The Room on the Roof

by Ruskin Bond

  Suddenly the engines spluttered and choked, and the car came to a standstill.

  ‘We are stuck,’ said Kapoor.

  ‘That,’ said Meena bitingly, ‘is obvious. Now I suppose

  you want us all to get out and push?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  Kishen had his shoes off in a flash, and was leaping about in the water with great abandon. The water reached up to his knees and, as he hadn’t been swept off his feet, the others followed his example.

  Meena hitched up her sari to the thighs, and stepped gingerly into the current. Her legs, so seldom exposed, were very fair in contrast to her feet and arms, but they were strong and nimble, and she held herself erect. Rusty stumbled to her side, intending to aid her; but ended up clinging to her dress for support. Suri was not to be seen anywhere.

  ‘Where is Suri?’ said Meena.

  ‘Here,’ said a muffled voice from the floor of the dickey. ‘I’ve got sick. I can’t push.’

  ‘All right,’ said Meena. ‘But you’ll clean up the mess yourself.’

  Somi and Kishen were looking for fish. Kapoor tootled the horn.

  ‘Are you all going to push?’ he said, ‘or are we going to have the picnic in the middle of the river?’

  Rusty was surprised at Kapoor’s unusual display of common sense; when sober, Mr Kapoor did sometimes have moments of sanity.

  Everyone put their weight against the car, and pushed with all their strength; and, as the car moved slowly forward, Rusty felt a thrill of health and pleasure run through his body. In front of him, Meena pushed silently, the muscles of her thighs trembling with the strain. They all pushed silently, with determination; the sweat ran down Somi’s face and neck, and Kishen’s jaws worked desperately on his chewing-gum. But Kapoor sat in comfort behind the wheel, pressing and pulling knobs, and saying ‘harder, push harder’, and Suri began to be sick again. Prickly Heat was strangely quiet, and it was assumed that the dog was sick too.

  With one last final heave, the car was moved up the opposite bank and on to the straight. Everyone groaned and flopped to the ground. Meena’s hands were trembling.

  ‘You shouldn’t have pushed,’ said Rusty.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ she said, smiling at him.‘Help me to get up.’

  He rose and, taking her hand, pulled her to her feet. They stood together, holding hands. Kapoor fiddled around with starters and chokes and things.

  ‘It won’t go,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to look at the engine. We might as well have the picnic here.’

  So out came the food and lemonade bottles and, miraculously enough, out came Suri and Prickly Heat, looking as fit as ever.

  ‘Hey,’ said Kishen, ‘we thought you were sick. I suppose you were just making room for lunch.’

  ‘Before he eats anything,’ said Somi, ‘he’s going to get wet. Let’s take him for a swim.’

  Somi, Kishen and Rusty caught hold of Suri and dragged him along the river bank to a spot downstream where the current was mild and the water warm and waist-high. They unrobed Suri, took off their own clothes, and ran down the sandy slope to the water’s edge; feet splashed ankle-deep, calves thrust into the current, and then the ground suddenly disappeared beneath their feet.

  Somi was a fine swimmer; his supple limbs cut through the water and,when he went under, he was almost as powerful; the chequered colours of his body could be seen first here and then there, twisting and turning, diving and disappearing for what seemed like several minutes, and then coming up under someone’s feet.

  Rusty and Kishen were amateurs. When they tried swimming underwater, their bottoms remained on the surface, having all the appearance of floating buoys. Suri couldn’t swim at all but, though he was often out of his depth and frequently ducked, managed to avoid his death by drowning.

  They heard Meena calling them for food, and scrambled up the bank, the dog yapping at their heels. They ate in the shade of a poinsettia tree, whose red long-fingered flowers dropped sensually to the running water; and when they had eaten, lay down to sleep or drowse the afternoon away.

  When Rusty awoke, it was evening, and Kapoor was tinkering about with the car, muttering to himself, a little cross because he hadn’t had a drink since the previous night. Somi and Kishen were back in the river, splashing away, and this time they had Prickly Heat for company. Suri wasn’t in sight. Meena stood in a clearing at the edge of the forest.

  Rusty went to Meena, but she wandered into the thicket. The boy followed. She must have expected him, for she showed no surprise at his appearance.

