The Best of Ruskin Bond

by Bond, Ruskin

Pettigrew began singing in a cracked, wavering voice, and Rusty was forced to take his eyes off the photograph. Half-way 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 Rusty smile.

  ‘Well,’ said Pettigrew, 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 the boy’s 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 the boy for some time, as though summing him up.

  ‘You don’t really have to find out much about your father,’ he said. ‘You’re just like him, you know.’

  *

  Returning to the bazaar, Devinder found Sudheer at a paan shop, his lips red with betel juice. Devinder went straight to the point.

  ‘Sudheer,’ he said, ‘you owe ne twenty rupees. I need it, not for myself, but for Rusty, who has to leave Dehra very urgently. You must get me the money by tonight.’

  The Lafunga scratched his head.

  ‘It will be difficult,’ he said, ‘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 taking leave of Devinder with a bright red smile, strolled leisurely down the bazaar road.

  As far as appearances went, he had little to do but loll around in the afternoon sunshine, frequenting tea-shops, and gambling with cards in small back rooms. All this he did very well—but it did not make him a living.

  To say that he lived on his wits would be an exaggeration. He lived a great deal on other people’s wits. There was the Seth for instance, Rusty’s former landlord, who owned much property and dabbled in many shady transactions, and who was often represented by the Lafunga in affairs of an unsavoury nature.

  Sudheer came originally from the Frontier, where little value was placed on human life; and while still a boy, he had wandered, a homeless refugee, over the border into India. A smuggler adopted him, 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 the youth was once again on his own. By this time 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 was no petty criminal. He practised crime as a fine art, and believed that thieves, and even murderers, had to have certain principles. If he stole, then he stole from a rich man, who could afford to be robbed, or from a greedy man, who deserved to be robbed. And if he did not rob poor men, it was not because of any altruistic motive—it was because poor men were not worth robbing.

  He was good to those friends, like Devinder, who were good to him. Perhaps his most valuable friends, as sources of both money and information, were the dancing-girls who followed their profession in an almost inaccessible little road in the heart of the bazaar. His best friends were Hastini and Mrinalini. He borrowed money from them very freely, and seldom paid back more than half of it.

  Hastini could twang the sitar, and dance—with a rather heavy tread—among various other accomplishments.

  Mrinalini, a much smaller woman, had grown up in the profession. She was looked after by her mother, a former entertainer; who kept most of the money that Mrinalini made.

  Sudheer awoke Hastini in the middle of her afternoon siesta by tickling her under the chin with a feather.

  ‘And who were you with last night, little brother?’ she asked running her fingers through his thick brown hair. ‘You are smelling of some horrible perfume.’

  ‘You know I do not spend my nights with anyone,’ said Sudheer. ‘The perfume is from yesterday.’

  ‘Someone new?’

  ‘No, my butterfly. I have known her for a week.’

  ‘Too long a time,’ said Hastini petulantly. ‘A dangerously long time. How much have you spent on her?’

  ‘Nothing so far. But that is not why I came to see you. Have you got twenty rupees?’

  ‘Villain!’ cried Hastini. ‘Why do you always borrow from me when you want to entertain some stupid young thing? Are you so heartless?

  ‘My little lotus flower!’ protested Sudheer, pinching her rosy cheeks. ‘I am not borrowing for any such reason. A friend of mine has to leave Dehra urgently, and I must get the money for his train fare. I owe it to him.’

  ‘Since when did you have a friend?’

  ‘Never mind that. I have one. And I come to you for help because I love you more than any one. Would you prefer that I borrow the money from Mrinalini?’

  ‘You dare not,’ said Hastini. ‘I will kill you if you do.’

  Between Hastini, of the broad hips, and Mrinalini, who was small and slender, there existed a healthy rivalry for the affections of Sudheer. Perhaps it was the great difference in their proportions that animated the rivalry. Mrinalini envied the luxuriousness of Hastini’s soft body, while Hastini envied Mrinalini’s delicacy, poise, slenderness of foot, and graceful walk. Mrinalini was the colour of milk and honey; she had the daintiness of a deer, while Hastini possessed the elegance of an elephant.

  Sudheer could appreciate both these qualities.

  He stood up, looking young even for his twenty-two years, and smiled a crooked smile. He might have looked effeminate had it not been for his hands—they were big, long-fingered, strong hands.

  ‘Where is the money?’ he asked.

  ‘You are so impatient! Sit down, sit down. I have it here beneath the mattress.’

  Sudheer’s hand made its way beneath the mattress and probed about in search of the money.

  ‘Ah, here it is! You have a fortune stacked away here. Yes, ten rupees, fifteen, twenty—and one for luck. . . . Now give me a kiss!

  *

  About an hour later Sudheer was in the street again, whistling cheerfully to himself. He walked with a long, loping stride, his shirt hanging open. Warm sunshine filled one side of the narrow street, and crept up the walls of shops and houses.

