by Ruskin Bond
As far as I can recall, Delhi did not have a single psychiatrist thirty years ago. No one was rich enough to afford such a luxury. Or perhaps no one was nutty enough. Now there are hundreds of psychiatrists, and thousands of affluent patients who imagine they were once Mughal emperors, famous courtesans, Ming vases, or golf balls.
25th June
Visited HH and got news of fresh disasters:
1. Large number of tourists down with food poisoning after dining at a new hotel.
2. Abnormal nephew talks to the wall and flaps his arms like a bird. (I feel like doing this myself, sometimes.)
3. Young Prem lala, who fell off a roof and damaged his spine and skull, may never recover. (Six months later: I’m glad to be able to say that he did.)
I had gone over looking for something to cheer me up, but even Bill looked gloomy and his purple socks failed to stimulate.
21st July
Jolly evening at HH’s in spite of the news that her grand-nephew was in a mental hospital, her business partner (in Bombay) was dying from lymph cancer, and almost every acquaintance was either expiring or in a bad way financially
She is, of course, immune to all the disasters that surround her. Is fond of me but would never give me any money because she says I would squander it. And, of course, she’s right—I would!
Ganesh did her a service, so she has promised him a new car. That is, if Nandu (of the Savoy) pays half.
6th September
Three days of incessant rain. A powdery film of mildew covers the frayed old carpet in the Savoy Bar; it is now as green as the billiard table. A fusty, musty odour pervades the airless room. Ganesh and I do our best to imbue it with some life. There have been no visitors for days, unless you count the little shrew that meanders between the chairs and tables. People say the shrew (chhuchhunder) is lucky, or rather, brings luck. Maybe I’ll take it home one of these days. Nandu says to leave it—his need is greater than mine.
To relieve the tedium, we visit HH who has already informed me (on the phone) that she is severely depressed by Princess Diana’s funeral which she has been following on TV. We find her cheerful enough, and she enlarges on her favourite theme of violent death, giving us tales of murder, suicide and misadventure in various princely families she has known. Poisonings were popular, followed by ‘hunting’ accidents.
Today, violent crime has shifted to political, business and entertainment circles. And poisonings and accidental deaths are passé. You simply contact a gang of hired killers (or kidnappers) who do the job for you. Rates are negotiable. And, of course, you might end up as one of their victims one day.
We shall miss HH when she leaves next week. Speaking of an old flame, she remarks, ‘It was Y—who taught me to drink.’
‘And you were a quick learner,’ adds Bill.
For which remark he will have to hide in the shrubbery for a day.
15th September
Glorious hot sunshine greets us this morning, and I resolve to do nothing but bask in it.
Twelve noon: Resolve has been undertaken.
One p.m.: Clouds move in.
Thought HH had gone, but received a merry call from her to say goodbye once again and to continue, ‘Let me tell you about the latest tragedies that have taken place.’
First, Bill’s mother had died, as well as one of his aunts, but as they were both over ninety, Bill wasn’t too upset.
Second, her caretaker’s TB treatment in Delhi had cost over ten thousand rupees and he still had the disease!
In spite of the recent horrendous train accident, HH is travelling by train to Delhi. Look forward to seeing her next year.
The Old Lama
I meet him on the road every morning, on my walk up to the Landour post office. He’s a lean, old man in a long maroon robe, a Tibetan monk of uncertain age. I’m told he’s about eighty-five. But age is really immaterial in the mountains. Some grow old at their mother’s breasts, and there are others who do not age at all.
If you are like this old lama, you go on forever. For he is a walking man, and there is no way you can stop him from walking.
The lama in Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, rejuvenated by the mountain air, strode along with ‘steady, driving strokes’, leaving his disciple far behind. My lama, older and feebler than Kim’s, walks very slowly, with the aid of an old walnut walking stick. The ferrule keeps coming off the end of the stick, but he puts it back with coal tar, left behind by the road repairers.
He plods and shuffles along. In fact, he’s very like the tortoise in the story of the hare and the tortoise. I see him walking past my window, and five minutes later when I start out on the same road, I feel sure of overtaking him halfway up the hill. But invariably I find him standing near the post office when I get there.
He smiles when he sees me. We are always smiling at each other. His English is limited, and I speak absolutely no Tibetan. He knows a few words of Hindi, enough to make his needs known, but that’s about all. He is quite happy to converse silently with all the creatures and people who take notice of him on the road.
It’s the same walk he takes every morning. At 9 o’clock, if I look out of my window, I can see a line of Tibetan prayer flags fluttering over an old building in the cantonment. He emerges from beneath the flags and starts up the steep road. Ten minutes later, he is below my window, and sometimes he stops to sit and rest on my steps, or on a parapet farther along the road. Sooner or later, coming or going, I shall pass him on the road or up near the post office. His eyes will twinkle behind thick-lensed glasses, and he will raise his walking stick slightly in salutation. If I say something to him, he just smiles and nods vigorously in agreement.
An agreeable man.
He was one of those who came to India in 1959, fleeing the Chinese occupation of Tibet. The Dalai Lama found sanctuary in India, and lived here in Mussoorie for a couple of years; many of his followers settled here. A new generation of Tibetans has grown up in the hill station, and those under thirty years have never seen their homeland.
