Friends In Small Places

by Ruskin Bond

  He said, ‘Somi . . .’ but could go no further.

  ‘Finish the coconut!’

  ‘Somi,’ said Rusty again, ‘if you are leaving Dehra, Somi, then I am leaving too.’

  ‘Eat the coco . . . what did you say?’

  ‘I am going too.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Serious now, and troubled, Somi put his hand on his friend’s wrist; he shook his head, he could not understand.

  ‘Why, Rusty? Where?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘But you haven’t money, you silly fool!’

  ‘I can get an assisted passage. The British Government will pay.’

  ‘You are a British subject?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Toba!’ Somi slapped his thighs and looked upwards in despair. ‘You are neither an Indian subject nor a British subject, and you think someone is going to pay for your passage! And how are you to get a passport?’

  ‘How?’ asked Rusty, anxious to find out.

  ‘Toba! Have you a birth certificate?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Then you are not born,’ decreed Somi, with a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘You are not alive! You do not happen to be in this world!’

  He paused for breath, then waved his finger in the air. ‘Rusty, you cannot go!’ he said.

  Rusty lay down despondently.

  ‘I never really thought I would,’ he said. ‘I only said I would because I felt like it. Not because I am unhappy—I have never been happier elsewhere— but because I am restless as I have always been. I don’t suppose I’ll be anywhere for long . . .’

  He spoke the truth. Rusty always spoke the truth. He defined truth as feeling, and when he said what he felt, he said the truth. (Only he didn’t always speak his feelings.) He never lied. You don’t have to lie if you know how to withhold the truth.

  ‘You belong here,’ said Somi, trying to reconcile Rusty with the circumstance. ‘You will get lost in big cities, Rusty, you will break your heart. And when you come back—if you come back—I will be grown-up and you will be grown-up—I mean more than we are now—and we will be like strangers to each other . . . And besides, there are no chaat shops in England!’

  ‘But I don’t belong here, Somi. I don’t belong anywhere. Even if I have papers, I don’t belong. I’m a half-caste, I know it, and that is as good as not belonging anywhere.’

  What am I saying, thought Rusty, why do I make my inheritance a justification for my present bitterness? No one has cast me out . . . of my own free will I run away from India . . . why do I blame inheritance?

  ‘It can also mean that you belong everywhere,’ said Somi. ‘But you never told me. You are fair like a European.’

  ‘I had not thought much about it.’

  ‘Are you ashamed?’

  ‘No. My guardian was. He kept it to himself, he only told me when I came home after playing Holi. I was happy then. So, when he told me, I was not ashamed, I was proud.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now? Oh, I can’t really believe it. Somehow I do not really feel mixed.’

  ‘Then don’t blame it for nothing.’

  Rusty felt a little ashamed, and they were both silent awhile, then Somi shrugged and said, ‘So you are going. You are running away from India.’

  ‘No, not from India.’

  ‘Then you are running away from your friends, from me!’

  Rusty felt the irony of this remark, and allowed a tone of sarcasm into his voice.

  ‘You, Master Somi, you are the one who is going away. I am still here. You are going to Amritsar. I only want to go. And I’m here alone; everyone has gone. So if I do eventually leave, the only person I’ll be running away from will be myself!’

  ‘Ah!’ said Somi, nodding his head wisely. ‘And by running away from yourself, you will be running away from me and from India! Now come on, let’s go and have chaat.’

  He pulled Rusty off the bed, and pushed him out of the room. Then, at the top of the steps, he leapt lightly on Rusty’s back, kicked him with his heels, and shouted, ‘Down the steps, my tattoo, my pony! Fast down the steps!’

  So Rusty carried him downstairs and dropped him on the grass. They laughed, but there was no great joy in their laughter, they laughed for the sake of friendship.

  ‘Best favourite friend,’ said Somi, throwing a handful of mud in Rusty’s face.

  The Lafunga*

  ‘If you have nothing to do,’ said Devinder, ‘will you come with me on my rounds?’

