by Ruskin Bond
‘You need a net,’ he said. ‘Catching them by hand isn’t easy. Too slippery.’
We thanked him for his advice; said we’d go looking for a net.
‘Maybe a bedsheet will do,’ Sunil said.
The patriarch smiled, stroked his flowing white beard, and asked: ‘But what will you do with these lizards? Put them in a zoo?’
‘It’s their oil we want,’ said Sunil, and made a sales pitch for the miraculous properties of saande-ka-tel.
‘Oh, that,’ said the patriarch, looking amused. ‘It will irritate the membranes and cause some inflammation. I know—I’m a nature therapist. All superstition, my friends. You’ll get the same effect, even better, with machine oil. Try sewing machine oil. At least it’s harmless. Leave the poor lizards alone.’
And the barefoot mendicant hitched up his dhoti, gave us a friendly wave, and disappeared in the monsoon mist.
STRYCHNINE IN THE COGNAC
Sick was she on Thursday,
Dead was she on Friday,
Glad was Tom on Saturday night
To bury his wife on Sunday.
Miss Bean was reclining in a cane chair in a corner of the hotel’s Beer Garden, reciting old nursery rhymes to herself, when Mr Lobo, the resident pianist, walked over and placed a glass of lemon juice beside her.
‘Oranges and lemons,’ he said, sitting down beside her. ‘Which do you prefer?’
‘Both,’ she said. ‘Oranges for the complexion, lemons for the digestion.’
‘Words of wisdom. But that nursery rhyme sounded a bit wicked. I can only remember the innocent ones like Jack and Jill.’
‘Not so innocent. “Jack fell down and broke his crown”—he wouldn’t have survived a broken head. Maybe Jill pushed him over a cliff—and went tumbling after!’
‘Like the judge who fell into the Kempty Waterfall. Was he pushed, or did he fall?’
‘We shall never know. No witnesses. But here come the Roys—what a handsome couple!’
The Roys were, indeed, a handsome couple, as you would expect them to be. Dilip Roy was in his mid-forties, but still a name to be reckoned with in Bollywood. He was greying a little at the temples, just below the edges of his wig; but he remained lean and athletic looking, and the meaty, romantic roles still came his way. His wife, Rosie Roy, was two or three years younger than him, but inclined to plumpness. When she was in her later twenties and early thirties she had starred in several very popular films—two of them opposite Dilip Roy, whom she had married while on location with him in Kashmir—but of late she had been having some difficulty in getting parts to her liking. She hadn’t been feeling very well and had taken to sleeping late in the mornings. Her doctor had suspected diabetes and had advised a complete check-up, but she kept putting off the necessary tests.
‘You need change,’ said Dilip, always concerned about her health. ‘A change from Bombay. A fortnight in the hills will do wonders for you. I’ll spend a few days with you too, before I start shooting in Switzerland. Where would you like to go—Simla, Mussoorie, Darjeeling, Ooty?’
‘Why not Switzerland?’
Dilip laughed uneasily. ‘It wouldn’t be much of a holiday. I’d be shooting all the time and you’d be pestered by hangers-on and loads of admirers.’
‘Former admirers.’
‘Well, better an old admirer than none at all. And I’m still jealous.’
They settled on Mussoorie—partly because Dilip Roy’s father was an old friend of Nandu, the owner of the hotel, and partly because Rosie had spent an idyllic summer there as a girl, staying with an aunt in Barlowganj. When the couple arrived at the hotel, the first person they encountered was Miss Bean, watering the potted aspidistras in the porch of the hotel.
‘Hello,’ said Rosie, smiling curiously at Miss Bean. ‘Are you the new gardener?’
‘I’m the old gardener,’ said Miss Bean. ‘A long-time resident, actually. But the gardener never waters these aspidistras—he thinks they are hardy enough to go without. But plants are like humans—they need a little attention from time to time, otherwise they die of neglect. I’ve seen you somewhere, haven’t I?’
‘Only if you go to the movies,’ said Rosie. And added: ‘Old movies.’
‘You’re Rosie Roy,’ said Miss Bean. ‘I saw you in Cobra Lady.’
