Small Towns, Big Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Now, can I have my bed back?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s room for both of us.’

  ‘No, there isn’t, it’s only a khatiya. It will collapse under our combined weight. But there’s this nice easy chair here, and in the morning, when I get up, you can have the bed.’

  Reluctantly, Sunil got off the bed and moved over to the cane chair. Perhaps I’d made a mistake. It meant that Sunil would be awake all night, and that he’d want to talk. Nothing can be more irritating than a room companion who talks all night.

  I switched off the light and stretched out on the cot. It was a bit wobbly. Perhaps the floor would have been better. Sunil sat in the chair, whistling and singing film songs—something about a red dupatta blowing in the wind, and telephone calls from Rangoon to Dehradun. A romantic soul, Sunil, when he wasn’t picking pockets. Did I say there’s nothing worse than a companion who talks all night? I was wrong. Even worse is a companion who sings all night.

  ‘You can sing in the morning,’ I said. ‘When the sun comes out. Now go to sleep.’

  There was silence for about two minutes. Then: ‘Uncle?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have to turn over a new leaf.’

  ‘In the morning, Sunil,’ I turned over and tried to sleep.

  ‘Uncle, I have a project.’

  ‘Well, don’t involve me in it.’

  ‘It’s all seedha-saadha, and very interesting. You know that old man who sells saande-ka-tel—the oil that doubles your manhood?’

  ‘I haven’t tried it. It’s an oil taken from a lizard, isn’t it?’

  ‘A big lizard.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, he’s old now and can’t go hunting for these lizards. You can only find them in certain places.’

  ‘Maybe he should retire and do something else, then. Grow marigolds. Their oil is also said to be good for lovers.’

  ‘Not as good as lizard oil.’

  ‘So what’s your project?’ He was succeeding in keeping me awake. ‘Are you going to gather lizards for him?’

  ‘Exactly, Uncle. Why don’t you join me?’

  Next morning Sunil elaborated on his scheme. I was to finance the tour. We would trek, or use a bus where there were roads, and visit the wooded heights and rocky slopes above the Bhagirathi River, on its descent from the Gangotri Glacier. We would stay in rest houses, dharamsalas, or small hotels. We would locate those areas where the monitors, or large rock lizards, were plentiful, catch as many as possible and bring them back alive to Fosterganj, where our gracious mentor would reward us to the tune of two hundred rupees per reptile. Sunil and I would share this bonanza.

  Although I had idly considered doing something similar, now that I thought about it it didn’t seem like it stood any chance of succeeding. But I was bored, and it sounded like it could be fun, even an adventure of sorts, and I would have Sunil as guide, philosopher and friend.

  He could be a lovely and happy-go-lucky companion—provided he kept his hands out of other people’s pockets and did not sing at night.

  Hassan was equally sceptical about the success of the project. For one thing, he did not believe in the magical properties of saande-ka-tel (never having felt the need for it); and, for another, he did not think those lizards would be caught so easily. But he thought it would be a good thing for Sunil, something different from what he was used to doing. The young man might benefit from my ‘intellectual’ company. And, in the hills, not many folks had money in their pockets.

  And so, with the blessings of Hassan, and a modest overdraft from Vishaal, our friendly bank manager, I packed a haversack with essentials (including my favourite ginger biscuits as prepared by Hassan) and set out with Sunil on the old pilgrim road to Tehri and beyond.

  Sunil had brought along two large baskets, as receptacles for the lizards when captured. But as he had no intention of carrying them himself—and wisely refrained from asking me to do so—he had brought along a twelve-year-old youth from the bazaar—a squint-eyed, hare-lipped, one-eared character called Buddhoo, whose intelligence and confidence made up for his looks. Buddhoo was to act as our porter and general factotum. On our outward journey he had only to carry the two empty baskets; Sunil hadn’t told him what their eventual contents might be.

  It was late July, still monsoon time, when we set out on the Tehri road.

  In those days it was still a mule-track, meandering over several spurs and ridges, before descending to the big river. It was about forty miles to Tehri. From there we could get a bus, at least up to Pratap Nagar, the old summer capital of the hill state.

