by Ruskin Bond
‘My name is Rusty.’
I leant against the trunk of the mango tree. ‘What about your parents, Devinder?’ By now I was well versed with the formalities of Indian life. I knew that it was a common and accepted practice for strangers to know each other’s personal history before they became friends.
‘My parents are dead,’ said Devinder. He spoke bluntly. ‘They were killed during Partition in 1947, when we had to leave the Punjab. I was looked after in the refugee camp. But I prefer to be on my own, like this. I am happier this way.’
‘And where do you stay?’
‘Anywhere,’ he replied, closing the book and standing up. ‘In somebody’s kitchen or veranda, or in the maidan. During the summer months it doesn’t matter where I sleep, and in the winter people are kind and find some place for me.’
‘You can sleep with us,’ I said impulsively. ‘But I live in a church. I’ve been there since yesterday. It isn’t very comfortable, but it’s big.’
‘Are you a refugee too?’ asked Devinder with a smile.
‘Well, I’m a displaced person all right.’
We began walking down the road. We walked at a slow, easy pace, stopping now and then to sit on a wall or lean against a gate as we were not in a hurry to get anywhere.
Soon I began to tell Devinder all about myself. I also told him about Kishen who might be waiting for me at the church. But I did not find Kishen at the church. I began to really worry, but there was nothing I could do except wait for him. Devinder left his tray in the church and we went to the pool. We bathed and lay in the sun.
Goonga must have been following me again, for he was sitting on the vestry steps when Devinder and I returned to the church. ‘Goo,’ he said, chuckling at his own cunning.
‘Now I suppose he’ll stay here too,’ I said, a little exasperated.
Night fell, but there was no sign of Kishen. I felt it would be pointless to go out in the dark to search for him, so after laying some cassocks on the floor, Devinder and I made ourselves comfortable. Goonga had appeared yet again. ‘Goo!’ we heard him say in excitement.
I looked up from the book that I was reading as a shadow fell across the page.
‘You!’
It was Kishen finally.
Kishen seemed to be taken aback to find a stranger with me. Devinder had removed his turban, and his long hair fell over his shoulders, giving him a wild, rather dangerous look.
‘Where have you been, Kishen?’ I asked sternly. ‘You did not tell me you would be so late.’
‘I was kidnapped,’ said Kishen, sitting down on a bench and looking suspiciously at Devinder.
‘He is our new member,’ I told him. ‘He, too, will be staying here from now on. His name is Devinder.’
Kishen gave Devinder a hostile nod. He was inclined to be possessive in his friendships, so he probably resented anyone else being too close to me.
‘Is Goonga staying here too?’ he asked.
‘He followed me again. We can use him as a chowkidar. But tell me, what happened to you?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story; but let me give you the gist of it.
‘While Hathi was engaged at the Sindhi Sweet Shop, arguing with a man about a certain amount of money, I wandered off on my own, lounging about in front of the shops. I was standing in front of a clothes shop when I saw an old family friend, Mrs Bhushan, with her vixenish, fifteen-year-old daughter, Aruna, an old playmate of mine. They were in the shop, haggling with the shopkeeper over the price of a sari. Mrs Bhushan, from what Mummy once told me, has the irksome habit of going from shop to shop, like a bee sampling honey; today she had bales of cloth unfurled for inspection, but she hardly bought anything. Aruna is a dark, thin girl. She has pretty green eyes, and a mischievous smile. I wanted to speak to her, but did not relish the prospect of meeting Mrs Bhushan, who would make things awkward for me, so I turned my back on the shop and looked around for Hathi. I was about to walk away when I felt a heavy hand descend on my shoulder, and turning, found myself looking into the large, disagreeable eyes of Mrs Bhushan.
‘Mrs Bhushan is an imposing woman of some thirty-five years and she walks with a heavy determination that keeps people, and even bulls, out of her way. Her dogs, her husband, and her servants are all afraid of her and submit to her dictates without a murmur. A masculine woman, she bullies men and children and lavishes most of her affection on dogs. Suri once told me that her cocker spaniels sleep on her bed, and her husband sleeps in the drawing room.
