by Ruskin Bond
‘If you feel sorry for everyone who has been disappointed in love,’ I said, ‘you will soon be receiving the affections of every young man over ten.’
‘Let them give me their affections,’ you said, ‘and I will give them my chappal over their heads.’
‘But spare my head,’ I said.
‘Have you been in love before?’
‘Many times. But this is the first time.’
‘And who is your love?’
‘Haven’t you guessed?’
Sunil, who was following our conversation with deep interest, seemed to revel in the situation. Probably he fancied himself playing the part of Cupid, or Kamadeva, and delighted in watching the arrows of love strike home. No doubt I made it more enjoyable for him. Because I could not hide my feelings. Soon Dinesh would know, too—and then?
A year ago my feelings about you were almost paternal! Or so I thought . . . But you are no longer a child and I am a little older too. For when, the night after the picnic, you took my hand and held it against your soft warm cheek, it was the first time that a girl had responded to me so readily, so tenderly. Perhaps it was just innocence but that one action of yours, that acceptance of me, immediately devastated my heart.
Gently, fervently, I kissed your eyes and forehead, your small round mouth, and the lobes of your ears, and your long smooth throat; and I whispered, ‘Sushila, I love you, I love you, I love you,’ in the same way that millions and millions of love-smitten young men have whispered since time immemorial. What else can one say? I love you, I love you. There is nothing simpler; nothing that can be made to mean any more than that. And what else did I say? That I would look after you and work for you and make you happy; and that too had been said before, and I was in no way different from anyone. I was a man and yet I was a boy again.
We visited the stream again, a day or two later, early in the morning. Using the rocks as stepping stones, we wandered downstream for about a furlong until we reached a pool and a small waterfall and a cool dark cave. The rocks were mostly grey but some were yellow with age and some were cushioned with moss. A forktail stood on a boulder in the middle of the stream, uttering its low pleasant call. Water came dripping down from the sides of the cave, while sunlight filtered through a crevice in the rock ceiling, dappling your face. A spray of water was caught by a shaft of sunlight and at intervals it reflected the colours of the rainbow.
‘It is a beautiful place,’ you said.
‘Come, then,’ I said, ‘let us bathe.’
Sunil and I removed our clothes and jumped into the pool while you sat down in the shade of a walnut tree and watched us disport ourselves in the water. Like a frog, Sunil leapt and twisted about in the clear, icy water; his eyes shone, his teeth glistened white, his body glowed with sunshine, youth, and the jewels made by drops of water glistening in the sun.
Then we stretched ourselves out beside you and allowed the sun to sink deep into our bodies.
Your feet, laved with dew, stood firm on the quickening grass. There was a butterfly between us: its wings red and gold and heavy with dew. It could not move because of the weight of moisture. And as your foot came nearer and I saw that you would crush it, I said, ‘Wait. Don’t crush the butterfly, Sushila. It has only a few days in the sun and we have many.’
‘And if I spare it,’ you said, laughing, ‘what will you do for me, what will you pay?’
‘Why, anything you say.’
‘And will you kiss my foot?’
‘Both feet,’ I said and did so willingly. For they were no less than the wings of butterflies.
Later, when you ventured near the water, I dragged you in with me. You cried out, not in alarm but with the shock of the cold water, and then, wrenching yourself from my arms, clambered on to the rocks, your thin dress clinging to your thighs, your feet making long patterns on the smooth stone.
Though we tired ourselves out that day, we did not sleep at night. We lay together, you and Sunil on either side of me. Your head rested on my shoulders, your hair lay pressed against my cheek. Sunil had curled himself up into a ball but he was far from being asleep. He took my hand, and he took yours, and he placed them together. And I kissed the tender inside of your hand.
I whispered to you, ‘Sushila, there has never been anyone I’ve loved so much. I’ve been waiting all these years to find you. For a long time I did not even like women. But you are so different. You care for me, don’t you?’
You nodded in the darkness. I could see the outline of your face in the faint moonlight that filtered through the skylight. You never replied directly to a question. I suppose that was a feminine quality; coyness, perhaps.
‘Do you love me, Sushila?’
No answer.
‘Not now. When you are a little older. In a year or two.’ Did she nod in the darkness or did I imagine it?
‘I know it’s too early,’ I continued. ‘You are still too young. You are still at school. But already you are much wiser than me. I am finding it too difficult to control myself, but I will, since you wish it so. I’m very impatient, I know that, but I’ll wait for as long as you make me—two or three or a hundred years. Yes, Sushila, a hundred years!’
Ah, what a pretty speech I made! Romeo could have used some of it; Majnu, too.
And your answer? Just a nod, a little pressure on my hand.
I took your fingers and kissed them one by one. Long fingers, as long as mine.
After some time I became aware of Sunil nudging me.
‘You are not talking to me,’ he complained. ‘You are only talking to her. You only love her.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. I love you too, Sunil.’
Content with this assurance, he fell asleep; but towards morning, thinking himself in the middle of the bed, he rolled over and landed with a thump on the floor. He didn’t know how it had happened and accused me of pushing him out.
