The Best of Ruskin Bond

by Bond, Ruskin

  ‘Are you allowed to take the fruit?’

  ‘I am allowed,’ he says, grinning. ‘My father is the head gardener.’

  I bite into the fruit. It is hard and sour but not unpleasant.

  ‘Do you live here?’ I ask.

  ‘Over the wall,’ he says. ‘But I come here everyday, to help my father and to eat the fruit.’

  ‘So you see the Taj Mahal every day?’

  ‘I have seen it every day for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘And I am seeing it for the first time. . . . you’re very lucky.’

  He shrugs. ‘If you see it once, or a hundred times, it is the same. It doesn’t change.’

  ‘Don’t you like looking at it, then?’

  ‘I like looking at the people who come here. They are always different. In the evening there will be many people.’

  ‘You must have seen people from almost every country in the world.’

  ‘That is so. They all come here to look at the Taj. Kings and Queens and Presidents and Prime Ministers and film stars and poor people too. And I look at them. In that way it isn’t boring.’

  ‘Well, you have the Taj to thank for that.’

  He gazes thoughtfully at the shimmering monument. His eyes are accustomed to the sharp sunlight. He sees the Taj every day, but at this moment he is really looking at it, thinking about it, wondering what magic it must possess to attract people from all comers of the earth, to bring them here walking through his father’s well-kept garden so that he can have something new and fresh to look at each day.

  A cloud—a very small cloud—passes across the face of the sun; and in the softened light I too am able to look at the Taj without screwing up my eyes.

  As the boy said, it does not change. Therein lies beauty. For the effect on the traveller is the same today as it was three hundred years ago when Bernier wrote: ‘Nothing offends the eye. . . . No part can be found that is not skilfully wrought, or that has not its peculiar beauty.’

  And so, for a few moments, this poem in marble is on view to two unimportant people—the itinerant writer and the gardener’s boy.

  We say nothing; there is really nothing to be said. (But now, a few months later, when I try to recapture the essence of that day, it is not the monument that I remember most vividly. The Taj is there of course; I still see it as a mirror for the sun. But what remains with me, more than anything else, is the passage of the river and the sharp flavour of the Ashoke fruit.)

  In the afternoon I walk through the old bazaars which lie to the west of Akbar’s great red sandstone fort, and I am not surprised to find a small street which is almost entirely taken up by kite-shops. Most of them sell the smaller, cheaper kites, but one small dark shop has in it a variety of odd and fantastic creations. Stepping inside, I find myself face to face with the doyen of Agra’s kite-makers, Hosain Ali, a feeble old man whose long beard is dyed red with the juice of mehendi leaves. He has just finished making a new kite from bamboo, paper and thin silk, and it lies outside in the sun, firming up. It is a pale pink kite, with a small green tail.

  The old man is soon talking to me, for he likes to talk and is not very busy. He complains that few people buy kites these days (I find this hard to believe), and tells me that I should have visited Agra twenty-five years ago, when kite-flying was the sport of kings and even grown men found time to spend an hour or two every day with these gay, dancing strips of paper. Now, he says, everyone hurries, hurries in a heat of hope, and delicate things like kites and day-dreams are trampled underfoot. ‘Once I made a wonderful kite,’ says Hosain Ali nostalgically. ‘It was unlike any kite seen in Agra. It had a number of small, very light paper discs trailing on a thin bamboo frame. At the end of each disc I fixed a sprig of grass, forming a balance on both sides. On the first and largest disc I painted a face and gave it eyes made of two small mirrors. The discs, which grew smaller from head to tail, gave the kite the appearance of a crawling serpent. It was very difficult to get this great kite off the ground. Only I could manage it.

  ‘Of course, everyone heard of the Dragon Kite I had made, and word went about that there was some magic in its making. A large crowd arrived on the maidan to watch me fly the kite.

  ‘At first the kite would not leave the ground. The discs made a sharp wailing sound, the sun was trapped in the little mirrors. My kite had eyes and tongue and a trailing silver tail. I felt it come alive in my hands. It rose from the ground, rose steeply into the sky, moving farther and farther away, with the sun still glinting in its dragon eyes. And when it went very high, it pulled fiercely on the twine, and my son had to help me with the reel.

