by Ruskin Bond
Meena rolled her sari up to the thighs, and stepped gingerly into the current. Her legs, so seldom exposed, were very fair in contrast to her feet and arms, but they were strong and nimble, and she held herself erect. I stumbled to her side, intending to aid her; but ended up clinging to her sari for support. Suri was not to be seen anywhere.
‘Where is Suri?’ asked Meena.
‘Here,’ said a muffled voice from the floor of the dicky. ‘I’ve got sick. I can’t push.’
‘All right,’ said Meena. ‘But you’ll clean up the mess yourself.’
Somi and Kishen were looking for fish. Kapoor tooted the horn.
‘Are you all going to push?’ he demanded, ‘or are we going to have the picnic in the middle of the river?’
I was surprised at Kapoor’s unusual display of common sense; obviously, when sober, Mr Kapoor did sometimes have moments of sanity.
Everyone put their weight against the car, and pushed with all their strength; and, as the car moved slowly forward, I felt a thrill of health and pleasure run through my body. In front of me, Meena pushed silently, the muscles of her thighs trembling with the strain. We pushed silently too, with determination; the sweat ran down Somi’s face and neck, and Kishen’s jaws worked desperately on his chewing gum. Only Kapoor sat in comfort behind the wheel, pressing and pulling knobs, and saying ‘harder, push harder’, and Suri began to be sick again. Prickly Heat was strangely quiet, and it was assumed that the dog was sick too.
With one last final heave, the car was moved up the opposite bank and on to the straight. Everyone groaned and flopped to the ground. Meena’s hands were trembling.
‘You shouldn’t have pushed,’ I said.
‘I enjoyed it,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘Help me to get up.’
I rose and, taking her hand, pulled her to her feet. We stood together, holding hands. Kapoor fiddled around with starters and chokes and things.
‘It won’t go,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to look at the engine. We might as well have the picnic here.’
So out came the food and lemonade bottles and, miraculously enough, out came Suri and Prickly Heat, looking as fit as ever.
‘Hey,’ said Kishen, ‘we thought you were sick. I suppose you were just making room for lunch.’
‘Before he eats anything,’ said Somi, ‘he’s going to get wet. Let’s take him for a swim.’
Somi, Kishen and I caught hold of Suri and dragged him along the riverbank to a spot downstream where the current was mild and the water warm and waist-high. We unrobed Suri, took off our own clothes, and ran down the sandy slope to the water’s edge; feet splashed ankle-deep, calves thrust into the current, and then the ground suddenly disappeared beneath our feet.
We could see Somi’s supple limbs cut through the water and, when he went under, the chequered colours of his body could be seen first here and then there, twisting and turning, diving and disappearing for what seemed like several minutes, and then coming up under someone’s feet.
When Kishen and I tried swimming underwater, our bottoms remained on the surface, having all the appearance of floating buoys. Suri couldn’t swim at all but, though he was often out of his depth and frequently ducked, managed to avoid death by drowning.
We heard Meena calling us for food, and scrambled up the bank, the dog yapping at our heels. We ate in the shade of a poinsettia tree, whose red long-fingered flowers dropped sensually to the running water; and when we had eaten, lay down to sleep or drowse the afternoon away.
When I awoke, it was evening, and Kapoor was tinkering about with the car, muttering to himself, a little cross because he hadn’t had a drink since the previous night. Somi and Kishen were back in the river, splashing away, and this time they had Prickly Heat for company. Suri wasn’t in sight. Meena stood in a clearing at the edge of the forest.
I went to Meena, but she wandered into the thicket. I followed. She must have expected me, for she showed no surprise at my appearance.
‘Listen to the jungle,’ she said.
‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘That’s what I mean. Listen to nothing.’
We were surrounded by silence; a dark, pensive silence, heavy, scented with magnolia and jasmine.
It was shattered by a piercing shriek, a cry that rose on all sides, echoing against the vibrating air; and, instinctively, I put my arm round Meena—whether to protect her or to protect myself, I did not really know—and held her tight.
