by Ruskin Bond
‘He’s only a boy,’ I said. ‘And he’s taking longer than most boys to grow up. He doesn’t realise the seriousness of what he does. He will learn as he grows older.’
‘If he grows older,’ said my landlady darkly. ‘Do you know that he nearly killed a man last year? When a fruit-seller who had been cheated threatened to report Sunil to the police, he threw a brick at the man’s head. The poor man was in hospital for three weeks. If Sunil’s father did not have political influence, the boy would be in jail now, instead of climbing your stairs every afternoon.’
Once again I suggested to Sunil that he come to see me less often. He looked hurt and offended.
‘Don’t you like me any more?’
‘I like you immensely. But I have work to do . . .’
‘I know. You think I am a crook. Well, I am a crook.’ He spoke with all the confidence of a young man who has never been hurt or disillusioned; he had romantic notions about swindlers and gangs- ters. ‘I’ll be a big crook one day, and people will be scared of me. But don’t worry, old boy, you’re my friend. I wouldn’t harm you in any way. In fact, I’ll protect you.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t require protection, I want to be left alone. I have work, and you are a worry and a distraction.’
‘Well, I’m not going to leave you alone,’ he said, assuming the posture of a spoilt child. ‘Why should you be left alone? Who do you think you are? If we’re friends now, it’s your fault. I’m not going to buzz off just to suit your convenience.’
‘Come less often, that’s all.’
‘I’ll come more often, you old snob! I know, you’re thinking of your reputation — as if you had any. Well, you don’t have to worry, mon ami — as they say in Hollywood. I’ll be very discreet, daddyji!’
Whenever I complained or became querulous, Sunil would call me daddy or uncle or sometimes mum, and make me feel more ridiculous. If he was in a good mood, he would use the Hindi word chacha (uncle). All it did was to make me feel much older than my twenty-five years.
Sunil turned up one afternoon with blood streaming from his nose and from a gash across his forehead. He sat down at the foot of the bed, and began dabbling his face with the bedsheet.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ I asked in some alarm. ‘Some fellows beat me up. There were three of them. They fol- lowed me on their cycles.’
‘Who were they?’ I asked, looking for iodine on the dressing-table.
‘Just some fellows . . .’
‘They must have had a reason.’
‘Well, a sister of one of them had been talking to me.’
‘Well, that isn’t a reason, even in Shahganj. You must have said or done something to offend her.’
‘No, she likes me,’ he said, wincing as I dabbed iodine on his forehead ‘We went to the guava orchard near my uncle’s farm.’
‘She went out there alone with you?’
‘Sure. I took her on my bike. They must have followed us. Any- way, we weren’t doing much except kissing and fooling around. But some people seem to think that’s worse than . . .’
Both he and the other boys of Shahganj had grown up to look upon girls as strange, exotic animals, who must be seized at the first opportunity. Experimenting in sex was like playing a surreptitious game of marbles.
Sunil produced a clasp-knife from his pocket, opened it, and held the blade against the flat of his hand.
‘Don’t worry, uncle, I can look after myself. The next fellow who tries to interfere with me will get this in his guts.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘You will go to prison for ten years. Listen, I’m going up to Simla for a couple of weeks, just for a change. Why don’t you come with me? It will be a pleasant change from Shah- ganj, and in the meantime all this fuss will die down.’
It was one of those invitations which I make so readily and instantly regret. As soon as I had made the suggestion, I realised that Sunil in Simla might be even more of a problem than Sunil in Shahganj. But it was too late for me to back out.
‘Simla! Why not? The college is closing for the summer holidays, and my father won’t mind my going with you. He believes you’re the only respectable friend I’ve got. Boy! we’ll have a good time in Simla.’
‘You’ll have to behave yourself there, if you want to come with me. No girls, Sunil.’
‘No girls, sir. I’ll be very good, chachaji. Please take me to Simla.’ ‘I think two hundred rupees should be enough for a fortnight for both of us,’ I said.
