by Ruskin Bond
The untouchable passed by the window and smiled, but Rusty looked away.
Over the tops of the cherry trees were mountains. Dehra lay in a valley in the foothills, and the small, diminishing European community had its abode on the outskirts of the town.
Mr John Harrison’s house, and the other houses, were all built in an English style, with neat front gardens and nameplates on the gates. The surroundings on the whole were so English that the people often found it difficult to believe that they lived at the foot of the Himalayas, surrounded by India’s thickest jungles. India started a mile away, where the bazaar began.
To Rusty, the bazaar sounded a fascinating place, and what he had seen of it from the window of his guardian’s car had been enough to make his heart pound excitedly and his imagination soar; but it was a forbidden place—‘full of thieves and germs’ said the missionary’s wife—and the boy never entered it save in his dreams.
For Mr Harrison, the missionaries, and their neighbours, this country district of blossoming cherry trees was India. They knew there was a bazaar and a real India not far away, but they did not speak of such places: they chose not to think about them.
The community consisted mostly of elderly people, the others had left soon after Independence. These few stayed because they were too old to start life again in another country, where there would be no servants and very little sunlight; and though they complained of their lot and criticized the government, they knew their money could buy them their comforts: servants, good food, whisky, almost anything—except the dignity they cherished most . . .
But the boy’s guardian, though he enjoyed the same comforts, remained in the country for different reasons. He did not care who were the rulers so long as they didn’t take away his business; he had shares in a number of small tea-estates and owned some land—forested land—where, for instance, he hunted deer and wild pig.
Rusty, being the only young person in the community, was the centre of everyone’s attention, particularly the ladies’.
He was also very lonely.
Every day he walked aimlessly along the road, over the hillside; brooding on the future, or dreaming of sudden and perfect companionship, romance and heroics; hardly ever conscious of the present. When an opportunity for friendship did present itself, as it had the previous day, he shied away, preferring his own company.
His idle hours were crowded with memories, snatches of childhood. He could not remember what his parents were like, but in his mind there were pictures of sandy beaches covered with sea shells of every description. They had lived on the west coast, in the Gulf of Kutch; there had been a gramophone that played records of Gracie Fields and Harry Lauder, and a captain of a cargo ship who gave the child bars of chocolate and piles of comics—The Dandy, Beano, Tiger Tim—and spoke of the wonderful countries he had visited.
But the boy’s guardian seldom spoke of Rusty’s childhood, or his parents, and this secrecy lent mystery to the vague, undefined memories that hovered in the boy’s mind like hesitant ghosts.
Rusty spent much of his time studying himself in the dressing-table mirror; he was able to ignore his pimples and see a grown man, worldly and attractive. Though only sixteen, he felt much older.
He was white. His guardian was pink, and the missionary’s wife a bright red, but Rusty was white. With his thick lower lip and prominent cheekbones, he looked slightly Mongolian, especially in a half-light. He often wondered why no one else in the community had the same features.
*
Mr John Harrison was going to Delhi.
Rusty intended making the most of his guardian’s absence: he would squeeze all the freedom he could out of the next few days; explore, get lost, wander afar; even if it were only to find new places to dream in. So he threw himself on the bed and visualized the morrow . . . where should he go—into the hills again, into the forest? Or should he listen to the devil in his heart and go into the bazaar? Tomorrow he would know, tomorrow . . .
Chapter Three
IT WAS A COLD morning, sharp and fresh. It was quiet until the sun came shooting over the hills, lifting the mist from the valley and clearing the blood-shot from the sky. The ground was wet with dew.
On the maidan, a broad stretch of grassland, Ranbir and another youth wrestled each other, their muscles rippling, their well-oiled limbs catching the first rays of the sun as it climbed the horizon. Somi sat on his veranda steps; his long hair loose, resting on his knees, drying in the morning sun. Suri was still dead to the world, lost in blanket; he cared not for the morning or the sun.
Rusty stood at the gate until his guardian was comfortably seated behind the wheel of the car, and did not move until it had disappeared round the bend in the road.
