by Ruskin Bond
The Simla Bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about three miles from the school and Mr Oliver, a bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening, returning after dark, when he would take a short cut through the pine forest.
When there was a strong wind the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the main road. But Mr Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch and its gleam—the batteries were running down—moved fitfully down the narrow forest path. When its flickering light fell on the figure of a boy, who was sitting alone on a rock, Mr Oliver stopped. Boys were not supposed to be out after dark.
‘What are you doing out here?’ asked Mr Oliver sharply, moving closer so that he could recognize the miscreant. But even as he approached the boy, Mr Oliver sensed that something was wrong. The boy appeared to be crying. His head hung down, he held his face in his hands, and his body shook convulsively. It was a strange, soundless weeping and Mr Oliver felt distinctly uneasy.
‘Well, what’s the matter?’ he asked, his anger giving way to concern. ‘What are you crying for?’ The boy would not answer or look up. His body continued to be racked with silent sobbing. ‘Come on, boy, you shouldn’t be out here at this hour. Tell me the trouble. Look up!’ The boy looked up. He took his hands from his face. The light from Mr Oliver’s torch fell on the boy’s face—if you could call it a face.
It had no eyes, ears, nose or mouth. It was just a round smooth head—with a school cap on top of it! And that’s where the story could have ended. But for Mr Oliver it did not end here.
The torch fell from his trembling hand. He turned and scrambled down the path, running blindly through the trees and calling for help. He was still running towards the school buildings when he saw a lantern swinging in the middle of the path. Mr Oliver stumbled up to the watchman, gasping for breath. ‘What is it, sahib?’ asked the watchman. ‘Has there been an accident? Why are you running?’
‘I saw something—something horrible—a boy weeping in the forest—and he had no face!’
‘No face, sahib?’
‘No eyes, nose, mouth—nothing!’
‘Do you mean it was like this, sahib?’ asked the watchman and raised the lamp to his own face. The watchman had no eyes, no ears, no features at all—not even an eyebrow! And that’s when the wind blew the lamp out.
‘All right, now tell us,’ I said, after my story was over and the audience had drifted away, ‘where are we going to sleep tonight? You can’t get a hotel room for less than two rupees.’
‘It’s not too cold,’ said Kishen. ‘We can sleep in the maidan. There’s shelter there.’
I couldn’t help feeling pity on my own plight. A year ago when I had run away from my guardian’s house I had slept in the maidan, and now again I was going to sleep in the maidan. That summed up how much ‘progress’ I had made in life.
‘Kishen,’ I said, ‘The last time I slept in the maidan, it rained. I woke up in a pool of mud.’
‘But it won’t rain today,’ said Kishen cheerfully. ‘There isn’t a cloud in the sky.’
We looked out at the night sky. The moon was almost at the full, robbing the stars of their glory.
With no other choice before us, we left the shop and began walking towards the open grassland of the maidan. The bazaar was almost empty now, the shops closed, lights showing only from upper windows. I became conscious of the sound of soft footfalls behind us, and looking over my shoulder, saw that we were being followed by Goonga.
‘Goo,’ said Goonga, on being noticed.
‘Damn!’ said Kishen. ‘Why did we have to give him tea? He probably thinks we are rich and won’t let us out of sight again.’
‘He’ll change his mind about us when he finds us sleeping in the maidan.’
‘Goo,’ said Goonga once again from behind, quickening his step.
We turned abruptly down an alleyway, trying to shake Goonga off, but he padded after us, chuckling ghoulishly to himself. We cut back to the main road, but he was behind us at the Clock Tower. At the edge of the maidan I turned and said: ‘Go away, Goonga. We’ve got no money, no food, no clothes. We are no better off than you. Go away!’
‘Yes, buzz off!’ said Kishen, a master of Indo-Anglian slang.
