by Ruskin Bond
‘Oh, I won’t be staying long,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of money put by in Johannesburg. It’s just that so far as I know you’re my only living relative, and I thought it would be nice to see you again.’
Feeling relieved, I set about trying to make Uncle Bill as comfortable as possible. I gave him my bedroom and turned the window seat into a bed for myself. I was a hopeless cook but, using all my ingenuity, I scrambled some eggs for supper. He waved aside my apologies; he’d always been a frugal eater, he said. Eight years in jail had given him a cast-iron stomach.
He did not get in my way but left me to my writing and my lonely walks. He seemed content to sit in the spring sunshine and smoke his pipe.
It was during our third evening together that he said, ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of sherry in my suitcase. I brought it specially for you.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you, Uncle Bill. How did you know I was fond of sherry?’
‘Just my intuition. You do like it, don’t you?’
‘There’s nothing like a good sherry.’
He went to his bedroom and came back with an unopened bottle of South African sherry.
‘Now you just relax near the fire,’ he said agreeably. ‘I’ll open the bottle and fetch glasses.’
He went to the kitchen while I remained near the electric fire, flipping through some journals. It seemed to me that Uncle Bill was taking rather a long time. Intuition must be a family trait, because it came to me quite suddenly—the thought that Uncle Bill might be intending to poison me.
After all, I thought, here he is after nearly fifteen years, apparently for purely sentimental reasons. But I had just published a best-seller. And I was his nearest relative. If I were to die, Uncle Bill could lay claim to my estate and probably live comfortably on my royalties for the next five or six years!
What had really happened to Aunt Mabel and her husband, I wondered. And where did Uncle Bill get the money for an air ticket to India?
Before I could ask myself any more questions, he reappeared with the glasses on a tray. He set the tray on a small table that stood between us. The glasses had been filled. The sherry sparkled.
I stared at the glass nearest me, trying to make out if the liquid in it was cloudier than that in the other glass. But there appeared to be no difference.
I decided I would not take any chances. It was a round tray, made of smooth Kashmiri walnut wood. I turned it round with my index finger, so that the glasses changed places.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Uncle Bill.
‘It’s a custom in these parts. You turn the tray with the sun, a complete revolution. It brings good luck.’
Uncle Bill looked thoughtful for a few moments, then said, ‘Well, let’s have some more luck,’ and turned the tray around again.
‘Now you’ve spoilt it,’ I said. ‘You’re not supposed to keep revolving it! That’s bad luck. I’ll have to turn it about again to cancel out the bad luck.’
The tray swung round once more, and Uncle Bill had the glass that was meant for me.
‘Cheers!’ I said, and drank from my glass.
It was good sherry. Uncle Bill hesitated. Then he shrugged, said ‘Cheers’, and drained his glass quickly.
But he did not offer to fill the glasses again.
Early next morning he was taken violently ill. I heard him retching in his room, and I got up and went to see if there was anything I could do. He was groaning, his head hanging over the side of the bed. I brought him a basin and a jug of water.
‘Would you like me to fetch a doctor?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be all right. It must be something I ate.’
‘It’s probably the water. It’s not too good at this time of the year. Many people come down with gastric trouble during their first few days in Fosterganj.’
‘Ah, that must be it,’ he said, and doubled up as a fresh spasm of pain and nausea swept over him.
He was better by the evening—whatever had gone into the glass must have been by way of the preliminary dose, and a day later he was well enough to pack his suitcase and announce his departure. The climate of Fosterganj did not agree with him, he told me.
Just before he left, I said, ‘Tell me, Uncle, why did you drink it?’
‘Drink what? The water?’
‘No, the glass of sherry into which you’d slipped one of your famous powders.’
He gaped at me, then gave a nervous whinnying laugh. ‘You will have your little joke, won’t you?’
‘No, I mean it,’ I said. ‘Why did you drink the stuff? It was meant for me, of course.’
He looked down at his shoes, then gave a little shrug and turned away.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said, ‘it seemed the only decent thing to do.’
