by Bond, Ruskin
With one last final heave, the car was moved up the opposite bank and on to the straight. Everyone groaned and flopped to the ground. Meena’s hands were trembling.
‘You shouldn’t have pushed,’ said Rusty.
‘I enjoyed it,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Help me to get up.’
He rose and, taking her hand, pulled her to her feet. They stood together, holding hands. Kapoor fiddled around with starters and chokes and things.
‘It won’t go,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to look at the engine. We might as well have the picnic here.’
So out came the food and lemonade bottles and, miraculously enough, out came Suri and Prickly Heat, looking as fit as ever.
‘Hey,’ said Kishen, ‘we thought you were sick. I suppose you were just making room for lunch.’
‘Before he eats anything,’ said Somi, ‘he’s going to get wet. Let’s take him for a swim.’
Somi, Kishen and Rusty caught hold of Suri and dragged him along the river-bank to a spot downstream where the current was mild and the water warm and waist-high. They unrobed Suri, took off their own clothes, and ran down the sandy slope to the water’s edge; feet splashed ankle-deep, calves thrust into the current, and then the ground suddenly disappeared beneath their feet.
Somi was a fine swimmer; his supple limbs cut through the water and, when he went under, he was almost as powerful; the chequered colours of his body could be seen first here and then there, twisting and turning, diving and disappearing for what seemed like several minutes, and then coming up under someone’s feet.
Rusty and Kishen were amateurs. When they tried swimming underwater, their bottoms remained on the surface, having all the appearance of floating buoys. Suri couldn’t swim at all but, though he was often out of his depth and frequently ducked, managed to avoid his death by drowning.
They heard Meena calling them for food, and scrambled up the bank, the dog yapping at their heels. They ate in the shade of a poinsettia tree, whose red long-fingered flowers dropped sensually to the running water; and when they had eaten, lay down to sleep or drowse the afternoon away.
When Rusty awoke, it was evening, and Kapoor was tinkering about with the car, muttering to himself, a little cross because he hadn’t had a drink since the previous night. Somi and Kishen were back in the river, splashing away, and this time they had Prickly Heat for company. Suri wasn’t in sight. Meena stood in a clearing at the edge of the forest.
Rusty went to Meena, but she wandered into the thicket. The boy followed. She must have expected him, for she showed no surprise at his appearance.
‘Listen to the jungle,’ she said.
‘I can’t hear anything.’
They were surrounded by silence; a dark, pensive silence, heavy, scented with magnolia and jasmine.
It was shattered by a piercing shriek, a cry that rose on all sides, echoing against the vibrating air; and, instinctively, Rusty put his arm round Meena—whether to protect her or to protect himself,’ he did not really know—and held her tight.
‘It is only a bird,’ she said, ‘of what are you afraid?’
But he was unable to release his hold, and she made no effort to free herself. She laughed into his face, and her eyes danced in the shadows. But he stifled her laugh with his lips.
It was a clumsy, awkward kiss, but fiercely passionate, and Meena responded, tightening her embrace, returning the fervour of the kiss. They stood together in the shadows, Rusty intoxicated with beauty and sweetness, Meena with freedom and the comfort of being loved.
A monkey chattered shrilly in a branch above them, and the spell was broken.
‘Oh, Meena. . . .’
‘Shh. . . . you spoil these things by saying them’.
‘Oh, Meena. . . .’
They kissed again, but the monkey set up such a racket that they feared it would bring Kapoor and the others to the spot. So they walked through the trees, holding hands.
They were barefooted, but they did not notice the thorns and brambles that pricked their feet; they walked through heavy foliage, nettles and long grass, until they came to a clearing and a stream.
Rusty was conscious of a wild urge, a desire to escape from the town and its people, and live in the forest with Meena, with no one but Meena. . . .
As though conscious of his thoughts, she said: ‘This is where we drink. In the trees we eat and sleep, and here we drink.’
She laughed, but Rusty had a dream in his heart. The pebbles on the bed of the stream were round and smooth, taking the flow of water without resistance. Only weed and rock could resist water: only weed or rock could resist life.
‘It would be nice to stay in the jungle,’ said Meena.
‘Let us stay. . . .’
‘We will be found. We cannot escape—from—others. . . .
‘Even the world is too small. Maybe there is more freedom in your little room than in all the jungle and all the world.’
Rusty pointed to the stream and whispered, ‘Look!’
Meena looked, and at the same time a deer looked up. They looked at each other with startled, fascinated eyes, the deer and Meena. It was a spotted cheetal, a small animal with delicate, quivering limbs and muscles, and young green antlers.
Rusty and Meena did not move; nor did the deer; they might have gone on staring at each other all night if somewhere a twig hadn’t snapped sharply. At the snap of the twig, the deer jerked its head up with a start, lifted one foot pensively, sniffed the air; then leapt the stream and, in a single bound, disappeared into the forest.
The spell was broken, the magic lost. Only, the water ran on and life ran on.
‘Let’s go back,’ said Meena.
They walked back through the dappled sunlight, swinging their clasped hands like two children who had only just discovered love.
Their hands parted as they reached the river-bed.
Miraculously enough, Kapoor had started the car, and was waving his arms and shouting to everyone to come home. Everyone was ready to start back except for Suri and Prickly Heat, who were nowhere to be seen. Nothing, thought Meena, would have been better than for Suri to disappear for ever, but unfortunately she had taken full responsibility for his well-being, and did not relish the thought of facing his strangely affectionate mother. So she asked Rusty to shout for him.