‘“Kishen!” exclaimed Mrs Bhushan, pouncing upon me. “What are you doing here?” And at the same time Aruna saw me, and her green eyes brightened, and she cried, “Kishen! What are you doing here? We thought you were in Hardwar!”
‘I felt confused. To have Mrs Bhushan towering over me was like experiencing an eclipse of the sun. Moreover, I did not know how to explain my presence in Dehra. I contented myself with grinning sheepishly at Aruna.
‘“Where have you been, boy?” demanded Mrs Bhushan, getting business-like. “Your clothes are all torn and you’re a bundle of bones!”
‘“Oh, I’ve been on a walking tour,” I said, though I’m sure I sounded really unconvincing.
‘“A walking tour! Alone?”
‘“No, with a friend . . .”
‘“You’re too young to be wandering about like a vagrant. What do you think relatives are for? Now get into the car and come home with us.”
‘And she walked with determination towards the pre-war Hillman that stood beneath the tamarind tree. It had once belonged to a British magistrate, who had sold it cheap when he went away after Indian independence. I am sure that Mrs Bhushan’s aggressive ways will only serve to shorten the car’s life.
‘I felt unhappy at the way things were getting out of my control. “What about my friend?” I asked as a last bid to foil Mrs Bhushan’s plans.
‘“You can see him later, can’t you? Come on, Aruna, get in. There’s something fishy about this walking tour business, and I mean to get to the bottom of it!” And she trod on the accelerator with such ferocity that a lame beggar, who had been dawdling in the middle of the road, suddenly regained the use of both legs and sprang nimbly on to the pavement.’
‘Can’t you cut out the frills and just give us an idea of what happened, Kishen?’ I was beginning to feel sleepy yet I wanted to hear about Kishen’s experience with the Bhushans.
Kishen grinned and Devinder inched forward to hear the rest. Kishen did know how to keep his audience engrossed.
‘When I arrived at Mrs Bhushan’s smart white bungalow, I was placed in an armchair and subjected to Mrs Bhushan’s own brand of third-degree, which consisted of snaps and snarls and snorts of disapproval. The cocker spaniel, disapproving of my ragged condition, snapped at me.
‘Before long, I had told them the whole story of my journey from Hardwar with you, Rusty. Aruna listened to every word, full of admiration for the two of us, but Mrs Bhushan voiced her disapproval in strong terms.
‘“Well, this is the end of your wanderings, young man,” she said. “You’re staying here in this house. I won’t have you wandering about the country with a lot of loafers.”
‘Obviously Mrs Bhushan, who is given to exaggeration, had visualized you not as one person, but as several—an entire gang of tramps . . .!’ Kishen said, chuckling to himself.
‘And when she saw that I was still hesitant about staying with her, she gave me an ultimatum.
‘“Who would you rather stay with?” she demanded. “Your father or me? For, if you don’t want to stay with me, I’ll see to it that your father comes to fetch you back to Hardwar. It won’t be much of a problem to find him and inform him of your whereabouts, your latest activities and the strange company you are keeping these days.”
‘I had no choice. “I’d like to stay with you,” I said.
‘Then I spent half an hour under a hot shower, luxuriating in its warmth. It was weeks since I had used soap as I had no proper bath in Hardwar ever sinc
e I left my father’s house. I lathered myself from head to foot, and watched the effect in the bathroom mirror. My skin began to glow.
‘Mrs Bhushan had been nice enough to lend me a pair of Mr Bhushan’s pyjamas—strangely though, Mr Bhushan himself was nowhere to be seen. Anyway, I was glad to have his clothes as I couldn’t even bear the thought of getting into my dusty old clothes once again.
‘Aruna was alone in the dining room, reclining on the carpet. She pulled me down beside her and held my hand.
‘“I wish I had been with you,” she said.
‘“Have you ever slept with a rat?” I asked, wanting to spoil her excitement. “Because I did, last night.”
‘“What about your friend Rusty? I can ask Mummy to let him stay with us for some time.”
‘“He won’t come.”
‘“Why not?”
‘“He just won’t come.”
‘“Is he too proud?”
‘“No, but you are proud. That’s why he won’t come.”
