by Ruskin Bond
‘At first I sought to assuage my restlessness by communing with nature. I searched for truth in the rippling of streams and the rustling of leaves; in the blue heavens or the wilderness of the jungle; in the behaviour of men, beasts and plants; in the superabundance of sunshine that pours down in India. But our bodies germinate as the resurrections of nature. Each bubbling spring, swelling fruit or bursting blossom, reminded me that I too was part of this burgeoning process, so that it was not long before the throb in my loins was as tenderly painful as the unfolding of a rosebud.
‘I am not trying to give you the impression that those years of youthful dissipation were interspersed with a vague searching for my inner self. Once again, I have anticipated . . . The search, if you can call it that, came later. I am merely trying to tell you how I came to be here. This cave is the end of all searching, but before the search there was the indulgence, and the indulgence was a part of the process that brought me to this place.’
‘And, meanwhile, I grew in Mulia’s love.’
‘She tended me as a gardener tends a favourite plant, giving it all the water and nourishment it needs. Special sweets were made for me. Ancient recipes were turned up, and sherbets of many hues and flavours were given to me morning, noon and night. I had given up asking what they contained. I left everything to Mulia. She tried each potion before passing it to me, to make sure that the brew was not too potent. I was convinced that one day I would find her lying dead on the floor, poisoned by one of her own concoctions.
‘But I was not the sort of person who could give anything in return for love. As soon as I found someone growing tender towards me, I withdrew into myself, became remote and cold, so that the love that might have been mine was squandered in an empty void. I was determined to leave them with a feeling of insufficiency. Those who gave themselves to me suffered for it. I became cruel and callous towards them. Was it victory I wanted, or the chance to spurn victory? Samyukta was made to suffer in this way. But Mulia, twenty years older than me, was an exception. I seldom withheld my affections from her, I knew that she was wholly for me and with me. My wealth, strength, welfare and happiness were her sole concern. I was the ruling passion of her life and I knew that if I was taken from her, she would lose the impetus for living.
‘Shankhini, the woman who lived by night, was in a different category altogether. All men had immersed themselves in her, and she could not be expected to love an individual man any more, than a man could be expected to love her. But what was the mysterious attraction that drew me back to her again and again? She had no hold over me. And the old crone who ran the house, certain that I was enamoured with the lithe and boyish figure of this unusual girl, put the price up at every visit. I did not care, I could afford it—or rather my father could afford it. It even gave me a sensuous thrill to hand over the money to the old woman. Not that the old woman excited me in any way; she would have found it hard to arouse a camel! But the business of handing over the money in exchange for an hour or two of personal possession, ownership, of the girl who lived always in green shadows, was a thrill in itself.
‘But would I ever be able to arouse her to any degree of rapture? Although I restrained myself, and took the time and trouble to create in her some crisis of response, she seemed incapable of reaching a state of ecstasy and abandonment. There had been too many men, she told me. Coupling with them had become a mechanical process, and there was no intensity or pleasurable sensation in it. She went through the motions, expertly and in order to satisfy those who had paid for the pastime, but she could not be expected to enjoy the game herself.’
‘So perhaps she was a challenge to me, and that was why I went to her. I wanted to elicit from her a genuine, not a trained response. I think she preferred me to most of her customers, many of whom were pot-bellied businessmen whose overburdened waistlines gave their manhood a shrivelled aspect. Obesity is not conducive to effective lovemaking.
‘It may seem strange, but I liked to talk to Shankhini. In those days, there were few to whom I could talk freely. Mulia was illiterate, and her talk was confined to practical affairs, my needs and bodily functions. She had no other interest outside her small world of service. My mother was old-fashioned and superstitious and so we had very little to say to each other. I hardly ever saw my father. Fellow students at school and college considered me a snob, a wealthy aristocrat, a privileged member of a feudal society. They envied me, and were a little afraid of me too, because unlike others from affluent families, I made no attempt to ingratiate myself with them. Had I lavished money on a few young men, I would soon have had a following, but I had no need of sycophants. I could live with myself, and within myself, provided there were always these women to bear the burden of my ego.
