by Khyrunnisa A
‘How’s the watch?’ asked Kiran.
‘It’s fine, I’m sure. It’s waterproof. I didn’t want to lose it, and forgot everything else. Thanks to Butter here, I think I’ve finally got over my fear of the swimming pool.’
‘Hear! Hear!’ said the boys in a chorus as Jizan blushed and smiled shyly. He checked his watch and said to Amar, ‘You’ll have your cricket match. It’s not going to rain after all, says my watch.’
Needless to say, Jizan became the swimming sensation at the competition and swept away all the prizes. When he was being crowned swimming champion, a loud cry rose from the huge crowd of Green Park students, ‘Three cheers for Jizan, our own Thorpe–Phelps! Hip hip hooray!’
Eric and Kiran whispered to Amar, ‘And three cheers for our own Butterfingers, who made this miracle possible!’
Russel’s Cap
Amar and Kiran were on the bus to Haryali, Kiran’s native village. Their holidays had begun, much to the dismay of Amar’s father who believed that time was passing too quickly for comfort. When Kiran invited Amar to spend a couple of weeks with him at Haryali, permission was given with ill-concealed relief and joy.
The bus got more and more crowded and the boys, who had begun the journey on a near empty bus and chose to sit at the back, soon found themselves forced to abandon their interest in the scenes outside and pay attention to matters of self-preservation. They realized that they had made the wrong choice in seats for, being close to the entrance, they were swamped by passengers of all sizes and smells. Their energies were directed towards pushing people off their shoulders, ducking from sharp corners of suitcases and shielding themselves from bags, baskets and babies. It was while Amar was involved in returning a squalling baby to its rightful owner that something caught his eye.
‘Hey, Kiran, look who’s there, right in front!’ he said, trying at the same time to rescue his hair from the tightly clenched fist of the baby. ‘That unmistakable earring! I can’t believe it, it’s . . .’
‘Russel, the leader of the Heebee Jeebees!’ completed Kiran in an awed voice. ‘Yes, you’re right, Butter, it is him! What’s he doing on this bus? Is he hiding from someone? See how the peak of his cap hides his face! Where do you think he’s going?’
Speculating on Russel’s plans and craning their necks to get better glimpses of him occupied them for the rest of their journey. They couldn’t believe their eyes when the bus stopped at Haryali and Russel alighted. They tried their best to reach the exit quickly, but too many obstacles hindered their progress and when they stepped out they saw Russel get into an old car and drive off. They heard a stranger, who had also got off the bus, say to his companion, ‘That’s the man we must get.’ The boys looked at each other, shocked.
Quite oblivious to all this, Kiran’s grandfather greeted the two boys with a warm hug. ‘Aha, boys! Welcome to Haryali. Looks like you were put through a threshing machine! So how are you, Butterfingers? Dropped anything in the bus?’ Amar grinned.
‘Whose car is that?’ Kiran asked, pointing to the car that Russel had taken.
‘Srinivasan’s. He has a farmhouse where he takes guests. Come on, boys, to the cart.’
The next morning Amar woke up early, unusual for him, but he was eager to learn what was done on a farm. He went with Kiran to Grandpa, who was feeding the cows. ‘Here, Amar,’ Grandpa instructed the boy, ‘toss these bundles of hay gently to the cows.’
‘Grandpa, will you teach me everything?’ said Amar, excited, flinging the clumps of hay like missiles at the cows. ‘I want to feed the hens, collect the eggs, milk the cows, take the goats to graze, draw water . . .’
Grandpa laughed. ‘Easy, easy! I like your enthusiasm. But let’s do everything leisurely. Milking cows and drawing water need practice. They only look simple. Now you go and fetch the eggs. That shouldn’t be a problem.’
A little later, Amar returned, rubbing his hands in pain, with no eggs in the basket.
‘The hens were sitting on the eggs, Grandpa. They refused to move and when I pushed them, they pecked me.’
‘Haha!’ Grandpa laughed and Amar looked sheepish when he realized he had gone to the wrong coop, where the hens were brooding.
Later that morning, the two boys took the goats to graze by the hillside. When they approached the hill, they noticed a figure sitting right on top. The peaked cap was unmistakeable and the gold earring glinted in the sun. It was Russel.
