The Rupa Book of Love Stories & Favourite Fairy Tales (2 in 1)

by Ruskin Bond

  'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do!

  I'm half crazy all for the love of you!

  It won't be a stylish marriage,

  As I can't afford a carriage,

  But you'll look sweet upon the seat

  Of a bicycle built for two.'

  Sushila laughed and clapped her hands. The waiter smiled and nodded his approval.

  "And your grandparents—were they happy with a bicycle?"

  "Very happy. That's all they had for years. But I see you have a new BMW Very nice."

  The children were waving to her from a parked car. "We have to go shopping," she said. "But not until the match is over."

  "Well, it's only lunch time. The game will finish at five."

  Something buzzed in her handbag, and she opened it and took out a mobile. Yes, my dear old Sushila, simple sweetheart of my youth, was now equipped with the latest technology. She listened carefully to what someone was saying, then switched off with a look of resignation.

  "No shopping?" I asked.

  "No shopping. He bet on Tendulkar making a duck."

  "And what did he score?"

  "A hundred. My husband lost a lakh. It's nothing. Would you like to have lunch with us? It's so boring here."

  "No," I said." I have to go."

  "Back to your lonely cottage in the hills?"

  "Yes, eventually. I come here sometimes, when I'm in Delhi. I like the flower garden. But I'm staying with friends." As I got up to go, she gave me her hand.

  "Will you come again?"

  "I can't say. But it was great meeting you, Sushila. You look lovelier than ever. Even when you're bored."

  I gave the waiter a generous tip, and he followed me out to the parking lot and very respectfully dusted off the seat of my bicycle. I wobbled down the road to Janpath, humming the tune of that well-remembered song.

  The Patang- Wallah

  BY JAISHANKAR KALA

  He had not forgotten his lost child-wife. And he knew she was still waiting for him, not far away… Tender and touching, this lyrical tale was written specially for this book. The author teaches European Literature and Philosophy at Oxford.

  The patang-wallah was knotty and twisted like the huge tree by the side of his shop. After making a really good patang, he would fly it personally, to test its balance and reliability.

  But as it soared up it was as if his own atmah was ascending to get a foretaste of heavenly things.

  "To fly these patangs from the mountain top, at your age, with the terrible winds that could sweep you off, and dash you against the rocks! You really have to be more careful, Bhola Ramji."

  Ramesh Chandra looked across the narrow road at someone trying the tiny post office door. He shouted, "Shut for lunch. Come at two." He was a middle-aged man, with curiously intense, distracted eyes, and an air of low distinction, as if his always selling stamps had marked him with respectability. He sat down on the raised cement platform built around the ancient banyan tree and said to the patang-wallah, "I've been meaning to ask you this for some time. How old are you?"

  But Bhola Ram, the patang-wallah, in his old achkan and narrow churidar pajamas, his hand to his white stubble, had flung his shrivelled head right back, adjusting his glasses with his other hand. He squirmed his head this way and that, as if to catch a glimpse of something right up in the tree half hidden by the swaying branches. "What is it? What is it?" A knocking sound in the branches above seemed to answer him; it was made by the bamboo framework of a kite caught by its own string. The patang-wallah gave a wave, picked up the gaudy patang he was making and went into his tiny cottage.

  A few minutes later, he came out with two glasses of tea in his shrivelled hands.

  "You asked about my age?" He interrupted himself to welcome a new arrival. "Namashkar. Come sit down Hanuman Prasad ji. Here is a stool."

  And then returned to his answer: "Do you see this tree Ramesh Chandraji? Well, ages are allegorical things, to do with growth, time's flight, death and life both in contest. Bhagwan's Leela being played out. And so such queries…"

  "No tea, Bhola Ramji?" The newcomer asked in jerky, humorous dismay. He was the local dawai-wallah, 'chemist' some people called him.

  "One minute. As I was saying, queries about one's age should be made in the context of the natural forces round us. So let me say that when I was born, in this very house, this magnificent tree was not a couple of years old."

