by Ruskin Bond
In disgust, Rusty picked up the tin and flung it down the hillside. It struck a rock and burst open, scattering sardines all over the place. Almost immediately a civet cat, who had been following them, dashed out of the bushes and gobbled up the sardines. Then it looked up at the boys, licked its lips in appreciation and disappeared.
‘Now you know how to open a sardine tin,’ scoffed Popat. ‘Better than Einstein!’
As they ascended the mountain, the air grew cooler, and by late afternoon they were walking through a cloud which had drifted down from the higher slopes.
‘Three more miles to go,’ said Melaram.
The mules, sensing that they were nearing their destination, moved a little faster.
‘Two more miles to go!’
‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Rusty, patting his mule on the rump.
The mule did not care to be patted on the rump. It kicked its rear legs in the air and Rusty found himself sprawling in a bed of nettles. His bandage had come loose but he needed it no longer and threw it away.
Everybody burst out laughing.
‘It isn’t funny,’ said Rusty, his arms and legs smarting from nettle stings. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’
So Pitamber and Rusty trudged along, while Popat rode on in state, whistling a popular film tune. ‘Aaja pyaare, paas hamare, kahe ghabraye . . .’
‘One more mile to go!’ sang out Melaram and the boys joined in the chorus. ‘One more mile to go! Kahe ghabraye!’
The mist lifted, the cloud drifted away, and in the apricot light of early evening the palace stood before them—a tottering old ruin, but still quite magnificent in the sunset, the old bricks looking as though they were made of gold, the window casements silver in the fading light.
They stood before a rusty iron gate. Melaram rang a bell and at once there was tremendous cawing and croaking. Hundreds of crows rose into the air and began cavilling around the palace. They kept up their noisy flight for several minutes, until the sun went down. Then they descended and were silent.
Suddenly it grew dark.
Someone was approaching the gate, lantern in hand. The person held the lantern up to the visitors’ faces, recognized Melaram and proceeded to open the gate.
‘It’s just a girl,’ whispered Popat.
It was indeed a girl and not much older than Rusty.
To Rusty, all girls were pretty, simply because they were girls. But in fairy tales, the princess is more than pretty; she is beautiful. The girl who stood before him wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, but she was different and that was what made her attractive. She reminded him of the vision he had experienced so briefly in the Chakrata guest house—when the cat had gazed at him for a few seconds before disappearing through the window—the brief glimpse of a face of sadness and longing receding into the distance.
Princess Reema
She stood there, smiling at them in the glow of the lantern. The smile was there for all of them, but Rusty was convinced that it was meant especially for him. And when she asked them to follow her into the palace, it was Rusty who stayed closest to her. For there was no doubt that he was smitten by her ethereal beauty.
How does one describe her? Only in terms of flowers in full bloom. There were roses in her cheeks. Her lips were like the petals of petunias, her skin touched with the glow of pale chrysanthemums; her eyes were the colour of the nightshade, the datura flower. She was, indeed, a fairy princess—a flower fairy, sweetly dangerous. And Rusty remembered a childhood rhyme, passed on to him by his granny:
My name is Nightshade, also bittersweet;
Oh, little folk, be wise!
Conceal your hands behind you when we meet,
Turn away your dreamy eyes.
My flowers you shall not pick, nor berries eat,
For in them deadly poison lies.
She must have been his age, although it was hard to say. She could have been older, she could have been younger. Age had nothing to do with her. She was simply youth incarnate. And her eyes were violets.
Melaram went off to find shelter for his mules and the boys meekly followed the girl into the interiors of the palace.
‘Where’s the rani—the old queen?’ asked Rusty. ‘We’ve heard so much about her.’
‘She sleeps early. You will see her in the morning.’
‘And where have all the crows gone?’
‘So you have heard of them. They sleep early too.’
She led them into a great hall, empty except for a large table in the centre.
‘You must be hungry,’ she said. ‘We were not expecting so many of you.’
