by Ruskin Bond
He looked taller than Devinder, mainly because of his long legs. He wore a loose-fitting bush shirt that hung open in front. His face was long and pale, but he had quick, devilish eyes, and he smiled disarmingly.
‘Here comes Sudheer the Lafunga,’ whispered Devinder. ‘Lafunga means loafer. He probably wants some money. He is the most charming and the most dangerous person in town.’ Aloud, he said, ‘Sudheer, when are you going to return the twenty rupees you owe me?’
‘Don’t talk that way, Devinder,’ said the Lafunga, looking offended. ‘Don’t hurt my feelings. You know your money is safer with me than it is in the bank. It will even bring you dividends, mark my words. I have a plan that will come off in a few days, and then you will get back double your money. Please tell me, who is your friend?’
‘We stay together,’ said Devinder, introducing me. ‘And he is bankrupt too, so don’t get any ideas.’
‘Please don’t believe what he says of me,’ said the Lafunga with a captivating smile that showed his strong teeth. ‘Really, I am not very harmful.’
‘Well, completely harmless people are usually dull,’ I said.
‘How I agree with you! I think we have a lot in common.’
‘No, he hasn’t got anything,’ put in Devinder.
‘Well then, he must start from the beginning. It is the best way to make a fortune. You will come and see me, won’t you, Mr Rusty? We could make a terrific combination, I am sure. You are the kind of person people trust! They take only one look at me and then feel their pockets to see if anything is missing!’
Instinctively I put my hand to my own pocket, and all three of us laughed.
‘Well, I must go,’ said Sudheer, now certain that
Devinder was not likely to produce any funds. ‘I have a small matter to attend to. It may bring me a fee of twenty or thirty rupees.’
‘Go,’ said Devinder. ‘Strike while the iron is hot.’
‘Not I,’ said the Lafunga, grinning and moving off. ‘I make the iron hot by striking.’
‘Sudheer is not too bad,’ said Devinder as we walked away from the Clock Tower. ‘He is a crook, of course—a 420—but he would not harm people like us. As he is quite well educated, he manages to gain the confidence of some well-to-do-people, and acts on their behalf in matters that are not always respectable. But he spends what he makes, and is too generous to be successful.’
We had reached a quiet, tree-lined road, and walked in the shade of neem, mango, jamun and eucalyptus trees. Clumps of tall bamboo grew between the trees. Some marigolds grew wild on the footpath, and Devinder picked two of them, giving one to me.
‘There is a girl who lives at the bottom of the road,’ he said. ‘She is pretty. Come with me and see her.’
We walked to the house at the end of the road and while I stood at the gate, Devinder went up the path. He stood at the bottom of the veranda steps, a little to one side, where he could be seen from a window, and whistled softly.
Presently a girl came out on the veranda. When she saw Devinder she smiled. She had a round, fresh face and long black hair, and she was not wearing any shoes.
Devinder gave her the marigold. She took it in her hand and not knowing what to say, ran indoors.
That morning we walked about four miles. Devinder’s customers ranged from decadent maharanis and the wives of government officials to gardeners and sweeper women. Though his merchandise was cheap, the well-to-do were more finicky about the price than the poor. And there were a few who bought things from Devinder because they knew his circumstances and liked what he was doing.
A small girl with flapping pigtails came skipping down the road. She stopped to stare at me as though I were something quite out of the ordinary, but not unpleasant.
I took the marigold from my pocket and gave it to her. It was a long time since I had been able to make anyone a gift.
After some time we parted, Devinder going back to the town, while I crossed the river bed. I walked through the tea gardens until I found Mr Pettigrew’s bungalow.
The old man was not on the veranda, but a young servant gave me a salaam and asked me to sit down. Apparently Mr Pettigrew was having his bath.
‘Does he always bathe in the afternoon?’ I asked. ‘Yes, the sahib likes his water to be put in the sun to get warm. He does not like cold baths or hot baths. The afternoon sun gives his water the right temperature.’
