When Darkness Falls and Other Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  Kundan, who was eighteen (at a rough guess), told me he had no parents, no relatives at all. He had apparently been sent out into the world while still a child, and had been expected to send money orders home every month. This he never did; and learning after a few years that his parents were dead, he shrugged his shoulders fatalistically. He had never wanted to return to his village in the hills, where there were no cinemas, no liquor shops, and no diversions of any sort.

  He soon settled in with me. He liked my irregular hours, and he liked the absence of any real work. It was possible for him to go to a picture in the evening, and return the next morning, and not be taken to task. He knew that I liked a cup of tea while I was still in bed, and he saw that I got it, because that guaranteed that I would be in a tolerant mood for the rest of the day.

  I was paying Kundan Singh thirty rupees a month, with food—of which he ate at least another thirty rupees’ worth. He generally asked for his pay in advance, and spent it before the month was halfway through.

  It was only after Kundan had been with me a couple of months that I realized he had a weakness for women—or, to be more accurate, that women had a weakness for him.

  This surprised me, because I did not think of him as being very passionate. He struck me as being rather Teutonic in his indifferent approach to sex. But apparently there were mysterious fires smouldering beneath Kundan’s rather drab exterior; and women, I suppose, are good at sensing these things.

  He told me the woman was a relative, his uncle’s sister. She must have been his senior by about ten years. Her face and figure were mature, but I do not know if she had any children. She was not attractive by our effeminate modern standards. Her ears, due to the heavy rings in them, were large and shapeless; her nose and mouth were rather broad. But she had that generous female form which is so rare nowadays: full, pendulous breasts, broad hips and substantial thighs. She spent several nights with Kundan on the veranda, and I assumed that her interest in the youth was purely maternal. I was not very interested, except to warn Kundan that he would have to feed her out of his own rations.

  It was only when the woman’s husband turned up and made a scene, that I realized she was Kundan’s lover and not his relative. Her composure was admirable. She stood calmly while her husband raved and Kundan expostulated. Thankfully, they did not come to blows. The man demanded twenty rupees as a salve for his injured pride, and Kundan asked me if I could advance him the money. This I did, in order to be rid of them. The woman turned up again the following day and I told Kundan he would have to keep her somewhere else.

  ‘What do you see in her?’ I asked him. ‘She is much older than you.’

  ‘I cannot escape her, sahib,’ said Kundan. ‘She follows me everywhere. She is like a man-eating tigress and it is impossible for a weakling like me to satisfy her. Sometimes she torments me even after I am completely spent. Even her husband cannot manage her. She has taken a fancy to me, I don’t know why. But she says, sahib, that you are very good-looking. Would you be interested …’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. I did not think I could afford an adventure, especially one in which the husband had also to be rewarded from time to time.

  I think Kundan was a little disappointed in me. I was a little disappointed myself.

  Kundan’s next liaison was with the daughter of the local butcher. It was a clandestine affair, conducted in all sorts of impossible places—behind the garbage dump, or in dark alleys behind the shops—and it came to an abortive end when the butcher got wind of the affair and threatened Kundan with immediate castration.

  Inspite of Kundan’s amorous and amoral exploits, I was quite happy with him. He was a good cook, and he did not boss me. He was lazy, as most amorous creatures are; but then, so was I. Fortunately, he lazed while I worked, and worked while I lazed. It was the perfect master-servant relationship. As a friend once remarked to me, ‘I notice you have a guest living with you these days.’

  Unfortunately all good things must come to an end, and my rather aimless existence in the city was one of them. I told Kundan that I would be going away and that I would no longer be requiring his services.

  He seemed genuinely distressed.

  ‘Sahib,’ he said. ‘You are my father and my brother and my mother. Please take me with you.’

  ‘I can’t afford to,’ I said. ‘But I will try to get you another job.’

  I spoke to the owner of a small restaurant where I had occasionally taken a meal. He was a middle-aged man who had developed a paunch through sitting for long hours on the raised platform behind his glass cases of Indian sweets. His first wife, who had been issueless, was dead. Recently he had been married again to a young woman from the hills. As is the custom in many hill areas, he had paid the parents of the girl the sum of two thousand rupees. The restaurant, situated near a cinema, did good business, and the proprietor could afford the luxury of a young wife.

