Collected Short Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  One night the hot-water bottle burst and the bedding was soaked through. As there was no sun for several days, the blanket remained damp. Miss Mackenzie caught a chill and had to keep to her cold, uncomfortable bed. She knew she had a fever but there was no thermometer with which to take her temperature. She had difficulty in breathing.

  A strong wind sprang up one night, and the window flew open and kept banging all night. Miss Mackenzie was too weak to get up and close it, and the wind swept the rain and sleet into the room. The cat crept into the bed and snuggled close to its mistress’s warm body. But towards morning that body had lost its warmth and the cat left the bed and started scratching about on the floor.

  As a shaft of sunlight streamed through the open window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk into the cat’s saucer on the doorstep, and the cat leapt down from the windowsill and made for the milk.

  The milkman called a greeting to Miss Mackenzie, but received no answer. Her window was open and he had always known her to be up before sunrise. So he put his head in at the window and called again. But Miss Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone away to the mountain where the blue gentian and purple columbine grew.

  Sita and the River

  The Island in the River

  In the middle of the river, the river that began in the mountains of the Himalayas and ended in the Bay of Bengal, there was a small island. The river swept round the island, sometimes clawing at its banks but never going right over it. The river was still deep and swift at this point, because the foothills were only forty miles distant. More than twenty years had passed since the river had flooded the island, and at that time no one had lived there. But then years ago a small family had come to live on the island and now a small hut stood on it, a mud-walled hut with a sloping thatched roof. The hut had been built into a huge rock. Only three of its walls were mud, the fourth was rock.

  A few goats grazed on the short grass and the prickly leaves of the thistle. Some hens followed them about. There was a melon patch and a vegetable patch and a small field of marigolds. The marigolds were sometimes made into garlands, and the garlands were sold during weddings or festivals in the nearby town.

  In the middle of the island stood a peepul tree. It was the only tree on this tongue of land. But peepul trees will grow anywhere— through the walls of old temples, through gravestones, even from rooftops. It is usually the buildings, and not the trees, that give way!

  Even during the great flood, which had occurred twenty years back, the peepul tree had stood firm.

  It was an old tree, much older than the old man on the island, who was only seventy. The peepul was about three hundred. It provided shelter for the birds who sometimes visited it from the mainland.

  Three hundred years ago, the land on which the peepul tree stood had been part of the mainland; but the river had changed its course and the bit of land with the tree on it had become an island. The tree had lived alone for many years. Now it gave shade and shelter to a small family who were grateful for its presence.

  The people of India love peepul trees, especially during the hot summer months when the heart-shaped leaves catch the least breath of air and flutter eagerly, fanning those who sit beneath.

  A sacred tree, the peepul, the abode of spirits, good and bad. ‘Do not yawn when you are sitting beneath the tree,’ Grandmother would warn Sita, her ten-year-old granddaughter. ‘And if you must yawn, always snap your fingers in front of your mouth. If you forget to do that, a demon might jump down your throat!’

  ‘And then what will happen?’ asked Sita.

  ‘He will probably ruin your digestion,’ said Grandfather, who didn’t take demons very seriously.

  The peepul had beautiful leaves and Grandmother likened it to the body of the mighty God Krishna—broad at the shoulders, then tapering down to a very slim waist.

  The tree attracted birds and insects from across the river. On some nights it was full of fireflies.

  Whenever Grandmother saw the fireflies, she told her favourite story.

  ‘When we first came here,’ she said, ‘we were greatly troubled by mosquitoes. One night your grandfather rolled himself up in his sheet so that they couldn’t get at him. After a while he peeped out of his bedsheet to make sure they were gone. He saw a firefly and said, “You clever mosquito! You could not see in the dark, so you got a lantern!”’

  Grandfather was mending a fishing net. He had fished in the river for ten years, and he was a good fisherman. He knew where to find the slim silver chilwa and the big, beautiful mahseer and the singhara with its long whiskers; he knew where the river was deep and where it was shallow; he knew which baits to use—when to use worms and when to use gram. He had taught his son to fish, but his son had gone to work in a factory in a city nearly a hundred miles away. He had no grandson but he had a granddaughter, Sita, and she could do all the things a boy could do and sometimes she could do them better. She had lost her mother when she was two or three. Grandmother had taught her all that a girl should know—cooking, sewing, grinding spices, cleaning the house, feeding the birds—and Grandfather had taught her other things, like taking a small boat across the river, cleaning a fish, repairing a net, or catching a snake by the tail! And some things she had learnt by herself—like climbing the peepul tree, or leaping from rock to rock in shallow water, or swimming in an inlet where the water was calm.

  Neither grandparent could read or write, and as a result Sita couldn’t read or write.

  There was a school in one of the villages across the river, but Sita had never seen it. She had never been further than Shahganj, the small market town near the river. She had never seen a city. She had never been in a train. The river cut her off from many things, but she could not miss what she had never known and, besides, she was much too busy.

  While Grandfather mended his net, Sita was inside the hut, pressing her grandmother’s forehead which was hot with fever. Grandmother had been ill for three days and could not eat. She had been ill before but she had never been so bad. Grandfather had brought her some sweet oranges but she couldn’t take anything else.

