by Ruskin Bond
‘B. Hallam run-out 4’
The Gomti team lost the match. But, as Uncle Ken would readily admit, where would we be without losers?
At Sea with Uncle Ken
With Uncle Ken, you had always to expect the unexpected. Even in the most normal circumstances, something unusual would happen to him and to those around him. He was a catalyst for confusion.
My mother should have known better than to ask him to accompany me to England, the year after I’d finished school. She felt that a boy of sixteen was a little too young to make the voyage on his own; I might get lost or lose my money or fall overboard or catch some dreadful disease. She should have realized that Uncle Ken, her cousin (well spoilt by my mother and her sisters), was more likely to do all these things.
Anyway, he was put in charge of me and instructed to deliver me safely to my aunt in England, after which he could either stay there or return to India, whichever he preferred. Granny had paid for his ticket, so in effect he was getting a free holiday, which included a voyage on a posh P & O liner.
Our train journey to Bombay passed off without incident, although Uncle Ken did manage to misplace his spectacles, getting down at the station wearing someone else’s. This left him a little short-sighted, which might have accounted for his mistaking the station-master for a porter and instructing him to look after our luggage.
We had two days in Bombay before boarding the S.S. Strathnaver and Uncle Ken vowed that we would enjoy ourselves. However, he was a little constrained by his budget, and took me to a rather seedy hotel on Lamington Road, where we had to share a toilet with over twenty other people.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We won’t spend much time in this dump.’ So he took me to Marine Drive and the Gateway of India, and then to an Irani restaurant in Colaba, where we enjoyed a super dinner of curried prawns and scented rice. I don’t know if it was the curry, the prawns, or the scent, but Uncle Ken was up all night, running back and forth to that toilet, so that no one else had a chance to use it. Several dispirited travellers simply opened the windows and ejected into space, cursing Uncle Ken all the while.
He had recovered by morning and proposed a trip to the Elephanta Caves. After a breakfast of fish pickle, a Malabari chilli chutney, and sweet Gujarati puris, we got into a launch, accompanied by several other tourists and set off on our short cruise. The sea was rather choppy, and we hadn’t gone far before Uncle Ken decided to share his breakfast with the fishes of the sea. He was as green as seaweed by the time we went ashore. Uncle Ken collapsed on the sand and refused to move, so we didn’t see much of the Caves. I brought him some coconut water and he revived a bit and suggested we go on a fast until it was time to board our ship.
We were safely on board the following morning and the ship sailed majestically out from Ballard Pier, Mumbai and India receding into the distance, quite possibly for ever as I wasn’t sure that I would ever return. The sea fascinated me and I remained on deck all day, gazing at small craft, passing steamers, sea-birds, the distant shore-line, the surge of the waves, and of course my fellow passengers. I could well understand the fascination it held for writers such as Conrad, Stevenson, Maugham, and others.
Uncle Ken, however, remained confined to his cabin. The rolling of the ship made him feel extremely ill. If he had been looking green in Mumbai he was looking yellow at sea. I took my meals in the dining saloon, where I struck up an acquaintance with a well-known palmist and fortune-teller who was on his way to London to make his fortune. He looked at my hand and told me I’d never be rich, but that I’d help other people get rich.
When Uncle Ken felt better (on the third day of the voyage) he struggled up on the deck, took large lungfuls of sea air, and subsided into a deck chair. He dozed the day away, but was suddenly wide awake when an attractive blonde strode past us on her way to the lounge. After some time we heard the tinkling of a piano. Intrigued, Uncle Ken rose and staggered into the lounge. The girl was at the piano playing something classical, which wasn’t something that Uncle Ken normally enjoyed. But he was smitten by the girl’s good looks and he stood enraptured. His eyes gleaming brightly, his jaw sagging with his nose pressed against the glass of the lounge door, he reminded me of a goldfish who has fallen in love with an angel fish that has just been introduced into the tank.
‘What is she playing?’ he whispered, aware that I had grown up on my father’s classical record collection.
‘Rachmaninoff,’ I made a guess. ‘Or maybe Rimsky-Korsakov!’
