by Ruskin Bond
‘I’m married,’ said Mr Dayal.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘And what brings you to Shamli?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘I’m looking for a friend called Major Roberts.’
Lin gave an exclamation of surprise. I thought he had seen through my deception.
But another game had begun.
‘I knew him,’ said Lin. ‘A great friend of mine.’
‘Yes,’ continued Lin. I knew him. A good chap, Major Roberts.’
Well, there I was, inventing people to suit my convenience, and people like Mr Lin started inventing relationships with them. I was too intrigued to try and discourage him. I wanted to see how far he would go.
‘When did you meet him?’ asked Lin, taking the initiative.
‘Oh, only about three years back. Just before he disappeared. He was last heard of in Shamli.’
‘Yes, I heard he was here,’ said Lin. ‘But he went away, when he thought his relatives had traced him. He went into the mountains near Tibet.’
‘Did he?’ I said, unwilling to be instructed further. ‘What part of the country? I come from the hills myself. I know the Mana and Niti passes quite well. If you have any idea of exactly where he went, I think I could find him.’ I had the advantage in this exchange because I was the one who had originally invented Roberts. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to end his deception, probably because I felt sorry for him. A happy man wouldn’t take the trouble of inventing friendships with people who didn’t exist. He’d be too busy with friends who did.
‘You’ve had a lonely life, Mr Lin?’ I asked.
‘Lonely?’ said Mr Lin, with forced incredulousness. ‘I’d never been lonely till I came here a month ago. When I was in Singapore. . .’
‘You never get any letters though, do you?’ asked Miss Deeds suddenly.
Lin was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘Do you?’
Miss Deeds lifted her head a little, as a horse does when it is annoyed, and I thought her pride had been hurt, but then she laughed unobtrusively and tossed her head.
‘I never write letters,’ she said. ‘My friends gave me up as hopeless years ago. They know it’s no use writing to me because they rarely get a reply. They call me the Jungle Princess.’
Mr Dayal tittered and I found it hard to suppress a smile. To cover up my smile I asked, ‘You teach here?’
‘Yes, I teach at the girl’s school,’ she said with a frown. ‘But don’t talk to me about teaching. I have enough of it all day.’
‘You don’t like teaching?’
She gave me an aggressive look. ‘Should I?’ she asked.
‘Shouldn’t you?’ I said.
She paused, and then said, ‘Who are you, anyway, the Inspector of Schools?’
‘No,’ said Mr Dayal who wasn’t following very well, ‘he’s a journalist.’
‘I’ve heard they are nosey,’ said Miss Deeds.
Once again Lin interrupted to steer the conversation away from a delicate issue.
‘Where’s Mrs Dayal this morning?’ asked Lin.
‘She spent the night with our neighbours,’ said Mr Dayal. ‘She should be here after lunch.’
It was the first time Mrs Dayal had been mentioned. Nobody spoke either well or ill of her. I suspected that she kept her distance from the others, avoiding familiarity. I began to wonder about Mrs Dayal.
Daya Ram came in from the veranda looking worried.
‘Heera’s dog has disappeared,’ he said. ‘He thinks a leopard took it.’
Heera, the gardener, was standing respectfully outside on the veranda steps. We all hurried out to him, firing questions which he didn’t try to answer.
‘Yes. It’s a leopard,’ said Kiran, appearing from behind Heera. ‘It’s going to come into the hotel,’ she added cheerfully.
‘Be quiet,’ said Satish Dayal crossly.
‘There are pug marks under the trees,’ said Daya Ram.
Mr Dayal, who seemed to know little about leopards or pug marks, said, ‘I will take a look,’ and led the way to the orchard, the rest of us trailing behind in an ill-assorted procession.
There were marks on the soft earth in the orchard (they could have been a leopard’s) which went in the direction of the riverbed. Mr Dayal paled a little and went hurrying back to the hotel. Heera returned to the front garden, the least excited, the most sorrowful. Everyone else was thinking of a leopard but he was thinking of the dog.
