Our Favourite Indian Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  'I have been to our house,' she said changing the subject.

  The mention of "our house," which on other days swept me off my feet, today held no interest for me.

  'Bano, you can keep my share of plums,' I said, without opening my eyes.

  'Who would care to eat your rotten plums?' Bano said, peeved. 'Take them along when you go to Delhi — your precious cargo of rotten plums!' She went into the verandah.

  It made me angry. But when one is ill, one cannot work himself up to a high pitch of anger. In illness, all feelings peter out without reaching the crescendo of passion. If one cries, no tears come — only the eyelids flutter. If one feels exhilarated, the heart does not beat faster — only the lips tremble.

  The house, which Bano had referred to as "our house", was said to be haunted and lay deserted all the year. They said an English woman had committed suicide in this house. We would store our treasure trove of raw plums and apricots in one of the bathrooms. It was a closely guarded secret and no one was aware of our secret.

  Bano kept swinging in the verandah for a long time. As the swing went up, her salwar puffed out like a balloon. The rhythmic creaking of the swing acted like a soporific; I dozed off and dreamt. I always remembered the dreams I had in the afternoons. I dreamed that the chaprasi had come from the office to fetch father's lunch. He laughed and told us that we would soon move down to Delhi. Then I saw Bano throwing apricots out of the window of the haunted house. Far away in the hills, I could see the English woman who had committed suicide, leaning out of the window of the Kalka-Simla train. With outstretched hands she grabbed at the apricots which Bano was casting to the winds.

  When I woke up, Bano had been gone a long time.

  In the evening when mother brought in the tea I asked her if the chaprasi had come in the afternoon.

  'Yes, he did. Why?'

  'Did he tell you anything?'

  'No, nothing. What's the matter with you?'

  I kept silent. Propping myself up against the pillow, I sipped my tea.

  After some time mother took my temperature and immediately after, jerked down the column of mercury. Previously, I used to insist upon knowing my temperature. But she was reluctant to tell the truth and I stopped asking. I tried to guess it by watching the expression on her face. Sometimes when I became grave she would say, 'Now get well, and then we shall leave for Delhi.' She said it in a casual manner, as if it was entirely up to me to get well or remain ill; as if I was keeping ill out of sheer obstinacy and that I had to be cajoled into getting well. This would put me in a temper, and turning on my side I would lie facing the window. For a long time she would not realize that I was angry, till I stiffened my legs, clenched my fists, grit my teeth and started breathing heavily.

  Mother, who had all this while been looking out of the window then get alarmed. She would look at me intently, sigh and sit down on the bed by my side. I sensed at once that she had seen through my game, though she never gave me that impression. Taking out a bar of Cadbury's chocolate from the almirah, she would place it under my pillow. 'Don't tell your father about it,' she would warn me, running her fingers through my hair. But the very next moment she would forget me; she would be miles away, lost in her own would of thoughts. I knew this from the way her fingers became inert. The piece of chocolate she had given me was not so much to put me in good humour as to keep me out of her way — so that she could again burrow into her shell, undisturbed. I would look at her face without her being aware of it. The shadowy lines would be gone, and her face would be a blank emptiness. Her eyes would glow with an inner fire and seem to be misted over with a thin film. I wanted to delude myself with the pleasant thought that she was thinking of my illness, but in my heart of hearts I knew that her thoughts had nothing to do with me.

  I gently put my hand on hers. She started, as if my touch had dragged her back from some remote recesses of the mind. She looked hard at me and then kissed me on the lips. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. She smiled.

  'Child, may I ask you one thing?'

  'Yes?'

  'If I go away, will you take it amiss?' She looked at me without blinking her eyes.

  'Will father go with you?'

  'No.'

  'Then?' I was puzzled.

  She started laughing and lay down by my side.

  I put my cheek against hers. Mother was very beautiful and everybody was afraid of her. Sometimes I wondered what was that something about her, which kept every one on his toes. I was also afraid of her—especially of her eyes, when she looked at me closely.