‘Something easier to pronounce,’ he begged.
‘Chopin,’ I said.
‘And what’s his most famous composition?’
‘Polonaise in A Flat. Or maybe it’s A Major.’
He pushed open the lounge door, walked in, and when the girl had finished playing, applauded loudly. She acknowledged his applause with a smile, and then went on to play something else. When she had finished he clapped again and said, ‘Wonderful! Chopin never sounded better!’
‘Actually, it’s Tchaikovsky,’ said the girl. But she didn’t seem to mind.
Uncle Ken would turn up at all her practise sessions, and very soon they were strolling the decks together. She was Australian, on her way to London to pursue a musical career as a concert pianist. I don’t know what she saw in Uncle Ken, but he was good at giving people the impression that he knew all the right people. And he was quite good-looking in an effete sort of way.
Left to my own devices, I followed my fortune-telling friend around and watched him study the palms of our fellow passengers. He foretold romance, travel, success, happiness, health, wealth and longevity, but never predicted anything that might upset anyone. As he did not charge anything (he was, after all, on holiday) he proved to be a popular passenger throughout the voyage. Later he was to become quite famous as a palmist and mind-reader, an Indian ‘Cheiro’, much in demand in the capitals of Europe.
The voyage lasted eighteen days, with stops for passengers and cargo at Aden, Port Said and Marseilles, in that order. It was at Port Said that Uncle Ken and his friend went ashore, to look at the sights and do some shopping.
‘You stay on the ship,’ Uncle Ken told me. ‘Port Said isn’t safe for young boys.’
He wanted the girl all to himself, of course. He couldn’t have shown off with me around. His ‘man of the world’ manner would not have been very convincing in my presence.
The ship was due to sail again that evening and passengers had to be back on board an hour before departure. The hours passed easily enough for me, as the little library kept me engrossed. If there are books around, I am never bored. Towards evening I went up on deck and saw Uncle Ken’s friend coming up the gangway; but of Uncle Ken there was no sign.
‘Where’s Uncle?’ I asked her.
‘Hasn’t he returned? We got separated in a busy market-place and I thought he’d get here before me.’
We stood at the railings and looked up and down the pier, expecting to see Uncle Ken among the other returning passengers. But he did not turn up.
‘I suppose he’s looking for you,’ I said. ‘He’ll miss the boat if he doesn’t hurry.’
The ship’s hooter sounded. ‘All aboard,’ called the captain on his megaphone. The big ship moved slowly out of the harbour. We were on our way! In the distance I saw a figure that looked like Uncle Ken running along the pier, frantically waving his arms. But there was no turning back.
A few days later my aunt met me at Tilbury Dock.
‘Where’s your Uncle Ken?’ she asked.
‘He stayed behind at Port Said. He went ashore and didn’t get back in time.’
‘Just like Ken. And I don’t suppose he has much money with him. Well, if he gets in touch we’ll send him a postal order.’
But Uncle Ken failed to get in touch. He was a topic of discussion for several days, while I settled down in my aunt’s house and looked for a job. At seventeen I was working in an office, earning a modest salary and contributing towards my aunt’s housekeep
ing expenses. There was no time to worry about Uncle Ken’s whereabouts.
My readers know that I longed to return to India, but it was nearly four years before that became possible. Finally I did come home and, as the train drew into Dehra’s little station, I looked out of the window and saw a familiar figure on the platform. It was Uncle Ken!
He made no reference to his disappearance at Port Said, and greeted me as though we had last seen each other the previous day.
‘I’ve hired a cycle for you,’ he said. ‘Feel like a ride?’
‘Let me get home first, Uncle Ken. I’ve got all this luggage.’
The luggage was piled into a tonga, I sat on top of everything, and we went clip-clop down an avenue of familiar litchi trees (all gone now, I fear). Uncle Ken rode behind the tonga, whistling cheerfully.
‘When did you get back to Dehra?’ I asked.
‘Oh a couple of years ago. Sorry I missed the boat. Was the girl upset?’
