Bond Collection for Adults

by Ruskin Bond

  "I suppose you were in Kandahar when Lord Roberts marched from Kabul to relieve you."

  The old Rissaldar Major drew himself up and saluted on hearing the famous soldier's name: "Yes, indeed I was; the great Roberts Sahib came all the way from Kabul with the speed of Hanuman himself. In the meantime, however, Ayub Khan had tried to take Kandahar by storm and had been beaten back with heavy loss. Many of the Afghans had deserted and we had killed and wounded some ten thousand; so that Lord Roberts Sahib's task was easier than that of Burrows Sahib. Still he did his work thoroughly and so routed that demon of an Ayub Khan that he never fought the English again. That is my whole story."

  "Well, thank you ever so much for it; but what happened to Furley Sahib?"

  "He got safely through the Afghan War; afterwards he returned to the Poona Horse and rose to command it. It was he who gave me my last promotion and made me a Rissaldar Major. He was like a father to me and after his retirement he wrote to me every Christmas. I felt it deeply when he died, two years ago."

  The old man suddenly stopped speaking and his eyes shone with a suspicious moisture.

  "Do you think I could photograph Colonel Hutchings on his tomb?" I asked.

  The old Rissaldar thought for a moment and said "Yes, I think it is possible. The best time would be at midnight. Two days hence the moon will be full; if the Sahib were to go to the cemetery then, he might catch the Colonel Sahib."

  "Splendid! You must come too. I shall drive you there."

  "Very well, I shall be happy to do anything that will give the Sahib pleasure."

  At nine p.m. two days later the old Rissaldar presented himself at my bungalow ready for the drive to Sirur. As I was about to take the wheel, I noticed that he had no overcoat. It was March and the nights were still chilly and my car was an open one.

  " You cannot drive without an overcoat, Rissaldar Sahib; you must take one of mine, otherwise you will catch your death of cold." So saying I ordered my servant to fetch a discarded ulster. I wrapped it round the old warrior and gave him a spare muffler as well to keep his throat warm. He accepted them gratefully. Motorcars did not then move as fast as they do now and it was just on midnight when we reached the Sirur cemetery. We got out and looked at the graveyard from a distance. Seen by the full March moon, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

  "Let me go alone, Sahib," whispered the Rissaldar. "Hutchings Sahib may not wish to shew himself to a stranger."

  I agreed and the Rissaldar entered the graveyard, while I, concealed among the shrubbery, waited outside. Acting on my instructions, he placed the Kodak on a tomb some thirty feet from the Colonel's monument, gave the film a long exposure and, dropping the shutter, rejoined me. We drove back to Poona and in the small hours parted excellent friends, the Rissaldar returning me my ulster and muffler. I told him to come back in a week's time so that we might examine together the developed proof. Seven days later the peon about nine a.m. announced the Rissaldar. A packet of proofs had arrived the day before, but I had not opened it. I wished to do so in the old man's presence. Among the proofs was that of the Sirur cemetery. I handed it to the Rissaldar without looking at it closely. He cast his eyes over it and exclaimed: "There he is, the Colonel Sahib, there he is! and the widow woman is there, too. I saw them both in the cemetery."

  I took the proof from my friend's hands and, sure enough, there, seated on the plinth of the monument, was the shadowy form of an Englishman in old-fashioned dress.

  "I see the Colonel Sahib; but where is his wife whom you will call the widow woman?"

  "I call her the widow woman," said the Rissaldar Major severely, "because in our caste there is no widow remarriage and she had no right to marry again. Still I see her; she is there coming from behind another tombstone to join him."

  I looked where the old soldier pointed and there did seem to be something that might have been the late Mrs. Hutchings. About the Colonel himself there could be no doubt whatever; and I still treasure the photograph of the graveyard, doubly strange because of its weird appearance by moonlight and the uncanny figure of the Englishman sitting on the plinth of the central monument.

  I took out my note case and tried to induce the Rissaldar to accept a hundred rupees; but I was severely snubbed. He said with dignity: "A Shinde of Kizarnagar does not accept money for doing an act of courtesy that any gentleman might do for another."

  From Indian Christmas Stories (1936)

  The Munjia

  by C.A. Kincaid

  T WAS A STUFFY SEPTEMBER AFTERNOON IN NASIK.RAIN HAD not fallen for some days and even before that it had been far below the average. Indeed, there had at one time been so great a dread of a famine that the priests of Ramachandra's temple had for twenty-four consecutive hours kept their most important idol from, resting by pouring cold water over it at short intervals. The suggestion had been made by the English judge, who was immensely respected as a learned Sanskrit scholar. He had supported his suggestion by so many quotations from the Vedas and Puranas (the Hindu gospels and epistles), that the priests had, although with diffidence, followed the Englishman's advice. Its value had been fully vindicated; for within the twentyfour hours a heavy thunderstorm had burst. A week's steady downpour had followed and the earth, soaked with six inches of precious rain, had lost its iron crust and although still thirsting had become soft enough for the early monsoon sowing.

