by Ruskin Bond
While Mukesh and Teju were escorting visitors around the zoo, lecturing them on wild dogs and wild asses, Koki and Dolly were doing a brisk trade at the ticket counter. They had collected about ten rupees and were hoping for yet more, when there was a disturbance in the enclosures.
The black dog with yellow eyes had finally managed to dig his way out of his cage, and was now busy trying to dig his way into the rabbit's compartment. The rabbit was running round and round in panic-stricken circles. Meanwhile, the donkey had finally snapped the rope that held it and, braying loudly, scattered the spectators and made for home.
Koki went to the rescue of her rabbit and soon had it cradled in her arms. The dog now turned his attention to the duck. The duck flew over the packing-case, while the dog landed in it, scattering lizards in all directions.
In all this confusion, no one noticed that the door of the parrot's cage had slipped open. With a squawk and a whirr of wings, the bird shot out of the cage and flew off into a nearby orchard.
"The parrot's gone!" shouted Dolly, and almost immediately a silence fell upon the assembled visitors and children. Even the dog stopped barking. Granny's praying parrot had escaped! How could they possibly face her? Teju wondered if she would believe him if he told her it had flown off to heaven.
"Can anyone see it?" he asked tearfully.
"It's on a mango tree," said Dolly. "It won't come back."
The crowd fell away, unwilling to share any of the blame when Koki's grandmother came home and discovered what had happened.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Teju, looking to Koki for help; but Koki was too upset to suggest anything. Mukesh had an idea.
"I know!" he said. "We'll get another one!"
"How?"
"Well, there's the ten rupees we've collected. We can buy a new parrot for ten rupees!"
"But won't Granny know the difference?" asked Teju.
"All these hill parrots look alike," said Mukesh.
So, taking the cage with them, they hurried off to the bazaar, where they soon found a bird-seller who was happy to sell them a parrot not unlike Granny's. He assured them it would talk.
"It looks like your grandmother's parrot," said Mukesh on the way home. "But can it pray?"
"Of course not," said Koki. "But we can teach it."
Koki's grandmother, who was short-sighted, did not notice the substitution; but she complained bitterly that the bird had stopped repeating its prayers and was instead making rude noises and even swearing occasionally.
Teju soon remedied this sad state of affairs.
Every morning he stood in front of the parrot's cage and repeated Granny's prayers. Within a few weeks the bird had learnt to repeat one of them. Granny was happy again — not only because her parrot had started praying once more, but because Teju had started praying too!
THE BOY WHO BROKE THE BANK
athu, the sweeper-boy, grumbled to himself as he swept the steps of a small local bank, owned for the most part by Seth Govind Ram, a man of wealth whose haphazard business dealings had often brought him to the verge of ruin. Nathu used the small broom hurriedly and carelessly; the dust, after rising in a cloud above his head, settled down again on the steps. As Nathu was banging his pan against a dustbin, Sitaram, the washerman's son, passed by.
Sitaram was on his delivery round. He had a bundle of pressed clothes balanced on his head.
"Don't raise such a dust!" he called out to Nathu. "Are you annoyed because they are still refusing to pay you another five rupees a month?"
"I don't want to talk about it," complained the sweeper-boy "I haven't even received my regular pay. And this is the end of the month. Soon two months' pay will be due. Who would think this was a bank, holding up a poor man's salary? As soon as I get my money, I'm off! Not another week will I work in the place."
And Nathu banged his pan against the dustbin two or three times more, just to emphasise his point and give himself confidence.
"Well, I wish you luck," said Sitaram. "I'll be on the lookout for a new job for you." And he plodded barefoot along the road, the big bundle of clothes hiding most of his head and shoulders.
At the fourth house he visited, delivering the washing, Sitaram overheard the woman of the house saying how difficult it was to get someone to sweep the courtyard. Tying up his bundle, Sitaram said: "I know a sweeper-boy who's looking for work. He might be able to work for you from next month. He's with Seth Govind Ram's bank just now, but they are not giving him his pay/and he wants to leave."
