by Ruskin Bond
She knew, then, that it would be on her shoulder that Grandfather would lean in the years to come.
They decided to remain in Shahganj for a couple of days, staying at a Dharamsala — a wayside rest-house — until the flood-waters subsided. Grandfather still had two of the goats — it had not been necessary to sell more than one — but he did not want to take the risk of rowing a crowded boat across to the island. The river was still fast and dangerous.
But Vijay could not stay with Sita any longer.
‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘My father and mother will be very worried, and they will not know where to look for me. In a day or two the water will go down, and you will be able to go back to your home.’
‘Perhaps the island has gone forever,’ said Sita.
‘It will be there,’ said Vijay. ‘It is a rocky island. Bad for crops, but good for a house!’
‘Will you come?’ asked Sita.
What she really wanted to say was, ‘Will you come to see me?’ but she was too shy to say it; and besides, she wasn’t sure if Vijay would want to see her again.
‘I will come,’ said Vijay. ‘That is, if my father gets me another boat!’
As he turned to go, he gave her his flute.
‘Keep it for me,’ he said. ‘I will come for it one day.’
When he saw her hesitate, he smiled and said, ‘It is a good flute!’
The Return
There was more rain, but the worst was over, and when Grandfather and Sita returned to the island, the river was no longer in spate.
Grandfather could hardly believe his eyes when he saw that the tree had disappeared — the tree that had seemed as permanent as the island, as much a part of his life as the river itself had been. He marvelled at Sita’s escape.
‘It was the tree that saved you,’ he said.
‘And the boy,’ said Sita.
Yes, and the boy.
She thought about Vijay and wondered if she would ever see him again. Would he, like Phambiri and Hukam Singh, be one of those people who arrived as though out of a fairy-tale and then disap- peared silently and mysteriously? She did not know it then, but some of the moving forces of our lives are meant to touch us briefly and go their way . . .
And because Grandmother was no longer with them, life on the island was quite different. The evenings were sad and lonely.
But there was a lot of work to be done, and Sita did not have much time to think of Grandmother or Vijay or the world she had glimpsed during her journey.
For three nights they slept under a crude shelter made out of gunny-bags. During the day Sita helped Grandfather rebuild the mud-hut. Once again, they used the big rock for support.
The trunk which Sita had packed so carefully had not been swept off the island, but the water had got into it, and the food and clothing had been spoilt. But Grandfather’s hookah had been saved, and, in the evenings after work was done and they had eaten their light meal which Sita prepared, he would smoke with a little of his old contentment, and tell Sita about other floods which he had experienced as a boy. And he would tell her about the wrestling- matches he had won, and the kites he had flown, for he remem- bered a time when grown men flew kites, and great battles were fought, the kites swooping and swerving in the sky, tangling with each other until the string of one was cut.
Kite-flying was then the sport of kings, Grandfather remembered how the Raja himself would come down to the river-bank and join in this noble pastime. There was time in those days to spend an hour with a gay, dancing strip of paper. Now everyone hurried, in a heat of hope, and delicate things like kites and daydreams were trampled underfoot.
Grandfather remembered the ‘Dragon Kite’ that he had built — a great kite with a face painted on it, the eyes made of small mirrors, the tail like a long crawling serpent. A large crowd assembled to watch its launching. At the first attempt it refused to leave the ground. And then the wind came from the right direction, and the Dragon Kite soared into the sky, wriggling its way higher and higher, with the sun still glinting in its eyes. And it went very high, it pulled fiercely on the twine determined to be free, to break loose, to live a life of its own. And eventually it did.
The twine snapped, the kite leapt away toward the sun, sailed on heavenward until it was lost to view. It was never found again, and Grandfather wondered if he had made too vivid, too living a thing of the great kite. He did not make another like it.
It was like her doll, thought Sita.
Mumta had been a real person, not a doll, and now Sita could not make another like her.
Sita planted a mango seed in the same spot where the peepul tree had stood. It would be many years before it grew into a big tree, but Sita liked to imagine sitting in the branches one day, picking the mangoes straight from the tree and feasting on them all day.
Grandfather was more particular about making vegetable garden, putting down peas, carrots, gram and mustard.
One day, when most of the hard work had been done and the new hut was ready, Sita took the flute which had been given to her by Vijay, and walked down to the water’s edge and tried to play it. But all she could produce was a few broken notes, and even the goats paid no attention to her music.
Sometimes Sita thought she saw a boat coming down the river, and she would run to meet it; but usually there was no boat, or, if there was, it belonged to a stranger or to another fisherman. And so she stopped looking out for boats.
Slowly, the rains came to an end. The flood-waters had receded, and in the villages people were beginning to till the land again and sow crops for the winter months. There were more cattle fairs and wrestling matches. The days were warm and sultry. The water in the river was no longer muddy, and one evening Grandfather brought home a huge mahseer, and Sita made it into a delicious curry.
Deep River
Grandfather sat outside the hut, smoking his hookah. Sita was at the far end of the island, spreading clothes on the rocks to dry. One of the goats had followed her. It was the friendlier of the two and often followed Sita about the island. She had made it a necklace of coloured beads.