‘Samyukta was intelligent, but there was no real meeting of our minds—the relationship was purely sensual in nature. I gave her the satisfaction she needed after she had exhausted herself intellectually. She was studying medicine, and had to work very hard. Whenever she stopped working, she wanted to stop thinking. I could supply no intellectual need, nor was that what she wanted. But when I moved within her, she cried with ecstasy, she was convulsed with joy; but afterwards she had little or nothing to say. She turned over, lay flat on her belly, and slept.
‘And so in the evenings, as the lights were lit in the bazaar, and pilgrims placed little leaf-boats filled with rose petals on the waters of the river, I made my way to the tall old house with the green paper lanterns, and asked for Shankhini.
‘She was not always available in the evenings. So I took to visiting her in the afternoons, when other men were busy earning a living.
‘The old woman told Shankhini I paid well, and so she went out of her way to make me comfortable, to please me, and to persuade me to come again. She did this as part of her duty; but it wasn’t all commercial enterprise. As familiarity grew between us, we spent some time in talk. What did we have to say to each other? I don’t remember much of it, but this strange girl had evolved a philosophy of her own to deal with the situation she found herself in. It was all a question of doing one’s duty, she said. Death was a duty, just as much as life was just another way of dying.’
Miss Bun and Others
1 March 1975
Beer in the sun. High in the spruce tree the barbet calls, heralding summer. A few puffy clouds drift lazily over the mountains. Is this the great escape?
I could sit here all day, soaking up beer and sunshine, but at some time during the day I must wipe the dust from my typewriter and produce something readable. There’s only Rs 800 in the bank, book sales are falling off, and magazines are turning away from fiction.
Prem spoils me, gives me rice and kofta curry for lunch, which means that I sleep till four when Miss Bun arrives with patties and samosas.
Miss Bun is the baker’s daughter.
Of course that’s not her real name. Her real name is very long and beautiful, but I won’t give it here for obvious reasons and also because her brother is big and ugly.
I am seeing Miss Bun after two months. She’s been with relatives in Bareilly.
She sits at the foot of my bed, absolutely radiant. Her raven-black hair lies loose on her shoulders; her eyelashes have been trimmed and blackened; so have her eyes, with kajal. Her eyes, so large and innocent—and calculating!
There are pretty glass bangles on her wrists and she wears a pair of new slippers. Her kameez is new, too; green silk, with gold-embroidered sleeves.
‘You must have a rich lover,’ I remark, taking her hand and gently pulling her towards me. ‘Who gave you all this finery?’
‘You did. Don’t you remember? Before I went away, you gave me a hundred rupees.’
‘That was for the train and bus fares I thought.’
‘Oh, my uncle paid the fares. So I bought myself these things. Are they nice?’
‘Very pretty. And so are you. If you were ten years older, and I was ten years younger, we’d make a good pair. But, I’d have been
broke long before this!’
She giggles and drops a paper bag full of samosas on the bedside table. I hate samosas and patties, but I keep ordering them because it gives Miss Bun a pretext for visiting me. It’s all in the way of helping the bakery get by. When she goes, I give the lot to Bijju and Binya or whoever might be passing.
‘You’ve been away a long time,’ I complain. ‘What if I’d got married while you were away?’
‘Then you’d stop ordering samosas.’
‘Or get them from that old man Bashir, who makes much better ones, and cheaper!’
She drops her head on my shoulder. Her hair is heavily scented with jasmine hair oil, and I nearly pass out. They should use it instead of anaesthesia.
‘You smell very nice,’ I lie. ‘Do I get a kiss?’
She gives me a long kiss, as though to make up for her long absence. Her kisses always have a nice wholesome flavour, as you would expect from someone who lives in a bakery.
‘That was an expensive kiss.’
‘I want to buy some face cream.’