"Oh, is that so?" said Mrs Prakash. "And why aren't they paying him?"
"They must be short of money," said Sitaram with a shrug.
Mrs Prakash laughed. "Well, tell him to come and see me when he's free."
Sitaram, glad that he had been of some service both to a friend and to a customer, hoisted his bag on his shoulders and went on his way.
Mrs Prakash had to do some shopping. She gave instructions to her maidservant with regard to the baby and told the cook what she wanted for lunch. Her husband worked for a large company, and they could keep servants and do things in style. Having given her orders, she set out for the bazaar to make her customary tour of the cloth shops.
A large, shady tamarind tree grew near the clock tower, and it was here that Mrs Prakash found her friend, Mrs Bhushan, sheltering from the heat. Mrs Bhushan was fanning herself with a large peacock's feather. She complained that the summer was the hottest in the history of the town. She then showed Mrs Prakash a sample of the cloth she was going to buy, and for five minutes they discussed its shade, texture and design. When they had exhausted the subject, Mrs Prakash said:
"Do you know, my dear, Seth Govind Ram's bank can't even pay its employees. Only this morning I heard a complaint from their sweeper-boy, who hasn't received his pay for two months!"
"It's disgraceful!" exclaimed Mrs Bhushan. "If they can't pay their sweeper, they must be in a bad way. None of the others can be getting paid either."
She left Mrs Prakash at the tamarind tree and went in search of her husband, who was found sitting under the fan in Jugal Kishore's electrical goods shop, playing cards with the owner.
"So there you are!" cried Mrs Bhushan. "I've been looking for you for nearly an hour. Where did you disappear to?"
"Nowhere," replied Mr Bhushan. "Had you remained stationary in one shop, you might have found me. But you go from one to another, like a bee in a flower-garden."
"Now don't start grumbling. The heat is bad enough. I don't know what's happening to this town. Even the bank is going bankrupt."
"What did you say?" said Mr Jugal Kishore, sitting up suddenly. "Which bank?"
"Why, Seth Govind Ram's bank, of course. I hear they've stopped paying their employees — no salary for over three months! Don't tell me you have an account with them, Mr Kishore?"
"No, but my neighbour has!" he said, and he called out to the keeper of the barber shop next door: "Faiz Hussain, have you heard the latest? Seth Govind Ram's bank is about to collapse! You'd better take your money out while there's still time."
Faiz Hussain, who was cutting the hair of an elderly gentleman, was so startled that his hand shook and he nicked his customer's ear. The customer yelped with pain and distresss: pain, because of the cut, and distress, because of the awful news he had just heard. With one side of his neck still unshorn, he leapt out of his chair and sped across the road to a general merchant's store, where there was a telephone. He dialled Seth Govind Ram's number. The Seth was not at home. Where was he, then? The Seth was holidaying in Kashmir. Oh, was that so? The elderly gentleman did not believe it. He hurried back to the barber shop and told Faiz Hussain: "The bird has flown! Seth Govind Ram has left town. Definitely, it means a collapse. I'll have the rest of my haircut another time." And he dashed out of the shop and made a bee-line for his office and cheque book. The news spread through the bazaar with the rapidity of a forest fire. From the general merchant's it travelled to the tea-shop, circulated amongst the
customers, and then spread with them in various directions, to the paan-seller, the tailor, the fruit-vendor, the jeweller, the beggar sitting on the pavement...
Old Ganpat, the beggar, had a crooked leg and had been squatting on the pavement for years, calling for alms. In the evening someone would come with a barrow and take him away. He had never been known to walk. But now, on learning that the bank was about to collapse, Ganpat astonished everyone by leaping to his feet and actually running at a good speed in the direction of the bank. It soon became known that he had well over a thousand rupees in savings.