I’ll say this for Uncle Bill: he was always the perfect gentleman.
Grandfather’s Many Faces
Grandfather had many gifts, but perhaps the most unusual—and at times startling—was his ability to disguise himself and take on the persona of another person, often a street-vendor or carpenter or washerman; someone he had seen around for some time, and whose habits and characteristics he had studied.
His normal attire was that of the average Anglo-Indian or Englishman—bush-shirt, khaki shorts, occasionally a sola-topee or sun-helmet—but if you rummaged through his cupboards you would find a strange assortment of garments: dhotis, lungis, pyjamas, embroidered shirts, colourful turbans … He could be a Maharaja one day, a beggar the next. Yes, he even had a brass begging-bowl, but he used it only once, just to see if he could pass himself off as a bent-double beggar hobbling through the bazaar. He wasn’t recognized but he had to admit that begging was a most difficult art.
‘You have to be on the street all day and in all weather,’ he told me that day. ‘You have to be polite to everyone—no beggar succeeds by being rude! You have to be alert at all times. It’s a hard work, believe me. I wouldn’t advise anyone to take up begging as a profession.’
Grandfather really liked to get the ‘feel’ of someone else’s occupation or lifestyle. And he enjoyed playing tricks on his friends and relatives.
Grandmother loved bargaining with shopkeepers and vendors of all kinds. She would boast that she could get the better of most men when it came to haggling over the price of onions or cloth or baskets or buttons … Until one day the sabzi-wala, a wandering vegetable-seller who carried a basket of fruit and vegetables on his head, spent an hour on the veranda arguing with Granny over the price of various items before finally selling her what she wanted.
Later that day, Grandfather confronted Granny and insisted on knowing why she had paid extra for tomatoes and green chillies. ‘Far more than you’d have paid in the bazaar,’ he said.
‘How do you know what I paid him?’ asked Granny.
‘Because here’s the ten-rupee note you gave me,’ said Grandfather, handing back her money. ‘I changed into something suitable and borrowed the sabzi-wala’s basket for an hour!’
Grandfather never used make-up. He had a healthy tan, and with the help of a false moustache or beard, and a change of hair-style, could become anyone he wanted to be.
For my amusement, he became a tonga-wala; that is, the driver of a pony-drawn buggy, a common form of conveyance in the days of my boyhood.
Grandfather borrowed a tonga from one of his cronies, and took me for a brisk and eventful ride around the town. On our way we picked up the odd customer and earned a few rupees which were dutifully handed over to the tonga-owner at the end of the day. We picked up Dr Bisht, our local doctor, who failed to recognize him. But of course I was the give-away. ‘And what are you doing here?’ asked the good doctor. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’
‘I’m just helping Grandfather,’ I replied. ‘It’s part of my science project.’ Dr Bisht then took a second look at Grandfather and burst out laughing; he also insisted on a free ride.
On one occasion Grandfather d
rove Granny to the bank without her recognizing him. And that too in a tonga with a white pony. Granny was superstitious about white ponies and avoided them as far as possible. But Grandfather, in his tonga-driver’s disguise, persuaded her that his white pony was the best-behaved little pony in the world; and so it was, under his artful guidance. As a result, Granny lost her fear of white ponies.
One winter the Gemini Circus came to our small north Indian town, and set up its tents on the old parade ground. Grandfather, who liked circuses and circus people, soon made friends with all the show folk—the owner, the ring-master, the lion-tamer, the pony-riders, clowns, trapeze-artistes and acrobats. He told me that as a boy he’d always wanted to join a circus, preferably as an animal trainer or ringmaster, but his parents had persuaded him to become an engine-driver instead.
‘Driving an engine must be fun,’ I said.
‘Yes, but lions are safer,’ said Grandfather.
And he used his friendship with the circus folk to get free passes for me, my cousin Melanie, and my small friend Gautam who lived next door.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked Grandfather.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with my friends. See if you can spot me!’
We were convinced that Grandfather was going to adopt one of his disguises and take part in the evening’s entertainment. So for Melanie, Gautam and me the evening turned out to be a guessing game.
