by Ruskin Bond
The prince looked, and saw in a corner of the room the skin of his monkey.
He joined the fairy princess on her throne, and when she said ‘Arise, arise, arise,’ the throne rose in the air and floated into the hall where the guests had gathered.
The prince presented his bride to his father, who was of course delighted. The guests were a little disappointed to find that their hostess was not, after all, a monkey. But they had to admit that the prince and the princess made a most handsome couple.
N A VILLAGE in northern India, there lived a Bania (a merchant) whose shop kept the villagers supplied with their everyday necessities.
One day, on his way to a neighbouring town to make some purchases, he met a poor Jat, one of a tribe of farmers who was also going to town to pay the monthly instalment of a debt he owed to the local mahajan—the banker and moneylender.
The debt had actually been incurred by the Jat’s great-grandfather and had in the beginning been only fifty rupees; but his great grandfather had been unable to repay it, and in the last fifty years, through interest and compound interest, the amount had grown to five hundred rupees.
The Jat was walking along, wondering if he would ever get out of the clutches of the mahajan, when the Bania caught up with him.
‘Good day to you, Chowdhri,’ said the Bania, who, though he had a poor opinion of the farmer’s intelligence, was always polite to his customers. ‘I see you are going to town to pay your instalment to the mahajan. Before long you will have to give up your lands. Can nothing be done to save them?’
‘It is too late to do anything, Shahji,’ said the Jat. He was much taller and stronger than the Bania; at the same time he was an easy-going, good-natured sort. The Bania thought he was simple-minded.
‘Well, let us forget our worries,’ said the Bania, ‘and pass the time telling stories.’
‘A good idea, Shahji! It will make the journey less tiresome. But let there be one condition. No matter how fantastic or silly the story, neither of us must call it untrue. Whoever does so must pay the other five hundred rupees!’
‘Agreed,’ said the Bania with a laugh. ‘And let me begin my story first. My great-grandfather was the greatest of Banias, and tremendously rich.’
‘True, oh Shahji, true!’ said the Jat.
‘At one time he possessed a fleet of forty ships with which he sailed to China, and traded there in rich jewels and costly silks.’
‘True, oh Shahji, true!’ said the Jat.
‘Well, after making a huge fortune, my great-grandfather returned home with many unique and precious things. One was a statue of pure gold which was able to answer any question put to it.’
‘True, oh Shahji, true!’
‘When my great-grandfather came home, many people came to have their questions answered by his wonderful statue. One day your great-grandfather came with a question. He asked, “Who are the wisest of all men?” The statue replied, “The Banias, of course.” Then he asked: “And who are the most foolish?” The statue replied: “The Jats.” And then your great-grandfather asked, “Among the Jats, who is the most stupid?” The statue replied: “Why, you are, of course.”’
‘True, oh Shahji, true,’ said the Jat, inwardly resolving to repay the Bania in his own coin.
‘My father,’ continued the Bania, ‘was himself a great traveller, and during a tour of the world he saw many wonders. One day, a mosquito hovering near his ear threatened to bite him. My father, not wishing to kill the mosquito, requested it to leave. The mosquito was amazed at such gentlemanly conduct. It said, “Noble Shahji, you are the greatest man I ever met, and I mean to do you a great service.” Saying this, the mosquito opened its mouth, and inside it my father saw a large palace with golden doors and windows. At one of the windows stood the most beautiful princess in the world. At the door of the palace he saw a peasant about to attack the princess. My father, who was very brave, at once jumped into the mouth of the mosquito and entered its stomach. He found it very dark inside.’
‘True, oh Shahji, true!’ said the Jat.
‘Well, after some time my father grew used to the darkness and was able to make out the palace, the princess and the peasant. He at once fell upon the peasant, who happened to be your father. They fought for a year in the stomach of the mosquito. At the end of that time your father was defeated and became my father’s servant. My father then married the princess and I was born from the union. But when I was fifteen years old, a heavy rain of boiling water fell on the palace, which collapsed, throwing us into a scalding sea. With great difficulty we swam ashore, where the four of us found ourselves in a kitchen, where a woman was shaking with terror at the sight of us.’
‘True, oh Shahji, true!’
‘When the woman, who was a cook, realized that we were men and not ghosts, she complained that we had spoilt her soup. “Why did you have to enter my pot of boiling water and frighten me like that?” she complained. We apologized, explaining that for fifteen years we had been living in the belly of a mosquito, and that it was not our fault that we had found ourselves in her cooking pot. “Ah! I remember now,” she said. “A little while ago, a mosquito bit me on the arm. You must have been injected into my arm, for when I squeezed out the poison, a large black drop fell into the boiling water. I had no idea you were in it!”’
‘True, oh Shahji, true!’ said the Jat.
‘Well, when we left the kitchen, we found ourselves in another country, which happened to be our present village. Here we took to shopkeeping. The princess, my mother, died many years ago. That, Chowdhri, is my story. Improve upon it if you can!’
‘A very true story,’ said the Jat. ‘My story, though no less true, is perhaps not as wonderful. But it is perfectly true, every word of it...’