‘Wasn’t it terrible?’
‘It was so bad that I enjoyed every moment of it. And this must be the great Dilip Roy,’ observed Miss Bean, as the wellknown actor joined them, followed by room boys loaded with luggage. ‘The hero of Love in Kathmandu,’ said Miss Bean, but the hero ignored her.
Dilip Roy did not stop to gossip, but continued up the steps to the lobby, followed by his wife and the room boys. Miss Bean gave her attention to the aspidistras.
‘Friendly heroine but not so friendly hero,’ she said to the nearest potted plant. The aspidistra appeared to agree.
The couple settled in, and over the next few days Miss Bean saw quite a lot of them although she took care not to intrude in any way, for it was obvious that the Roys were not looking for company.
In the evenings Dilip Roy would plant himself on a bar stool, and work his way through several whiskies, occasionally answering polite questions from the bartender or a casual customer, but always rather morosely, his mind obviously elsewhere. In the background, Mr Lobo, the hotel pianist, would play popular numbers but without receiving any encouragement or applause.
Rosie did not join her husband in the bar. But occasionally a Martini was served to her in her room—sometimes two Martinis—it was obvious that she liked a gin and vermouth cocktail now and then. Nandu presented her with a bottle of cognac, and she kept it on her dresser, intending to open it only when her husband was in the mood to drink with her.
They went out for quiet walks together, avoiding the Mall where they would quickly be recognized by both locals and visitors. Sometimes they passed Miss Bean, who was herself a great walker. As they were fellow residents of the hotel they would stop to exchange comments on the weather, the view, the hotel, the town, sometimes even the country and the rest of the world. But from the quiet of the mountains the rest of the world can seem very far away.
Rosie Roy liked the look of Miss Bean and was always ready to stop and talk. Dilip Roy was polite but brusque. The local gossip did not interest him, and he thought Miss Bean a rather quaint and rather foolish bit of flotsam surviving from the days of the British Raj. But then (as Rosie argued) the hotel, the cottages, the winding footpaths, the hill station itself, were all survivors of the Raj, and if their old-world atmosphere did not please you, it might have been better to holiday in Goa—and soak up the Portuguese atmosphere!
India would always be haunted by its history…
One day the Roys had a violent quarrel. Miss Bean was no eavesdropper but she couldn’t help overhearing every word that was spoken. Her favourite place was a bench situated behind a tall hibiscus hedge. It looked out upon the snows, and Miss Bean liked to spend a half hour there with a book while Fluff, her little terrier, investigated the hillside, looking for rats’ holes. You couldn’t see the bench from the Beer Garden, and it was in the Beer Garden that Rosie and Dilip Roy were confronting each other.
‘You’re off, because of that woman in Bandra.’ Rosie’s voice was quite shrill. ‘A week away from her and you’re beginning to look like a real Majnu—all pale and melancholy.’
‘Don’t make up things.’ Dilip Roy sounded impatient rather than melancholy. ‘You know they start shooting on the new film next week. And it’s in Switzerland, not Bandra.’
‘You’re not the star. They can do without you. You’ve been getting too fat for leading roles. And you’re drinking too much.’
‘I’ll end up an alcoholic if I stay here much longer. The doctors advised rest for you, not for me. You’ve given yourself ulcers and you won’t get any better if you worry over trifles.’
Here the couple were interrupted by a group of youngsters seeking autographs, and Mi
ss Bean took advantage of the diversion to slip away, taking a roundabout path to her room. Fluff enjoyed the extended walk.
That evening Dilip Roy opened the bottle of cognac. He was leaving the next morning, and he was in a mood to celebrate. But he was not particularly fond of cognac, and did most of his celebrating with his favourite Scotch. Rosie poured herself a glass of cognac, then put the bottle away on the dresser in their room. There it remained all night.
Dilip Roy breakfasted alone in the dining room, then sent for a taxi to take him down to Dehradun. Rosie did not see him off.
‘She’s sleeping late,’ explained Dilip. ‘She has a headache. Don’t disturb her.’
‘Enjoy yourself in Switzerland,’ said Nandu, the affable proprietor.
