by Ruskin Bond
‘When Kusum saw me staring at her, she raised the axe and rushed down the slope towards me.’
‘I was too bewildered to be able to do anything but stare with open mouth as she rushed at me with the axe. The impetus of her run would have brought her right up against me, and the axe, com- ing down, would probably have crushed my skull, thick though it is. But while she was still six feet from me, the axe flew out of her hands. It sprang into the air as though it had a life of its own and came curving towards me.’
‘In spite of my weight, I moved swiftly aside. The axe grazed my shoulder and sank into the soft bark of the tree behind me. And Kusum dropped at my feet, weeping hysterically.’
Inspector Keemat Lal paused in order to replenish his glass. He took a long pull at the beer, and the froth glistened on his moustache.
‘And then what happened?’ I prompted him.
‘Perhaps it could only have happened in India — and to a person like me,’ he said. ‘This sudden compassion for the person you are supposed to destroy. Instead of being furious and outraged, instead of seizing the girl and marching her off to the police station, I stroked her head and said silly comforting things.’
‘And she told you that she had killed the Rani?’
‘She told me how the Rani had called her to her house and given her tea and sweets. Mr. Kapur had been there. After some time he began stroking Kusum’s arms and squeezing her knees. She had drawn away, but Kapur kept pawing her. The Rani was telling Kusum not to be afraid, that no harm would come to her. Kusum slipped away from the man and made a rush for the door. The Rani caught her by the shoulders and pushed her back into the room. The Rani was getting angry. Kusum saw the axe lying in a corner of the room. She seized it, raised it above her head and threatened Kapur. The man realised that he had gone too far, and, valuing his neck, backed away. But the Rani, in a great rage, sprang at the girl. And Kusum, in desperation and panic, brought the axe down across the Rani’s head.’
‘The Rani fell to the ground. Without waiting to see what Kapur might do, Kusum fled from the house. Her bangle must have broken when she stumbled against the door. She ran into the forest and, after concealing the axe amongst some tall ferns, lay weeping on the grass until it grew dark. But such was her nature, and such the resilience of youth, that she recovered sufficiently to be able to return home looking her normal self. And during the following days she managed to remain silent about the whole business.’
‘What did you do about it?’ I asked.
Keemat lal looked me straight in my berry eye.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I did absolutely nothing. I couldn’t have the girl put away in a remand home. It would have crushed her spirit.’
‘And what about Kapur?’
‘Oh, he had his own reasons for remaining quiet, as you may guess. No, the case was closed — or perhaps I should say the file was put in my pending tray. My promotion, too, went into the pending tray.’
‘It didn’t turn out very well for you,’ I said.
‘No. Here I am in Shahpur, and still an Inspector. But, tell me, what would you have done if you had been in my place?’
I considered his question carefully for a moment or two, then said, ‘I suppose it would have depended on how much sympathy the girl evoked in me. She had killed in innocence . . . ’
‘Then you would have put your personal feelings above your duty to uphold the law?’
‘Yes. But I would not have made a very good policeman.’ ‘Exactly.’
‘Still, it’s a pity that Kapur got off so easily.’
‘There was no alternative if I was to let the girl go. But he didn’t get off altogether. He found himself in trouble later on for swin- dling some manufacturing concern, and went to jail for a couple of years.’
‘And the girl — did you see her again?’
‘Well, before I was transferred from Panauli, I saw her occasion- ally on the road. She was usually on her way to school. She would greet me with joined palms, and call me Uncle.’
The beer bottles were all empty, and Inspector Keemat Lal got up to leave. His final words to me were, ‘I should never have been a policeman.’
A Face in the Night
It may give you some idea of rural humour if I begin this tale with an anecdote that concerns me. I was walking alone through a village at night when I met an old man carrying a lantern. I found, to my surprise, that the man was blind. ‘Old man,’ I asked, ‘if you cannot see, why do you carry a lantern?’
‘ I carry this,’ he replied, ‘so that fools do not stumble against me in the dark.’
