by Ruskin Bond
‘Well,’ I said hesitantly, ‘I don’t drink.’ I wanted to forget that day when I drank whisky neat from Mr Kapoor’s bottles.
‘A small one won’t harm you. Just to keep me company.’
He took two small glasses from his bag, wiped them with a clean white handkerchief and set them down on the table. Then he poured some dark brown stuff from his flask.
‘Brandy,’ I said, sniffing.
‘So you recognize it. Yes, it’s brandy.’
I reached across the table and took the glass.
‘Here’s luck!’ said the stranger.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, and gulped down a mouthful of neat liquor. I coughed and tears sprang to my eyes.
‘You’ve come a long way,’ said the American looking at my clothes.
‘On foot,’ I answered. ‘From Hardwar. Since morning.’
‘Hardwar! That’s a long walk. What made you do that?’
I emptied my glass and set it down. The friendly stranger poured out more brandy. This is the way they do things in America, I thought. When you meet a stranger, offer him a drink. I decided to go there one day.
‘What made you walk?’ asked the stranger again. ‘Tomorrow we’ll walk some more,’ I replied evasively, not wanting to reveal that we were actually penniless.
‘But why?’
‘Because we have the time. We have all the time in the world.’
‘How come?’
I felt tired. ‘Because we have no money,’ I said. ‘You can’t have both time and money.’
‘Oh, I agree. You are quite a philosopher. But what happened?’ asked the American, looking at Kishen again. ‘What is he to you?’
‘He’s with me,’ I said, ignoring the question. I was beginning to feel sleepy. The American seemed to be getting further and further away and his voice came from a great distance.
I must have dozed off. I woke to the sound of a bell clanging on the station platform. The stranger looked at his watch and said it was almost time for his train to arrive. He wiped the glasses with his handkerchief and returned them to his bag, then went outside and stood on the platform, waiting for the Delhi train.
I leant against the waiting room door, staring across the railway tracks. I could hear the shriek of the whistle as the front light of an engine played over the rails. The train came in slowly, the hissing engine sending out waves of steam. At the same time, the carriage doors opened and people started pouring out.
There was a jam on the platform while men, women and children pushed and struggled, and it was several minutes before anyone could get in or out of the carriage doors. The American had been swallowed up by the crowd. After a few minutes, the train pulled out of the station. Then a calm descended on the platform. A few people waiting for the morning train to Dehra still slept near their bundles. Vendors selling soda-water, lemons, curds and cups of tea, pushed their barrows down the platform, still calling out their wares in desultory, sleepy voices.
I returned to the chairs in the waiting room. Kishen was sound asleep in the armchair.
I turned off the light switch, but the light from the platform streamed in through the gauze-covered doors. I sat down beside Kishen.
‘Kishen, Kishen,’ I whispered, touching the boy’s shoulder.
Kishen stirred. ‘What is it?’ he mumbled drowsily. ‘Why is it dark?’
‘I put the light off,’ I told him. ‘You can sleep now.’
‘I was sleeping,’ said Kishen. ‘But thank you all the same.’
The Forest Road
At Doiwala next morning, we had to get off the train for an inspector came round checking tickets. Kishen and I slipped out of the carriage from the side facing the jungle.
Doiwala stood just outside the Siwalik range, and already the fields were giving way to jungle. But there were maize fields stretching away from the bottom of the railway banking, and we went in amongst the corn and waited in the field until the train had left. Kishen broke three or four corn cobs from their stalks, stuffing them into his pockets.
‘We might not get anything else to eat,’ he said. ‘Rusty, have you got matches so that we can light a fire and roast the corn?’
‘We’ll get some at the station.’
We bought a box of matches at Doiwala station, but we did not roast the corn until we had walked two miles up the road, into the jungle. Kishen collected dry twigs, and when we sat down at the side of the road he made a small fire. He turned the corn cobs over the fire until they were roasted a dark brown, burnt black in places. We dug our teeth into them, relishing the juicy corn.
