Of Course, It's Butterfingers Again

by Khyrunnisa A

Mrs Kishen rolled her eyes at her husband.

  ‘Didn’t those who discovered the tomb of King Tuttutwhatshisname come under the curse? I heard they all dropped dead,’ Amar remarked with ghoulish enthusiasm.

  ‘King Tutankhamun. And it wasn’t so dramatic, Amar.’ His father smiled, ignoring his wife’s disapproving glances. He once had a passion for Egyptology and the topic continued to interest him. ‘There were so many people involved in the excavation; everyone didn’t die. But when some who were closely connected with Howard Carter, the archaeologist, died, rumours quickly spread about the pharaoh’s curse.’

  ‘What an appetizing topic for the breakfast table!’ Mrs Kishen grimaced.

  ‘Exactly!’ Amar exclaimed, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘So, Dad, do you think the ones handling this gypsy mummy will be cursed? And what about us, who are going to see it?’

  ‘It’s just superstition; all nonsense, Amar.’ Mr Kishen chuckled. ‘But,’ he added, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, ‘why don’t you take your scarab ring with you? It’s believed to be lucky and might cancel out the evil.’

  ‘Brilliant, Dad! Ma, where’s my scarab ring?’ His uncle had gifted him an Egyptian scarab ring that Amar had given to his mother for safekeeping.

  Mrs Kishen gave her husband a look that spoke volumes and rose to get the ring while Amar, breakfast done, got ready for school.

  ‘Here, Amar, don’t lose it.’ Mrs Kishen handed Amar a small square box. Amar read aloud from it: ‘“The scarab was a powerful omelette, no, amulet, that signified regeneration . . .’”

  He looked quizzically at his father, who responded, ‘Means renewal.’

  ‘“. . . and was used a great deal by the Egyptians in their jewellery. It was often inscribed with further amul . . . amuletic signs to protect the wearer.” Just what I need!’

  He opened the box and examined the ring closely. It was dull gold in colour, with figures and inscriptions on it. ‘So many designs! Hope they are all amulwhatever signs to protect me and my friends. Look, tiny animals and birds—a croc, a snake, a horse, an eagle or a falcon, a dog at the centre . . . or is it a jackal?’

  ‘Must be the jackal god, Anubis.’ His father took a look.

  Amar continued his scrutiny. ‘There’s a green beetle, the green must be a precious stone . . . a cat, a bull . . .’

  ‘All bull!’ snapped his mother, exasperated. Mr Kishen winked at his son.

  Amar stuffed the ring into his pocket and returned the box to his mother. ‘Whee! Got to hurry. Bye, Ma, Dad!’ He took off like a hare to the bus stop. He didn’t want to miss his bus that day.

  It was the turn of classes VIII A and B to visit the museum that morning, and the students clambered on to the school bus, talking excitedly. An outing during class hours was a special treat; they would have welcomed even a visit to a garbage dump if it had meant missing school. The topic turned naturally to mummies and curses. Amar set the ball rolling by mentioning the curse of the pharaohs and Kishore brought up Ötzi’s curse.

  ‘Ötzi?’ asked Thomas. ‘You mean the football player?’

  ‘Haha, that’s Özil. This is Ötzi, O-t-z-i,’ began Kishore, always pleased to enlighten the others. ‘Ötzi is Europe’s oldest mummy, also known as the Iceman. But Egyptian or European, all mummies bring curses.’

  The morbid discussion came to a temporary halt when the teachers boarded the bus. Mr Ramesh, who taught them history, and Mr Hiran Hiran, their art master, were supposed to accompany them; so the students were surprised to find Mr Abhijeet, their geography teacher, climb in with Mr Hiran Hiran.

  ‘Good morning, sirs!’ they chorused.

  ‘Where’s Ramesh Sir, sirs?’ asked Reshmi.

  ‘He’s on leave today,’ said Mr Hiran. ‘It seems he’s ill.’

  ‘The curse is working already,’ Eric whispered to Kiran.

  ‘But Amar’s ring will protect us,’ Kiran replied. Amar had already passed the ring around to his friends in class.

  The students split up when they reached the museum for the teachers didn’t want everyone crowding into the room where the mummy was exhibited. Mr Hiran Hiran was keen on going to the picture gallery and herded a large group along. ‘The great masters! You MUST see them,’ he gushed, shaking his ponytail. ‘The impressionists and the modernists first. Mummies later.’