Rusty shouted, and Meena shouted, and Somi shouted, and then they all shouted together, only Suri didn’t shout.
‘He’s up to his tricks,’ said Kishen. ‘We shouldn’t have brought him. Let’s pretend we’re leaving, then he’ll be scared.
So Kapoor started the engine, and everyone got in, and it was only then that Suri came running from the forest, the dog at his heels, his shirt-tails flapping in the breeze, his hair wedged between his eyes and his spectacles.
‘Hey,’ wait for us!’ he cried. ‘Do you want me to die?’
Kishen mumbled in the affirmative, and swore quietly.
‘We thought you were in the dickey,’ said Rusty.
Suri and Prickly Heat climbed into the dickey, and at the same time the car entered the river with a determined splashing and churning of wheels, to emerge the victor.
Everyone cheered, and Somi gave Kapoor such an enthusiastic slap on the back that the pleased recipient nearly caught his head in the steering-wheel.
It was dark now, and all that could be seen of the countryside was what the headlights showed. Rusty had hopes of seeing a panther or tiger, for this was their territory, but only a few goats blocked the road. However, for the benefit of Suri, Somi told a story of a party that had gone for an outing in a car and, on returning home, had found a panther in the dickey.
Kishen fell asleep just before they reached the outskirts of Dehra, his fuzzy head resting on Rusty’s shoulder. Rusty felt protectively towards the boy, for a bond of genuine affection had grown between the two. Somi was Rusty’s best friend, in the same way that Ranbir was a friend, and their friendship was on a high emotional plane. But Kishen was a brother m
ore than a friend. He loved Rusty, but without knowing or thinking or saying it, and that is the love of a brother.
Somi began singing. The town came in sight, the bazaar lights twinkling defiance at the starry night.
The Lafunga*
‘If you have nothing to do,’ said Devinder, ‘will you come with me on my rounds?’
‘First we will see Hathi. If he has not left yet, I can accompany him to Lansdowne.’
Rusty 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.
Rusty and Devinder stopped at the tea-shop to eat thickly buttered buns and drink strong, sweet tea. Then they looked for Hathi’s room, and found it above a cloth shop, lying empty, with its doors open. The string bed leant against the 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. Most of the finished products would now be on sale in the bazaar.
It came as a surprise to Rusty to discover that Hathi, the big wrestler, made toys for a living. He had not imaginated there would be delicacy and skill in his friend’s huge hands. The pleasantness of the discovery offset his disappointment at finding Hathi had gone.
‘He has left already,’ said Rusty. ‘Never mind. I know he will welcome me, even if I arrive unexpectedly.’
He left the bazaar with Devinder, making for the residential part of the town. As he would be leaving Dehra soon, there was no point in his visiting the school again; later, though, he would see Mr Pettigrew.
When they reached the Clock Tower, someone whistled to them from across the street, and a tall young man came striding towards them.
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 Rusty. ‘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,’ said Rusty.
‘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, mister 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!.’
Rusty instinctively put his hand to his own pocket, and all three of them laughed.
‘Well, I must go,’ said Sudheer the Lafunga, 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 they walked away from the Clock tower. ‘He is a crook, of course—Shree 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.’
They 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. Nowhere, but in Dehra, had Rusty seen so many kinds of trees. Trees that had no names. Tall, straight trees, and broad, shady trees. Trees that slept or brooded in the afternoon stillness. And trees that shimmered and moved and whispered even when the winds were asleep.
Some marigolds grew wild on the footpath, and Devinder picked two of them, giving one to Rusty.
‘There is a girl who lives at the bottom of the road,’ he said. ‘She is a pretty girl. Come with me and see her.’
They walked to the house at the end of the road and, while Rusty stood at the gate, Devinder went up the path. Devinder 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 Devinder and Rusty 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 a 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 Rusty, as though he were something quite out of the ordinary, but not unpleasant.
Rusty took the other marigold from his pocket, and gave it to the girl. It was a long time since he had been able to make anyone a gift.
*
After some time they parted, Devinder going back to the town, while Rusty crossed the river-bed. He walked through the tea-gardens until he found Mr Pettigrew’s bungalow.
The old man was not in the veranda, but a young servant salaamed Rusty and asked him to sit down. Apparently Mr Pettigrew was having his bath.
‘Does he always bathe in the afternoon?’ asked Rusty.
‘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.’
Rusty walked into the drawing-room and nearly fell over a small table. The room was full of furniture and pictures and bric-à-brac. Tiger-heads, stuffed and mounted, snarled down at him 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 . . . Remembering his own experiences, Rusty wondered how such an active shikari ever found time for reading. While he 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 o
ut two stiff drinks. Then, still in his bathrobe and slippers, he made himself comfortable in an armchair. Rusty 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,’ observed Rusty.
‘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 ever see a picture of your father?’
‘Have you got one?’ asked Rusty. ‘I’ve only a faint memory of what he looked like.’
‘He’s in that group photograph over there,’ said Mr Pettigrew, pointing to a picture on the wall.
Rusty 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.’
Rusty saw a young man with fair hair and a fresh face. 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.’
Rusty did not reply. He was trying to imagine his father in action on a tennis court, and wondered if he was a better player than Pettigrew.
‘Who was the best player among you?’ he 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?’ asked Rusty.
‘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 . . .” ’