by Ruskin Bond
He was nearly fifteen feet long, but you did not see much of him; he swam low in the water and glided smoothly through the tall grasses near the river. Sometimes he came out on the river bank to bask in the sun. He did not care for people, especially cricketers. He disliked the noise they made, frightening away the water-birds and other creatures required for an interesting menu, and it was also alarming to have cricket balls plopping around in the shallows where he liked to rest.
Once Nakoo crept quite close to the bank manager, who was resting against one of the trees near the river bank. The bank manager was a portly gentleman, and Nakoo seemed to think he would make a good meal. Just then a party of villagers had come along, beating drums for a marriage party. Nakoo retired to the muddy waters of the river. He was a little tired of swallowing frogs, eels and herons. That juicy bank manager would make a nice change—he’d grab him one day!
The village boys were a little bigger than Ranji and his friends, but they did not bring their fathers along. The game made very little sense to the older villagers. And when balls came flying across fields to land in milk pails or cooking pots, they were as annoyed as the crocodile.
Today, the men were busy in the fields, and Nakoo the crocodile was wallowing in the mud behind a screen of reeds and water-lilies. How beautiful and innocent those lilies looked! Only sharp eyes would have noticed Nakoo’s long snout thrusting above the broad flat leaves of the lilies. His eyes were slits. He was watching.
Ranji struck the ball hard and high. Splash! It fell into the river about thirty feet from where Nakoo lay. Village boys and town boys dashed into the shallow water to look for the ball. Too many of them! Crowds made Nakoo nervous. He slid away, crossed the river to the opposite bank, and sulked.
As it was a warm day, nobody seemed to want to get out of the water. Several boys threw off their clothes, deciding that it was a better day for swimming than for cricket. Nakoo’s mouth watered as he watched those bare limbs splashing about.
‘We’re supposed to be practising,’ said Ranji, who took his cricket seriously. ‘We won’t win next week.’
‘Oh, we’ll win easily,’ said Anil joining him on the river bank. ‘My father says he’s going to play.’
‘The last time he played, we lost,’ said Ranji. ‘He made two runs and forgot to field.’
‘He was out of form,’ said Anil, ever loyal to his father, the bank manager.
Sheroo, the captain of the village team, joined them. ‘My cousin from Delhi is going to play for us. He made a hundred in one of the matches there.’
‘He won’t make a hundred on this wicket,’ said Ranji. ‘It’s slow at one end and fast at the other.’
‘Can I bring my father?’ asked Nathu, the baker’s son.
‘Can he play?’
‘Not too well, but he’ll bring along a basket of biscuits, buns and pakoras.’
‘Then he can play,’ said Ranji, always quick to make up his mind. No wonder he was the team’s captain! ‘If there are too many of us, we’ll make him twelfth man.’
The ball could not be found, and as they did not want to risk their spare ball, the practice session was declared over.
‘My grandfather’s promised me a new ball,’ said little Mani, from the village team, who bowled tricky leg-breaks which bounced off to the side.
‘Does he want to play, too?’ asked Ranji.
‘No, of course not. He’s nearly eighty.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Ranji. ‘We’ll all meet here at nine o’clock next Sunday. Fifty overs a side.’
They broke up, Sheroo and his team wandering back to the village, while Ranji and his friends got onto their bicycles (two or three to a bicycle, since not everyone had one), and cycled back to town.
Nakoo, left in peace at last, returned to his favourite side of the river and crawled some way up the river bank, as if to inspect the wicket. It had been worn smooth by the players, and looked like a good place to relax. Nakoo moved across it. He felt pleasantly drowsy in the warm sun, so he closed his eyes for a little nap. It was good to be out of the water for a while.
The following Sunday morning, a cycle bell tinkled at the gate. It was Nathu, waiting for Ranji to join him. Ranji hurried out of the house, carrying his bat and a thermos of lime juice thoughtfully provided by his mother.
‘Have you got the stumps?’ he asked.
‘Sunder has them.’
‘And the ball?’
‘Yes. And Anil’s father is bringing one too, provided he opens the batting!’