‘My great-grandfather was the wealthiest Jat in the village. His noble appearance and great wisdom brought praise from all who met him. At village meetings he was always given the best seat, and when he settled disputes no one questioned his good judgement. In addition, he was of great physical strength, and a terror to the wicked.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true,’ said the Bania.
‘There was a time when a great famine came to our village. There was no rain, the rivers and wells dried up, the trees withered away. Birds and beasts died in thousands. When my great-grandfather saw that the village stores had been exhausted, and that the people would die of hunger if something was not done, he called the Jats together and said, “Brother Jats, God Indra is angry with us for some reason, because he has withheld the seasonal rains. But if you do what I tell you, I will supply you all with food until the scarcity is over. I want you to give your fields to me for six months.” Without any hesitation the Jats gave my great-grandfather their fields. Then, stripping himself of his clothes, he gave one great heave and lifted the entire village of a thousand acres and placed it on his head!’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true!’ exclaimed the Bania.
‘Then my great-grandfather, carrying the village on his head, searched for rain. ‘Wherever there was rain he took the village, so that the rainwater fell on the fields and collected in the wells. Then he told the Jats (who were, of course, still in the village on his head) to plough their land and sow their seed. The crops that came up had never been so wonderful, and the wheat and the maize rose to such a height that they touched the clouds.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true,’ said the Bania.
‘Then my great-grandfather returned to his country and placed the village in its proper place. The farmers reaped a record harvest that year. Every grain of corn was as big as your head.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true,’ said the Bania, annoyed at the comparison but anxious not to lose his wager. By this time, they had reached the outskirts of the town, but the Jat had not finished his story.
‘At that time, your great-grandfather was a very poor man,’ said the Jat, ‘and mine, who had made huge profits from his wonderful harvest, employed him as a servant to weigh out t
he grain for the customers.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true,’ said the Bania with a sour look.
‘Being a blockhead, your ancestor often made mistakes for which he would receive thrashings from my great-grandfather.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true!’
By this time they had entered the shop of the mahajan to whom the Jat was owing money. Bidding the banker good morning, they sat down on the floor in front of him. But the Jat, without speaking to the banker, continued his story.
‘Well, Shahji, after my great-grandfather sold his harvest, he discharged your great-grandfather. But, before he went, your ancestor asked mine for a loan of fifty rupees, which was generously given to him.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true!’ said the Bania.
‘Very good,’ said the Jat, raising his voice so that the mahajan could also hear them. ‘Your ancestor did not repay that debt. Nor did your grandfather, or your father, repay the debt. Neither have you repaid it up to this time.’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true!’
‘Now that sum of fifty rupees, with interest and compound interest, amounts to exactly five hundred rupees, which sum you owe me!’
‘True, oh Chowdhri, true!’
‘So, as you have admitted the debt before the mahajan, kindly pay the amount to him so that I may have my lands released.’
This placed the Bania in a dilemma. He had admitted a debt before a third party. If he said that it was merely a story, and completely untrue, he would have to pay the Jat five hundred rupees according to the terms of the wager. If he said it was true, he would have to pay the amount to the mahajan. Either way he was the loser.
So the Bania paid up, and never again did he belittle the intelligence of his Jat neighbours.
N THE wooded hills of western India lives ‘The Idle Schoolboy’—a bird who cannot learn a simple tune, though he is gifted with one of the most beautiful voices in the forest. He whistles away in various sharps and flats, and sometimes, when you think he is really going to produce a melody, he breaks off in the middle of his song as though he had just remembered something very important.
Why is it that the Whistling Thrush can never remember a tune? The story goes that on a hot summer’s afternoon, the young God Krishna was wandering along the banks of a mountain stream when he came to a small waterfall, shot through with sunbeams. It was a lovely spot, cool and inviting. Tiny fish flecked the pool at the foot of the waterfall, and a Paradise Flycatcher, trailing its silver tail, moved gracefully amongst the trees.
Krishna was enchanted. He threw himself down on a bed of moss and ferns, and began playing on his flute—the famous flute with which he had charmed all the creatures in the forest. A fat yellow lizard nodded its head in time to the music; the birds were hushed; and the shy mouse-deer approached silently on their tiny hooves to see who it was who played so beautifully.
Presently the flute slipped from Krishna’s fingers, and the beautiful young god fell asleep. But it was not a restful sleep, for his dreams were punctuated by an annoying whistling, as though someone who didn’t know much about music was practising on his flute in an attempt to learn the tune that Krishna had been playing.
Awake now, Krishna sat up and saw a ragged urchin standing ankle-deep in the pool, the sacred flute held to his lips!
Krishna was furious.
‘Come here, boy!’ he shouted. ‘How dare you steal my flute and disturb my sleep! Don’t you know who I am?’
The boy, instead of being afraid, was thrilled at the discovery that he stood before his hero, the young Krishna, whose exploits were famous throughout the land.
‘I did not steal your flute, lord,’ he said. ‘Had that been my intention, I would not have waited for you to wake up. It was only my great love for your music that made me touch your flute. You will teach me to play, will you not? I will be your disciple.’