  Sudheer passed a fruit stand, where the owner was busy talking to a customer, and helped himself to a choice red Kashmiri apple. He continued on his way down the bazaar road, munching the apple.

  The bazaar continued for a mile, from the Clock Tower to the railway station, and Sudheer could hear the whistle of a train. He turned off at a little alley, throwing his half-eaten apple to a stray dog. Then he climbed a flight of stairs—wooden stairs that were loose and rickety, liable to collapse at any moment . . .

  Mrinalini’s half-deaf mother was squatting on the kitchen floor, making a fire in an earthen brazier. Sudheer poked his head round the door and shouted: ‘Good morning, Mother, I hope you are making me some tea. You look fine today!’ And then, in a lower tone, so that she could not hear: ‘You look like a dried-up mango.’

  ‘So it’s you again,’ grumbled the old woman. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Your most respectable daughter is what I want,’ said Sudheer.

  ‘What’s that?’ She cupped her hand to her ear and leaned forward.

>   ‘Where’s Mrinalini?’ shouted Sudheer.

  ‘Don’t shout like that! She is not here.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to know,’ said Sudheer, and he walked through the kitchen, through the living-room, and on to the veranda balcony, where he found Mrinalini sitting in the sun, combing out her long silken hair.

  ‘Let me do it for you,’ said Sudheer, and he took the comb from her hand and ran it through the silky black hair. ‘For one so little, so much hair. You could conceal yourself in it, and not be seen, except for your dainty little feet.’

  ‘What are you after, Sudheer? You are so full of compliments this morning. And watch out for Mother—if she sees you combing my hair, she will have a fit!’

  ‘And I hope it kills her.’

  ‘Sudheer!’

  ‘Don’t be so sentimental about your mother. You are her little gold mine, and she treats you as such—soon I will be having to fill in application forms before I can see you! It is time you kept your earnings for yourself.’

  ‘So that it will be easier for you to help yourself?’

  ‘Well, it would be more convenient. By the way, I have come to you for twenty rupees.’

  Mrinalini laughed delightedly, and took the comb from Sudheer. ‘What were you saying about my little feet?’ she asked slyly.

  ‘I said they were the feet of a princess, and I would be very happy to kiss them.’

  ‘Kiss them, then.’

  She held one delicate golden foot in the air, and Sudheer took it in his hands (which were as large as her feet) and kissed her ankle.

  ‘That will be twenty rupees,’ he said.

  She pushed him away with her foot. ‘But, Sudheer, I gave you fifteen rupees only three days ago. What have you done with it?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. I only know that I must have more. It is most urgent, you can be sure of that. But if you cannot help me, I must try elsewhere.’

  ‘Do that, Sudheer. And may I ask, whom do you propose to try?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of Hastini.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Hastini, the girl with the wonderful figure. . . .’

  ‘I should think I do! Sudheer, if you so much as dare to take a rupee from her, I’ll never speak to you again!’

  ‘Well then, what shall I do?’

  Mrinalini beat the arms of the chair with her little fists, and cursed Sudheer under her breath. Then she got up and went into the kitchen. A great deal of shouting went on in the kitchen before Mrinalini came back with flushed cheeks and fifteen rupees.

  ‘You don’t know the trouble I had getting it,’ she said. ‘Now don’t come asking for more until at least a week has passed.’

  ‘After a week, I will be able to supply you with funds. I am engaged tonight on a mission of some importance. In a few days I will place golden bangles on your golden feet.’

  ‘What mission?’ asked Mrinalini, looking at him with an anxious frown. ‘If it is anything to do with the Seth, please leave it alone. You know what happened to Satish Dayal. He was smuggling opium for the Seth, and now he is sitting in jail, while the Seth continues as always.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I can deal with the Seth.’

  ‘Then be off! I have to entertain a foreign delegation this evening. You can come tomorrow morning, if you are free.’

  ‘I may come. Meanwhile, goodbye!’

  He walked backwards into the living-room, pivoted into the kitchen and, bending over the old woman, kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘You dried-up old mango,’ he said. And went away, whistling.

  Extract From Rosebud

  One

  The Duel

  ‘Eight annas in the rupee,’ sneered Major Crump for the hundredth time, as I walked into the officers’ mess of Her Majesty’s 32nd Foot in Meerut.

  He thought the remark was hilarious, and although hardly anyone smiled, he roared with laughter at his own crude joke.

  I had always ignored this sort of jibe, but that evening I was in a black mood, having just been refused leave to visit my sick sister in Bareilly. The younger British officers of my own age never made remarks about my forebears or the fact that my parentage was mixed; but the Major, for reasons that I found difficult to fathom, went out of his way to be offensive. Eight annas in the rupee—half a rupee—implied a half-breed, and of course I had an Indian mother and an English father and made no secret of the fact. But it seemed to afford endless amusement to Major Crump.