This incident has only a slight connection with the story that follows, but I think it provides the right sort of tone and setting. Mr. Oliver, an Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to his school late one night, on the outskirts of the hill station of Simla. The school was conducted on English public school lines and the boys, most of them from well-to-do Indian families, wore blazers, caps and ties. Life magazine, in a feature on India, had once called this school the ‘Eton of the East’. Mr. Oliver had been teaching in the school for several years. (He is no longer there). The Simla bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about two miles from the school; and Mr. Oliver, a bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening, returning after dark, when he would take a short cut through a pine forest.
When there was a strong wind, the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the main road. But Mr. Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch and, on the night I write of, its pale gleam — the batteries were running down — moved fitfully over the narrow forest path. When its flickering light fell on the figure of a boy, who was sitting alone on a rock, Mr.
Oliver stopped. Boys were not supposed to be out of school after 7 p.m., and it was now well past nine.
‘What are you doing out here, boy?’ asked Mr. Oliver sharply, moving closer so that he could recognise the miscreant. But even as he approached the boy, Mr. Oliver sensed that something was wrong. The boy appeared to be crying. His head hung down, he held his face in his hands, and his body shook convulsively. It was a strange, soundless weeping, and Mr. Oliver felt distinctly uneasy.
‘Well — what’s the matter?’ he asked, his anger giving way to concern. ‘What are you crying for?’ The boy would not answer or look up. His body continued to be racked with silent sobbing. Come on, boy, you shouldn’t be out here at this hour. Tell me the trouble. Look up!’ The boy looked up. He took his hands from his face and looked up at his teacher. The light from Mr. Oliver’s torch fell on the boy’s face — if you could call it a face.
He had no eyes, ears, nose or mouth. It was just a round smooth head — with a school cap on top of it. And that’s where the story should end — as indeed it has, for several people who have had similar experiences and dropped dead of inexplicable heart attacks But for Mr. Oliver it did not end there.
The torch fell from his trembling hand. He turned and scrambled down the path, running blindly through the trees and calling for help. He was still running towards the school buildings when he saw a lantern swinging in the middle of the path. Mr. Oliver had never before been so pleased to see the night-watchman. He stumbled up the watchman, gasping for breath and speaking inco- herently. ‘What is it, Sahib?’ asked the watchman. ‘Has there been an accident? Why are you running?’
‘I saw something — something horrible — a boy weeping in the forest — and he had no face!’ ‘No face, Sahib?’ ‘No eyes, nose, mouth — nothing.’ ‘Do you mean it was like this, Sahib?’ asked the watchman, and raised the lamp to his own face. The watchman had no eyes, no ears, no features at all — not even an eyebrow! The wind blew the lamp out, and Mr. Oliver had his heart attack.
A Job Well done
Dhuki, the gardener, was clearing up the weeds that grew in profu- sion around the old disused well. He was an old man, skinny and bent and spindly-legged; but he had always been like that; his strength lay in his wrists and in hi
s long, tendril-like fingers. He looked as frail as a petunia, but he had the tenacity of a vine.
‘Are you going to cover the well?’ I asked. I was eight, a great favourite of Dhuki. He had been the gardener long before my birth; had worked for my father, until my father died, and now worked for my mother and step-father.
‘I must cover it, I suppose,’ said Dhuki. ‘That’s what the “Major sahib” wants. He’ll be back any day, and if he finds the well still uncoverd he’ll get into one of his raging fits and I’ll be looking for another job!’
The ‘Major sahib’ was my step-father, Major Summerskill. A tall, hearty, back-slapping man, who liked polo and pig-sticking. He was quite unlike my father. My father had always given me books to read. The Major said I would become a dreamer if I read too much, and took the books away. I hated him; and did not think much of my mother for marrying him.
‘The boy’s too soft,’ I heard him tell my mother. ‘I must see that he gets riding lessons.’