‘You don’t need face cream. Your complexion is perfect. It must be the good quality flour you use in the bakery.’
‘I don’t put flour on my face. Anyway, I want the cream for my elder sister. She has pockmarks.’
I surrender and give her two fives, quickly putting away my wallet.
‘And when will you pay for the samosas?’
‘Next week.’
‘I’ll bring you something nice next week,’ she says, pausing in the doorway.
‘Well, thanks, I was getting tired of samosas.’ She was gone in a twinkling.
I’ll say this for Miss Bun: she doesn’t take the trouble to hide her intentions.
4 March
My policeman calls on me this morning. Ghanshyam, the constable attached to the Barlowganj outpost.
He is not very tall for a policeman, and he has a round, cheerful countenance, which is unusual in his profession. He looks smart in his uniform. Most constables prefer to hang around in their pyjamas most of the time.
Nothing alarming about Ghanshyam’s visit. He comes to see me about once a week, and has been doing so ever since I spent a night in the police station last year.
It happened when I punched a Muzzaffarnagar businessman in the eye for bullying a rickshaw coolie. The fat slob very naturally lodged a complaint against me, and that same evening a sub-inspector called and asked me to accompany him to the thana. It was too late to arrange anything and in any case I had only been taken in for questioning, so I had to spend the night at the police post. The sub-inspector went home and left me in the charge of a constable. A wooden bench and a charpoy were the only items of furniture in my ‘cell’, if you could call it that. The charpoy was meant for the night-duty constable, but he very generously offered it to me.
‘But where will you sleep?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t feel like sleeping. Usually, I go to the night show at the Picture Palace, but I suppose I’ll have to stay here because of you.’
He looked rather sulky. Obviously, I’d ruined his plans for the night.
‘You don’t have to stay because of me,’ I said. ‘I won’t tell the SHO. You go to the Picture Palace, I’ll look after the thana.’
He brightened up considerably, but still looked a bit doubtful.
‘You can trust me,’ I said encouragingly. ‘My grandfather was a private soldier who became a Buddhist.’
‘Then I can trust you as far as your grandfather.’ He was quite cheerful now, and sent for two cups of tea from the shop across the road. It came gratis, of course. A little later he left me, and I settled down on the cot and slept fitfully. The constable came back during the early hours and went to sleep on the bench. Next morning I was allowed to go home. The Muzzaffarnagar businessman had got into another fight and was lodged in the main thana. I did not hear about the matter again.
Ghanshyam, the constable, having struck up a friendship with me, was to visit me from time to time.
And here he is today, boots shining, teeth gleaming, cheeks almost glowing, far too charming a person to be a policeman.
‘Hello, Ghanshyam bhai,’ I welcome him. ‘Sit down and have some tea.’
‘No, I can’t stop for long,’ he says, but sits down beside me on the veranda steps. ‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘I’m fed up with Barlowganj. I want to get a transfer.’
‘And how can I help you? I don’t know any netas or bigwigs.’
‘No, but our SP will be here next week, and he can have me transferred. Will you speak to him?’
‘But why should he listen to me?’
‘Well, you see, he has a weakness . . .’
‘We all have our weaknesses. Does your SP have a weakness similar to mine? Do we proceed to blackmail him?’
‘Yes. You see, he writes poetry. And you are a kavi, a poet, aren’t you?’
‘At times,’ I concede. ‘And I have to admit it’s a weakness, specially as no one cares to read my poetry.’
‘No one reads the SP’s poetry, either. Although we have to listen to it sometimes. When he has finished reading out one of his poems, we salute and say “Shabash!”’
‘A captive audience. I wish I had one.’
Ignoring my sarcasm, Ghanshyam continues, ‘The trouble is, he can’t get anyone to publish his poems. This makes him bad-tempered and unsympathetic to applications for transfer. Can you help?’
‘I am not a publisher. I can only salute like the rest of you.’
