Collected Short Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  Grandfather’s Many Faces

  Grandfather had many gifts, but perhaps the most unusual— and at times startling—was his ability to disguise himself and take on the persona of another person, often a street vendor or carpenter or washerman; someone he had seen around for some time, and whose habits and characteristics he had studied.

  His normal attire was that of the average Anglo-Indian or Englishman—bush shirt, khaki shorts, occasionally a sola topi or sun helmet—but if you rummaged through his cupboards, you would find a strange assortment of garments: dhotis, lungis, pyjamas, embroidered shirts and colourful turbans. He could be a maharaja one day, a beggar the next. Yes, he even had a brass begging bowl, but he used it only once, just to see if he could pass himself off as a bent-double beggar hobbling through the bazaar. He wasn’t recognized, but he had to admit that begging was a most difficult art.

  ‘You have to be on the street all day and in all weathers,’ he told me that day. ‘You have to be polite to everyone—no beggar succeeds by being rude! You have to be alert at all times. It’s hard work, believe me. I wouldn’t advise anyone to take up begging as a profession.’

  Grandfather really liked to get the ‘feel’ of someone else’s occupation or lifestyle. And he enjoyed playing tricks on his friends and relatives.

  Grandmother loved bargaining with shopkeepers and vendors of all kinds. She would boast that she could get the better of most men when it came to haggling over the price of onions or cloth or baskets or buttons . . . Until one day the sabziwalla, a wandering vegetable seller who carried a basket of fruit and vegetables on his head, spent an hour on the veranda arguing with Granny over the price of various items before finally selling her what she wanted.

  Later that day, Grandfather confronted Granny and insisted on knowing why she had paid extra for tomatoes and green chillies. ‘Far more than you’d have paid in the bazaar,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know what I paid him?’ asked Granny. ‘Because here’s the ten-rupee note you gave me,’ said Grandfather, handing back her money. ‘I changed into something suitable and borrowed the sabziwalla’s basket for an hour!’

  Grandfather never used make-up. He had a healthy tan and with the help of a false moustache or beard, and a change of hairstyle, he could become anyone he wanted to be.

  For my amusement, he became a tongawalla; that is, the driver of a pony-drawn buggy, a common form of conveyance in the days of my boyhood.

  Grandfather borrowed a tonga from one of his cronies and took me for a brisk and eventful ride around the town. On our way we picked up the odd customer and earned a few rupees which were dutifully handed over to the tonga owner at the end of the day. We picked up Dr Bisht, our local doctor, who failed to recognize Grandfather. But, of course, I was the giveaway. ‘And what are you doing here?’ asked the good doctor. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

  ‘I’m just helping Grandfather,’ I replied. ‘It’s part of my science project.’ Dr Bisht then took a second look at Grandfather and burst out laughing; he also insisted on a free ride.

  On one occasion Grandfather drove Granny to the bank without her recognizing him, and that too in a tonga with a white pony. Granny was superstitious about white ponies and avoided them as far as possible. But Grandfather, in his tonga driver’s disguise, persuaded her that his white pony was the best behaved little pony in the world. And so it was, under his artful guidance. As a result, Granny lost her fear of white ponies.

  One winter the Gemini Circus came to our small north Indian town and set up its tents on the old Parade Ground. Grandfather, who liked circuses and circus people, soon made friends with all the show folk—the owner, the ringmaster, the lion tamer, the pony riders, clowns, trapeze artistes and acrobats. He told me that as a boy he had always wanted to join a circus, preferably as an animal trainer or ringmaster, but his parents had persuaded him to become an engine driver instead.

  ‘Driving an engine must be fun,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but lions are safer,’ said Grandfather.

  And he used his friendship with the circus folk to get free passes for me, my cousin Melanie, and my small friend Gautam, who lived next door.

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked Grandfather.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with my friends. See if you can spot me!’

  We were convinced that Grandfather was going to adopt one of his disguises and take part in the evening’s entertainment. So for Melanie, Gautam and me the evening turned out to be a guessing game.

