by Ruskin Bond
Before Junior Sahib could recover from the shock, I took off in a leisurely fashion and joined Slow on the wall.
Junior Sahib came rushing out with the gun, but by now it was too dark to see anything, and I heard the Memsahib telling the Colonel, ‘You’d better take that gun away before he does himself a mischief.’ So the Colonel took Junior indoors and gave him a brandy.
I composed a new song for Junior Sahib’s benefit, and sang it to him outside his window early next morning:
I understand you want a crow
To poison, shoot or smother;
My fond salaams, but by your leave
I’ll substitute another;
Allow me then, to introduce
My most respected brother.
Although I was quite understanding about the whole tragic mixup—I was, after all, the family’s very own house crow—my fellow crows were outraged at what happened to Charm, and swore vengeance on Junior Sahib.
‘Carvus splendens!’ they shouted with great spirit, forgetting that this title had been bestowed on us by a human.
In times of war, we forget how much we owe to our enemies.
Junior Sahib had only to step into the garden, and several crows would swoop down on him, screeching and swearing and aiming lusty blows at his head and hands. He took to coming out wearing a sola topi, and even then they knocked it off and drove him indoors. Once he tried lighting a cigarette on the veranda steps, when Show swooped low across the porch and snatched it from his lips.
Junior Sahib shut himself up in his room, and smoked countless cigarettes—a sure sign that his nerves were going to pieces.
Every now and then the Memsahib would come out and shoo us off; and because she wasn’t an enemy, we obliged by retreating to the garden wall. After all, Slow and I depended on her for much of our board if not for our lodging. But Junior Sahib had only to show his face outside the house, and all the crows in the area would be after him like avenging furies.
‘It doesn’t look as though they are going to forgive you,’ said the Memsahib.
‘Elephants never forget, and crows never forgive,’ said the Colonel.
‘Would you like to borrow my catapult, Uncle?’ asked the boy. ‘Just for self-protection, you know.’
‘Shut up,’ said Junior Sahib and went to bed.
One day he sneaked out of the back door and dashed across to the garage. A little later the family’s old car, seldom used, came out of the garage with Junior Sahib at the wheel. He’d decided that if he couldn’t take a walk in safety he’d go for a drive. All the windows were up.
No sooner had the car turned into the driveway than about a dozen crows dived down on it, crowding the bonnet and flapping in front of the windscreen. Junior Sahib couldn’t see a thing. He swung the steering wheel left, right and centre, and the car went off the driveway, ripped through a hedge, crushed a bed of sweetpeas and came to a stop against the trunk of a mango tree.
Junior Sahib just sat there, afraid to open the door. The family had to come out of the house and rescue him.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the Colonel.
‘I’ve bruised my knees,’ said Junior Sahib.
‘Never mind your knees,’ said the Memsahib, gazing around at the ruin of her garden. ‘What about my sweetpeas?’
‘I think your uncle is going to have a nervous breakdown,’ I heard the Colonel saying.
‘What’s that?’ asked the boy. ‘Is it the same as a car having a breakdown?’
‘Well—not exactly . . . But you could call it a mind breaking up.’
Junior Sahib had been refusing to leave his room or take his meals. The family was worried about him. I was worried, too. Believe it or not, we crows are among the very few who sincerely desire the preservation of the human species.
‘He needs a change,’ said the Memsahib.
‘A rest cure,’ said the Colonel sarcastically. ‘A rest from doing nothing.’
‘Send him to Switzerland,’ suggested the boy.
‘We can’t afford that. But we can take him up to a hill station.’ The nearest hill station was some fifty miles as the human drives (only ten as the crow flies). Many people went up during the summer months. It wasn’t fancied much by crows. For one thing, it was a tidy sort of place, and people lived in houses that were set fairly far apart. Opportunities for scavenging were limited. Also it was rather cold and the trees were inconvenient and uncomfortable. A friend of mine who had spent a night in a pine tree said he hadn’t been able to sleep because of prickly pine needles and the wind howling through the branches.