  On my recommendation, he employed Kundan on a salary of forty rupees a month. The young man was loth to take the job, and kept insisting he would accompany me to the ends of the earth. But I finally persuaded him to leave me, and he began working at the restaurant the same day I left the city.

  It was six years before I returned to the city. My travelling job had brought me to a town in its vicinity, and for sentimental reasons I decided to revisit the place where I had spent so many delightfully wasted years. There were of course old friends to meet, and it was only after I had been in the city a couple of days, and was passing the familiar restaurant, that I remembered Kundan Singh. So I stepped into the restaurant, to be greeted effusively by the proprietor.

  He had grown fatter and lazier—but then, so had I. Kundan, he told me, had left after working in the restaurant for only a year. He had no idea where the young man had gone—probably back to his village, or into the army.

  I was having a cup of strong tea with the proprietor when a child, a boy of about five, ran into the restaurant. The proprietor beamed with paternal affection and introduced the boy to me as his son.

  ‘Your first?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, the only one,’ he said proudly. ‘But he is the equal of five ordinary sons. See, isn’t he healthy? He looks just like his mother.’ He pinched the boy’s chubby arms and ruffled his hair. ‘But I wish he would pay more attention to his books. As you know, sir, there is no future for a young man who does not get his degree.’

  ‘Surely it’s too early to be thinking of a degree for him?’

  The proprietor assured me that it was never too early to think of acquiring credentials; but I wasn’t listening to him very carefully. There was something about the boy which I found familiar and striking. His narrow forehead, slanting eyes, and crooked little smile reminded me of someone … Kundan Singh! I sat up with a start and looked at the proprietor, but could see no resemblance to the boy …

  Of course it was only the vaguest suspicion, and I kept my mouth shut. I had never seen the proprietor’s wife, and it was quite possible that she closely resembled my former servant. After all, they came from the same hill region. I had nothing to go on but a resemblance, and in any case it was impossible to ask too many questions. The proprietor himself had no suspicions: he said the boy looked like his mother. Why worry? The child was being well spoilt, and would grow up to possess both a degree and a restaurant.

  I never did visit the city again, and I never met Kundan.

  But last year, thumbing through a military journal, I came across several pages of photographs of young soldiers who had died in a heroic action on India’s northern borders. Amongst them I recognised my former servant. He sported a moustache, and his hair had been cropped close; but there was no mistaking his lean, hungry look.

  I could not help feeling rather proud of Kundan Singh. And a little envious. His youth had been free and easy, he had sown his wild oats and before he could become old and decrepit and useless, he had died a hero. That is something very few of us are able to achieve.

  Mon
key Trouble

  Grandfather bought Tutu from a street entertainer for the sum of ten rupees. The man had three monkeys. Tutu was the smallest but the most mischievous. She was tied up most of the time. The little monkey looked so miserable with a collar and chain that Grandfather decided it would be much happier in our home. He had a weakness for keeping unusual pets. It was a habit that I, at the age of eight or nine, used to encourage.

  Grandmother at first objected to having a monkey in the house. ‘You have enough pets as it is,’ she said, referring to Grandfather’s goat, several white mice, and a small tortoise.

  ‘But I don’t have any,’ I said.

  ‘You’re wicked enough for two monkeys. One boy in the house is all I can take.’

  ‘Ah, but Tutu isn’t a boy,’ said Grandfather triumphantly. ‘This is a little girl monkey!’

  Grandmother gave in. She had always wanted a little girl in the house. She believed girls were less troublesome than boys. Tutu was to prove her wrong.

  She was a pretty little monkey. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief beneath deep-set eyebrows. And her teeth, which were a pearly white, were often revealed in a grin that frightened the wits out of Aunt Ruby, whose nerves had already suffered from the presence of Grandfather’s pet python in the house at Lucknow. But this was Dehra, my grandparents’ house, and aunts and uncles had to put up with our pets.