  We were enthralled by the show’s highlights—the tigers going through their drill, the beautiful young men and women on the flying trapeze, the daring motorcyclist bursting through a hoop of fire, the jugglers and clowns—but we kept trying to see if we could recognize Grandfather among the performers. We couldn’t make too much of noise because in the row behind us sat some of the town’s senior citizens—the mayor, a turbaned maharaja, a formally dressed Englishman with a military bearing, a couple of nuns and Gautam’s class teacher! But we kept up our chatter for most of the show.

  ‘Is your Grandfather the lion tamer?’ asked Gautam.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had any practice with lions. He’s better with tigers!’ But there was someone else in charge of the tigers.

  ‘He could be one of the jugglers,’ said Melanie.

  ‘He’s taller than the jugglers,’ I said.

  Gautam made an inspired guess: ‘Maybe he’s the bearded lady!’ We looked hard and long at the bearded lady when she came to our side of the ring. She waved to us in a friendly manner, and Gautam called out, ‘Excuse me, are you Ruskin’s grandfather?’

  ‘No, dear,’ she replied with a deep laugh. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ And she skipped away to another part of the ring.

  A clown came up to us and made funny faces.

  ‘Are you Grandfather?’ asked Melanie.

  But he just grinned, somersaulted backwards, and went about his funny business.

  ‘I give up,’ said Melanie. ‘Unless he’s the dancing bear . . .’

  ‘It’s a real bear,’ said Gautam. ‘Just look at those claws!’

  The bear looked real enough. So did the lion, though a trifle mangy. And the tigers looked tigerish.

  We went home convinced that Grandfather hadn’t been there at all.

  ‘So, did you enjoy the circus?’ he asked, when we sat down to dinner later that evening.

  ‘Yes, but you weren’t there,’ I complained. ‘And we took a close look at everyone—including the bearded lady!’

  ‘Oh, I was there all right,’ said Grandfather. ‘I was sitting just behind you. But you were too absorbed in the circus and the performers to notice the audience. I was that smart-looking Englishman in suit and tie, sitting between the maharaja and the nuns. I thought I’d just be myself for a change!’

  Here Comes Mr Oliver

  A part from being our Scoutmaster, Mr Oliver was also our maths teacher, a subject in which I had some difficulty in obtaining pass marks. Sometimes I scraped through, usually I got something like twenty or thirty out of a hundred.

  ‘Failed again, Bond,’ Mr Oliver would say. ‘What will you do when you grow up?’

  ‘Become a Scoutmaster, sir.’

  ‘Scoutmasters don’t get paid. It’s an honorary job. But you could become a cook. That would suit you.’ He hadn’t forgotten our Scout camp, when I had been the camp’s cook.

  If Mr Oliver was in a good mood, he’d give me grace marks, passing me by a mark or two. He wasn’t a hard man, but he seldom smiled. He was very dark, thin, stooped (from a distance he looked like a question mark), and balding. He was about forty, still a bachelor, and it was said that he had been unlucky in love— that the girl he was going to marry had jilted him at the last moment, had run away with a sailor while he was waiting at the church, ready for the wedding ceremony. No wonder he always had such a sorrowful look.

  Mr Oliver did have one inseparable companio
n—a Dachshund, a snappy little ‘sausage’ of a dog, who looked upon the human race and especially small boys with a certain disdain and frequent hostility. We called him Hitler. He was impervious to overtures of friendship, and if you tried to pat or stroke him, he would do his best to bite your fingers—or your shin or ankle. However, he was devoted to Mr Oliver and followed him everywhere, except into the classroom; this our headmaster would not allow.

  You remember that old nursery rhyme:

  Mary had a little lamb,

  Its fleece was white as snow,

  And everywhere that Mary went

  The lamb was sure to go.

  Well, we made up our own version of the rhyme, and I must confess to having had a hand in its composition. It went like this:

  Olly had a little dog,

  ’twas never out of sight,

  And everyone that Olly met

  The dog was sure to bite!

  He followed Mr Oliver about the school grounds. He followed him when he took a walk through the pines, to the Brockhurst tennis courts. He followed him into town and home again. Mr Oliver had no other friend, no other companion. The dog slept at the foot of Mr Oliver’s bed. He did not sit at the breakfast table, but he had buttered toast for breakfast and soup and crackers for dinner. Mr Oliver had to take his lunch in the dining hall with the staff and boys, but he had an arrangement with one of the bearers whereby a plate of dal, rice and chapattis made its way to Mr Oliver’s quarters and his well-fed pet.