‘Let’s all go up for a holiday,’ said the Memsahib. ‘We can spend a week in a boarding house. All of us need a change.’
A few days later the house was locked up, and the family piled into the old car and drove off to the hills.
I had the grounds to myself.
The dog had gone too, and the gardener spent all day dozing in his hammock. There was no one around to trouble me.
‘We’ve got the whole place to ourselves,’ I told Slow.
‘Yes, but what good is that? With everyone gone, there are no throwaways, giveaways and takeaways!’
‘We’ll have to try the house next door.’
‘And be driven off by the other crows? That’s not our territory, you know. We can go across to help them, or to ask for their help, but we’re not supposed to take their pickings. It just isn’t cricket, old boy.’
We could have tried the bazaar or the railway station, where there is always a lot of rubbish to be found, but there is also a lot of competition in those places. The station crows are gangsters. The bazaar crows are bullies. Slow and I had grown soft. We’d have been no match for the bad boys.
‘I’ve just realized how much we depend on humans,’ I said. ‘We could go back to living in the jungle,’ said Slow.
‘No, that would be too much like hard work. We’d be living on wild fruit most of the time. Besides, the jungle crows won’t have anything to do with us now. Ever since we took up with humans, we became the outcasts of the bird world.’
‘That means we’re almost human.’
‘You might say we have all their vices and none of their virtues.’
‘Just a different set of values, old boy.’
‘Like eating hens’ eggs instead of crows’ eggs. That’s something in their favour. And while you’re hanging around here waiting for the mangoes to fall, I’m off to locate our humans.’
Slow’s beak fell open. He looked like—well, a hungry crow. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow them up to the hill station? You don’t even know where they are staying.’
‘I’ll soon find out,’ I said, and took off for the hills.
You’d be surprised at how simple it is to be a good detective, if only you put your mind to it. Of course, if Ellery Queen had been able to fly, he wouldn’t have required fifteen chapters and his father’s assistance to crack a case.
Swooping low over the hill station, it wasn’t long before I spotted my humans’ old car. It was parked outside a boarding house called Climber’s Rest. I hadn’t seen anyone climbing, but dozing in an armchair in the garden was my favourite human.
I perched on top of a colourful umbrella and waited for Junior Sahib to wake up. I decided it would be rather inconsiderate of me to disturb his sleep, so I waited patiently on the brolly, looking at him with one eye and keeping one eye on the house. He stirred uneasily, as though he’d suddenly had a bad dream; then he opened his eyes. I must have been the first thing he saw.
‘Good morning,’ I cawed, in a friendly tone—always ready to forgive and forget, that’s Speedy!
He leapt out of the armchair and ran into the house, hollering at the top of his voice.
I supposed he hadn’t been able to contain his delight at seeing me again. Humans can be funny that way. They’ll hate you one day and love you the next.
Well, Junior Sahib ran all over the boarding house, screaming: ‘It’s that cr
ow, it’s that crow! He’s following me everywhere!’
Various people, including the family, ran outside to see what the commotion was about, and I thought it would be better to make myself scarce. So I flew to the top of a spruce tree and stayed very still and quiet.
‘Crow! What crow?’ said the Colonel.
‘Our crow!’ cried Junior Sahib. ‘The one that persecutes me. I was dreaming of it just now, and when I opened my eyes, there it was, on the garden umbrella!’
‘There’s nothing there now,’ said the Memsahib. ‘You probably hadn’t woken up completely.’
‘He is having illusions again,’ said the boy.
‘Delusions,’ corrected the Colonel.
‘Now look here,’ said the Memsahib, ‘you’ll have to pull yourself together. You’ll take leave of your senses if you don’t.’
‘I tell you, it’s here!’ sobbed Junior Sahib. ‘It’s following me everywhere.’
‘It’s grown fond of Uncle,’ said the boy. ‘And it seems Uncle can’t live without crows.’
Junior Sahib looked up with a wild glint in his eye.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘I can’t live without them. That’s the answer to my problem. I don’t hate crows—I love them!’