  Tutu’s hands had a dried-up look, as though they had been pickled in the sun for many years. One of the first things I taught her was to shake hands, and this she insisted on doing with all who visited the house. Peppery Major Malik would have to stoop and shake hands with Tutu before he could enter the drawing room, otherwise Tutu would climb on his shoulder and stay there, roughing up his hair and playing with his moustache.

  Uncle Ken couldn’t stand any of our pets and took a particular dislike to Tutu, who was always making faces at him. But as Uncle Ken was never in a job for long, and depended on Grandfather’s good-natured generosity, he had to shake hands with Tutu like everyone else.

  Tutu’s fingers were quick and wicked. And her tail, while adding to her good looks (Grandfather believed a tail would add to anyone’s good looks), also served as a third hand. She could use it to hang from a branch, and it was capable of scooping up any delicacy that might be out of reach of her hands.

  Aunt Ruby had not been informed of Tutu’s arrival. Loud shrieks from her bedroom brought us running to see what was wrong. It was only Tutu trying on Aunt Ruby’s petticoats! They were much too large, of course, and when Aunt Ruby entered the room all she saw was a faceless white blob jumping up and down on the bed.

  We disentangled Tutu and soothed Aunt Ruby. I gave Tutu a bunch of sweet peas to make her happy. Granny didn’t like anyone plucking her sweet peas, so I took some from Major Malik’s garden while he was having his afternoon siesta.

  Then Uncle Ken complained that his hairbrush was missing. We found Tutu sunning herself on the back verandah, using the hairbrush to scratch her armpits. I took it from her and handed it back to Uncle Ken with an apology; but he flung the brush away with an oath.

  ‘Such a fuss about nothing,’ I said. ‘Tutu doesn’t have fleas!’

  ‘No, and she bathes more often than Ken,’ said Grandfather, who had borrowed Aunt Ruby’s shampoo for giving Tutu a bath.

  All the same, Grandmother objected to Tutu being given the run of the house. Tutu had to spend her nights in the outhouse, in the company of the goat. They got on quite well, and it was not long before Tutu was seen sitting comfortably on the back of the goat, while the goat roamed the back garden in search of its favourite grass.

  The day Grandfather had to visit Meerut to collect his railway pension, he decided to take Tutu and me along—to keep us both out of mischief, he said. To prevent Tutu from wandering about on the train, causing inconvenience to passengers, she was provided with a large black travelling bag. This, with some straw at the bottom, became her compartment. Grandfather and I paid for our seats, and we took Tutu along as hand baggage.

  There was enough space for Tutu to look out of the bag occasionally, and to be fed with bananas and biscuits, but she could not get her hands through the opening and the canvas was too strong for her to bite her way through.

  Tutu’s efforts to get out only had the effect of making the bag roll about on the floor or occasionally jump into the air—an exhibition that attracted a curious crowd of onlookers at the Dehra and Meerut railway stations.

  Anyway, Tutu remained in the bag as far as Meerut, but while Grandfather was producing our tickets at the turnstile, she suddenly poked her head out of the bag and gave the ticket collector a wide grin.

  The poor man was taken aback. But, with great presence of mind and much to Grandfather’s annoyance, he said, ‘Sir, you have a dog with you. You’ll have to buy a ticket for it.’

  ‘It’s not dog!’ said Grandfather indignantly. ‘This is a baby monkey of the species macacus-mischievous, closely related to the human species homus-horriblis! And there is no charge for babies!’

  ‘It’s as big as a cat,’ said the ticket collector.

  ‘Next you’ll be asking to see her mother,’ snapped Grandfather.’

  In vain did he take Tutu out of the bag. In vain did he try to prove that a young monkey did not qualify as a dog or a cat or even as a quadruped. Tutu was classified as a dog by the ticket collector, and five rupees were handed over as her fare.

  Then Grandfather, just to get his own back, took from his pocket the small tortoise that he sometimes carried about, and said: ‘And what must I pay for this, since you charge for all creatures great and small?’