I walked into the drawing room and nearly fell over a small table. The room was full of furniture and pictures and bric-a-brac. Tiger heads, stuffed and mounted, snarled down at me from the walls. On the carpet lay several cheetal skins, a bit worn at the sides. There were several shelves filled with books bound in morocco or calf. Photographs adorned the walls—one of a much younger Mr Pettigrew standing over a supine leopard, another of Mr Pettigrew perched on top of an elephant, with his rifle resting on his knees . . . I wondered how such an active shikari ever found time for reading. While I was gazing at the photographs, Pettigrew himself came in, a large bathrobe wrapped round his thin frame, his grizzly chest looking very raw and red from the scrubbing he had just given it.
‘Ah, there you are!’ he said. ‘The bearer told me you were here. Glad to see you again. Sit down and have a drink.’
Mr Pettigrew found the whisky and poured out two stiff drinks. Then, still in his bathrobe and slippers, he made himself comfortable in an armchair. I said something complimentary about one of the mounted tiger heads.
‘Bagged it in Assam,’ he said. ‘Back in 1928, that was. I spent three nights on a machan before I got a shot at it.’
‘You have a lot of books,’ I observed.
‘A good collection, mostly flora and fauna. Some of them are extremely rare. By the way,’ he said, looking around at the wall, ‘did you see the picture I have of your father?’
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘He’s in that group photograph over there,’ said Mr Pettigrew, pointing to a picture on the wall.
I went over to the picture and saw three men dressed in white shirts and flannels, holding tennis rackets and looking very self-conscious.
‘He’s in the middle,’ said Pettigrew. ‘I’m on his right.’
I didn’t need him to point out my father. Of course, he looked much younger in the picture and he was the only player who was smiling. Mr Pettigrew, sporting a fierce moustache, looked as though he was about to tackle a tiger with his racket. The third person was bald and uninteresting.
‘Of course, he’s very young in that photo,’ said Pettigrew. ‘It was taken long before you were ever thought of—before your father married.’
I did not reply. I was trying to imagine Father in action on a tennis court, and wondered if he was a better player than Pettigrew.
‘Who was the best player among you?’ I asked.
‘Ah, well, we were both pretty good, you know. Except for poor old Wilkie on the left. He got in the picture by mistake.’
‘Did my father talk much those days?’ I asked. As far as I knew him, he had been quiet and thoughtful, yet he had been the one who taught me all about trees, nature, social history in a way that made everything seem so interesting.
‘Well, we all talked a lot, you know, especially after a few drinks. He talked as much as any of us. He could sing, when he wanted to. His rendering of the “Kashmiri Love Song” was always popular at parties, but it wasn’t often he sang, because he didn’t like parties . . . Do you remember it? “Pale hands. I love, beside the Shalimar . . .”’
Pettigrew began singing in a cracked, wavering voice, and I was forced to take my eyes off the photograph. Halfway through the melody, Pettigrew forgot the words, so he took another gulp of whisky and began singing ‘The Rose of Tralee’. The sight of the old man singing love songs in his bathrobe, with a glass of whisky in his hand, made me smile.
‘Well,’ he said, breaking off in the middle of the song, ‘I don’t sing as well as I used to. Never mind. Now tell me, boy, when are you going to Garhwal
?’
‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’
‘Have you any money?’
‘Enough to travel with. I have a friend in the hills with whom I can stay for some time.’
‘And what about money?’
‘I have enough.’
‘Well, I’m lending you twenty rupees,’ he said, thrusting an envelope into my hands. ‘Come and see me when you return, even if you don’t find what you’re looking for.’
‘I’ll do that, Mr Pettigrew.’
The old man looked at me for some time, as though summing me up.
‘You don’t really have to find out much about your father,’ he said. ‘You’re just like him, you know.’
The next day—the day of my departure—Devinder handed me twenty rupees. I was too surprised to say anything. How Devinder had managed to get me this sum I could not understand. Seeing the bewildered look on my face, he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Rusty. I haven’t robbed anyone, or anything like that. The Lafunga—I wrangled this amount out of him.’
