by Ruskin Bond
‘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 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 riverbed. 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 forever, 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 a 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 protective 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 more 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. Then the town came into sight, the bazaar lights twinkling defiance at the starry night.
The Message of the Flowers
Apple Blossom It’s Spring, and apple blossom time
Stands for temptation,
Give in to it!
Bluebells Stand for constancy and calm.
For troubled souls they act as balm
Ring out the old, ring in the new!
Carnation Ah, a woman’s love comes with this flower.
Cherish the moment!
Crysanthemum When red, it’s love.
When white, it’s youth.
When bronze, it has the ring of truth.
Cornflower How delicate you are!
Daisy The power of innocence.
Daffodils You purify the air.
You’re chivalry, gratitude and care.
Eglantine Sweet brier-rose, the flower of poets.
Keats called you rain-scented, dew-sweet.
Forget-me-not Your name says it all.
And I’ll remember to remember.
Geranium Especially the scarlet kind,
They say scarlet is a sign of folly.
In that case, you’re my folly.
Honeysuckle Who can resist your sweet fragrance?
I want to be near you.
Ivy You are friendship, fellowship and fidelity.
You stand for permanence.
Jasmine Flower of perfection,
You stand high in my affection.
Lemon Blossom What made me think of you today?
You stir up memories of love and play.
Magnolia Champa, Queen of the garden
You bring good fortune.
Nasturtium How can I forget you, humble friend?
You gladden my heart to winter’s end.
Oleander Red or white
You’re the poet’s delight.
Poppy You’re my scarlet lady—
Extravagant, effervescent, evanescent!
Quercus Q had me in a quandary
Until I looked out of my window
And saw my old friend the oak tree staring hard at me!
Roses Of roses there are many kinds—
The moss, the musk, the Eglantine;
Roses speak of faithfulness,
The red rose of voluptuousness.
Snapdragon Your sweet scent fills the air and draws me to you;
I’d follow you anywhere.
Tulips I was offered a tulip, they said it stood for fame
I’ll settle for the Thorn-Apple, if to you it’s just the same.
Urtica The common nettle:
You ignore it at your peril!
Violet Modest and sweet—
I look for you in quiet corners.
Wallflower Wallflower bright against my wall,
You are the sturdiest flower of all!
Xerophyte You thought you’d fool me, Mr X
I looked you up, I must confess
In the desert you exist
Where other plants like you persist. . .
Yellow Iris You speak of passion—love’s dream ends.
Zinnia You bring me thoughts of absent friends.
Delhi Is Not Far (Extract)
e lay on our island, in the shade of a thorn bush, watching a pair of sarus cranes on the opposite bank prancing and capering around each other; tall, stork-like birds, with naked red heads and long red legs.
‘We might be saruses in some future life,’ I said.
‘I hope so,’ said Suraj. ‘Even if it means being born on a lower level. I would like to be a beautiful white bird. I am tired of being a man, but I do not want to leave the world altogether. It is very lovely, sometimes.’
‘I would like to be a sacred bird,’ I said. ‘I don’t wish to be shot at.’
‘Aren’t saruses sacred? Look how they enjoy themselves.’
‘They are making love. That is their principal occupation apart from feeding themselves. And they are so devoted to each other that if one bird is killed the other will haunt the scene for weeks, calling distractedly. They have even been known to pine away and die of grief. That’s why they are held in such affection by people in villages.’
‘So many birds are sacred.’
We saw a bluejay swoop down from a tree—a flash of blue—and carry off a grasshopper.
Both the bluejay and Lord Siva are called Nilkanth. Siva has a blue throat, like the bluejay, because out of compassion for the human race he swallowed a deadly poison which was meant to destroy the world. He kept the poison in his throat and would not let it go any further.
‘Are squirrels sacred?’ asked Suraj, curiously watching one fumbling with a piece of bread which we had th
rown away.
‘Krishna loved them. He would take them in his arms and stroke them with his long, gentle fingers. That is why they have four dark lines down their backs from head to tail. Krishna was very dark-skinned, and the lines are the marks of his fingers.’
‘We should be gentle to animals. . . Why do we kill so many of them?’