‘“Then let him stay where he is.”
‘“But Aruna, I must go and tell him what has happened. He’ll be waiting for me at the Clock Tower.”
‘“Not today, you won’t,” said Mrs Bhushan, marching back into the room with a pink pyjama over her shoulder. “You can see him tomorrow when we drive you over in the car. I’m sure he can look after himself all right. If he had any sense, he’d have taken you home when he found you. The fellow must be an absolute rogue!” And with that compliment to you the argument ended.
‘So, for the rest of the day, I was held prisoner in Mrs Bhushan’s comfortable drawing room where Aruna kept me company, feeding me chicken curry and soft juicy papayas.
‘In Aruna’s company for a few hours, I managed to forget my desire to meet you. We played carrom and listened to the radio. Forgetting—or pretending to forget—that we are almost grown-up people, we began wrestling on the white Afghan carpet until Mrs Bhushan, who had been visiting the neighbours to tell them about me (no doubt), came home and lifted us off the carpet by the scruffs of our necks.
‘Aruna had to do her school homework, so she got me to help her with arithmetic.’
Kishen paused abruptly. He seemed to be at a loss for words. Ignoring the curious Devinder, he smiled a little foolishly and said, ‘You know what, Rusty? As I leant over Aruna, explaining sums which I did not understand, I became acutely conscious of the scent of her hair and the proximity of her right ear, and the sum gradually lost its urgency. The right ear with its soft creamy lobe, was excruciatingly near. I . . . I was tempted to bite it.’
I burst out laughing. It was too funny to see Kishen (who was usually so shameless and nonchalant) now squirming in embarrassment. Devinder smiled.
‘So what happened next, Kishen?’ I asked. ‘Did you succumb to that temptation?’
‘All I could manage to say was, “You have a nice ear, Aruna,” and Aruna smiled—not at me, but at the sum.’
I burst out laughing again. This time, Devinder too laughed.
‘But at night,’ continued Kishen, to put an end to our laughter, ‘I was plagued by the intolerable vision of you sitting alone in the empty church, waiting for me.
‘I was sleeping in a separate room. Mrs Bhushan and Aruna slept together in the big bedroom. (Mr Bhushan, I learnt later, was in Delhi, enjoying a week’s freedom.) I had only to open my window and slip out into the garden.
‘I crept quietly out of bed and went slowly to the bedroom door. Opening it slowly, I peered into the other room. Mrs Bhushan lay flat on her back, her bosom heaving as though it were in the throes of a minor earthquake, her breath making strange, whistling sounds. There was no likelihood of her waking up. But Aruna was wide awake. She sat up in bed, staring at me.
‘I put a finger to my lips and approached the bed.
‘“I’m going to see Rusty,” I whispered. “I will come back before morning.”
‘I found her hand, and gave it a squeeze. Then I left the room, climbing out of the window and running down the path to the gate. I kept running until I reached this church. That’s how I happened to pass my day. But Rusty, Mrs Bhushan will be sure to arrive here in the morning. What should I do then?’
‘You never trouble to make up your own mind, do you, Kishen?’
‘I don’t want to live with relatives.’
‘But we can’t wander about aimlessly for ever.’
‘We have stopped wandering now,’ he argued.
‘You have. I think I must go away again. There is a relative of mine living in the hills. Perhaps she can help me.’
‘Then I am definitely going with you!’ exclaimed Kishen.
‘And if I do not find her, what happens? We will both be stuck on a mountain without anything. If you stay here, you might be able to help me later.’
‘Well, when you are going?’ he asked impatiently.
‘As soon as I collect some money.’
‘I will try to get some from Mrs Bhushan, she has plenty, but she is a miser. Will he go with you?’ said Kishen, looking at Devinder.
‘I cannot go,’ said Devinder. ‘I have my examinations in a month.’
Kishen kicked off his shoes and made himself comfortable on a pew. I began reading aloud from The Traveller, and everyone listened—Kishen, with his feet stuck upon a pew-support; Devinder, with his chin resting on his knees; and Goonga (not understanding a word) grinning in the candlelight.
