.
It was a small room, but this did not matter much as there was very little in it: only a string bed, a table, a shelf and a few nails in the wall. In comparison to Rusty’s room in his guardian’s house, it wasn’t even a room: it was four walls, a door and a window.
The door looked out on the roof, and Meena pointed through it, at the big round water-tank.
‘That is where you bathe and get your water,’ she said.
‘I know, I went with Somi.’
There was a big mango tree behind the tank, and Kishen was sitting in its branches, watching them. Surrounding the house were a number of litchi trees, and in the summer they and the mango would bear fruit.
Meena and Rusty stood by the window in silence, hand in hand. Rusty was prepared to stand there, holding hands for ever. Meena felt a sisterly affection for him; but he was stumbling into love.
From the window they could see many things. In the distance, towering over the other trees, was the Flame of the Forest, its flowers glowing red-hot against the blue of the sky. Through the window came a shoot of pink bougainvillaea creeper; and Rusty knew he would never cut it; and so he knew he would never be able to shut the window.
Meena said,‘If you do not like it, we will find another …’
Rusty squeezed her hand, smiled into her eyes and said, ‘But I like it. This is the room I want to live in. And do you know why? Because it isn’t a real room, that’s why!’
*
The afternoon was warm, and Rusty sat beneath the big banyan tree that grew behind the house, a tree that was almost a house in itself; its spreading branches drooped to the ground and took new root, forming a maze of pillared passages. The tree sheltered scores of birds and squirrels.
A squirrel stood in front of Rusty. It looked at him from between its legs, its tail in the air, back arched gracefully and nose quivering excitedly.
‘Hullo,’ said Rusty.
The squirrel brushed its nose with its forepaw, winked at the boy, hopped over his leg, and ran up a pillar of the banyan tree.
Rusty leant back against the broad trunk of the banyan, and listened to the lazy drone of the bees, the squeaking of the squirrels and the incessant bird talk.
He thought of Meena and of Kishen, and felt miserably happy; and then he remembered Somi and the chaat shop.
*
The chaat-walla, that god of the tikkees, handed Rusty a leaf bowl, and prepared aloo chhole: first sliced potatoes, then peas, then red and gold chilli powders, then a sprinkling of juices, then he shook it all up and down in the leaf bowl and, in a simplicity, the aloo chhole was ready.
Somi removed his slippers, crossed his legs, and looked a question.
‘It’s fine,’ said Rusty.
‘You are sure?’
There was concern in Somi’s voice, and his eyes seemed to hesitate a little before smiling with the mouth.
‘It’s fine,’ said Rusty.‘I’ll soon get used to the room.’
There was a silence. Rusty concentrated on the aloo chhole, feeling guilty and ungrateful.
‘Ranbir has gone,’ said Somi.
‘Oh, he didn’t even say goodbye!’
‘He has not gone for ever. And anyway, what would be the use of saying goodbye …’
He sounded depressed. He finished his aloo chhole and said,‘Rusty,best favourite friend, if you don’t want this job I’ll find you another.’
‘But I like it, Somi, I want it, really I do.You are trying to do too much for me. Mrs Kapoor is wonderful, and Mr Kapoor is good fun, and Kishen is not so bad, you know … Come on to the house and see the room. It’s the kind of room in which you write poetry or create music.’
They walked home in the evening. The evening was full of sounds. Rusty noticed the sounds because he was happy, and a happy person notices things.
Carriages passed them on the road, creaking and rattling, wheels squeaking, hoofs resounding on the ground; and the whip cracks above the horse’s ear, and the driver shouts, and round go the wheels, squeaking and creaking, and the hoofs go clippety-clippety, clip-clop-clop …
A bicycle came swishing through the puddles, the wheels purring and humming smoothly, the bell tinkling … In the bushes there was the chatter of sparrows and seven-sisters, but Rusty could not see them no matter how hard he looked.
And there were footsteps …
Their own footsteps, quiet and thoughtful; and ahead of them a
n old man, with a dhoti round his legs and a black umbrella in his hand, walking at a clockwork pace. At each alternate step he tapped with his umbrella on the pavement; he wore noisy shoes, and his footsteps echoed off the pavement to the beat of the umbrella. Rusty and Somi quickened their own steps, passed him by, and let the endless tapping die on the wind.
They sat on the roof for an hour, watching the sun set; and Somi sang.
Somi had a beautiful voice, clear and mellow, matching the serenity of his face. And when he sang, his eyes wandered into the night, and he was lost to the world and to Rusty; for when he sang of the stars he was of the stars, and when he sang of a river he was a river. He communicated his mood to Rusty, as he could not have done in plain language; and, when the song ended, the silence returned and all the world fell asleep.
11
Rusty watched the dawn blossom into light.
At first everything was dark, then gradually objects began to take shape—the desk and chair, the walls of the room—and the darkness lifted like the raising of a veil, and over the tree-tops the sky was streaked with crimson. It was like this for some time, while everything became clearer and more distinguishable; and then, when nature was ready, the sun reached up over the trees and hills, and sent one tentative beam of warm light through the window. Along the wall crept the sun, across to the bed, and up the boy’s bare legs, until it was caressing his entire body and whispering to him to get up, get up, it is time to get up …
Rusty blinked. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around. It was his first morning in the room, and perched on the window-sill was a small brown and yellow bird, a maina, looking at him with its head cocked to one side. The maina was a common sight, but this one was unusual: it was bald: all the feathers had been knocked off its head in a series of fights.
Rusty wondered if he should get up and bathe, or wait for someone to arrive. But he didn’t wait long. Something bumped him from under the bed.