But, before the riding lessons could be arranged, the Major’s regiment was ordered to Peshawar. Trouble was expected from some of the frontier tribes. He was away for about two months. Before leaving, he had left strict instructions for Dhuki to cover up the old well.
‘Too damned dangerous having an open well in the middle of the garden,’ my step-father had said. ‘Make sure that it’s completely covered by the time I get back.’
Dhuki was loth to cover up the old well. It had been there for over 50 years, long before the house had been built. In its walls lived a colony of pigeons. Their soft cooing filled the garden with a lovely sound. And during the hot, dry, summer months, when taps ran dry, the well was always a dependable source of water. The bhisti still used it, filling his goatskin bag with the cool clear water and sprinkling the paths around the house to keep the dust down.
Dhuki pleaded with my mother to let him leave the well uncovered.
‘What will happen to the pigeons?’ he asked.
‘Oh, surely they can find another well,’ said my mother. ‘Do close it up soon, Dhuki. I don’t want the Sahib to come back and find that you haven’t done anything about it.’
My mother seemed just a little bit afraid of the Major. How can we be afraid of those we love? It was a question that puzzled me then, and puzzles me still.
The Major’s absence made life pleasant again. I returned to my books, spent long hours in my favourite banyan tree, ate buckets of mangoes, and dawdled in the garden talking to Dhuki.
Neither he nor I were looking forward to the Major’s return. Dhuki had stayed on after my mother’s second marriage only out of loyalty to her and affection for me; he had really been my father’s man. But my mother had always appeared deceptively frail and helpless, and most men, Major Summerskill included, felt protective towards her. She liked people who did things for her.
‘Your father liked this well,’ said Dhuki. ‘He would often sit here in the evenings, with a book in which he made drawings of birds and flowers and insects.’
I remembered those drawings, and I remembered how they had all been thrown away by the Major when he had moved into the house. Dhuki knew about it too. I didn’t keep much from him.
‘It’s a sad business closing this well,’ said Dhuki again. ‘Only a fool or a drunkard is likely to fall into it.’
But he had made his preparations. Planks of sal wood, bricks and cement were neatly piled up around the well.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Dhuki. Tomorrow I will do it. Not today. Let the birds remain for one more day. In the morning, baba, you can help me drive the birds from the well.’
On the day my step-father was expected back, my mother hired a tonga and went to the bazaar to do some shopping. Only a few people had cars in those days. Even colonels went about in tongas. Now, a clerk finds it beneath his dignity to sit in one.
As the Major was not expected before evening, I decided I would make full use of my last free morning, I took all my favourite books and stored them away in an outhouse, where I could come for them from time to time. Then, my pockets bursting with mangoes, I climbed into the banyan tree. It was the darkest and coolest place on a hot day in June.
From behind the screen of leaves that concealed me, I could see Dhuki moving about near the well. He appeared to be most unwil- ling to get on with the job of covering it up.
‘Baba!’ he called, several times; but I did not feel like stirring from the banyan tree. Dhuki grasped a long plank of wood and placed it across one end of the well. He started hammering. From my vantage point in the banyan tree, he looked very bent and old.
A jingle of tonga bells and the squeak of unoiled wheels told me that a tonga was coming in at the gate. It was too early for my mother to be back. I peered through the thick, waxy leaves of the tree, and nearly fell off my branch in surprise. It was my step-father, the Major! He had arrived earlier than expected.
I did not come down from the tree. I had no intention of con- fronting my step-father until my mother returned.
The Major had climbed down from the tonga and was watching his luggage being carried on to the verandah. He was red in the face and the ends of his handlebar moustache were stiff with brilliantine. Dhuki approached with a half-hearted salaam.
‘Ah, so there you are, you old scoundrel!’ exclaimed the Major, trying to sound friendly and jocular. ‘More jungle than garden, from what I can see. You’re geting too old for this sort of work, Dhuki. Time to retire! And where’s the Memsahib?’
‘Gone to the bazaar,’ said Dhuki.
‘And the boy?’
