The Hidden Pool

by Ruskin Bond

  When he came again he did not call out from below, but came straight upstairs. He examined my shirt and my shoes, and discovered that one of my shoes was still done up with only half a lace. Triumphantly, he dropped a pair of shoelaces on the bed.

  ‘I can’t pay for them now,’ I said.

  ‘You can pay me later.’

  ‘I don’t get much pocket money, you know.’

  ‘But surely your father will pay for shoelaces,’ he said.

  He had me there. Pocket money was of course meant only for sweet shops and bicycle hire and the Laurel and Hardy reissues that came to town every month.

  ‘You go to school too?’ I asked, remembering the evening when I had seen him studying beneath a lamp post.

  ‘Yes, night school,’ he said. ‘I am taking my matriculation examination at the end of the month. If I pass …’

  I could see he was thinking of the things he might be able to do if he passed. He could study for a degree, become a doctor or an engineer or a lawyer—he’d make a good lawyer, I thought—and there would be no more selling buttons and combs at street corners.

  ‘Have you no parents?’ I asked.

  ‘They died when I was very small,’ he said. ‘That was when the country was divided, and we had to leave our homes in the Punjab. I think they were killed, but I did not see it happen. I was lost in the crowd at the railway station.’

  ‘Do you remember them well?’

  ‘A little. My father was a farmer. He was a strict man and spoke only when it was necessary. My mother was kind, and would give me what I liked, and would sing to me in the evenings. When I lost them, I was looked after in the refugee camp. The people in charge were going to send me to a children’s home, but I ran away from the camp. Soon I was making my own living. I like to be on my own, I am happier that way.’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’

  ‘Anywhere. On somebody’s veranda, or in the Maidan, it doesn’t matter in the hot weather. In winter, people are kind and give me places to sleep.’

  ‘You can stay here whenever you like,’ I said. ‘I’m sure my people won’t mind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will come one day.’

  He looked out across the roof. ‘Don’t you feel lonely up here? It is so quiet. I like to be near people, where there is talking and laughter.’

  ‘So do I, sometimes. But I like to be alone, too. I’m going to be a writer. I suppose I won’t make much money, but if I like writing and if I have a few good friends, I should be happy.’

  One day I accompanied him on his rounds. We met as he came out of an old house. There were two marigolds on his tray.

  ‘An old lady lives here,’ he said. ‘Some say she is really a Maharani, but she is very poor now, and the house is falling to pieces. But she always buys something from me. And when I leave, she gives me one or two flowers from her garden.’

  At another house, a little further down the road, Kamal was met by a girl of his own age, who chatted with him and went through his tray without buying anything. She had a round, fresh face, long black hair and wasn’t wearing any shoes. Kamal gave her the two marigolds, and she took them and ran indoors.

  ‘She never buys anything,’ said Kamal, ‘but she likes to talk to me. Once I gave her a ribbon, but her mother made her pay for it.’

  One morning, when I opened the door of my room, I found Kamal asleep at the top of the steps. His tray lay to one side.

  I shook him gently and he woke immediately, blinking in the sharp, early morning sunshine.

  ‘Why didn’t you come in?’ I asked. ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’

  ‘It was late, Laurie. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Somebody could have stolen your things.’

  ‘Oh, nobody has ever stolen anything from me.’

  He stayed in my room that night, and we sat up till past midnight, talking of different things. I told him of Jersey, the island where I had spent much of my youth, of London, where I had often gone with my parents, and of my voyage out to India by way of the Suez Canal. He, in turn, told me about his village in the Punjab, and of his hopes and ambitions.

  The exams came at last, and for a week Kamal put aside his tray of merchandize and spent his time at the examination centre. He was quite confident that he had done his papers well, and when it was all over, he took up his tray and went on his rounds again.

  On the day the results were expected, I rose early and walked to the news agency. Anil was there too, buying vegetables for his mother. We bought a paper and looked down the columns concerning our district but we couldn’t find Kamal’s number in the list of successful candidates.