‘It is only a bird,’ she said. ‘Of what are you afraid?’
But I was unable to release my hold, and she made no effort to free herself. She laughed into my face, and her eyes danced in the shadows. But I stifled her laugh with my lips.
It was a clumsy, awkward kiss, but fiercely passionate, and Meena responded, tightening the embrace and returning the fervour of the kiss. We stood together like that for a few minutes in the shadows.
A monkey chattered shrilly in a branch above us, and the spell was broken.
‘Oh, Meena . . .’
‘Shh . . . you spoil these things by saying them.’
‘Oh, Meena . . .’
We kissed again, but the monkey set up such a racket that we feared it would bring Kapoor and the others to the spot. So we walked through the trees, holding hands.
We were barefooted, but did not notice the thorns and brambles that pricked our feet; we walked through heavy foliage, nettles and long grass, until we came to a clearing and a stream.
I was conscious of a wild urge, a desire to escape from the town and its people, and live in the forest with Meena, with no one but Meena . . .
As though conscious of my thoughts, she said: ‘This is where we drink. In the trees we eat and sleep, and here we drink.’
She laughed, but I had a dream in my heart. The pebbles on the bed of the stream were round and smooth, taking the flow of water without resistance. Only weed and rock could resist water: only weed or rock could resist life.
‘It would be nice to stay in the jungle,’ said Meena.
‘Let us stay . . .’
‘We will be found. We cannot escape—from— others . . .’
‘Even the world is too small. Maybe there is more freedom in that little room than in all the jungle and all the world.’
She was silent for a few moments.
I pointed to the stream and whispered, ‘Look!’
Meena looked, and at the same time a deer looked up. They looked at each other with startled, fascinated eyes, the deer and Meena. It was a spotted cheetal, a small animal with delicate, quivering limbs and muscles, and young green antlers.
We did not move; nor did the deer; we might have gone on staring at each other all day if somewhere a twig hadn’t snapped sharply.
At the snap of the twig, the deer jerked its head up with a start, lifted one foot pensively, sniffed the air; then leapt across the stream and, in a single bound, disappeared into the forest.
The spell was broken, the magic lost. Only the water ran on and life ran on.
‘Let’s go back,’ said Meena.
We walked back through the dappled sunlight, swinging our clasped hands like two children.
Our hands parted as we reached the riverbed.
Miraculously enough, Kapoor had started the car, and was waving his arms and shouting to everyone to come home. Everyone was ready to start back except for Suri and Prickly Heat, who were nowhere to be seen. Nothing, muttered Meena, would have been better than for Suri to disappear for ever, but unfortunately she had taken full responsibility for his well-being on this picnic, and did not relish the thought of facing his strangely affectionate mother. So she asked me to shout for him.
I shouted, and Meena shouted, and Somi shouted, and then all of us shouted together, only Suri didn’t shout back.
‘He’s up to his tricks,’ said Kishen. ‘We shouldn’t have brought him. Let’s pretend we’re leaving, then he’ll be scared.’
So Kapoor started the engine, and everyone got in, and
it was only then that Suri came running from the forest, his hair wedged between his eyes and his spectacles, his shirt tails flapping in the breeze, and the dog at his heels.
‘Hey, wait for us!’ he cried. ‘Do you want me to die?’
Kishen mumbled in the affirmative, and swore quietly.
‘We thought you were in the dicky,’ I said.
Suri and Prickly Heat climbed into the dicky, and at the same time the car entered the river with a determined splashing and churning of wheels, to emerge the victor.
Everyone cheered, and Somi gave Kapoor such an enthusiastic slap on the back that the pleased recipient nearly caught his head in the steering wheel.
It was dark now, and all that could be seen of the countryside was what the headlights showed. I hoped to see a panther or tiger, for this was their territory, but only a few goats blocked the road. However, for the benefit of Suri, Somi told a story of a party that had gone for an outing in a car and, on returning home, had found a panther in the dicky.