  "Which means you must be over eighty. Because I do happen to have an estimate of the tree's age." Again Ramesh Chandra shouted across that the post office was closed for lunch. "Flying kites at your age, each gust of wind picking you up to hurl you over the precipice. You are an amazing person."

  The patang-wallah handed the chemist his tea. "There you are, Hanuman Prasadji." Sitting down cross-legged on a small chattai, he addressed himself to Ramesh Chandra:

  "Shall I tell you why I fly patangs? It's to practise going up to where Bhagwan is, and shantih." He gave an odd smile. "It ascends, your patang, and you watch, and it's right up, just a dot, no more, Like your atmah will soon go up. And you'll be flying it up. Like the patang. You're the navigator. Each time, it's my atmah I'm flying, to meet my Creator."

  Ramesh Chandra smiled and nodded; and Hanuman Prasad consulted his watch, saying, "You're a dreamer, and a poet. Before I forget, here are some pills for your heart flutter. Two a day. After meals."

  At two both the chemist and post master prepared to leave.

  "One more question, Bhola Ramji. Who is it you speak to? Is there a ghost perched on top of the tree?"

  Ramesh Chandra's question brought a change in the old man. He murmured inaudibly, "No … no …," broke into a thin smile, "Yes … it's… nothing…" and started to cough. "Well, may Bhagwan protect you both."

  That night the wind rose.

  From far above the banyan tree, came knocking and whimpering. Under the tree the wind-blown patang-wallah's mutter could just be heard: "Coming, coming. Not long now."

  Bhola Ram did not sleep that night.

  He was anxious he might not finish the patangs ordered in time. He felt his life nearing its end, he couldn't say why. It was not so much his age, or his heart complaint. Someone was calling him. Could he blame her? Had she not waited long enough?

  "Coming, Kanta, coming," he mumbled, applying glue on stretches of green and crimson paper. This particular patang had been constructed very intricately. It was ordered by the District Magistrate of Shrinagar as a present for his only child's birthday in a couple of days' time. By dawn he had applied the finishing touches. He placed it against the wall beside two others. They were all big, unusually festive-looking with a competitive air about them; as if eager to be judged the best of all.

  He brewed himself pahari tea in a saucepan. Then pouring the hot tea in the metal tumbler, he sank slowly into the sagging charpai.

  His room was on the first floor. Its door was a bit open. Through it he had a view of the house opposite, where the local halwai lived. A little girl, black hair flying, rushed along the outside balcony. She reminded him of Kanta, his beloved wife, dead now for almost sixty years. Each morning they had gone to school together, meeting with other kids on the way.

  It was at the Ras Lila that they had fallen in love. She was then just thirteen, a couple of years his junior.

  The Ras Lila, commemorating the life of Shri Krishna at the Badrinath temple, was renowned all over the hills. In the play of the God's life, Bhola Ram had been chosen one year to act the part of Krishna. Kanta was Radha, the God's beloved. The performance was given to a large crowd. After his lengthy courtship of Radha, Krishna bent over her; unlike the rehearsals when a desired distance was preserved, his lips touched her soft mouth. As he danced away to the music of dholaks and the harmonium, he was aware of her lit-up eyes on his back. After the play, when their eyes met, she stuck out her tongue to scold him.

  When he asked for her hand, her parents hesitated. His profession of kite-maker was a bit odd, a
nd would he earn enough to support a wife and family? But they liked him and in the end agreed. Their decision may have been prompted by Kanta's severe asthma, which lessened her chances of making a better match. They had not even an inkling, of course, of Kanta's passionate feelings for him.

  Months before the wedding Bhola Ram had started to make a kite. It was to be her portrait—an expression of his love, and her essence. It was to be his own personal present to his future wife. It was dominated by pinks, purples, blues and yellows.

  The morning after their wedding, Bhola Ram took his wife and the patang to the hillside.