  We were very disappointed. When I returned to my room, I found Kamal sitting on the steps. I didn’t have to tell him the news. He knew already. I sat down beside him, and we were silent for some time.

  ‘If only you’d had more time to study,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll have plenty of time now,’ he said. ‘Another year. That means you and Anil and I will finish school together. Then we’ll celebrate!’

  He got to his feet with his tray hanging from his shoulders.

  ‘What would you like to buy?’ he said.

  I took another comb from his tray and put it in my pocket. I needed soap and buttons but I took a comb, which I didn’t need. There was more fun in doing that.

  The Pool

  It was going to rain. I could see the rain moving across the foothills, and I could smell it in the breeze. But instead of turning homewards, I pushed my way through the leaves and brambles that grew across the forest path. I had heard the sound of running water at the bottom of the hill, and I was determined to find this hidden stream.

  I had to slide down a rock face into a small ravine, and there I found the stream running over a bed of shingle. I removed my shoes and started walking upstream. A large glossy black bird with a curved red beak hooted at me as I passed and a paradise flycatcher—this one I couldn’t fail to recognize, with its long fan-like tail beating the air—swooped across the stream. Water trickled down from the hillside, from amongst ferns and grasses and wild flowers; and the hills, rising steeply on either side, kept the ravine in shadow. The rocks were smooth, almost soft, and some of them were grey and some yellow. A small waterfall came down the rocks and formed a deep round pool of apple-green water.

  When I saw the pool, I turned and ran home. I wanted to tell Anil and Kamal about it. It began to rain, but I didn’t stop to take shelter, I ran all the way home—through the sal forest, across the dry river-bed, through the outskirts of the town.

  Though Anil usually chose the adventures we were to have, the pool was my own discovery, and I was proud of it.

  ‘We’ll call it Laurie’s Pool,’ said Kamal. ‘And remember, it’s a secret pool. No one else must know of it.’

  I think it was the pool that brought us together more than anything else.

  Kamal was the best swimmer. He dived off rocks and went gliding about under the water like a long golden fish. Anil had strong legs and arms, and he threshed about with much vigour but little skill. I could dive off a rock too, but I usually landed on my stomach.

  There were slim silver fish in the stream. At first, we tried catching them with a line, but they soon learnt the art of taking the bait without being caught on the hook. Next, we tried a bedsheet (Anil had removed it from his mother’s laundry) which we stretched across one end of the stream; but the fish wouldn’t come anywhere near it. Eventually Anil, without telling us, procured a stick of gunpowder. And Kamal and I were startled out of an afternoon siesta by a flash across the water and a deafening explosion. Half the hillside tumbled into the pool, and Anil along with it. We got him out, along with a large supply of stunned fish which were too small for eating. Anil, however, didn’t want all his work to go waste; so he roasted the fish over a fire and ate them himself.

  The effects of the explosion gave Anil another idea, which was to enlarge our pool by building a dam across
one end. This he accomplished with our combined labour. But he had chosen a week when there had been heavy rain in the hills, and we had barely finished the dam when a torrent of water came rushing down the bed of the stream, bursting our earthworks and flooding the ravine. Our clothes were carried away by the current, and we had to wait until it was night before creeping into town through the darkest alleyways. Anil was spotted at a street corner, but he posed as a naked sadhu and began calling for alms, and finally slipped in through the back door of his house without being recognized. I had to lend Kamal some of my clothes, and these, being on the small side, made him look odd and gangly.

  Our other activities at the pool included wrestling and buffalo riding.

  We wrestled on a strip of sand that ran beside the stream. Anil had often attended wrestling akharas and was something of an expert. Kamal and I usually combined against him and after five or ten minutes of furious, unscientific struggle, we usually succeeded in flattening Anil into the sand; Kamal would sit on his head, and I would sit on his legs until he admitted defeat. There was no fun in taking him on singly, because he knew too many tricks for us.