Men stood in groups at street corners, discussing the situation. There hadn't been so much excitement since India last won a Test match. The small town in the foothills seldom had a crisis, never had floods or earthquakes or droughts. And so the imminent crash of the local bank set everyone talking and speculating and rushing about in a frenzy.
Some boasted of their farsightedness, congratulating themselves on having taken out their money, or on never putting any in. Others speculated on the reasons for the crash, putting it all down to Seth Govind Ram's pleasure-loving ways. The Seth had fled the state, said one. He had fled the country, said another. He had a South American passport, said a third. Others insisted that he was hiding somewhere in the town. And there was a rumour that he had hanged himself from the tamarind tree, where, he had been found that morning by the sweeper-boy.
Someone who had a relative working as a clerk in the bank decided to phone him and get the facts.
"I don't know anything about it," said the clerk, "except that half the town is here, trying to take their money out. Everyone seems to have gone mad!"
"There's a rumour that none of you have been paid."
"Well, all the clerks have had their salaries. We wouldn't be working otherwise. It may be that some of the part-time workers are getting paid late, but that isn't due to a shortage of money — only a few hundred rupees — it's just that the clerk who looks after their payments is on sick leave. You don't expect me to do his work, do you?" And he put the telephone down.
By afternoon the bank had gone through all its ready money, and the harassed manager was helpless. Emergency funds could only be obtained from one of the government banks, and now it was nearly closing time. He wasn't sure he could persuade the crowd outside to wait until the following morning. And Seth Govind Ram could be of no help from his luxury houseboat in Kashmir, five hundred miles away.
The clerks shut down their counters. But the people gathered outside on the steps of the bank, shouting: "We want our money!" "Give it to us today, or we'll break in!" "Fetch Seth Govind Ram, we know he's hiding in the vaults!"
Mischief-makers, who did not have a paisa in the bank, joined the crowd. The manager stood at the door and tried to calm his angry customers. He declared that the bank had plenty of money, that they could withdraw all they wanted the following morning.
"We want it now!" chanted the people. "Now, now, now!"
A few stones were thrown, and the manager retreated indoors, closing the iron-grille gate.
A brick hurtled through the air and smashed into the plate-glass window which advertised the bank's assets.
Then the police arrived. They climbed the steps of the bank and, using their long sticks, pushed the crowd back until people began falling over each other. Gradually everyone dispersed, shouting that they would be back in the morning.
Nathu arrived next morning to sweep the steps of the bank.
He saw the refuse and the broken glass and the stones cluttering up the steps. Raising his hands in horror, he cried: "Goondas! Hooligans! May they suffer from a thousand ills! It was bad enough being paid irregularly — now I must suffer an increase of work!" He smote the steps with his broom, scattering the refuse.
"Good morning, Nathu," said Sitaram, the washerman's son, getting down from his bicycle. "Are you ready to take up a new job from the first of next month? You'll have to, I suppose, now that the bank is closing."
"What did you say?" said Nathu.
"Haven't you heard? The bank's gone bankrupt. You'd better hang around until the others arrive, and then start demanding your money too. You'll be lucky if you get it!" He waved cheerfully, and pedalled away on his bicycle.
Nathu went back to sweeping the steps, muttering to himself. When he had finished, he sat down on the bottom step to await the arrival of the manager. He was determined to get his pay.
"Who would have thought the bank would collapse," he said to himself, and looked thoughtfully across the street. "I wonder how it could have happened ..."
KOKI PLAYS THE GAME
here's a cricket match on Saturday, isn't there?" asked Koki.
"That's right," said Ranji. "We're playing the Public School team."
"I might come and watch," said Koki.
"As you like. It won't be much of a game. We'll beat them easily."
Ranji's own cricket team was quite different from his school team. It consisted of boys big and small, long and short, from various walks of life. Even Koki, a girl, was allowed honorary membership, and had sometimes been 'twelfth man' — an extra. She knew the game well, and often bowled to Ranji in the mornings when he wanted batting practice. Only a couple of the team members could afford to go to private schools like Ranji's; most of them went to the local government school, and two or three had stopped going to school altogether.