I followed him and watched him weeding the sunflower beds. His face was wrinkled like a walnut but his eyes were clear and bright. His hands were thin and bony but there was a deftness and power in the wrist and fingers and the weeds flew fast from his spade. He had a cracked, parchment-like skin. I could not help thinking of the gloss and glow of Daya Ram’s limbs as I had seen them when he was bathing and wondered if Heera’s had once been like that and if Daya Ram’s would ever be like this, and both possibilities—or were they probabilities—saddened me. Our skin, I thought, is like the leaf of a tree, young and green and shiny. Then it gets darker and heavier, sometimes spotted with disease, sometimes eaten away. Then fading, yellow and red, then falling, crumbling into dust or feeding the flames of fire. I looked at my own skin, still smooth, not coarsened by labour. I thought of Kiran’s fresh rose-tinted complexion; Miss Deeds’s skin, hard and dry; Lin’s pale taut skin, stretched tightly across his prominent cheeks and forehead; and Mr Dayal’s grey skin growing thick hair. And I wondered about Mrs Dayal and the kind of skin she would have.
‘Did you have the dog for long?’ I asked Heera.
He looked up with surprise for he had been unaware of my presence.
‘Six years, sahib,’ he said. ‘He was not a clever dog but he was very friendly. He followed me home one day when I was coming back from the bazaar. I kept telling him to go away but he wouldn’t. It was a long walk and so I began talking to him. I liked talking to him and I have always talked to him and we have understood each other. That first night, when I came home, I shut the gate between us. But he stood on the other side looking at me with trusting eyes. Why did he have to look at me like that?’
‘So you kept him?’
‘Yes, I could never forget the way he looked at me. I shall feel lonely now because he was my only companion. My wife and son died long ago. It seems I am to stay here forever, until everyone has gone, until there are only ghosts in Shamli. Already the ghosts are here. . .’
I heard a light footfall behind me and turned to find Kiran. The barefoot girl stood beside the gardener and with her toes began to pull at the weeds.
‘You are a lazy one,’ said the old man. ‘If you want to help me, sit down and use your hands.’
I looked at the girl’s fair round face and in her bright eyes I saw something old and wise. And I looked into the old man’s wise eyes, and saw something forever bright and young. The skin cannot change the eyes. The eyes are the true reflection of a man’s age and sensibilities. Even a blind man has hidden eyes.
‘I hope we find the dog,’ said Kiran. ‘But I would like a leopard. Nothing ever happens here.’
‘Not now,’ sighed Heera. ‘Not now. . . Why, once there was a band and people danced till morning, but now. . .’ He paused, lost in thought and then said: ‘I have always been here. I was here before Shamli.’
‘Before the station?’
‘Before there was a station, or a factory, or a bazaar. It was a village then, and the only way to get here was by bullock cart. Then a bus service was started, then the railway lines were laid and a station built, then they started the sugar factory, and for a few years Shamli was a town. But the jungle was bigger than the town. The rains were heavy and malaria was everywhere. People didn’t stay long in Shamli. Gradually, they went back into the hills. Sometimes I too wanted to go back to the hills, but what is the use when you are old and have no one left in the world except a few flowers in a troublesome garden. I had to choose between the flowers and the hills, and I chose the flowers. I
am tired now, and old, but I am not tired of flowers.’
I could see that his real world was the garden; there was more variety in his flower beds than there was in the town of Shamli. Every month, every day, there were new flowers in the garden, but there were always the same people in Shamli.
I left Kiran with the old man, and returned to my room. It must have been about eleven o’clock.
I was facing the window when I heard my door being opened. Turning, I perceived the barrel of a gun moving slowly round the edge of the door. Behind the gun was Satish Dayal, looking hot and sweaty. I didn’t know what his intentions were; so, deciding it would be better to act first and reason later, I grabbed a pillow from the bed and flung it in his face. I then threw myself at his legs and brought him crashing down to the ground.
When we got up, I was holding the gun. It was an old Enfield rifle, probably dating back to Afghan wars, the kind that goes off at the least encouragement.