But Goonga merely said, ‘Goo!’ and took a step forward, his shaved head glistening in the moonlight. I shrugged and led Kishen to the maidan. Goonga stood at the edge, shaking his head and chuckling. His dry black skin showed through his rags, and his feet were covered with mud. He watched us as we walked across the grass, watched us until we lay down, and then he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Goo,’ and went away.
The Old Church
‘Let us leave our things with the munshi,’ I said. ‘It’s no use collecting them until we have somewhere to stay. But I would like to change my clothes.’
It had been cold in the maidan until the sun threw its first pink glow over the hills. On the grass lay yesterday’s remnants—a damp newspaper, a broken toy, a kite hanging helplessly from the branches of a tree. We were sitting on the dewsodden grass, waiting for the sun to seep through to our skin and drive the chill from our bones. We had not slept much, and our eyes were ringed and heavy. Kishen’s legs were covered with mosquito bites.
‘Why is it that you haven’t been bitten as much as I have?’ complained Kishen.
‘No doubt you taste better,’ I replied. ‘We had better split up now, I suppose.’
‘But why?’
‘We will get more done that way. You go to the munshi and see if you can persuade him to let us have another room. But don’t pay anything in advance! Meanwhile, I’ll call at the schools to see if I can get any English tuitions.’
‘All right, Rusty. Where do we meet?’
‘At the Clock Tower. At about twelve o’clock.’
‘Then we can eat,’ said Kishen with enthusiasm. I couldn’t help smiling at that.
‘Eating is something we always agree upon,’ I said.
We washed ourselves at the public tap at the edge of the maidan, where the wrestlers were usually to be found. They had not assembled that morning, and the wrestling pit was empty, otherwise I might have encountered a friend of mine, called Hathi, who often came there to wrestle and use the weights. Scrubbing my back and shoulders at the tap, I realized that I needed a haircut and, worse still, a shave.
‘I will have to get a shave,’ I said ruefully. ‘You’re lucky to have only a little fluff on your cheeks so far.
I have to shave at least once a week, do you know that?’
‘How extravagant!’ exclaimed Kishen. ‘Can’t you grow a beard? A shave will cost four annas.’
‘Nobody will give me a tuition if they see this growth on my face.’
‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled Kishen, stroking the faint beginning of a moustache. ‘You take four annas and have your shave, but I will keep the rest of the money with me in case I have to give the munshi something. It will be all right to let him have a rupee or two in advance if he can give us a room.’
I went to the barber’s shop and had my shave for four annas. And the barber, who was a friend of mine, and took great pleasure in running his fingers through my hair, gave me a head massage into the bargain.
It was a wonderful massage and included not only my head, but my eyes, neck and forehead as well. The barber was a dark, glistening man, with broad shoulders and a chest like a drum; he wore a fine white Lucknow shirt through which you could see his hard body. His strong fingers drummed and stroked and pressed, and with the palms and sides of his hands he thumped and patted my forehead. I felt the blood rush to my temples, and when the massage was finished, I was hardly conscious of having a head, and walked into the street with a peculiar, elated, headless feeling.
I then made a somewhat fruitless round of the three principal schools. At each of them I was told that if anything in my line turned up, they would certainly let me know. But they did not ask me where I could be found if I was wanted.
The last school asked me to call again in a day or two.
On the outskirts of the town I found the old church of St. Paul’s, which had been abandoned for over a year due to meagre parish resources and negligible attendance. The Catholics of Dehra had been able to afford the upkeep of their church and convent, but nobody outside Dehra had bothered about St. Paul’s, and eventually the padre had locked the building and gone away. I regretted this, not because I had been fond of churchgoing—I had always disliked large gatherings of people—but because the church was old, with historic and personal associations and I hated to see old things, old people, suffer lonely deaths. The plaster was crumbling, the paint peeling off the walls, moss growing in every crack. Wild creepers grew over the stained-glass windows. The garden, so well kept once, was now a jungle of weeds and irrepressible marigolds.
