by Ruskin Bond
‘Why not?’
‘Because you are going to marry Sushila, and if you love me too much it will not be good for you.’
I could think of nothing to say. It was all too funny and all too sad. But a little later he as in high spirits, having apparently forgotten the reasons for his earlier dejection. His need for an affection stemmed perhaps from his father’s long and unnecessary absence from the country.
*
Dinesh and I had no sleep during our first night in the new flat. We were near the main road, and traffic roared past all night. I thought of the hills, so silent that the call of a nightjar startled one in the stillness of the night.
I was out most of the next day, and when I got back in the evening it was to find that Dinesh had had a rumpus with the landlord. Apparently the landlord had really wanted bachelors, and couldn’t understand or appreciate a large number of children moving in and out of the house all day.
‘I thought landlords preferred having families,’ I said.
‘He wants to know how a bachelor came to have such a large family!’
‘Didn’t you tell him that the children were only temporary, and wouldn’t be living here?’
‘I did, but he doesn’t believe me.’
‘Well, anyway, we’re not going to stop the children from coming to see us,’ I said indignantly. (No children, no Sushila!) ‘If he doesn’t see reason, he can have his flat back.’
‘Did he cash my cheque?’
‘No, he’s given it back.’
‘That means he really wants us out. To hell with his flat! It’s too noisy here anyway. Let’s go back to your place.’
We packed our bedding, trunks and kitchen-utensils once more; hired a bullock-cart; and arrived at Dinesh’s home (three miles distant) late at night, hungry and upset.
Everything seemed to be going wrong.
*
Living in the same house as you, but unable to have any real contact with you (except for the odd, rare moment when we were left alone in the same room and were able to exchange a word or a glance) was an exquisite form of self-inflicted torture: self-inflicted, because no one was forcing me to stay in Delhi. Sometimes you had to avoid me, and I could not stand that. Only Dinesh (and of course Sunil and some of the children) knew anything about the affair — adults are much slower than children at sensing the truth — and it was still too soon to reveal the true state of affairs, and my own feelings, to anyone else in the family. If I came out with a declaration that I was in love with you, it would immediately become obvious that some- thing had happened during your holiday in the hill-station. It would be said that I had taken advantage of the situation (which I had), and that I had seduced you — even though I was beginning to wonder if it was you who had seduced me! And if a marriage was suddenly arranged, people would say: ‘It’s been arranged so quickly. And she’s so young. He must have got her into trouble.’ Even though there were no signs of your having got into that sort of trouble.
And yet I could not help hoping that you would become my wife sooner that could be foreseen. I wanted to look after you. I did not want others to be doing it for me. Was that very selfish? Or was it a true state of being in love?
There were times — times when you kept at a distance and did not even look at me — when I grew desperate. I knew you could not show your familiarity with me in front of others; and yet, know- ing this, I still tried to catch your eye, to sit near you, to touch you fleetingly. I could not hold myself back. I became morose, I wal- lowed in self-pity. And self-pity, I realised, is a sign of failure; espe- cially of failure in love.
It was time to return to the hills.
*
Sushila, when I got up the morning to leave, you were still asleep and I did not wake you. I watched you stretched out on your bed, your dark face tranquil and untouched by care, your black hair spread over the white pillow, your long thin hands and feet in repose. You were so beautiful when you were asleep.
And as I watched, I felt a tightening around my heart, a sudden panic that I might somehow lose you.
The others were up, and there was no time to steal a kiss. A taxi was at the gate. A baby was bawling. Your grandmother was giving me advice. The taxi driver kept blowing his horn.
Goodbye, Sushila!
We were in a middle of the rains. There was a constant drip and drizzle and drumming on the corrugated tin roof. The walls were damp, and there was mildew on my books and even on the pickle that Dinesh had made.
Everything was green, the foliage almost tropical, especially near the stream. Great stagferns grew from the trunks of trees, fresh moss covered the rocks, and the maidenhair fern was at its loveliest. The water was a torrent, rushing through the ravine, and taking with it bushes and small trees. I could not remain out for long, for at any moment it might start raining. And there were also the leeches, who lost no time in fastening themselves on to my legs and fattening themselves on my blood.
Once, standing on some rocks, I saw a slim brown snake swim- ming with the current. It looked beautiful and lonely.
I dreamt a dream, a very disturbing dream, which troubled me for days.
In the dream, Sunil suggested that we go down to the stream. We put some bread and butter into an airbag, along with a long bread-knife, and set off down the hill. Sushila was barefooted, wear- ing the old cotton tunic which she had worn as a child. Sunil had on a bright yellow T-shirt and black jeans. He looked very dashing. As we took the forest path down to the stream, we saw two young men following us. One of them, a dark, slim youth, seemed familiar. I said, ‘Isn’t that Sushila’s boy friend?’ But they denied it. The other youth wasn’t anyone I knew.
