Rusty Goes to London

by Ruskin Bond

  Finding me flat on my back, Sitaram sat down beside me on my bed and expressed his concern for my health. I was too weak to drive him away.

  ‘Just a stomach upset,’ I said. ‘It will pass off. You can go.’

  ‘I will bring you some curds—very good for the stomach when you have the dast—when you are in full flow.’

  ‘I took some tablets.’

  ‘Medicine no good. Take curds.’

  Seeing that he was serious, I gave him two rupees and he went off somewhere and returned after ten minutes with a bowl of curd. I found it quite refreshing, and he promised to bring more that evening. Then he said: ‘So you will be twenty-five soon. A big party.’

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked, for I certainly hadn’t mentioned it to him.

  ‘Sitaram knows everything!’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I heard them talking in the Indiana, as I collected the tablecloths for washing. Will you have the party in Indiana?’

  ‘No, no, I can’t afford it.’

  ‘Have it here then. I will help you.’

  ‘Let’s see …’

  ‘How many people will you call for the tea party?’

  ‘I don’t know. Most of them are demanding beer— it’s expensive.’

  ‘Give them kachi, they make it in our village behind the police lines. I’ll bring a jerrycan for you. It’s very cheap and very strong. Big nasha (intoxication)!’

  ‘How do you know? Do you drink it?’

  ‘I never drink. My father drinks enough for everyone.’

  ‘Well, I can’t give it to my guests.’

  ‘Who will come?’

  I gave some consideration to my potential guest list. There’d be Anand demanding jalebis and beer, a sickening combination! And Peter wanting French toast, I supposed. (Was French toast eaten by the French? It seemed very English, somehow.) And Mohan wanting something stronger than beer. (After two whiskys, he claimed that he had discovered the fourth dimension.) And there were my young Sikh friends from the Dilaram Bazaar, who would be happy with lots to eat. And perhaps Larry Gomes would drop in.

  Dare I invite the Maharani and Indu? Would they fit in with the rest of the mob? Perhaps I could invite them to a separate teaparty at the Indiana. Creamrolls and cucumber sandwiches.

  And where would the money come from for all these celebrations? My bank balance stood at a little over three hundred rupees—enough to pay the rent and the food bill at Komal’s and make myself a new pair of trousers. The pair I’d bought on the Mile End Road in London, two years previously, were now very baggy and had a shine on the seat. The other pair, made of non-shrink material, got smaller at every wash; I had given them to a tailor to turn into a pair of shorts.

  Sitaram, of course, was willing to lend me any number of trousers provided I wasn’t fussy about who the owners were, and gave them back in time for them to be washed and ironed again before being delivered to their rightful owners. I did, on an occasion, borrow a pair made of a nice checked material, and was standing outside the Indiana, chatting to the owner, when I realized that he was staring hard at the trousers.

  ‘I have a pair just like yours,’ he remarked.

  ‘It shows you have good taste,’ I said, and gave Sitaram an earful when I got back to the flat.

  ‘I can’t trust you with other people’s trousers!’ I shouted. ‘Couldn’t you have lent me a pair belonging to someone who lives far from here?’

  He was genuinely contrite. ‘I was looking for the right size,’ he said. ‘Would you like to try a dhoti? You will look good in a dhoti. Or a lungi. There’s a purple lungi here, it belongs to a sub-inspector of police.’

  ‘A purple lungi? The police are human, after all.’

  ’ Money talks—and it’s usually saying goodbye.

  A freelance writer can’t tell what he’s going to make from one month to the next. This uncertainty is part of the charm of the writing life, but it can also make for some nail-biting finishes when it comes to paying the rent, the food bill at Komal’s, postage on my articles and correspondence, typing paper, toothpaste, socks, shaving soap, candles (there was no light in my room) and other necessities. And friends like Peter and Mohan (the only out-of-work lawyer I have ever known) did not make it any easier for me.