  A long time back I had once accompanied Father to his friend's house. Our path lay along a ravine and as we climbed up we stopped for a while in the forest grove to regain our breaths. The silence of the grove felt eerie.

  Now when I looked at mother's eyes I was reminded of that dark forest grove.

  Mother's arms were white and smooth as marble. I was shy about touching them. She parted her hair in the middle, sweeping it back tightly, which made her forehead still more prominent.

  Her ears were small, almost doll-like, and remained hidden under her hair. When she lay by my side I pulled them out from underneath her hair and I would be suddenly reminded of what Bano had once told me about people with small ears having short lives. I shivered to think of it but I never told mother. I imagined that when she lay dying I would tell her she was dying before her time because of her ears.

  Sometimes I had a feeling that she was not particularly worried over my illness; that perhaps there were times she even forgot I was ill. I also knew that mother was not eager to go to Delhi. Once I had heard her saying so to uncle Biren and I wondered why.

  For the past few months, mother and father had been sleeping in separate rooms. This seemed odd to me. But then there were many mysteries I did not try to delve into; I simply relegated them to the back of my mind.

  Mother's room was at the other end of the gallery and her two windows overlooked mine. Sometimes she could be seen at a window, her bunch of hair, like molten gold in the sun. I knew she was sitting by the window, reading.

  She had many books, scattered all over the place — on the sofa, by the pillow, under the bedstead. Perhaps she slept very little. Often I saw the light burning in her room till late in the night.

  Once I opened one of her books. On the flyleaf I saw uncle Biren's name inscribed in spidery characters in blue ink. It fascinated me. Later I saw his name on many more books which lay scattered about in her room.

  This reminded me of uncle Biren's small cottage which I had visited with mother. One room was full of books and there was a stepladder, which he used for taking down books from the shelves. The walls of another room were covered with oddly framed paintings before which I would pause for hours. Father told me that uncle Biren had purchased these paintings in Europe before the War. My feelings for uncle Biren were a mixture of wonder and pity. How could he bring himself to live in this lonely cottage all by himself, the year through, winter and summer?

  Among Father's friends uncle Biren had a distinct place of his own. It was only he whom father invited to take tea in my room — others he received in the drawing room. When uncle Biren came I was not packed off at bedtime. I was allowed to stay on while they sat talking for long hours. Those were pleasant evenings.

  One evening, when uncle Biren called on us, he was so funnily dressed that for a moment I did not recognise him. Long boots which came up to his knees, a khaki knap-sack slung over one shoulder and a camera over the other, a sola hat, and quaintest of all, a goatee, which did not suit his face. His pockets bulged with books.

  He came to my bed and shook hands with me. Uncle Biren was always like that. He always greeted me as one greets a normal, healthy person. And he never wasted his breath in inquiring after my health.

  Mother sat beside us, busy knitting. She cast a fleeting glance at Biren and lowered her head. Uncle Biren told us that he was bound for Kufri. He would stay the night in the Rest House and return t
he following evening. 'I am told the watchman of the Rest House has been living in Kufri for the last thirty years,' uncle Biren said. 'He must know a lot about Kufri.'

  A faint smile spread on mother's face. 'You have been at this game for more years?

  'Oh, so you don't believe me. Then you must look at my Notes.' Uncle Biren's blue eyes lit up. Somehow any mention of his book, A History of Simla, always made mother smile.

  'Sometimes I come across valuable scraps of information while collecting material for my book,' uncle Biren said.

  'What kind of information, uncle?' I asked.

  I always showed keen interest in uncle's book. It buoyed up his spirits.

  'Once I chanced upon an old photograph,' uncle Biren said. 'An Englishman must have taken it.'

  'A photograph of... ?' mother asked, looking up from her knitting.

  'Of a crowd at a race course. Most of the faces were indistinct. But one face, a girl's had come out clearly. She was standing by the pavillion, an umbrella in her hand. Everyone's eyes were glued to the running horses but hers seemed to be held by something behind her. A rather incongruous note. Her looking back like this...'

