by Ruskin Bond
‘Yes, she said it would be better than talking to her parents.’
I couldn’t help laughing. And a long-railed blue magpie, dis
turbed by my laughter, set up a shrill creaking and chattering of its own.
‘Don’t laugh, I’m serious, Uncle,’ said Pramod. He took me by the hand and looked at me appealingly.
‘Well, it ought to be serious,’ I said. I was just thinking of how clever Sushila is — or how simple! ‘How old are you, Pramod?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Only seven years younger than me. So please don’t call me Uncle. It makes me feel prehistoric. Use my first name, if you like. And when do you hope to marry Sushila?’
‘As soon as possible. I know she is still very young for me.’ ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Young girls are marrying middle-aged men every day! And you’re still quite young yourself. But she can’t get married as yet, Pramod, I know that for a certainty.’
‘That’s what I feared. She will have to finish school, I suppose.’ ‘That’s right. But tell me something. It’s obvious that you are in love with her, and I don’t blame you for it. Sushila is the kind of girl we all fall in love with! But do you know if she loves you? Did she say she would like to marry you?’
‘She did not say — I do not know . . . There was a haunted, hurt look in his eyes, and my heart went out to him. ‘But I love her — isn’t that enough?’
‘It could be enough — provided she didn’t love someone else.’ ‘Does she, Uncle?’
‘To be frank, I don’t know.’
He brightened up at that. ‘She likes me,’ he said. ‘I know that much.’
‘Well, I like you too, but that doesn’t mean I’d marry you.’
He was despondent again. ‘I see what you mean . . . But what is love, how can I recognise it?’
And that was one question I couldn’t answer. How do we recog- nise it?
*
I persuaded Pramod to stay the night. The sun had gone down and he was shivering. I made a fire, the first of the winter, using oak and thorn branches. Then I shared my brandy with him.
I did not feel any resentment against Pramod. Prior to meeting him, I had been jealous; and when I first saw him coming along the path, I remembered my dream, and thought, ‘Perhaps I am going to kill him, after all. Or perhaps he’s going to kill me.’ But it had turned out differently. If dreams have any meaning at all, the meaning doesn’t come within our limited comprehension.
I had visualised Pramod as being rather crude, selfish and irres- ponsible, and unattractive college student, the type who has never known or understood girls very well and looks on them as strange exotic creatures who are to be seized and plundered at the first opportunity. Such men do exist; but Pramod was not one of them. He did not know much about women; neither did I. He was gentle, polite, unsure of himself I wondered if I should tell him about my own feelings for you.
After a while he began to talk about himself and about you. He told me how he fell in love with you. At first he had been friendly with another girl, a classfellow of yours but a year or two older. You had carried messages to him on the girl’s behalf. Then the girl had rejected him. He was terribly depressed, and one evening he drank a lot of cheap liquor. Instead of falling dead, as he had been hoping, he lost his way and met you near your home. He was in need for sympathy, and you gave him that. You let him hold your hand. He told you how hopeless he felt, and you comforted him; and when he said the world was a cruel place, you consented. You agreed with him: what more can a man expect from a woman? Only fourteen at the time, you had no difficulty in comforting a man of twenty-two. No wonder he fell in love with you!
Afterwards you met occasionally on the road and spoke to each other. He visited the house once or twice, on some pretext or another. And when you came to the hills, he wrote to you.
That was all he had to tell me. That was all there was to tell. You had touched his heart once; and touching it, had no difficulty in capturing it.
Next morning I took Pramod down to the stream. I wanted to tell him everything, and somehow I could not do it in the house.
He was charmed by the place. The water flowed gently, its music subdued, soft chamber music after the monsoon orchestration. Cowbells tinkled on the hillside, and an eagle soared high above.
‘I did not think water could be so clear,’ said Pramod. ‘It is not muddy like the streams and rivers of the plains.’
‘In the summer you can bathe here,’ I said. ‘There is a pool further downstream.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did she come here too?’
‘Yes, Sushila and Sunil and I . . . We came here on two three occasions.’ My voice trailed off and I glanced at Pramod standing at the edge of the water. He looked up at me and his eyes met mine.
‘There is something I want to tell you,’ I said.
He continued staring at me; and a shadow seemed to pass across his face — a shadow of doubt, fear, death, eternity, was it one or all of these, or just a play of light and shade? But I remembered my dream and stepped back from him. For a moment both of us looked at each other with distrust and, uncertainty; then the fear passed. Whatever had happened between us, dream or reality, had hap- pened in some other existence. Now he took my hand and held it, held it tight, as though seeking assurance, as though identifying himself with me.
‘Let us sit down,’ I said. ‘There is something I must tell you.’ We sat down on the grass, and when I looked up through the branches of the banj-oak, everything seemed to have been tilted and held at an angle, and the sky shocked me with its blueness, and the leaves were no longer green but purple in the shadows of the ravine. They were your colour, Sushila. I remembered you wearing purple — dark smiling Sushila, thinking your own thoughts and refusing to share them with anyone.
