by Ruskin Bond
When Uncle Ken felt better (on the third day of the voyage), he struggled up on the deck, took a large lungful of sea air and subsided into a deck-chair. He dozed the day away, but was suddenly wide awake when an attractive blonde strode past us on her way to the lounge. After some time we heard the tinkling of a piano. Intrigued, Uncle Ken rose and staggered into the lounge. The girl was at the piano, playing something classical which wasn't something that Uncle Ken normally enjoyed, but he was smitten by the girl's good looks and he stood enraptured, his eyes brightly gleaming, his jaw sagging. With his nose pressed against the glass of the lounge door, he reminded me of a goldfish who had fallen in love with an angel fish that had just been introduced into the tank.
'What is she playing?' he whispered, aware that I had grown up on my father's classical record collection.
'Rachmaninoff,' I made a guess, 'Or maybe Rimsky Korsakov.'
'Something easier to pronounce,' he begged.
'Chopin,' I said.
'And what's his most famous composition?'
'Polonaise in E flat. Or may be it's E minor.'
He pushed open the lounge door, walked in, and when the girl had finished playing, applauded loudly. She acknowledged his applause with a smile and then went on to play something else. When she had finished he clapped again and said, 'Wonderful! Chopin never sounded better!'
'Actually, it's Tchaikovsky,' said the girl. But she didn't seem to mind.
Uncle Ken would turn up at all her practice sessions and very soon they were strolling the decks together. She was Australian, on her way to London to pursue a musical career as a concert pianist. I don't know what she saw in Uncle Ken, but he knew all the right people. And he was quite good-looking in an effete sort of way.
Left to my own devices, I followed my fortune-telling friend around and watched him study the palms of our fellow passengers. He foretold romance, travel, success, happiness, health, wealth, and longevity, but never predicted anything that might upset anyone. As he did not charge anything (he was, after all, on holiday) he proved to be a popular passenger throughout the voyage. Later he was to become quite famous as a palmist and mind-reader, an Indian 'Cheiro', much in demand in the capitals of Europe.
The voyage lasted eighteen days, with stops for passengers and cargo at Aden, Port Said and Marseilles, in that order. It was at Port Said that Uncle Ken and his friend went ashore, to look at the sights and do some shopping.
'You stay on the ship,' Uncle Ken told me. 'Port Said isn't safe for young boys.'
He wanted the girl all to himself, of course. He couldn't have shown off with me around. His 'man of the world' manner would not have been very convincing in my presence.
The ship was due to sail again that evening and passengers had to be back on board an hour before departure. The hours passed easily enough for me as the little library kept me engrossed. If there are books around, I am never bored. Towards evening I went up on deck and saw Uncle Ken's friend coming up the gangway; but of Uncle Ken there was no sign.
'Where's Uncle?' I asked her.
'Hasn't he returned? We got separated in a busy marketplace and I thought he'd get here before me.'
We stood at the railings and looked up and down the pier, expecting to see Uncle Ken among the other returning passengers. But he did not turn up.
'I suppose he's looking for you,' I said. 'He'll miss the boat if he doesn't hurry.'
The ship's hooter sounded. 'All aboard!' called the captain on his megaphone. The big ship moved slowly out of the harbour. We were on our way! In the distance I saw a figure that looked like Uncle Ken running along the pier, frantically waving his arms. But there was no turning back.
A few days later my aunt met me at Tilbury Dock.
Where's your Uncle Ken?' she asked.
'He stayed behind at Port Said. He went ashore and didn't get back in time.'
'Just like Ken. And I don't suppose he has much money with him. Well, if he gets in touch we'll send him a postal order.'
But Uncle Ken failed to get in touch. He was a topic of discussion for several days, while I settled down in my aunt's house and looked for a job. At sixteen I was working in an office, earning a modest salary and contributing towards my aunt's housekeeping expenses. There was no time to worry about Uncle Ken's whereabouts.
My readers know that I longed to return to India, but it was nearly four years before that became possible. Finally I did come home and as the train drew into Dehra's little station, I looked out of the window and saw a familiar figure on the platform. It was Uncle Ken!