‘Well, we’ve been eating bananas all day,’ said Rusty. ‘Anything else would be welcome.’
They could see nothing on the table until the girl removed the covering cloth to reveal a rich assortment of fruits—peaches, pears, apples, apricots, plums—and not a single banana, fortunately!
‘When you have eaten, I will show you your room,’ said the girl, leaving them to their repast.
‘I don’t suppose they eat meat or fish here,’ said Pitamber, ‘but this will do for now.’
They set to with enthusiasm but no matter how much they ate, there was always fruit on the table.
‘I’m full,’ said Popat. ‘I think I ate too many plums.’
‘Try moderation in all things,’ said Rusty, helping himself to a juicy pear. ‘But where is our friend Melaram?’
‘Perhaps he went back to the village.’
‘Not at night. His mules will fall off a cliff in the dark.’
‘And there are wolves and leopards around,’ added Popat.
‘Maybe he has somewhere else to stay. He won’t bring his mules in here. And he had to deliver all that stuff.’
Just then the girl returned and they promptly forgot about Melaram.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘You must be tired. I’ll take you to your room. The rani was expecting you. She knew you were coming . . . she knows everything.’
She led them down a long passage. The lantern threw their shadows on the walls.
‘Tell us your name,’ Rusty said to her.
She held out her hand and took his hand in hers. ‘My name is Reema. The rani calls me Reema, the leopard girl.’
‘A strange name. But it suits you. Are you a princess?’
She gave a little laugh, her eyes glowed in the lamplights. ‘Only sometimes. Come, here is your room.’
And before them were three large beds with soft pillows, mattresses and quilts. There was drinking water in an urn and embroidered slippers on the floor.
‘Be comfortable,’ said Princess Reema. ‘Sleep well. When the sun rises, you can rise. There will be food in the hall. Then you can go into the open courtyard and meet Her Majesty.’ And with that she drifted away and the door closed behind her.
A small oil lamp was burning in a corner near the door. Rusty picked it up and examined the room. There were no windows, only a small skylight high on the wall. He tried the door; it was locked from the outside.
‘Well, we might as well go to bed,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what the morning brings.’
They were comfortable in their beds but could not sleep.
‘Tell us a story,’ demanded Popat.
‘You’re too big for bedtime stories,’ retorted Rusty.
‘It will help us fall asleep, Rusty.’
‘I’ll tell you a story,’ said Pitamber. ‘It’s a funny story, it will make you laugh. I heard it from my grandfather. It’s called “Death by Laughing”.’
‘That doesn’t sound funny at all!’ piped Popat.
‘Tell us, Pitamber,’ said Rusty.
‘In my village, near Bijnor, there was a man who had been killed by dacoits when they raided his place. Dacoits are robbers who roam about in gangs,’ said Pitamber.
‘We know. Continue,’ said Popat.
‘Well, the man’s head was left hanging down on his chest. And as soon as the dacoits had gone, the man’s servants
collected his body and were about to bury it when they heard the sound of breathing. They looked more closely and found that his windpipe was not completely severed. And so, setting his head in its proper place, they carried him back to his home. Sometime later he began to moan. And by carefully feeding him with a spoon, within a few weeks he had completely recovered!’
‘Is that all?’ asked Popat.
‘No, not quite. Some five years later he was chatting with a few friends when one of them made a joke which resulted in everyone laughing. Our hero, too, clapped his hands and laughed. But as he rocked backwards and forwards, the seam on his neck split open and down fell his head with a great gush of blood!’
‘How horrible,’ said Popat. ‘Didn’t they try stitching it on again? Bijnor is famous for its tailors.’
‘No, he was quite dead this time. He had lost too much blood.’
‘A good story,’ said Rusty. ‘Now you know why doctors advise people not to laugh after surgery. It opens out the stitches.’