‘Look after Rosie,’ said Dilip Roy. ‘Let her get plenty of rest.’
And everyone did their best to make Rosie comfortable and welcome, because she was much the more gracious of the two. The manager and staff fussed over her, and Mr Lobo played her favourite tunes, especially the one she always requested:
The future is hard to see,
Whatever will be will be…
Even Miss Bean was drawn towards Rosie and joined her on an inspection of the garden, for they were both fond of flowers, and in late summer the grounds were awash with bright yellow marigolds, petunias, larkspur and climbing roses. They had coffee together and Rosie recalled her parents and happy childhood days spent in Mussoorie; she did not talk about her marriage.
As evening came on, Rosie would retire to her room and send for a Martini; it would be followed by a second. She would have a light supper in her room—usually a chicken or mushroom soup with toast—followed by a few sips of cognac as a nightcap… and then to bed.
This routine continued for three or four days, and the cognac bottle was still half full because Rosie preferred Martinis. Dilip Roy made a couple of calls from Bombay—the crew would be off to Switzerland any day, and meanwhile they were shooting some scenes in Lonavala.
He had been away for almost a week when Rosie suddenly fell ill. At about ten o’clock after her dinner she rang her bell. A room boy answered her summons, found her on her bed, still dressed, and having a fit of sorts. He ran for the manager.
The manager hurried to the room, followed by a concerned Mr Lobo. They found her still having convulsions.
‘I’ll go get Dr Bisht,’ said Lobo, and hurried from the room. Minutes later they heard the splutter of his scooter as he took the winding driveway down to the Mall. Dr Bisht had a scooter too—it was the Age of the Scooter—and he arrived in time to give Rosie some basic first aid and arrange for her to be taken to the local hospital. He was cautious in his diagnosis. ‘Looks like food poisoning,’ he said, and then his eye fell on the open bottle of cognac, of which about half remained. There was still some liquor in a glass, and he sniffed at it and made a face. ‘Or something else… We’d better have this bottle examined.’ But that would take time.
A call was put through to Dilip Roy’s studio in Bombay; but the actor was in Switzerland, and air flights were not very frequent those days. It would be two or three days before he could return.
Miss Bean visited Rosie Roy every day, and so, occasionally, did Nandu and Mr Lobo. To everyone’s relief and amazement, Rosie made a good recovery. There were crystals of strychnine at the bottom of that bottle, but they had only just begun to dissolve. Another evening’s drinking and Rosie would have reached the fatal dose lying in wait for her. For it was obvious that someone had placed the poison in the bottle, and that someone could only have been Dilip Roy, before he had left Mussoorie. Far away at the time of his wife’s expiry, he would have the perfect alibi.
Of course, nothing could be proven—all was surmise and conjecture—but Rosie was certain in her own mind that her husband had intended to do away with her in absentia, so to speak—and had very nearly succeeded.
She and Miss Bean had become fast friends, and Rosie found herself confiding all her fears and suspicions to the older person, and turning to her for advice and guidance.
They sat together on the lawns of the Savoy, Rosie reclining in an easy chair, Miss Bean quite at ease on a wooden bench. From indoors came the tinkle of a piano as Mr Lobo played ‘September Song’. Miss Bean sang the words softly, almost to herself:
But it’s a long time from May to December,
And the days grown short when we reach September.
‘That’s a pretty song,’ said Rosie. ‘A little sad, though.’
‘September is a sad month,’ said Miss Bean musingly. ‘The end of summer, the end of all those lovely picnics. Holding hands and paddling in mountain streams. Hot sunny days. And then all that rain—weeks of endless rain and mist. September brings back the sunshine if only for a short time, and then those icy winds will start coming down from the snows.’
‘How romantic!’ exclaimed Rosie. ‘You are lucky to have lived here most of your life. Well, perhaps I’ll come and join you when I’ve finished with that wretched husband of mine in Bombay.’
‘What do you intend to do, my dear? Put arsenic in his vodka?’
‘Arsenic is too slow. But if he eats enough of those chocolatecoated hazelnuts of which he is so fond, he could well come to a sticky end.’
‘What do you mean, dear?’
‘This is only for your ears, Auntie May.’
