by Ruskin Bond
Outside the station we climbed into a tonga, or pony-trap, and rolled creakingly along quiet roads until we reached my grandmother's house. Grandfather had died a couple of years previously and Grandmother lived alone, except for occasional visits from her married daughters and their families, and from her unmarried but wandering son Ken, who was to turn up from time to time, especially when his funds were low. Granny also had a tenant, Miss Kellner, who occupied a portion of the bungalow.
Miss Kellner had been crippled in a carriage accident in Calcutta when she was a girl, and had been confined to a chair all her adult life. She had been left some money by her parents, and was able to afford an ayah and four stout palanquin-bearers, who carried her about when she wanted the chair moved, and took her for outings in a real sedan-chair or sometimes a rickshaw—she had both. Her hands were deformed and she could scarcely hold a pen, but she managed to play cards quite dexterously and taught me a number of card games, which I have now forgotten. Miss Kellner was the only person with whom I could play cards: she allowed me to cheat.
Granny employed a full-time gardener, a wizened old character named Dhuki (Sad), and I don't remember that he ever laughed or smiled. I'm not sure what deep tragedy dwelt behind those dark eyes (he never spoke about himself, even when questioned) but he was tolerant of me, and talked to me about the flowers and their characteristics.
There were rows and rows of sweet-peas; beds full of phlox and sweet-smelling snapdragons; geraniums on the veranda steps, hollyhocks along the garden wall. Behind the house were the fruit trees, somewhat neglected since my grandfather's death, and it was here that I liked to wander in the afternoons, for the old orchard was dark and private and full of possibilities. I made friends with an old jackfruit tree, in whose trunk was a large hole in which I stored marbles, coins, catapults, and other treasures, much as a crow stores the bright objects it picks up during its peregrinations.
I have never been a great tree-climber, having a tendency to fall off branches, but I liked climbing walls (and still do), and it was not long before I had climbed the wall behind the orchard, to drop into unknown territory and explore the bazaars and by-lanes of Dehra.
11
THE ZIGZAG WALK
Uncle Ken always maintained that the best way to succeed in life was to zigzag. 'If you keep going off in new directions,' he declared, 'you will meet new career opportunities!'
Well, opportunities certainly came Uncle Ken's way, but he was not a success in the sense that Dale Carnegie or Deepak Chopra would have defined a successful man…
In a long life devoted to 'muddling through' with the help of the family, Uncle Ken's many projects had included a chicken farm (rather like the one operated by Ukridge in Wodehouse's Love Among the Chickens) and a mineral water bottling project. For this latter enterprise, he bought a thousand soda-water bottles and filled them with sulphur water from the springs five miles from Dehra. It was good stuff, taken in small quantities, but drunk one bottle at a time it proved corrosive—'sulphur and brimstone' as one irate customer described it—and angry buyers demonstrated in front of the house, throwing empty bottles over the wall into Grandmother's garden.
Grandmother was furious—more with Uncle Ken than with the demonstrators—and made him give everyone's money back.
'You have to be healthy and strong to take sulphur water,' he explained later.
'I thought it was supposed to make you healthy and strong,' I said.
Grandfather remarked that it did not compare with plain soda-water, which he took with his whisky. 'Why don't you just bottle soda-water?' he said. 'There's a much bigger demand for it.'
But Uncle Ken believed that he had to be original in all things.
'The secret to success is to zigzag,' he said.
'You certainly zigzagged round the garden when your customers were throwing their bottles back at you,' said Grandmother.
Uncle Ken also invented the zigzag walk.
The only way you could really come to know a place well, was to walk in a truly haphazard way. To make a zigzag walk you take the first turning to the left, the first to the right, then the first to the left and so on. It can be quite fascinating provided you are in no hurry to reach your destination. The trouble was that Uncle Ken used this zigzag method even when he had a train to catch.
When Grandmother asked him to go to the station to meet Aunt Mabel who was arriving from Lucknow, he zigzagged through town, taking in the botanical gardens in the west and the limestone factories to the east, finally reaching the station by way of the goods yard, in order, as he said, 'to take it by surprise'.