‘Look, Butter!’ Kiran pointed. ‘There he is! Let’s go meet him.’
At that moment, they noticed two men moving stealthily towards the hilltop. They were the strangers.
‘Russel’s in trouble!’ exclaimed Amar. ‘Time for action! Let’s lead the goats from the other side and make them butt the rogues when they least expect it.’
They matched action to words, and soon the two men, suddenly finding themselves swamped by goats, muttered oaths and ran for cover, giving the boys dirty looks. Hearing the cacophony that sounded a lot like one of his popular numbers, Russel stood up and looked curiously in the direction of the sound. The boys soon reached him.
‘Hi, guys!’ said Russel hoarsely.
‘What’s happened to your voice?’ asked Amar with characteristic candour.
‘I’ve been ill. Lost my voice for some time. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been asked to take complete rest at a nice quiet spot. I’ve not brought my phone either.’
‘Oh, we are so sorry. We don’t want to disturb you. But we are great fans of yours,’ gushed Kiran.
Russel laughed, looking pleased. Recognition and adulation on top of a lonely hillock wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
‘That’s all right. It’s nice to talk to people. I’ve got pretty bored of myself, haha! But, look here,’ he said, looking closely at Amar, ‘you look a little familiar.’
‘You adopted my hairstyle once, after a performance in my school,’ Amar jogged the singer’s memory.*
‘Ah, yes, yes.’ Russel smiled as he recalled that event. ‘We did borrow your style, and pretty eye-catching it was too, though our mothers threatened to disown us. After that we shaved off our hair completely. That’s how it is now. When I fell sick, the doctor advised me to protect my head. Hence the cap. Now my cap and I are inseparable. Nice place, this, though a little too slow-paced for my taste.’
‘Maybe, but be careful,’ warned Amar, sounding mysterious.
They heard Grandpa calling out to them and, bidding Russel a hurried goodbye, they raced down. Grandpa wanted Amar to watch him milk the cows. After that he went to draw water and the two boys watched, fascinated.
‘It looks so easy, Grandpa,’ said Amar. ‘Let me try.’
‘No, Amar. It needs some practice.’
Amar looked so disappointed that Grandpa allowed him to help him pull up the bucket of water. The next few days passed in a flurry of farm-related activities. The boys didn’t come across either Russel or the men, though the whole incident continued to trouble them.
One evening, as they were walking along the road, the weather turned stormy without warning. The wind blew fiercely, the cold air cut into them. Black clouds came from nowhere and suspended themselves threateningly overhead. Just as they quickened their pace to reach home, it began to pour. A car going in the other direction slowed down and the boys recognized the two strangers through the glass window.
‘Look, Butter! They’re leaving the village. Let’s hope Russel is safe.’ The worried boys ran home, drenched. They wanted to tell Grandpa their fears, but didn’t get a chance, since the sudden rain had prompted him to take care of many things.
It continued to be very windy the next day. The boys were about to set out for Srinivasan’s farmhouse when Grandpa asked Kiran to help him with the cows, who seemed very restless.
‘Wait for me, Butter. Don’t go on your own. I’ll be with you soon,’ said Kiran.
Amar waited for some time before making his slow way to the farm. As he walked along the road, he noticed that the roadside well,
generally a busy place, was invitingly free of people. The urge to use this golden opportunity to draw water got the better of his desire to be a good Samaritan. He grasped the rope and threw in the bucket at the other end, loving the sound of the creaking pulley and the feel of the rope slithering like a rocket through his fingers. When the bucket hit the water with a splash, he smiled with satisfaction, a smile that soon turned to a grimace of horror when the rope slipped from his hand and accompanied the bucket into the well.
‘Oops!’ he gave his trademark exclamation and, dismayed, peered into the well. What he saw stunned him. Thinking he must be imagining things, he looked again. Yes, there could be no doubt. It was Russel’s cap floating in the well.
He panicked and sped to the farm, shouting, ‘Murder! Dead! Drowned!’
Grandpa, Grandma, Kiran and some farmhands crowded around Amar as he said between gasps, ‘He’s been murdered. No, he’s been killed!’
‘Same thing,’ someone wisecracked. ‘But who’s been killed?’