‘But you know publishers, don’t you? If you can get some of his poems published, he’d be very grateful. To you. To me. To both of us!’
‘You really are an optimist.’
‘Just one or two poems. You see, I’ve already told him about you. How you spent all night in the lock-up writing verses. He thinks you are a famous writer. He’s depending on me now. If the poems get published, he will give me a transfer. I’m sick of Barlowganj!’ He gives me a hug and pinches me on the cheek. Before he can go any further, I say, ‘Well, I’ll do my best.’ I am thinking of a little magazine published in Bhopal where most of my rejects find a home. ‘For your sake, I’ll try. But first I must see the poems.’
‘You shall even see the SP,’ he promises. ‘I’ll bring him here next week. You can give him a cup of tea.’
He gets up, gives me a smart salute, and goes up the path with a spring in his step. The sort of man who knows how to get his transfers and promotions in a perfectly honest manner.
7 March
It gets warmer day by day.
This morning I decided to sunbathe—quite modestly, of course. Retaining my old khaki shorts but removing all other clothing, I stretched out on a mattress in the garden. Almost immediately, I was disturbed by the baker (Miss Bun’s father for a change), who presented me with two loaves of bread and half a dozen chocolate pastries, ordered the previous day. Then Prem’s small son, Raki, turned up, demanding a pastry, and I gave him two. He insisted on joining me on the mattress, where he proceeded to drop crumbs in my hair and on my chest. ‘Good morning, Mr Bond!’ came the dulcet tones of Mrs Biggs, leaning over the gate. Forgetting that she was short-sighted, I jumped to my feet, and at the same time my shorts slipped down over my knees. As I grabbed for them, Mrs Biggs’s effusiveness reached greater heights. ‘Why, what a lovely agapanthus you’ve got!’ she exclaimed, referring no doubt to the solitary lily in the garden. I must confess I blushed. Then, recovering myself, I returned her greeting, remarking on the freshness of the morning.
Mrs Biggs, at eighty, is a little deaf as well, and replied, ‘I’m very well, thank you, Mr Bond. Is that a child you’re carrying?’
‘Yes, Prem’s small son.’
‘Prem is your son? I didn’t know you had a family.’
At this point Raki decided to pluck the spectacles off Mrs Biggs’s nose, and after I had recovered them for her, she beat a hasty retreat.
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br /> Later, the Rev. Mr Biggs comes over to borrow a book. ‘Just light reading,’ he says. ‘I can’t concentrate for long periods.’
He has become extremely absent-minded and forgetful; one of the drawbacks of living to an advanced age. During a funeral last year, at which he took the funeral service, he read out the service for Burial at Sea. It was raining heavily at the time, and no one seemed to notice.
Now he borrows two of my Ross Macdonalds—the same two he read last month. I refrain from pointing this out. If he has forgotten the books already, it won’t matter if he reads them again.
Having spent the better part of his seventy-odd years in India, the Rev. Biggs has a lot of stories to tell, his favourite being the one about the crocodile he shot in Orissa when he was a young man. He’d pitched his tent on the banks of a river and had gone to sleep on a camp cot. During the night, he felt his cot moving, and before he could gather his wits, the cot had moved swiftly through the opening of the tent and was rapidly making its way down to the river. Mr Biggs leapt for dry land while the cot, firmly wedged on the back of the crocodile, disappeared into the darkness.
Crocodiles, it seems, often bury themselves in the mud when they go to sleep, and Mr Biggs had pitched his tent and made his bed on top of a sleeping crocodile. Waking in the night, it had made for the nearest water.
Mr Biggs shot it the following morning—or so he would have us believe—the crocodile having reappeared on the river bank with the cot still attached to its back.
Now, having told me this story for the umpteenth time, Biggs says he really must be going, and, returning to the bookshelf, extracts Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, having forgotten the Ross Macdonalds on a side table.
‘I must do some serious reading,’ he says. ‘These modern novels are so violent.’
‘Lots of violence in Decline and Fall,’ I remark.