Nobody was surprised, least of all Aunt Mabel who had taken a tonga and reached the house while Uncle Ken was still sitting on the station platform, waiting for the next train to come in. I was sent to fetch him.
'Let's zigzag home again,' he said.
'Only on one condition, we eat chaat every fifteen minutes,' I said.
So we went home by way of all the most winding bazaars, and in north-Indian towns they do tend to zigzag, stopping at numerous chaat and halwai shops, until Uncle Ken had finished his money. We got home very late and were scolded by everyone; but as Uncle Ken told me, we were pioneers and had to expect to be misunderstood and even maligned. Posterity would recognise the true value of zigzagging.
'The zigzag way,' he said, 'is the diagonal between heart and reason.'
In our more troubled times, had he taken to preaching on the subject, he might have acquired a large following of dropouts. But Uncle Ken was the original dropout. He would not have tolerated others.
Had he been a space traveller he would have gone from star to star, zigzagging across the Milky Way.
Uncle Ken would not have succeeded in getting anywhere very fast, but I think he did succeed in getting at least one convert (myself) to see his point: 'When you zigzag, you are not choosing what to see in this world but you are giving the world a chance to see you!'
12
A BICYCLE RIDE WITH UNCLE KEN
Kissing a girl while sharing a bicycle with her is no easy task, but I managed it when I was thirteen and my cousin Elsa was fourteen. Of course we both fell off in the process, and landed in one of Granny's flowerbeds where we were well cushioned by her nasturtiums.
I was a clumsy boy, always falling off bicycles and cousin Elsa was teaching me to ride properly, making me sit on the front seat while she guided the infernal machine from the carrier seat. The kiss was purely experimental. I had not kissed a girl before and as cousin Elsa seemed eminently kissable, I though I'd start with her. I waited until we were stationary and she was instructing me on the intricacies of the cycle chain, when I gave her a hurried peck on the cheek. She was so startled that she fell backwards taking me and the bicycle with her.
Later, she reported me to Granny, who said, 'We'll have to keep an eye on that boy. He's showing signs of a dissolute nature.'
'What's dissolute, Uncle Ken?' I asked my favourite uncle.
'It means you're going to the dogs. You're not supposed to kiss your cousin.'
'Can I kiss other girls?'
'Only if they are willing.'
'Did you ever kiss a girl, Uncle Ken?'
Uncle Ken blushed. 'Er…well…a long time ago.'
'Tell me about it.'
'Another time.'
'No, tell me now. How old were you?'
'About twenty.'
'And how old was she?'
'A bit younger.'
'And what happened?'
'We went cycling together. I was staying in Agra, where your grandfather worked in the Railways. Daisy's father was an engine-driver. But she didn't like engines, they left her covered with soot. Everyone had a bicycle in those days, only the very rich had cars. And the cars could not keep up with the bicycles. We lived in the cantonment area, where the roads were straight and wide. Daisy and I went on cycle rides to Fatehpur-Sikri and Secunderabad and of course the Taj Mahal, and one evening we saw the Taj Mahal by moonl
ight and it made us very romantic and when I saw her home we kissed under the Asoka trees.'
'I didn't know you were so romantic, Uncle Ken. Why didn't you marry Daisy?'
'I didn't have a job. She said she'd wait until I got one, but after two years she got tired of waiting. She married a ticket-inspector.'
'Such a sad story,' I said. 'And you still don't have a job.'
Uncle Ken had been through various jobs—private tutor, salesman, shop assistant, hotel manager (until he brought about the closure of the hotel) and cricket coach, this last on the strength of bearing a close resemblance to Geoff Boycott—but at present he was unemployed and only too ready to put his vast experience of life at my disposal.
Not only did he teach me to ride a bicycle, he accompanied me on cycle rides around Dehra and along the lanes and country roads outside the town.