‘I wish we had some salt,’ said Kishen.
‘That would only make us thirsty, and we have no water. I hope we find a spring soon.’
‘How far is Dehra now?’
‘About twelve miles, I think. It’s funny how some miles seem longer than others. It depends on what you are thinking about, I suppose. What you are thinking and what I am thinking. If our thoughts agree, the miles are not so long. We get on better when we are thinking together rather than when we are talking together!’
‘All right then Rusty, stop talking.’
After our light meal, we began to walk once again. We walked in silence; speaking only when we stopped to rest.
I had realized by then that once we were back in Dehra I would have to take on the responsibility of looking after both Kishen and myself as Kishen was too young to look after himself. He would only get into trouble. I did not like to leave him alone even for a little while because of this. Maybe I could get an English tuition. Or if I could write a story, a really good story, and sell it to a magazine, perhaps an American magazine . . .
Suddenly we heard the sound of rushing water. The road emerged from the jungle of sal trees and ended beside a river. There was a swift stream in the middle of the river bed, coursing down towards the Ganges. Perhaps a bridge had crossed this once and had been swept away during heavy monsoon rains. That must have been the reason why the road ended at the river bank.
We walked over sand and sharp rocks until we reached the water’s edge. We stood there, looking at the frothy water as it swirled below us.
‘It’s not deep,’ said Kishen. ‘I don’t think it’s above the waist anywhere.’
‘It’s not deep, but it’s swift,’ I pointed out. ‘And the stones are slippery.’
‘Shall we go back?’
‘No, let’s carry on—if it’s too fast, we can turn back.’ We removed our shoes, tying them together by the laces and hanging them about our necks, then holding hands for security, we stepped into the water gingerly.
The stones were slippery underfoot, and we stumbled, hindering rather than helping each other. When we were halfway across, the water was up to our waists. We stopped in midstream, unwilling to go further for fear of being swept away.
‘I can hardly stand,’ said Kishen. ‘It will be difficult to swim against the current.’
‘It won’t get deeper now,’ I said hopefully.
Just then, Kishen slipped and went over backwards into the water, bringing me down on top of him. He began kicking and thrashing about, but eventually—by clinging on to my right foot—came spluttering out of the water.
When we found we were not being swept away by the current, we stopped struggling and dragged ourselves cautiously across to the opposite bank. When we emerged from the water we were about thirty yards downstream.
The sun beat down on us as we lay exhausted on the warm sand. Kishen sucked at a cut in his hand, spitting the blood into the stream with a contemptuous gesture.
After some time we were walking again, though Kishen kept on bringing up mouthfuls of water.
‘I’m getting hungry now,’ he said, when he had emptied himself of water.
‘We’ll be in Dehra soon,’ I said. ‘And then never mind the money, we’ll eat like pigs.’
‘Gourmets!’ put in Kishen. ‘I suppose there are still eight or ten miles left. Now I’m not even thinking. Are
you?’
‘I was thinking we should visit that river again one day, when we have plenty of food and nothing to worry about.’
‘You won’t get me coming here again,’ he declared.
We shuffled along the forest path, tired and hungry, but quite cheerful. Then we rounded a bend and found ourselves face to face with a tiger.
Well, not quite face to face. The tiger was about fifteen yards away from us, occupying the centre of the path. He seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see him. He lifted his head, and his tail swished from side to side, but he made no move towards us.
We stood absolutely still in the middle of the path as we were too astonished to do anything else. This was just as well, because had we run or shouted or shown fear, the tiger might well have been provoked into attacking us. After a moment’s hesitation, he crossed the path and disappeared into the forest without so much as a growl.
We were still rooted to the spot and tongue-tied. Finally Kishen found his voice.
‘You didn’t tell me there were tigers here,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.
‘I didn’t think about it,’ I said rather apologetically.
‘Shall we go forward or backward?’