‘I’ve had enough of scary stories,’ complained Popat and began to recite a mantra he had learnt from his grandmother:
Bhoot, pret, pisach, dana
Choo mantar, sab nikal jana,
Mano, mano, Shiv ka kahna
Ghosts, spirits, goblins, sprites,
Away you fly, don’t come tonight,
Or with great Shiva you’ll have to fight!
A Concourse of Crows
When they got up in the morning the door was open. A delicious fragrance greeted them in the corridor and they followed it into the hall, where they found the table covered with viands, totally different from those provided the night before. There were boiled eggs, buns, butter, jam and pickles, puris and kachoris—something for all tastes.
Rusty looked around, hoping to see Princess Reema, but there was no sign of her. Pitamber and Popat were already buttering their buns, and as Rusty was hungry too, he did not hesitate in joining them.
‘What’s this?’ asked Popat, examining the roasted bird in the centre of the table.
‘Not for you,’ said Pitamber. ‘It’s chicken. You can have a banana.’
‘Looks like a crow,’ said Popat.
Pitamber and Rusty looked at each other and then at the bird.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Pitamber, breaking a piece of meat off the bird and popping it into his mouth. ‘It’s chicken, all right. Help yourself, Rusty.’
They helped themselves, and were still helping themselves when a gong sounded outside, followed by a lot of cawing and croaking and squawking.
‘The crows!’ exclaimed Popat, peeping out of the door. ‘They have assembled in the courtyard. Hundreds of them!’
The boys left the breakfast table and stepped outside. The courtyard was a mass of shiny black crows. They perched on the walls, on the roof, on the steps, on the floor. And at the end of the courtyard, sitting on a throne on a raised platform was the queen of them all—the ugliest woman in the world (or so said Popat, under his breath), a witch-like creature with a beak for a nose, crooked yellow teeth and a long chin with a tuft of hair growing from it.
She was dressed all in black, with a black hood covering her head. Her hands were like claws and so were her bare feet.
More crow than human, thought Rusty.
The old hag was beckoning to them.
‘Come nearer, dear guests, come up here where I can see you,’ she said in a deep, throaty voice.
The boys hesitated.
‘You go first,’ said Popat, getting behind his companions.
It was like school assembly time. The crows were surprisingly well behaved. They made way for the boys to pass. Rusty, Popat and Pitamber ascended a short flight of steps and confronted the rani. At close quarters, her appearance was no more inviting than at a distance. Her skin was leathery, her eyes bloodshot, her eyebrows like a couple of centipedes.
‘And what brings you here, to my domain?’ she asked.
‘We are students,’ said Rusty. ‘We are here looking for adventure.’
‘You’ll find it, you’ll find it!’ cackled the old woman.
‘We have already found some,’ said Rusty. ‘Now we just want to climb to the top of this mountain and then go home.’
‘Is that all you came for? Or are you searching for my silver mines?’
‘We know nothing of silver, although Melaram did mention something. By the way, where is he? He was going to show us another way to the valley.’
‘He has gone back with his mules. He will come again next week. Till then, you are my guests. Our guests,’ she said, indicating the concourse of crows.
The crows all cawed in unison. They were like small schoolchildren, repeating what their class teacher had said.
‘Where is the princess?’ asked Rusty. ‘The girl who received us so politely yesterday?’
‘Ah, she interests you, doesn’t she? The little leopard girl. Well, she’s busy elsewhere today. If you are very good, you may see her again.’
She waved a scaly arm towards the gathering of crows and said: ‘These are my children. All girls and boys once. Just like you. Would you like to be a crow?’ she demanded, pointing at Popat.
‘No,’ said Popat, retreating behind Pitamber.
‘And you?’ she asked the bigger boy.
‘I don’t want to be a bird.’
‘And if you are to be born again, what would you like to be?’ she indicated to Rusty.
Rusty thought about it. ‘Well, if I had to be a bird, I’d be a kingfisher.’