  Uncle Biren suddenly stopped. The knitting lay quiet in mother's hands.

  'The caption under the photograph read: Annandale, Simla — 1903. Fifty years ago. And she was still looking back, umbrella in hand.'

  Uncle Biren laughed — as if at his own whimsey. Mother looked up at him, her eyes icy. Sometimes I wondered why uncle Biren indulged in such meaningless talks.

  'At times I feel it is much easier to write about men than about cities,' uncle Biren said. 'I've assembled a huge mass of notes, old photographs, travelogues on Simla, but I doubt I will ever succeed in writing my book.'

  'Why?' mother asked.

  'Because... because every city is so much absorbed in itself. It does not let you pry into its secrets easily.' Uncle Biren got up. He touched my forehead.

  'I met the doctor while coming down,' he said bending over me. 'He said you will be fit enough to walk about in a few days' time.'

  'Will you just sit up?' he said, taking the camera from his shoulder. 'I'll take your photograph. Let's see how you look.'

  After taking my photograph he picked up his walking stick, ready to leave.

  'When will you come again?' mother asked, looking him straight in the eye for the first time.

  'Perhaps tomorrow evening — I'll drop in for a minute.' When uncle looked at mother, his eyes would become dazzled and he would turn his face away.

  'Uncle Biren...' I said shyly.

  'Yes, child?'

  'I'll take a photograph.'

  He smiled and handed me the camera.

  I looked at mother.

  'No, no, not mine, son,' she said, her words tumbling over each other.

  'You will not be alone. Uncle Biren will also be there.'

  Uncle Biren turned pale and cast a fleeting look at mother. She rose form her chair without any more fuss, saying to me, 'You are very willful.'

  'Uncle Biren, you stand by the railing — in the sun. And mother, you stand to the right.'

  I climbed out of the bed and stood leaning against the wall. My head reeled. But the photograph was a great success. I have it with me to this day...

  I did not know when darkness crept into the room. Uncle Biren had been gone a long time. Only mother was there, reclining in a chair by my side — silent and motionless. I did not ask for the light. I like the feeling of darkness slowly invading a room.

  Suddenly the memory of one particular evening flitted across my mind. This was much before I fell ill. Mother had taken me to uncle Biren's house.

  Uncle Biren was taken aback on seeing us. He let us in at the wicket gate, looking flustered.

  'Pono, you here?' It was the first time I had heard uncle Biren addressing mother by her name. Coming from his lips, her name rang strangely. Mother started laughing. I don't know why, but I did not like the way she laughed. I felt cramped and a vague numbness spread over my heart.

  'We came out for a stroll,' said mother. 'We thought we might as well say hello to you.' It was the first time I had heard mother lying.

  For a fleeting second uncle Biren's blue eyes clouded over with doubt; then he held my finger and led us into his cottage.

  I saw his library for the first time. He showed me photographs of the mountain peaks of Simla, its valleys and waterfalls. He had collected these for his projected book. A lamp with a light green shade rested on the table by the side of a heap of books. He brought out two slabs of chocolate from somewhere. I was not prepared for this sleight of hand, and he laughed at my discomfiture.

  'I have laid by quite a stock of chocolates,' he said. 'It comes in handy during winter when I'm snowed in.' I looked at uncle Biren. How different he was from Father! He had none of that oppressive grimness and tenseness which I associated with Father. There was an intangible tenderness about uncle Biren. Above his trim beard, the soft eloquence of his eyes seemed to shed the coarseness from everything they ranged over.

  'Have you ever seen a snow-capped peak from close range?' he asked me. I shook my head.

  'The snow looks blue,' he said. 'I took a coloured photograph...' He went into the adjoining room. Idly, I thumbed through his albums which were lying on a table. Each photograph represented a view of Simla: Glenn, Jakhu, Chetwick Falls. I easily recognised each of those spots. Uncle had not shown up and I began to feel bored. I picked up another album, a small one, which was lying at the corner of a bookshelf. I turned the first page, and a known face stared at me. It was a picture of mother.