‘But how, Devinder? And when? Besides, did you not tell me that Sudheer only takes money, and never gives any?’
‘Well, it wasn’t easy. Yesterday when I returned to the bazaar, I found Sudheer at a paan shop, his lips red with betel juice. I went straight to the point.
‘“Sudheer,” I said, “you owe me twenty rupees. I need that money back, not for myself, but for Rusty, who has to leave Dehra very urgently. You must get me the money by tonight.”
‘“It will be difficult,” he said, scratching his head, “but perhaps it can be managed. He really needs the money? It is not just a trick to get your own money back?”
‘“He is going to the hills. There may be money for him there, if he finds the person he is looking for.”
‘“Well, that’s different,” said the Lafunga, brightening up. “That makes Rusty an investment. Meet me at the Clock Tower at six o’clock, and I will have the money for you. I am glad to find you making useful friends for a change.”
‘He stuffed another roll of paan into his mouth, and strolled leisurely down the bazaar road.
‘Do you know, as far as appearances go, Sudheer has little to do but loll around in the afternoon sunshine, frequenting tea shops and gambling with cards in small back rooms. All this he does very well—but it does not make him a living.
‘To say that he lives on his wits would be an exaggeration. He lives a great deal on other people’s wits. The seth, for instance, Rusty—your former landlord, who owns much property and dabbles in many shady transactions—is often represented by the Lafunga in affairs of an unsavoury nature.
‘Sudheer came originally from the Frontier, where little value is placed on human life; and while still a boy, he had wandered, a homeless refugee, over the border into India. A smuggler adopted him (or so he says), taught him something of the trade, and introduced him to some of the best hands in the profession. But in a border-foray with the police, Sudheer’s foster father was shot dead, and he was once again on his own. By this time anyway he was old enough to look after himself. With the help of his foster father’s connections, he soon attained the service and confidence of the seth.
‘Sudheer is no petty criminal. He practises crime as a fine art, and believes that thieves, and even murderers, have to have certain principles. If he steals, then he steals from a rich man who can afford to be robbed, or from a greedy man who deserves to be robbed. And if he did not rob poor men, it is not because of any altruistic motive—it is because the poor are not worth robbing.
‘He is good to friends like me, who are good to him. Perhaps his most valuable friends (according to local gossip), as sources of both money and information, are two dancing girls who practise their profession in an almost inaccessible little road in the heart of the bazaar. Their names are Hastini and Mrinalini. He borrows money from them very freely, and seldom pays back more than half of it.
‘I am sure that even this twenty rupees, which he gave me today, has been taken by him from either Hastini or Mrinalini. He has a way with them— probably plays one against the other—and in their eagerness to win his love, I am sure each of these girls would help him generously.’
‘Well, that may be true, but it may also be pure speculation on our part, couldn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Anyway, thanks for the money, Devinder. I hope I don’t have to spend it, or else we’ll have to find a way to either pay the Lafunga or to outwit him!’
To the Hills
In the church, I was suddenly feeling the sadness of one leaving a familiar home and familiar faces. Till now I had been with friends, people who had given me help and comradeship; but now once again I would be on my own, without Kishen or Devinder.
That was the way it had always turned out.
I gave my spare clothes to Goonga because I did not feel like carrying them with me. And I left my books with Devinder.
‘Stay here, Devinder,’ I said. ‘Stay here until I come back. I want to find you in Dehra.’
A breeze from the open window made the light from the candles flicker, and the shadows on the walls leapt and gesticulated; but Devinder stood still, the candlelight playing softly on his face.
‘I’m always here, Rusty,’ he said.
The northern-bound train was not crowded, because in December few people went to the hills. I had no difficulty in finding an empty compartment.
It was a small compartment with only two lower berths. Lying down on one of them, I stared out of the far window at the lights across the railway tracks. I fell asleep, and woke only when the train jerked into motion.