When we reached the stream, Sunil and I plunged into the pool, while Sushila sat on the rock just above us. We had been bathing for a few minutes when the two young men came down the slope, and began fondling Sushila. She did not resist; but Sunil climbed out of the pool and began scrambling up the slope. One of the youths, the less familiar one, had a long knife in his hand. Sunil picked up a stone and flung it at the youth, striking him on the shoulder. I rushed up and grabbed the hand that held the knife. The youth kicked me on the shins and thrust me away, and I fell beneath him. The arm with the knife was raised over me, but I still held the wrist. And then I saw Sushila behind him, her face framed by a passing cloud. She had the bread-knife in her hand, and her arm swung up and down, and the knife cut through my adversary’s neck as though it were passing through a ripe melon.
I scrambled to my feet, to find Sushila gazing at the headless corpse with the detachment and mild curiosity of a child who has just removed the wings from a butterfly.
The other youth, who looked like Sushila’s boy friend, began running away. He was chased by the three of us. When he slipped and fell, I found myelf beside him, the blade of the knife poised beneath his left shoulder-blade. I couldn’t push the knife in. Then Sunil put his hand over mine, and the blade slipped smoothly into the flesh.
*
At all times of the day and night I could hear the murmur of the stream at the bottom of the hill. Even if I didn’t listen, the sound was there. I had grown used to it. But whenever I went away, I was conscious of something missing, and I was lonely without the sound of running water.
I remained alone for two months, and then I had to see you again, Sushila. I could not bear the long-drawn-out uncertainty of the situa- tion. I wanted to do something that would bring everything nearer to a conclusion. Merely to stand by and wait was intolerable. Nor could I bear the secrecy to which Dinesh had sworn me. Someone else would have to know about my intentions —someone would have to help. I needed another ally, to sustain my hopes; only then would I find the waiting easier.
*
You had not been keeping well, and looked thin; but you were as cheerful, as serene as ever.
When I took you to the pictures with Sunil, you wore a sleeveless kameez made of purple silk. It set off your dark beauty very well. Your face was soft and s
hy, and your smile hadn’t changed. I could not keep my eyes off you.
Returning home in the taxi, I held your hand all the way.
Sunil (in Punjabi): ‘Will you give your children English or Hindi names?’
Me: ‘Hindustani names.’
Sunil (in Punjabi): ‘Ah, that is the right answer, uncle!’
*
And first I went to your mother.
She was a tiny woman and looked very delicate. But she’d had six children — a seventh was on the way — and they had all come into the world without much difficulty and were the healthiest in the entire joint family.
She was on her way to see relatives in another part of the city, and I accompanied her part of the way. As she was pregnant, she was offered a seat in the crowded bus. I managed to squeeze in beside her. She had always shown a liking for me and I did not find it difficult to come to the point.
‘At what age would you like Sushila to get married?’ I asked casu- ally, with almost paternal interest.
‘We’ll worry about that when the time comes. She has still to finish school. And if she keeps failing her exams, she will never finish school.’
I took a deep breath and made the plunge.
‘When the time comes,’ I said. ‘When the time comes, I would like to marry her.’ And without waiting to see what her reaction would be, I continued: ‘I know I must wait, a year or two, even longer. But I am telling you this, so that it will be in your mind. You are her mother, and so I want you to be the first to know.’ (Liar that I was! She was about the fifth to know. But what I really wanted to say was, ‘Please don’t be looking for any other husband for her just yet.’)
She didn’t show much surprise. She was a placid woman. But she said, rather sadly, ‘It’s all right, but I don’t have much say in the family. I do not have any money, you see. It depends on the others, especially her grandmother.’
‘I’ll speak to them when the time comes. Don’t worry about that. And you don’t have to worry about money or anything — what I mean is, I don’t believe in dowries — I mean, you don’t have to give me a Godrej cupboard and a sofa-set and that sort of thing. All I want is Sushila . . .’
‘She is still very young.’
But she was pleased; pleased that her flesh and blood, her own daughter, could mean so much to a man.
‘Don’t tell anyone else just now,’ I said.
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she said with a smile.
So now the secret — if it could be called that — was shared by at least five people.
The bus crawled on through the busy streets, and we sat in silen- ce, surrounded by a press of people but isolated in the intimacy of our conversation.
I warmed towards her — towards that simple, straightforward, uneducated woman (she had never been to school, could not read or write), who might still have been young and pretty had her circumstances been different. I asked her when the baby was due.
‘In two months,’ she said. She laughed. Evidently she found it unusual and rather amusing for a young man to ask her such a question.
‘I’m sure it will be a fine baby,’ I said. And I thought: That makes six brothers-in-law!
*
I did not think I would get a chance to speak to your uncle Ravi (Dinesh’s elder brother) before I left. But on my last evening in Delhi, I found myself alone with him on the Karol bagh road. At first we spoke of his own plans for marriage, and, to please him, I said the girl he’d chosen was both beautiful and intelligent.
He warmed towards me.
Clearing my throat, I went on. ‘Ravi, you are five years younger than me, and you are about to get married.’
‘Yes, and it’s time you thought of doing the same thing.’
‘Well, I’ve never thought seriously about it before — I’d always scorned the institution of marriage — but now I’ve changed my mind. Do you know who I’d like to marry?’