‘Do you want to cross the stream again? Anyway, the tiger didn’t seem to worry about us. Let’s go on.’
And we walked on through the forest without seeing the tiger again, though we saw several splendid peacocks and a band of monkeys. It was not until we had left the forest behind and were on an open road with fields and villages on either side that we relaxed and showed our relief by bursting into laughter.
‘I think we frightened that tiger more than it frightened us,’ said Kishen. ‘Why, it didn’t even roar!’
‘And a good thing it didn’t, otherwise we might not have been here.’
The danger we had shared helped revive our drooping spirits, and we walked happy and carefree into the fertile valley that lay between the Siwaliks and the Himalayan foothills. Spreading over the valley were wheat and maize and sugar cane fields, tea gardens and orchards of guava, litchee and mango.
There was a small village on the outskirts of Dehra, and the village lamps were lit when we, dusty and dishevelled, walked through with dragging feet. Now that our journey was almost over, we were acutely conscious of our weariness and our aches, and the town which had been our home suddenly seemed strange and heartless, as though it did not recognize us any more.
A Place To Sleep
When we got to the Tandoori Fish Shop, Kishen and I were too hungry and tired to think of going any further, so we sat down and ordered a meal. The fish came hot, surrounded by salad and lemon, and when we finished it, we ate the same dish once again, and drank glasses of hot, spiced tea.
‘The best thing in life is food,’ said Kishen. ‘There is nothing to equal it.’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘You are absolutely right.’ Afterwards, we walked through the noisy, crowded bazaar which we knew so well, past the Clock Tower, up the steps of our old room. We were ready to flop down on the string cot and sleep for a week. But when we reached the room we found the door locked. It was not our lock, but a heavy, unfamiliar padlock, and its presence was ominous.
‘Let’s smash it!’ said Kishen.
‘That’s no use,’ I said. ‘The landlord doesn’t want us to have the room. He’s shut us out at the first opportunity. Well, let’s go and see his agent. Perhaps he’ll let us have the room back. Anyway, our things are inside.’
Standing at the top of the steps, looking at the grounds—the gravel path, the litchee and mango trees, the grass badminton court, now overgrown with weeds—I half-expected to hear Meena calling to Kishen from below, calling to him to go down and play, while Mr Kapoor, in his green dressing-gown, sat on the steps clutching a bottle. They had gone now, and would never come back. Now, I was not so sure if I wanted to stay in the old room anymore.
‘Would you like to wait here while I get the key?’ I asked.
‘No, Rusty,’ said Kishen. ‘I’d be afraid to wait here alone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ he looked to me for understanding, ‘because this was our house once, and my mother and father lived here, and I’m afraid of the house when they are no longer in it. I’ll come with you. I’d like to break the munshi’s neck, anyway.’
The munshi met us at the door of his house. He was a slow, bent, elderly man, dressed in a black coat and white dhoti, a pair of vintage spectacles balanced precariously on his nose. He was in the service of the seth who owned a great deal of property in town, and his duties included the collection of rents, eviction of tenants and seeing to the repair and maintenance of the seth’s property.
‘Your room has been rented out,’ explained the munshi.
‘What do you mean, mister?’ said Kishen, bristling.
‘Why has it been rented when we haven’t given it up?’ I asked.
‘You were never a tenant,’ said the munshi, with a shrug that almost unsettled his spectacles. ‘Mr Kapoor let you use one of the rooms. Now he has vacated the house. When you went away, I thought you had gone permanently.’ The munshi made a helpless gesture with his hands, and prevented the imminent fall of his spectacles by taking them off and wiping them on his shirt.
Finally he said: ‘Sethji ordered me to let the room immediately.’
‘But how could I have gone permanently when my things are still in the room?’ I argued.
The munshi scratched his head. ‘There were not many things, I thought you had no need for them. I thought you were going to England. You can have your things tomorrow. They are in the storeroom, and the key is with the seth. But I cannot let you have the room again.’
