by Ruskin Bond
Ranji stared at the fishing rod. ‘Will you lend it to me?’ he asked.
‘You’ll only lose it or break it,’ Mohinder said. ‘But I don’t mind selling it to you. Two rupees. Is that too much?’
‘I’ve got one rupee,’ said Ranji, showing his coin. ‘But it’s an old one. The sweet-seller would not take it.’
‘Please let me see it,’ said Mohinder.
He took the coin and looked it over as though he knew all about coins. ‘Hmmm … I don’t suppose it’s worth much, but my uncle collects old coins. Give it to me and I’ll give you the rod.’
‘All right,’ said Ranji, only too happy to make the exchange. He took the fishing rod, waved goodbye to Mohinder and set off. Soon he was on the main road leading out of town.
After some time a truck came along. It was on its way to the quarries near the riverbed, where it would be loaded with limestone. Ranji knew the driver and waved and shouted to him until he stopped.
‘Will you take me to the river?’ Ranji asked. ‘I’m going fishing.’
There was already someone sitting up in the front with the driver. ‘Climb up in the back,’ he said. ‘And don’t lean over the side.’
Ranji climbed into the back of the open truck. Soon he was watching the road slide away from him. They quickly passed bullock carts, cyclists and a long line of camels. Motorists honked their horns as dust from the truck whirled up in front of them.
Soon the truck stopped near the riverbed. Ranji got down, thanked the driver, and began walking along the bank. It was the dry season and the river was just a shallow, muddy stream. Ranji walked up and down without finding water deep enough for the smallest of fish.
‘No wonder Mohinder let me have his rod,’ he muttered. And with a shrug he turned back towards the town.
It was a long, hot walk back to the bazaar. Ranji walked slowly along the dusty road, swiping at bushes with his fishing rod. There were ripe mangoes on the trees, and Ranji tried to get at a few of them with the tip of the rod, but they were well out of reach. The sight of all those mangoes made his mouth water, and he thought again of the jalebis that he hadn’t been able to buy.
He had reached a few scattered houses when he saw a barefoot boy playing a flute. In the stillness of the hot afternoon the cheap flute made a cheerful sound.
Ranji stopped walking. The boy stopped playing. They stood there, sizing each other up. The boy had his eye on Ranji’s fishing rod; Ranji had his eye on the flute.
‘Been fishing?’ asked the flute player.
‘Yes,’ said Ranji.
‘Did you catch anything?’
‘No,’ said Ranji. ‘I didn’t stay very long.’
‘Did you see any fish?’
‘The water was very muddy.’
There was a long silence. Then Ranji said, ‘It’s a good rod.’
‘This is a good flute,’ said the boy.
Ranji took the flute and examined it. He put it to his lips and blew hard. There was a shrill, squeaky noise, and a startled magpie flew out of a mango tree.
‘Not bad,’ said Ranji.
The boy had taken the rod from Ranji and was looking it over. ‘Not bad,’ he said.
Ranji hesitated no longer. ‘Let’s exchange.’
A trade was made, and the barefoot boy rested the fishing rod on his shoulder and went on his way, leaving Ranji with the flute.
Ranji began playing the flute, running up and down the scale. The notes sounded lovely to him, but they startled people who were passing on the road.
After a while Ranji felt thirsty and drank water from a roadside tap. When he came to the clock tower, where the bazaar began, he sat on the low wall and blew vigorously on the flute. Several children gathered around, thinking he might be a snake charmer. When no snake appeared, they went away.
‘I can play better than that,’ said a boy who was carrying several empty milk cans.
‘Let’s see,’ Ranji said.
The boy took the flute and put it to his lips and played a lovely little tune.
‘You can have it for a rupee,’ said Ranji.
‘I don’t have any money to spare,’ said the boy. ‘What I get for my milk, I have to take home. But you can have this necklace.’
He showed Ranji a pretty necklace of brightly coloured stones.
‘I’m not a girl,’ said Ranji.
‘I didn’t say you have to wear it. You can give it to your sister.’
‘I don’t have a sister.’