We were enthralled by the show’s highlights—the tigers going through their drill, the beautiful young men and women on the flying trapeze, the daring motor-cyclist bursting through a hoop of fire, the jugglers and clowns—but we kept trying to see if we could recognize Grandfather among the performers. We couldn’t make too much of a noise because in the row behind us sat some of the town’s senior citizens—the mayor, a turbaned Maharaja, a formally dressed Englishman with a military bearing, a couple of nuns, and Gautam’s class teacher!—but we kept up our chatter for most of the show.
‘Is your Grandfather the lion-tamer?’ asked Gautam.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had any practise with lions. He’s better with tigers!’ But there was someone else in charge of the tigers.
‘He could be one of the jugglers,’ said Melanie.
‘He’s taller than the jugglers,’ I said.
Gautam made an inspired guess: ‘Maybe he’s the bearded lady!’
We looked hard and long at the bearded lady when she came to our side of the ring. She waved to us in a friendly manner, and Gautam called out, ‘Excuse me, are you Ruskin’s grandfather?’
‘No, dear,’ she replied with a deep laugh. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ And she skipped away to another part of the ring.
A clown came up to us and made funny faces.
‘Are you Grandfather?’ asked Melanie.
But he just grinned, somersaulted backwards, and went about his funny business.
‘I give up,’ said Melanie. ‘Unless he’s the dancing bear.’
‘It’s a real bear,’ said Gautam. ‘Just look at those claws!’
The bear looked real enough. So did the lion, though a trifle mangy. And the tigers looked tigerish.
We went home convinced that Grandfather hadn’t been there at all.
‘So did you enjoy the circus!’ he asked, when he sat down to dinner late that evening.
‘Yes, but you weren’t there,’ I complained. ‘And we took a close look at everyone—including the bearded lady!’
‘Oh, I was there all right,’ said Grandfather. ‘I was sitting just behind you. But you were too absorbed in the circus and the performers to notice the audience. I was that smart-looking Englishman in the suit and tie, sitting between the Maharaja and the nuns. I thought I’d just be myself for a change!’
Crazy Creatures
A Crow for All Seasons
Early to bed and early to rise makes a crow healthy, wealthy and wise.
They say it’s true for humans too. I’m not so sure about that. But for crows it’s a must.
I’m always up at the crack of dawn, often the first crow to break the night’s silence with a lusty caw. My friends and relatives, who roost in the same tree, grumble a bit and mutter to themselves, but they are soon cawing just as loudly. Long before the sun is up, we set off on the day’s work.
We do not pause even for the morning wash. Later in the day, if it’s hot and muggy, I might take a dip in some human’s bath water; but early in the morning we like to be up and about before everyone else. This is the time when trash cans and refuse dumps are overflowing with goodies, and we like to sift through them before the dustmen arrive in their disposal trucks.
Not that we are afraid of a famine in refuse. As human beings multiply, so does their rubbish.
Only yesterday I rescued an old typewriter ribbon from the dustbin, just before it was emptied. What a waste that would have been! I had no use for it myself, but I gave it to one of my cousins who got married recently, and she tells me it’s just right for her nest, the one she’s building on a telegraph pole. It helps her bind the twigs together, she says.
My own preference is for toothbrushes. They’re just a hobby, really, like stamp-collecting with humans. I have a small but select collection which I keep in a hole in the garden wall. Don’t ask me how many I’ve got—crows don’t believe there’s any point in counting beyond two—but I know there’s more than one, that there’s a whole lot of them in fact, because there isn’t anyone living on this road who hasn’t lost a toothbrush to me at some time or another.
We crows living in the jackfruit tree have this stretch of road to ourselves, but so that we don’t quarrel or have misunderstandings we’ve shared the houses out. I picked the bungalow with the orchard at the back. After all, I don’t eat rubbish and throwaways all the time. Just occasionally I like a ripe guava or the soft flesh of a papaya. And sometimes I like the odd beetle as an hors d’oeuvre. Those humans in the bungalow should be grateful to me for keeping down the population of fruit-eating beetles, and even for recycling their refuse; but no, humans are never grateful. No sooner do I settle in one of their guava trees than stones are whizzing past me. So I return to the dustbin on the back veranda steps. They don’t mind my being there.