  Thus for the present there was no immediate danger of a famine, but sporadic cases of plague had occurred and one of the unlucky sufferers was a young Brahman boy of great promise called Mahadev Joshi. He was a Deshastha Brahman and his school career had been brilliant. He had carried off all the prizes that the Nasik High School could offer. From school he had entered the Deccan College near Poona and there had taken a brilliant first class in mathematics. He had distinguished himself at games as well, and Dr. Selby, the principal of the Deccan College, who loved Mahadev as his own son, had offered him the post of junior professor in mathematics; but the young Brahman was attracted to the Bar, for which his penetrating intellect and perfect knowledge of English were admirably adapted. He presented himself for the High Court pleader's examination and passed it with exceptional brilliancy. Weary of study and anxious to see his parents and friends he had returned to Nasik, the beautiful town near the source of the Godavari river. There, after three weeks of delightful, restful idleness, he had contracted plague. There was nothing strange that he should have done so, for his family house was an old wada or mansion dating from the time of the Peshwas and was overrun with rats. The rats were infested with fleas, the fleas settled on the bare feet of the members of the family and thus spread infection; first a servant, next a distant cousin, caught plague. They did not die of it, but they helped to spread the disease; so that when young Mahadev came to the old family house for a holiday, run down from overwork and too little sleep, he was a likely victim.

  Mahadev's father Balwantrao and his mother Saraswatibai nursed their sick son with anxious devotion. The father was weighed down by the natural fears that any father would feel for the life of his brilliant son. In the mother's anxiety was a more sinister element. Mahadev had been invested with the sacred thread at the age of twelve and thus had been initiated to the Brahman caste. By the rules of orthodox Hinduism—and Nasik is very orthodox— Mahadev should have been married at fifteen. This is what his mother most ardently wished; indeed the question of his marriage had been fully discussed and he was betrothed to Narmadabai, the pretty daughter of the leading criminal pleader of Ahmadnagar, but old Balwantrao Joshi, greedily ambitious for his son's school and college successes, put off the marriage on various pretexts. His wish was to keep the boy unmarried until his examinations were over. These had now been successfully passed and Balwantrao had drafted wedding invitations that a Bombay printing press would print on cards in big gold letters.

  Nevertheless the marriage ceremonies had not begun when Mahadev fell ill, and Saraswatibai was tortured with the thought that if her son died unmarried he woul
d die a "munjia" — a Brahman boy invested with the sacred thread but still a bachelor. She held the vulgar belief that in that event Mahadev's soul would become a vile, evil spirit. Deprived of rebirth because of his parents' sin in delaying his marriage, her darling son would haunt a pipal tree and, feared and cursed by every human being, would rush at intervals from his dwelling place and play a horrible trick on some unfortunate person walking close to his tree. His only chance of escape was to possess some wayfarer's body: but she knew how difficult that was. She, therefore prayed and prayed to Vishnu and Ganpati, to Shiva and Parvati and to every other god she could think of—even the graceless Saturn—that her son might recover at any rate live long enough to marry Narmadabai.

  The sick boy was well looked after as well as any English patient would have been. The civil surgeon was called in consultation and under his supervision the local practitioner wrote out correct prescriptions. Unhappily there are no specific remedies for plague. What is needed is a perfectly sound constitution, helped by good nursing. Mahadev's mother and sisters were present at his bedside night and day; so he did not lack good nursing. Thanks to their "ceaseless vigilance, the buboes under his armpits grew smaller, and smaller and the sick boy smiled and even laughed, his gaiety spreading joy through the whole household. Then one day he sat up for his morning tea, his mother's arm round his neck; he was bending his head forward to sip it when suddenly he fell forward, knocking the cup and saucer out of her hand. She turned to the towel stand close by for a towel to dry her son's hands and chest; as she did so, Mahadev's body twisted round and fell, so that he hung half in bed and half out of bed. In wild despair Saraswati called to her husband.

  "Come, come" she screamed. "Mahadev has fallen, he is very ill!"