‘But—but—why?’ stammered the dishevelled and alarmed Mr Dayal.
‘I don’t know,’ I said menacingly. ‘Why did you come in here pointing this at me?’
‘I wasn’t pointing it at you. It’s for the leopard.’
‘Oh, so you came into my room looking for a leopard? You have, I presume been stalking one about the hotel?’ (By now I was convinced that Mr Dayal had taken leave of his senses and was hunting imaginary leopards.)
‘No, no,’ cried the distraught man, becoming more confused. ‘I was looking for you. I wanted to ask you if you could use a gun. I was thinking we should go looking for the leopard that took Heera’s dog. Neither Mr Lin nor I can shoot.’
‘Your gun is not up-to-date,’ I said. ‘It’s not at all suitable for hunting leopards. A stout stick would be more effective. Why don’t we arm ourselves with lathis and make a general assault?’
I said this banteringly, but Mr Dayal took the idea quite seriously. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said with alacrity, ‘Daya Ram has got one or two lathis in the godown. The three of us could make an expedition. I have asked Mr Lin but he says he doesn’t want to have anything to do with leopards.’
‘What about our Jungle Princess?’ I said. ‘Miss Deeds should be pretty good with a lathi.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Dayal humourlessly, ‘but we’d better not ask her.’
Collecting Daya Ram and two lathis, we set off for the orchard and began following the pug marks through the trees. It took us ten minutes to reach the riverbed, a dry, hot rocky place; then we went into the jungle, Mr Dayal keeping well to the rear. The atmosphere was heavy and humid, and there was not a breath of air amongst the trees. When a parrot squawked suddenly, shattering the silence, Mr Dayal let out a startled exclamation and started for home.
‘What was that?’ he asked nervously.
‘A bird,’ I explained.
‘I think we should go back now,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the leopard’s here.’
‘You never know with leopards,’ I said, ‘they could be anywhere.’
Mr Dayal stepped away from the bushes. ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said. ‘I have a lot of work. You keep a lathi with you, and I’ll send Daya Ram back later.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ I said.
Daya Ram scratched his head and reluctantly followed his employer back through the trees. I moved on slowly, down the little used path, wondering if I should also return. I saw two monkeys playing on the branch of a tree, and decided that there could be no danger in the immediate vicinity.
Presently I came to a clearing where there was a pool of fresh clear water. It was fed by a small stream that came suddenly, like a snake, out of the long grass. The water looked cool and inviting. Laying down the lathi and taking off my clothes, I ran down the bank until I was waist-deep in the middle of the pool. I splashed about for some time before emerging, then I lay on the soft grass and allowed the sun to dry my body. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to beautiful thoughts. I had forgotten all about leopards.
I must have slept for about half an hour because when I awoke, I found that Daya Ram had come back and was vigorously threshing about in the narrow confines of the pool. I sat up and asked him the time.
‘Twelve o’clock,’ he shouted, coming out of the water, his dripping body all gold and silver in sunlight. ‘They will be waiting for dinner.’
‘Let them wait,’ I said.
It was a relief to talk to Daya Ram, after the uneasy conversations in the lounge and dining-room.
‘Dayal sahib will be angry with me.’
‘I’ll tell him we found the trail of the leopard, and that we went so far into the jungle that we lost our way. As Miss Deeds is so critical of the food, let her cook the meal.’
‘Oh, she only talks like that,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Inside she is very soft. She is too soft in some ways.’
‘She should be married.’
‘Well, she would like to be. Only there is no one to marry her. When she came here she was engaged to be married to an English army captain. I think she loved him, but she is the sort of person who cannot help loving many men all at once, and the captain could not understand that—it is just the way she is made, I suppose. She is always ready to fall in love.’
‘You seem to know,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes.’
We dressed and walked back to the hotel. In a few hours, I thought, the tonga will come for me and I will be back at the station. The mysterious charm of Shamli will be no more, but whenever I pass this way I will wonder about these people, about Miss Deeds and Lin and Mrs Dayal.