  ‘But still the kite pulled, determined to be free—yes, it had become a living thing—and at last the twine snapped, and the wind took the kite, took it over the rooftops and the waving trees and the river and the far hills for ever. No one ever saw where it fell. Sahib, are you listening? The Dragon Kite is lost, but for you I’ll make a bright new poem to fly.’

  ‘Make me one,’ I say, moved by his tale, or rather by the manner of its telling. ‘I will collect it tomorrow, before I leave Agra. Let it be a beautiful kite. I won’t fly it. I’ll hang it on my wall, and will not give it a chance to get away.’

  It is evening, and the winter sun comes slanting through the intricate branches of a banyan tree, as a cycle-rickshaw—a different one this time—brings me to a forgotten corner of Agra that I have always wanted to visit. This is the old Roman Catholic cemetery where so many early European travellers and adventurers lie buried.

  Although it is quite probably the oldest Christian cemetery in northern India, it has none of that overgrown, crumbling look that is common to old cemeteries in monsoon lands. It is a bright, even cheerful place, and the jingle of tonga-bells and other street noises can be heard from any part of the grounds. The grass is cut, the gravestones are kept clean, and most of the inscriptions are still readable.

  The caretaker takes me straight to the oldest grave—this is the oldest known European grave in northern India—and it happens to be that of an Englishman, John Mildenhall. The lettering stands out clearly:

  Here lies John Mildenhall, Englishman, who left London in 1599 and travelling to India through Persia, reached Agra in 1605 and spoke with the Emperor Akbar. On a second visit in 1614 he fell ill at Lahore, died at Ajmere, and was buried here through the good offices of Thomas Kerridge Merchant.

  During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Agra cemetery was considered blessed ground by Christians, and the dead were brought here from distant places. Thomas Kerridge must have put himself to considerable expense to bury his friend in Agra. Mildenhall was a romantic, who styled himself an envoy of Queen Elizabeth. Unfortunately he left no account of his travels, although a couple of his letters are quoted in the writings of Purchas, another English merchant, who lies buried in the Protestant cemetery a couple of furlongs away.

  Nearby is the grave of the Venetian, Jerome Veronio, who died at Lahore. According to some old records, he had a hand in designing the Taj, modelling it on Humayun’s tomb in Delhi. There had for long been a belief that this ‘architect’ of the Taj lay buried in the cemetery but no one knew where. Then in 1945, Father Hyacinth, Superior Regular of Agra, scraped the moss off a tombstone, revealing the simple epitaph: ‘Here lies Jerome Veronio, who died at Lahore.’

  Actually, there is no evidence that Veronio designed the Taj, and even if he had something to do with it, he was only one of a number of artists and architects who worked on its construction. The chief architect was Muhammed Sharif of Samarkand. Each drew a salary of one thousand rupees per month. Ismail Khan of Turkey was the dome-maker. A number of inlay workers, sculptors and masons were Hindus, including Manohar Singh of Lahore and Mohan Lal of Kanauj, both famous inlay-workers.

  A man of more authentic accomplishments was the Italian lapidary, Horten Bronzoni, whose grave lies at a short distance from Veronio’s. He died on 11 August 1677. According to Tavernier, it was Bronzoni who c
ut the Koh-i-noor diamond; and, says Tavernier, he cut the stone very badly.

  Bronzoni is again mentioned as having manufactured a model ship of war for Aurangzeb, who had been annoyed by the depredations of Portuguese pirates and was anxious to create a navy. The ship was floated in a huge tank and manoeuvred by a number of European artillery-men. It made a ridiculous sight and convinced the Emperor that a navy was out of the question.

  There are over eighty old Armenian graves in the cemetery, but the only one that interests me is the tomb of Shah Azar Khan, an expert in the art of moulding a heavy cannon. One of these, ‘Zamzamah’, earned a measure of immortality in Kipling’s Kim, who hold Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire-breathing dragon’, hold the Punjab; for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot. The gun was 14.6 feet long, and is still at Lahore.