I leaned on the gate and gazed at the church. There had been a time when I hated visiting this place, for it had meant the uncomfortable presence of my guardian, the gossip of middle-aged women, the boredom of an insipid sermon. But, now, seeing the neglected church, I felt sorry for it—not only for the people who had been there, but for the place itself, and for those who were buried in the graves that kept each other silent company in the grounds. People I had known lay there, and some of them were people my father had known.
I opened the creaking wooden gate and walked up the overgrown path. The front door was locked. I walked around trying the side doors, finding them all closed. There was no lock on the vestry door, though it seemed to be bolted from within. Two panes of glass were set in the top portion of the door. Standing on my toes, I reached up to them, pressing my fingers against the panes to test the thickness of the glass. I stood back from the door, took my handkerchief from my pocket and wrapped it round my hand. Standing on my toes again, I pushed my fist through one of the panes.
There was a tinkle of falling glass. I groped around and found the bolt. Then I stepped back and kicked at the door.
The door opened. The handkerchief had fallen from my hand and one of my knuckles was bleeding. I picked up the handkerchief and wrapped it round the cut. Then I stepped into the vestry.
The place was almost empty. A cupboard door hung open on one hinge and a few old cassocks lay on a shelf in a dusty pile. An untidy heap of prayer books and hymnals was stacked in a packing case, and a mouse sat on top of a half-eaten hymnal, watching my intrusion.
I went through the vestry into the church hall, where it was lighter. Sunlight poured through a stained-glass window, throwing patches of mellow orange and gold on the pews and on the frayed red carpet that ran down the aisle. The windows were full of cobwebs. As I walked down the aisle, I broke through cordons of cobwebs, sending the frightening spiders scurrying away across the pews.
I left the church by the vestry door, closing it behind me, and removing the splintered glass from the window, I threw the pieces into the bushes.
Kishen met me at the Clock Tower, and together we went to the chaat shop to have a cheap meal of spiced fruits and vegetables. On the way, Kishen told me that he had been to the munshi again.
‘The munshi wouldn’t give me a room without an advance of fifteen rupees,’ he said. ‘But I got our clothes anyway.’
‘It doesn’t matter about the room. I’ve found a place to stay.’
‘Oh, good! What is it like?’
‘Wait till you see it. I had no luck at the schools, though there may be something for me in a day or two. How much money did you say was left?’
‘Eight rupees,’ said Kishen, looking guilty and stuffing his mouth with potatoes to hide his confusion.
‘I thought it was nine rupees,’ I said.
‘It was nine,’ said Kishen. ‘But I lost one rupee. I was sure I could win, but those fellows had a trick I didn’t know!’
‘What!’ I was aghast. How could Kishen have been so careless with our meagre funds? ‘How did you manage to find company for a game of cards?’ I asked, trying not to shout in anger.
‘Well,’ said Kishen sheepishly, ‘it wasn’t so difficult. After I left you, I went straight to the munshi’s house, but had no luck there. He was only the seth’s servant, he insisted, and he had to carry out orders. I made a few insulting remarks about the seth and left.
‘I went off into the alleyways behind the bazaar. There were two hours ahead of me before I had to meet you so I was looking for some way to pass time.
‘In a courtyard off one of the alleyways were three young men, playing cards. I watched them for a while, until one of the players beckoned to me, inviting me to join the game.
‘I was with the card players till twelve o’clock. As you know Rusty, only a Punjabi can make and lose a fortune with both speed and daring. And being a Punjabi myself, I have only proved that I too could do this, in my own, small way.’
‘I see,’ I said resignedly. ‘From now on I’ll keep everything.’
Showing no sign of shame Kishen put the notes and coins on the table. I separated the money into two piles, put the notes in my pocket, and pushed six annas across the table to Kishen.
Kishen grinned. ‘So you are letting me keep something, after all?’
‘That’s to pay for the chaat,’ I retorted, and his grin turned into a grimace.