Krishna’s anger melted away, and he was filled with compassion for the boy. But it was too late to do anything, for it is everlastingly decreed that anyone who touches the sacred property of the gods, whether deliberately or in innocence, must be made to suffer throughout his next ten thousand births.
When this was explained to the boy, he fell on his face and wept bitterly, crying, ‘Have mercy on me, Krishna. Do with me as you will, but do not send me away from the beautiful forests I love.’
Swiftly, Krishna communed in spirit with Brahma the Creator. Here was a genuine case of a crime committed in ignorance. If it could not be forgiven, surely the punishment could be less severe?
Brahma agreed, and Krishna laid his hand on the boy’s mouth, saying, ‘For ever try to copy the song of the gods, but never succeed.’ Then he touched the boy’s clothes and said, ‘Let the raggedness and dust disappear, and only the beautiful colours of Krishna remain.’
Immediately the boy was changed into the bird we know today as the Whistling Thrush of Malabar, with its dark body and brilliant blue patches on head and wings. In this guise, he still continues to live among the beautiful, forested valleys of the hills, where he tries unsuccessfully to remember the tune that brought about his strange transformation.
HEY PASS me every day on their way to school—boys and girls from the surrounding villages and the outskirts of the hill station. There are no school buses plying for these children: they walk.
For many of them, it’s a very long walk to school.
Ranbir, who is ten, has to climb the mountain from his village, four miles distant and two thousand feet below the town level. He comes in all weathers wearing the same pair of cheap shoes until they have almost fallen apart.
Ranbir is a cheerful soul. He waves to me whenever he sees me at my window. Sometimes he brings me cucumbers from his father’s field. I pay him for the cucumbers; he uses the money for books or for small things needed at home.
Many of the children are like Ranbir—poor, but slightly better off than what their parents were at the same age. They cannot attend the expensive residential and private schools that abound here, but must go to the government-aided schools with only basic facilities. Not many of their parents managed to go to school. They spent their lives working in the fields or delivering milk in the hill station. The lucky ones got into the army. Perhaps Ranbir will do something different when he grows up.
He has yet to see a train but he sees planes flying over the mountains almost every day.
‘How far can a plane go?’ he asks.
‘All over the world,’ I tell him. ‘Thousands of miles in a day. You can go almost anywhere.’
‘I’ll go round the world one day,’ he vows. ‘I’ll buy a plane and go everywhere!’
And maybe he will. He has a determined chin and a defiant look in his eye.
The following lines in my journal were put down for my own inspiration or encouragement, but they will do for any determined young person:
We get out of life what we bring to it. There is not a dream which may not come true if we have the energy which determines our own fate. We can always get what we want if we will it intensely enough... So few people succeed greatly because so few people conceive a great end, working towards it without giving up. We all know that the man who works steadily for money gets rich; the man who works day and night for fame or power reaches his goal. And those who work for deeper, more spiritual achievements will find them too. It may come when we no longer have any use for it, but if we have been willing it long enough, it will come!
Up to a few years ago, very few girls in the hills or in the villages of India went to school. They helped in the home until they were old enough to be married, which wasn’t very old. But there are now just as many girls as there are boys going to school.
Bindra is something of an extrovert—a confident fourteen year old who chatters away as she hurries down the road with her companions. Her father is a forest guard and knows me quite well: I meet him on my walks through the deodar woods behind Landour. And I had grown used to seeing Bindra almost every day. When
she did not put in an appearance for a week, I asked her brother if anything was wrong.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he says, ‘she is helping my mother cut grass. Soon the monsoon will end and the grass will dry up. So we cut it now and store it for the cows in winter.’
‘And why aren’t you cutting grass too?’
‘Oh, I have a cricket match today,’ he says, and hurries away to join his teammates. Unlike his sister, he puts pleasure before work!
Cricket, once the game of the elite, has become the game of the masses. On any holiday, in any part of this vast country, groups of boys can be seen making their way to the nearest field, or open patch of land, with bat, ball and any other cricketing gear that they can cobble together. Watching some of them play, I am amazed at the quality of talent, at the finesse with which they bat or bowl. Some of the local teams are as good, if not better, than any from the private schools, where there are better facilities. But the boys from these poor or lower middle-class families will never get the exposure that is necessary to bring them to the attention of those who select state or national teams. They will never get near enough to the men of influence and power. They must continue to play for the love of the game, or watch their more fortunate heroes’ exploits on television.
As winter approaches and the days grow shorter, those children who live far away must quicken their pace in order to get home before dark. Ranbir and his friends find that darkness has fallen before they are halfway home.
‘What is the time, uncle?’ he asks, as he trudges up the steep road past Ivy Cottage.
One gets used to being called ‘uncle’ by almost every boy or girl one meets. I wonder how the custom began. Perhaps it has its origins in the folktale about the tiger who refrained from pouncing on you if you called him ‘uncle’. Tigers don’t eat their relatives! Or do they? The ploy may not work if the tiger happens to be a tigress. Would you call her ‘aunty’ as she (or your teacher!) descends on you?