One of my cousins shares the bungalow with me, but he’s a lazy fellow and I have to do most of the foraging. Sometimes I get him to lend me a claw, but most of the time he’s preening his feathers and trying to look handsome for a pretty young thing who lives in the banyan tree at the next turning.
When he’s in the mood he can be invaluable, as he proved recently when I was having some difficulty getting at the dog’s food on the veranda.
This dog who is fussed over so much by the humans I’ve adopted is a great big fellow, a mastiff who pretends to a pedigree going back to the time of Genghis Khan—he likes to pretend one of his ancestors was the great Khan’s watchdog—but, as often happens in famous families, animal or human, there is a falling off in quality over a period of time, and this huge fellow—Tiger, they call him—is a case in point. All brawn and no brain. Many’s the time I’ve removed a juicy bone from his plate or helped myself to pickings from under his nose.
But of late he’s been growing canny and selfish. He doesn’t like to share any more. And the other day I was almost in his jaws when he took a sudden lunge at me. Snap went his great teeth; but all he got was one of my tail feathers. He spat it out in disgust. Who wants crow’s meat, anyway?
All the same, I thought, I’d better not be too careless. It’s not for nothing that a crow’s IQ is way above that of all other birds. And it’s higher than a dog’s, I bet.
I woke Cousin Slow from his midday siesta and said, ‘Hey, Slow, we’ve got a problem. If you want any of that delicious tripe today, you’ve got to lend a claw—or a beak. That dog’s getting snappier day by day.’
Slow opened one eye and said, ‘Well, if you insist. But you know how I hate getting into a scuffle. It’s bad for the gloss o
n my feathers.’
‘I don’t insist,’ I said politely, ‘but I’m not foraging for both of us today. It’s every crow for himself.’
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming,’ said Slow, and with barely a flap he dropped down from the tree to the wall.
‘What’s the strategy?’ I asked.
‘Simple. We’ll just give him the old one-two.’
We flew across to the veranda. Tiger had just started his meal. He was a fast, greedy eater who made horrible slurping sounds while he guzzled his food. We had to move fast if we wanted to get something before the meal was over.
I sidled up to Tiger and wished him good afternoon.
He kept on gobbling—but quicker now.
Slow came up from behind and gave him a quick peck near the tail—a sensitive spot—and, as Tiger swung round, snarling, I moved in quickly and snatched up several tidbits.
Tiger went for me, and I flew free-style for the garden wall. The dish was untended, so Slow helped himself to as many scraps as he could stuff in his mouth.
He joined me on the garden wall, and we sat there feasting, while Tiger barked himself hoarse below.
‘Go catch a cat,’ said Slow, who is given to slang. ‘You’re in the wrong league, big boy.’
The great sage Pratyasataka—ever heard of him? I guess not—once said, ‘Nothing can improve a crow.’
Like most human sages, he wasn’t very clear in his thinking, so that there has been some misunderstanding about what he meant. Humans like to think that what he really meant was that crows were so bad as to be beyond improvement. But we crows know better. We interpret the saying as meaning that the crow is so perfect that no improvement is possible.
It’s not that we aren’t human—what I mean is, there are times when we fall from our high standards and do rather foolish things. Like at lunch time the other day.
Sometimes, when the table is laid in the bungalow, and before the family enters the dining room, I nip in through the open window and make a quick foray among the dishes. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to pick up a sausage or a slice of toast, or even a pat of butter, making off before someone enters and throws a bread knife at me. But on this occasion, just as I was reaching for the toast, a thin slouching fellow—Junior sahib they call him—entered suddenly and shouted at me. I was so startled that I leapt across the table seeking shelter. Something flew at me, and in an effort to dodge the missile I put my head through a circular object and then found it wouldn’t come off.