by Ruskin Bond
When, eventually, I succeed in barricading the floor, I find the roof leaking, and the water trickling down the walls, obliterating the dusty designs I have made on the plaster with my foot. I place a tin here and a mug there, and then, satisfied that everything is under control, sit on my cot and watch the roof-tops through my window.
But there is a loud banging on the door. It flies open with the pressure, and there is Suraj, standing on the threshold, shaking himself like a wet dog. Coming in, he strips off all his clothes, and then he dries himself with a torn threadbare towel, and sits shivering on the bed while I make frantic efforts to close the door again.
‘You are cold, Suraj, I will make you some tea.’
He nods, forgetting to smile for once, and I know his mind is elsewhere, in one of a thousand places and all of them dreams.
When I have got the fire going, and placed the kettle on the red hot coals, I sit down beside Suraj and put my arm around his bony shoulders and dream a little with him.
‘One day I will write a book,’ I tell him. ‘Not a murder story, but a real book, about real people. Perhaps it will be about you and me and Pipalnagar. And then we will break away from Pipalnagar, fly away like eagles, and our troubles will be over and fresh new troubles will begin. I do not mind difficulties, as long as they are new difficulties.’
‘First I must pass my exams,’ said Suraj. ‘Without a certificate one can do nothing, go nowhere.’
‘Who taught you such nonsense? While you are preparing for your exams, I will be writing my book. That’s it! I will start tonight. It is an auspicious night, the first night of the monsoon. Let us start tonight.’
And by the time we had drunk our tea it was evening and growing dark. The light did not come on; a tree must have fallen across the wires. So I lit a candle and placed it on the window sill (the rain and wind had ceased). While the candle spluttered in the steady stillness, Suraj opened his books and with one hand on a book, and the other playing with his toes—this helped him to read—he began his studies.
I took the ink down from the shelf, and finding the bottle empty, added a little rainwater to it from one of the mugs. I sat down beside Suraj and began to write; but the pen was no good, and made blotches all over and I didn’t really know what to write about, though I was full of writing just then.
So I began to look at Suraj instead; at his eyes, hidden in the shadows, his hands in the candle light; and felt his breathing and the slight movement of his lips as he read softly to himself.
A gust of wind came through the window, and the candle went out. I swore softly in Punjabi.
‘Never mind,’ said Suraj, ‘I was tired of reading.’
‘But I was writing.’
‘Your book?’
‘No, a letter . . .’
‘I have never known you to write letters, except to publishers asking them for money. To whom were you writing?’
‘To you,’ I said. ‘And I will send you the letter one day, perhaps when we are no longer together.’
‘I will wait for it, then. I will not read it now.’
Five
At ten o’clock on a wet night Pipalnagar had its first earthquake in thirty years. It lasted exactly five seconds. A low, ominous rumble was followed by a few quick shudders, and the water surahi jumped off the window ledge and crashed on the floor.
By the time Suraj and I had tumbled out of the room, the shock was over; but panic prevailed, and the entire population of the Mohalla was out in the street. One old man of seventy leapt from a first floor balcony and broke his neck; a large crowd had gathered round his body. Several women had fainted. On the other hand, many were shrieking and running about. Only a few days back astrologers had predicted the end of the world, and everyone was convinced that this was only the first of a series of earthquakes.
At temples and other places of worship prayer meetings were held. People moved about the street, pointing out the cracks that had appeared in their houses. Some of these cracks had, of course, been there for years, and were only now being discovered.
At midnight, men and women were still about; and, as though to justify their prudence, another, milder tremor made itself felt. The roof of an old house, weakened by many heavy monsoons, was encouraged to give way, and fell with a suitably awe-inspiring crash. Fortunately, no one was beneath it. Everyone was soaking wet by now, as the rain had come down harder, but no one dared venture indoors, specially after a roof had fallen in.
Worse still, the electricity failed and the entire Mohalla plunged into darkness. People huddled together, fearing the worst, while the rain came down incessantly.
‘More people will die of pneumonia than earthquake,’ observed Suraj. ‘Let’s go for a walk, it is better than standing about doing nothing.’
We rolled up our pyjamas and went splashing through the puddles. On the outskirts of the town we met Pitamber dancing in the middle of the road. He was very merry, and quite drunk.
‘Why are you dancing in the road?’ I asked.
‘Because I am happy, that’s why,’ said Pitamber.
‘And what makes you so happy, my friend?’
‘Because I am dancing in the road,’ he replied.
We began walking home again. The rain had stopped. There was a break in the clouds and a pale moon appeared. The neem trees gave out a strong, sweet smell.
There were no more tremors that night. When we got back to the Mohalla, the sky was lighter, and people were beginning to move into their houses again. We lay on our island, in the shade of a thorn bush, watching a pair of sarus cranes on the opposite bank prancing and capering around each other. Tall, stork-like birds, with naked red heads and long red legs.
‘We might be saruses in some future life,’ I said.
‘I hope so,’ said Suraj. ‘Even if it means being born on a lower level. I would like to be a beautiful white bird. I am tired of being a man, but I do not want to leave the world altogether. It is very lovely, sometimes.’