Nathu rode, while Ranji sat on the cross bar with bat and thermos. Anil was waiting for them outside his house.
‘My father’s gone ahead on his scooter. He’s picking up Nathu’s father. I’ll follow with Prem and Sunder.’
Most of the boys got to the river bank before the bank manager and the baker. They left their bicycles under a shady banyan tree and ran down the gentle slope to the river. And then, one by one, they stopped, astonished by what they saw.
They gaped in awe at their cricket pitch.
Across it, basking in the soft warm sunshine, was Nakoo the crocodile.
‘Where did it come from?’ asked Ranji.
‘Usually he stays in the river,’ said Sheroo, who had joined them. ‘But all this week he’s been coming out to lie on our wicket. I don’t think he wants us to play.’
‘We’ll have to get him off,’ said Ranji.
‘You’d better keep out of reach of his tail and jaws!’
‘We’ll wait until he goes away,’ said Prem.
But Nakoo showed no signs of wanting to leave. He rather liked the smooth flat stretch of ground which he had discovered. And here were all the boys again, doing their best to disturb him.
After some time the boys began throwing pebbles at Nakoo. These had no effect, simply bouncing off the crocodile’s tough hide. They tried mud balls and an orange. Nakoo twitched his tail and opened one eye, but refused to move on.
Then Prem took a ball, and bowled a fast one at the crocodile. It bounced just short of Nakoo and caught him on the snout. Startled and stung, he wriggled off the pitch and moved rapidly down the river bank and into the water. There was a mighty splash as he dived for cover.
‘Well bowled, Prem!’ said Ranji. ‘That was a good ball.’ ‘Nakoo-ji will be in a bad mood after that,’ warned Sheroo. ‘Don’t get too close to the river.’
The bank manager and the baker were the last to arrive. The scooter had given them some trouble. No one mentioned the crocodile, just in case the adults decided to call the match off.
After inspecting the wicket, which Nakoo had left in fair condition, Sheroo and Ranji tossed a coin. Ranji called ‘Heads!’ but it came up tails. Sheroo chose to bat first.
The tall Delhi player came out to open the innings with little Mani.
Mani was a steady bat, who could stay at the wicket for a long time; but in a one-day match, quick scoring was needed. This the Delhi player provided. He struck a four, then took a single off the last ball of the over.
In the third over, Mani tried to hit out and was bowled for a duck. So the village team’s score was 13 for 1.
‘Well done,’ said Ranji to fast bowler Prem. ‘But we’ll have to get that tall fellow out soon. He seems quite good.’
The tall fellow showed no sign of getting out. He hit two more boundaries and then swung one hard and high towards the river.
Nakoo, who had been sulking in the shallows, saw the ball coming towards him. He opened his jaws wide, and with a satisfying ‘clunk!’ the ball lodged between his back teeth.
Nakoo got his teeth deep into the cricket ball and chewed. Revenge was sweet. And the ball tasted good, too. The combination of leather and cork was just right. Nakoo decided that he would snap up any other balls that came his way.
‘Harmless old reptile,’ said the bank manager. He produced a new ball and insisted that he bowl with it.
It proved to be the most expensive over of the match. The
bank manager’s bowling was quite harmless and the Delhi player kept hitting the ball into the fields for fours and sixes. The score soon mounted to 40 for 1. The bank manager modestly took himself off.
By the time the tenth over had been bowled, the score had mounted to 70. Then Ranji, bowling slow spins, lost his grip on the ball and sent the batsman a full toss. Having played the good balls perfectly, the Delhi player couldn’t resist taking a mighty swipe at the bad ball. He mistimed his shot and was astonished to see the ball fall into the hands of a fielder near the boundary. 70 for 2. The game was far from being lost for Ranji’s team.
A couple of wickets fell cheaply, and then Sheroo came in and started playing rather well. His drives were straight and clean. The ball cut down the buttercups and hummed over the grass. A big hit landed in a poultry yard. Feathers flew and so did curses. Nakoo raised his head to see what all the noise was about. No further cricket balls came his way, and he gazed balefully at a heron who was staying just out of his reach.