  Other historic tombs lie scattered about the cemetery, but the most striking and curious of them is the grave of Colonel Jon Hessing, who died in 1803. It is a miniature Taj Mahal, built of red sandstone. Although small compared to a Mughal tomb, it is large for a Christian grave, and could easily accommodate a living family of moderate proportions. Hessing came to India from Holland, and was one of a colourful band of freelance soldiers (most of them deserters) who served in Sindhia’s Maratha army. Hessing, we are told, was a good, benevolent man and a great soldier. The tomb was built by his wife Alice, who it must be supposed, felt as tenderly towards the Colonel as Shah Jahan felt towards his queen. She could not afford marble. Even so, her ‘Taj’ cost a lakh of rupees.

  Outside, in the street, people move about with casual unconcern.

  Street-vendors occupy the pavement, unwilling that their rivals should take advantage of a brief absence. In the banyan tree, the sparrows and bulbuls are settling down for the night. A kite lies entangled in the upper branches.

  Street Of The Red Well

  The sun beats down on the sweltering city of Old Delhi. Not a breath of air stirs in the narrow, winding streets. This old walled city, now over three hundred years old, has no open spaces, no fountains, no sidewalks, no shady avenues. During the reign of Emperor Shah Jahan, a canal ran down the centre of the main thoroughfare, Chandni Chowk (Street of the Silversmiths); but the canal has long since been covered over, and the Jamuna river, from which the water was channelled, lies beyond the Emperor’s fort, the Red Fort of Delhi, where the Prime Minister speaks to the multitude every year on Independence Day.

  It is not water that I seek most, but shelter from the heat and glare of the overhead sun. I have chosen what is quite possibly the hottest day in May, the temperature over 105° Fahrenheit, to go walking in search of—what? A story, perhaps an adventure. Or that is what I set out to do. The heat of the day has willed otherwise. I may be ready for an adventure, but no one else is interested. I am the only one walking the streets from choice.

  Shopkeepers nod drowsily beneath whirring ceiling-fans. The pavement barber has taken his customer into the shelter of an awning. A fortune-teller has decided that there is nothing to predict and has fallen asleep under the same awning. A vegetable-seller sprinkles water on his vegetables in a dispirited fashion. Those cauliflowers were fresh an hour ago, they look old already. Even the flies are drowsy. Instead of buzzing feverishly from place to place, they stagger about on tired legs.

  It is the pigeons who have found all the coolest places. These birds have made the old city their own. New Delhi is for the crows who like to have a tree to sleep in, even if they take their meals from out of kitchens and verandas. But the pigeons prefer buildings, and the older the buildings the better. They are familiar with every cool alcove or shady recess in the crumbling walls of neglected mosques and mansions.

  A fat, supercilious pigeon watches me from the window ledge above a jeweller’s shop. The pigeon’s forebears settled here long before the British thought of taking Delhi. Conquerors have come and gone. Nadir Shah the Persian, Madhav Rao the Maratha, Ghulam Kadir the Rohilla, and generations of goldsmiths and silversmiths. Hindus and Muslims have made and lost fortunes in the city, but nothing has disturbed the tranquil life of these pigeons. Their gentle cooing can always be heard when there is a lull in the jagged symphony of traffic noise. How do they manage to sound so cool?

  But here’s welcome relief for humans; a shady corner in Lal Kuan Bazaar (Street of the Red Well), where an old man provides drinking water to thirsty wayfarers such as myself. His water is stored in a surahi, an earthenware jug which keeps the water sweet and cool. I bend down, cup my hands, and receive the sparkling liquid as my benefactor tilts the surahi towards me.

  Lal Kuan. The Red Well. Of course it is no longer here. But the street still bears its name. And I like to think that here, in the middle of the street, where a bullock has gone to sleep forcing the cyclists to make a detour, there was once a well made of dark red brick, where the water bubbled forth all day.