  She was younger than Grandfather but, because she was sick, she looked much older. She had never been very strong. She coughed a lot and sometimes she had difficulty in breathing.

  When Sita noticed that Grandmother was sleeping, she left the bedside and tiptoed out of the room on her bare feet.

  Outside, she found the sky dark with monsoon clouds. It had rained all night and, in a few hours, it would rain again. The monsoon rains had come early at the end of June. Now it was the end of July and already the river was swollen. Its rushing sounds seemed nearer and more menacing than usual.

  Sita went to her grandfather and sat down beside him. ‘When you are hungry, tell me,’ she said, ‘and I will make the bread.’

  ‘Is your grandmother asleep?’

  ‘Yes. But she will wake soon. The pain is deep.’

  The old man stared out across the river, at the dark green of the forest, at the leaden sky, and said, ‘If she is not better by morning, I will take her to the hospital in Shahganj. They will know how to make her well. You may be on your own for two or three days. You have been on your own before.’

  Sita nodded gravely—she had been alone before; but not in the middle of the rains with the river so high. But she knew that someone must stay behind. She wanted Grandmother to get well and she knew that only Grandfather could take the small boat across the river when the current was so strong.

  Sita was not afraid of being left alone, but she did not like the look of the river. That morning, when she had been fetching water, she had noticed that the lever had suddenly disappeared.

  ‘Grandfather, if the river rises higher, what will I do?’

  ‘You must keep to the high ground.’

  ‘And if the water reaches the high ground?’

  ‘Then go into the hut and take the hens with you.’

  ‘And if the water comes into the hut?’ />
  ‘Then climb into the peepul tree. It is a strong tree. It will not fall. And the water cannot rise higher than the tree.’

  ‘And the goats, Grandfather?’

  ‘I will be taking them with me. I may have to sell them, to pay for good food and medicine for your grandmother. As for the hens, you can put them on the roof if the water enters the hut. But do not worry too much,’ and he patted Sita’s head, ‘the water will not rise so high. Has it ever done so? I will be back soon, remember that.’

  ‘And won’t Grandmother come back?’

  ‘Yes—but they may keep her in the hospital for some time.’

  The Sound of the River

  That evening it began to rain again. Big pellets of rain, scarring the surface of the river. But it was warm rain and Sita could move about in it. She was not afraid of getting wet, she rather liked it. In the previous month, when the first monsoon shower had arrived, washing the dusty leaves of the tree and bringing up the good smell of the earth, she had exulted in it, had run about shouting for joy. She was used to it now, even a little tired of the rain, but she did not mind getting wet. It was steamy indoors and her thin dress would soon dry in the heat from the kitchen fire.

  She walked about barefooted, barelegged. She was very sure on her feet. Her toes had grown accustomed to gripping all kinds of rocks, slippery or sharp, and though thin, she was surprisingly strong.

  Black hair, streaming across her face. Black eyes. Slim brown arms. A scar on her thigh: when she was small, visiting her mother’s village, a hyena had entered the house where she was sleeping, fastened on to her leg and tried to drag her away, but her screams had roused the villagers and the hyena had run off.

  She moved about in the pouring rain, chasing the hens into a shelter behind the hut. A harmless brown snake, flooded out of its hole, was moving across the open ground. Sita took a stick, picked the snake up with it, and dropped it behind a cluster of rocks. She had no quarrel with snakes. They kept down the rats and the frogs. She wondered how the rats had first come to the island— probably in someone’s boat or in a sack of grain.

  She disliked the huge black scorpions which left their waterlogged dwellings and tried to take shelter in the hut. It was so easy to step on one and the sting could be very painful. She had been bitten by a scorpion the previous monsoon, and for a day and a night she had known fever and great pain. Sita had never killed living creatures but now, whenever she found a scorpion, she crushed it with a rock! When, finally, she went indoors, she was hungry. She ate some parched gram and warmed up some goat’s milk.

  Grandmother woke once and asked for water, and Grandfather held the brass tumbler to her lips.

  It rained all night.

  The roof was leaking and a small puddle formed on the floor. Grandfather kept the kerosene lamps alight. They did not need the light but somehow it made them feel safer.

  The sound of the river had always been with them, although they seldom noticed it. But that night they noticed a change in its sound. There was something like a moan, like a wind in the tops of tall trees, and a swift hiss as the water swept round the rocks and carried away pebbles. And sometimes there was a rumble as loose earth fell into the water. Sita could not sleep.

  She had a rag doll made with Grandmother’s help out of bits of old clothing. She kept it by her side every night. The doll was someone to talk to when the nights were long and sleep, elusive. Her grandparents were often ready to talk but sometimes Sita wanted to have secrets, and though there were no special secrets in her life, she made up a few because it was fun to have them. And if you have secrets, you must have a friend to share them with. Since there were no other children on the island, Sita shared her secrets with the rag doll whose name was Mumta.

  Grandfather and Grandmother were asleep, though the sound of Grandmother’s laboured breathing was almost as persistent as the sound of the river.