‘Russel. His cap’s floating in the well. He’s fallen in. No, he’s drowned. He killed himself!’
‘Come on, Amar, steady yourself.’ Grandpa put his arm around the frightened boy. ‘Let’s go and see what can be done.’
They rushed to the well and sure enough, the cap was there, floating pathetically for all to see. Just as Grandpa was making arrangements for a man to go down into the well, one of the men who had brought along a rope with a bucket, flung it in and after some effort, drew up the cap.
‘Oh, poor Russel! Poor Heebee Jeebee!’ mourned Amar, cradling the soaked cap like a baby.
‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve found it!’ A hand plucked the cap from Amar. It was Russel.
‘Russel! You’re alive! You aren’t a ghost, are you?’ asked Amar, feeling his hand to confirm its solidity.
‘Of course I’m alive. I lost my cap, and now you’ve found it for me. Thank you very much. You’ve no idea what’s in it.’
‘Let’s go back home and Russel can explain everything,’ said Grandpa.
At the farm, Russel told them what had occurred. ‘Yesterday two men came to meet me. They are producers and had somehow managed to trace me. They offered my rock band a wonderful contract for a performance abroad. They also gave me a handsome cheque. I prefer cheques to money transfers. I decided to leave this morning since I’ve recovered completely. I’d kept my cheque in my cap . . .’
‘What!’ Grandpa exclaimed, amazed.
‘Yeah, look!’ He showed a miniature zip running around the protruding peak of the cap and unfastened it to reveal a secret opening protected by two layers of plastic, in which nestled the cheque. He took it out and put it into his bag.
‘Experience has taught me that one must keep money, cards and important papers in the least likely place,’ Russel explained. ‘I’ve discovered that the cap’s peak is one of the safest places. But not quite, as I discovered today. This morning I took the bus. I had a window seat and the breeze lulled me to sleep. I think my cap was blown away but I discovered it was missing only after a long time. I didn’t know where to search for it, but I thought I’d begin from here. So I came back. I never thought I’d find it. Looking for it was like looking for a shell in the ocean.’
‘Not when Butterfingers is around!’ said Grandpa, smiling.
‘You said it!’ Russel patted Amar on his back. ‘You can keep this as a memento and token of gratitude.’ He signed the wet cap with a flourish and presented it to Amar. Amar, at a loss for words, promptly dropped it.
A Sartorial Adventure
As Amar and Kiran sauntered into school one morning, they were hailed by an excited Eric. ‘Hey, guys, heard the news? Our hockey team won the cup but lost the hockey sticks!’
‘What’s that again?’ asked Amar.
‘Don’t talk in riddles, man!’ exclaimed Kiran.
‘I’m speaking plain and straight!’ Eric responded, looking pleased, for this was just the reaction he had hoped for. ‘Our guys won the tournament but lost the complete hockey equipment in the train.’
‘How did they manage that? But then those jokers are capable of anything. Did someone steal the sticks? A hockey-stick thief! That’s a new one. Which thief would want hockey sticks?’ Amar rolled his eyes.
‘Give me your money, or wham! I’ll smack you one with this stick!’ said Kiran, tapping Eric on his head with a roll of paper that was his social science project. ‘Useful weapons for a hold-up.’
‘Or for a murder,’ Amar added, his sense of the macabre roused. ‘Wham! Bang!’ He took possession of Kiran’s sheaf of papers and gave Eric’s head a succession of rapid-fire thwacks.
‘No, no, I don’t think they were stolen,’ Eric clarified with a laugh, seizing the much-maligned project from Amar’s hand. ‘What I heard was that the bag with the sticks was close to the door. The train was overcrowded; there were many people huddling near the door. Someone threw the bag out to make room to sleep.’
‘Haha! Ingenious! The whole family gets a good night’s sleep with the big fat bag out of the way. So funny!’ Amar laughed, only to subside quickly when an annoyed voice behind him snapped, ‘Not funny at all, Amar!’ It was Mr Sunderlal.