  That first day on the road was rather trying. I had done a certain amount of walking in the hills, and I was reasonably fit. Sunil, for all his youth, had never walked further than Mussoorie’s cinemas or Dehra’s railway station, where the pickings for his agile fingers had always been good. Buddhoo, on the other hand, belied his short stature by being so swift of foot that he was constantly leaving us far behind. Every time we rounded a corner, expecting to find him waiting for us, he would be about a hundred yards ahead, never tiring, never resting.

  To keep myself going I would sing either Harry Lauder’s ‘Keep right on to the end of the road,’ or Nelson Eddy’s ‘Tramp, tramp, tramp’.

  Tramp, tramp, tramp, along the highway,

  Tramp, tramp, tramp, the road is free!

  Blazing trails along the byways…

  Sunil did not appreciate my singing.

  ‘You don’t sing well,’ he said. ‘Even those mules are getting nervous.’ He gestured at a mule-train that was passing us on the narrow path. A couple of mules were trying to break away from the formation.

  ‘Nothing to do with my singing,’ I said. ‘All they want are those young bamboo shoots coming up on the hillside.’

  Sunil asked one of the mule-drivers if he could take a ride on a mule; anything to avoid trudging along the stony path. The mule-driver agreeing, Sunil managed to mount one of the beasts and went cantering down the road, leaving us far behind.

  Buddhoo waited for me to catch up. He pointed at a large rock to the side of road, and there, sure enough, resting at ease, basking in the morning sunshine, was an ungainly monitor lizard about the length of my forearm.

  ‘Too small,’ said Buddhoo, who seemed to know something about lizards. ‘Bigger ones higher up.’

  The lizard did not move. It stared at us with a beady eye; a contemptuous sort of stare, almost as if it did not think very highly of humans. I wasn’t going to touch it. Its leathery skin looked uninviting; its feet and tail reminded me of a dinosaur; its head was almost serpent like. Who would want to use its body secretions, I wondered. Certainly not if they had seen the creature. But human beings, men especially, will do almost anything to appease their vanity. Tiger’s whiskers or saande-ka-tel—anything to improve their sagging manhood.

  We did not attempt to catch the lizard. Sunil was supposed to be the expert. And he was already a mile away, enjoying his mule-ride.

  An hour later he was sitting on the grassy verge, nursing a sore backside. Riding a mule can take the skin off the backside of an inexperienced rider.

  ‘I’m in pain,’ he complained. ‘I can’t get up.’

  ‘Use saande-ka-tel,’ I suggested.

  Buddhoo went sauntering up the road, laughing to himself.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said Sunil.

  ‘That makes three of us, then.’

  By noon we were hungry. Hassan had provided us with buns and biscuits, but these were soon finished, and we were longing for a real meal. Late afternoon we trudged into Dhanolti, a scenic spot with great views of the snow peaks; but we were in no mood for scenery. Who can eat sunsets? A forest rest house was the only habitation, and had food been available we could have spent the night there. But the caretaker was missing. A large black dog frightened us off.

  So on we tramped, three small dots on a big mountain, mere specks, beings of no importance. In creating this world, God showed that
he was a Great Mathematician; but in creating man, he got his algebra wrong. Puffed up with self-importance, we are in fact the most dispensable of all his creatures.

  On a long journey, the best companion is usually the one who talks the least, and in that way Buddhoo was a comforting presence. But I wanted to know him better.

  ‘How did you lose your ear?’ I asked.

  ‘Bear tore it off,’ he said, without elaborating.

  Brevity is the soul of wit, or so they say.

  ‘Must have been painful,’ I ventured.

  ‘Bled a lot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care to meet a bear.’

  ‘Lots of them out here. If you meet one, run downhill. They don’t like running downhill.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ I said, grateful for his shared wisdom. We trudged on in silence. To the south, the hills were bleak and windswept; to the north, moist and well-forested.