‘She said, she’d never forgive you.’
‘Oh well, I expect she’s better off without me. Fine piano player. Chopin and all that stuff.’
‘Did Granny send you the money to come home?’
‘No dear, I had to take a job working as a waiter in a Greek restaurant. Then I took tourists to look at the pyramids. I’m an expert on pyramids now. Great place, Egypt. But I had to leave when they found I had no papers or permit. They put me on a boat to Aden. Stayed in Aden six months teaching English to the son of a Sheikh. Sheikh’s son went to England, I came back to India.’
‘And what are you doing now, Uncle Ken?’
‘Thinking of starting a poultry farm, lots of space behind your Gran’s house. Maybe you can help me with it.’
‘I couldn’t save much money, Uncle.’
‘We’ll start in a small way there’s a big demand for eggs, you know. Everyone’s into eggs—scrambled, fried, poached or boiled. Egg curry for lunch. Omelettes with dinner. Egg sandwiches for tea. How do you like your egg?’
‘Fried,’ I said. ‘Sunny side up.’
The poultry farm never did happen, but it was good to be back in Dehra, with the prospect of limitless bicycle rides with Uncle Ken.
Grandpa Tickles a Tiger
Timothy, the tiger-cub, was discovered by Grandfather on a hunting expedition in the Terai jungle near Dehra.
Grandfather was no shikari, but as he knew the forest of the Siwalik hills better than most people, he was persuaded to accompany the party—it consisted of several Very Important Persons from Delhi—to advise on the terrain and the direction the beaters should take once a tiger had been spotted.
The camp itself was sumptuous—seven large tents (one for each shikari), a dining-tent, and a number of servants’ tents. The dinner was very good, as Grandfather admitted afterwards; it was not often that one saw hot-water, plates, finger-bowls, and seven or eight courses, in a tent in the jungle! But that was how things were done in the days of the viceroys … There were also some fifteen elephants, four of them with howdahs for the shikaris, and the others especially trained for taking part in the beat.
The sportsmen never saw a tiger, nor did they shoot anything else, though they saw a number of deer, peacock, and wild boar. They were giving up all hope of finding a tiger, and were beginning to shoot at jackals, when Grandfather, strolling down the forest path at some distance from the rest of the party, discovered a little tiger about eighteen inches long, hiding among the intricate roots of a banyan tree. Grandfather picked him up, and brought him home after the camp had broken up. He had the distinction of being the only member of the party to have bagged any game, dead or alive.
At first the tiger cub, who was named Timothy by Grandmother, was brought up entirely on milk given to him in a feeding-bottle by our cook, Mahmoud. But the milk proved too rich for him, and he was put on a diet of raw mutton and cod-liver oil, to be followed later by a more tempting diet of pigeons and rabbits.
Timothy was provided with two companions—Toto the monkey, who was bold enough to pull the young tiger by the tail and then climb up the curtains if Timothy lost his temper; and a small mongrel puppy, found on the road by Grandfather.
At first Timothy appeared to be quite afraid of the puppy, and darted back with a spring if it came too near. He would make absurd dashes at it with his large forepaws, and then retreat to a ridiculously safe distance. Finally, he allowed the puppy to crawl on his back and rest there!
One of Timothy’s favourite amusements was to stalk anyone who would play with him, and so, when I came to live with Grandfather, I became one of the tiger’s favourites. With a crafty look in his glittering eyes, and his body crouching, he would creep closer and closer to me, suddenly making a dash for my feet, rolling over on his back and kicking with delight, and pretending to bite my ankles.
He was by this time the size of a full-grown retriever, and when I took him out for walks, people on the road would give us a wide berth. When he pulled hard on his chain, I had difficulty in keeping up with him. His favourite place in the house was the drawing-room, and he would make himself comfortable on the long sofa, reclining there with great dignity, and snarling at anybody who tried to get him off.
Timothy had clean habits, and would scrub his face with his paws, exactly like a cat. He slept at night in the cook’s quarters, and was always delighted at being let out by him in the morning.