  He flew it.

  And then they held the string together.

  She looked up at it, and said in a reflective, dreamy tone:

  "It's as if my whole being, my atmah was going up, not to return. Up … up. What will you do, you poor thing?" She was breathing with difficulty.

  The patang, a tiny dot, tugged in the wind. The string snapped. It flew away.

  The patang-wallah howled: "Kanta! Kanta!"

  She had collapsed writhing like a fish out of water. Her wide mouth, unrefined and uncouth in its friendliness, was grey. "I'll keep watch. I'll return…" she said, and her eyes closed.

  He carried her body home. She was cremated the same evening.

  The morning after the funeral, Bhola was woken by a commotion outside.

  He unbolted the door and stepped out. He turned his head up at the banyan tree.

  There was no doubt that the patang was back, caught in the top of the tree. There was not a tear in it; it may have been the wind, making the branches creak and the patang flutter, but he believed he could hear her voice,

  For sixty years it perched in the top of the tree, all of its beautiful exterior ripped away, just the skeletal framework knocking and clattering its whimpering speech to him.

  The patang-wallah had risen. He was very tired. Another glass of tea, and then he would sink into his sagging charpai to sleep soundly.

  He could hear the voices of the local kids. Come for their early morning marble games.

  As the kids drew nearer, the banyan tree began to move, though there was not a hint of wind. In the dark of dawn, not the old decaying bamboo frame but a dazzling patang with a wild feminine appearance adorned in every conceivable colour, was writhing in the middle of swaying branches. And then the scared children laughed because the patang's furious struggle to break free had succeeded and it flew slowly up into the sky.

  They began playing marbles.

  They thought it odd that Bhola Ramji didn't open his door as he did daily by six o'clock, dispersing them.

  THE RUPA BOOK OF

  FAVOURITE FAIRY TALES

  By the same author:

  Angry River

  A Little Night Music

  A Long Walk for Bina

  Hanuman to the Rescue

  Ghost Stories from the Raj

  Strange Men, Strange Places

  The India I Love

  Tales and Legends from India

  The Blue Umbrella

  Ruskin Bond's Children's Omnibus

  The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-I

  The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-II

  The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-III

  Rupa Book of Great Animal Stories

  The Rupa Book of True Tales of Mystery and Adventure

  The Rupa Book of Ruskin Bond's Himalayan Tales

  The Rupa Book of Great Suspense Stories

  The Rupa Laughter Omnibus

  The Rupa Book of Scary Stories

  The Rupa Book of Haunted Houses

  The Rupa Book of Travellers' Tales

  The Rupa Book of Great Crime Stories

  The Rupa Book of Nightmare Tales

  The Rupa Book of Shikar Stories

  The Rupa Book of Love Stories

  The Rupa Book of Wicked Stories

  The Rupa Book of Heartwarming Stories

  The Rupa Book of Thrills and Spills

  THE RUPA BOOK OF

  FAVOURITE FAIRY TALES

  Edited by

  Ruskin Bond

  Selection and Introduction Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2006