Mr Sunderlal had accompanied the hockey team and felt responsible for what had happened. It was he who had suggested the bag be left at the door since it was too huge to be shoved under any berth. Though at the previous station a lot of people had rushed into the reserved compartment and stationed themselves at the door, he thought it was a temporary situation because it had been a two-minute stop. He had great faith in the TTE’s powers and believed that when the uniformed gentleman appeared on the scene, he would shoo away the passengers with unreserved tickets and the bag would be secure in its solitary splendour at the door.
Kishore, a reserve player of the hockey team, was present on the train, and ever cautious, he had expressed his doubts. But Mr Sunderlal had said, pre-empting Amar’s recent opinion, ‘Which thief would want hockey sticks?’ and brushed his objections aside. So the white bag had stood there like a large, out-of-shape ghost and the next morning, it had disappeared. A man seated close to the door had said he thought it had been thrown out into the wilderness. He was almost asleep at that time, he had added hastily, before he could be blamed for anything. For Mr Sunderlal and the team, all the joy of winning the coveted trophy had evaporated when the loss was discovered.
‘Sir,’ said Amar, recovering his voice and his optimism, ‘isn’t it time we got new equipment? What the team had been playing with was such old, ancient, Neanderthal stuff, actually. It’s a miracle they got the goals in without the sticks breaking off and won the trophy. This is a blessing in disguise.’
‘Try telling that to Mr Jagmohan.’ Mr Sunderlal sounded bitter. Mr Jagmohan hadn’t minced any words when he’d learnt about the unfortunate incident. ‘Irresponsible, that’s what it is, Sunder! I had been under the misguided notion that you were sensible. Leaving a bag of precious, expensive hockey sticks near the door of a train, of all places! You might as well have gifted them away to a passing street urchin. The school is cash-strapped as it is. The parents aren’t going to shell out money to buy new sticks at any rate. Ha! Nice reward after their children had won the trophy for the school!’ He had ended his sarcastic tirade with a clever transfer of responsibility. ‘It’s all your fault and you’d better think up some solution or let the school do without hockey.’
The school was gearing up for the annual sports day that was round the corner. Nothing lifted the spirits of Amar and his friends like sports, and they threw themselves whole-heartedly into practising for the various events in which they were participating as if it were the Olympics. At the school assembly on Thursday, the day before the sports day, Mr Jagmohan announced that all the students should bring a pair of white trousers and a shirt to change into for the evening ceremony that followed the sports competitions.
‘We have a surprise guest for the occasion, Mr Sidhant Roy, CEO of
Good Luck, a famous sports goods company,’ Mr Jagmohan announced in a gruff voice, as if it was an unpalatable slice of bad luck. He hated these formal functions, where things very often went wrong. ‘Inevitable in a school that has Butterfingers in it!’ was how he always consoled himself. ‘I want Mr Sidhant to be impressed by our school and our students. He’s the new CEO and not too much is known about him, but I hear he’s rather hard to please and has very individual ideas and opinions. His company wishes to sponsor the sports requirements of a school and he’s yet to identify that school. You must all change into your spotless white clothes and be on your best behaviour. It would be excellent if he finds our school to his liking. Miracles can happen. Mr Sunderlal, as sports master, has a special responsibility to see to the success of the function. So has the sports secretary. Er . . . who is the sports secretary?’ he asked, frowning over his glasses.
‘Amar! Butterfingers!’ went the chorus.
‘Amar? Amar Kishen? Which foo . . . er . . . which idi . . . ahem, all right, as I said, miracles can happen. Amar, please meet me in my room after the first period. Now go to your classes!’
As soon as the first period was over, Amar went to Mr Jagmohan’s room, secure in the knowledge that no scolding or punishment would be waiting for him, and found Mr Sunderlal waiting there. Mr Jagmohan nodded curtly and without wasting any time, said, ‘Amar, since you are the sports secretary, you have to present the report. Please take great care with it. See that everything significant is included. Ask Sunderlal to help you. And, this is very, very important, see that your trousers and shirt are WHITE, PURE WHITE. I hope you know what that colour means?’
‘Actually, sir, white is not a colour,’ Amar clarified, inviting a classic glare from Mr Jagmohan.
That evening he told his parents about the sports day and the speech he had to prepare. ‘And I need a white shirt and a white pair of white trousers. Pure white, Mr Jagmohan said. I think the set I wore for my cricket match the other day should be fine.’