There was Bhartu, who delivered newspapers in the mornings; the brothers Mukesh and Rakesh, whose father kept a sweet shop; and a tailor's son, Amir Ali. There was Billy Jones, an Anglo-Indian boy; 'Lumboo' — the Tall One; Sitaram, the washerman's son; and several others. And there was also Bhim, who couldn't play at all, but who made a good umpire (when his glasses weren't steamed over) and who accompanied the team wherever it went.
This Saturday they were playing on their 'home' ground, a patch of wasteland behind a new cinema called the Apsara ('Heavenly Dancer').
The Public School boys had all arrived first, which was only natural since they lived together in the same boarding school. The members of Ranji's team came from different directions, so it was some time before they had all assembled. Even then they were two short. But Ranji won the toss and decided to bat, hoping that the missing team members would arrive in time to take their turn at the wicket.
"If Mukesh and Rakesh aren't here in time, we won't have them in the team," said Ranji sternly.
"Don't sack them," said Lumboo. "They always bring us sweets and snacks from their father's shop. We need them in the team even if they don't score any runs."
"Well, if they turn up without refreshments, they'll be sacked," said Ranji, always ready to be fair.
The two umpires had gone out to set up the stumps — Bhim, on behalf of Ranji's team, and a teacher from the Public School.
"I don't like the look of that teacher," said Amir Ali.
"Well, we won't take any risks."
Billy Jones and Lumboo always opened the batting. Lumboo's height helped him to deal with the fast-rising ball. He took the first ball.
The Public School's opening bowler was speedy but inaccurate. This was because he was trying to bowl too fast. His first ball went for a wide, which gave Ranji's team its first run. The second ball wasn't quite so wide, but it was still about a foot from the leg stump. Lumboo took a swipe at it and missed. The third ball pitched half-way down the wicket and kept low. It struck Lumboo on the pads.
"How's that!" shouted the bowler, wicket-keeper and slip-fielders in unison.
The Public School's umpire did not hesitate. Up went his finger. Lumboo was given out leg-before-wicket.
Lumboo stood aghast. He looked down at where his feet were placed, then back at his stumps.
"I'm not in front of the wicket," he complained to no one in particular.
"The umpire's word is law," said the wicket-keeper.
Lumboo slowly walked back to where his teammates reclined against a pile of bricks.
"I wasn't out!" he protested.
"Never mind," said Ranji, whose turn it was to bat. 'You'll get your chance when you come on to bowl."
He walked to the wicket with a confident air, his bat resting on his shoulder. He took guard carefully and, tapping his bat on the ground, faced the bowler. He received a straight ball, fast, and met it on the half-volley, driving it straight back past the bowler. It sped to the boundary, amidst delighted cries from Ranji's teammates. Four runs.
The next ball was short, just outside the off-stump. Ranji stepped back and square-cut it past point. Another four. There were more cheers, and this time Ranji distinctly heard a girl's voice shouting: "Good shot, Ranji!"
He looked back to where his teammates were gathered. There was no girl among them. He turned and looked towards the opposite boundary, and there, under the giant cinema hoarding, stood Koki. She waved to him.
Ranji did not wave back. He felt acutely self-conscious. Settling down to face the bowler again, he was aware of two things at once — of the bowler making faces and charging up to bowl, and of Koki standing on the boundary and waiting for him to hit another four. This loss of concentration caused him to misjudge the next ball. Instead of playing forward, he played back. The ball took the edge of his bat and flew straight into the wicket-keeper's gloves.
"How's that!" shouted all the fielders, appealing for a catch.
Ranji did not wait for the umpire — in this case, Bhim — to give him out. He knew he'd touched the ball. Scowling, he walked back to his team. It was all Koki's fault!