by Ruskin Bond
Just before he left, I said: ‘Tell me, Uncle, why did you drink it?’
‘Drink what? The water?’
‘No, the glass of sherry into which you’d slipped one of your famous powders.’
He gaped at me, then gave a nervous whinnying laugh. ‘You will have your little joke, won’t you?’
‘No, I mean it,’ I said. ‘Why did you drink the stuff? It was meant for me, of course.’
He looked down at his shoes, then gave a little shrug and turned away.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said, ‘it seemed the only decent thing to do.’
I’ll say this for Uncle Bill: he was always the perfect gentleman.
The Most Potent Medicine of All
Like most men, Wang Chei was fond of being his own doctor. He studied the book of the ancient physician Lu Fei whenever he felt slightly indisposed. Had he really been familiar with the peculiarities of his digestion, he would have avoided eating too many pickled prawns. But he ate pickled prawns first, and studied Lu Fei afterward.
Lu Fei, a physician of renown in Yunnan during the twelth century, had devoted eight chapters to disorders of the belly, and there are many in western China who still swear by his methods—just as there are many in England who still swear by Culpepper’s Herbal.
The great physician was a firm believer in the potency of otters’ tails, and had Wang Chei taken a dose of otters’ tails the morning after the prawns, his pain and cramps might soon have disappeared.
But otters’ tails are both rare and expensive. In order to obtain a tail, one must catch an otter; in order to catch an otter, one must find a river; and there were no rivers in the region where Wang Chei lived.
Wang grew potatoes to sell in the market twelve miles away, and sometimes he traded in opium. But what interested him most was the practice of medicine, and he had some reputation as a doctor among those villagers who regarded the distant hospital with suspicion.
And so, in the absence of otters’ tails, he fell back upon the gall of bear, the fat of python, the whiskers of tiger, the blood of rhino, and the horn of sambar in velvet. He tried all these (he had them in stock), mixing them—as directed by the book of Lu Fei—in the water of melted hailstones.
Wang took all these remedies in turn, anxiously noting the reactions that took place in his system. Unfortunately, neither
he nor his mentor, Lu Fei, had given much thought to diagnosis, and he did not associate his trouble with the pickled prawns.
Life would hardly have been worth living without a few indulgences, especially as Wang’s wife excelled at making pickles. This was his misfortune. Her pickles were such that no man could refuse them.
She was devoted to Wang Chei and indulged his tastes and his enormous appetite. Like him, she occasionally dipped into the pages of Lu Fei. From them she had learned that mutton fat was good for the eyebrows and that raspberry-leaf tea was just the thing for expectant mothers.
Her faith in this physician of an earlier century was as strong as her husband’s. And now, with Wang Chei groaning and tossing on his bed, she studied the chapters on abdominal complaints.
It appeared to her that Wang was very ill indeed, and she did not connect his woeful condition with over-indulgence. He had been in bed for two days. Had he not dosed himself so liberally with python’s fat and rhino’s blood, it is possible that he might have recovered on the morning following his repast. Now he was too ill to mix himself any further concoctions. Fortunately— as he supposed—his wife was there to continue the treatment.
She was a small pale woman who moved silently about the house on little feet. It was difficult to believe that this frail creature had brought eleven healthy children into the world. Her husband had once been a strong, handsome man; but now the skin under his eyes was crinkling, his cheeks were hollow, his once well-proportioned body was sagging with loose flesh.
Nevertheless, Wang’s wife loved him with the same intensity as on the day they first fell in love, twenty years ago. Anxiously, she turned the pages of Lu Fei.
Wang was not as critically ill as she imagined; but she was frightened by his distorted features, his sweating body, his groans of distress. Watching him lying there, helpless and in agony, she could not help remembering the slim, virile husband of her youth; she was overcome with pity and compassion.
And then she discovered, in the book of Lu Fei, a remedy for his disorder that could be resorted to when all else had failed.