The missionary’s wife, that large cauliflower-like lady, rose unexpectedly from behind a hedge and called, ‘Good morning, dear! If you aren’t very busy this morning, would you like to give me a hand pruning this hedge?’
The missionary’s wife was fond of putting Rusty to work in her garden: if it wasn’t cutting the hedge, it was weeding the flower-beds and watering the plants, or clearing the garden path of stones, or hunting beetles and ladybirds and dropping them over the wall.
‘Oh, good morning,’ stammered Rusty. ‘Actually, I was going for a walk. Can I help you when I come back, I won’t be long . . .’
The missionary’s wife was rather taken aback, for Rusty seldom said no; and before she could make another sally the boy was on his way. He had a dreadful feeling she would call him back; she was a kind woman, but talkative and boring, and Rusty knew what would follow the garden work: weak tea or lemonade, and then a game of cards, probably beggar-my-neighbour.
But to his relief she called after him, ‘All right, dear, come back soon. And be good!’
He waved to her and walked rapidly down the road. And the direction he took was different to the one in which he usually wandered.
Far down this road was the bazaar. First Rusty must pass the rows of neat cottages, arriving at a commercial area—Dehra’s Westernized shopping centre—where Europeans, rich Indians, and American tourists en route for Mussoorie, could eat at smart restaurants and drink prohibited alcohol. But the boy was afraid and distrustful of anything smart and sophisticated, and he hurried past the shopping centre.
He came to the Clock Tower, which was a tower without a clock. It had been built from public subscriptions but not enough money had been gathered for the addition of a clock. It had been lifeless five years but served as a good landmark. On the other side of the Clock Tower lay the bazaar, and in the bazaar lay India. On the other side of the Clock Tower began life itself. And all three—the bazaar and India and life itself—were forbidden.
Rusty’s heart was beating fast as he reached the Clock Tower. He was about to defy the law of his guardian and of his community. He stood at the Clock Tower, nervous, hesitant, biting his nails. He was afraid of discovery and punishment, but hungering curiosity impelled him forward.
The bazaar and India and life itself all began with a rush of noise and confusion.
The boy plunged into the throng of bustling people; the road was hot and close, alive with the cries of vendors and the smell of cattle and ripening dung. Children played hopscotch in alleyways or gambled with coins, scuffling in the gutter for a lost anna. And the cows moved leisurely through the crowd, nosing around for paper and stale, discarded vegetables; the more daring cows helping themselves at open stalls. And above the uneven tempo of the noise came the blare of a loudspeaker playing a popular piece of music.
Rusty moved along with the crowd, fascinated by the sight of beggars lying on the roadside: naked and emaciated half-humans, some skeletons, some covered with sores; old men dying, children dying, mothers with sucking babies, living and dying. But, strangely enough, the boy could feel nothing for these people; perhaps it was because they were no longer recognizable as humans or because he could not see himself in the same circumstances. And no one else in the bazaar
seemed to feel for them. Like the cows and the loudspeaker, the beggars were a natural growth in the bazaar, and only the well-to-do—sacrificing a few annas to placate their consciences—were aware of the beggars’ presence.
Every little shop was different from the one next to it. After the vegetable stand, green and wet, came the fruit stall; and, after the fruit stall, the tea and betel-leaf shop; then the astrologer’s platform (Manmohan Mukuldev, B.Astr., foreign degree); and after the astrologer’s the toy shop, selling trinkets of gay colours. And then, after the toy shop, another from whose doors poured clouds of smoke.
Out of curiosity Rusty turned to the shop from which the smoke was coming. But he was not the only person making for it. Approaching from the opposite direction was Somi on his bicycle.
Somi, who had not seen Rusty, seemed determined on riding right into the smoky shop on his bicycle. Unfortunately his way was blocked by Maharani, the queen of the bazaar cows, who moved aside for no one. But the cycle did not lose speed.
Rusty, seeing the cycle but not recognizing the rider, felt sorry for the cow, it was sure to be hurt. But, with the devil in his heart or in the wheels of his machine, Somi swung clear of Maharani and collided with Rusty and knocked him into the gutter.