  Had mother ever been like this? My heart missed a beat. It was the same broad forehead, but with the small red mark which mother now does not put on. Two locks of hair fell over her shoulders. She was wearing a full sleeved sweater and her small ears were hidden under her hair — the same as now. Looking at her expression, I had a sudden feeling that face had nothing to do with me or with father. It was mother, but I could not see my mother in her.

  Hearing uncle Biren's footsteps, I guiltily put away the album.

  When we came out onto the lawn the shadows of the evening had begun to fall. Wrapped in a shawl, mother was sitting on a stone bench. Uncle Biren sat down on the grass near mother's feet. 'Where were you all this while?' She tenderly pulled me to her. I looked searchingly into her face. The same eyes, mouth and forehead. Separately, they were nothing special; together the total impression was different in a way I could not define. Perhaps it was an expression which annihilated distance and yet never came closer.

  'What's the matter, son?' Mother ran her fingers through my tangled hair. I shrank into myself and looked away.

  Mother did not pay any further attention to me. We sat quietly, lost in our own thoughts. Since our coming, uncle Biren had not talked with Mother. It seemed strange, but its meaning was lost on me.

  A blue haze had descended upon the lawn. Among the distant hills, lights shone like glow-worms. The outlines of the hills having been blurred by darkness, the sky seemed to nestle closer to the earth.

  While I was ill, I often recalled this evening, although nothing unusual had happened to distinguish it from other evenings. Uncle Biren accompanied us some distance and when mother assured him that we would manage all right on our own, he had turned back. Mother was not there. I retraced my steps, peering into the darkness, my heart beating faster.

  At the turn of the road, I found mother leaning over the railing, the end of her sari fluttering in the breeze. She was looking below at uncle Biren's cottage. In the evening it looked lonely and deserted. A pale streak of light from the library window lay across the lawn.

  For a while we stood silent and then mother resumed her walk. Her gait was so slow that she seemed to be walking in her sleep. When she came up to me, for a long time she stared at me with helpless eyes. Then she drew me close and put her cold, dry lips to my mouth.

  After some days I felt the taste of illness begin to leave
my mouth and life seemed to surge back slowly into my limbs. I had the windows opened, and the curtains drawn so that I could bathe in the soft furry warmth of the sunlight.

  One morning I came out onto the verandah. A little away from me auntie was busy hanging out her washing on the wooden railing. Stealthily, I crept past her and stepped into the balcony at the back of father's room. The doors and windows of the room at the other end were barred and no curtains were hanging in them. When mother used to go away to her aunt's, Father would lock up her room, carry all his things upstairs into the study and spend his nights there.

  The balcony looked forlorn. In front of me in the walled compound of the school, I could see small boys, satchels in hand, standing four in a row, reciting their prayers in a nasal sing-song; 'God's name comes to my lips with the fervour of a keen desire...' Unable to stand their shrill lacerating voices any more, I looked beyond, over the haunted house across the ravine, and then along the serpentine path which lost itself behind the compound of Bano's house. Fetching Father's old discarded walking stick, at the end of which I had tied a red piece of cloth I waved it above my head. This was a favourite game with Bano and me. She saw me and waved back. Then she pointed me to her mother, who also waved. Embarrassed, I threw away the stick and ran inside.

  Before I could enter my room, a servant came to tell me that Father wanted to see me. A wave of joy surged through me. It was rare for Father to invite me to his room. Hastily, I bit my nails to make sure that they were clean; Father always looked at my nails the first thing.

  Father's room had a distinct individuality compounded of the smell of cigarsmoke, an oppressive stillness, subdued lighting which did not change with night or day and, above it all a sour medicinal odour that hung pervasively, like a layer of thinly spun colour.

  'What were you doing outside?' I knew Father's moods. There was no anger in his voice.

  'I was looking for Bano.' I fumbled and became silent. 'Father!'

  Father looked up.

  'I am well now. The fever has left me.'

  Father placed my hands one upon the other and held them in his big hairy hands. 'You must rest in bed a few days more,' he said.