It was around midnight when she prepared the vital potion— a potion prepared with selfless love and compassion. And it was
almost dawn when, weak and exhausted, she brought him the potion mixed in a soup.
Wang felt no inclination for a bowl of soup at 5 a.m. He had with difficulty snatched a few hours of sleep, and his wife’s interruption made him irritable.
‘Must I drink this filth?’ he complained. ‘What is it anyway?’ ‘Never mind what it is,’ she coaxed. ‘It will give you strength and remove your pain.’
‘But what’s in it?’ persisted Wang. ‘Of what is it made?’
‘Of love,’ said his wife. ‘It is recommended in the book of Lu Fei. He says it is the best of all remedies, and cannot fail.’ She held the bowl to her husband’s lips.
He drank hurriedly to get it over with, and only when he was halfway through the bowl did he suspect that something was wrong. It was his wife’s terrible condition that made him sit up in bed, thrusting the bowl away. A terrible suspicion formed in his mind.
‘Do not deceive me,’ he demanded. ‘Tell me at once—what is this potion made of?’
She told him then; and when Wang Chei heard her confession, he knelt before his wife who had by now collapsed on the floor. Seizing the hurricane lantern, he held it to her. Her body was wrapped in a towel, but from her left breast, the region of the heart, blood was oozing through the heavy cloth.
She had read in the book of Lu Fei that only her own flesh and blood could cure her husband; and these she had unflinchingly taken from her soft and generous bosom.
You were right, Lu Fei, old sage. What more potent ingredients are there than love and compassion?
Hanging at the Mango-Tope
The two captive policemen, Inspector Hukam Singh and Sub- Inspector Guler Singh, were being pushed unceremoniously along the dusty, deserted, sun-drenched road. The people of the village had made themselves scarce. They would reappear only when the dacoits went away.
The leader of the dacoit gang was Mangal Singh Bundela, great-grandson of a Pindari adventurer who had been a thorn in the side of the British. Mangal was doing his best to be a thorn in the flesh of his own Government. The local police force had been strengthened recently but it was still inadequate for dealing with the dacoits who knew the ravines better than any surveyor. The dacoit Mangal had made a fortune out of ransom: his chief victims were the sons of wealthy industrialists, money- lenders or landowners. But today he had captured two police officials; of no value as far as ransom went, but prestigious prisoners who could be put to other uses. . . .
Mangal Singh wanted to show off in front of the police. He would kill at least one of them—his reputation demanded it— but he would let the other go, in order that his legendary power and ruthlessness be given a maximum publicity. A legend is always a help!
His red and green turban was tied rakishly to one side. His dhoti extended right down to his ankles. His slippers were embroidered with gold and silver thread. His weapon was no ancient matchlock, but a well-greased .303 rifle. Two of his men had similar rifles. Some had revolvers. Only the smaller fry carried swords or country-made pistols. Mangal Singh’s gang, though traditional in many ways, was up-to-date in the matter of weapons. Right now they had the policemen’s guns too.
‘Come along, Inspector sahib,’ said Mangal Singh, in tones of police barbarity, tugging at the rope that encircled the stout Inspector’s midriff. ‘Had you captured me today, you would
have been a hero. You would have taken
all the credit, even though you could not keep up with your men in the ravines. Too bad you chose to remain sitting in your jeep with the Sub- Inspector. The jeep will be useful to us, you will not. But I would like you to be a hero all the same—and there is none better than a dead hero!’
Mangal Singh’s followers doubled up with laughter. They loved their leader’s cruel sense of humour.
‘As for you, Guler Singh,’ he continued, giving his attention to the Sub-Inspector, ‘You are a man from my own village. You should have joined me long ago. But you were never to be trusted. You thought there would be better pickings in the police, didn’t you?’
Guler Singh said nothing, simply hung his head and wondered what his fate would be. He felt certain that Mangal Singh would devise some diabolical and fiendish method of dealing with his captives. Guler Singh’s only hope was Constable Ghanshyam, who hadn’t been caught by the dacoits because, at the time of the ambush, he had been in the bushes relieving himself.