‘It is not so important that we do not kill them—it is important that we respect them. We must acknowledge their right to live on this earth. Everywhere, birds and animals are finding it more difficult to survive, because we are destroying their homes. They have to keep moving as the trees and the green grass keep disappearing.’
Flowers in Pipalnagar—do they exist?
I have known flowers in poetry, and as a child I knew a garden in Lucknow where there were fields of flowers, and another garden where only roses grew. In the fields round Pipalnagar I have seen dandelions that evaporate when you breathe on them, and sometimes a yellow buttercup nestling among thistles. But in our mohalla, there are no flowers except one. This is a marigold growing out of a crack in my balcony.
I have removed the plaster from the base of the plant, and filled in a little earth which I water every morning. The plant is healthy, and sometimes it produces a little orange marigold, which I pluck and give away before it dies.
Sometimes Suraj keeps the flower in his tray, among the combs and scent bottles and buttons that he sells. Sometimes he offers the flower to a passing child—to a girl who runs away; or it might be a boy who tears the flower to shreds. Some children keep it; others give flowers to Suraj when he passes their houses.
Suraj has a flute which he plays whenever he is tired of going from house to house.
He will sit beneath a shady banyan or peepul, put his tray aside, and take out his flute. The haunting little notes travel down the road in the afternoon stillness, and children come to sit beside him and listen to the flute music. They are very quiet when he plays, because there is a little sadness about his music, and children especially can sense that sadness.
Suraj has made flutes out of pieces of bamboo; but he never sells them, he gives them away to the children he likes. He will sell anything, but not his flutes.
Sometimes Suraj plays his flutes at night, when I am lying awake on the cot, unable to sleep; and even when I fall asleep, the flute is playing in my dreams. Sometimes he brings it with him to the crooked tree, and plays it for the benefit of the birds; but the parrots only make harsh noises and fly away.
Once, when Suraj was playing his flute to a group of children, he had a fit. The flute fell from his hands, and he began to roll about in the dust on the roadside. The children were frightened and ran away.
But they did not stay away for long. The next time they heard the flute play, they came to listen as usual.
As Suraj and I walked over a hill near the limestone quarries, past the shacks of the Rajasthani labourers, we met a funeral procession on its way to the cremation ground. Suraj placed his hand on my arm and asked me to wait until the procession had passed. At the same time a cyclist dismounted and stood at the side of the road. Others hurried on, without glancing at the little procession.
‘I was taught to respect the dead in this way,’ said Suraj. ‘Even if you do not respect a man in life, you should respect him in death. The body is unimportant, but we should honour it out of respect for the man’s mind.’
‘It is a good custom,’ I said.
‘It must be difficult to live on after one you have loved has died.’
‘I don’t know. It has not happened to me. If a love is strong, I cannot see its end... It cannot end in death, I feel... Even physically, you would exist for me somehow.’
He was asleep when I returned late at night from a card game in which I had lost fifty rupees. I was a little drunk, and when I tripped near the doorway, he woke up; and though he did not open his eyes, I felt he was looking at me.
I felt very guilty and ashamed, because he had been ill that day, and I had forgotten it. Now there was no point in saying I was sorry. Drunkenness is really a vice, because it degrades a man, and humiliates him.
Prostitution is degrading, but a prostitute can still keep her dignity; thieving is degrading according to the character of the theft; begging is degrading but it is not as undignified as drunkenness. In all our vices we are aware of our degradation; but in drunkenness we lose our pride, our heads, and, above all, our natural dignity. We become so obviously and helplessly ‘human’, that we lose our glorious animal identity.
I sat down at the side of the bed, and bending over Suraj, whispered, ‘I got drunk and lost fifty rupees, what am I to do about it?’
He smiled, but still he didn’t open his eyes, and I kicked off my sandals and pulled off my shirt and lay down across the foot of the bed. He was still burning with fever, I could feel it radiating through the sheet.
We were silent for a long time, and I didn’t know if he was awake or asleep; so I pressed his foot and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but he was asleep now, and did not hear me.
Moonlight.
Pipalnagar looks clean in the moonlight, and my thoughts are different from my daytime thoughts.
The streets are empty, and the moon probes the alleyways, and there is a silver dustbin, and even the slush and the puddles near the bus stop shimmer and glisten.