‘Oh, too much,’ said Sunil modestly.
And a week later we were actually in Simla, putting up at a mod- erately priced, middle-class hotel.
Our first few days in the hill-station were pleasant enough. We went for long walks, tired ourselves out, and acquired enormous appetites. Sunil, in the hills for the first time in his life, declared that they were wonderful, and thanked me a score of times for bringing him up. He took a genuine interest in exploring remote valleys, forests and waterfalls, and seemed to be losing some of his self- centredness. I believe that mountains do affect one’s personality, if one can remain among them long enough; and if Sunil had grown up in the hills instead of in a refugee township, I have no doubt he would have been a completely different person.
There was one small waterfall I rather liked. It was down a ravine, in a rather inaccessible spot, where very few people ever went. The water fell about thirty feet into a small pool. We bathed here on two occasions, and Sunil quite forgot the attractions of the town. And we would have visited the spot again had I not slipped and sprained my ankle. This accident confined me to the hotel balcony for several days, and I was afraid that Sunil, for want of companionship, would go in search of more mundane distractions. But though he went out often enough, he came back dusty and sunburnt; and the fact that he asked me for very little money was evidence enough of his fondness for the outdoors. Striding through forests of oak and pine, with all the world stretched out far below, was no doubt a new and exhilarating experience for him. But how long would it be before the spell was broken?
‘Don’t you need any money?’ I asked him uneasily, on the third day of his Thoreau-like activities.
‘What for, uncle? Fresh air costs nothing. And besides, I don’t owe money to anyone in Simla. We haven’t been here long enough.’
‘Then perhaps we should be going,’ I said.
‘Shahganj is a miserable little dump.’
‘I know, but it’s your home. And for the time being, it’s mine.’ ‘Listen, uncle,’ he said, after a moment of reflection. ‘Yesterday, on one of my walks, I met a school-teacher. She’s over thirty, so don’t get nervous. She doesn’t have any brothers or relatives who will come chasing after me. And she’s much fairer than you, uncle. Is it all right if I’m friendly with her?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said uncertainly. School teachers can usually take care of themselves (if they want to), and, besides, an older woman might have had a sobering influence on Sunil.
He brought her over to see me that same evening, and seemed quite proud of his new acquisition. She was indeed fair, perhaps insipidly so, with blonde hair and light blue eyes. She had a young face and a healthy body, but her voice was peculiarly toneless and flat, giving an impression of boredom, of lassitude. I wondered what she found attractive in Sunil apart from his obvious animal charm. They had hardly anything in common; but perhaps the absence of similar interests was an attraction in itself. In six or seven years of teaching Maureen must have been tired of the usual scho- lastic types. Sunil was refreshingly free from all classroom associations.
Maureen let her hair down at the first opportunity. She switched on the bedroom radio and found Ceylon. Soon she was teaching Sunil to dance. This was amusing, because Sunil, with his long legs, had great difficulty in taking small steps; nor could Maureen cope with his great strides. But he was very earnest about it all, and inserting an unlighted cigarette between his lips, did his best to move rhythmically around the bedroom. I
think he was convinced that by learning to dance he would reach the high-water mark of western culture. Maureen stood for all that was remote and roman- tic, and for all the films that he had seen. To conquer her would, for Sunil, be a voyage of discovery, not a mere gratification of his senses. And for Maureen, this new unconventional friendship must have been a refreshing diversion from the dreariness of her school routine. She was old enough to realise that it was only a diversion. The intensity of emotional attachments had faded with her early youth, and love could wound her heart no more. But for Sunil, it was only the beginning of something that stirred him deeply, moved him inexorably towards manhood.
It was unfortunate that I did not then notice this subtle change in my friend. I had known him only as a shallow creature, and was certain that this new infatuation would disappear as soon as the novelty of it wore off. As Maureen had no encumbrances, no rela- tions that she would speak of, I saw no harm in encouraging the friendship and seeing how it would develop.