Looking out of the window, I saw the station platform slipping away, while the shouts of the coolies and vendors grew fainter until they were lost in the sound of the wheels and the rocking of the carriage. The town lights twinkled, grew distant and were swallowed up by the trees. The engine went panting through the jungle, its red sparks floating towards the stars.
There were four small stations between Dehra and Hardwar, and the train stopped for five or ten minutes at each station. At Doiwala I was woken from a light sleep by a tap at the window. It was dark outside, and I could not make out the face that was pressed against the glass. When I opened the door, a familiar, long-legged youth stepped into the carriage suddenly out of the dark, swiftly shutting the door behind him. It was Sudheer, the Lafunga. Before sitting down, he dropped all the shutters on the side facing the platform.
‘We meet again,’ he said, sitting down opposite me as the train began to move. ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m Sudheer. I met you at the Clock Tower with Devinder.’
‘Of course I remember you,’ I said. ‘But what are you doing on this train?’
‘I’m going to Hardwar,’ said Sudheer, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. ‘On business. Don’t ask me for details.’
‘Why didn’t you get on the train at Dehra?’
‘Because I have to use strategy, my friend.’ He kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the opposite bunk. ‘And where are you going now?’
‘I’m going to the hills to see an aunt.’ I wasn’t sure if I should confide my plans to Sudheer, but if Devinder could trust him, why not?
‘And when will you come back? I suppose you will come back.’
‘I’m not sure what I’ll do. I want to give myself a chance to be a writer, because I may succeed. It is the only kind of work I really want to do—if you can call it work.’
‘Yes, it is work. Real work is what you want to do. It is only when you work for yourself that you really work. I use my eyes and my fingers and my wits. I have no morals and no scruples . . .’
‘But you have principles, I think.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You have feelings?’
‘Yes, but I pay no attention to them.’
‘I cannot do that.’
‘You are too noble! Why don’t you join me? I can guarantee money, excitement, friendship—my friendship, anyway . . .’
&nb
sp; Sudheer leant forward and took my hand. There was earnestness in his manner, and also a challenge.
‘Come on. Be with me. I wanted you to be with me since the day I met you. I’m a crook, and I don’t have any real friends. I don’t ask you to be a crook. I ask you to be my friend.’
‘I will be your friend,’ I said, taking a sudden liking to Sudheer. I almost said, ‘I will be a crook, too,’ but thought better of it.
‘Why not get down at Hardwar?’ asked Sudheer. ‘Why not come with me to Lansdowne?’
‘I have work in Hardwar.’
‘And I in the hills.’
‘That is why friends are so difficult to keep.’ Sudheer smiled and leant back in the seat. ‘All right, then. We will join up later. I will meet you in the hills. Wait for me, remember me, don’t put me out of your mind.’
The train drew into a tunnel, and both of us fell silent. Sudheer looked preoccupied; as for myself, I was engrossed in memories of a past and another such tunnel I went through long ago, in the days when my father was alive.
The Leopard
It was almost noon, and the jungle was very still, very silent. Heat waves shimmered along the railway embankment where it cut a path through the tall evergreen trees. The railway lines looked like two straight black serpents disappearing into the tunnel in the hillside.
I stood near the cutting, waiting for the midday train. It wasn’t a station and I wasn’t catching a train. I was waiting so I could watch the steam engine come roaring out of the tunnel.
I had cycled out of town and taken the jungle path until I had come to a small village. I left the cycle there, and walked over a low, scrub-covered hill and down to the tunnel exit.
I looked up. I could hear in the distance, the shrill whistle of the engine. But I couldn’t see anything, because the train was approaching from the other side of the hill. But presently a sound like distant thunder came from the tunnel, and I knew the train was coming through. A second or two later the steam engine shot out of the tunnel, snorting and puffing like some green, black and gold dragon, some beautiful monster out of my dreams. Showering sparks right and left, it roared a challenge to the jungle.