by Ruskin Bond
And when it had gone, the silence returned and the forest seemed to breathe, to live again. Only the rails still trembled with the passing of the train.
They trembled again to the passing of the same train, almost a week later, when Suraj and his father were both travelling in it.
Suraj's father was scribbling in a notebook, doing his accounts. Suraj sat at an open window staring out at the darkness. His father was going to Delhi on a business trip and had decided to take the boy along. ("I don't know where he gets to, most of the time," he'd complained. "I think it's time he learnt something about my business.")
The night-mail rushed through the forest with its hundreds of passengers. The carriage wheels beat out a steady rhythm on the rails. Tiny flickering lights came and went, as they passed small villages on the fringe of the jungle.
Suraj heard the rumble as the train passed over a small bridge. It was too dark to see the hut near the cutting, but he knew they must be approaching the tunnel. He strained his eyes looking out into the night; and then just as the engine let out a shrill whistle, Suraj saw the lamp.
He couldn't see Sunder Singh, but he saw the lamp, and he knew that his friend was out there.
The train went into the tunnel and out again; it left the jungle behind and thundered across the endless plains. Suraj stared out at the darkness, thinking of the lonely cutting in the forest and the watchman with the lamp who would always remain a firefly for those travelling thousands as he lit up the darkness for steam-engines and leopards.
THE BIG RACE
awn crept quietly over the sleeping town. Only a cock was aware of it, and crowed. Koki heard a soft tapping on the window-pane, and immediately sat up in bed. She was ten years old. Her hair fell about her shoulders in a disorderly fashion and her dark eyes were slightly ringed, but she was wide awake and listening. The tapping was repeated.
Koki got out of bed and tiptoed across to the window and unlatched it. Ranji was standing outside, looking somewhat disgruntled.
"Come on," he said. "It's nearly time."
Koki put a finger to her lips, for she did not want her parents and grandmother to wake up.
'You go and call Bhim," she whispered. "I'll meet you on the maidaan."
Ranji hurried off in the direction of Bhim's house, and Koki turned from the window and went to the dressing-table. She combed her hair carelessly and tied it roughly in a ribbon. She was excited and in a hurry, and had slept in her dress, which was very crushed. Now she was ready to leave.
Very quietly, she pulled open a dressing-table drawer, and brought out a cardboard box in which were punctured little holes. She opened the lid of the box to see if Rajkumari was all right.
Rajkumari, a dumpy rhino beetle, was asleep on the core of an apple. Koki did not disturb her. She closed the box and, barefoot, crept out of the house through the back door.
As soon as she was outside, Koki broke into a run. She did not stop running until she reached the maidaan.
On the maidaan, the slanting rays of the early morning sun were just beginning to make emeralds of the dew-drops. Later in the day the grass would dry and be prickly to the feet, but now it was cool and soft. A group of boys had gathered at one corner of the maidaan, talking excitedly, and among them were Ranji and Bhim, a lanky, bespectacled boy of fourteen. Koki was the only girl among them.
Bhim's beetle was the favourite for the race. It was a large bamboo beetle, with a slim body and long, slender legs, rather like its master's. It was called 2001. Ranji's beetle was a Stone Carrier with what looked like a very long pair of whiskers. It was appropriately named Moocha (Moustaches). Koki's beetle was not half as big as the other two. Though she did not know how to tell its sex, she was sure it was a female and had called it Rajkumari — Princess.
There were only three entries. Betting wasn't strictly allowed, but the boys made a few quiet bets among themselves. The prize was a giant insect (there was some disagreement as to whether it was a beetle or an outsize cockroach), which was meant to enable the winner to breed racing beetles on a larger scale.
There was some confusion when Ranji's Moocha escaped from his box and took a preliminary canter over the grass; but he was soon caught and returned to his enclosure. Moocha appeared to be in good form; in fact, he would be tough competition for Bhim's 2001.
The course was about two metres long, the tracks fifteen centimetres wide. The tracks were fenced with strips of cardboard so that the contestants did not get in each other's way or leave the course altogether. They were held at the starting-post by another piece of cardboard, which would be placed behind them as soon as the race began — just to make sure that no one backed out.