‘To the mango-tope!’ said Mangal Singh, prodding the policemen forward.
‘Listen to me, Mangal,’ said the perspiring Inspector, who was ready to try anything to get out of his predicament. ‘Let me go, and I give you my word there’ll be no trouble for you in this area as long as I am posted here. What could be more convenient than that?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mangal Singh. ‘But your word isn’t good. My word is different. I have told my men that I will hang you at the mango-tope, and I mean to keep my word. But I believe in fair- play—I like a little sport! You may yet go free if your friend here, Sub-Inspector Guler Singh, has his wits about him.’
The Inspector and his subordinate exchanged doubtful puzzled looks. They were not to remain puzzled for long. On reaching the mango-tope, the dacoits produced a good strong hempen rope, one end looped into a slip-knot. Many a garland of marigolds had the Inspector received during his mediocre career. Now, for the first time, he was being garlanded with a hangman’s noose. He had seen hangings; he had rather enjoyed them; but he had no stomach for his own. The Inspector begged
for mercy. Who wouldn’t have in his position?’
‘Be quiet,’ commanded Mangal Singh. ‘I do not want to know about your wife and your children and the manner in which they will starve. You shot my son last year.’
‘Not I!’ cried the Inspector. ‘It was some other.’
‘You led the party. But now, just to show you that I’m a sporting fellow, I am going to have you strung up from this tree, and then I am going to give Guler Singh six shots with a rifle, and if he can sever the rope that suspends you before you are dead, well then, you can remain alive and I will let you go! For your sake, I hope the Sub-Inspector’s aim is good. He will have to shoot fast. My man Phambiri, who has made this noose, was once executioner in a city jail. He guarantees that you won’t last more than fifteen seconds at the end of his rope.
Guler Singh was taken to a spot about forty yards. A rifle was thrust into his hands. Two dacoits clambered into the branches of the mango tree. The Inspector, his hands tied behind, could only gaze at them in horror. His mouth opened and shut as though he already had need of more air. And then, suddenly, the rope went taut, up went the Inspector, his throat caught in a vice, while the branch of the tree shook and mango-blossoms fluttered to the ground. The Inspector dangled from the rope, his feet about three feet above the ground.
‘You can shoot,’ said Mangal Singh, nodding to the Sub- Inspector.
And Guler Singh his hands trembling a little, raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired three shots in rapid succession. But the rope was swinging violently and the Inspector’s body was jerking about like a fish on a hook. The bullets went wide.
Guler Singh found the magazine empty. He reloaded, wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes, raised the rifle again, took more careful aim. His hands were steadier now. He rested the sights on the upper portion of the rope, where there was less motion. Normally he was a good shot, but he had never been asked to demonstrate his skill in circumstances such as these.
The Inspector still gyrated at the end of his rope. There was life in him yet. His face was purple. The world, in those choking moments, was a medley of upside-down roofs and a red sun spinning slowly towards him.
Guler Singh’s rifle cracked again. An inch or two wide this
time. But the fifth shot found its mark, sending small tuffs of rope winging into the air.
The shot did not sever the rope; it was only a nick.
Guler Singh had one shot left. He was quite calm. The rifle- sight followed the rope’s swing, less agitated now that the Inspector’s convulsions were lessening. Guler Singh felt sure he could sever the rope this time.
And then, as his finger touched the trigger, an odd, disturbing thought slipped into his mind, hung there, throbbing: ‘Whose life are you trying to save? Hukam Singh has stood in the way of your promotion more than once. He had you charge-sheeted for accepting fifty rupees from an unlicensed rickshaw-puller. He makes you do all the dirty work, blames you when things go wrong, takes the credit when there is credit to be taken. But for him, you’d be an Inspector!’
The rope swayed slightly to the right. The rifle moved just a fraction to the left. The last shot rang out, clipping a sliver of bark from the mango tree.
The Inspector was dead when they cut him down.