‘I love Sushila too,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said naively. ‘That is why I came to you for help.’ ‘No, you don’t know,’ I said. ‘When I say I love Sushila, I mean just that. I mean caring for her in the same way that you care for her. I mean I want to marry her.’
‘You, Uncle?’
‘Yes. Does it shock you very much?’
‘No, no.’ He turned his face away and stared at the worn face of an old grey rock; and perhaps he drew some strength from its perman- ency. ‘Why should you not love her? Perhaps, in my heart, I really knew it, but did not want to know — did not want to believe. Perhaps that is why I really came here — to find out. Something that Sunil said . . . But why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Because you were telling me!’
‘Yes, I was too full of my own love to think that any other’s was possible. What do we do now? Do we both wait, and then let her make her choice?’
‘If you wish.’
‘You have the advantage, Uncle. You have more to offer.’
‘Do you mean more security or more love? Some women place more value on the former.’
‘Not Sushila.’
‘Not Sushila.’
‘I mean you can offer her a more interesting life. You are a writer. Who knows, you may be famous one day.’
‘You have your youth to offer, Pramod. I have only a few years of youth left to me — and two or three of them will pass in waiting.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘You will always be young. If you have Sushila, you will always be young.’
Once again I heard the whistling-thrush; its song was a crescendo of sweet notes and variations that rang clearly across the ravine. I could not see the bird; but its call emerged from the forest like some dark sweet secret, and again it was saying, ‘It isn’t time that’s passing by, my friend. It is you and I.’
*
Listen. Sushila, the worst has happened. Ravi has written to say that a marriage will not be possible — not now, not next year; never. Of course he makes a lot of excuses — that you must receive a com- plete college education (‘higher studies’), that the differences in our ages is too great,
that you might change your mind after a year or two — but, reading between the lines, I can guess that the real reason is your grandmother. She does not want it. Her word is law; and no one, least of all Ravi, would dare oppose her.
But I do not mean to give in so easily. I will wait my chance. As long as I know that you are with me, I will wait my chance.
I wonder what the old lady objects to in me. Is it simply that she is conservative and tradition-bound? She has always shown a liking for me, and I don’t see why her liking should change because I want to marry her grandniece. Your mother has no objection; perhaps that’s why your grandmother objects.
Whatever the reason, I am coming down to Delhi to find out how things stand.
Of course the worst part is that Ravi has asked me — in the friendliest terms and in a most roundabout manner — not to come to the house for some time. He says this will give the affair a chance to cool off and die a natural (I would call it an unnatural) death. He assumes, of course, that I will accept the old lady’s decision and simply forget all about you. Ravi has yet to fall in love.
*
Dinesh was in Lucknow. I could not visit the house. So I sat on a bench in the Talkatora Gardens and watched a group of children playing gulli-danda; then recalled that Sunil’s school gave over at three o’clock and that if I hurried I should be able to meet him outside St. Columbas’s gate.
I reached the school on time. Boys were streaming out of the compound, and as they were all wearing green uniforms — a young forest on the move — I gave up all hope of spotting Sunil. But he saw me first. He ran across the road, dodged a cyclist, evaded a bus, and seized me about the waist.
‘I’m so happy to see you, Uncle!’
‘As I am to see you, Sunil.’
‘You want to see Sushila?’
‘Yes, but you too. I can’t come to the house, Sunil. You probably know that. When do you have to be home?’
‘About four o’clock. If I’m late, I’ll say the bus was too crowded and I couldn’t get in.’
‘That gives us an hour or two. Let’s go to the exhibition ground. Would you like that?’
‘All right, I haven’t seen the exhibition yet.’
We took a scooter-rickshaw to the exhibition grounds on Mathura Road. It was an industrial exhibition, and there was little to interest either a schoolboy or a lovesick author. But a cafe was at hand, overlooking an artificial lake, and we sat in the sun consuming hot dogs and cold coffee.
‘Sunil, will you help me?’ I asked.
‘Whatever you say, Uncle.’
‘I don’t suppose I can see Sushila this time. I don’t want to hang about near the house or her school like a disreputable character. It’s all right lurking outside a boy’s school; but it wouldn’t do to be hanging about the Kanyadevi Pathshala or wherever it is she’s studying. It’s possible the family will change their minds about us later. Anyway, what matters now is Sushila’s attitude. Ask her this, Sunil. Ask her if she wants me to wait until she is eighteen. She will be free then to do what she wants, even to run away with me if necessary — that is, if she really wants to. I was ready to wait two years. I’m prepared to wait three. But it will help if I know she’s waiting too. Will you ask her that, Sunil?’
‘Yes, I’ll ask her.’
‘Ask her tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll meet again outside your school.’
*
We met briefly next day. There wasn’t much time. Sunil had to be home early, and I had to catch the night train out of Delhi. We stood in the generous shade of a peepul tree, and I asked, ‘What did she say?’
‘She said to keep waiting.’
‘All right, I’ll wait.’
‘But when she is eighteen, what if she changes her mind? You know what girls are like.’
‘You’re a cynical chap, Sunil.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you know too much about life. But tell me — what makes you think she might change her mind?’
‘Her boy friend.’
‘Pramod? She doesn’t care for him, poor chap.’