‘I think we’d better have something to drink,’ I said, and ringing the bell for the room-bearer, ordered several bottles of beer.
Sunil gave me an odd, whimsical look. I had never before encouraged him to drink. But he did not hesitate to open the bot- tles; and, before long, Maureen and he were drinking from the same glass.
‘Let’s make love,’ said Sunil, putting his arm round Maureen’s shoulders and gazing adoringly into her dreamy blue eyes.
They seemed unconcerned by my presence; but I was embar- rassed, and getting up, said I would be going for a walk.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ said Sunil, winking at me over Maureen’s shoulder.
‘You ought to get yourself a girl friend,’ said the young woman in a conciliatory tone.
‘True,’ I said, and moved guiltily out of the room I was paying for. Our stay in Simla lasted several days longer than we had planned. I saw little of Sunil and Maureen during this time. As Sunil had no desire to return to Shahganj any earlier than was absolutely neces- sary, he avoided me during the day; but I managed to stay awake late enough one night to confront him when he crept quietly into the room.
‘Dear friend and familiar,’ I said. ‘I hate to spoil your beautiful romance, but I have absolutely no money left, and unless you have resources of your own — or if Maureen can support you — I suggest that you accompany me back to Shahganj the day after tomorrow.’
‘How mean you are, chachaji. This is something serious. I mean Maureen and me. Do you think we should get married?’
‘No.’
‘But why not?’
‘Because she cannot support you on a teacher’s salary. And she probably isn’t interested in a permanent relationship — like ours.’
‘Very funny. And you think I’d let my wife slave for me?’
‘I do. And besides . . . ’
‘And besides,’ he interrupted, grinning, ‘she’s old enough to be my mother.’
‘Are you really in love with her?’ I asked him. ‘I’ve never known you to be serious about anything.’
‘Honestly, uncle.’
‘And what about her?’
‘Oh, she loves me terribly, really she does. She’s ready to come down with us if it’s possible. Only I’ve told her that I’ll first have to break the news to my father, otherwise he might kick me out of the house.’
‘Well, then,’ I said shrewdly, ‘the sooner we return to Shahganj and get your father’s blessings, the sooner you and Maureen can get married, if that’s what both of you really want.’
Early next morning Sunil disappeared, and I knew he would be gone all day. My foot was better, and I decided to take a walk on my own to the waterfall I had liked so much. It was almost noon when I reached the spot and began descending the steep path to the ravine. The stream was hidden by dense foliage, giant ferns and dahlias, but the water made a tremendous noise as it tumbled over the rocks. When I reached a sharp promontory, I was able to look down on the pool. Two people were lying on the grass.
I did not recognise them at first. They looked very beautiful together, and I had not expected Sunil and Maureen to look so beautiful. Sunil, on whom no surplus flesh had as yet gathered, possessed all the sinuous grace and power of a young God; and the woman, her white flesh pressed against young grass, reminded me of a painting by Titian that I had seen in a gallery in Florence. Her full, mature body was touched with a tranquil intoxication, her breasts rose and fell slowly, and waves of muscle merged into the shadows of her broad thighs. It was as though I had stumbled into another age, and had found two lovers in a forest glade. Only a fool would have wished to disturb them. Sunil had for once in his life risen above mediocrity, and I hurried away before the magic was lost.
The human voice often shatters the beauty of the most tender passions; and when we left Simla next day, and Maureen and Sunil used all the stock cliches to express their love, I was a little disap- pointed. But the poetry of life was in their bodies, not in their tongues.
Back in Shahganj, Sunil actually plucked up courage to speak to his father. This, to me, was a sign that he took the affair very seriously, for he seldom approached his father for anything. But all the sympathy that he received was a box on the ears. I received a curt note suggesting that I was having a corrupting influence on the boy and that I should stop seeing him. There was little I could do in the matter, because it had always been Sunil who had insisted on seeing me.