‘I would like to be a sacred bird,’ I said. ‘I don’t wish to be shot at.’
‘Aren’t saruses sacred? Look how they enjoy themselves.’
‘They are making love. That is their principal occupation apart from feeding themselves. And they are so devoted to each other that if one bird is killed, the other will haunt the scene for weeks, calling distractedly. They have even been known to pine away and die of grief. That’s why they are held in such affection by people in villages.’
‘So many birds are sacred.’
We saw a bluejay swoop down from a tree—a flash of blue—and carry off a grasshopper.
Both the bluejay and Lord Siva are called Nilkanth. Siva has a blue throat, like the bluejay, because out of compassion for the human race he swallowed a deadly poison which was meant to destroy the world. He kept the poison in his throat and would not let it go any further.
‘Are squirrels sacred?’ asked Suraj, curiously watching one fumbling with a piece of bread which we had thrown away.
‘Krishna loved them. He would take them in his arms and stroke them with his long, gentle fingers. That is why they have four dark lines down their backs from head to tail. Krishna was very dark skinned, and the lines are the marks of his fingers.’
‘We should be gentle to animals . . . Why do we kill so many of them?’
‘It is not so important that we do not kill them—it is important that we respect them. We must acknowledge their right to live on this earth. Everywhere, birds and animals are finding it more difficult to survive, because we are destroying their homes. They have to keep moving as the trees and the green grass keep disappearing.’
Flowers in Pipalnagar—do they exist?
I have known flowers in poetry, and as a child I knew a garden in Lucknow where there were fields of flowers, and another garden where only roses grew. In the fields round Pipalnagar I have seen dandelions that evaporate when you breathe on them, and sometimes a yellow buttercup nestling among thistles. But in our
Mohalla, there are no flowers except one. This is a marigold growing out of a crack in my balcony.
I have removed the plaster from the base of the plant, and filled in a little earth which I water every morning. The plant is healthy, and sometimes it produces a little orange marigold, which I pluck and give away before it dies.
Sometimes Suraj keeps the flower in his tray, among the combs and scent bottles and buttons that he sells. Sometimes he offers the flower to a passing child—to a girl who runs away; or it might be a boy who tears the flower to shreds. Some children keep it; others give flowers to Suraj when he passes their houses.
Suraj has a flute which he plays whenever he is tired of going from house to house.
He will sit beneath a shady banyan or peepul, put his tray aside, and take out his flute. The haunting little notes travel down the road in the afternoon stillness, and children come to sit beside him and listen to the flute music. They are very quiet when he plays, because there is a little sadness about his music, and children specially can sense that sadness.
Suraj has made flutes cut of pieces of bamboo; but he never sells them, he gives them away to the children he likes. He will sell anything, but not his flutes.
Sometimes Suraj plays his flute at night, when I am lying awake on the cot, unable to sleep; and even when I fall asleep, the flute is playing in my dreams. Sometimes he brings it with him to the crooked tree, and plays it for the benefit of the birds; but the parrots only make harsh noises and fly away.
Once, when Suraj was playing his flute to a group of children, he had a fit. The flute fell from his hands, and he began to roll about in the dust on the roadside. The children were frightened and ran away.
But they did not stay away for long. The next time they heard the flute play, they came to listen as usual.
Six
As Suraj and I walked over a hill near the limestone quarries, past the shacks of the Rajasthani labourers, we met a funeral procession on its way to the cremation ground. Suraj placed his hand on my arm and asked me to wait until the procession had passed. At the same time a cyclist dismounted and stood at the side of the road. Others hurried on, without glancing at the little procession.
‘I was taught to respect the dead in this way,’ said Suraj. ‘Even if you do not respect a man in life, you should respect him in death. The body is unimportant, but we should honour it out of respect for the man’s mind.’
‘It is a good custom,’ I said.
‘It must be difficult to live on after one you have loved has died.’
‘I don’t know. It has not happened to me. If a love is strong, I cannot see its end . . . It cannot end in death, I feel . . . Even physically, you would exist for me somehow.’
He was asleep when I returned late at night from a card game in which I had lost fifty rupees. I was a little drunk, and when I tripped near the doorway, he woke up; and though he did not open his eyes, I felt he was looking at me.
I felt very guilty and ashamed, because he had been ill that day, and I had forgotten it. Now there was no point in saying I was sorry. Drunkenness is really a vice, because it degrades a man, and humiliates him.
Prostitution is degrading, but a prostitute can still keep her dignity; thieving is degrading according to the character of the theft; begging is degrading but it is not as undignified as drunkenness. In all our vices we are aware of our degradation; but in drunkenness we lose our pride, our heads, and, above all, our natural dignity. We become so obviously and helplessly ‘human’, that we lose our glorious animal identity.
I sat down at the side of the bed, and bending over Suraj, whispered, ‘I got drunk and lost fifty rupees, what am I to do about it?’
He smiled, but still he didn’t open his eyes, and I kicked off my sandals and pulled off my shirt and lay down across the foot of the bed. He was still burning with fever, I could feel it radiating through the sheet.
We were silent for a long time, and I didn’t know if he was awake or asleep; so I pressed his foot and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but he was asleep now, and did not hear me.