Accustomed as Rusty was to the delicate scents of the missionary’s wife’s sweet peas and the occasional smell of bathroom disinfectant, he was nevertheless overpowered by the odour of bad vegetables and kitchen water that rose from the gutter.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he cried, choking and spluttering.
‘Hullo,’ said Somi, gripping Rusty by the arm and helping him up, ‘so sorry, not my fault. Anyway, we meet again!’
Rusty felt for injuries and, finding none, exclaimed, ‘Look at the filthy mess I’m in!’
Somi could not help laughing at the other’s unhappy condition. ‘Oh, that is not filth, it is only cabbage water! Do not worry, the clothes will dry . . .‘
His laugh rang out merrily, and there was something about the laugh, some music in it perhaps, that touched a chord of gaiety in Rusty’s own heart. Somi was smiling, and on his mouth the smile was friendly and in his soft brown eyes it was mocking.
‘Well, I am sorry,’ said Somi, extending his hand.
Rusty did not take the hand but, looking the other up and down, from turban to slippers, forced himself to say, ‘Get out of my way, please.’
‘You are a snob,’ said Somi without moving. ‘You are a very funny one too.’
‘I am not a snob,’ said Rusty involuntarily.
‘Then why not forget an accident?’
‘You could have missed me, but you didn’t try.’
‘But if I had missed you, I would have hit the cow! You don’t know Maharani, if you hurt her she goes mad and smashes half the bazaar! Also, the bicycle might have been spoilt . . . Now please come and have chaat with me.’
Rusty had no idea what was meant by the word chaat, but before he could refuse the invitation Somi had bundled him into the shop from which the smoke still poured.
At first nothing could be made out; then gradually the smoke seemed to clear and there in front of the boys, like some shining god, sat a man enveloped in rolls of glistening, oily flesh. In front of him, on a coal fire, was a massive pan in which sizzled a sea of fat; and with deft, practised fingers, he moulded and flipped potato cakes in and out of the pan.
The shop was crowded; but so thick was the screen of smoke and steam, that it was only the murmur of conversation which made known the presence of many people. A plate made of banana leaves was thrust into Rusty’s hands, and two fried cakes suddenly appeared in it.
‘Eat!’ said Somi, pressing the novice down until they were both on the floor, their backs to the wall.
‘They are tikkees,’ explained Somi, ‘tell me if you like them.’
Rusty tasted a bit. It was hot. He waited a minute, then tasted another bit. It was still hot but in a different way; now it was lively, interesting; it had a different taste to anything he had eaten before. Suspicious but inquisitive, he finished the tikkee and waited to see if anything would happen.
‘Have you had before?’ asked Somi.
‘No,’ said Rusty anxiously, ‘what will it do?’
‘It might worry your stomach a little at first, but you will get used to it the more often you eat. So finish the other one too.’
Rusty had not realized the extent of his submission to the other’s wishes. At one moment he had been angry, ill-mannered; but, since the laugh, he had obeyed Somi without demur.
Somi wore a cotton tunic and shorts, and sat cross-legged, his feet pressed against his thighs. His skin was a golden brown, dark on his legs and arms but fair, very fair, where his shirt lay open. His hands were dirty; but eloquent. His eyes, deep brown and dreamy, had depth and roundness.
He said, ‘My name is Somi, please tell me what is yours, I have forgotten.’
‘Rusty . . .’
‘How do you do,’ said Somi, ‘I am very pleased to meet you, haven’t we met before?’
Rusty mumbled to himself in an effort to sulk.
‘That was a long time ago,’ said Somi, ‘now we are friends, yes, best favourite friends!’
Rusty continued to mumble under his breath but he took the warm muddy hand that Somi gave him, and shook it. He finished the tikkee on his leaf, and accepted another. Then he said, ‘How do you do, Somi, I am very pleased to meet you.’
Chapter Four
THE MISSIONARY’S WIFE’S HEAD projected itself over the garden wall and broke into a beam of welcome. Rusty hurriedly returned the smile.