‘Bad luck,’ said Mangal Singh Bundela. ‘You nearly saved him. But the next time I catch up with you, Guler Singh, it will be your turn to hang from the mango tree. So keep well away! You know that I am a man of my word. I keep it now, by giving you your freedom.’
A few minutes later the party of dacoits had melted away into the late afternoon shadows of the scrub forest. There was the sound of a jeep starting up. Then silence—a silence so profound that it seemed to be shouting in Guler Singh’s ears.
As the village people began to trickle out of their houses, Constable Ghanshyam appeared as if from nowhere, swearing that he had lost his way in the jungle. Several people had seen the incident from their windows; they were unanimous in praising the Sub-Inspector for his brave attempt to save his superior’s life. He had done his best.
‘It is true,’ thought Guler Singh. ‘I did my best.’
That moment of hesitation before the last shot, the question that had suddenly reared up in the darkness of his mind, had already gone from his memory. We remember only what we want to remember.
‘I did my best,’ he told everyone. And so he had.
Eyes of the Cat
Her eyes seemed flecked with gold when the sun was on them. And as the sun set over the mountains, drawing a deep red wound across the sky, there was more than gold in Binya’s eyes, there was anger; for she had been cut to the quick by some remarks her teacher had made—the culmination of weeks of insults and taunts.
Binya was poorer than most of the girls in her class and could not afford the tuitions that had become almost obligatory if one was to pass and be promoted. ‘You’ll have to spend another year in the 9th,’ said Madam. ‘And if you don’t like that, you can find another school—a school where it won’t matter if your blouse is torn and your tunic is old and your shoes are falling apart.’ Madam had shown her large teeth in what was supposed to be a good-natured smile, and all the girls had tittered dutifully. Sycophancy had become part of the curriculum, in Madam’s private academy for girls.
On the way home in the gathering gloom, Binya’s two companions commiserated with her.
‘She’s a mean old thing,’ said Usha. ‘She doesn’t care for anyone but herself.’
‘Her laugh reminds me of a donkey braying,’ said Sunita, who was more forthright.
But Binya wasn’t really listening. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the far distance, where the pines stood in silhouette against a night sky that was growing brighter every moment. The moon was rising, a full moon, a moon that meant something very special to Binya, that made her blood tingle and her skin prickle and her hair glow and send out spa
rks. Her steps seemed to grow lighter, her limbs more sinewy as she moved gracefully, softly over the mountain path.
Abruptly she left her companions at a fork in the road. ‘I’m taking the short cut through the forest,’ she said.
Her friends were used to her sudden whims. They knew she was not afraid of being alone in the dark. But Binya’s moods made them feel a little nervous, and now, holding hands, they hurried home along the open road.
The short cut took Binya through the dark oak forest. The crooked, tormented branches of the oaks threw twisted shadows across the path. A jackal howled at the moon; a nightjar called from the bushes. Binya walked fast, not out of fear but from urgency, and her breath came in short sharp gasps. Bright moonlight bathed the hillside when she reached her home on the outskirts of the village.
Refusing her dinner, she went straight to her small room and flung the window open. Moonbeams crept over the window-sill and over her arms which were already covered with golden hair. Her strong nails had shredded the rotten wood of the window-sill.
*
Tail swishing and ears pricked, the tawny leopard came swiftly out of the window, crossed the open field behind the house, and melted into the shadows.
A little later it padded silently through the forest.
Although the moon shone brightly on the tin-roofed town, the leopard knew where the shadows were deepest and emerged beautifully with them. An occasional intake of breath, which resulted in a short rasping cough, was the only sound it made.
Madam was returning from dinner at a ladies’ club, called the Kitten Club as a sort of foil to their husbands’ club affiliations. There were still a few people in the street, and while no one could help noticing Madam, who had the contours of a steam- roller, none saw or heard the predator who had slipped down a side alley and reached the steps of the teacher’s house. It sat there silently, waiting with all the patience of an obedient schoolgirl.