Kisses in the moonlight. Hungry kisses. The shudder of bodies clinging to each other on the moonswept floor.
A drunken quarrel in the street. Voices rise and fall. The nightwatchman waits for the trouble to pass, and then patrols the street once more, banging the lathi on the pavement.
Kamla asleep. She sleeps like an angel. I go downstairs and walk in the moonlight. I met Suraj coming home, his books under his arm; he has been studying late with Aziz, who keeps a junk shop near the station. Their exams are only a month off. I am confident that Suraj will be successful; I am only afraid that he will work himself to a standstill; with his weak chest and the uncertainty of his fits, he should not walk all day and read all night.
When I wake in the early hours of the morning and Kamla stirs beside me in her sleep (her hair so laden with perfume that my own sleep has been fitful and disturbed), Suraj is still squatting on the floor, reading by the light of the kerosene lamp.
And even when he has finished reading he does not sleep, but asks me to walk with him before the sun rises, and, as women were not made to get up before the sun, we leave Kamla stretched out on the cot, relaxed and languid; small breasts and a boy’s waist; her hair tumbling about the pillow; her mouth slightly apart, her lips still swollen and bruised with kisses.
I have been seeking through sex something beyond sex—a union with all mankind.
Who Kissed Me in the Dark?
his chapter, or story, could not have been written but for a phone call I received last week. I’ll come to the caller later. Suffice to say that it triggered off memories of a hilarious fortnight in the autumn of that year (can’t remember which one) when India and Pakistan went to war with each other. It did not last long, but there was plenty of excitement in our small town, set off by a rumour that enemy parachutists were landing in force in the ravine below Pari Tibba.
The road to this ravine led past my dwelling, and one afternoon I was amazed to see the town’s constabulary, followed by hundreds of concerned citizens (armed mostly with hockey sticks) taking the trail down to the little stream where I usually went birdwatching. The parachutes turned out to be bed sheets from a nearby school, spread out to dry by the dhobis who lived on the opposite hill. After days of incessant rain the sun had come out, and the dhobis had finally got a chance to dry the school bed sheets on the verdant hillside. From afar they did look a bit like open parachutes. In times of crisis, it’s wonderful what the imagination will do.
There were also blackouts. It’s hard for a hill station to black itself out, but we did our best. Two or three respectable people were arrested for using their torches to find their way home in th
e dark. And of course, nothing could be done about the lights on the next mountain, as the people there did not even know there was a war on. They did not have radio or television or even electricity. They used kerosene lamps or lit bonfires!
We had a smart young set in Mussoorie in those days, mostly college students who had also been to convent schools and some of them decided it would be a good idea to put on a show—or old-fashioned theatrical extravaganza—to raise funds for the war effort. And they thought it would be a good idea to rope me in, as I was the only writer living in Mussoorie in those innocent times. I was thirty-one and I had never been a college student but they felt I was the right person to direct a one-act play in English. This was to be the centrepiece of the show.
I forget the name of the play. It was one of those drawing-room situation comedies popular from the 1920s, inspired by such successes as Charley’s Aunt and Tons of Money. Anyway, we went into morning rehearsals at Hakman’s, one of the older hotels, where there was a proper stage and a hall large enough to seat at least two hundred spectators.
The participants were full of enthusiasm, and rehearsals went along quite smoothly. They were an engaging bunch of young people—Guttoo, the intellectual among them; Ravi, a schoolteacher; Gita, a tiny ball of fire; Neena, a heavy-footed Bharatnatyam exponent; Nellie, daughter of a nurse; Chameli, who was in charge of make-up (she worked in a local beauty saloon); Rajiv, who served in the bar and was also our prompter; and a host of others, some of whom would sing and dance before and after our one-act play.
The performance was well attended, Ravi having rounded up a number of students from the local schools; and the lights were working, although we had to cover all doors, windows and exits with blankets to maintain the regulatory blackout. But the stage was old and rickety and things began to go wrong during Neena’s dance number when, after a dazzling pirouette, she began stamping her feet and promptly went through the floorboards. Well, to be precise, her lower half went through, while the rest of her remained above board and visible to the audience.
The schoolboys cheered, the curtain came down and we rescued Neena, who had to be sent to the civil hospital with a sprained ankle, Mussoorie’s only civilian war casualty.