  Imprisoned beneath the soil, held down by the crowded commercial houses of this old quarter, the water must still be there; it gives nourishment to an old peepul tree that grows beside a temple.

  It is the only tree in the street. It juts out from the temple wall growing straight and tall, dwarfing the two-storey houses. One of its roots, breaking through the ground, has curled up to provide a smooth, well-worn seat.

  And it is cool here, beneath the peepul. Even when there is no breeze, the slender heart-shaped leaves revolve prettily, creating their own currents of air. No wonder the sages of old found it a good tree to sit beneath. No wonder they called it sacred.

  On the other side of the road, a tall iron doorway is set in a high wall. Doors like this were only built in the previous century, when a wealthy merchant’s house had to be a miniature fortress as well as a residence. I cannot see over the wall and I would like to know what lies behind the door. Perhaps a side-street, perhaps a market, perhaps a garden, perhaps.

  The door opens, not easily, because it has been left closed for a long time, but slowly and with much complaint. And beyond the door there is only an empty courtyard, covered with nibble, the ruins of an old house. I am about to turn away when I hear a deep tremendous murmur.

  It is the cooing of many pigeons.

  But where are they?

  I advance further into the ruin, and there, opening out in front of me, ready to receive me as the rabbit hole was ready to receive Alice, is an old, disused well.

  I peer down into its murky depths. It is dark, very dark, down there; but that is where the pigeons live, in the walls of this lost, long-forgotten well shut away from the rest of the city.

  I cannot see any water. So I drop a pebble over the side. It strikes the wall, and then, with a soft plop, touches water. At that instant there is a rush of air and a tremendous beating of wings, and a flock of pigeons, thirty or forty of them, fly out of the well, streak upwards, circle the building, and then falling into formation, wheel overhead, the sun gleaming white on their underwings.

  I have discovered their secret. Now I know why they always look so cool, so refreshed, while we who walk the streets of Old Delhi do so with parched mouths and drooping limbs.

  The pigeons are the only ones who still know about the Red Well.

  SONGS AND LOVE POEMS

  Lost*

  I boarded the big ship bound for the West,

  The clean white liner.

  In the noon-day heat

  Coolies thronged the sun-drenched pier.

  Yet I saw only

  The village I had left,

  And a boat at rest

  On the river’s shallow water

  In the shade of the flowering

  Long red-fingered poinsettia.

  I saw not the big waves

  But the ripple of running

  Water in the reeds.

  We came to London, lost in November mist:

  In an ash-grey dawn at Tilbury dock

  I longed for the warmth of a kiss

  Of sunlight.

  In the busy streets
/>   Were cavalcades of people

  Hurrying in a heat of hope.

  But I saw only

  The wheat-field, the tea-slope . . .

  A cow at rest.

  And longed for the soft, shoeless tread

  Of a village boy . . .

  Love Lyrics For Binya Devi

  1

  Your face streamed April rain,

  As you climbed the steep hill,

  Calling the white cow home.

  You seemed very tiny

  On the windswept mountainside;

  A twist of hair lay

  Strung across your forehead

  And your torn blue skirt

  Clung to your tender thighs.

  You smiled through the blind white rain

  And gave me the salt kiss of your lips,

  Salt mingled with raindrop and mint,

  And left me there, where I had come to fetch you—

  So gallant in the blistering rain!

  And you ran home laughing;

  But it was worth the drenching.

  2

  Your feet, laved with dew,

  Stood firm on the quickening grass.

  There was a butterfly between us:

  Red and gold its wings

  And heavy with dew.

  It could not move because of the weight of moisture.

  And as your foot came nearer

  And I saw that you would crush it,

  I said: ‘Stay. It has only a few days

  In the sun, and we have many.’

  ‘And if I spare it,’ you said, laughing,

  ‘What will you do for me, what will you pay?’

  ‘Why, anything you say.’

  ‘And will you kiss my foot?’

  ‘Both feet,’ I said; and did so happily.

  For they were no less than the wings of butterflies.

  3

  All night our love

  Stole sleep from dusty eyes.