He made no reference to his disappearance at Port Said, and greeted me as though we had last seen each other the previous day.
'I've hired a cycle for you,' he said. 'Feel like a ride?'
'Let me get home first, Uncle Ken. I've got all this luggage.'
The luggage was piled into a tonga, I sat on top of everything and we went clip-clopping down an avenue of familiar lichi trees (all gone now, I fear). Uncle Ken rode behind the tonga, whistling cheerfully.
'When did you get back to Dehra?' I asked.
'Oh, a couple of years ago. Sorry I missed the boat. Was the girl upset?'
'She said she'd never forgive you.'
'Oh well, I expect she's better off without me. Fine piano player. Chopin and all that stuff.'
'Did Granny send you the money to come home?'
'No, I had to take a job working as a waiter in a Greek restaurant. Then I took tourists to look at the pyramids. I'm an expert on pyramids now. Great place, Egypt. But I had to leave when they found I had no papers or permit. They put me on a boat to Aden. Stayed in Aden six months teaching English to the son of a Shiekh. Shiekh's son went to England, I came back to India.'
'And what are you doing now, Uncle Ken?'
'Thinking of starting a poultry farm. Lots of space behind your Gran's house. Maybe you can help with it.'
'I couldn't save much money, Uncle.'
'We'll start in a small way. There is a big demand for eggs, you know. Everyone's into eggs—scrambled, fried, poached, boiled. Egg curry for lunch. Omelettes for dinner. Egg sandwiches for tea. How do you like your egg?'
'Fried,' I said. 'Sunny side up.'
'We shall have fried eggs for breakfast. Funny side up!'
The poultry farm never did happen, but it was good to be back in Dehra, with the prospect of limitless bicycle rides with Uncle Ken.
14
TRAVELS WITH MY BANK MANAGER
1
You couldn't ask for a livelier or more interesting compan ion than Ohri, my former bank manager. I say 'former', not because he is no longer with us, but because he has gone on to bigger and better things in Mumbai and Dubai where, I am given to understand, the streets are paved with gold. When I knew him he was a wildlife enthusiast with his heart in Corbett country and the Himalayan foothills.
Ohri liked travelling by road, preferably at dawn, the drive punctuated by halts to gaze at peacocks, nilghav, jackals and porcupines.
I'd accompany him occasionally, and one crisp winter morning we got into his battered old Fiat for a leisurely drive from Delhi to Dehradun. But Ohri had no intention of keeping to the main highway or doing anything in a leisurely manner.
'From Roorkee we'll take the Haridwar road, then take a diversion and get onto the forest road through the Rajaji Sanctuary. We'll come out near the Mohand Pass. It is only about fifteen miles. Beautiful forest, lots of wildlife, tigers, herds of elephants, perfectly safe!'
'If you say so,' I said, not having much choice once he was behind the wheel.
By the time we had made it to the Rajaji forest road, dusk had fallen and the peahens were stridently calling up their mates.
There was three raos (dry river beds) to cross on the way to the pass, and at the first of these the front door threatened to come off its hinges.
'Hang on to it!' urged Ohri. 'Keep it from falling off!'
I had an old football scarf with me—a gift from travel w
riter Bill Aitken, a fellow fan of bottom of the Scottish League club, Alloa Athletic—and I tied this to the door handle, making it easier for me to keep the door from falling open.
Ohri stopped the car and pointed enthusiastically at several hefty dung-cakes in the middle of the road.
'Look, elephant dung!' he cried. 'Maybe we'll be lucky and see some wild elephants.'
'I'm quite content just viewing their leavings,' I said.
'Very good for making paper,' observed Ohri.
'Well, perhaps you could persuade the Reserve Bank to use the stuff for making notes, the large denominations.'
Undeterred by my sarcasm, Ohri started up and drove merrily into the second boulder-strewn rao. A bump, a bang, and we had a flat tyre.
'We'll soon fix it,' said Ohri. 'Will you get the spare tyre out of the dickey?'