  The road ran along the crest of the ridge, and the panorama it afforded, with the mountains striding away in one direction and the valleys with their gleaming rivers snaking their way towards the plains, gave me an immense feeling of freedom. I doubt if Sunil felt the same way. He was preoccupied with tired legs and a sore backside. And for Buddhoo it was a familiar scene.

  A brief twilight, and then, suddenly, it grew very dark. No moon; the stars just beginning to appear. We rounded a bend, and a light shone from a kerosene lamp swinging outside a small roadside hut.

  It was not the pilgrim season, but the owner of the hut was ready to take in the odd traveller. He was a grizzled old man. Over the years the wind had dug trenches in his cheeks and forehead. A pair of spectacles, full of scratches, almost opaque, balanced on a nose long since broken. He’d lived a hard life. A survivor.

  ‘Have you anything to eat?’ demanded Sunil.

  ‘I can make you dal-bhaat,’ said the shopkeeper. Dal and rice was the staple diet of the hills; it seldom varied.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But first some tea.’

  The tea was soon ready, hot and strong, the way I liked it. The meal took some time to prepare, but in the meantime we made ourselves comfortable in a corner of the shop, the owner having said we could spend the night there. It would take us two hours to reach the township of Chamba, he said. Buddhoo concurred. He knew the road.

  We had no bedding, but the sleeping area was covered with old sheepskins stitched together, and they looked comfortable enough. Sunil produced a small bottle of rum from his shoulder bag, unscrewed the cap, took a swig, and passed it around. The old man declined. Buddhoo drank a little; so did I. Sunil polished off the rest. His eyes became glassy and unfocused.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ I asked.

  ‘Hassan Uncle gave it to me.’

  ‘Hassan doesn’t drink—he doesn’t keep it, either.’

  ‘Actually, I picked it up in the police station, just before they let me go. Found it in the havildar’s coat pocket.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘He’ll be looking forward to seeing you again.’

  The dal-bhaat was simple but substantial.

  ‘Could do with some pickle,’ grumbled Sunil, and then fell asleep before he could complain any further.

  We were all asleep before long. The sheepskin rug was reasonably comfortable. But we were unaware that it harboured a life of its own—a miniscule but active population of fleas and bugs—dormant when undisturbed, but springing into activity at the proximity of human flesh and blood.

  Within an hour of lying down we were wide awake.

  When God, the Great Mathematician, discovered that in making man he had overdone things a bit, he created the bedbug to even things out.

  Soon I was scratching. Buddhoo was up and scratching. Sunil came out of his stupor and was soon cursing and scratching. The fleas had got into our clothes, the bugs were feasting on our blood. When the world as we know it comes to an end, these will be the ultimate survivors.

  Within a short time we were stomping around like Kathakali dancers. There was no relief from the exquisite torture of being seized upon by hundreds of tiny insects thirsting for blood or body fluids.

  The tea shop owner was highly amused. He had never seen such a performance—three men cavorting around the room, scratching, yelling, hopping around.

  And then it began to rain. We heard the first heavy raindrops pattering a rhythm on the tin roof. They increased in volume, beating against the only window and bouncing off the banana fronds in the little courtyard. We needed no urging. Stripping off our clothes, we dashed outside, naked in the wind and rain, embracing the elements. What relief! We danced in the rain until it stopped, and then, getting back into our clothes with some reluctance, we decided to be on our way, no matter how dark or forbidding the night.

  We paid for our meal—or rather, I paid for it, being the only one in funds—and bid goodnight and goodbye to our host. Actually, it was morning, about 2 a.m., but we had no intention of bedding down again; not on those sheepskin rugs.

  A half-moon was now riding the sky. The rain had refreshed us. We were no longer hungry. We set out with renewed vigour.

  Great lizards, beware!

  At daybreak we tramped into the little township of Chamba, where Buddhoo proudly pointed out a memorial to soldiers from the area who had fallen fighting in the trenches in France during World War I. His grandfather had been one of them. Young men from the hills had traditionally gone into the army; it was the only way they could support their families; but times were changing, albeit slowly. The towns now had several hopeful college students. If they did not find jobs they could go into politics.