‘Then you can give it to your mother,’ said the boy. ‘Or your grandmother. The stones are very precious. They were found in the mountains near Tibet.’
Ranji was tempted. He knew the stones had little value, but they were pretty. And he was tired of the flute.
They made the exchange, and the boy went off playing the flute. Ranji was about to thrust the necklace into his pocket when he noticed a girl staring at him. Her name was Koki and she lived close to his house.
‘Hello, Koki,’ he said, feeling rather silly with the necklace still in his hands.
‘What’s that you’ve got, Ranji?’
‘A necklace. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Would you like to have it?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Koki, clapping her hands with pleasure.
‘One rupee,’ said Ranji.
‘Oh,’ said Koki.
She made a face, but Ranji was looking the other way and humming. Koki kept staring at the necklace. Slowly she opened a little purse, took out a shining new rupee, and held it out to Ranji.
Ranji handed her the necklace. The coin felt hot in his hand. It wasn’t going to stay there for long. Ranji’s stomach was rumbling. He ran across the street to the Jumna Sweet Shop and tossed the coin on the counter.
‘Jalebis for a rupee,’ he said.
The sweet seller picked up the coin, studied it carefully, then gave Ranji a toothy smile and said, ‘Always at your service, sir.’ He filled a paper bag with hot jalebis and handed them over.
When Ranji reached the clock tower, he found Koki waiting.
‘Oh, I’m so hungry,’ she said, giving him a shy smile.
So they sat side by side on the low wall, and Koki helped Ranji finish the jalebis.
Faraway Places
Anil and his parents lived in a small coastal town on the Kathlawar peninsula, where Anil’s father was an engineer in the Public Works Department. The boy attended the local school but as his home was some way out of town, he hadn’t the opportunity of making many friends.
Sometimes he went for a walk with his father or mother, but most of the time they were busy, his mother in the house, his father in the office, and as a result he was usually left to his own resources. However, one day Anil’s father took him down to the docks, about two miles from the house. They drove down in a car, and took the car right up to the pier.
It was a small port, with a cargo steamer in dock, and a few fishing vessels in the harbour. But the sight of the sea and the ships put a strange longing in Anil’s heart.
The fishing vessels plied only up and down the Gulf. But the little steamer, with its black hull and red and white funnel held romance, the romance of great distances and faraway ports of call, with magical names like Yokohama, Valparaiso, San Diego, London …
Anil’s father knew the captain of the steamer, and took his son aboard. The captain was a Scotsman named Mr MacWhirr, a very jolly person with a thunderous laugh that showed up a set of dirty yellow teeth. Mr MacWhirr liked to chew tobacco and spit it all over the deck, but he offered Anil’s father the best of cigarettes and produced a bar of chocolate for Anil.
‘Well, young man,’ he said to the boy with a wink, ‘how would you like to join the crew of my ship, and see the world?’
‘I’d like to, very much, captain sir,’ said Anil, looking up uncertainly at his father.
The captain roared with laughter, patted Anil on the shoulder, and spat tobacco on the floor.
‘You’d like to, eh? I wonder what you
r father has to say to that!’
But Anil’s father had nothing to say.
Anil visited the ship once again with his father, and got to know the captain a little better; and the captain said, ‘Well, boy, whenever you’ve nothing to do, you’re welcome aboard my ship. You can have a look at the engines, if you like, or at anything else that takes your fancy.’
The next day Anil walked down to the docks alone, and the captain lowered the gangplank especially for him. Anil spent the entire day on board, asking questions of the captain and the crew. He made friends quickly, and the following day, when he came aboard, they greeted him as though he was already one of them.
‘Can I come with you on your next voyage?’ he asked the captain. ‘I can scrub the deck and clean the cabins, and you don’t have to pay me anything.’
Captain MacWhirr was taken aback, but a twinkle came into his eye, and he put his head back and laughed indulgently. ‘You’re just the person we want! We sail any day now, my boy, so you’d better get yourself ready. A little more cargo, and we’ll be steaming into the Arabian Sea. First call Aden, then Suez, and up the Canal!’
‘Will you tell me one or two days before we sail, so that I can get my things ready?’ asked Anil.