  Rusty set out with Devinder in the direction of the bazaar. As it was early morning, the shops were just beginning to open. Vegetable vendors were busy freshening their stock with liberal sprinklings of water, calling their prices and their wares; children dawdled in the road on their way to school, playing hopscotch or marbles. Girls going to college chattered in groups like gay, noisy parrots. Men cycled to work, and bullock carts came in from the villages, laden with produce. The dust, which had taken all night to settle, rose again like a mist.

  When they reached the Clock Tower, someone whistled to them from across the street, and a tall young man came striding towards them.

  He looked taller than Devinder, mainly because of his long legs. He wore a loose-fitting bush-shirt that hung open in front. His face was long and pale, but he had quick, devilish eyes, and he smiled disarmingly.

  ‘Here comes Sudheer, the Lafunga,’ whispered Devinder. ‘Lafunga means loafer. He probably wants some money. He is the most charming and the most dangerous person in town.’ Aloud, he said, ‘Sudheer, when are you going to return the twenty rupees you owe me?’

  ‘Don’t talk that way, Devinder,’ said the Lafunga, looking offended. ‘Don’t hurt my feelings. You know your money is safer with me than it is in the bank. It will even bring you dividends, mark my words. I have a plan that will come off in a few days, and then you will get back double your money. Please tell me, who is your friend?’

  ‘We stay together,’ said Devinder, introducing Rusty. ‘And he is bankrupt too, so don’t get any ideas.’

  ‘Please don’t believe what he says of me,’ said the Lafunga with a captivating smile that showed his strong teeth. ‘Really, I am not very harmful.’

  ‘Well, completely harmless people are usually dull,’ said Rusty.

  ‘How I agree with you! I think we have a lot in common.’ ‘No, he hasn’t got anything,’ put in Devinder.

  ‘Well then, he must start from the beginning. It is the best way to make a fortune. You will come and see me, won’t you, mister Rusty? We could make a terrific combination, I am sure. You are the kind of person people trust! They take only one look at me and then feel their pockets to see if anything is missing!’

  Rusty instinctively put his hand to his own pocket, and all three of them laughed.

  ‘Well, I must go,’ said Sudheer, the Lafunga, now certain that Devinder was not likely to produce any funds. ‘I have a small matter to attend to. It may bring me a fee of twenty or thirty rupees.’

  ‘Go,’ said Devinder. ‘Strike while the iron is hot.’

  ‘Not I,’ said the Lafunga, grinning and moving off. ‘I make the iron hot by striking.’

  ‘Sudheer is not too bad,’ said Devinder, as they walked away from the Clock Tower. ‘He is a crook, of course—Shree 420—but he would not harm people like us. As he is quite well educated, he manages to gain the confidence of some well-to-do people, and acts on their behalf in matters that are not always respectable. But he spends what he makes, and is too generous to be successful.’

  They had reached a quiet, tree-lined road, and walked in the shade of neem, mango, jamun and eucalyptus trees. Clumps of tall bamboo grew between the trees.

  Some marigolds grew wild on the footpath, and Devinder picked two of them, giving one to Rusty.

  ‘There is a girl who lives at the bottom of the road,’ he said. ‘She is a pretty girl. Come with me and see her.’


  They walked to the house at the end of the road and, while Rusty stood at the gate, Devinder went up the path. Devinder stood at the bottom of the veranda steps, a little to one side, where he could be seen from a window, and whistled softly.

  Presently, a girl came out on the veranda. When she saw Devinder, she smiled. She had a round, fresh face, and long black hair, and she was not wearing any shoes.

  Devinder gave her the marigold. She took it in her hand and, not knowing what to say, ran indoors.

  That morning, Devinder and Rusty walked about four miles. Devinder’s customers ranged from decadent maharanis and the wives of government officials to gardeners and sweeper women. Though his merchandise was cheap, the well-to-do were more finicky about a price than the poor. And there were a few who bought things from Devinder because they knew his circumstances and liked what he was doing.

  Returning to the bazaar, Devinder found Sudheer at a paan shop, his lips red with betel juice. Devinder went straight to the point.

  ‘Sudheer,’ he said, ‘you owe me twenty rupees. I need it, not for myself, but for Rusty, who has to leave Dehra very urgently. You must get me the money by tonight.’