A little Sikh boy in a yellow pyjama-suit was acting as starter, and he kept blowing his whistle for order and attention. When the onlookers saw that the race was about to begin, they fell silent. The little Sikh boy then announced the rules of the race: the contestants were not to be touched during the race, or blown at from behind, or enticed forward with bits of food. They could, however, be cheered on as loudly as anyone wished.
Moocha and 2001 were already at the starting-post, but Koki was giving Rajkumari a few words of advice. Rajkumari seemed reluctant to leave her apple-core and needed to be taken forcibly to the starting-post.
There was further delay when Moocha and 2001 got their horns and whiskers entangled. They had to be separated and calmed down before being placed in their respective tracks. The race was about to start.
Koki knelt on the grass, very quiet and serious, looking from Rajkumari to the finishing-line and back again. Ranji was biting his finger-nails. Bhim's glasses had clouded over, and he had to keep taking them off and wiping them on his shirt. There was a hush amongst the dozen or so spectators.
"Pee-ee-eeep!" The little Sikh boy blew his whistle.
They were off!
Or rather, Moocha and 2001 were off. Rajkumari was still at the starting-post, wondering what had happened to her apple-core.
Everyone was cheering madly, and Ranji was jumping up and down, and Bhim's glasses had been knocked off. Moocha was going at a spanking rate. 2001 wasn't taking a great deal of interest in the proceedings, but he was moving, and anything could happen in a race like this.
Koki was on the verge of tears. All the coaching she had given Rajkumari seemed to be of no avail. Her beetle was still looking bewildered and hurt.
"Stop sulking," said Koki. "I won't keep you if you don't try."
Then Moocha stopped suddenly, less than a metre from the finishing-line. He seemed to be having trouble with his whiskers, and kept twitching them this way and that. 2001 was catching up slowly but surely, and both Ranji and Bhim were shouting themselves hoarse. Nobody paid any attention to Rajkumari, who was considered to be out of the race; but Koki was using all her will-power to get her racer going.
As 2001 approached Moocha, he seemed to sense his rival's trouble, and stopped to find out what was the matter. They could not see each other over the cardboard fence, but otherwise appeared to be communicating very well. Ranji and Bhim were becoming quite frantic in their efforts to rally their faltering steeds, and the cheering on all sides was deafening.
Rajkumari, goaded with rage and frustration at having been deprived of her apple-core, now took it into her head to make a bid for liberty and new pastures, and rushed forward in great style.
Koki shouted with joy, but the others did not notice the new challenge until Rajkumari had drawn level with her conferring rivals. There was a gasp from the crowd as Rajkumari strode across the finishing-line in record time.
Everyone cheered the gallant outsider. Ranji and Bhim very sportingly shook Koki by the hand, congratulating her on Rajkumari's victory. The little Sikh boy in the yellow pyjama-suit blew his whistle for silence and presented Koki with her prize.
Koki gazed in rapture at the new beetle — or was it a cockroach? She stroked its back with her thumb. The insect didn't seem to mind. Then, lest Rajkumari should feel jealous, Koki closed the pr
ize-box and, picking up her victorious beetle, returned her to the apple-core.
The crowd began to break up. Ranji decided that he would trim Moocha's whiskers before the next race, and Bhim thought 2001 was in need of a special diet.
"Just wait till next Sunday," said Ranji. "Then watch my Moocha leave the rest of you standing!"
Bhim said nothing. He looked very thoughtful. There were some new training methods which he was going to try out for next time.
Koki walked home, a cardboard box under each arm. Her thoughts were busy with the future. She would breed beetles (or would they be cockroaches?) until she had a stable of about twenty. Her racers would win every event, both here and in the next town. They might make her famous. Beetle-racing would become a national sport!
Meanwhile, she was happy, and Rajkumari was happy on the apple-core, and the new insect was just being an insect and did not know and did not care about anything except how to get out of that wretched box.