  Mr Abhijeet divided the rest into two groups, taking one with him to the geological section, while the other headed for the antiquity wing. Amar and his friends, who were in the second group, asked the surly security guard, who was in close conversation with two men, where the mummy was housed. The guard looked annoyed at being interrupted and didn’t respond.

  ‘Delightful chap!’ commented Eric. The students meandered about until they stumbled upon a dimly lit chamber lined all around with Egyptian artefacts that gave out eerie vibes.

  ‘It definitely has ATMOSPHERE,’ Minu pronounced, breaking the silence. She glanced, goggle-eyed, at the fearful masks that appeared to leer at her from the walls and shivered. Right at the centre of the room was the mummy. Standing around, in respectful awe, were a few gawking visitors.

  ‘An AC room for the mummy!’ exclaimed Jayaram. ‘Cool!’

  ‘Did you know that ancient Egyptian mummies were mashed up and made into oil paint?’ asked Kishore.

  ‘Enough, Kishore, don’t be gross!’ Reshmi protested.

  They waited for the visitors to disperse before crowding around the mummy that was lying in a glass case. They had expected it to be wrapped in layers of cloth and were surprised to see instead a wizened, cadaverous figure with the head and hands exposed. A mask rested on its chest and the skeletal hands were crossed over it. The children gazed, wonderstruck, as if they were looking at the Koh-i-noor diamond.

  ‘Hello, great-great-great-and-so-on-grand-uncle! How does it feel to be 4000 years old?’ Amar asked, peering in.

  ‘Face is like parchment. Look at the sticklike hands!’ exclaimed Kiran. ‘Like yours, Butter, hehe. Hey,’ he tugged at Amar’s skinny hand, ‘he’s wearing a ring! Just like yours.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ Amar’s mouth fell open. He fished out his ring from his pocket and slipped it on his finger. ‘Wow, who’d have thought? A scarab ring. To bring luck, maybe. Anyway, the guy’s lucky to have survived like this so long.’ Everyone huddled around, astonished, and stared at both the rings. After they had ogled enough, Amar pocketed his ring again and they left the room.

  On an impulse, Amar dragged Kiran back to the chamber. It was empty now. Looking thoughtful, he gazed at the mummy and, tapping a light tattoo on the lid, said, ‘If only we could open this, I could get grand-uncle to wear my ring.’ He put his hand under the lid and, to his amazement, found he could lift it. ‘Tub, it’s open! Hold it up.’ Kiran took a furtive look around and obeyed. Amar, with uncharacteristic gentleness, slid his ring on to the mummy’s finger.

  ‘Hi, handsome!’ Amar giggled. ‘Glad to meet you.’ He pretended to shake the skeletal hand. The two boys continued to admire the bejewelled mummy till they heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Quick as a wink, one eye on the entrance, Amar removed his ring and pocketed it while Kiran closed the lid. Just in time, for the sulky guard entered with his two seedy-looking companions.

  ‘Haunting the mummy, are you?’ he snarled. ‘Get lost!’

  ‘Phew! Narrow escape,’ gasped Amar as the two joined their friends. ‘Imagine leaving my ring behind!’

  Back in school at lunchtime, Amar and Kiran described their daring deed to the rest. ‘My precious scarab did bring me luck.’ Amar brought the ring out and kissed it. ‘Actually, the mummy’s ring wasn’t exactly like mine.’ Then inspecting his ring, he gave a start. ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed, turning pale. Hands trembling, he scrutinized the ring from every angle. Finally, he turned a stricken face towards his friends and said in a sepulchral tone, ‘Guys, I think I took the wrong ring. This is not mine.’

  ‘What!’ His friends were shocked.

  Amar star
ed in horror at the mummy’s ring. ‘Yes, now what?’ he moaned.

  ‘You have to return it, of course,’ Minu pronounced.

  ‘But how?’ Amar looked at the others in consternation. ‘We can’t go back now. And the museum closes at four. No time to go there after school.’

  ‘Go in the night,’ Abdul suggested.

  ‘Classic! Thanks. Do you really think the gates and doors will be wide open with “welcome” written all over? That AC room is like a bank’s vault.’

  At that moment, Mr Abhijeet entered the classroom. ‘Sorry to barge in,’ he began. ‘I know the bell hasn’t gone, but I forgot to tell you that Mr Jagmohan wanted two students from this class to present a report tomorrow at the assembly about the museum visit.’