  Old Balvantrao was deeply immersed in an article in the Kesari newspaper condemning vigorously some measure or other proposed by the Government of India. Nevertheless he dropped his paper and ran up the uncarpeted wooden stairs which led to the sleeping rooms. There he saw Mahadev hanging motionless out of bed and Saraswati lying prostrate on his body. He murmured in Marathi "Kay zalen? Kay zalen?" (What has happened? What has happened?) Going to the bedside he lifted his son back into bed and felt his wrist. Afterwards he put his hand on Mahadev's heart. Both pulse and heart were still. With the calm self mastery of the Deccan Brahman, Balwantrao said in even tones: "As it seems to me, Mahadev is dead." Saraswati, hall mad with grief, screamed at her husband: "Yes, he is dead and thanks to your wicked ideas, he is dead unmarried, a 'munjia', and he will live on as an evil spirit long after we have died and have been reborn."

  "Nonsense! Nonsense! Why believe in such childish tales, 'munjias' do not become evil spirits—that is a mere fable. In any case," he added by way of compromise, "if Mahadev does become a demon we can always appease him by offering him rice and grain, or even a fowl now and then."

  No words of Balwantrao, however soothing, could lessen the poor mother's grief. Had her darling son died married she would probably have borne her sorrow and survived; but the dreadful thought that her beloved son should, from being an universal favourite in school, college and in Nasik society, become a hateful phantom, proved too much for Saraswati. When Balwantrao and the male mourners returned from the burning ground whither they had taken Mahadev's body, they found his mother lying face downwards at the bottom of the stairs. A cerebral hemorrhage had overtaken her as she was walking up to take a last look at her son's room. She had fallen backwards and broken her neck in her fall. A day later her body was carried to the same burning ground wherein Mahadev's had already been consumed.

  Poor old Balwantrao shaved his head and moustaches and observed the usual twelve days' mourning. He sought refuge from his grief in the devotion of his daughters and in the study of sacred Sanskrit books; and he gave little thought to the question that the other townspeople were feverishly asking each other; "Where will the 'munjia' take up his abode?"

  For many days after the death of Mahadev the Nasik townsmen put red painted stones at the foot of various pipal trees in the neighbourhood of the town. One or two trees near Nasik were, it was believed, already occupied by 'munjias' and they received due homage and small daily offerings of rice. It never occurred to any of the citizens that the new 'munjia' would go any distance from the city. They did not bear in mind that Mahadev, who had often mixed with Englishmen and liked them, might well establish himself near the quarter where they lived. One evening two or three tongas, filled with respectable Brahmans of Nasik and their wives and families, set out about 10 p.m. to catch the midnight express from Nasik Road Station. The train reached Bombay at 8 a.m. next morning and night travel saved the passengers, all of whom slept well in trains, the hot day journey down the Ghats and through the Konkan plain. The third class carriages can be very stuffy by day and Indian children suffer a good deal from the heat.

  The road to the station ran west of the Nasik golf course, used alike by Bombay visitors and Nasik residents. Between the road and the links stood a giant pipal tree. It was full moon and the travellers were laughing and talking together, holding in their hands endless bundles of bedding and balancing their sterns precariously on innumerable tin trunks and brass waterpots. As the tongas passed the pipal tree the ponies took fright and galloping madly off the road and across the open country, they did not stop until they had overturned the tongas into a ravine a mile away. No fewer than two children and a young woman were killed outright. One man had a compound fracture of the leg, a second had his arm broken and everyone, including the drivers, was badly shaken and injured. The ponies were put on their feet, shivering with fright, but beyond a few slight cuts were not badly injured. The police were sent for; the dead were transported to the mortuary near the Civil Hospital. The injured were handed over to the care of the house surgeon and next day the police inspector held an inquest. There was, however, little to record save the bare facts of the accident. The oldest Brahman assured the inspector that he had heard a bloodcurdling shriek and that in the moonlight he had seen a monstrous diabolical figure issue from the pipal tree and deliberately scare the ponies. In his judgment the phantom was the soul of Mahadev, the 'munjia' that had taken up an abode in the pipal tree on the golf course.

  The Brahman was corroborated by one or two of the women and one of the older men; nevertheless the inspector refused to put into his report anything about the 'munjia'. He had experienced the unpleasant scepticism of English officials and he knew well that any reference to such a phenomenon would only be treated by his English superior as "damned native superstition" and that he himself would get a "wigging" for writing rubbish in an inquest report.

  The refusal of the inspector to record the evidence of the elderly Brahman was fully understood by the Nasik townsmen and they were not annoyed by it. After all, what could the superintendent do, even if he knew that a 'munjia' haunted the pipal tree? He might have the tree cut down, but that would only infuriate the demon who lived in it. Mahadev's soul would seek some other hiding place and issuing therefrom would cause worse trouble than ever. No; the townsmen's course was clear. They knew now where the 'munjia' dwelt and it was for them to propitiate him by worshipping him as a god, by placing beneath his tree stones painted with the royal red of divinity, by offering him daily small portions of rice and by burning nightly in his honour small single-wick lamps full of country oil.