Everyone just stood around goggling at Junior Sahib.
‘I’m feeling fine now,’ he carried on. ‘What a difference it makes if you can just do the opposite of what you’ve been doing before! I thought I hated crows. But all the time I really loved them!’ And flapping his arms, and trying to caw like a crow, he went prancing about the garden.
‘Now he thinks he’s a crow,’ said the boy. ‘Is he still having delusions?’
‘That’s right,’ said the Memsahib. ‘Delusions of grandeur.’ After that, the family decided that there was no point in staying on in the hill station any longer. Junior Sahib had completed his rest cure. And even if he was the only one who believed himself cured, that was all right, because after all he was the one who mattered . . . If you’re feeling fine, can there be anything wrong with you?
No sooner was everyone back in the bungalow than Junior Sahib took to hopping barefoot on the grass early every morning, all the time scattering food about for the crows. Bread, chappattis, cooked rice, curried eggplants, the Memsahib’s homemade toffee— you name it, we got it!
Slow and I were the first to help ourselves to these dawn offerings, and soon the other crows had joined us on the lawn. We didn’t mind. Junior Sahib brought enough for everyone.
‘We ought to honour him in some way,’ said Slow.
‘Yes, why not?’ said I. ‘There was someone else, hundreds of years ago, who fed the birds. They followed him wherever he went.’
‘That’s right. They made him a saint. But as far as I know, he didn’t feed any crows. At least, you don’t see any crows in the pictures—just sparrows and robins and wagtails.’
‘Small fry. Our human is dedicated exclusively to crows. Do you realize that, Slow?’
‘Sure. We ought to make him the patron saint of crows. What do you say, fellows?’
‘Caw, caw, caw!’ All the crows were in agreement.
‘St Corvus!’ said Slow as Junior Sahib emerged from the house, laden with good things to eat.
‘Corvus, corvus, corvus!’ we cried.
And what a pretty picture he made—a crow eating from his hand, another perched on his shoulder, and about a dozen of us on the grass, forming a respectful ring around him.
From persecutor to protector; from beastliness to saintliness. And sometimes it can be the other way round: you never know with humans!
The Playing Fields of Simla
It had been a lonely winter for a twelve-year-old boy.
I hadn’t really got over my father’s untimely death two years previously; nor had I as yet reconciled myself to my mother’s marriage to the Punjabi gentleman who dealt in second-hand cars. The three-month winter break over, I was almost happy to return to my boarding school in Simla—that elegant hill station once celebrated by Kipling and soon to lose its status as the summer capital of the Raj in India.
It wasn’t as though I had many friends at school. I had always been a bit of a loner, shy and reserved, looking out only for my father’s rare visits—on his brief leaves from RAF duties—and to my sharing his tent or air force hutment outside Delhi or Karachi. Those unsettled but happy days would not come again. I needed a friend but it was not easy to find one among a horde of rowdy, pea-shooting fourth formers, who carved their names on desks and stuck chewing gum on the class teacher’s chair. Had I grown up with other children, I might have developed a taste for schoolboy anarchy; but, in sharing my father’s loneliness after his separation from my mother, I had turned into a premature adult. The mixed nature of my reading—Dickens, Richmal Crompton, Tagore and Champion and Film Fun comics—probably reflected the confused state of my life. A book reader was rare even in those pre-electronic times. On rainy days most boys played cards or Monopoly, or listened to Artie Shaw on the wind-up gramophone in the common room.
After a month in the fourth form I began to notice a new boy, Omar, and then only because he was a quiet, almost taciturn person who took no part in the form’s feverish attempts to imitate the Marx Brothers at the circus. He showed no resentment at the prevailing anarchy, nor did he make a move to participate in it. Once he caught me looking at him, and he smiled ruefully, tolerantly. Did I sense another adult in the class? Someone who was a little older than his years?