Kishen fell asleep just before we reached the outskirts of Dehra, his fuzzy head resting on my shoulder. I felt protective about him, for a bond of genuine affection had grown between the two of us in a short span of time. Somi was my best friend certainly, and Ranbir was a dear friend, and our friendship was on a high emotional plane. But Kishen was a brother more than a friend. I didn’t know why, but that is how I always felt about our relationship.
Somi began singing. The town came in sight, and then the bazaar lights twinkling defiantly at the starry night.
VI
A few days later I met Mr Harrison in front of the town’s main grocery store, the ‘Wine and General Merchant’; it was part of the smart shopping centre, alien to the bazaar but far from the European community—thus neutral ground for Mr Harrison and me.
‘Hallo, Mr Harrison,’ I said, confident of myself and deliberately omitting the customary ‘sir’.
Mr Harrison tried to ignore me, but found me blocking the way to the car. He made a visible effort to be pleasant. Perhaps he did not wish to lose his dignity.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said, ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’
‘I found a job,’ I said, taking the opportunity of showing off my newfound independence. ‘I meant to come and see you, but didn’t get the time.’
‘You’re always welcome. The missionary’s wife often speaks of you, she’d be glad to see you. By the way, what’s your job?’
I hesitated; I did not know how my guardian would take the truth—probably with a laugh or a sneer (‘you’re teaching!’)—and decided to be mysterious about my activities.
‘Babysitting,’ I replied, with a disarming smile. ‘Anyway, I’m not starving. And I’ve got many friends.’
Mr Harrison’s face darkened, and the corners of his mouth twitched; but he remembered that times had changed, and that I was older and also free, and that I wasn’t in his house; so he controlled his temper.
‘I can get you a job,’ he said. ‘On a tea estate. Or, if you like to go abroad, I have friends in Guyana . . .’
‘I like babysitting,’ I said.
Mr Harrison smiled, got into the car, and lit a cigarette before starting the engine. ‘Well, as I said, you’re always welcome in the house.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Give my regards to the sweeper boy.’
The atmosphere was getting tense.
‘Why don’t you come and see him some time?’ said Mr Harrison, as softly and as malevolently as he could.
It was just as well the engine had started.
‘I will.’
‘I kicked him out,’ said Mr Harrison, putting his foot down on the accelerator and leaving me in a cloud of dust.
My rage soon turned to pleasure when the car almost collided with a stationary bullock cart, and a uniformed policeman brought it to a halt. With the feeling that victory had finally been mine, I walked homewards.
The litchee trees were covered with their pink-skinned fruit, and the mangoes were almost ripe. The mango is a passionate fruit, its inner gold sensuous to the lips and tongue. The grass had not yet made up its mind to remain yellow or turn green, and would probably keep its dirty colour until the monsoon rains arrived.
Meena met me under the banana trees.
‘I am bored,’ she said, ‘so I am going to give you a haircut. Do you mind?’
‘I will do anything to please you. But don’t take it all off.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘I love you.’
I was wrapped up in a sheet and placed on a chair. I looked up at Meena, and our eyes met, laughing, blue and brown.
Meena cut silently, and my hair fell quickly, softly, lightly to the ground. I enjoyed the snip of the scissors, and the sensation of lightness; it was as though my mind was being given more room in which to explore.
Kishen came loafing around the corner of the house, still wearing his pyjamas, which were rolled up to the knees. When he saw what was going on, he burst into laughter.
‘And what is so funny?’ I asked irritatedly.
‘You!’ spluttered Kishen. ‘Where is your hair, your beautiful golden hair? Has Mummy made you a monk? Or have you got ringworm? Or fleas? Look at the ground, all that beautiful hair!’
‘Don’t be funny, Kishen,’ said Meena, ‘or you will get the same treatment.’
‘Is it so bad?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Don’t you trust me?’ said Meena.
‘I love you.’
Meena glanced swiftly at Kishen to see if he had heard the last remark, but he was still laughing at my haircut and prodding his nose for all he was worth.