  The motor road from Rishikesh passed through Chamba, and we were able to catch a country bus which deposited us at Pratap Nagar later that day.

  Pratap Nagar is not on the map, but it used to be a place of some consequence once upon a time. Back in the days of the old Tehri Raj it had been the raja’s summer capital. There had even been a British resident and a tiny European population—just a handful of British officials and their families. But after Independence, the raja no longer had any use for the place. The state had been poor and backward, and over the years he had spent more time in Dehradun and Mussoorie.

  We were there purely by accident, having got into the wrong bus at Chamba.

  The wrong bus or the wrong train can often result in interesting consequences. It’s called the charm of the unexpected.

  Not that Pratap Nagar was oozing with charm. A dilapidated palace, an abandoned courthouse, a dispensary without a doctor, a school with a scatter of students and no teachers, and a marketplace selling sad-looking cabbages and cucumbers—these were the sights and chief attractions of the town. But I have always been drawn to decadent, decaying, forgotten places—Fosterganj being one of them—and while Sunil and Buddhoo passed the time chatting to some of the locals at the bus stand—which appeared to be the centre of all activity—I wandered off along the narrow, cobbled lanes until I came to a broken wall.

  Passing through a break in the wall I found myself in a small cemetery. It contained a few old graves. The inscriptions had worn away from most of the tombstones, and on others the statuary had been damaged. Obviously no one had been buried there for many years.

  In one corner I found a grave that was better preserved than the others, by virtue of the fact that the lettering had been cut into an upright stone rather than a flat slab. It read:

  Dr Robert Hutchinson

  Physician to His Highness

  Died July 13, 1933 of Typhus Fever

  May his soul rest in peace.

  Typhus fever! I had read all about it in an old medical dictionary published half a century ago by The Statesman of Calcutta and passed on to me by a fond aunt. Not to be confused with typhoid, typhus fever is rare today but sometimes occurs in overcrowded, unsanitary conditions and is definitely spread by lice, ticks, fleas, mites and other microorganisms thriving in filthy conditions—such as old sheepskin rugs which have remained unwashed
for years.

  I began to scratch at the very thought of it.

  I remembered more: ‘Attacks of melancholia and mania sometimes complicate the condition, which is often fatal.’

  Needless to say, I now found myself overcome by a profound feeling of melancholy. No doubt the mania would follow.

  I examined the other graves, and found one more victim of typhus fever. There must have been an epidemic. Fortunately for my peace of mind, the only other decipherable epitaph told of a missionary lady who had fallen victim to an earthquake in 1905. Somehow, an earthquake seemed less sinister than a disease brought on by bloodthirsty bugs.

  While I was standing there, ruminating on matters of life and death, my companions turned up, and Sunil exclaimed: ‘Well done, Uncle, you’ve already found one!’

  I hadn’t found anything, being somewhat shortsighted, but Sunil was pointing across to the far wall where a great fat lizard sat basking in the sun.

  Its tail was as long as my arm. Its legs were spread sideways, like a goalkeeper’s. Its head moved from side to side, and suddenly its tongue shot out and seized a passing dragonfly.

  In seconds the beautiful insect was imprisoned in a pair of strong jaws.

  The giant lizard consumed his lunch, then glanced at us standing a few feet away.

  ‘Plenty of fat around that fellow,’ observed Sunil. ‘Full of that precious oil!’

  The lizard let out a croak, as though it had something to say on the matter. But Sunil wasn’t listening. He lunged forward and grabbed the lizard by its tail. Miraculously, the tail came away in his hands.

  Away went the lizard, minus its tail.

  Buddhoo was doubled up with laughter. ‘The tail’s no use,’ he said. ‘Nothing in the tail!’

  Sunil flung the tail away in disgust.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Catch a lizard by its tail—make a wish, it cannot fail!’

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Sunil, who had a superstitious streak.

  ‘Nursery rhyme from Brazil,’ I said.

  The lizard had disappeared, but a white-bearded patriarch was looking at us from over the wall.