Mrs Dayal. . . She was the one person I had yet to meet. It was with some excitement and curiosity that I looked forward to meeting her; she was about the only mystery left in Shamli, now, and perhaps she would be no mystery when I met her. And yet. . .I felt that perhaps she would justify the impulse that made me get down from the train.
I could have asked Daya Ram about Mrs Dayal, and so satisfied my curiosity; but I wanted to discover her for myself. Half the day was left to me, and I didn’t want my game to finish too early.
I walked towards the veranda, and the sound of the piano came through the open door.
‘I wish Mr Lin would play something cheerful,’ said Miss Deeds. ‘He’s obsessed with the Funeral March. Do you dance?’
‘Oh, no,’ I said.
She looked disappointed. But when Lin left the piano, she went into the lounge and sat down on the stool. I stood at the door watching her, wondering what she would do. Lin left the room somewhat resentfully.
She began to play an old song which I remembered having heard in a film or on a gramophone record. She sang while she played, in a slightly harsh but pleasant voice:
Rolling round the world
Looking for the sunshine
I know I’m going to find some day. . .
Then she played ‘Am I blue?’ and ‘Darling, Je Vous Aime Beaucoup’. She sat there singing in a deep husky voice, her eyes a little misty, her hard face suddenly kind and sloppy. When the dinner gong rang, she broke off playing and shook off her sentimental mood, and laughed derisively at herself.
I don’t remember that lunch. I hadn’t slept much since the previous night and I was beginning to feel the strain of my journey. The swim had refreshed me, but it had also made me drowsy. I ate quite well, though, of rice and kofta curry, and then, feeling sleepy, made for the garden to find a shady tree. There were some books on the shelf in the lounge, and I ran my eye over them in search of one that might condition sleep. But they were too dull to do even that. So I went into the garden, and there was Kiran on the swing, and I went to her tree and sat down on the grass.
‘Did you find the leopard?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said, with a yawn.
‘Tell me a story.’
‘You tell me one,’ I said.
‘All right. Once there was a lazy man with long legs, who was always yawning and wanting to fall asleep...’
I watched the swaying motio
ns of the swing and the movements of the girl’s bare legs, and a tiny insect kept buzzing about in front of my nose...
‘...and fall asleep, and the reason for this was that he liked to dream.’
I blew the insect away, and the swing became hazy and distant, and Kiran was a blurred figure in the trees...
‘...liked to dream, and what do you think he dreamt about. . .’ Dreamt about, dreamt about...
When I awoke there was that cool rain-scented breeze blowing across the garden. I remember lying on the grass with my eyes closed, listening to the swishing of the swing. Either I had not slept long, or Kiran had been a long time on the swing; it was moving slowly now, in a more leisurely fashion, without much sound. I opened my eyes and saw that my arm was stained with the juice of the grass beneath me. Looking up, I expected to see Kiran’s legs waving above me. But instead I saw dark slim feet and above them the folds of a sari. I straightened up against the trunk of the tree to look closer at Kiran, but Kiran wasn’t there. It was someone else on the swing, a young woman in a pink sari, with a red rose in her hair.
She had stopped the swing with her foot on the ground, and she was smiling at me.
It wasn’t a smile you could see, it was a tender fleeting movement that came suddenly and was gone at the same time, and its going was sad. I thought of the others’ smiles, just as I had thought of their skins: the tonga driver’s friendly, deceptive smile; Daya Ram’s wide sincere smile; Miss Deeds’s cynical, derisive smile. And looking at Sushila, I knew a smile could never change. She had always smiled that way.
‘You haven’t changed,’ she said.
I was standing up now, though still leaning against the tree for support. Though I had never thought much about the sound of her voice, it seemed as familiar as the sounds of yesterday.
‘You haven’t changed either,’ I said. ‘But where did you come from?’ I wasn’t sure yet if I was awake or dreaming.
She laughed as she had always laughed at me.
‘I came from behind the tree. The little girl has gone.’