RANJI'S WONDERFUL BAT
ow's that!" shouted the wicket-keeper, holding the ball up in his gloves.
"How's that!" echoed the slip-fielders.
"How? " growled the fast bowler, glaring at the umpire.
"Out!" said the umpire.
And Suraj, the captain of the school team, was walking slowly back to the 'pavilion' — which was really a tool-shed at the end of the field.
The score stood at 53 for 4 wickets. Another sixty runs had to be made for victory, and only one good batsman remained. All the rest were bowlers who couldn't be expected to make many runs.
It was Ranji's turn to bat.
He was the youngest member of the team, only eleven, but sturdy and full of pluck. As he walked briskly to the wicket, his unruly black hair was blown about by a cool breeze that came down from the hills.
Ranji had a good eye and strong wrists, and had made lots of runs in some of the minor matches. But in the last two inter-school games his scores had been poor, the highest being 12 runs. Now he was determined to make enough runs to take his side to victory.
Ranji took his guard and prepared to face the bowler. The fielders moved closer, in anticipation of another catch. The tall fast bowler scowled and began his long run. His arm whirled over, and the hard shiny red ball came hurtling towards Ranji.
Ranji was going to lunge forward and play the ball back to the bowler, but at the last moment he changed his mind and stepped back, intending to push the ball through the ring of fielders on his right or off side. The ball swung in the air, shot off the grass and came through sharply to strike Ranji on his pads.
"How's that!" screamed the bowler, hopping about like a kangaroo.
"How!" shouted the wicket-keeper.
"How?" asked all the fielders.
The umpire slowly raised a finger.
"Out, "he said.
And it was Ranji's turn to walk back to the tool-shed.
The match was won by the visiting team.
"Never mind," said Suraj, patting Ranji on the back. 'You'll do better next time. You're out of form just now, that's all."
But their cricket coach was sterner.
'You'll have to make more runs in the next game," he told Ranji, "or you'll lose your place in the side!"
Avoiding the other players, Ranji walked slowly homewards, his head down, his hands in his pockets. He was very upset. He had been trying so hard and practising so regularly, but when an important game came along he failed to make a big score. It seemed that there was nothing he could do about it. But he loved playing cricket, and he couldn't bear the thought of being out of the school team.
On his way home he had to pass the clock tower where he often stopped at Mr Kumar's Sports Shop, to chat with the owner or look at all the things on the shelves: footballs, cricket balls, badminton rackets, hockey sticks, balls of various shapes and sizes — it was a wonderland where Ranji usually liked to linger.
But this was one day when he didn't feel like stopping. He looked the other way and was about to cross the road when Mr Kumar's voice stopped him.
"Hello, Ranji! Off in a hurry today? And why are you looking so sad?"
So Ranji had to stop and say "namaste". He couldn't ignore Mr Kumar, who had been so kind and helpful, always giving him advice on how to play different kinds of bowling. Mr Kumar had been a state player once, and had scored a century in a match against Tanzania. Now he was too old for first-class cricket, but he liked encouraging young players and he thought Ranji would make a good cricketer.
"What's the trouble?" he asked, as Ranji stepped into the shop. "Lost the game today?"
Ranji felt better as soon as he was inside the shop. Because Mr Kumar was so friendly, the sports goods also seemed friendly. The bats and balls and shuttle-cocks all seemed to want to be helpful.
"We lost the match," said Ranji.
"Never mind," said Mr Kumar. "Where would we be without losers? There wouldn't be any games without them — no cricket or football or hockey or tennis! No carrom or marbles. No sports shop for me! Anyway, how many runs did you make?"
"None. I made a big round egg."
Mr Kumar rested his hand on Ranji's shoulder. "Never mind. All good players have a bad day now and then."
"But I haven't made a good score in my last three matches," said Ranji. "I'll be dropped from the team if I don't do something in the next game."
"Well, we can't have that happening," mused Mr Kumar. "Something will have to be done about it."
"I'm just unlucky," said Ranji.
"Maybe, maybe ... But in that case, it's time your luck changed."
"It's too late now," said Ranji.