  Before they could protest, he continued. ‘I know I should have told you earlier so you could have made notes. But never mind, class IX is going to the museum in the afternoon and the boys are just boarding the bus. Who would like to go there again?’

  ‘Me!’ shouted Amar, leaping up.

  ‘I!’ said Kiran, grammatically on point, bouncing up and down.

  ‘Butter and Tub!’ the rest said in one voice.

  The teacher raised his eyebrows. ‘All right, hurry! And take your bags along. You can get off at your respective bus stops.’ He left, wondering if something was brewing in VIII A.

  ‘What luck, Butter!’ said Reshmi. ‘Your ring did it.’

  ‘My grand-uncle’s ring, you mean.’ Amar smiled, feeling better. The two boys snatched their bags and rushed out.

  At the museum, they dodged the security guard and, camouflaged among a large group of class IX boys, sneaked into the mummy’s room. At the earliest opportunity, they sidled close to the case and peeked in. The mummy lay as it had earlier but there was one little difference. The hands were bare; there was no ring on any finger.

  The boys exchanged dismayed glances. Amar tried to lift the lid surreptitiously but couldn’t. It was locked.

  ‘Butter, your ring’s gone,’ Kiran whispered, stating the obvious. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  They sought refuge in the art section. ‘I think it’s been stolen, Tub!’ Amar was agitated. ‘And when the authorities discover the theft, they will call the police, and then?’ He began chewing his fingernails.

  ‘And when the thieves discover they have the wrong ring, they will start their investigation, and then?’ Kiran added fuel to the flames already consuming his friend.

  ‘I’m in deep trouble,’ Amar groaned, swallowing a bit of his chewed nail. His natural optimism seemed to have deserted him. ‘Looks like the curse is upon me. Tub, you look around and take notes for tomorrow’s report, I’ll think of ways to break out of prison or take my own life.’

  Kiran laughed. ‘Just chill, Butter. You have the mummy’s lucky ring to protect you. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.’

  Once home, Amar hid the ring in the clothes cupboard. Fortunately, there were guests over for dinner and his parents didn’t quiz him about the museum visit. But he spent a sleepless night, twisting and jerking as if he were on a bed of nails. His mind, usually buzzing with ideas, failed him this time; he couldn’t think up any solution that wouldn’t get him into trouble.

  The next morning, he scanned the paper and was relieved there was no report about a theft in the museum. At breakfast, his mother asked him about the ring and he mumbled that someone had ‘borrowed’ it.

  ‘See that you get it back,’ she said, unwittingly turning the knife deeper in his wound.

  Amar’s friends greeted him with sympathy, Kiran having already brought them up to speed, though Reshmi couldn’t resist remarking, ‘Hey, Butter, you look like you haven’t slept a wink.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t slept a wink,’ Amar growled.

  ‘So what’s the modus operandi?’ asked Kishore.

  ‘I’m sure the theft will be discovered today. In which case, tomorrow’s paper will report it. Then . . .’ Amar paused, looking miserable. In his imagination, the prison gates were already beginning to open.

  ‘Then you should go to the police, Amar, that’s best,’ Minu suggested. ‘Tomorrow is Saturday, there’s no school.’

  ‘But what do I tell them? How do I explain?’ Amar whined.

  ‘The police will be very happy you have the genuine ring. They’ll excuse you for your crime,’ said Reshmi. Amar winced.

  ‘I think the security guy and his creepy friends did it,’ Ajay, the wannabe detective, pronounced.

  ‘Likely, but I can’t tell the police that when the stolen ring is with me,’ Amar bleated.

  ‘Stop being such a grump, Butter,’ Reshmi tapped him on the head. ‘Look, I’ll come with you tomorrow to the station. A gentle, feminine presence might help.’

  ‘Did I hear someone say gentle?’ Eric chortled.

  The next day the local paper carried a brief news item that a ring had been stolen from the local museum. But no details were given. Amar rang up Reshmi and they went to the police station, Amar looking very nervous, right hand deep in his pocket, holding the ring tight.

  The sleepy police station, meanwhile, had been rudely prodded to wakefulness by the theft. The robbery had been discovered on Thursday itself and immediately caused a furore. Italy had sent the mummy on the strict understanding that not a wrinkle on its skin or a crinkle on the folds of cloth wound around it should be touched.