He continued to visit me, bring me Maureen’s letters (strange, how lovers cannot bear that the world should not know their love), and his own to her, so that I could correct his English!
It was at about this time that Sunil began speaking to me about his uncle’s paper factory, and the possibility of working in it. Once he was getting a salary, he pointed out, Maureen would be able to leave her job and join him.
Unfortunately Sunil’s decision to join the paper factory took months to crystallise into a definite course of action, and in the meantime he was finding a panacea for love-sickness in rum and sometimes cheap country spirits. The money that he now borrowed was used not to pay his debts, or to incur new ones, but to drink himself silly. I regretted having been the first person to have offered him a drink: I should have known that Sunil was a person who could do nothing in moderation.
He pestered me less often now, but the purpose of his occasional visits became all too obvious. I was having a little success, and thoughtlessly gave Sunil the few rupees he usually demanded. At the same time I was beginning to find other friends, and I no longer found myself worrying about Sunil, as I had so often done in the past. Perhaps this was treachery on my part . . .
When finally I decided to leave Shahganj for Delhi. I went in search of Sunil to say goodbye. I found him in a small bar, alone at a table with a bottle of rum. Though barely twenty, he no longer looked a boy. He was a completely different person from the hand- some, cocksure youth I had met at the wrestling-pit a year pre- viously. His cheeks were hollow and he had not shaved for days. I knew that when I had first met him he had been without scruples, a shallow youth, the product of many circumstances. He was no longer so shallow and he had stumbled upon love, but his character was too weak to sustain the weight of disillusionment. Perhaps I should have left him severely alone from the beginning. Before me sat a ruin, and I had helped to undermine the foundations. None of us can really avoid seeing the outcome of our smallest actions . . .
‘I’m off to Delhi, Sunil.’
He did not look up from the table.
‘Have a good time,’ he said.
‘Have you heard from Maureen?’ I asked, certain that he had not. He nodded, but for once he did not offer to show me the letter. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, looking up and forcing a smile. ‘These dames are all the same, uncle. We shouldn’t take them too seriously, you know.’
‘Why, what has she done, got married to someone else?’
‘Yes,’ he said scornfully. ‘To a bloody teacher.’<
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‘Well, she wasn’t young,’ I said. ‘She couldn’t wait for you for ever, I suppose.’
‘She could if she had really loved me. But there’s no such thing as love, is there, uncle?’
I made no reply. Had he really broken his heart over a woman? Were there, within him, unsuspected depths of feeling and passion? You find love when you least expect to; and lose it, when you are sure that it is in your grasp.
‘You’re a lucky beggar,’ he said. ‘You’re a philosopher. You find a reason for every stupid thing, and so you are able to ignore all stupidity.’
I laughed. ‘You’re becoming a philosopher yourself. But don’t think too hard, Sunil, you might find it painful.’
‘Not I, chachaji,’ he said, emptying his glass. ‘I’m not going to think. I’m going to work in a paper factory. I shall become respecta- ble. What an adventure that will be!’
And that was the last time I saw Sunil.
He did not become respectable. He was still searching like a great discoverer for something new, someone different, when he met his pitiful end in the cold rain of a December night.
Though murder cases usually get reported in the papers, Sunil was a person of such little importance that his violent end was not considered newsworthy. It went unnoticed, and Maureen could not have known about it. The case has already been forgotten, for in the great human mass that is India, hundreds of people disappear every day and are never heard of again. Sunil will be quickly forgotten by all except those to whom he owed money.
The Kitemaker
There was but one tree in the street known as Gali Ram Nath — an ancient banyan that had grown through the cracks of an abandoned mosque — and little Ali’s kite had caught in its branches. The boy, barefoot and clad only in a torn shirt, ran along the cobbled stones of the narrow street to where his grandfather sat nodding dreamily in the sunshine of their back courtyard.
‘Grandfather,’ shouted the boy. ‘My kite has gone!’