  Peter, though Swiss, had served in the French Foreign Legion, and had been on the run in Vietnam along with the French administration and army once the Vietnamese had decided they’d had enough of the Marseillaise. The French are not known for their military prowess, although they would like to think otherwise.

  Peter had drifted into Dehra as the assistant to a German newspaper correspondent, Von Radloff, who based his dispatches on the Indian papers and sent them out with a New Delhi dateline. Dehra was a little cooler than Delhi, and it was still pretty in parts. You could lead a pleasant life there; it was still easier if you had an income.

  Peter and Radloff fell out, and Peter decided he’d set up on his own as a correspondent. But there weren’t many takers for his articles in Europe, and his debts were mounting. He continued to live in an expensive guest house whose owner, an unusually tolerant landlord, reminded him one day that he was five months in arrears.

  Peter took to turning up at my room around the same time as the postman, to see if I’d received any cheques or international money orders.

  ‘Only pounds,’ I told him one day. ‘No French or Swiss francs. How could I possibly aspire to a French publisher?’

  ‘Pounds will do. I owe my Sardarji about five thousand rupees.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to keep owing him. My twelve pounds from the Young Elizabethan won’t do much for you.’

  The Young Elizabethan was a classy British children’s magazine, edited by Kaye Webb and Pat Campbell. A number of my early stories found a home between its covers. Alas, like many other good things, it vanished a couple of years later. But in that golden year of my debut it was one of my mainstays.

  ‘Why don’t you look for cheaper accommodation?’ I asked Peter.

  ‘I have to keep up appearances. How can the correspondent of the Franco-German press live in a hovel like yours?’

  ‘Well, suit yourself,’ I said. ‘I hope you get some money soon.’ All the same, I lent him two hundred rupees, and of course I never saw it again. Would I have enough for my birthday party? That was now the burning question.

  5

  Early one morning I decided I’d take a long cycle ride out of the town’s precincts. I’d read all about the dawn coming up like thunder, but had never really got up early enough to witness it. I asked Sitaram to do me a favour and wake me at six. He woke me at five. It was just getting light. As I dressed, the colour of the sky changed from ultramarine to a clear shade of lavender, and then the sun came up gloriously naked.

  I had borrowed a cycle from my landlady—it was occasionally used by her son or servant to deliver purchases to favoured customers—and I rode off down the Rajpur Road in a rather wobbly, zigzag manner, as it was about five years since I had ridden a cycle. I was careful; I did not want to end up a cripple like Denton Welch, the sensitive author of A Voice in the Clouds, whose idyllic country cycle-ride had ended in disaster and tragedy.

  Dehra’s traffic is horrific today, but there was not much of it then, and at six in the morning the roads were deserted. In any case, I was soon out of the town and then I reached the tea gardens. I stopped at a small wayside tea shop for refreshment and while I was about to dip a hard bun in my tea, a familiar shadow fell across the table, and I looked up to see Sitaram grinning at me. I’d forgotten—he too had a cycle.

  Dear friend and familiar! I did not know whether to be pleased or angry.

  ‘My cycle is faster than yours,’ he said.

  ‘Well, then carry on riding it to Rishikesh. I’ll try to keep up with you.’

  He laughed. ‘You can’t escape me that way, writer-sahib. I’m hungry.’

  ‘Have something, then.’

  ‘W
e will practise for your birthday.’ And he helped himself to a boiled egg, two buns, and a sponge cake that looked as though it had been in the shop for a couple of years. If Sitaram can digest that, I thought, then he’s a true survivor.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, as I prepared to mount my cycle.

  ‘Anywhere,’ I said. ‘As far as I feel like going.’

  ‘Come, I will show you roads that you have never seen before.’

  Were these prophetic words? Was I to discover new paths and new meanings courtesy of the washerman’s son?

  ‘Lead on, light of my life,’ I said, and he beamed and set off at a good speed so that I had trouble keeping up with him. He left the main road, and took a bumpy, dusty path through a bamboo grove. It was a fairly broad path and we could cycle side by side. It led out of the bamboo grove into an extensive tea garden, then turned and twisted before petering out beside a small canal.