She sat down on a smooth rock, and, as she did so, she noticed a small bright object in the sand near her feet. She picked it up. It was a little wooden toy — a coloured peacock, the god Krishna’s favour- ite bird — it must have come down on the river and been swept ashore on the island. Some of the paint had been rubbed off; but for Sita, who had no toys, it was a great find.
There was a soft footfall behind her. She looked round, and there was Vijay, barefooted, standing over her and smiling.
‘I thought you wouldn’t come,’ said Sita.
‘There was much work in my village. Did you keep my flute?’ ‘Yes, but I cannot play it properly.’
‘I will teach you,’ said Vijay.
He sat down beside her, and they cooled their feet in the water, which was clear now, taking in the blue of the sky. You could see the sand and the pebbles of the river-bed.
‘Sometimes the river is angry and sometimes it is kind,’ said Sita. ‘We are part of the river,’ said Vijay.
*
It was a good river, deep and strong, beginning in the mountains and ending in the sea.
Along its banks, for hundreds of miles, lived millions of people, and Sita was only one small girl among them, and no one had ever heard of her, no one knew her — except for the old man, and the boy, and the water that was blue and white and wonderful.
Love is a sad Song
I sit against this grey rock, beneath a sky of pristine blueness, and think of you, Sushila. It is November, and the grass is turning brown and yellow. Crushed, it still smells sweet. The afternoon sun shimmers on the oak leaves and turns them a glittering silver. A cricket sizzles its way through the long grass. The stream murmurs at the bottom of the hill — that stream where you and I lingered on a golden afternoon in May.
I sit here and think of you, and try to see your slim brown hand resting against this rock, feeling i
ts warmth. I am aware again of the texture of your skin, the coolness of your feet, the sharp tingle of your finger-tips. And in the pastures of my mind I run my hand through your quivering mouth, and crush your tender breasts. Remembered passion grows sweeter with the passing of time.
You will not be thinking of me now, as you sit in your home in the city, cooking or sewing or trying to study for examinations. There will be men and women and children circling about you, in that crowded house of your grandmother’s, and you will not be able to think of me for more than a moment or two. But I know you do think of me sometimes, in some private moment which cuts you off from the crowd. You will remember how I will probably wonder what it is all about, this loving, and why it should cause such an upheaval. You are still a child, Sushila — and yet you found it so easy to quieten my impatient heart.
On the night you came to stay with us, the light from the street lamp shone through the branches of the peach tree and made leaf- patterns on the walls. Through the glass panes of the front door I
caught a glimpse of little Sunil’s face, bright and questing, and then — a hand — a dark, long-fingered hand that could only have belonged to you.
It was almost a year since I had seen you, my dark and slender girl. And now you were in your sixteenth year. And Sunil was twelve; and your uncle, Dinesh, who lived with me, was twenty-three. And I was almost thirty — a fearful and wonderful age, when life becomes dangerous for dreamers.
I remember that when I left Delhi last year, you cried. At first I thought it was because I was going away; then I realised that it was because you could not go anywhere yourself. Did you envy my freedom — the freedom to live in a poverty of my own choosing, the freedom of the writer? Sunil, to my surprise, did not show much emotion at my going away. This hurt me a little, because during that year he had been particularly close to me, and I felt for him a very special love. But separations cannot be of any significance to small boys of twelve who live for today, tomorrow, and — if they are very serious — the day after.
Before I went away with Dinesh, you made us garlands of mari- golds. They were orange and gold, fresh and clean and kissed by the sun. You garlanded me as I sat talking to Sunil. I remember you both as you looked that day — Sunil’s smile dimpling his cheeks, while you gazed at me very seriously, your expression very tender. I loved you even then . . .
Our first picnic.
The path to the little stream took us through oak forest, where the flashy Blue Magpies played follow-my-leader with their harsh, creaky calls. Skirting an open ridge (the place where I now sit and write), the path dipped through oak, rhododendron and maple, until it reached a little knoll above the stream. It was a spot unknown to the tourists and summer visitors. Sometimes a milkman or wood- cutter crossed the stream on the way to town or village; but no one lived beside it. Wild roses grew on the banks.
I do not remember much of that picnic. There was a lot of dull conversation with our neighbours, the Kapoors, who had come along too. You and Sunil were rather bored. Dinesh looked preoc- cupied: he was fed up with college; he wanted to start earning a living; wanted to paint. His restlessness often made him moody, irritable.
Near the knoll the stream was too shallow for bathing, but I told
Sunil about a cave and a pool further downstream, and promised that we would visit the pool another day.
That same night, after dinner, we took a walk along the dark road that goes past the house and leads to the burning-ghat. Sunil, who had already sensed the intimacy between us, took my hand put it in yours. An odd, touching little gesture!
‘Tell us a story,’ you said.
‘Yes, tell us,’ said Sunil.
I told you the story of the pure in heart. A shepherd boy found a snake in the forest, and the snake told the boy that it was really a princess who had been bewitched and turned into a snake, and that it could only recover its human form if someone who was truly pure in heart gave it three kisses on the mouth. The boy put his lips to the mouth of the snake and kissed it thrice. And the snake was trans- formed into a beautiful princess. But the boy lay cold and dead.