  The Lafunga scratched his head.

  ‘It will be difficult,’ he said, ‘but perhaps it can be managed. He really needs the money? It is not just a trick to get your own money back?’

  ‘He is going to the hills. There may be money for him there, if he finds the person he is looking for.’

  ‘Well, that’s different,’ said the Lafunga, brightening up. ‘That makes Rusty an investment. Meet me at the Clock Tower at six o’clock, and I will have the money for you. I am glad to find you making useful friends for a change.’

  He stuffed another roll of paan into his mouth, and taking leave of Devinder with a bright red smile, strolled leisurely down the bazaar road.

  As far as appearances went, he had little to do but loll around in the afternoon sunshine, frequenting tea shops, and gambling with cards in small back rooms. All this he did very well—but it did not earn him a living.

  To say that he lived by his wits would be an exaggeration. He lived a great deal by other people’s wits. There was the seth, for instance, Rusty’s former landlord, who owned much property and dabbled in many shady transactions, and who was often represented by the Lafunga in affairs of an unsavoury nature.

  Sudheer came originally from the Frontier, where little value was placed on human life. While still a boy, he had wandered, a homeless refugee, over the border into India. A smuggler adopted him, taught him something of the trade, and introduced him to some of the best hands in the profession; but in a border foray with the police, Sudheer’s foster father was shot dead, and the youth was once again on his own. By this time he was old enough to look after himself. With the help of his foster father’s connections, he soon secured the service and confidence of the seth.

  Sudheer was no petty criminal. He practised crime as a fine art, and believed that thieves, and even murderers, had to have certain principles. If he stole, he stole from a rich man who could afford to be robbed, or from a greedy man who deserved to be robbed. And if he did not rob poor men, it was not because of any altruistic motive—it was because poor men were not worth robbing.

  He was good to those friends, like Devinder, who were good to him. Perhaps his most valuable friends, as sources of both money and information, were the dancing girls who followed their profession in an almost inaccessible little road in the heart of the bazaar. His best friends were Hastini and Mrinalini. He borrowed money from them very freely, and seldom paid back more than half of it.

  Hastini could twang the sitar, and dance—with a rather heavy tread—among various other accomplishments.

  Mrinalini, a much smaller woman, had grown up in the profession. She was looked after by her mother, a former entertainer, who kept most of the money that Mrinalini made.

  Sudheer woke Hastini in the middle of her afternoon siesta by tickling her under the chin with a feather.

  ‘And who were you with last night, little brother?’ she asked running her fingers through his thick brown hair. ‘You are smelling of some horrible perfume.’

  ‘You know I do not spend my nights with anyone,’ said Sudheer. ‘The perfume is from yesterday.’

  ‘Someone new?’

  ‘No, my butterfly. I have known her for a week.’ ‘Too long a time,’ said Hastini petulantly. ‘A dangerously long time. How much have you spent on her?’

  ‘Nothing so far. But that is not why I came to see you. Have you got twenty rupees?’

  ‘Villain!’ cried Hastini. ‘Why do you always borrow from me when you want to entertain some stupid young thing? Are you so heartless?’

  ‘My little lotus flower!’ protested Sudheer, pinching her rosy cheeks. ‘I am not borrowing for any such reason. A friend of mine has to leave Dehra urgently, and I must get the money for his train fare. I owe it to him.’

  ‘Since when did you have a friend?’

  ‘Never mind that. I have one. And I come to you for help because I love you more than any one else. Would you prefer that I borrow the money from Mrinalini?’

  ‘You dare not,’ said Hastini. ‘I will kill you if you do.’

  Between Hastini, of the broad hips, and Mrinalini, who was small and slender, there existed a healthy rivalry for the affections of Sudheer. Perhaps it was the great difference in their proportions that animated the rivalry. Mrinalini envied the luxuriousness of Hastini’s soft body, while Hastini envied Mrinalini’s delicacy, poise, slenderness of foot, and graceful walk. Mrinalini was the colour of milk and honey; she had the daintiness of a deer, while Hastini possessed the elegance of an elephant.