Next morning Devinder, Kishen and I went down to the pool to bathe. The smell of the neem trees, the sound of the water, the touch of the breeze intoxicated us, filled us with a zest for living. We ran over the wild wood-sorrel, over the dew-drenched grass down to the water.
Goonga, who on principal refused to bathe, was already there and now sat on top of the rocks, looking on with detached amusement at us swimming in the pool and wrestling in the shallow water.
Devinder could stand in the deepest part of the pool and still have his head above water. To keep his long hair out of the way, he tied it in a knot, like a bun, on top of his head. His hair was almost auburn in colour, his skin was a burnished gold. He slipped about in the water like a long glistening fish.
Kishen began making balls from loose mud, which he threw at Devinder and me. A mud fight ensued. It was like playing with snowballs, but more messy.
We were a long time at the pool. When we returned to the church a Hillman had been parked at the gate and an impatient and irate Mrs Bhushan was sitting at the wheel. She looked determined to be belligerent, but seeing Kishen accompanied not only by me but by two other dangerous-looking youths, her worst fears must have been confirmed. So she visibly changed her tactic; she must have felt that discretion would be the better part of valour.
‘Kishen, my son,’ she pleaded, ‘we have been worrying about you very much. You should not have left without telling us! Aruna is very unhappy.’
Kishen stood sulkily near us.
‘You had better go, Kishen,’ I said. ‘You will be of more help to me if you stay with Mrs Bhushan.’
‘But when will I see you?’
‘As soon as I come back from the hills.’
Once Kishen was in the car, I confronted Mrs Bhushan and said, ‘He won’t leave you now. But if he is not happy with you, we will come and take him away.’
‘We are his friends,’ said Mrs Bhushan.
‘No, you are like a relative. We are his friends.’
Kishen said, ‘If you don’t come back soon, Rusty, I will start looking for you.’ He scowled affectionately at me and waved to Devinder and Goonga as the car took him away.
‘He might run back again tonight,’ said Devinder.
‘He will get used to Mrs Bhushan’s house,’ I replied. ‘Soon he will be liking it. He will not forget us, but he will remember us only when he is alone. We are only something that happened to him once upon a time. But we have changed him a little. Now he knows there are others in the world besides himself.’
‘I could not un
derstand him,’ said Devinder. ‘But still I liked him a little.’
‘I understood him,’ I said, ‘and still I liked him.’
The Lafunga
‘If you have nothing to do,’ said Devinder, ‘will you come with me on my rounds?’
‘Sure, but first we will see Hathi. If he has not left yet, I can accompany him to Lansdowne.’
I set out with Devinder in the direction of the bazaar. As it was early morning, the shops were just beginning to open. Vegetable vendors were busy freshening their stock with liberal sprinklings of water, calling their prices and their wares. Children dawdled in the road on their way to school, playing hopscotch or marbles. Girls going to college chattered in groups like gay, noisy parrots. Men cycled to work, and bullock-carts came in from the villages, laden with produce. The dust, which had taken all night to settle, rose again like a mist.
We stopped at the tea shop to eat thickly buttered buns and drink strong, sweet tea. Then we looked for Hathi’s room, and found it above a clothes shop, lying empty, with its doors open. The string bed was propped up against a wall. On shelves and window-ledges, in corners and on the floor, lay little coloured toys made of clay—elephants and bulls, horses and peacocks, and images of Krishna and Ganesha—a blue Krishna, with a flute to his lips, a jolly Ganesha with a delightful little trunk. Most of the toys were rough and unfinished, more charming than the completed pieces. The finished products would probably go on sale in the bazaar.
It came as a surprise to me to discover that Hathi, the big wrestler, made toys for a living. I had not imagined there would be delicacy and skill in my friend’s huge hands. The pleasantness of the discovery offset my disappointment at finding Hathi had gone.
‘He has left already?’ I said. ‘Never mind. I know he will welcome me even if I arrive unexpectedly.’
I left the bazaar with Devinder, making for the residential part of the town. As I would be leaving Dehra soon, there was no point in my visiting the school again. Later, though, I would see Mr Pettigrew.
When we reached the Clock Tower, someone whistled to us from across the street, and a tall young man came striding towards us.