  The museum authorities in Florence would be appalled to know that the mummy had embarked on a merry all-India tour, and if they got to hear that the ring on its finger had been stolen, things could blow up into a diplomatic crisis. For the ring was no ordinary ring; it was believed to be a special commemorative scarab ring made during the reign of Amenhotep III, one of the most powerful pharaohs of ancient Egypt.

  When the museum director had discovered the theft, he informed the Kolkata museum director, who was horrified. ‘Wh . . . a . . . t?’ he stammered. ‘How careless! Inform the police. I’ll send a special private investigator straightaway. Spread the net, find the ring, solve the case immediately, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay,’ he ended with a sob.

  When Amar and Reshmi went to the police station and stated the reason for their visit, they were led to a private room. A placid police officer, Inspector Prasan, was seated at the table, while an eager-faced private detective chewed gum and paced the floor at the same time.

  ‘Sirs,’ Amar began with a gulp, ‘we . . . er . . . know about the ring. It’s a scarab.’

  ‘Arab! I knew it!’ The detective spun on his toes like a frenzied ballet dancer. ‘It’s an international plot. An Arab is involved!’

  ‘No, sir, not Arab. Scarab.’

  ‘Arabs! Ha, there’s more than one. I should have guessed. It’s a global gang, mark my words. Egypt wants the ring back, Arabs want it too. Excuse me; I have to make a call to the ambassador.’ He dashed out.

  Amar and Reshmi looked bewildered.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the inspector. ‘Tell me.’

  Inspector Prasan’s calm manner reassured them, and the whole story came tumbling out. Amar showed him the ring. ‘This is the ring I took by mistake from the mummy. I’m very sorry.’

  A senior police officer and a worried-looking man, who turned out to be the director of the local museum, entered. ‘Where’s that foolish investigator?’ snapped the officer.

  ‘Ringing up the ambassador.’ Inspector Prasan smiled.

  ‘Hmm! Tell him the thieves have been caught, no thanks to him. The guard confessed and our men arrested all those involved. But the ring is missing. The thieves were babbling about a fake ring and when he was arrested, one of them flung this into the constable’s face.’ He opened his palm to reveal a ring.

  ‘My scarab!’ Amar’s funereal expression turned beatific.

  ‘And these children have found the real ring. It’s a long story,’ said Inspector Prasan, handing the ring to the director, whose face lit up. He examined it with a magnifying glass from his pocket and exclaime
d, ‘Thank goodness! This IS the real thing. Amen!’

  ‘Hotep!’ The senior officer winked. ‘Phew! How can I thank you?’ He shook hands with the children before turning to leave with the director. ‘I’ll see you later. We have a few calls to make. And I must send that private eye out of my sight. Whoever made him a detective must be a total imbecile. I’d be surprised if he can find the correct switches for the lights in his house.’

  ‘Take your scarab ring and leave your names, addresses and phone numbers,’ said Inspector Prasan to Amar and Reshmi. ‘I’ll get in touch with you soon. Thank you for your help.’

  Just then, the detective stormed into the room. ‘I asked the police to round up all the Arabs in this town, but it appears there aren’t any!’ He looked perplexed. Inspector Prasan glanced at the children and smiled.

  World Environment Day

  It was Monday. Amar had rechristened it Moan-day since everyone came moaning and groaning to school after the weekend. He had just entered the classroom when the bell rang.

  ‘There it goes! Who sets the clock in school?’ moaned Kiran.

  ‘Assembly again! Mornings were so peaceful the last two days!’ groaned Amar, aiming his bag, like a shot-put throw, at his desk. It landed with a thud on the floor.

  ‘Butterfingers begins the week with a bang!’ Minu giggled.

  Amar recovered his bag and this time, deposited it on the desk before joining his classmates as they dawdled to the grounds where Mr Jagmohan was already on stage.

  ‘Look who is here! Early bird Princi waiting for the worms,’ Amar whispered to Kiran.

  ‘Yep. And if he is early, I bet he has some horrendous scheme up his sleeve,’ Kiran whispered back.

  Mr Jagmohan was a person who, when he had something fresh and exciting to announce or a bombshell to drop, didn’t have the patience to wait for the students to arrive before taking the stage. He stood there now like a stern vulture, glaring over his glasses as the students crept and crawled to their places.

  ‘You bet!’ Amar agreed. ‘Remember this was how he announced we’d have to sacrifice a games period for art class.’