  ‘Mumta,’ whispered Sita in the dark, starting one of her private conversations, ‘do you think Grandmother will get well again?’

  Mumta always answered Sita’s questions, even though the answers were really Sita’s answers.

  ‘She is very old,’ said Mumta.

  ‘Do you think the river will reach the hut?’ asked Sita.

  ‘If it keeps raining like this and the river keeps rising, it will reach the hut.’

  ‘I am afraid of the river, Mumta. Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Don’t be afraid. The river has always been good to us.’

  ‘What will we do if it comes into the hut?’

  ‘We will climb on the roof.’

  ‘And if it reaches the roof?’

  ‘We will climb the peepul tree. The river has never gone higher than the peepul tree.’

  As soon as the first light showed through the little skylight, Sita got up and went outside. It wasn’t raining hard, it was drizzling; but it was the sort of drizzle that could continue for days, and it probably meant that heavy rain was falling in the hills where the river began.

  Sita went down to the water’s edge. She couldn’t find her favourite rock, the one on which she often sat dangling her feet in the water, watching the little chilwa fish swim by. It was still there, no doubt, but the river had gone over it.

  She stood on the sand and she could feel the water oozing and bubbling beneath her feet.

  The river was no longer green and blue and flecked with white. It was a muddy colour.

  Sita milked the goat thinking that perhaps it was the last time she would be milking it. But she did not care for the goat in the same way that she cared for Mumta.

  The sun was just coming up when Grandfather pushed off in the boat. Grandmother lay in the prow. She was staring hard at Sita, trying to speak, but the words would not come. She raised her hand in blessing.

  Sita bent and touched her grandmother’s feet and then Grandfather pushed off. The little boat—with its two old people and three goats—rode swiftly on the river, edging its way towards the opposite bank. The current was very swift and the boat would be carried about half a mile downstream before Grandfather would be able to get it to dry land.

  It bobbed about on the water, getting small and smaller, until it was just a speck on the broad river.

  And suddenly Sita was alone.

  There was a wind, whipping the raindrops against her face; and there was the water, rushing past the island; and there was the distant shore, blurred by rain; and there was the small hut; and there was the tree.

  Sita got busy. The hens had to be fed. They weren’t concerned about anything except food. Sita threw them a handful of coarse grain, potato peels and peanut shells.

  Then she took the broom and swept out the hut, lit the charcoal burner, warmed some milk, and thought, ‘Tomorrow there will be no milk . . .’ She began peeling onions. Soon her eyes started smarting, and pausing for a few moments and glancing round the quiet room, she became aware again that she was alone. Grandfather’s hookah pipe stood by itself in one corner. It was a beautiful old hookah, which had belonged to Sita’s great-grandfather. The bowl was made out of a coconut encased in silver. The long, winding stem was at least four feet long. It was their most treasured possession. Grandmother’s sturdy shisham-wood walking stick stood in another corner.

  Sita looked around for Mumta, found the doll beneath the light wooden charpoy, and placed her within sight and hearing. Thunder rolled down from the hills. Boom—boom—boom . . .

  ‘The gods of the mountains are angry,’ said Sita. ‘Do you think they are angry with me?’

  ‘Why should they be angry with you?’ asked Mumta.

  ‘They don’t need a reason for being angry. They are angry with everything and we are in the middle of everything. We are so small—do you think they know we are here?’

  ‘Who knows what the gods think?’

  ‘But I made you,’ said Sita, ‘and I know you are here.’

  ‘And will you save me if the river rises?’

  ‘Yes, of cou
rse. I won’t go anywhere without you, Mumta.’

  The Water Rises

  Sita couldn’t stay indoors for long. She went out, taking Mumta with her, and stared out across the river, to the safe land on the other side. But was it really safe there? The river looked much wider now. It had crept over its banks and spread far across the flat plain. Far away, people were driving their cattle through waterlogged, flooded fields, carrying their belongings in bundles on their heads or shoulders, leaving their homes, making for high land. It wasn’t safe anywhere.

  Sita wondered what had happened to Grandfather and Grandmother. If they had reached the shore safely, Grandfather would have had to engage a bullock cart or a pony-drawn ekka to get Grandmother to the district hospital, five or six miles away. Shahganj had a market, a court, a jail, a cinema and a hospital.

  She wondered if she would ever see Grandmother again. She had done her best to look after the old lady, remembering the times when Grandmother had looked after her, had gently touched her fevered brow, and had told her stories—stories about the gods—about the young Krishna, friend of birds and animals, so full of mischief, always causing confusion among the other gods. He made God Indra angry by shifting a mountain without permission. Indra was the god of the clouds, who made the thunder and lightning, and when he was angry he sent down a deluge such as this one.

  The island looked much smaller now. Some of its mud banks had dissolved quickly, sinking into the river. But in the middle of the island there was rocky ground, and the rocks would never crumble, they could only be submerged.

  Sita climbed into the tree to get a better view of the flood. She had climbed the tree many times, and it took her only a few seconds to reach the higher branches. She put her hand to her eyes as a shield from the rain and gazed upstream.