by Ruskin Bond
‘It’s a rat,’ she said. ‘There’s a rat in here.’
I went to the door and opened it, and the little peke ran in and jumped on the bed.
‘No rat,’ I said. ‘Just your ratty little dog.’
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing in my will for you.’ She burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.
‘The trouble with you, dear Ruskin, is that you’re too bloody happy. I hate people who are happy. You don’t care if you succeed or not. You’re a hippy disguised as a man of the world. You’re one of life’s failures. And that’s why I’m quite fond of you.’
‘Well, having come all this way to see you in spite of your nasty dogs, I must be fond of you too.’
And we both broke down laughing.
20
There were rats at Hollow Oak.
Hans phoned to say that they were all over the place and that H.H. was getting quite hysterical. Dr Bisht came to see her every day. But she wouldn’t get out of bed and go to hospital.
‘Phone the municipality,’ I said. ‘Get hold of the executive officer. Ask him to send some people over to catch or kill the rats.’
‘I’ve already done so—they sent us their dog-catchers instead. H.H. was very upset.’
‘I’ll come over with some rat poison,’ I said.
‘Don’t do that. The dogs might consume it.’
I didn’t go over that day. In spite of being the failure that Neena loved, I did get the occasional writing assignment and I had an article to finish.
In December, the sunset stretched right across the horizon, a river of molten light, changing from marigold to pomegranate red to crimson. Before it set, the sun threw a shaft of golden light across my study wall, and there, for the first time, I thought I saw the face, or rather the profile, of my old friend Pablo—or rather my young friend Pablo, for there was no change in his features—and he smiled briefly in my direction before fading with the dying sun.
A message, a premonition? Or just a whisper of lost friendship. The world is smaller than we think. We are all parts of one another, meeting, separating, meeting again, looking for our severed halves, heedless of time and distance …
Next day the phone rang again, and Hans said, rather dramatically, ‘She’s been bitten.’
‘By one of the dogs?’
‘No, by a rat. And her favourite peke is missing. She’s hysterical.’
When I arrived at Hollow Oak the gate was open and some of the dogs were on the road. For once they did not bark at me. As I approached the front steps, a huge rat, about two feet long, darted out of the open doorway and disappeared into the bushes.
Seconds later, it was followed by another.
These were no ordinary rats; these were huge field rats, seldom seen in the town.
Dr Bisht was in the bedroom, examining Neena. For once she was silent. Her limbs were in a clonic condition, relaxing and contracting in rapid succession.
‘She’s had a shock,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s more than one bite.’
Blood was trickling down one of her arms.
‘It seems a big bite.’
‘I’ve injected her with a sedative,’ he said. ‘She’s calmer but her muscles keep contracting.’
‘Before you came, she had several convulsions,’ said Hans.
‘Could it be tetanus,’ I ventured.
‘I’m not sure, but I’ve given her a tetanus shot.’
‘Could it be rabies?’
‘Too early for that. But we can’t leave her here. We must get her to the hospital whether she likes it or not.’
I left the room and phoned for the local ambulance. It took about an hour to arrive, and by then, Neena was out of this world.
21
Death holds life together. Once we lose our fear of death, something happens to life. It is this fear that keeps us on our toes, keeps us going, makes us savour the joy of being alive. Those who are near to death fear it not so much as those who are in the fullness of health and the enjoyment of life. They are conscious of what they have to lose. And for H.H., the contemplation of oblivion, of nothingness, had always been frightful.
Life, for Neena, had been one long party, and so she had been frightened at the very end. Now the next stage of her journey had begun—if, indeed, there is a next stage …
The immediate and unavoidable journey involved a drive down to the cremation ground in Dehra. An obliging taxi driver helped us to place the body on the roof of his car, where it was firmly strapped down. Dr Bisht, Hans and I sat in the car. H.H.’s servants followed in a bus. Hardly a royal procession!
The people at the cremation ground were well-practised and efficient, and it did not take long for our Maharani’s mortal remains to be consumed by the purifying and liberating flames of the pyre.
As we stood there respectfully (Neena would have laughed to see our sombre faces), contemplating our own inevitable dissolution, I asked the good doctor, ‘What did she really die of?’
‘She died of fright, I think.’
‘Is that what you put on the death certificate?’
‘No, I don’t think that would have been acceptable. I just wrote Respiratory Failure.’
‘That covers everything, I suppose.’
The funeral was almost over when Prince Kartik turned up, quite drunk of course, proclaiming that he would be immolated beside his mother.
To everyone’s embarrassment, he went to the wrong funeral pyre, flinging wreaths and garlands of marigold on the smouldering remains of a poor and friendless woman of the streets.
Hollow Oak had been left unattended, and in our absence thieves had broken into the house and ransacked most of the rooms. The drawer of Neena’s dresser had been forced open, its contents strewn about. The jewel box was missing.
At first I thought Prince Karan had something to do with the break-in, but we learnt later that he was in Mastipur at the time of his mother’s death. Even so, the robbery could have been perpetrated by his associates, a sinister band of layabouts who would stop at nothing in the pursuit of wine, women and money.