Uncertain as to what to do next, I continued to stand where I was. Kishen stepped forward.
‘Give us another room, then,’ he said belligerently.
‘I cannot do that now,’ said the munshi. ‘It is too late. You will have to come tomorrow, and even then I cannot promise you anything. All our rooms are full. Just now I cannot help you. There must be some place where you can stay . . .’
‘We’ll find a place,’ I said, tired of the whole business. ‘Come on, Kishen. There’s always the railway platform.’
Kishen hesitated, scowling at the munshi, before following me out of the gate.
‘What now?’ he grumbled. ‘Where do we go now?’
‘Let’s sit down somewhere,’ I suggested. ‘Then we can think of something. We can’t come to a decision simply by standing stupidly on the road.’
‘We’ll sit in some tea shop,’ said Kishen. ‘We’ve had enough tea, but let’s go anyway.’
We found a tea shop at the end of the bazaar, a makeshift wooden affair built over a gully. There were only two tables in the shop, and most of the customers sat outside on a bench where they could listen to the shopkeeper who was a popular storyteller.
Sitting on the ground in front of the shop was a thickset youth with his head shaved, wearing rags. I had seen him around tea shops often. He was dumb—and was called Goonga—and the customers at these shops often made sport of him, abusing him good-naturedly, and clouting him over the head from time to time. Goonga did not seem to mind this; he made faces at the others, and chuckled derisively at their remarks. He could say only one word, ‘Goo’, and he said it often. This kept the customers in fits of laughter.
‘Goo!’ he said, when he saw Kishen and me enter the shop. He pointed at us, chuckled, and said ‘Goo!’ again. Everyone laughed. Someone got up from the bench and with the flat of his hand, whacked Goonga over his head. Goonga sprang at the man, making queer, gurgling noises. Someone else tripped him and sent him sprawling on the ground, and there was more laughter.
Kishen and I sat at a table inside the shop. Everyone, except Goonga, was drinking tea.
‘Give Goonga a glass of tea,’ said Kishen to the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper grinned and made the tea. Goonga looked at us and said, ‘Goo!’
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br /> ‘Now how much money is left?’ asked Kishen, getting down to business.
‘About nine rupees. If we are careful, it will last us a few days.’
‘More than a week,’ said Kishen. ‘We can get enough food for a rupee a day, as long as we don’t start eating chicken. But you should find some work in a day or two.’
‘Don’t be too optimistic about that.’
‘Well, it’s no use worrying as yet.’
There was an interesting story being told by the shopkeeper, about a jinn who used his abnormally long reach to steal sweets, and we forgot about our ‘conference’ and worries until the story was finished.
‘Now it’s someone else’s turn,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘The fair boy will tell us one,’ said a voice, and everyone turned to look at me.
The person who had made the request was one of the boys who served tea to the customers. He could not have been more than twelve years old, but he had a worldly look about him, in spite of the dimples in his cheeks and the mischievous glint in his eyes. His fair complexion and high cheekbones showed that he came from the hills, from one of the border districts. ‘I don’t know any stories,’ I protested.
‘That isn’t possible,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Everyone knows at least one story, even if it is his own.’
‘Yes, tell us,’ said the boy from the hills.
‘You find us a room for the night,’ said Kishen, always ready to bargain in true Punjabi fashion, ‘and he’ll tell you a story.’
‘I don’t know of any place,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘but you are welcome to sleep in my shop. You won’t sleep much, because there are people coming and going all night, especially the truck drivers.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the boy. ‘I know of many places where you can stay. Now tell us the story.’
So I embarked on a ghost story which had been popular in school.
Mr Oliver, an Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to the school, which lay on the outskirts of the hill station of Simla, late one night. From before Kipling’s time, the school had been run on English public school lines and the boys, most of them from wealthy Indian families, wore blazers, caps and ties. Mr Oliver had been teaching in the school for several years.