  ‘Listen to the jungle,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  That’s what I mean. Listen to nothing.’

  They were surrounded by silence; a dark, pensive silence, heavy, scented with magnolia and jasmine.

  It was shattered by a piercing shriek, a cry that rose on all sides, echoing against the vibrating air; and, instinctively, Rusty put his arm round Meena—whether to protect her or to protect himself, he did not really know—and held her tight.

  ‘It is only a bird,’ she said, ‘of what are you afraid?’

  But he was unable to release his hold, and she made no effort to free herself. She laughed into his face, and her eyes danced in the shadows. But he stifled her laugh with his lips.

  It was a clumsy, awkward kiss, but fiercely passionate, and Meena responded, tightening the embrace, returning the fervour of the kiss. They stood together in the shadows, Rusty intoxicated with beauty and sweetness, Meena with freedom and the comfort of being loved.

  A monkey chattered shrilly in a branch above them, and the spell was broken.

  ‘Oh, Meena …’

  ‘Shh … you spoil these things by saying them.’

  ‘Oh, Meena . . .’

  They kissed again, but the monkey set up such a racket that they feared it would bring Kapoor and the others to the spot. So they walked through the trees, holding hands.

  They were barefooted, but they did not notice the thorns and brambles that pricked their feet; they walked through heavy foliage, nettles and long grass, until they came to a clearing and a stream.

  Rusty was conscious of a wild urge, a desire to escape from the town and its people, and live in the forest with Meena, with no one but Meena …

  As though conscious of his thoughts, she said, ‘This is where we drink. In the trees we eat and sleep, and here we drink.’

  She laughed, but Rusty had a dream in his heart. The pebbles on the bed of the stream were round and smooth, taking the flow of water without resistance. Only weed and rock could resist water: only weed or rock could resist life.

  ‘It would be nice to stay in the jungle,’ said Meena.

  ‘Let us stay …’

  ‘We will be found. We cannot escape—from—others …’

  ‘The jungle is big.’

  ‘Even the world is too small. Maybe there is more freedom in your little room than in all the jungle and all the world.’

  Rusty pointed to the stream and whispered,‘Look!’

  Meena looked, and at the same time a deer looked up. They looked at each other with startled, fascinated eyes, the deer and Meena. It was a spotted chital, a small animal with delicate, quivering limbs and muscles, and young green antlers.

  Rusty and Meena did not move, nor did the deer; they might have gone on staring at each other all night if somewhere a twig hadn’t snapped sharply.

  At the snap of the twig, the deer jerked its head up with a start, lifted one foot pensively, sniffed the air, then leapt the stream and, in a single bound, disappeared into the forest.

  The spell was broken, the magic lost. Only the water ran on and life ran on.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ said Meena.

  They walked back through the dappled sunlight, swinging their clasped hands like two children who had only just discovered love.

  Their hands parted as they reached the river-bed.

&nb
sp; Miraculously enough, Kapoor had started the car, and was waving his arms and shouting to everyone to come home. Everyone was ready to start back except for Suri and Prickly Heat, who were nowhere to be seen. Nothing, thought Meena, would have been better than for Suri to disappear for ever, but unfortunately she had taken full responsibility for his well-being, and did not relish the thought of facing his strangely affectionate mother.So she asked Rusty to shout for him.

  Rusty shouted, and Meena shouted, and Somi shouted, and then they all shouted together, only Suri didn’t shout.

  ‘He’s up to his tricks,’ said Kishen. ‘We shouldn’t have brought him. Let’s pretend we’re leaving, then he’ll be scared.’

  So Kapoor started the engine, and everyone got in, and it was only then that Suri came running from the forest, the dog at his heels, his shirt-tails flapping in the breeze, his hair wedged between his eyes and his spectacles.

  ‘Hey, wait for us!’ he cried.‘Do you want me to die?’

  Kishen mumbled in the affirmative, and swore quietly.

  ‘We thought you were in the dickey,’ said Rusty.

  Suri and Prickly Heat climbed into the dickey, and at the same time the car entered the river with a determined splashing and churning of wheels, to emerge the victor.