‘Rusty, I have a favour to ask you,’ said Meena. ‘Mr Kapoor and I may be going to Delhi for a few weeks, as there is a chance of him getting a good job. We are not taking Kishen, as he is only nuisance value, so will you look after him and keep him out of mischief? I will leave some money with you. About how much will you need for two weeks?’
‘When are you going?’ I was already in the depths of despair.
‘How much will you need?’
‘Oh, fifty rupees . . . but when—’
‘A hundred rupees!’ interrupted Kishen. ‘Oh boy, Rusty, we’ll have fun!’
‘Seventy-five,’ said Meena, as though driving a bargain, ‘and I’ll send more after two weeks. But we should be back by then. There, Rusty, your haircut is complete.’
But the result of the haircut didn’t interest me anymore; I felt like sulking; I wanted to have some say in Meena’s plans, I felt I had a right to a little power.
I didn’t talk much that evening when all of us were in the front room. Nobody spoke. Kishen lay on the ground, stroking his stomach, his toes tracing imaginary patterns on the wall. Meena looked tired; wisps of hair had fallen across her face, and she did not bother to brush them back. She took Kishen’s foot and gave it a pull.
‘Go to bed,’ she said.
‘Not tired.’
‘Go to bed, or you’ll get a slap.’
Kishen laughed defiantly, but got up from the floor and ambled out of the room.
‘And don’t wake Daddy,’ she said.
Kapoor had been put to bed early, as Meena wanted him to be fresh and sober for his journey to Delhi and his interviews there. But every now and then he would wake up and call out for something— something unnecessary, so that after a while no one paid any attention to his requests. He was like an irritable invalid, to be humoured and tolerated.
‘Are you not feeling well, Meena?’ I asked. ‘If you like, I’ll also go.’
‘I am only tired, don’t go . . .’
She went to the window and drew the curtains and put out the light. Only the table lamp burned. The lampshade was decorated with dragons and butterflies— it was a Chinese lampshade—and, as I sat gazing at the light, the dragons began to move and the butterflies flutter. I couldn’t see Meena, but felt her presence across the room.
She turned from the window;
and silently, with hardly a rustle, slipped to the ground. Her back against the couch, her head resting against the cushion, she looked up at the ceiling. Neither of us spoke.
From the next room came sounds of Kishen preparing for the night, one or two thumps and a muttered imprecation. Kapoor snored quietly to himself, and the rest was silence.
My gaze left the revolving dragons and prancing butterflies to settle on Meena, who sat still and tired, her feet lifeless against the table legs, her slippers fallen to the ground. In the lamplight, her feet were like jade.
A moth began to fly round the lamp, and it went round and round and closer, till—with a sudden plop—it hit the lampshade and fell to the ground. But Meena and I were still silent, our breathing the only conversation.
VII
During the day, flies circled the room with feverish buzzing, and at night the mosquitoes came singing in one’s ears; summer days were hot and sticky, the nights breathless. I began to apply citronella oil on my body (which had been given to me by Somi’s mother); its smell, while pleasant to my own senses, was repugnant to mosquitoes.
As I rubbed the oil on my limbs I noticed the change in my physique. I had lost my puppy fat, and there was more muscle to my body now; my complexion was a healthier colour, and my pimples had almost disappeared. Nearly everyone had advised me about my pimples: drink dahi, said Somi’s mother; don’t eat fat, eat carrots, said Somi; plenty of fruit, mangoes! said Kishen; not at all, oranges, see a doctor, said Meena; have a whisky, said Kapoor. But the pimples disappeared without any of these remedies, and I secretly put it down to my falling in love.
The bougainvillaea creeper had advanced further into the room, and was now in flower; and watching me oil myself was the bald maina bird; it had been in so many fights that the feathers on its head never got a chance to grow.
Suri entered the room without warning and, wiping his spectacles with the bedsheet, said: ‘I have written an essay, Mister Rusty, for which I am going to be marked in school. Correct it, if you please.’
‘Let me finish with this oil . . . It would be cheating, you know to have it corrected beforehand by me.’