‘I know you don’t want me in the bed,’ he said.
It was a good thing Dinesh, in the next room, didn’t wake up.
‘Have you done any work this week?’ asked Dinesh with a look of reproach.
‘Not much,’ I said.
‘You are hardly ever in the house. You are never at your desk. Something seems to have happened to you.’
‘I have given myself a holiday, that’s all. Can’t writers take holidays too?’
‘No. You have said so yourself. And anyway, you seem to have taken a permanent holiday.’
‘Have you finished that painting of the Tibetan woman?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.
‘That’s the third time you’ve asked me that question, even though you saw the completed painting a week ago. You’re getting very absent-minded.’
There was a letter from your old boyfriend; I mean your young boyfriend. It was addressed to Sunil, but I recognized the sender’s name and knew it was really for you.
I assumed a look of calm detachment and handed the letter to you. But both you and Sunil sensed my dismay. At first you teased me and showed me the boy’s photograph, which had been enclosed (he was certainly good-looking in a flashy way); then, finding that I became gloomier every minute, you tried to make amends, assuring me that the correspondence was one-sided and that you no longer replied to his letters.
And that night, to show me that you really cared, you gave me your hand as soon as the lights were out. Sunil was fast asleep.
We sat together at the foot of your bed. I kept my arm about you, while you rested your head against my chest. Your feet lay in repose upon mine. I kept kissing you. And when we lay down together, I loosened your blouse and kissed your small firm breasts, and put my lips to your nipples and felt them grow hard against my mouth.
The shy responsiveness of your kisses soon turned to passion. You clung to me. We had forgotten time and place and circumstance. The light of your eyes had been drowned in that lost look of a woman who desires. For a space we both struggled against desire. Suddenly I had become afraid of myself—a
fraid for you. I tried to free myself from your clasping arms. But you cried in a low voice, ‘Love me! Love me! I want you to love me.’
Another night you fell asleep with your face in the crook of my arm, and I lay awake a long time, conscious of your breathing, of the touch of your hair on my cheek, of the soft warm soles of your feet, of your slim waist and legs.
And in the morning, when the sunshine filled the room, I watched you while you slept—your slim body in repose, your face tranquil, your thin dark hands like sleeping butterflies and then, when you woke, the beautiful untidiness of your hair and the drowsiness in your eyes. You lay folded up like a kitten, your limbs as untouched by self-consciousness as the limbs of a young and growing tree. And during the warmth of the day a bead of sweat rested on your brow like a small pearl.
I tried to remember what you looked like as a child. Even then, I had always been aware of your presence. You must have been nine or ten when I first saw you—thin, dark, plain-faced, always wearing the faded green skirt that was your school uniform. You went about barefoot. Once, when the monsoon arrived, you ran out into the rain with the other children, naked, exulting in the swish of the cool rain. I remembered your beautiful straight legs and thighs, your swift smile, your dark eyes. You say you do not remember playing naked in the rain but that is because you did not see yourself.
I did not notice you growing. Your face did not change very much. You must have been thirteen when you gave up skirts and started wearing the salwar kameez. You had few clothes but the plainness of your dress only seemed to bring out your own radiance. And as you grew older, your eyes became more expressive, your hair longer and glossier, your gestures more graceful. And then, when you came to me in the hills, I found that you had been transformed into a fairy princess of devastating charm.
We were idling away the afternoon on our beds and you were reclining in my arms when Dinesh came in unexpectedly. He said nothing, merely passed through the room and entered his studio. Sunil got a fright and you were momentarily confused. Then you said, ‘He knows already,’ and I said, ‘Yes, he must know.’
Later I spoke to Dinesh. I told him that I wanted to marry; that I knew I would have to wait until you were older and had finished school—probably two or three years—and that I was prepared to wait although I knew it would be a long and difficult business. I asked him to help me.
He was upset at first, probably because he felt I had been deceptive (which was true), and also because of his own responsibility in the matter. You were his niece and I had made love to you while he had been preoccupied with other things. But after a little while when he saw that I was sincere and rather confused he relented.
‘It has happened too soon,’ he said. ‘She is too young for all this. Have you told her that you love her?’
‘Of course. Many times.’
‘You’re a fool, then. Have you told her that you want to marry her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fool again. That’s not the way it is done. Haven’t you lived in India long enough to know that?’
‘But I love her.’
‘Does she love you?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so. Desire isn’t love, you must know that. Still, I suppose she does love you, otherwise she would not be holding hands with you all day. But you are quite mad, falling in love with a girl half your age.’
‘Well, I’m not exactly an old man. I’m thirty.’
‘And she’s a schoolgirl.’
‘She isn’t a girl any more, she’s too responsive.’
‘Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?’
‘Well . . .’ I said, covered in confusion. ‘Well, she has shown that she cares a little. You know that it’s years since I took any interest in a girl. You called it unnatural on my part, remember? Well, they simply did not exist for me, that’s true.’
‘Delayed adolescence,’ muttered Dinesh.
‘But Sushila is different. She puts me at ease. She doesn’t turn away from me. I love her and I want to look after her. I can only do that by marrying her.’