  Everyone cheered, and Somi gave Kapoor such an enthusiastic slap on the back that the pleased recipient nearly caught his head in the steering-wheel.

  It was dark now, and all that could be seen of the countryside was what the headlights showed. Rusty had hopes of seeing a panther or tiger, for this was their territory, but only a few goats blocked the road. However, for the benefit of Suri, Somi told a story of a party that had gone for an outing in a car and, on returning home, had found a panther in the dickey.

  Kishen fell asleep just before they reached the outskirts of Dehra, his fuzzy head resting on Rusty’s shoulder. Rusty felt protectively towards the boy, for a bond of genuine affection had grown between the two. Somi was Rusty’s best friend, in the same way that Ranbir was a friend, and their friendship was on a high emotional plane. But Kishen was a brother more than a friend. He loved Rusty, but without knowing or thinking or saying it, and that is the love of a brother.

  Somi began singing. Then the town came in sight, the bazaar lights twinkling defiance at the starry night.

  13

  Rusty and Mr Harrison met in front of the town’s main grocery store, the ‘wine and general merchant’s’; it was part of the smart shopping centre, alien to the bazaar but far from the European community—and thus neutral ground for Rusty and Mr Harrison.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Harrison,’ said Rusty, confident of himself and deliberately omitting the customary ‘sir’.

  Mr Harrison tried to ignore the boy, but found him blocking the way to the car. Not wishing to lose his dignity, he decided to be pleasant.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ he said, ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’

  ‘I found a job,’ said Rusty, taking the opportunity of showing his independence. ‘I meant to come and see you, but didn’t get the time.’

  ‘You’re always welcome. The missionary’s wife often speaks of you, she’d be glad to see you. By the way, what’s your job?’

  Rusty hesitated; he did not know how his guardian would take the truth—probably with a laugh or a sneer (‘you’re teaching!’)—and decided to be mysterious about his activities.

  ‘Baby-sitting,’ he replied, with a disarming smile.‘Anyway, I’m not starving. And I’ve got many friends.’

  Mr Harrison’s face darkened, and the corners of his mouth twitched; but he remembered that times had changed, and that Rusty was older and also free, and that he wasn’t in his own house; he controlled his temper.

  ‘I can get you a job,’ he said.‘On a tea estate. Or, if you like to go abroad, I have friends in Guiana . . .’

  ‘I like baby-sitting,’ said Rusty.

  Mr Harrison smiled, got into the car, and lit a cigarette before starting the engine. ‘Well, as I said, you’re always welcome in the house.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rusty.‘Give my regards to the sweeper boy.’

  The atmosphere was getting tense.

  ‘Why don’t you come and see him some time?’ said Mr Harrison, as softly and as malevolently as he could.

  It was just as well the engine had started.

  ‘I will,’ said Rusty.

  ‘I kicked him out,’ said Mr Harrison, putting his foot down on the accelerator and leaving Rusty in a cloud of dust.

  But Rusty’s rage turned to pleasure when the car almost collided with a stationary bullock-cart, and a uniformed policeman brought it to a halt. With the feeling that he had been the master of the situation, Rusty walked homewards.

  The litchi trees were covered with their pink-skinned fruit, and the mangoes were almost ripe. The mango is a passionate fruit, its inner gold sensuous to the lips and tongue. The grass had not yet made up its mind to remain yellow or turn green, and would probably keep its dirty colour until the monsoon rains arrived.

  Meena met Rusty under the banana trees.

  ‘I am bored,’ she said,‘so I am going to give you a haircut. Do you mind?’

  ‘I will do anything to please you. But don’t take it all off.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘I love you.’

  Rusty was wrapped up in a sheet and placed on a chair. He looked up at Meena, and their eyes met, laughing, blue and brown.

  Meena cut silently, and the fair hair fell quickly, softly, lightly to the ground. Rusty enjoyed the snip of the scissors, and the sensation of lightness; it was as though his mind was being given more room in which to explore.

  Kishen came loafing around the corner of the house, still wearing his pyjamas, which were rolled up to the knees. When he saw what was going on, he burst into laughter.

  ‘And what is so funny?’ said Rusty.

  ‘You!’ spluttered Kishen. ‘Where is your hair, your beautiful golden hair? Has Mummy made you become a monk? Or have you got ringworm? Or fleas? Look at the ground, all that beautiful hair!’