  We rested our cycles against the trunk of a mango tree, and as we did so, a flock of green parrots, disturbed by our presence, flew out from the tree, circling the area and making a good deal of noise. In India, the land of the loudspeaker, even the birds have learnt to shout in order to be heard.

  The parrots finally settled on another tree. The mangoes were beginning to form, but many would be bruised by the birds before they could fully ripen.

  A kingfisher dived low over the canal and came up with a gleaming little fish.

  ‘Too tiny for us,’ I said, ‘or we might have caught a few.’

  ‘We’ll eat fish tikkas in the bazaar on our way back,’ said Sitaram, a pragmatic person.

  While Sitaram went exploring the canal banks, I sat down and rested my back against the bole of the mango tree.

  A sensation of great peace stole over me. I felt in complete harmony with my surroundings—the gurgle of the canal water, the trees, the parrots, the bark of the tree, the warmth of the sun, the softness of the faint breeze, the caterpillar on the grass near my feet, the grass itself, each blade … And I knew that if I always remained close to these things, growing things, the natural world, life would come alive for me, and I would be able to write as long as I lived.

  Optimism surged through me, and I began singing an old song of Nelson Eddy’s, a Vincent Huyman composition—

  When you are down and out, Lift up your head and shout—It’s going to be a great day!

  Across the canal, moving through some wild babul trees, a dim figure seemed to be approaching. It wasn’t the boy, it wasn’t a stranger, it was someone I knew. Though he remained dim, I was soon able to recognize my father’s face and form.

  He stood there, smiling, and the song died on my lips.

  But perhaps it was the song that had brought him back for a few seconds. He had always liked Nelson Eddy, collected his records. Where were they now? Where were the songs of old? The past has served us well; we must preserve all that was good in it.

  As I stood up and raised my hand in greeting, the figure faded away.

  My dear, dear father. How much I had loved him. And I had been only eleven when he had been snatched away. Off and on he had given me some sign that he was still with me, would always be with me …

  There was a great splashing close by, and I looked down to see that Sitaram was in the water. I hadn’t even noticed him slip off his clothes and jump into the canal.

  He beckoned to me to join him, and after a moment’s hesitation, I decided to do so. Sitaram and I romped around in the waist-deep water for quite some time. After a while I climbed the opposite bank and walked to the place where I had seen my father approaching. But there was no sign that anyone had been there. Not even a footprint.

  6

  It was mid-afternoon when we cycled back to the town. Siesta-time for many, but some brave souls were playing cricket in a vacant lot. There were spacious bungalows in the Dalanwala area; they had lawns and well-kept gardens. Dehra’s establishment lived here. As did the Maharani of Magador, whose nameplate caught my eye as we rode slowly past the gate. I got off my cycle and stood at the kerb, looking over the garden wall.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Sitaram, dismounting beside me.

  ‘I want to invite the Maharani’s daughter to my birthday party. But I don’t suppose her mother will allow her to come.’

  ‘Invite the mother too,’ said Sitaram.

  ‘Brilliant!’ I said. ‘Hit two Ranis with one stone.’

  ‘Two birds in hand!’ added Sitaram, who remembered his English proverbs from Class Seven. ‘And look, there is one of them in the bushes now!’

  He pointed towards a hedge of hibiscus, where Indu was at work pruning the branches. Our voices had carried across the garden, and she looked up and stared at us for a few seconds before recognizing me. She walked slowly across the grass and stopped on the other side of the low wall, smiling faintly, looking from me to Sitaram and back to me.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Where have you been cycling?’

  ‘Oh, all over the place. Across the canal and into the fields like Hemingway. Now we’re on our way home. Sitaram lives next door to me. When I saw your place, I thought I’d stop and say hello. Is your mother at home?’

  ‘Yes, she’s resting. Do you want to see her?’

  ‘Er, no. Well, sure, but I won’t disturb her. What I wanted to say was—if you’re free on the 19th, come and join me and my friends for tea. It’s my birthday, my twenty-fifth.’