  The ticket collector looked closely at the tortoise, prodded it with his forefinger, gave Grandfather a triumphant look, and said, ‘No charge, sir. It is not a dog!’

  Winters in north India can be very cold. A great treat for Tutu on winter evenings was the large bowl of hot water given to her by Grandmother for a bath. Tutu would cunningly test the temperature with her hand, then gradually step into the bath, first one foot, then the other (as she had seen me doing) until she was in the water up to her neck.

  Once comfortable, she would take the soap in her hands or feet and rub herself all over. When the water became cold she would get out and run as quickly as she could to the kitchen fire in order to dry herself. If anyone laughed at her during this performance, Tutu’s feelings would be hurt and she would refuse to go on with the bath.

  One day Tutu almost succeeded in boiling herself alive. Grandmother had left a large kettle on the fire for tea. And Tutu, all by herself and with nothing better to do, decided to remove the lid. Finding the water just warm enough for a bath, she got in, with her head sticking out from the open kettle.

  This was fine for a while, until the water began to get heated. Tutu raised herself a little out of the kettle. But finding it cold outside, she sat down again. She continued hopping up and down for some time until Grandmother returned and hauled her, half-boiled, out of the kettle.

  ‘What’s for tea today?’ asked Uncle Ken gleefully. ‘Boiled eggs and a half-boiled monkey?’

  But Tutu was none the worse for the adventure and continued to bathe more regularly than Uncle Ken.

  Aunt Ruby was a frequent taker of baths. This met with Tutu’s approval—so much so, that one day, when Aunt Ruby had finished shampooing her hair she looked up through a lather of bubbles and soapsuds to see Tutu sitting opposite her in the bath, following her example.

  One day Aunt Ruby took us all by surprise. She announced that she had become engaged. We had always thought Aunt Ruby would never marry—she had often said so herself—but it appeared that the right man had now come along in the person of Rocky Fernandes, a schoolteacher from Goa.

  Rocky was a tall, firm-jawed, good-natured man, a couple of years younger than Aunt Ruby. He had a fine baritone voice and sang in the manner of the great Nelson Eddy. As Grandmother liked baritone singers, Rocky was soon in her good books.

 
‘But what on earth does he see in her?’ Uncle Ken wanted to know.

  ‘More than any girl has seen in you!’ snapped Grandmother. ‘Ruby’s a fine girl. And they’re both teachers. Maybe they can start a school of their own.’

  Rocky visited the house quite often and brought me chocolates and cashewnuts, of which he seemed to have an unlimited supply. He also taught me several marching songs. Naturally I approved of Rocky. Aunt Ruby won my grudging admiration for having made such a wise choice.

  One day I overheard them talking of going to the bazaar to buy an engagement ring. I decided I would go along too. But as Aunt Ruby had made it clear that she did not want me around I decided that I had better follow at a discreet distance. Tutu, becoming aware that a mission of some importance was under way, decided to follow me. But as I had not invited her along, she too decided to keep out of sight.

  Once in the crowded bazaar, I was able to get quite close to Aunt Ruby and Rocky without being spotted. I waited until they had settled down in a large jewellery shop before sauntering past and spotting them as though by accident. Aunt Ruby wasn’t too pleased at seeing me, but Rocky waved and called out, ‘Come and join us! Help your aunt choose a beautiful ring!’

  The whole thing seemed to be a waste of good money, but I did not say so—Aunt Ruby was giving me one of her more unloving looks.

  ‘Look, these are pretty!’ I said, pointing to some cheap, bright agates set in white metal. But Aunt Ruby wasn’t looking. She was immersed in a case of diamonds.

  ‘Why not a ruby for Aunt Ruby?’ I suggested, trying to please her.

  ‘That’s her lucky stone,’ said Rocky. ‘Diamonds are the thing for engagement.’ And he started singing a song about a diamond being a girl’s best friend.

  While the jeweller and Aunt Ruby were sifting through the diamond rings, and Rocky was trying out another tune, Tutu had slipped into the shop without being noticed by anyone but me. A little squeal of delight was the first sign she gave of her presence. Everyone looked up to see her trying on a pretty necklace.