  ‘Don’t be funny,Kishen bhaiya,’ said Meena,‘or you will get the same treatment.’

  ‘Is it so bad?’ asked Rusty anxiously.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ said Meena.

  ‘I love you.’

  Meena glanced swiftly at Kishen to see if he had heard the last remark, but he was still laughing at Rusty’s haircut and prodding his nose for all he was worth.

  ‘Rusty, I have a favour to ask you,’ said Meena. ‘Mr Kapoor and I may be going to Delhi for a few weeks, as there is a chance of him getting a good job. We are not taking Kishen bhaiya, as he is only nuisance value, so will you look after him and keep him out of mischief? I will leave some money with you. About how much will you need for two weeks?’

  ‘When are you going?’ asked Rusty, already in the depths of despair.

  ‘How much will you need?’

  ‘Oh, fifty rupees … but when—’

  ‘A hundred rupees!’interrupted Kishen.‘Oh boy,Rusty, we’ll have fun!’

  ‘Seventy-five,’ said Meena, as though driving a bargain, ‘and I’ll send more after two weeks. But we should be back by then. There, Rusty, your haircut is complete.’

  But Rusty wasn’t interested in the result of the haircut; he felt like sulking; he wanted to have some say in Meena’s plans, he felt he had a right to a little power.

  That evening, in the front room, he didn’t talk much. Nobody spoke. Kishen lay on the ground, stroking his stomach, his toes tracing imaginary patterns on the wall. Meena looked tired; wisps of hair had fallen across her face, and she did not bother to brush them back. She took Kishen’s foot and gave it a pull.

  ‘Go to bed,’ she said.

  ‘Not tired.’

  ‘Go to bed, or you’ll get a slap.’

  Kishen laughed defiantly, but got up from the floor and ambled out of the room.

  ‘And don’t wake
Daddy,’ she said.

  Kapoor had been put to bed early, as Meena wanted him to be fresh and sober for his journey to Delhi and his interviews there. But every now and then he would wake up and call out for something—something unnecessary, so that after a while no one paid any attention to his requests. He was like an irritable invalid, to be humoured and tolerated.

  ‘Are you not feeling well, Meena?’ asked Rusty. ‘If you like, I’ll also go.’

  ‘I am only tired, don’t go …’

  She went to the window and drew the curtains and put out the light. Only the table lamp burned. The lampshade was decorated with dragons and butterflies—it was a Chinese lampshade—and, as Rusty sat gazing at the light, the dragons began to move and the butterflies flutter. He couldn’t see Meena, but felt her presence across the room.

  She turned from the window; and silently, with hardly a rustle, slipped to the ground. Her back against the couch, her head resting against the cushion, she looked up at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke.

  From the next room came sounds of Kishen preparing for the night, one or two thumps and a muttered imprecation. Kapoor snored quietly to himself, and the rest was silence.

  Rusty’s gaze left the revolving dragons and prancing butterflies to settle on Meena, who sat still and tired, her feet lifeless against the table legs, her slippers fallen to the ground. In the lamplight, her feet were like jade.

  A moth began to fly round the lamp, and it went round and round and closer, till—with a sudden plop—it hit the lampshade and fell to the ground. But Rusty and Meena were still silent, their breathing the only conversation.

  14

  During the day, flies circled the room with feverish buzzing, and at night the mosquitoes came singing in one’s ears; summer days were hot and sticky, the nights breathless.

  Rusty covered his body in citronella oil, which had been given him by Somi’s mother; its smell, while pleasant to his own senses, was repugnant to mosquitoes.

  When Rusty rubbed the oil on his limbs he noticed the change in his physique. He had lost his puppy fat, and there was more muscle to his body; his complexion was a healthier colour, and his pimples had almost disappeared. Nearly everyone had advised him about his pimples: drink dahi, said Somi’s mother, don’t eat fat; eat carrots, said Somi; plenty of fruit, mangoes! said Kishen; not at all, oranges; see a doctor, said Meena; have a whisky, said Kapoor: but the pimples disappeared without any of these remedies, and Rusty put it down to his falling in love.