  Sudheer could appreciate both these qualities. He stood up, looking young even for his twenty-two years, and smiled a crooked smile. He might have looked effeminate had it not been for his hands—they were big, long-fingered, strong hands.

  ‘Where is the money?’ he asked.

  ‘You are so impatient! Sit down, sit down. I have it here beneath the mattress.’

  Sudheer’s hand made its way beneath the mattress and probed about in search of the money.

  ‘Ah, here it is! You have a fortune stacked away here. Yes, ten rupees, fifteen, twenty, and one for luck . . . Now give me a kiss!’

  About an hour later Sudheer was in the street again, whistling cheerfully to himself. He walked with a long, loping stride, his shirt hanging open. Warm sunshine filled one side of the narrow street, and crept up the walls of shops and houses.

  Sudheer passed a fruit stand, where the owner was busy talking to a customer, and helped himself to a choice red Kashmiri apple. He continued on his way down the bazaar road, munching the apple.

  The bazaar continued for a mile, from the Clock Tower to the railway station, and Sudheer could hear the whistle of a train. He turned off at a little alley, throwing his half-eaten apple to a stray dog. Then he climbed a flight of stairs—wooden stairs that were loose and rickety, liable to collapse at any moment . . .

  Mrinalini’s half-deaf mother was squatting on the kitchen floor, lighting a fire in an earthen brazier. Sudheer poked his head round the door and shouted, ‘Good morning, Mother, I hope you are making me some tea. You look fine today!’ And then, in a lower tone, so that she could not hear: ‘You look like a dried-up mango.’

  ‘So it’s you again,’ grumbled the old woman. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Your most respectable daughter is what I want,’ said Sudheer.

  ‘What’s that?’ She cupped her hand to her ear and leaned forward.

  ‘Where’s Mrinalini?’ shouted Sudheer.

  ‘Don’t shout like that! She is not here.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to know,’ said Sudheer, and he walked through the kitchen, through the living-room, and on to the veranda balcony, where he found Mrinalini sitting in the sun, combing out her long silken hair.

  ‘Let me do it for you,’ said Sudheer, and he took the comb from h
er hand and ran it through the silky black hair. ‘For one so little, so much hair. You could conceal yourself in it, and not be seen, except for your dainty little feet.’

  ‘What are you after, Sudheer? You are so full of compliments this morning. And watch out for Mother—if she sees you combing my hair, she will have a fit!’

  ‘And I hope it kills her.’

  ‘Sudheer!’

  ‘Don’t be so sentimental about your mother. You are her little gold mine, and she treats you as such—soon I will be having to fill in application forms before I can see you! It is time you kept your earnings for yourself.’

  ‘So that it will be easier for you to help yourself?’

  ‘Well, it would be more convenient. By the way, I have come to you for twenty rupees.’

  Mrinalini laughed delightedly, and took the comb from Sudheer. ‘What were you saying about my little feet?’ she asked slyly.

  ‘I said they were the feet of a princess, and I would be very happy to kiss them.’

  ‘Kiss them, then.’

  She held one delicate golden foot in the air, and Sudheer took it in his hands (which were as large as her feet) and kissed her ankles.

  ‘That will be twenty rupees,’ he said.

  She pushed him away with her foot. ‘But, Sudheer, I gave you fifteen rupees only three days ago. What have you done with it?’ ‘I haven’t the slightest idea: I only know that I must have more. It is most urgent, you can be sure of that. But if you cannot help me, I must try elsewhere.’

  ‘Do that, Sudheer. And may I ask, whom do you propose to try?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of Hastini.’

  ‘Who?

  ‘You know, Hastini, the girl with the wonderful figure . . .’

  ‘I should think I do! Sudheer, if you so much as dare to take a rupee from her, I’ll never speak to you again!’

  ‘Well, then, what shall I do?’

  Mrinalini beat the arms of the chair with her little fists, and cursed Sudheer under her breath. Then she got up and went into the kitchen. A great deal of shouting went on in the kitchen before Mrinalini came back with flushed cheeks and fifteen rupees.