  And then tragedy struck.

  Mr Oliver and Hitler were returning to school after their evening walk through the pines. It was dusk, and the light was fading fast. Out of the shadows of the trees emerged a lean and hungry panther. It pounced on the hapless dog, flung him across the road, seized him between its powerful jaws, and made off with its victim into the darkness of the forest.

  Mr Oliver, untouched, was frozen into immobility for at least a minute. Then he began calling for help. Some bystanders who had witnessed the incident began shouting, too. Mr Oliver ran into the forest, but there was no sign of dog or panther.

  Mr Oliver appeared to be a broken man. He went about his duties with a poker face, but we could all tell that he was grieving for his lost companion. In the classroom he was listless, indifferent to whether or not we followed his calculations on the blackboard. In times of personal loss, the Highest Common Factor made no sense.

  Mr Oliver was not to be seen on his evening walk. He stayed in his room, playing cards with himself. He played with his food, pushing most of it aside; there were no chapattis to send home.

  ‘Olly needs another pet,’ said Bimal, wise in the ways of adults.

  ‘Or a wife,’ said Tata, who thought on those lines.

  ‘He’s too old. Over forty.’

  ‘A pet is best,’ I said. ‘What about a parrot?’

  ‘You can’t take a parrot for a walk,’ said Bimal. ‘Olly wants someone to walk beside him.’

  ‘A cat, maybe . . .’

  ‘Hitler hated cats. A cat would be an insult to Hitler’s memory.’

  ‘He needs another Dachshund. But there aren’t any around here.’

  ‘Any dog will do. We’ll ask Chippu to get us a pup.’

  Chippu ran the tuck shop. He lived in the Chotta Simla bazaar, and occasionally we would ask him to bring us tops or marbles or comics or little things that we couldn’t get in school. Five of us Boy Scouts contributed a rupee each, and we gave Chippu five rupees and asked him to get us a pup. ‘A good breed,’ we told him. ‘Not a mongrel.’

  The next evening Chippu turned up with a pup that seemed to be a combination of at least five different breeds—all good ones, no doubt. One ear lay flat, the other stood upright. It was spotted like a Dalmatian, but it had the legs of a Spaniel and the tail of a Pomeranian. It was quite fluffy and playful, and the tail wagged a lot, which was more than Hitler’s ever did.

  ‘It’s quite pretty,’ said Tata. ‘Must be a female.’

  ‘He may not want a female,’ said Bimal.

  ‘Let’s give it a try,’ I said.

  During our play hour, before the bell rang for supper, we left the pup on the steps outside Mr Oliver’s front door. Then we knocked, and sped into the hibiscus bushes that lined the pathway.

  Mr Oliver opened the door. He looked down at the pup with an expressionless face. The pup began to paw at Mr Oliver’s shoes, loosening one of his laces in the process.

  ‘Away with you!’ muttered Mr Oliver. ‘Buzz off!’ And he pushed the pup away, gently but firmly.

  After a break of ten minutes we tried again, but the result was much the same. We now had a playful pup on our hands, and Chippu had gone home for the night. We would have to conceal it in the dormitory.

  At first we hid it in Bimal’s locker, but it began yapping and struggling to get out. Tata took it into the shower room, but it wouldn’t stay there either. It began running around the dormitory, playing with socks, shoes, slippers and anything else it could get hold of.

  ‘Watch out!’ hissed one of the boys. ‘Here’s Ma Fisher!’

  Mrs Fisher, the headmaster’s wife, was on her nightly rounds, checking to make sure we were all in bed and not up to some nocturnal mischief.

  I grabbed the pup and hid it under my blankets. It was quiet there, happy to nibble at my toes. When Ma Fisher had gone, I let the pup loose again, and for the rest of the night it had the freedom of the dormitory.

  At the crack of dawn, before first light, Bimal and I sped out of the dormitory in our pyjamas, taking the pup with us. We banged hard on Mr Oliver’s door, and kept knocking until we heard footsteps approaching. As soon as the door opened just a bit (for Mr Oliver, being a cautious man, did not open it all at once) we pushed the pup inside and ran for our lives.