She addressed Miss Bean by her first name whenever she became trustful and confiding. ‘I know you won’t give me away—just in case something happens.’
‘What could happen now?’
‘Well, during the last two years I’ve been so miserable that I’ve always kept a little cyanide pill with me, just so that I can put an end to my life if it becomes too unbearable.’
‘Oh, dear. Do throw it away. Don’t even think of doing away with yourself.’
‘Well, actually I did throw it away—got rid of it. I took the pill and gave it a nice coating of chocolate and then mixed it up with all the little hazelnut chocolates in the tin that Dilip always carries around.’
‘Oh, but that was wicked of you. Quite diabolical! Understandable though, when you think of what he tried to do to you. But he could get to that chocolate pill any day. Pop it into his mouth, and then—’
‘Pop off?’ added Rosie, a glint in her hazel eyes.
‘But it’s been some time, hasn’t it? Almost three weeks since he left. Someone else might have helped himself or herself to a chocolate—’
Just then they saw Nandu advancing across the lawn. It wasn’t his usual amble, he looked very purposeful.
‘Bad news,’ he said, when he reached their sunny corner. ‘I’ve just had a call from Dilip’s manager. Your husband died last night. Suicide, it appears. Cyanide. He must have been feeling very guilty about what happened to you. I’m sorry for your loss, Rosie…’
That evening Miss Bean dined with Rosie in the old ballroom. It was the end of the season, and only a few tables were occupied. Mr Lobo was at the piano, playing nostalgic numbers.
‘What will you have, Auntie May? You’re my special guest today. It’s not that I want to celebrate or anything like that—’
‘I quite understand, my dear.’
‘So you must have a decent wine, instead of that dreadful crème-de-menthe you make in your room. Here’s the wine list.’
Miss Bean ran her eye down the wine list. She was no blackmailer, but she couldn’t help feeling a little surge of power as she made her choice. And it was such a long time since she’d enjoyed a really good wine. So she plumped for the most expensive wine on the list, and sat back in anticipation.
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.
One day that clock will strike thirteen and I’ll be liberated for ever, thought Rani Ma as the clock struck twelve and she poured herself another generous peg from the vodka bottle. Recently she had moved from gin to vodka, the latter seemed a little more suited to her mid-morning depression. T
he bottle was half empty but it would take her through to late afternoon when her ancient manservant, Bahadur, would arrive with another bottle and some vegetables for the evening meal. She did not bother with breakfast or lunch, and yet she was fat, fifty, and oh so forlorn.
Living alone on the seventh floor of a new apartment building—Ranipur’s only skyscraper—had only emphasized Rani Ma’s loneliness and isolation. Friends had drifted away over the years. Her selfish nature and acerbic tongue had destroyed many relationships. There were no children, for marriage had passed her by. Occasionally a nephew or cousin would turn up, hoping for a loan, but would go away disappointed.
Rani Ma had nothing to live for, and almost every day, after the third vodka, she contemplated suicide. If only that clock would strike thirteen, Time for her would stop, and she would take that fatal leap into oblivion. Because it had to be a leap—something dramatic, something final. No sleeping tablets for her, no overdose of Alprax, no Hyoscine in her vodka. And she was far too clumsy to try slitting her own wrists, she’d only make a mess of it, and Bahadur would find her bleeding on the carpet and run for a doctor. There was an old shotgun in the bottom drawer of a cupboard but the box of cartridges that went with it looked damp and mouldy; of no use, except perhaps to frighten off an intruder. No, there was only one thing to do—leap off her seventh floor balcony, stay airborne for a few seconds, and then—oblivion!
Why wait for that clock to strike thirteen? Time would never stop—not for her, not for all those thousands below, hurrying about in a heat of hope, striving to find some meaning in their lives, some sustenance for their hordes of children; some happy, some miserable but alive…
She opened the door to her balcony and stood there, unsteady, supporting herself against the low railing. Down below on the busy street, cars, scooters, cyclists, pedestrians, went about their business unaware of the woman looking down upon them from her balcony. Once the queen of Ranipur, she had always looked down upon them. Now her rule extended no further than her apartment, and the world went by unheeding.