The score mounted steadily. The fielding grew slack, as it often does when batsmen gain the upper hand. A catch was dropped. And Nathu’s father, keeping wicket, missed a stumping chance.
‘No more grown-ups in our team,’ grumbled Nathu.
The baker made amends by taking a good catch behind the wicket. The score was 115 for 5, with about half the overs remaining.
Sheroo kept his end up, but the remaining batsmen struggled for runs and the end came with about 5 overs still to go. A modest total of 145.
‘Should be easy,’ said Ranji.
‘No problem,’ said Prem.
‘Lunch first,’ said the bank manager, and they took a half-hour break.
The village boys went to their homes for rest and refreshment, while Ranji and his team spread themselves out under the banyan tree.
Nathu’s father had brought patties and pakoras; the bank manager brought a basket of oranges and bananas; Prem had brought a jack-fruit curry; Ranji had brought a halwa made from carrots, milk and sugar; Sunder had brought a large container full of savoury rice cooked with peas and fried onions; and the others had brought various curries, pickles and sauces. Everything was shared, and with the picnic in full swing no one noticed that Nakoo the crocodile had left the water. Using some tall reeds as cover, he had crept half-way up the river bank. Those delicious food smells had reached him too, and he was unwilling to be left out of the picnic. Perhaps the boys would leave something for him. If not…
‘Time to start,’ announced the bank manager, getting up. ‘I’ll open the batting. We need a good start if we are going to win!’
The bank manager strode out to the wicket in the company of young Nathu. Sheroo opened the bowling for the village team.
The bank manager took a run off the first ball. He puffed himself up and waved his bat in the air as though the match had already been won. Nathu played out the rest of the over without taking any chances.
The tall Delhi player took up the bowling from the other end. The bank manager tapped his bat impatiently, then raised it above his shoulders, ready to hit out. The bowler took a long fast run up to the bowling crease. He gave a little leap, his arm swung over, and the ball came at the bank manager in a swift, curving flight.
The bank manager still had his bat raised when the ball flew past him and uprooted his middle stump.
A shout of joy went up from the fielders. The bank manager was on his way back to the shade of the banyan tree.
‘A fly got in my eye,’ he muttered. ‘I wasn’t ready. Flies everywhere!’ And he swatted angrily at flies that no one else could see.
The villagers, hearing that someone as important as a bank manager was in their midst, decided that it would be wrong for him to sit on the ground like everyone else. So they brought him a cot from the village. It was one of those light wooden beds, taped with strands of thin rope. The bank manager lowered himself into it rather gingerly. It creaked but took his weight.
The score was 1 for 1.
Anil took his father’s place at the wicket and scored ten runs in two overs. The bank manager pretended not to notice but he was really quite pleased. ‘Takes after me,’ he said, and made himself comfortable on the cot.
Nathu kept his end up while Anil scored the runs. Then Anil was out, skying a catch to mid wicket.
25 for 2 in six overs. It could have been worse.
‘Well played!’ called the bank manager to his son, and then lost interest in the proceedings. He was soon fast asleep on the cot. The flies did not seem to bother him any more.
Nathu kept going, and there were a couple of good partnerships for the fourth and fifth wickets. When the Delhi player finished his share of overs, the batsmen became more free in their stroke-play. Then little Mani got a ball to spin sharply, and Nathu was caught by the wicket-keeper.
It was 75 for 4 when Ranji came in to bat.
Before he could score a run, his partner at the other end was bowled. And then Nathu’s father strode up to the wicket, determined to do better than the bank manager. In this he succeeded by one run.
The baker scored two, and then in trying to run another two when there was only one to be had, found himself stranded half-way up the wicket. The wicket-keeper knocked his stumps down.
The boys were too polite to say anything. And as for the bank manager he was now fast asleep under the banyan tree.
So intent was everyone on watching the cricket that no one noticed that Nakoo the crocodile had crept further up the river bank to slide beneath the cot on which the bank manager was sleeping.