Fortunately my struggle with the door prevented me from getting out, because just then a number of wild boars appeared at the side of the road. They had been in search of a little water in the rao and had now stopped in order to take a growing interest in the car and its occupants.
'Better wait until they've gone,' said Ohri. 'Wild boars can be dangerous. Even a tiger will run from a charging boar. Don't let the door fall off!'
I hung onto the door for dear life. I wasn't about to run like a tiger.
We waited. The boars waited.
'Would you like a drink?' asked Ohri after some time. 'There's a bottle here somewhere.'
He produced a full bottle of strong army rum and we took swigs in turn. The boars came a little nearer.
'If we're going to be here all night let's play Under a Scotsman's Kilt,' I suggested. 'I learnt it at school.'
'I didn't know you were gay.'
'I'm not. I'm serious. You give me the first line of a song or poem, and I'll come in with the line "Under aScotman's Kilt." It's great fun. Don't think too hard. The first song that comes to mind…'
'Old Macdonald had a farm.'
'Under a Scotsman's kilt.'
'I wandered lonely as a cloud.'
'Under a Scotsman's kilt.'
'Tiger, tiger burning bright.'
'Under a Scotsman's kilt.'
We continued in this scatological vein for some time until, fortunately for our sanity, the silence of the night was broken by the roar of an approaching motor-cycle. To our amazement, two middle-aged Sikh gentlemen materialised in front of our headlights. The wild boars scattered and vanished into the night.
Our rescuers were in the habit of using the forest road as a short-cut to their farm in the Terai.
Elephants and wild boars did not faze them. They helped us change the tyre, and then they helped us finish the bottle of rum. They even offered to get us another bottle, courtesy a helpful forest guard; but we thanked them profusely and said we had to be on our way. Ohri's wife was waiting for him in Dehradun, rolling pin at the ready. She would flatten him out along with the atta.
Ohri negotiated the remainder of the second rao and then, at the rao before Mohand, the door finally fell off, taking my Scottish football scarf with it.
Ever loyal to Alloa Athletic, I retrieved the scarf, but Ohri left the door behind in the river-bed.
'We'll come back for it another day,' he vowed. I was sure he had another treat in store for me.
2
The next time we met, a few weeks later, Ohri had a new car, one of the latest Marutis.
'Come on, I'll take you for a spin down Tehri Road,' he said. 'We'll be back in time for lunch.'
'Are you sure?' I asked. 'I don't want to miss my afternoon siesta.'
'Nothing better than a nap under a chestnut tree,' said Ohri.
'The last time I slept under a chestnut tree, the langurs kept dropping chestnuts on my head. And this is October and the chestnuts are ready.'
'We'll go no further than Suakholi,' promised Ohri.
And so we set off in his new car, and on the way Ohri told me how he was having an ulcer problem and that Dr Bhist had told him to keep eating biscuits between meals. Apparently the biscuits soaked up the excess acid. On the seat between us I found three packets of biscuits—glucose, cream crackers and a third variety which I did not recognise.
'And what are these?' I asked.
'Dog biscuits,' he said.
'You're eating dog biscuits for your ulcer?'
'No, of course not. We have a dog now, a Labrador. My wife told me to bring home some dog biscuits.'
Ohri kept munching biscuits on the way to Suakholi, where we stopped for tea and more biscuits. 'Do we go home now?' I asked.
'Just a little further,' he urged. 'Don't you want to see the phosphate mines?'
I said I had no particular interest in phosphate mines, but he said we were sure to see some pheasants along the way, and so I let him talk me into an extension of the drive. A little way after Suakholi, we took a turning to the right, and continued along a rough dirt road which was obviously resented by the springs of Ohri's new car. We passed the phosphate mines, which appeared to have been shut down, and continued through a path of mixed forest in the general direction of the next mountain.
'This is not the way home,' I remarked.
'There's a forest rest house around the next bend,' said Ohri. 'Maybe the chowkidar can prepare some lunch for us.'
There was indeed a rest house around the bend, but it looked as though it hadn't been occupied for years. Most of the roof was missing. A wildcat spat at us from a broken wall. There was no sign of a chowkidar or any other human being.