A bicycle provides its rider with a great amount of freedom. A car will take you further but the fact that you're sitting in a confined space takes away from the freedom of the open spaces and unfamiliar roads. On a cycle you can feel the breeze on your face, smell the mango trees in blossom, slow down and gaze at the buffaloes wading in their ponds, or just stop anywhere and get down and enjoy a cup of tea or a glass of sugarcane juice. Foot-slogging takes time and cars are too fast—everything whizzes past you before you can take a second look—and car drivers hate having to stop, they are intent only on reaching their destinations in good time. But a bicycle is just right for someone who likes to take a leisurely look at the world as well as to give the world a chance to look at him.
Uncle Ken and I had some exhilarating bicycle rides during my winter holidays and the most memorable of those was our unplanned visit to a certain rest home situated on the outskirts of the town. It isn't there now so don't go looking for it. We had cycled quite far that day and were tired and thirsty. There was no sign of a tea shop on that particular road but when we arrived at the open gate of an impressive building with a signboard saying 'Rest and Recuperation Centre', we presumed it was a hotel or hostel of sorts and rode straight into the premises. There was an extensive lawn to one side, surrounded by neat hedges and flowering shrubs. A number of people were strolling about the lawn; some were sitting on benches; one or two were straddling a wall, talking to themselves; another was standing alone, singing to a non-existent audience. Some were Europeans and a few were Indians.
We left our cycles in the porch and went in search of refreshments. A lady in a white sari gave us cool water from a sohrai and told us we could wait on a bench just outside their office. But Uncle Ken said we'd prefer to meet some of the guests and led me across the lawn to where the singer was practicing his notes. He was a florid gentleman, heavily built.
'Do you like my singing?' he asked, as we came up.
'Wonderful!' exclaimed Uncle Ken. 'You sing like Caruso.'
'I am Caruso!' affirmed the tenor and let rip the opening notes of a famous operatic aria.
We hurried on and met an elegant couple who were parading up and down the lawn, waving their hands to an invisible crowd.
'Good-day to you, gentlemen,' said a flamboyant individual. 'You're the ambassadors from Sweden, I suppose.'
'If you so wish,' said Uncle Ken gallantly. 'And I have the honour of speaking to—?'
'The Emperor Napoleon, of course.'
'Of course. And this must be the Empress Josephine.' Uncle Ken bowed to the lady beside him.
'Actually, she's Marie Waleska,' said Napoleon. 'Josephine is indisposed today.'
I was beginning to feel like Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party and began tugging at Uncle Ken's coat-sleeve, whispering that we were getting late for lunch.
A turbaned warrior with a tremendous moustache loomed in front of us. 'I'm Prithviraj Chauhan,' he announced. 'And I invite you to dinner at my palace.'
'Everyone's royalty here,' observed Uncle Ken. 'It's such a privilege to be with you.'
'Me too,' I put in nervously.
'Come with me boy, and I'll introduce you to the others.' Prithviraj Chauhan took me by the hand and began guiding me across the lawn. 'There are many famous men and women here. That's Marco Polo over there. He's just back from China. And if you don't care for Caruso's singing, there's Tansen under that tamarind tree. Tamarind leaves are good for the voice, you know that of course, and that fashionable gentleman there, he's Lord Curzon, who used to be a Viceroy. He's talking to the Sultan of Marrakesh. Come along, I'll introduce you to them…You're the young prince of Denmark, aren't you?'
Before I could refute any claims to royalty, we were intercepted by a white-coated gentleman accompanied by a white-coated assistant. They looked as though they were in charge.
'And what are you doing here, young man?' asked the senior of the two.
'I am with my uncle,' I said, gesturing towards Uncle Ken, who approached and gave the in-charge an affable handshake.
'And you must be Dr Freud,' said Uncle Ken. 'I must say this is a jolly sort of place.'
'Actually, I'm Dr Goel. You must be the new patient we were expecting. But they should have sent you over with someone a little older. Never mind, come along to the office and we'll have you admitted.'