  As I was only a lieutenant, I could hardly engage in a war of words with my superior officer. But the more I controlled myself and tried to suppress my anger, the more certain I became that I would erupt one day, and then heaven only knew what the consequences would be.

  My mother came from a respected Muslim-Christian family near Bareilly. My father, an English officer in the East India Company’s service, had been killed during the 1857 uprising. I had only vague, disjointed memories of him. My mother and I had survived the holocaust; I went to school in Lucknow, and when I was eighteen I joined the 32nd Foot, my father’s regiment. I had my father’s fair complexion; but I also had my mother’s passionate nature and fiery temper. I was not very tall, but I was strong, quick on my feet, and a good fighter. But you did not strike a senior officer no matter how great the provocation.

  Except that I did. I was sick of Major Crump, who was in the habit of using his boots on servants, street-vendors and dogs, and my fist caught him between the eyes and sent him reeling against the billiard-table.

  He came at me in a clumsy fashion, but like most bullies he was confused by a direct attack; I moved aside and helped him on his way, so that the velocity of his rush took him spinning across the room. He fell over a chair, which broke, and ended up on the floor with blood from his nose dripping onto his sandy moustache.

  ‘I’ll have you court-martialled for this, Wilson!’ he choked the words out.

  ‘Challenge him to a duel,’ called out a slightly tipsy onlooker. ‘Cut him down to size!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s the only way to salvage your honour. Dignity you have already lost. Being knocked down by a half-breed junior officer—why, you’d be the laughing-stock of a court-martial. They couldn’t shoot me for it, you know that. Just kick me out of the regiment. Who cares?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Major Crump, getting up and dusting himself down. ‘I’d rather do the shooting myself.’

  ‘So it’s pistols, then? I heard you were something of a terror with a sword.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have much chance with a sword,’ he said with a sneer. The effect of this was lost, because as he picked up his wineglass with a flourish, more blood from his nose dripped into it. ‘We meet in the Company gardens at five tomorrow morning. I doubt if any officer will want to be your second—’

  ‘One of the men will do,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’m no stickler for convention.’

  I walked out of the mess-room in a casual, off-hand manner. But J did not feel all that confident. The Major had many years of tiger-shooting behind him, and was reputed to be a good shot. He had reduced the tiger population by at least twenty, I’d been told. And he wasn’t the type who would shoot to wing or disable an opponent. He would aim at the heart.

  But I was certain of one thing : death would not overtake me hiding in a corner.

  *

  I woke early in the September dawn. A brain-fever bird had kept me awake for most of the night, and so had thoughts of the impending duel. My orderly came at five and began to set out my uniform.

  ‘Don’t bother with that,’ I said. ‘Whatever happens, I won’t be wearing the Queen’s uniform again.’

  I knew that if I killed, or even wounded, Major Crump, I would be up for a court-martial. And that if I got the worst of it, I would not need a uniform, except possibly to be buried in.

  When I reached the gardens, the Major was pacing about alongside a bed of canna-lilies, while a friend of his loaded and primed th
e pistols. They were of the old-fashioned type, but still used in duels. A young subaltern, who had offered to be my second, handed me a pistol. It appeared to be in good order. He then measured out twenty paces from where Major Crump stood, and positioned me there.

  ‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’ asked the Major’s second. ‘Death before dishonour and all that. And don’t fire until I give the word!’

  We raised our pistols and aimed at each other. My hand was trembling a little, so I did not aim too high. Major Crump’s midriff presented the best target.

  ‘Cock your locks!’ shouted the Major’s aide. ‘Take good aim! Fire!’

  I have no idea where the Major’s ball went. If his aim was poor that day it was probably because of some heavy drinking the night before.

  My shot proved quite effective, passing through both his cheeks—he must have turned side-on at the last moment—and knocking out all his teeth. When I walked up to him, he was lying on the dew-fresh grass, screaming blue murder.

  ‘Well, that was on behalf of the tigers,’ I said, adding a little insult to injury.

  He spat out two or three mouthfuls of blood and flung his pistol away in disgust. It landed amongst the canna-lilies.

  ‘You’d better be off,’ said the young subaltern quietly. ‘There’ll be no hushing this up. He said that if he did not humiliate you today, he’d have you hanged for mutiny!’

  Two

  The Outlaw

  I collected my horse from the stables, and without bothering to return to my quarters for my few belongings, rode out of the sleeping cantonment and took the Saharanpur road.

  I made good progress before sunrise, knowing that it would be some time before anyone was sent after me. By the time the sun was up, I was in the sugar cane country near Sardhana. I thought of stopping there for a while—a cousin of mine was in the Begum’s service—but decided that this would be too risky! Sardhana was only forty miles from Meerut.

  I rode on, and it became hot and dusty. At a small irrigation canal I stopped to allow my horse to drink. Then we were off again, at a steady canter. I avoided the main towns, in case a telegraph message had been sent to one of them. Taking the village roads, I went unnoticed except by half-naked children who ran behind me for short distances, either cheering my progress or shouting imprecations.