"Nonsense. It's never too late. Now, you just come with me to the back of my shop and I'll see if I can do something about your luck."
Puzzled, Ranji followed Mr Kumar through the curtained partition at the back of the shop. He found himself in a badly lit room stacked to the ceiling with all kinds of old and secondhand sporting goods — torn football bladders, broken bats, rackets without strings, broken darts and tattered badminton nets.
Mr Kumar began examining a number of old cricket bats, and after a few minutes he said "Ah!" and picked up one of the bats and held it out to Ranji.
"This is it!" he said. "This is the luckiest of all my old bats. This is the bat I made a century with!" And he gave it a twirl and started hitting an imaginary ball to all corners of the room.
"Of course it's an old bat, but it hasn't lost any of its magic," said Mr Kumar, pausing in his stroke-making to recover his breath. He held it out to Ranji. "Here, take it! I'll lend it to you for the rest of the cricket season. You won't fail with it."
Ranji took the bat and gazed at it with awe and delight.
"Is it really the bat you made a century with?" he asked.
"It is," said Mr Kumar. "And it may get you a hundred runs too!"
Ranji spent a nervous week waiting for Saturday's match. His school team would be playing a strong side from another town. There was a lot of classwork that week, so Ranji did not get much time to practise with the other boys. As he had no brothers or sisters, he asked Koki, the girl next door, to bowl to him in the garden. Koki bowled quite well, but Ranji liked to hit the ball hard — "just to get used to the bat," he told her — and she soon got tired of chasing the ball all over the garden.
At last Saturday arrived, bright and sunny and just right for cricket.
Suraj won the toss for the school and took first batting.
The opening batsmen put on thirty runs without being separated. The visiting fast bowlers couldn't do much. The spin bowlers came on, and immediately there was a change in the game. Two wickets fell in one over, and the score was 33 for 2. Suraj made a few quick runs, then he too was out to one of the spinners, caught behind the wicket. The next batsman was clean bowled — 46 for 4 — and it was Ranji's turn to bat.
He walked slowly to the wicket. The fielders crowded round him. He took guard and prepared for the first ball.
The
bowler took a short run and then the ball was twirling towards Ranji, looking as though it would spin away from his bat as he leant forward into his stroke.
And then a thrill ran through Ranji's arm as he felt the ball meet the springy willow of the bat.
Crack!
The ball, hit firmly with the middle of Ranji's bat, streaked past the helpless bowler and sped towards the boundary. Four runs!
The bowler was annoyed, with the result that his next ball was a loose full-toss. Ranji swung it to the on-side boundary for another four.
And that was only the beginning. Now Ranji began to play all the strokes he knew: late cuts and square cuts, straight drives, on-drives and off-drives. The rival captain tried all his bowlers, fast and spin, but none of them could remove Ranji, who sent the fielders scampering all over the field.
At the lunch break he had scored 40. And twenty minutes after lunch, when Suraj closed the innings, Ranji was not out with 58.
The rival team was bowled out for a poor score, and Ranji's school won the match.
On his way home Ranji stopped at Mr Kumar's shop to give him the good news.
"We won!" he said. "And I made 58—my highest score so far. It really is a lucky bat!"
"I told you so," said Mr Kumar, giving Ranji a warm handshake. "There'll be bigger scores yet."
Ranji went home in high spirits. He was so pleased that he stopped at the Jumna Sweet Shop and bought two luddoos for Koki. She liked cricket but she liked luddoos even more.
Mr Kumar was right. It was only the beginning of Ranji's success with the bat. In the next game he scored 40, and was out when he grew careless and allowed himself to be stumped by the wicket-keeper. The game that followed was a two-day match, and Ranji, who was now batting at No. 3, made 45 runs. He hit a number of boundaries before being caught. In the second innings, when the school team needed only 60 runs for victory, Ranji was batting with 25 when the winning runs were hit.
Everyone was pleased with him — his coach, his captain, Suraj and Mr Kumar... but no one knew about the lucky bat. That was a secret between Ranji and Mr Kumar.