‘You always tell sad stories,’ complained Sunil.
‘I like sad stories,’ you said. ‘Tell us another.’
‘Tomorrow night. I’m sleepy.’
We were woken in the night by a strong wind, which went whis- tling round the old house and came rushing down the chimney, humming and hawing and finally choking itself.
Sunil woke up and cried out, ‘What’s that noise, uncle?’
‘Only the wind,’ I said.
‘Not a ghost?’
‘Well, perhaps the wind is made up of ghosts. Perhaps this wind contains the ghosts of all the people who have lived and died in this old house and want to come in again from the cold.’
You told me about a boy who had been fond of you in Delhi. Apparently he had visited the house on a few occasions, and had sometimes met you on the street while you were on your way home from school. At first, he had been fond of another girl but later he switched his affections to you. When you told me that he had writ- ten to you recently, and that, before coming up, you had replied to his letter, I was consumed by jealousy — an emotion which I thought I had grown out of long ago. It did not help to be told that you were not serious about the boy, that you were sorry for him because he had already been disappointed in love.
‘If you feel sorry for everyone who has been disappointed in love,’ I said, ‘you will soon be receiving the affections of every young man over ten.’
‘Let them give me their affections,’ you said, ‘and I will give them my chappal over their heads.’
‘But spare my head,’ I said.
‘Have you been in love before?’
‘Many times. But this is the first time.’
‘And who is your love?’
‘Haven’t you guessed?’
Sunil, who was following our conversation with deep interest, seemed to revel in the situation. Probably he fancied himself play- ing the part of Cupid, or Kamadeva, and delighted in watching the arrows of love strike home. No doubt I made it more enjoyable for him, because I could not hide my feelings. Soon Dinesh would know, too — and then?
A year ago my feelings about you were almost paternal! Or so I thought . . . But you are no longer a child; and I am a little older too. For when, the night after the picnic, you took my hand and held it against your soft warm cheek, it was the first time that a girl had responded to me so readily, so tenderly. Perhaps it was just inno- cence; but that one action of yours, that acceptance of me, imme- diately devastated my heart.
Gently, fervently, I kissed your eyes and forehead, your small round mouth, and the lobes of your ears, and your long smooth throat; and I whispered, ‘Sushila, I love you, I love you, I love you,’ in the same way that millions and millions of love-smitten young men have whispered since time immemorial. What else can one say? I love you, I love you. There is nothing simpler; nothing that can be made to mean anymore than that. And what else did I say? That I would look after you and work for you and make you happy; and that too had been said before, and I was in no way different from anyone. I was a man, and yet I was a boy again.
We visited the stream again, a day or two later, early in the morn- ing. Using the rocks as stepping-stones, we wandered downstream for about a furlong until we reached a pool and a small waterfall and a cool dark cave. The rocks were mostly grey but some were yellow with age and some were cushioned with moss. A forktail stood on a boulder in the middle of the stream, uttering its low pleasant call. Water came dripping down from the sides of the cave, while sun- light filtered through a crevice in the rock-ceiling, dappling your face. A spray of water was caught by a shaft of sunlight, and at intervals it reflected the colours of the rainbow.
‘It is a beautiful place,’ you said.
‘Come, then,’ I said, ‘Let us bathe.’
Sunil and I removed our clothes and jumped into the pool, while you sat down in
the shade of a walnut tree and watched us disport ourselves in the water. Like a frog, Sunil leapt and twisted about in the clear, icy water; his eyes shone, his teeth glistened white, his body glowed with sunshine, youth, and the jewels made by drops of water glistening in the sun.
Then we stretched ourselves out beside you, and allowed the sun to sink deep into our bodies.
Your feet, laved with dew, stood firm on the quickening grass. There was a butterfly between us: red and gold its wings and heavy with dew. It could not move because of the weight of moisture. And as your foot came nearer and I saw that you would crush it, I said, ‘Wait. Don’t crush the butterfly, Sushila. It has only a few days in the sun, and we have many.’
‘And if I spare it,’ you said, laughing, ‘what will you do for me, what will you pay?’
‘Why, anything you say.’
‘And will you kiss my foot?’
‘Both feet,’ I said; and did so willingly. For they were no less than the wings of butterflies.
Later, when you ventured near the water, I dragged you in with me. You cried out, not in alarm but with the shock of the cold water, and then, wrenching yourself from my arms, clambered on to the rocks, your thin dress clinging to your thighs, your feet making long patterns on the smooth stone.
Though we tired ourselves out that day, we did not sleep at night. We lay together, you and Sunil on either side of me. Your head rested on my shoulders, your hair lay pressed against my cheek. Sunil had curled himself up into a ball; but he was far from being asleep. He took my hand, and he took yours, and he placed them together. And I kissed the tender inside of your hand.
I whispered to you, ‘Sushila, there has never been anyone I’ve loved so much. I’ve been waiting all these years to find you. For a long time I did not even like women. But you are so different. You care for me, don’t you?’