But for almost all of them, and there are several thousand in this district alone, Tibet is their country, their real home, and they are quick to express their determination to go back when their land is free again.
Even a twenty-year-old girl like Tseten, who has grown up knowing English and Hindi, speaks of the day when she will return to Tibet with her parents. She has given me a painting of Milarepa, the Buddhist monk-philosopher, meditating beneath a fruit-laden peace tree, the eternal snows in the background. This is, perhaps, her vision of the Tibet which she would like to see, some day. Meanwhile, she works as a typist in the office of the Tibetan Homes Foundation.
My old lama will, I am sure, be among the first to return, even if he has to walk all the way over the mountain passes. Maybe that’s why he plods up and around this hill every day. He is practising for the long walk back to Tibet.
Here he is again, pausing at the foot of my steps. It’s a cool, breezy morning, and he does not feel the need to sit down. ‘Tashi-tilay! Good day!’ I greet him, in the only Tibetan I know.
‘Tashi-tilay!’ he responds, beaming with delight.
‘Will you go back to Tibet one day?’ I ask him for the first time.
In spite of his limited Hindi, he understands me immediately, and nods vigorously.
‘Soon, soon!’ he exclaims, and raises his walking stick to emphasize his words.
Yes, if the Tibetans are able to return to their country, he will be among the first to go back. His heart is still on that high plateau. And like the tortoise, he’ll be there waiting for the young hares to catch up with him.
If he goes, I shall certainly miss him on my walks.
Sitaram*
Someone was getting married, and the wedding band, brought up on military marches, unwittingly broke into the Funeral March. And they played loud enough to wake the dead.
After a medley of Souza marches, they switched to Hindi film tunes, and Sitaram came in, flung his arms ar
ound, and shattered my eardrums with Talat Mehmood’s latest love ballad. I responded with the Volga Boatmen in my best Nelson Eddy manner, and my landlady came running out of her shop downstairs, wanting to know if the washerman had strangled his wife or vice versa.
Anyway, it was to be a week of celebrations . . .
When I opened my eyes next day, it was to find a bright red geranium staring me in the face, accompanied by the aromatic odour of a crushed geranium leaf. Sitaram was thrusting a potted geranium at me and wishing me a happy birthday. I brushed a caterpillar from my pillow and sat up. Wordsworthian though I was in principle, I wasn’t prepared for nature red in tooth and claw.
I picked up the caterpillar on its leaf and dropped it outside.
‘Come back when you’re a butterfly,’ I said.
Sitaram had taken his morning bath and looked very fresh and spry. Unfortunately, he had doused his head with some jasmine-scented hair oil, and the room was reeking of it. Already a bee was buzzing around him.
‘Thank you for the present,’ I said. ‘I’ve always wanted a geranium.’
‘I wanted to bring a rose bush but the pot was too heavy.’
‘Never mind. Geraniums do better on verandas.’
I placed the pot in a sunny corner of the small balcony, and it certainly did something for the place. There’s nothing like a red geranium for bringing a balcony to life.
While we were about to plan the day’s festivities, a stranger walked through my open door (one day, I’d have to shut it), and declared himself the inventor of a new flush-toilet which, he said, would revolutionize the sanitary habits of the town. We were still living in the thunderbox era, and only the very rich could afford Western-style lavatories. My visitor showed me diagrams of a seat which, he said, combined the best of East and West. You could squat on it, Indian-style, without putting too much strain on your abdominal muscles, and if you used water to wash your bottom, there was a little sprinkler attached which, correctly aimed, would do that job for you. It was comfortable, efficient, safe. Your effluent would be stored in a little tank, which could be detached when full, and emptied—where? He hadn’t got around to that problem as yet, but he assured me that his invention had a great future.
‘But why are you telling me all this?’ I asked, ‘I can’t afford a fancy toilet seat.’
‘No, no, I don’t expect you to buy one.’
‘You mean I should demonstrate?’
‘Not at all. But you are a writer, I hear. I want a name for my new toilet seat. Can you help?’
‘Why not call it the Sit-Safe?’ I suggested.
‘The Sit-Safe! How wonderful. Young Mr Bond, let me show my gratitude with a small present.’ And he thrust a ten-rupee note into my hand and left the room before I could protest. ‘It’s definitely my birthday,’ I said. ‘Complete strangers walk in and give me money.’
‘We can see three films with that,’ said Sitaram.
‘Or buy three bottles of beer,’ I said.
But there were no more windfalls that morning, and I had to go to the old Allahabad Bank—where my grandmother had kept her savings until they had dwindled away—and withdraw one hundred rupees.
‘Can you tell me my balance?’ I asked Mr Jain, the elderly clerk who remembered my maternal grandmother.
‘Two hundred and fifty rupees,’ he said with a smile. ‘Try to save something!’