'We'd better go back,' said Ohri. We shared the cream crackers and washed them down with mineral water. Ohri hadn't brought any rum along this time, which was just as well. He hadn't brought enough petrol, either. We hadn't gone very far when the over-taxed car spluttered to a stop.
'We should have turned back from Suakholi,' he said accusingly, as though it was all my fault.
'Well, you might get some in Suakholi,' I said. 'Ask a passing truck-driver. I'll stay here with the car.'
So Ohri trudged up to Suakholi, while I settled down in the shade of a whispering pine and enjoyed my afternoon siesta. When I woke up, it was evening and I was feeling hungry. I went to the car and through the window-glass saw that there were still some biscuits on the front seat. But Ohri had locked all the doors! I returned to the rest house and explored the ruins. There was nothing there that I could eat, except for some wild sorrel growing in the cracks of the building.
Ohri came back just as it was getting dark. He'd brought the petrol but had neglected to bring any food.
On our way back we ate the dog biscuits.
Try them sometime. They are really quite nourishing. And they don't taste too bad if you're really hungry.
When Ohri's wife scolded him for not bringing the dog biscuits, all he could say was, 'Ruskin ate them.'
3
Banks are not normally exciting places, except when there's a bank robbery. But with Ohri around there was never a dull moment.
Our small branch is now computerised, but a few years ago it did not even have a typewriter. They used to borrow mine. Not everyday, but once a year, for a week or two, when their auditors came around.
I had three typewriters—a heavy Godrej, an old Olympic (which I still use occasionally) and an ancient German machine gifted to me by Goel, who is Swiss. The bank's chaprassi would walk down to my place, collect the Godrej, and struggle back up the hill with it. I did not share my Olympic with the bank. But on one occasion, while I was out, the chaprassi took the German machine by mistake and this led to some confusion.
On German typewriters the letter 'Z' occurs where there is normally a 'Y' on an English machine, and if you are not used to it, and are typing fast, you are apt to produce a certain amount of gibberish. If you want to say 'You might pick up yellow fever in Zanzibar', it could come out 'Zou might pick up yellow fever in Yanyibar'! The auditors and my friends at the bank got into many a tangle: zeros became yeros and even euros, Japanese yen
s became zens. Chinese yuans became zuans. The foreign exchange section was in a fine mess.
It was after this that the bank was hurriedly computerised.
Ohri had left by then. As a last treat he took me along on a nocturnal excursion to see a black panther which, he said, was on the prowl in the vicinity of Barlowganj.
'Black panthers are very rare now,' he told me. 'No one has seen one here in over fifty years.'
'Not since General Barlow shot the last one,' I added rather mischievously.
'We'll go down to Barlowganj tonight,' he said, as enthusiastic as ever. 'We'll sit up for it until dawn.'
'Don't forget the dog biscuits,' I said, 'I get hungry around midnight.'
Biscuits were not required. Mrs Ohri gave us a substantial dinner, guaranteed to put me to sleep while Ohri sat up looking for his black panther.
'It's just a big black dog,' she told me. 'The chowkidar at St George's school has a Bhotia mastiff. At night it gets mistaken for a panther.'
This wasn't going to deter Ohri from driving us down to the valley and back again, with numerous stops for panther-watching and swigs of rum. The stars looked down from a clear night sky. Ohri waxed poetic, 'The night has a thousand eyes—'
'Under a Scotsman's kilt,' I put in.
'Shh…we mustn't talk too much. We'll frighten it away.'
'If you see a panther, don't anther,' I quoted Ogden Nash.
Ohri complained that I wasn't taking the expedition seriously, so I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Presently I was awake again. He was shaking me, whispering urgently—'Look, there's something in those bushes, you can see them moving!'
They were indeed moving, and soon parted to reveal an elderly villager who had got up early in order to relieve himself in the great outdoors. He was not pleased at having his privacy disturbed.
'Have you seen a panther?' asked Ohri. 'Kala baghera?'
'Baghera yourself,' snapped the villager, who seemed equally at home in Hindi and English. 'Can't have a decent—in peace. Tourists all over the place,' and he stomped off into the darkness.