  ‘How nice. But my mother won’t let me go alone.’

  ‘The invitation includes her. If she comes, will you?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’

  I looked into her eyes. Deep brown, rather mischievous eyes. Were they responding to my look of gentle adoration? Or were they just amused because I was so self-conscious, so gauche? I could write stories, earn a living, converse with people from all walks of life, ride a bicycle, play football, climb trees, put back a few drinks, walk for miles without tiring, play with babies, charm grandmothers, impress fathers; but when it came to making an impression on the opposite sex, I was sadly out of depth, a complete dunce. It was I, not Indu, who had to hide the blushes …

  My intentions towards Indu were perfectly honourable, although I couldn’t see her mother accepting me into the royal fold. But perhaps one day when fame and fortune were mine (soon, I hoped!) Indu would give up her protected existence and come and live with me in a house by the sea or a villa on some tropical isle.

  As Indu gazed into my eyes, I said, quite boldly and to my own surprise, ‘I have to kiss you one of these days, Indu.’

  ‘Why not today?’

  She was offering me her cheek, and that’s where I started, but then she let me kiss her on her lips, and it was so sweet and intoxicating that when I felt someone pressing my hand I was sure it was Indu. I returned the pressure, then realized that Indu was on the other side of the wall, still holding the hedge-cutters. I’d quite forgotten Sitaram’s presence. The pressure of his hand increased; I turned to look at him and he nodded approvingly. Indu had drawn away from the wall just as her mother’s voice carried to us across the garden: ‘Who are you talking to, Indu? Is it someone we know?’

  ‘Just a college student!’ Indu called back, and then, waving, walked slowly in the direction of the veranda. She turned once and said, ‘I’ll come to the party, Mother too!’

  And I was left with Sitaram holding my hand. ‘Only one thing missing,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Filmi music.’

  There was filmi music in full measure when we got to the Orient cinema, where they were showing Mr and Mrs 55, starring Madhubala, who was everybody’s heart-throb that year. Sitaram insisted that I return my bicycle and join him in the cheap seats, which I did, almost passing out from the aromatic beedi smoke that filled the hall. The Orient had once shown English films, and I remembered seeing an early British comedy, The Ghost of St Michael’s (with Will Hay), when I was a boy. The front of the cinema, facing the parade-ground, was d
ecorated with a bas-relief of dancers, designed by Sudhir Khastgir, art master at the Doon School, and the decorations certainly lent character to the building—the rest of its character was fast disintegrating. But I enjoyed watching the crowd at the cinema. For me, the audience was always more interesting than the performers.

  All I remember of the film was that Sitaram got very restless whenever Madhubala appeared on the screen. He

  would whistle along with the tongawallahs and squeeze my arm to indicate that he was really turned on by his favourite screen heroine. A good thing Madhubala wasn’t coming to town, or there’d have been a riot; but for some time there had been a rumour that Prem Nath, a successful male star, would be visiting Dehra, and my landlady had been quite excited at the prospect. But Sitaram was not turned on by Prem Nath. It was Madhubala or nothing.

  After the film, while wending our way through the bazaar, we were accosted by Anand, who walked with us to the Frontier Sweet Shop, where fresh, hot jalebis were being dished out to the evening’s first customers.

  ‘Your turn to pay,’ I said.

  ‘Next time, next time,’ promised the pride of the Doon School.

  ‘I’m broke,’ I said.

  ‘Your friend must have some money.’

  It turned out that Sitaram did possess a few crumpled notes, which he thrust into my hand.

  ‘What does your friend do?’ asked Anand.

  ‘He’s in the garment business,’ I said.

  Anand looked at Sitaram with renewed respect. When he’d had his fill of jalebis he insisted on showing us his new painting. So we walked home with him along his haunted alley, and he took us into his studio and proudly displayed a painting of a purple lady, very long in the arms and legs, and somewhat flat-chested.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Anand, standing back and looking at his bizarre creation with an affectionate eye.