‘One of these days,’ declared Grandmother in her prophetic manner, ‘we are going to find Timothy sitting on Mahmoud’s bed, and no sign of the cook except his clothes and shoes!’
Of course, it never came to that but when Timothy was about six months old a change came over him; he grew steadily less friendly. When out for a walk with me, he would try to steal away to stalk a rat or someone’s pet Pekinese. Sometimes at night we would hear frenzied cackling from the poultry house and in the morning there would be feathers lying all over the veranda. Timothy had to be chained up more often. And finally, when he began to stalk Mahmoud about the house with what looked like villainous intent, Grandfather decided it was time to transfer him to a zoo.
The nearest zoo was at Lucknow, two hundred miles away. Reserving a first class compartment for himself and Timothy—no one would share a compartment with them—Grandfather took him to Lucknow where the zoo authorities were only too glad to receive as a gift a well-fed and fairly civilized tiger.
About six months later, when my grandparents were visiting relatives in Lucknow, Grandfather took the opportunity of calling at the zoo to see how Timothy was getting on. I was not there to accompany him, but I heard all about it when he returned to Dehra.
Ariving at the zoo, Grandfather made straight for the particular cage in which Timothy had been interned. The tiger was there, crouched in a corner, full-grown and with a magnificent striped coat.
‘Hello Timothy!’ said Grandfather and, climbing the railing with ease, he put his arm through the bars of the cage.
The tiger approached the bars, and allowed Grandfather to put both hands around his head. Grandfather stroked the tiger’s forehead and tickled his ears, and, whenever he growled, smacked him across the mouth, which was his old way of keeping him quiet.
It licked Grandfather’s hands and only sprang away when a leopard in the next cage snarled at him. Grandfather ‘shooed’ the leopard away, and the tiger returned to lick his hands; but every now and then the leopard would rush at the bars, and he would slink back to his corner.
A number of people had gathered to watch the reunion, when a keeper pushed his way through the crowd and asked Grandfather what he was doing.
‘I’m talking to Timothy,’ said Grandfather. ‘Weren’t you here when I gave him to the zoo six months ago?’
‘I haven’t been here very long,’ said the surprised keeper. ‘Please continue your conversation. But I have never been able to touch him myself, he is always bad tempered.’
‘Why don’t you put him somewhere else?’ suggested Grandfather. ‘That leopard keeps frighte
ning him. I’ll go and see the superintendent about it.’
Grandfather went in search of the superintendent of the zoo, but found that he had gone home early; and so, after wandering about the zoo for a little while, he returned to Timothy’s cage to say goodbye. It was beginning to get dark.
He had been stroking and slapping Timothy for about five minutes when he found another keeper observing him with some alarm. Grandfather recognized him as the keeper who had been there when Timothy had first come to the zoo.
‘You remember me,’ said Grandfather. ‘Now why don’t you transfer Timothy to another cage, away from this stupid leopard?’
‘But—sir,’—stammered the keeper. ‘It is not your tiger.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Grandfather testily. ‘I realize he is no longer mine. But you might at least take a suggestion or two from me.’
‘I remember your tiger very well,’ said the keeper. ‘He died two months ago.’
‘Died!’ exclaimed Grandfather.
‘Yes, sir, of pneumonia. This tiger was trapped in the hills only last month, and he is very dangerous!’
Grandfather could think of nothing to say. The tiger was still licking his arm, with increasing relish. Grandfather took what seemed to him an age to withdraw his hand from the cage.
With his face near the tiger’s he mumbled, ‘Goodnight, Timothy,’ and giving the keeper a scornful look, walked briskly out of the zoo.
Grandfather Fights an Ostrich
Before Grandfather joined the Indian Railways, he worked for some time on the East African Railways, and it was during that period that he had his famous encounter with the ostrich. My childhood was frequently enlivened by this oft-told tale of my grandfather’s, and I give it here in his own words—or as well as I can remember them:
While engaged in the laying of a new railway line, I had a miraculous escape from an awful death. I lived in a small township, but my work lay some twelve miles away, and although I had a tent on the works, I often had to go into town on horseback.