  We rode on a couple of buffaloes that sometimes came to drink and wallow in the more muddy parts of the stream. Buffaloes are fine, sluggish creatures, always in search of a soft, slushy resting place. We would climb on their backs, kick, yell and urge them forward, but on no occasion did we succeed in getting them to carry us anywhere. If they got tired of our antics, they would merely roll over on their backs, taking us with them into a bed of muddy water.

  Not that it mattered how muddy we got, because we had only to dive into the pool to get rid of it all. The buffaloes couldn’t get to the pool because of its narrow outlet and the slippery rocks.

  If it was possible for Anil and me to leave our homes at night, we would come to the pool for a swim by moonlight. We would often find Kamal there before us. He wasn’t afraid of the dark or the surrounding forest, where there were panthers and jungle cats. We bathed silently at nights, because the stillness of the surrounding jungle seemed to discourage high spirits; but sometimes Kamal would sing—he had a clear, ringing voice—and we would float the red, long-fingered poinsettias downstream.

  The pool was to be our principal meeting place during the coming months. It was not that we couldn’t meet in town. But the pool was secret, known only to us, and it gave us a feeling of conspiracy and adventure to meet there after school. It was at the pool that we made our plans, it was at the pool that we first spoke of the glacier; but several weeks and a few other exploits were to pass before that particular dream materialized.

  Ghosts on the Veranda

  Anil’s mother’s memory was stored with an incredible amount of folklore, and she would sometimes astonish us with her stories of sprites and mischievous ghosts.

  One evening, when Anil’s father was out of town, and Kamal and I had been invited to stay the night at Anil’s upper-storey flat in the bazaar, his mother began to tell us about the various types of ghosts she had known. Just then, Mulia, the servant, having taken a bath, came out to the veranda, with her hair loose.

  ‘My girl, you ought not to leave your hair loose like that,’ said Anil’s mother. ‘It is better to tie a knot in it.’

  ‘But I have not oiled it yet,’ said Mulia.

  ‘Never mind, but you should not leave your hair loose towards sunset. There are spirits called jinns who are attracted by long hair and pretty black eyes like yours. They may be tempted to carry you away!’

  ‘How dreadful!’ exclaimed Mulia, hurriedly tying a knot in her hair, and going indoors to be on the safe side.

  Kamal, Anil and I sat on a string cot, facing Anil’s mother, who sat on another cot. She was not much older than thirty-two, and had often been mistaken for Anil’s elder sister; she came from a village near Mathura, a part of the country famous for its gods, spirits and demons.

  ‘Can you see jinns, aunty-ji?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘There was an Urdu teacher in Mathura, whose pupils were about the same age as you. One of the boys was very good at his lessons. One day, while he sat at his desk in a corner of the classroom, the teacher asked him to fetch a book from the cupboard which stood at the far end of the room. The boy, who felt lazy that morning, didn’t move from his seat. He merely stretched out his hand, took the book from the cupboard, and handed it to the teacher. Everyone was astonished, because the boy’s arm had stretched about four yards before touching the book! They realized that he was a jinn. It was the reason for his being so good at games and exercises which required great agility.’

  ‘Well, I wish I were a jinn,’ said Anil. ‘Especially for volleyball matches.’

  Anil’s mother then told us about the munjia, a mischievous ghost who lives in lonely peepal trees. When a munjia is annoyed, he rushes out from his tree and upsets tongas, bullock-carts and cycles. Even a bus is known to have been upset by a munjia.

  ‘If you are passing beneath a peepal tree at night,’ warned Anil’s mother, ‘be careful not to yawn without covering your mouth or snapping your fingers in front of it. If you don’t remember to do that, the munjia will jump down your throat and completely ruin your digestion!’

  In an attempt to change the subject, Kamal mentioned that a friend of his had found a snake in his bed one morning.

  ‘Did he kill it?’ asked Anil’s mother anxiously.

  ‘No, it slipped away,’ said Kamal.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘It is lucky if you see a snake early in the morning.’