Even before we began talking to each other, Omar and I developed an understanding of sorts, and we’d nod almost respectfully to each other when we met in the classroom corridors or the environs of dining hall or dormitory. We were not in the same house. The house system practised its own form of apartheid, whereby a member of, say, Curzon House was not expected to fraternize with someone belonging to Rivaz or Lefroy! Those public schools certainly knew how to clamp you into compartments. However, these barriers vanished when Omar and I found ourselves selected for the School Colts’ hockey team—Omar as a fullback, I as goalkeeper. I think a defensive position suited me by nature. In all modesty I have to say that I made a good goalkeeper, both at hockey and football. And fifty years on, I am still keeping goal. Then I did it between goalposts, now I do it off the field— protecting a family, protecting my independence as a writer . . .
The taciturn Omar now spoke to me occasionally, and we combined well on the field of play. A good understanding is needed between goalkeeper and fullback. We were on the same wavelength. I anticipated his moves, he was familiar with mine. Years later, when I read Conrad’s The Secret Sharer, I thought of Omar.
It wasn’t until we were away from the confines of school, classroom and dining hall that our friendship flourished. The hockey team travelled to Sanawar on the next mountain range, where we were to play a couple of matches against our old rivals, the Lawrence Royal Military School. This had been my father’s old school, but I did not know that in his time it had also been a military orphanage. Grandfather, who had been a private foot soldier—of the likes of Kipling’s Mulvaney, Otheris and Learoyd— had joined the Scottish Rifles after leaving home at the age of seventeen. He had died while his children were still very young, but my father’s more rounded education had enabled him to become an officer.
Omar and I were thrown together a good deal during the visit to Sanawar, and in our more leisurely moments, strolling undisturbed around a school where we were guests and not pupils, we exchanged life histories and other confidences. Omar, too, had lost his father—had I sensed that before?—shot in some tribal encounter on the Frontier, for he hailed from the lawless lands beyond Peshawar. A wealthy uncle was seeing to Omar’s education. The RAF was now seeing to mine.
We wandered into the school chapel, and there I found my father’s name—A.A. Bond—on the school’s roll of honour board: old boys who had lost their lives while serving during the two World Wars.
‘What did his initials stand for?�
�� asked Omar.
‘Aubrey Alexander.’
‘Unusual names, like yours. Why did your parents call you Ruskin?’
‘I am not sure. I think my father liked the works of John Ruskin, who wrote on serious subjects like art and architecture. I don’t think anyone reads him now. They’ll read me, though!’ I had already started writing my first book. It was called Nine Months (the length of the school term, not a pregnancy), and it described some of the happenings at school and lampooned a few of our teachers. I had filled three slim exercise books with this premature literary project, and I allowed Omar to go through them. He must have been my first reader and critic. ‘They’re very interesting,’ he said, ‘but you’ll get into trouble if someone finds them. Especially Mr Oliver.’ And he read out an offending verse—
Olly, Olly, Olly, with his balls on a trolley,
And his arse all painted green!
I have to admit it wasn’t great literature. I was better at hockey and football. I made some spectacular saves, and we won our matches against Sanawar. When we returned to Simla, we were school heroes for a couple of days and lost some of our reticence; we were even a little more forthcoming with other boys. And then Mr Fisher, my housemaster, discovered my literary opus, Nine Months, under my mattress, and took it away and read it (as he told me later) from cover to cover. Corporal punishment then being in vogue, I was given six of the best with a springy malacca cane, and my manuscript was torn up and deposited in Fisher’s waste-paper basket. All I had to show for my efforts were some purple welts on my bottom. These were proudly displayed to all who were interested, and I was a hero for another two days.
‘Will you go away too when the British leave India?’ Omar asked me one day.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘My stepfather is Indian.’
‘Everyone is saying that our leaders and the British are going to divide the country. Simla will be in India, Peshawar in Pakistan!’
‘Oh, it won’t happen,’ I said glibly. ‘How can they cut up such a big country?’ But even as we chatted about the possibility, Nehru and Jinnah and Mountbatten and all those who mattered were preparing their instruments for major surgery.