To my surprise Ravi unhesitatingly took the name of Asha, a distant cousin I’d met only once. She came from Ferozepur, and her hips were so large that from a distance she looked like an oversized pear.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Asha is a lovely girl, but I wasn’t thinking of her. I would like to marry a girl like Sushila. To be frank, Ravi, I would like to marry Sushila.’
There was a long silence, and I feared the worst. The noise of cars, scooters and buses seemed to recede into the distance, and Ravi and I were alone together in a vacuum of silence.
So that the awkwardness would not last too long, I stumbled on with what I had to say. ‘I know she’s young and that I will have to wait for some time.’ (Familiar words!) ‘But if you approve, and the family approves, and Sushila approves, well then, there’s nothing I’d like better than to marry her.’
Ravi pondered, scratched himself, and then, to my delight, said: ‘Why not? It’s a fine idea.’
The traffic sounds returned to the street, and I felt as though I could set fire to a bus or do something equally in keeping with my high spirits.
‘It would bring you even closer to us,’ said Ravi. ‘We would like to have you in our family. At least I would like it.’
‘That makes all the difference,’ I said. ‘I will do my best for her, Ravi. I’ll do everything to make her happy.’
‘She is very simple and unspoilt.’
‘I know. That’s why I care so much for her.’
‘I will do what I can to help you. She should finish school by the time she is seventeen. It does not matter if you are older. Twelve years difference in age is not uncommon. So, don’t worry. Be patient, and all will be arranged.’
And so I had three strong allies — Dinesh, Ravi, and your mother. Only your grandmother remained, and I dared not approach her on my own. She was the most difficult hurdle, because she was the head of the family and she was autocratic and often unpredictable. She was not on good terms with your mother, and for that very reason I feared that she might oppose my proposal. I had no idea how much she valued Ravi’s and Dinesh’s judgement. All I knew was that they bowed to all her decisions.
How impossible it was for you to shed the burden of your rela- tives! Individually, you got on quite well with all of them; but, because they could not live without bickering among themselves, you were just a pawn in the great Joint Family Game.
*
You put my hand to your cheek and to your breasts. I kissed your closed eyes, and took your face in my hands, and touched your lips with mine; a phantom kiss in the darkness of the verandah. And then, intoxicated, I stumbled into the road and walked the streets all night.
I was sitting on the rocks above the oak forest when I saw a young man walking towards me down the steep path. From his careful manner of walking, and light clothing, I could tell that he was a stranger, one who was not used to the hills. He was about my height, slim, rather long in the face; good-looking in a delicate sort of way. When he came nearer, I recognised him as the young man in the photograph, the youth of my dream — your late admirer! I wasn’t too surprised to see him. Somehow, I had always felt that we would meet one day.
I remembered his name and said, ‘How are you, Pramod?’
He became rather confused. His eyes were already clouded with doubt and unhappiness; but he did not appear to be an aggressive person.
‘How did you know my name?’ he asked.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ I countered.
‘Your neighbours, the Kapoors, told me. I could not wait for you to return to the house; I have to go down again tonight.’
‘Well then, would you like to walk home with me, or would you prefer to sit here and talk? I know who you are, but I’ve no idea why you’ve come to see me.’
‘It’s all right here,’ he said, spreading his handkerchief on the grass before sitting down on it. ‘How did you know my name?’
I stared at him for a few moments, and got the impression that he was a vulnerable person — perhaps more vulnerable than myself. My only advan
tage was that I was older and therefore better able to conceal my real feelings.
‘Sushila told me,’ I said.
‘Oh. I did not think you would know.’
I was a little puzzled, but said, ‘I knew about you, of course. And you must have known that, of course, or you would hardly have come here to see me.’
‘You knew about Sushila and me?’ he asked, looking even more confused.
‘Well, I know that you are supposed to be in love with her.’
He smote himself on the forehead. ‘My God! do the others know, too?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I deliberately avoided mention of Sunil.
In his distraction he started plucking at tufts of grass ‘Did she tell you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Girls can’t keep secrets. But in a way I’m glad she told you. Now I don’t have to explain everything. You see, I came here for your help. I know you are not her real uncle, but you are very close to her family. Last year in Delhi she often spoke about you. She said you were very kind.’
It then occurred to me that Pramod knew nothing about my relationship with you, other than that I was supposed to be the most benevolent of ‘uncles.’ He knew that you had spent your summer holidays with me — but so had Dinesh and Sunil. And now, aware that I was a close friend of the family, he had come to make an ally of me — in much the same way that I had gone about making allies!
‘Have you seen Sushila recently?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Two days ago, in Delhi. But I had only a few minutes alone with her. We could not talk much. You see, Uncle — you will not mind if I also call you Uncle? I want to marry her, but there is no one who can speak to her people on my behalf. My own parents are not living. If I go straight to her family, most probably I will be thrown out of the house. So I want you to help me. I am not well off, but I will soon have a job and then I can support her.’
‘Did you tell her all this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She told me to speak to you about it.’
Clever Sushila! Diabolical Sushila!
‘To me?’ I repeated.