  ‘But what if the snake bites you?’ I asked.

  ‘It won’t bite you if you let it alone,’ she said.

  By eleven o’clock, after we had finished our dinner and heard a few more ghost stories—including one about Anil’s grandmother, whose spirit paid the family a visit—Kamal and I were most reluctant to leave the company on the veranda and retire to the room which had been set apart for us. It did not make us feel any better to be told by Anil’s mother that we should recite certain magical verses to keep away the more mischievous spirits. We tried one, which went—

  Bhoot, pret, pisach, dana

  Choo mantar, sab nikal jana,

  Mano, mano, Shiv ka kahna

  which, roughly translated, means—

  Ghosts, spirits, goblins, sprites,

  Away you fly, don’t come tonight,

  Or with great Shiva you’ll have to fight!

  Shiva, the Destroyer, is one of the three major Hindu deities.

  But the more we repeated the verse, the more uneasy we became, and when I got into bed (after carefully examining it for snakes), I couldn’t lie still, but kept twisting and turning and looking at the walls for moving shadows. Kamal attempted to raise our spirits by singing softly, but this only made the atmosphere more eerie. After a while we heard someone knocking at the door, and the voices of Anil and the servant girl, Mulia. Getting up and opening the door, I found them looking pale and anxious. They, too, had succeeded in frightening themselves as a result of Anil’s mother’s stories.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Anil. ‘Wouldn’t you like to sleep in our part of the house? It might be safer. Mulia will help us to carry the beds across!’

  ‘We’re quite all right,’ protested Kamal and I, refusing to admit we were nervous; but we were hustled along to the other side of the flat as though a band of ghosts was conspiring against us. Anil’s mother had been absent during all this activity, but suddenly we heard her screaming from the direction of the room we had just left.

  ‘Laurie and Kamal have disappeared!’ she cried. ‘Their beds have gone, too!’

  And then, when she came out to the veranda and saw us dashing about in our pyjamas, she gave another scream and collapsed on a cot.

  After that, we didn’t allow Anil’s mother to tell us ghost stories at night.

  The Big Race

  I was awakened by the sound of a hornbill honking in the banyan tree. I lay in bed, looking through the
open window as the early morning sunshine crept up the wall. I knew it was a holiday, and that there was something important to be done that day, but for some time I couldn’t quite remember what it was. Then, as the room got brighter, and the hornbill stopped his noise, I remembered.

  It was the day of the big race.

  I leapt out of bed, pulled open a dressing-table drawer and brought out a cardboard box punctured with little holes. I opened the lid to see if Maharani was all right.

  Maharani, my bamboo-beetle, was asleep on the core of an apple. I had given her a week’s rigorous training for the monsoon beetle race, and she was enjoying a well-earned rest before the big event. I did not disturb her.

  Closing the box, I crept out of the house by the back door. I did not want my parents to see me sneaking off to the municipal park at that early hour.

  When I reached the gardens, the early morning sun was just beginning to make emeralds of the dewdrops, and the grass was cool and springy to my bare feet. A group of boys had gathered in a corner of the gardens, and among them were Kamal and Anil.

  Anil’s black rhino-beetle was the favourite. It was a big beetle, with an aggressive forehead rather like its owner’s. It was called Black Prince. Kamal’s beetle was quite ordinary in size, but it possessed a long pair of whiskers (I suspected it belonged to the cockroach rather than the beetle family), and was called Moochha, which is Hindi for moustache.

  There were one or two other entries, but none of them looked promising and interest centred on Black Prince, Moochha, and my own Maharani who was still asleep on her apple core. A few bets were being made, in coins or marbles, and a prize for the winner was on display; a great stag-beetle, quite dangerous to look at, which would enable the winner to start a stable and breed beetles on a large scale.

  There was some confusion when Kamal’s Moochha escaped from his box and took a preliminary canter over the grass, but he was soon caught and returned to his paddock. Moochha appeared to be in good form, and several boys put their marbles on him.