  First Published 2006

  This edition 2010

  Second Impression 2011

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj,

  New Delhi 110 002

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Jivaka the Boy Wonder

  A Tale from Ancient India

  Sindbad the Sailor

  A Tale from the Thousand and One Nights

  Cinderella

  A Fairy Tale from the French

  The Story of the Bird Feng

  A Fairy Tale from China

  The Blue Boy of the Pool

  A Tale from Old China

  The Maori Fairy Fishermen

  A Tale from New Zealand

  The Dance of the Goblins

  A Tale of Old Japan

  The Red Spring

  A Traditional Tale from China

  Blue Beard

  An Old Tale from the French

  The Green Man of Sinai

  A Tale from Ancient Egypt

  Three Tales from India, as told again by Ruskin Bond

  The Friendship of Heera and Lal

  The Wise Parrot

  Seven Brides for Seven Princes

  Three Tales from the English Countryside

  The Tulip Pixies

  The Clicking Toad

  The Green Ladies of One Tree Hill

  Two Japanese Fairy Tales, as told by Lafeadio Hearn

  The Old Woman who Lost her Dumpling

  The Boy who Drew Cats

  INTRODUCTION

  So much contemporary fiction is ephemeral, quickly forgotten, while the works of yesteryear's prize-winning novelists gather dust. But the great stories of folk and fairy lore are still with us, alive and ready to be told again, for they have stood the test of generations of readers and listeners. Tales from the Panchatantra, or the Arabian Nights, or the rich folklore of Europe and Asia, continue to enchant us, both as children and as adults. The adventures of Sindbad, or Aladdin, never grow stale. Cinderella and Snow White still pull at our heart-strings. Giant killers of all sorts still stir the imagination, for as children we would all be giant killers.

  The fairy story is largely traditional, but over the past two hundred years many outstanding writers have given rein to their imaginations and created their own fairy lore. Hans Anderson created many original and memorable fairy tales. Lewis Carroll with Alice, and J.M. Barrie with Peter Pan, exposed their own worlds of fantasy; even Kipling's Jungle Book is a fairy tale of sorts: the world of Mowgli and his animal companions could only exist in the imagination.

  Wizards and wizardry have always had their attractions for the young. Clever young Harry Potter had his predecessor in Jivaka, the boy wonder, whose exploits found their way into early Indian, Arabian and even Tibetan folklore. He was the Sherlock Holmes of the East.

  We learn a great deal about human nature from the great fairy stories. Greed and generosity, cowardice and courage, enmity and goodwill, despair and hope—the negative and positive traits of humankind are brought into focus in these immortal tales. False pride is punctured. Arrogance is humbled.

  The success of a collection such as this also depends on a mixture of the comic and romantic. Goblins can be funny, as the tales from China and Japan demonstrate. Countryside humour comes to the fore in the old English tales. And even the story of diabolical Bluebeard has a comical element. Sindbad could take the rough with the smooth; he had a great sense of fun and adventure. And there are lessons in living to be learnt from The Green Man of Sinai', 'Hee
ra and Lal' and 'The Blue Boy of the Pool.' The horrific element is never too far away either, whether it be in a nursery tale such as 'Red Riding Hood', or Eastern tales of jinns and rakshasas. Young readers are not easily scared. The struggle against sinister forces is always a strong element in a successful fairy tale.

  The world has a heritage of many thousands of folk and fairy tales. This is a very personal selection; my very own favourites.

  The story of 'The Tulip Pixies' always reminds me of my great-aunt Lilian who, when I was a small boy, told me that fairies lived in cup-shaped flowers such as poppies, bluebells, buttercups, lilies, or within the petals and folds of snapdragons and roses. I would spend hours in the garden, patiently waiting for a fairy to step out from its fragrant abode.

  When I failed to see one, I complained to my aunt who, without batting an eyelid, said, 'You won't see them by day, dear. During the day they remain under the roots of trees and bushes. They enter the flowers only at night.'

  So I kept looking out of my window at night, hoping to glimpse a fairy or two amongst the sweet-peas, but fell asleep before the fairy revelry began.

  All the same, I do believe in fairies. They are an invisible presence, made up of our sweetest thoughts and deepest emotions. Those fleeting moments of happiness that come our way, and the delight that comes to most of us in a beautiful garden—nature's garden or your very own—are conjured up by the magic wands of colour and fragrance. For the flowers themselves are fairies.

  In some of these stories, readers will come across a few old-fashioned words, such as, 'yonder' (over there), 'tarry' (wait), 'nay' (no), 'hither and thither' (here and there), 'behold' (look upon). They add to the charm of the stories. Not only are such words beautiful in themselves (and more expressive than their modern counterparts), they also give us a flavour of ancient times and faraway fairy lands. Let us preserve them too.

  Ruskin Bond