I emerged into the hot sunshine and stood on the steps of the Bank, where I had stood as a small boy some fifteen years back, waiting for Granny to finish her work—I think she had been the only one in the family to put some money by for a rainy day—but these had been rainy days for her son and daughters and various fickle relatives who were always battening off her. Her own needs were few. She lived in one room of her house, leaving the rest of it for the family to use. When she died, the house was sold so that her children could once more go their impecunious ways.
I had no relatives to support, but here was William Matheson waiting for me under the old peepul tree. His hands were shaking.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Haven’t had a cigarette for a week. Come on, buy me a packet of Charminar.’
Sitaram went out and bought samosas and jalebis and little cakes with icing made from solidified ghee. I fetched a few bottles of beer, some orangeades and lemonades and a syrupy cold drink called Vimto which was all the rage then. My landlady, hearing that I was throwing a party, sent me pakoras made with green chillies.
The party, when it happened, was something of an anticlimax.
Jai Shankar turned up promptly and ate all the jalebis. William arrived with Suresh Mathur, finished the beer, and demanded more.
Nobody paid much attention to Sitaram, he seemed so much at home. Caste didn’t count for much in a fairly modern town, as Dehra was in those days. In any case, from the way Sitaram was strutting around, acting as though he owned the place, it was generally presumed that he was the landlady’s son. He brought up a second relay of the lady’s pakoras, hotter than the first lot, and they arrived just as the Maharani and Indu appeared in the doorway.
‘Happy birthday, dear boy,’ boomed the Maharani and seized the largest chilli pakora. Indu appeared behind her and gave me a box wrapped in gold and silver cellophane. I put it on my desk and hoped it contained chocolates, not studs and a tiepin.
The chilli pakoras did not take long to violate the Maharani’s taste buds.
‘Water, water!’ she cried, and seeing the bathroom door open, made a dash for the tap.
Alas, the bathroom was the least attractive aspect of my flat. It had yet to be equipped with anything resembling the newly-invented Sit-Safe. But the lid of the thunderbox was fortunately down, as this particular safe hadn’t been emptied for a couple of days. It was crowned by a rusty old tin mug. On the wall hung a towel that had seen better days. The remnants of a cake of Lifebuoy soap stood near a cracked washbasin. A lonely cockroach gave the Maharani a welcoming genuflection.
Taking all this in at a glance, she backed out, holding her hand to her mouth.
‘Try a Vimto,’ said William, holding out a bottle gone warm and sticky.
‘A glass of beer?’ asked Jai Shankar.
The Maharani grabbed a glass of beer and swallowed it in one long gulp. She came up gasping, gave me a reproachful look—as though the chilli pakora had been intended for her—and said, ‘Must go now. Just stopped by to greet you. Thank you very much—you must come to Indu’s birthday party. Next year.’
Next year seemed a long way off.
‘Thank you for the present,’ I said.
And then they were gone, and I was left to entertain my cronies.
Suresh Mathur was demanding something stronger than beer, and as I felt that way myself, we trooped off to the Royal Cafe; all of us, except Sitaram, who had better things to do.
After two rounds of drinks, I’d gone through what remained of my money. And so I left William and Suresh to cadge drinks off one of the latter’s clients, while I bid Jai Shankar goodbye on the edge of the parade ground. As it was still light, I did not have to see him home.
Some workmen were out on the parade ground, digging holes for tent pegs.
Two children were discussing the coming attraction.
‘The circus is coming!’
‘Is it big?’
‘It’s the biggest! Tigers, elephants, horses, chimpanzees! Tight-rope walkers, acrobats, strong men . . .’
‘Is there a clown?’
‘There has to be a clown. How can you have a circus without a clown?’
I hurried home to tell Sitaram about the circus. It would make a change from the cinema. The room had been tidied up, and the Maharani’s present stood on my desk, still in its wrapper.
‘Let’s see what’s inside,’ I said, tearing open the packet.
It was a small box of nuts—almonds, pistachios, cashewnuts, along with a few dried figs.
‘Just a handful of nuts,’ said Sitaram, sampli
ng a fig and screwing up his face.
I tried an almond, found it bitter and spat it out.
‘Must have saved them from her wedding day,’ said Sitaram.
‘Appropriate in a way,’ I said. ‘Nuts for a bunch of nuts.’
Keemat Lal
* The story originally appeared as A Case For Inspector Lal
Kishan Singh
* Extract from The Tunnel
Dukhi and the Maharani
* Extract from A Room of Many Colours
My Mother
* Extract from The Last Time I Saw Delhi
Uncle Ken
* In the early 1940s Dehra had only one or two taxis. Today, there are over 500 plying in the town.
Bansi and the Ayah
* Extract from The Last Tonga Ride
Bhabiji and Her Family
* The story originally appeared as Bhabiji’s House
Prem
* Extract from From Small Beginnings
* On a warrant from Bombay, charging me with writing an allegedly obscene short story!
Binya
* Extract from Binya Passes By
Kishen Again
* Extract from Reunion at the Regal
Somi and Rusty
* Extract from The Room on the Roof
The Lafunga
* Extract from Vagrants in the Valley
Pipalnagar’s People
* Extract from Delhi Is Not Far
The Sensualist
* Extract from The Sensualist: A Cautionary Tale