There was just room enough for Nakoo to get between the legs of the cot. He thought it was a good place to lie concealed, and he seemed not to notice the large man sleeping peacefully just above him.
Soon the bank manager was snoring gently, and it was not long before Nakoo dozed off, too. Only, instead of snoring, Nakoo appeared to be whistling through his crooked teeth.
75 for 5 and it looked as though Ranji’s team would soon be crashing to defeat.
Sunder joined Ranji and, to everyone’s delight, played two lovely drives to the boundary. Then Ranji got into his stride and cut and drove the ball for successive fours. The score began to mount steadily. 112 for 5. Once again there were visions of victory.
After Sunder was out, stumped, Ranji was joined by Prem, a big hitter. Runs came quickly. The score reached 140. Only six runs were needed for victory.
Ranji decided to do it in style. Receiving a half-volley, he drove the ball hard and high towards the banyan tree.
Thump! It struck Nakoo on the jaw and loosened one of his teeth.
It was the second time that day he’d been caught napping. He’d had enough of it.
Nakoo lunged forward, tail thrashing and jaws snapping. The cot, with the manager still on it, rose with him. Crocodile and cot were now jammed together, and when Nakoo rushed forward, he took the cot with him.
The bank manager, dreaming that he was at sea in a rowing boat, woke up to find the cot pitching violently from side to side.
‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Help!’
The boys scattered in all directions, for the crocodile was now advancing down the wicket, knocking over stumps and digging up the pitch. He found an abandoned sun hat and swallowed it. A wicket-keeper’s glove went the same way. A batsman’s pad was caught up on his tail.
All this time the bank manager hung on to the cot for safety, but would he be able to get out of reach of Nakoo’s jaw and tail? He decided to hang on to the cot until it was dislodged.
‘Come on, boys, help!’ he shouted. ‘Get me off!’
But the cot remained firmly attached to the crocodile, and so did the bank manager.
The problem was solved when Nakoo made for the river and plunged into its familiar waters. Then the bank manager tumbled into the water and scrambled up the bank, while Nakoo made for the opposite shore.
The bank manager’s ordeal was over, and so was the cricket match.
‘Did you
see how I dealt with that crocodile?’ he said, still dripping, but in a better humour, now that he was safe again. ‘By the way, who won the match?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Ranji, as they trudged back to their bicycles. ‘That would have been a six if you hadn’t been in the way.’
Sheroo, who had accompanied them as far as the main road, offered a return match the following week.
‘I’m busy next week,’ said the baker.
‘I have another game,’ said the bank manager.
‘What game is that, sir?’ asked Ranji.
‘Chess,’ said the bank manager.
Ranji and his friends began making plans for the next match. ‘You won’t win without us,’ said the bank manager. ‘Not a chance,’ said the baker.
But Ranji’s team did, in fact, win the next match.
Nakoo the crocodile did not trouble them because the cot was still attached to his back, and it took him several weeks to get it off.
A number of people came to the river bank to look at the crocodile who carried his own bed around.
Some even stayed to watch the cricket.
Party Time in Mussoorie
It is very kind of people to invite me to their parties, especially as I do not throw parties myself, or invite anyone anywhere. At more than one party I have been known to throw things at people. Inspite of this—or maybe because of it—I get invited to these affairs.
I can imagine a prospective hostess saying ‘Shall we invite Ruskin?’
‘Would it be safe?’ says her husband doubtfully. ‘He has been known to throw plates at people.’
‘Oh, then we must have him!’ she shouts in glee. ‘What fun it will be, watching him throw a plate at——. We’ll use the cheaper crockery, of course…’
Here I am tempted to add that living in Mussoorie these forty odd years has been one long party. But if that were so, I would not be alive today. Rekha’s garlic chicken and Nandu’s shredded lamb would have done for me long ago. They have certainly done for my teeth. But they are only partly to blame. Hill goats are tough, stringy creatures. I remember Begum Para trying to make us rogan josh one evening. She sat over the degchi for three or four hours but even then the mutton wouldn’t become tender.