  Mr Oliver came to class as usual, but there was no pup with him. Three or four days passed, and still no sign of the pup! Had he passed it on to someone else, or simply let it wander off on its own?

  ‘Here comes Olly!’ called Bimal, from our vantage point near the school bell.

  Mr Oliver was setting out for his evening walk. He was carrying a stout walnut-wood walking stick—to keep panthers at bay, no doubt. He looked neither left nor right, and if he noticed us watching him, he gave no sign of it. But then, scurrying behind him, came the pup! The creature of many good breeds was accompanying Mr Oliver on his walk. It had been well brushed and was wearing a bright red collar. Like Mr Oliver it took no notice of us, but scampered along beside its new master.

  Mr Oliver and the pup were soon inseparable companions, and my friends and I were quite pleased with ourselves. Mr Oliver gave absolutely no indication that he knew where the pup had come from, but when the end-of-term exams were over, and Bimal and I were sure we had failed our maths paper, we were surprised to find that we had passed after all—with grace marks!

  ‘Good old Olly!’ said Bimal. ‘So he knew all the time.’

  Tata, of course, did not need grace marks; he was a whiz at maths. But Bimal and I decided we would thank Mr Oliver for his kindness.

  ‘Nothing to thank me for,’ said Mr Oliver brusquely. ‘I’ve seen enough of you two in junior school. It’s high time you went up to the senior school—and God help you there!’

  Susanna’s Seven Husbands

  Locally the tomb was known as ‘the grave of the seven times married one’.

  You’d be forgiven for thinking it was Bluebeard’s grave; he was reputed to have killed several wives in turn because they showed undue curiosity about a locked room. But this was the tomb of Susanna Anna-Maria Yeates, and the inscription (most of it in Latin) stated that she was mourned by all who had benefited from her generosity, her beneficiaries having included various schools, orphanages and the church across the road. There was no sign of any other grave in the vicinity and presumably her husbands had been interred in the old Rajpur graveyard, below the Delhi Ridge.

  I was still in my teens when I first saw the ruins of what had once been a
spacious and handsome mansion. Desolate and silent, its well-laid paths were overgrown with weeds, and its flower beds had disappeared under a growth of thorny jungle. The two-storeyed house had looked across the Grand Trunk Road. Now abandoned, feared and shunned, it stood encircled in mystery, reputedly the home of evil spirits.

  Outside the gate, along the Grand Trunk Road, thousands of vehicles sped by—cars, trucks, buses, tractors, bullock carts—but few noticed the old mansion or its mausoleum, set back as they were from the main road, hidden by mango, neem and peepul trees. One old and massive peepul tree grew out of the ruins of the house, strangling it much as its owner was said to have strangled one of her dispensable paramours.

  As a much-married person with a quaint habit of disposing of her husbands whenever she tired of them, Susanna’s malignant spirit was said to haunt the deserted garden. I had examined the tomb, I had gazed upon the ruins, I had scrambled through shrubbery and overgrown rose bushes, but I had not encountered the spirit of this mysterious woman. Perhaps, at the time, I was too pure and innocent to be targeted by malignant spirits. For malignant she must have been, if the stories about her were true.

  The vaults of the ruined mansion were rumoured to contain a buried treasure—the amassed wealth of the lady Susanna. But no one dared go down there, for the vaults were said to be occupied by a family of cobras, traditional guardians of buried treasure. Had she really been a woman of great wealth, and could treasure still be buried there? I put these questions to Naushad, the furniture maker, who had lived in the vicinity all his life, and whose father had made the furniture and fittings for this and other great houses in Old Delhi.

  ‘Lady Susanna, as she was known, was much sought after for her wealth,’ recalled Naushad. ‘She was no miser, either. She spent freely, reigning in state in her palatial home, with many horses and carriages at her disposal. Every evening she rode through the Roshanara Gardens, the cynosure of all eyes, for she was beautiful as well as wealthy. Yes, all men sought her favours, and she could choose from the best of them. Many were fortune hunters. She did not discourage them. Some found favour for a time, but she soon tired of them. None of her husbands enjoyed her wealth for very long!