‘Where have you been, dear?’ asked his garrulous neighbour. ‘I was expecting you for lunch. You’ve never been away so long, I’ve finished all my work now, you know . . . Was it a nice walk? I know you’re thirsty, come in and have a nice cool lemonade, there’s nothing like iced lemonade to refresh one after a long walk. I remember when I was a girl, having to walk down to Dehra from Mussoorie, I filled my thermos with lemonade . . .’
But Rusty had gone. He did not wish to hurt the missionary’s wife’s feelings by refusing the lemonade but, after experiencing the chaat shop, the very idea of a lemonade offended him. But he decided that this Sunday he would contribute an extra four annas to the missionary’s fund for the upkeep of church, wife and garden; and, with this good thought in mind, went to his room.
The sweeper boy passed by the window, his buckets clanging, his feet going slip-slop in the watery path.
Rusty threw himself on his bed. And now his imagination began building dreams on a new-found reality, for he had agreed to meet Somi again.
And so, the next day, his steps took him to the chaat shop in the bazaar; past the Clock Tower, past the smart shops, down the road, far from the guardian’s house.
The fleshy god of the tikkees smiled at Rusty in a manner that seemed to signify that the boy was now likely to become a Regular Customer. The banana plate was ready, the tikkees in it flavoured with spiced sauces.
‘Hullo, best favourite friend,’ said Somi, appearing out of the surrounding vapour, his slippers loose, chup-chup-chup; open slippers that hung on to the toes by a strap and slapped against the heels as he walked. ‘I am glad you come again. After tikkees you must have something else, chaat or golguppas, all right?’
Somi removed his slippers and joined Rusty, who had somehow managed to sit cross-legged on the ground in the proper fashion.
Somi said, ‘Tell me something about yourself. By what misfortune are you an Englishman? How is it that you have been here all your life and never been to a chaat shop before?’
‘Well, my guardian is very strict,’ said Rusty. ‘He wanted to bring me up in English ways, and he has succeeded . . .’
‘Till now,’ said Somi, and laughed, the laugh rippling up in his throat, breaking out and forcing its way through the smoke.
Then a large figure loomed in front of the boys, and Rusty recognized him as Ranbir, the yout
h he had met on the bicycle.
‘Another best favourite friend,’ said Somi.
Ranbir did not smile, but opened his mouth a little, gaped at Rusty, and nodded his head. When he nodded, hair fell untidily across his forehead; thick black bushy hair, wild and uncontrollable. He wore a long white cotton tunic hanging out over his baggy pyjamas, his feet were bare and dirty; big feet, strong.
‘Hullo, mister,’ said Ranbir in a gruff voice that disguised his shyness. He said no more for a while, but joined them in their meal.
They ate chaat, a spicy salad of potato, guava and orange; and then gol-guppas, baked flour-cups filled with burning syrups. Rusty felt at ease and began to talk, telling his companions about his school in the hills, the house of his guardian, Mr Harrison himself, and the supple malacca cane. The story was listened to with some amusement: apparently Rusty’s life had been very dull to date, and Somi and Ranbir pitied him for it.
‘Tomorrow is Holi,’ said Ranbir, ‘you must play with me, then you will be my friend.’
‘What is Holi?’ asked Rusty.
Ranbir looked at him in amazement. ‘You do not know about Holi! It is the Hindu festival of colour! It is the day on which we celebrate the coming of spring, when we throw colour on each other and shout and sing and forget our misery, for the colours mean the rebirth of spring and a new life in our hearts . . . You do not know of it!’
Rusty was somewhat bewildered by Ranbir’s sudden eloquence, and began to have doubts about this game; it seemed to him a primitive sort of pastime, this throwing of paint about the place.
‘I might get into trouble,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to come here, anyway, and my guardian might return any day . . .’
‘Don’t tell him about it,’ said Ranbir.
‘Oh, he has ways of finding out. I’ll get a thrashing.’
‘Huh!’ said Ranbir, a disappointed and somewhat disgusted expression on his mobile face. ‘You are afraid to spoil your clothes, mister, that is it. You are just a snob.’