There were various claimants to the property. Both the sons contested Neena’s last will, claiming that she was of unsound mind when she made it. The same claim could have been made for most of her earlier wills. At least two religious ashrams laid claim to the property, as did a son from the first Maharani, who turned up unexpectedly and asserted that he was the true heir to the late Maharaja’s estate. It was a claim that had to be taken seriously.
Our system of justice is slow and frustrating at the best of times. In a case where there were so many claims and counterclaims, it would take years for a conclusion to be reached. Prince Kartik was already on his last legs; he wouldn’t see the coming spring. Prince Karan had possession of the Mastipur palace. His debauchery and drug dealing had made him many enemies, and they would catch up with him sooner or later.
Meanwhile, Hans and the dogs occupied Hollow Oak, but the loyal Swiss was having a hard time of it. His funds were limited, and feeding the dogs was a problem. The rats, bolder and bigger than ever, were helping themselves to most of the rations. Veg or non-veg, they weren’t fussy.
The servants, unpaid, drifted away. The buildings suffered from lack of maintenance. Roofs began to leak, walls became damp and grimy. A house in the hills, if unoccupied and unattended even for a few months, begins to disintegrate. Every time I passed Hollow Oak, it looked shabbier than before. You could run or jump all over the flower beds; there were no flowers to destroy. No music, no laughter issued from its doors and windows. Most of them were shut. Here and there, an unloved dog roamed about the grounds.
Unloved, that was the best way to describe the palace and its occupants.
And who would remember H.H.? Well, I would for some time. I still do. Can’t forget her. And so perhaps would the Montalbans, in whatever distant land they happened to be. Ricardo certainly. And Mr Lobo, as he strums out As time goes by on some hotel’s grand piano. And Ha
ns?
Well, after a few months he couldn’t stand the loneliness and isolation. He was hard up, too. So he packed a bag and took off, never to be seen again in Mussoorie. Someone spotted him in Kathmandu, acting as a sort of guide for European tourists travelling through Nepal.
The courts sent a receiver to seal the palace until all the lawsuits were settled. The dogs gradually disappeared, found new homes, or became strays. The rats went too, as they could hardly exist by eating the furniture. Some found havens in the kitchens of school and hotels.
I don’t go that way any more. There’s a footpath that bypasses Hollow Oak, and I use it on my walks to the town and home again. The cinemas have all shut down, but I walk to the bank and the post office and sometimes the local bookshops. Living on my own, I have become a fairly good cook.
The other evening, as the twilight faded swiftly and a nightjar began its evening recitation, I strolled down to the cottage, feeling a little low and wondering if I should just pack up and go away too.
Someone stood in the shadows.
A familiar figure. I recognized her instantly.
‘Leela,’ I said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘And I have something for you.’
‘And your sister?’
‘She’s on duty.’
I gazed at her with a certain affection. There she was, chubby and cheerful and uncomplicated.
‘I’ve brought you something,’ she said, handing me a parcel. ‘Hans asked me to give it to you. Maharani Sahiba had told him it was to be given to you. He left it with us when he went away, but we didn’t get a chance to see you.’
I took the parcel and placed it on the window seat.
‘Sit down, Leela,’ I said. ‘I roasted a chicken today. You can share it with me.’
Leela helped me polish off the chicken. I took the empty dishes to the kitchen, and when I returned to the sitting room, she’d gone!
‘Funny girl,’ I said aloud, and gave my attention to the parcel.
It contained the late Maharaja’s dress coat, or sherwani, the same one that H.H. had once tried to give me. It seemed that she’d been determined that I should have it. Nothing special about the coat. The buttons were just buttons, not made of rubies or pearls. But a handsome coat, meant for a handsome man. Perhaps that was the message; that I was worthy of a maharaja’s dress coat. Or had she just been teasing me again?
I wasn’t going to wear it, but I put it away carefully. It would be a reminder of the good times had by all of us—H.H., Ricardo, Mrs Montalban, Pablo and Anna, Mr Lobo, myself. And if, at the end, the times weren’t so good, it was probably because the party had gone on for too long.
Author’s Note
Is this a true story?
Just because I am the narrator and play my part in it, this is not to be taken as autobiography or biography.
As in most of my work, characters are often based on people I have known or encountered over the years. But the events and situations in which they find themselves often bear little or no resemblance to actual events. In trying to write an engaging story, the author has often to juggle with people, places and happenings.
So this is not a true story. Nor is it a complete fabrication.
As Mark Twain said, ‘Interesting if true. And if not true, still interesting.’
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin ...
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@PenguinIndia
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/PenguinIndia
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on facebook.com/PenguinIndia
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at penguinbooksindia.com
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Group (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Johannesburg 2193, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguinbooksindia.com
First published in Viking by Penguin Books India 2012
Published in Penguin Books 2013
Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2012
Cover illustration by Joy Gosney
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-143-42066-8
This digital edition published in 2013.
e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75682-1