‘All right, but take it easy. Don’t get carried away. And don’t, for God’s sake, give her a baby. Not while she’s still at school! I will do what I can to help you. But you will have to be patient. And no one else must know of this or I will be blamed for everything. As it is Sunil knows too much, and he’s too small to know so much.’
‘Oh, he won’t tell anyone.’
‘I wish you had fallen in love with her two years from now. You will have to wait that long, anyway. Getting married isn’t a simple matter. People will wonder why we are in such a hurry, marrying her off as soon as she leaves school. They’ll think the worst!’
‘Well, people do marry for love you know, even in India. It’s happening all the time.’
‘But it doesn’t happen in our family. You know how orthodox most of them are. They wouldn’t appreciate your outlook. You may marry Sushila for love but it will have to look like an arranged marriage!’
Little things went wrong that evening.
First, a youth on the road passed a remark which you resented; and you, most unladylike, but most Punjabi-like, picked up a stone and threw it at him. It struck him on the leg. He was too surprised to say anything and limped off. I remonstrated with you, told you that throwing stones at people often resulted in a fight, then realized that you had probably wanted to see me fighting on your behalf.
Later you were annoyed because I said you were a little absentminded. Then Sunil sulked because I spoke roughly to him (I can’t remember why), and refused to talk to me for three hours, which was a record. I kept apologizing but neither of you would listen. It was all part of a game. When I gave up trying and turned instead to my typewriter and my unfinished story, you came and sat beside me and started playing with my hair. You were jealous of my story, of the fact that it was possible for me to withdraw into my work. And I reflected that a woman had to be jealous of something. If there wasn’t another woman, then it was a man’s work, or his hobby, or his best friend, or his favourite sweater, or his pet mongoose that made her resentful. There is a story in Kipling about a woman who grew insanely jealous of a horse’s saddle because her husband spent an hour every day polishing it with great care and loving kindness.
Would it be like that in marriage, I wondered—an eternal triangle: you, me and the typewriter?
But there were only a few days left before you returned to the plains, so I gladly pushed away the typewriter and took you in my arms instead. After all, once you had gone away, it would be a long, long time before I could hold you in my arms again. I might visit you in Delhi but we would not be able to enjoy the same freedom and intimacy. And while I savoured the salt kiss of your lips, I wondered how long I would have to wait until I could really call you my own.
Dinesh was at college and Sunil had gone roller skating and we were alone all morning. At first you avoided me, so I picked up a book and pretended to read. But barely five minutes had passed before you stole up from behind and snapped the book shut.
‘It is a warm day,’ you said. ‘Let us go down to the stream.’ Alone together for the first time, we took the steep path down to the stream, and there, hand in hand, scrambled over the rocks until we reached the pool and the waterfall.
‘I will bathe today,’ you said; and in a few moments you stood beside me, naked, caressed by sunlight and a soft breeze coming down the valley. I put my hand out to share in the sun’s caress, but you darted away, laughing, and ran to the waterfall as though you would hide behind a curtain of gushing water. I was soon beside you. I took you in my arms and kissed you, while the water crashed down upon our heads. Who yielded—you or I? All I remember is that you had entwined yourself about me like a clinging vine, and that a little later we lay together on the grass, on bruised and broken clover, while a whistling thrush released its deep sweet secret on the trembling air.
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows, blac
k rose in the long ago of summer, this was your song. It isn’t time that’s passing by, it is you and I.
It was your last night under my roof. We were not alone but when I woke in the middle of the night and stretched my hand out, across the space between our beds, you took my hand, for you were awake too. Then I pressed the ends of your fingers, one by one, as I had done so often before, and you dug your nails into my flesh. And our hands made love, much as our bodies might have done. They clung together, warmed and caressed each other, each finger taking on an identity of its own and seeking its opposite. Sometimes the tips of our fingers merely brushed against each other, teasingly, and sometimes our palms met with a rush, would tremble and embrace, separate, and then passionately seek each other out. And when sleep finally overcame you, your hand fell listlessly between our beds, touching the ground. And I lifted it up, and after putting it once to my lips, returned it gently to your softly rising bosom.
And so you went away, all three of you, and I was left alone with the brooding mountain. If I could not pass a few weeks without you how was I to pass a year, two years? This was the question I kept asking myself. Would I have to leave the hills and take a flat in Delhi? And what use would it be—looking at you and speaking to you but never able to touch you? Not to be able to touch that which I had already possessed would have been the subtlest form of torture.
The house was empty but I kept finding little things to remind me that you had been there—a handkerchief, a bangle, a length of ribbon—and these remnants made me feel as though you had gone for ever. No sound at night, except the rats scurrying about on the rafters.
The rain had brought out the ferns, which were springing up from tree and rock. The murmur of the stream had become an angry rumble. The honeysuckle creeper winding over the front windows was thick with scented blossom. I wish it had flowered a little earlier, before you left. Then you could have put the flowers in your hair.
At night I drank brandy, wrote listlessly, listened to the wind in the chimney, and read poetry in bed. There was no one to tell stories to and no hand to hold.