‘Vain creature! All colour and show! There’s nothing like a crow . . . They are so intelligent, so handsome, so smart in their shiny black suits. Do you agree, children?’
‘Caw, caw, caw!’ croaked the crows.
They agreed.
‘And what about you, little boy? Do you agree?’
‘Caw, caw, caw,’ said Popat, too scared to disagree.
‘Wonderful! You are already halfway to becoming a crow. All you need are feathers! Well, I have to feed my flock. Where are all those bananas? You boys can go now. Explore the grounds. I’ll have a task for you tomorrow, when you go to the top of the mountain.’
The Little People
The rest of the morning was spent in exploring the palace grounds. As far as Rusty could tell, there were no servants or retainers on the property. Who prepared the food, who swept and dusted the rooms, who guarded the palace from intruders and wild animals? One small girl couldn’t do everything, even if she was as swift as a leopard. Perhaps there was a band of elves or goblins that came by night and looked after everything.
Rusty’s thoughts went to Princess Reema. He hadn’t seen her anywhere. Perhaps she lived in another part of the extensive grounds.
‘Let’s explore the place,’ he said.
‘We might find a silver mine,’ said Popat.
‘Or more crows,’ piped up Pitamber.
The spur on which the palace was built sloped gently down to a shaded area surrounded by thickets of bamboo. Within the protected area there were signs of cultivation—small fields and a channel of water zig-zagging through them. An orderly line of plum and apricot trees grew along the border of the fields.
‘There must be people living down there,’ said Rusty.
‘Can’t see anyone,’ said Pitamber.
‘Let’s investigate,’ suggested Popat. ‘Better than spending the day with crows and that old rakshasi.’
So they scrambled down the slope and wandered about among the fruit trees. There was no one to be seen. Suddenly they were startled by a voice from the branches of an old plum tree.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
It was a strong voice but it did not seem to belong to anyone. Then a branch creaked, there was a soft footfall and a tiny man, no more than three feet high, materialized before them. He gave a whistle and in minutes several little men and women emerged from the bamboo grove and stared up at the boys. They appeared to be mature men and w
omen but none of them came up any higher than Pitamber’s knees.
‘Fairy people! ’ exclaimed Popat.
‘No,’ said the little man, speaking in the local dialect, which was a mixture of Hindi and Pahari. ‘We are real people. But we are all dwarves. Even our children won’t grow any bigger. All those years that our forefathers worked in the silver mines, living in them, sleeping in them, with no sunshine or fresh air, meant we couldn’t grow like other humans. We have remained the tiny people you see now.’
‘Like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves!’ put in Popat.
And Princess Reema is the little Snow White, imprisoned by the rani who is also a witch, thought Rusty.
‘That’s why we couldn’t see you from the hilltop,’ he said.
‘And that is why no one sees us when, an hour before the dawn, we enter the palace grounds to do all the cleaning up, cooking and other chores. If we don’t turn up, she sets her crows upon us. Nasty creatures, those crows. They can tear you apart.’
‘Do all of you have names?’ asked Rusty.
‘I’m called Lumboo because I’m the tallest,’ said the midget who was doing all the talking. ‘And that’s Chotu, who comes up to your knee. And that’s Motu, the fat one. And that skinny chap is Putloo. His wife is Putlee. Those two pretty ladies are Chumlee and Gumlee. We are simple people with simple names. And we are tiny only because of the evil ways of that rakshas-rani.’
‘What did she do—make you work all day in the mines?’
‘Can’t grow without sunlight,’ said Chotu.
‘Can’t grow without fresh air,’ said Putloo.
‘Can’t grow without exercise,’ said Motu. ‘Or only in one direction.’
‘We have all those things now,’ said one of the ladies, a pretty little thing. ‘But now it’s too late.’
‘Never too late,’ said Pitamber, picking her up and holding her in his arms like a baby. ‘We’ll take you home with us.’
‘Put her down, put her down!’ screamed the little people.