Uncle Ken and I both protested that we were not potential patients but that we had entered the grounds by mistake. We had our bicycles to prove it! However, Dr Goel was having nothing of this deception. He and his assistant linked arms with Uncle Ken and marched him off to the office, while I trailed behind, wondering if I should get on my bicycle and rush back to Granny with the terrible news that Uncle Ken had been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum.
Just then an ambulance arrived with the real patient, a school principal suffering from a persecution complex. He kept shouting that he was perfectly sane, and that his entire staff had plotted to have him put away. This might well have been true, as the staff was there in force to make sure he did not escape.
Dr Goel apologised to Uncle Ken. Uncle Ken apologised to Dr Goel. The good doctor even accompanied us to the gate. He shook hands with Uncle Ken and said, 'I have a feeling we'll see you here again.' He looked hard at my uncle and added, 'I think I've seen you before, sir. What did you say your name was?'
'Geoff Boycott,' said Uncle Ken mischievously, and rode away before they changed their minds and kept him in there.
13
AT SEA WITH UNCLE KEN
With Uncle Ken you had always to expect the unexpected. Even in the most normal circumstances, something unusual would happen to him and to those around him. He was a catalyst for confusion.
My mother should have known better than to ask him to accompany me to England, the year after I'd finished school. She felt that a boy of sixteen was a little too young to make the voyage on his own; I might get lost or lose my money or fall overboard or catch some dreadful disease. She should have realised that Uncle Ken, her only brother (well spoilt by his five sisters), was more likely to do all these things.
Anyway, he was put in charge of me and instructed to deliver me safely to my aunt in England, after which he could either stay there or return to India, whichever he preferred. Granny had paid for his ticket so in effect he was getting a free holiday which included a voyage on a posh P&O liner.
Our train journey to Bombay passed off without incident, although Uncle Ken did manage to misplace his spectacles, getting down at the station wearing someone else's. This left him a little short-sighted, which might have accounted for his mistaking the stationmaster for a porter and instructing him to look after our luggage.
We had two days in Bombay before boarding the S.S Strathnaver and Uncle Ken vowed that we would enjoy ourselves. However, he was a little constrained by his budget and took me to a rather seedy hotel on Lamington Road, where we had to share a toilet with over twenty other people.
'Never mind,' he said. 'We won't spend much time in this dump.' So he took me to Marine Drive and the Gateway of India and to an Irani restaurant in Colaba where we enjoyed a super dinner of curried pra
wns and scented rice. I don't know if it was the curry, the prawns, or the scent but Uncle Ken was up all right, running back and forth to that toilet, so that no one else had a chance to use it. Several dispirited travellers simply opened their windows and ejected into space, cursing Uncle Ken all the while.
He had recovered by morning and proposed a trip to the Elephanta Caves. After a breakfast of fish pickle, Malabar chilli chutney and sweet Gujarati puris, we got into a launch, accompanied by several other tourists and set off on our short cruise. The sea was rather choppy and we hadn't gone far before Uncle Ken decided to share his breakfast with the fishes of the sea. He was as green as seaweed by the time we went ashore. Uncle Ken collapsed on the sand and refused to move, so we didn't see much of the caves. I brought him some coconut water and he revived a bit and suggested we go on a fast until it was time to board our ship.
We were safely on board the following morning, and the ship sailed majestically out from Ballard Pier, Bombay and India receded into the distance, quite possibly forever as I wasn't sure that I would ever return. The sea fascinated me and I remained on deck all day, gazing at small crafts, passing steamers, sea-birds, the distant shore-line, salt-water smells, the surge of the waves and of course my fellow passengers. I could well understand the fascination it held for writers such as Conrad, Stevenson, Maugham and others.
Uncle Ken, however, remained confined to his cabin. The rolling of the ship made him feel extremely ill. If he had been looking green in Bombay, he was looking yellow at sea. I took my meals in the dining saloon, where I struck up an acquaintance with a well-known palmist and fortune-teller who was on his way to London to make his fortune. He looked at my hand and told me I'd never be rich, but that I'd help other people get rich!