We walked to the church, Kishen grumbling a little. However, I felt very cheerful. ‘I want a bath,’ said Kishen unreasonably. ‘How far is this place where you’ve got a room?’
‘I didn’t say anything about a room, and there’s no place for a bath. But there’s a stream not far away, in the jungle behind the road.’
Kishen looked puzzled and scratched his fuzzy head, but he did not say anything, reserving judgement till later.
‘Hey, where are you going, Rusty?’ he said, when I turned in at the church gate.
‘To the church,’ I replied.
‘What for—to pray?’ asked Kishen anxiously. ‘I did not know that you were religious.’
‘I’m not. This is where we’re going to stay.’
Kishen slapped his forehead in astonishment, then burst into laughter. ‘The places we stay at!’ he exclaimed. ‘Railway stations. Maidans. And now cathedrals!’
‘It’s not a cathedral, it’s a church.’
‘What’s the difference? It’s the same religion. A mosque can be different from a temple, but how is a cathedral different from a church?’
I did not try to explain, but led Kishen in through the vestry door. He crept cautiously into the quiet church, looking nervously at the dark, spidery corners, at the high windows, the bare altar; the gloom above the rafters.
‘I can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘There must be a ghost in the place.’ He ran his fingers over the top of a pew, leaving tracks in the thick dust.
‘We can sleep on the benches or on the carpet,’ I said, ignoring his protests. ‘And we can cover ourselves with those old cassocks.’
‘Why are they called cassocks?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
‘Then don’t lecture me about cathedrals. If someone finds out we are staying here, there will be trouble.’
‘Nobody will find out. Nobody comes here any more. The place is not looked after, as you can see.
Those who used to come have all gone away. Only I am left, and I never came here willingly.’
‘Up till now,’ said Kishen. ‘Let some air in.’
I climbed on a bench and opened one of the high windows. Fresh air rushed in, smelling sweet, driving away the mustiness of the closed hall.
‘Now let’s go to the stream,’ I said.
We left the church by the vestry door, passed through the unkempt garden and went into the jungle. A narrow path led through the sal trees, and we followed it for about a quarter of a mile. The path had not been used for a long time, and we had to push our way through thorny bushes and brambles. Then we heard the sound of rushing water.
We had to slide down a rock face into a small ravine, and there we found the stream r
unning over a bed of shingle. Removing our shoes and rolling up our trousers, we crossed the stream. Water trickled down from the hillside, from amongst ferns and grasses and wild flowers; and the hills, rising steeply on either side, kept the ravine in shadow. The rocks were smooth, almost soft, and some of them were grey and some yellow. A small waterfall fell across them, forming a deep, round pool of apple-green water.
We removed our clothes and jumped into the pool. Kishen went too far out, felt the ground slipping away from beneath his feet, and came splashing back into the shallows.
‘I didn’t know it was so deep,’ he said.
Soon we had forgotten the problem of making money, had forgotten the rigours of our journey. We swam and romped about in the cold mountain water. Kishen gathered our clothes together and washed them in the stream, beating them out on the smooth rocks, and spreading them on the grass to dry. When we had bathed, we lay down on the grass under a warm afternoon sun, talking spasmodically and occasionally falling into a light sleep.
‘I am going to wire to Somi,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know his address.’
‘Isn’t his mother still here?’ said Kishen.
I sat up suddenly. ‘I never thought of her. Somi said he was the only one leaving Dehra. She must be here.’
‘Then let us go and see her,’ said Kishen. ‘She might be able to help us.’
‘We’ll go now.’
We waited until our clothes were dry, and then we dressed and went back along the forest path. The sun was setting when we arrived at Somi’s house, which was about a mile from the church, in the direction of the station.
I missed Somi’s welcoming laughter as I walked up the veranda steps. I found Somi’s mother busy in the kitchen. Grey-haired, smiling, and dressed in a simple white sari, she put her hands to her cheeks when she saw us.
‘Master Rusty!’ she exclaimed. ‘And Kishen! Where have you been all these weeks?’