Moonlight.
Pipalnagar looks clean in the moonlight, and my thoughts are different from my daytime thoughts.
The streets are empty, and the moon probes the alleyways, and there is a silver dustbin, and even the slush and the puddles near the bus stop shimmer and glisten.
Kisses in the moonlight. Hungry kisses. The shudder of bodies clinging to each other on the moonswept floor.
A drunken quarrel in the street. Voices rise and fall. The night-watchman waits for the trouble to pass, and then patrols the street once more, banging the lathi on the pavement.
Kamla asleep. She sleeps like an angel. I go downstairs and walk in the moonlight. I meet Suraj coming home, his books under his arm; he has been studying late with Aziz, who has a junk shop near the station. Their exams are only a month off. I am confident that Suraj will be successful. I am only afraid that he will work himself to a standstill. With his weak chest and the uncertainty of his fits, he should not walk all day and read all night.
When I wake in the early hours of the morning and Kamla stirs beside me in the sleep (her hair so laden with perfume that my own sleep has been fitful and disturbed), Suraj is still squatting on the floor, reading by the light of the kerosene lamp.
And even when he has finished reading, he does not sleep, but asks me to walk with him before the sun rises. And, as women were not made to get up before the sun, we leave Kamla stretched out on the cot, relaxed and languid; small breasts and a boy’s waist; her hair tumbling about the pillow; her mouth slightly apart, her lips still swollen and bruised with kisses.
I have been seeking through sex something beyond sex—a union with all mankind.
The Sensualist*
‘One evening, I pushed open the door of an old house teetering over the riverbank, and looked into a narrow passage dimly lighted by a green paper lantern. From within came the sounds of flute and sitar. A curtain was drawn back and an old woman came towards me. She was a withered old crone who glanced at me with an enticing leer and led me to the top of a staircase where she took my money with a swooping, gull-like movement. She then led me into a small, dark room where I was able to make out a wide couch, raised just above the floor and decorated with a gay but tattered rug.
‘“I will fetch Shankhini for you,” she said. “You will be happy with her.”
‘My eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dim light, and I was able to see the girl who entered the room and closed and bolted the door behind her. She drew near with a composed and friendly manner, as if I was an old acquaintance. And in some ways I suppose I must have been, for to the prostitute, all men are one—unity in diversity!
‘Except for a diaphanous wrap of silk and a narrow girdle, the girl was completely naked. She wore white jasmine blossoms in her black hair. She looked little more than a child, although her hips were graceful and well-rounded.
‘“Shall I dance?” she asked. “Tell me what you would like me to do.”
‘“Dance,” I said. I had been unprepared for her youthfulness.
‘And so she danced beneath the greenish moon of the paper lantern, and the only sound was the soft fall of her feet upon the mat. The heavy door shut out the music downstairs, the street cries, the hollow boom of the river. It was a dance without music, without sound, and I felt as though those small feet were dancing gently on my heart, on the very source of my life. When the dancing ceased, the girl smiled at me with an expression simultaneously wise, childlike, and passionate. Looking like a sleek green-gold cat in the light from the lantern, she subsided softly on the couch beside me. She had been trained in the art of making love. And yet beneath it all lay an undercurrent of innocence. I think this was because she suffered from no feelings of guilt. She had been brought up to please men as though this was her sole duty in life. She had not known and did not seek any other kind of existence.
‘She did not let a moment pass in which she did n
ot seem to be giving herself. Her aspect was continually changing. She did not surrender even one of her secrets without giving me an inkling that another still remained to be disclosed.
‘“Do you find me beautiful?” she asked. It was her stock question. And I gave her the expected answer, “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”
‘She smiled at me with her large, childlike eyes. Then her head came between me and the lantern, and her face seemed to be framed in a halo of green light.
‘“Forget everything,” she said. “Here there is no time, neither night nor day.”
‘“Let me do something for you,” I said, feeling suddenly generous towards this girl. “Let me give you something.”
‘“I take nothing,” she answered. “It is for the old woman to take. You must only tell me that I am beautiful and that I have made you happy.”
‘“You are very beautiful. You make me very happy.”
‘“I have heard it a hundred times. But I still like to hear it.” And then, drawing close to me and gazing into my eyes, she said, “You are very important to yourself, are you not?” She raised her hand to my brow, and tapping my temples with her painted fingers, said, “There is a cold fire there! It is stronger than all other flames, and seems brighter. It fights against the warmth of the heart, and will quench the fire of many hearts. So you must always move from one to another. What are you looking for? There is nothing to find. Forget everything. Love me, and forget!”
‘Forget? Can the mind forget? It was written by a sage of old, “Remember past deeds, O my mind, remember!” But the injunction is unnecessary, because we are remembering all the time—even when we say we have forgotten. And can the memory of past deeds really shape the nature of future deeds? Man cannot help but live in conformity with his nature; his subconscious is more powerful than his conscious mind, and he cannot deny his body until he removes himself from the scene of all physical activity. It is useless to struggle against one’s nature. Some believe that there is salvation in struggle—they are merely showing that they do not know what salvation is.