‘Not Pramod. Another one.’
‘Another! You mean a new one?’
‘New,’ said Sunil. ‘An officer in a bank. He’s got a car.’
‘Oh,’ I said despondently. ‘I can’t compete with a car.’
‘No,’ said Sunil. ‘Never mind, Uncle. You still have me for your friend. Have you forgotten that?’
I had almost forgotten; but it was good to be reminded.
‘It is time to go,’ he said. ‘I must catch the bus today. When will you come to Delhi again?’
‘Next month. Next year. Who knows? But I’ll come. Look after yourself, my friend.’
He ran off and jumped on to the footboard of a moving bus. He waved to me until the bus went round the bend in the road.
It was lonely under the peepul tree. It is said that only ghosts live in peepul trees. I do not blame them: for peepul trees are cool and shady and full of loneliness.
I may stop loving you, Sushila; but I will never stop loving the days I loved you.
When You Can’t Climb Trees Any More
He stood on the grass verge by the side of the road and looked over the garden wall at the old house. It hadn’t changed much. There’s little anyone can do to alter a house built with solid blocks of granite brought from the river-bed. But there was a new outhouse, and there were fewer trees. He was pleased to see that the jack-fruit tree still stood at the side of the building, casting its shade on the wall. He remembered his grandmother saying: ‘A blessing rests on the house where falls the shadow of a tree.’ And so the present owners must also be the recipients of the tree’s blessings.
At the spot where he stood there had once been a turnstile, and as a boy he would swing on it, going round and round until he was quite dizzy. Now the turnstile had gone, the opening walled up. Tall hollyhocks grew on the other side of the wall.
‘What are you looking at?’
It was a disembodied voice at first. Moments later a girl stood framed between dark red hollyhocks, staring at the man.
It was difficult to guess her age; she might have been twelve or she might have been sixteen: slim and dark, with lovely eyes and long black hair.
‘I’m looking at the house,’ he said. ‘Why? Do you want to buy it?’
‘Is it your house?’
‘It’s my father’s.’
‘And what does your father do?’ ‘He’s only a colonel.’
‘Only a colonel?’
‘Well, he should have been a Brigadier by now.’
The man burst out laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ she said. ‘Even mummy says he should have been a Brigadier.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to make a witty remark (‘Perhaps that’s why he’s still a colonel’), but he did not want to give offence. They stood on either side of the wall, appraising each other.
‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘If you don’t want to buy the house, what are you looking at?’
‘I used to live here once.’
‘Oh.’
‘Twenty-five years ago. When I was a boy. And then again, when I was a young man . . . until my grandmother died, and then we sold the house and went away.’
She was silent for a while, taking in this information. Then she said. ‘And you’d like to buy it back now, but you don’t have the money?’ He did not look very prosperous.
‘No, I wasn’t thinking of buying it back. I wanted to see it again, that’s all. How long have you lived here?’
‘Only three years.’ She smiled. She’d been eating a melon, and there was still juice at the corners of her mouth. ‘Would you like to come in — and look — once more?’
‘Wouldn’t your parents mind?’
‘They’ve gone to the Club. They won’t mind. I’m allowed to bring my friends home.’
‘Even adult friends?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Oh, j
ust middle-aged, but feeling young today.’ And to prove it he decided he’d climb over the wall instead of going round by the gate. He got up on the wall all right, but had to rest there, breathing heavily. ‘Middle-aged man on the flying trapeze,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Let me help you,’ she said, and gave him her hand.
He slithered down into a flower-bed, shattering the stem of a hollyhock.
As they walked across the grass he noticed a stone bench under a mango tree. It was the bench on which his grandmother used to sit, when she tired of pruning rose bushes and bougainvillaea.
‘Let’s sit here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go inside.’
She sat beside him on the bench. It was March, and the mango tree was in bloom. A sweet, heavy fragrance drenched the garden
They were silent for some time. The man closed his eyes and remembered other times — the music of a piano, the chiming of a grandfather clock, the constant twitter of budgerigars on the veran- dah, his grandfather cranking up the old car . . .
‘I used to climb the jackfruit tree,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘I didn’t like the jackfruit, though. Do you?’
‘It’s all right in pickles.’
‘I suppose so . . . The tree was easy to climb, I spent a lot of time in it.’
‘Do you want to climb it again? My parents won’t mind.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not after climbing the wall! Let’s just sit here for a few minutes and talk. I mention the jackfruit tree because it was my favourite place. Do you see that thick branch stretching out over the roof? Half-way along it there’s a small hollow in which I used to keep some of my treasures.’
‘What kind of treasures?’
‘Oh, nothing very valuable. Marbles I’d won. A book I wasn’t supposed to read. A few old coins I’d collected. Things came and went. There was my Grandfather’s medal, well not his exactly, because he was British and the Iron Cross was a German decora- tion, awarded for bravery during the War — that’s the first World War — when Grandfather fought in France. He got it from a Ger- man soldier.’
‘Dead or alive?’
‘Pardon?’ Oh, you mean the German. I never asked. Dead, I sup- pose. Or perhaps he was a prisoner. I never asked Grandfather. Isn’t that strange?’