Dhuki shrugged. ‘I have not seen the boy, today, Sahib.’ ‘Damn!’ said the Major. ‘A fine homecoming, this. Well, wake up the cook-boy and tell him to get some sodas.’
‘Cook-boy’s gone away,’ said Dhuki.
‘Well, I’ll be double-damned,’ said the major.
The tonga went away, and the Major started pacing up and down the garden path. Then he saw Dhuki’s unfinished work at the well. He grew purple in the face, strode across to the well, and started ranting at the old gardener.
Dhuki began making excuses. He said something about a shor- tage of bricks; the sickness of a niece; unsatisfactory cement; unfa- vourable weather; unfavourable gods. When none of this seemed to satisfy the Major, Dhuki began mumbling about something bub- bling up from the bottom of the well, and pointed down into its depths. The Major stepped on to the low parapet and looked down. Dhuki kept pointing. The Major leant over a little.
Dhuki’s hand moved swiftly, like a conjurer’s making a pass. He did not actually push the Major. He appeared merely to tap him once on the bottom. I caught a glimpse of my step-father’s boots as he disappeared into the well. I couldn’t help thinking of Alice in Wonderland, of Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole.
There was a tremendous splash, and the pigeons flew up, circling the well thrice before settling on the roof of the bungalow.
By lunch time — or tiffin, as we called it then — Dhuki had the well covered over with the wooden planks.
‘The Major will be pleased,’ said my mother, when she came home. ‘It will be quite ready by evening, won’t it, Dhuki?’
By evening, the well had been completely bricked over. It was the fastest bit of work Dhuki had ever done.
Over the next few weeks, my mother’s concern changed to anx- iety, her anxiety to melancholy, and her melancholy to resignation. By being gay and high-spirited myself, I hope I did something to cheer her up. She had written to the Colonel of the Regiment, and had been informed that the Major had gone home on leave a fort- night previously. Somewhere, in the vastness of India, the Major had disappeared.
It was easy enough to disappear and never be found. After several months had passed without the Major turning up, it was presumed that one of two things must had happened. Either he had been murdered on the train, and his corpse flung into a river; or, he had run away with a tribal girl and was living in some remote corner of the country.
Lif
e had to carry on for the rest of us. The rains were over, and the guava season was approaching.
My mother was receiving visits from a colonel of His Majesty’s
32nd Foot. He was an elderly, easy-going, seemingly absent-minded man, who didn’t get in the way at all, but left slabs of chocolate lying around the house.
‘A good Sahib,’ observed Dhuki, as I stood beside him behind the bougainvillaea, watching the colonel saunter up the verandah steps. ‘See how well he wears his sola topee! It covers his head completely.’
‘He’s bald underneath,’ I said.
‘No matter. I think he will be all right.’
‘And if he isn’t,’ I said, ‘we can always open up the well again.’ Dhuki dropped the nozzle of the hose pipe, and water gushed out over our feet. But he recovered quickly, and taking me by the hand, led me across to the old well, now surmounted by a three- tiered cement platform which looked rather like a wedding cake.
‘We must not forget our old well,’ he said. ‘Let us make it beauti- ful, baba. Some flower pots, perhaps.’
And together we fetched pots, and decorated the covered well with ferns and geraniums. Everyone congratulated Dhuki on the fine job he’d done. My only regret was that the pigeons had gone away.
The Story of Madhu
I met little Madhu several years ago, when I lived alone in an obscure town near the Himalayan foothills. I was in my late twenties then, and my outlook on life was still quite romantic; the cynicism that was to come with the thirties had not yet set in.
I preferred the solitude of the small district town to the kind of social life I might have found in the cities; and in my books, my writing and the surrounding hills, there was enough for my pleasure and occupation.
On summer mornings I would often sit beneath an old mango tree, with a notebook or a sketch pad on my knees. The house which I had rented (for a very nominal sum) stood on the outskirts of the town; and a large tank and a few poor houses could be seen from the garden wall. A narrow public pathway passed under the low wall.