‘I’ll do that,’ said the captain. ‘But don’t you think you should discuss this with your father? Your parents might not like being left alone so suddenly.’
‘Oh, no, sir, I can’t tell them; they wouldn’t like it at all. You won’t tell them, will you, captain sir?’
‘No, of course not, my boy,’ said Captain MacWhirr, with a huge wink.
During the next two days Anil remained at home, feverishly excited, busily making preparations for the voyage. He filled a pillowcase with some clothes, a penknife and a bar of chocolate, and hid the bundle in an old cupboard.
At dinner, one evening, the conversation came around to the subject of ships, and Anil’s mother spoke to her husband, ‘I understand your friend, the captain of the cargo ship, sails tonight.’
‘That’s right,’ said the boy’s father. ‘We won’t see him again for sometime.’
Anil wanted to interrupt and inform them that Captain MacWhirr wouldn’t be sailing yet, but he did not want to arouse his parents’ suspicions. And yet, the more he pondered over his mother’s remark, the less certain he felt. Perhaps the ship was sailing that night; perhaps the captain had mentioned the fact to Anil’s parents so that the information could be passed on. After all, Anil hadn’t been down to the docks for two days, and the captain couldn’t have had the opportunity of notifying Anil of the ship’s imminent departure.
Anyway, Anil decided there was no time to lose. He went to his room and, collecting the bundle of clothes, slipped out of the house. His parents were sitting out on the veranda and for a while Anil stood outside in the gathering dusk, watching them. He felt a pang of regret at having to leave them alone for so long, perhaps several months; he would have liked to take them along, too, but he knew that wouldn’t be practical. Perhaps, when he had a ship of his own …
He hurried down the garden path, and as soon as he was on the road to the docks, he broke into a run. He felt sure he had heard the hoot of a steamer.
Anil ran down the pier, breathing heavily, his bundle of clothes beginning to come undone. He saw the steamer, but it was moving. It was moving slowly out of the harbour, sending the waves rippling back to the pier.
‘Captain!’ shouted Anil. ‘Wait for me!’
A sailor, standing in the bow, waved to Anil; but that was all. Anil stood at the end of the pier, waving his hands and shouting desperately.
‘Captain, oh, captain sir, wait for me!’
Nobody answered him. The sea gulls, wheeling in the wake of the ship, seemed to take up his cry. ‘Captain, captain …’
The ship drew further away, gathering speed. Still Anil shouted, in a hoarse, pleading voice. Yokohama, Valparaiso, San Diego, London, all were slipping away forever …
He stood alone on the pier, his bundle at his feet, the harbour lights beginning to twinkle, the gulls wheeling around him. ‘First call Aden, then Suez, and up the Canal.’ But for Anil there was only the empty house and the boredom of the schoolroom.
Next year, sometime, he told himself, Captain MacWhirr would return. He would be back, and then Anil wouldn’t make a mistake. He’d be on the ship long before it sailed. Captain MacWhirr had promised to take him along, and wasn’t an adult’s word to be trusted? And so he remained for a long time on the pier, staring out to sea until the steamer went over the horizon. Then he picked up his bundle and made for home. This year, next year, sometime … Yokohama, Valparaiso, San Diego, London!
How Far Is the River?
Between the boy and the river was a mountain. I was a small boy, and it was a small river, but the mountain was big.
The thickly forested mountain hid the river, but I knew it was there and what it looked like; I had never seen the river with my own eyes, but from the villagers I had heard of it, of the fish in its waters, of its rocks and currents and waterfalls, and it only remained for me to touch the water and know it personally.
I stood in front of our house on the hill opposite the mountain, and gazed across the valley, dreaming of the river. I was barefooted; not because I couldn’t afford shoes, but because I felt free with my feet bare, because I liked the feel of warm stones and cool grass, because not wearing shoes saved me the trouble of taking them off.
It was eleven o’clock and I knew my parents wouldn’t be home till evening. There was a loaf of bread I could take with me, and on the way I might find some fruit. Here was the chance I had been waiting for; it would not come again for a long time, because it was seldom that my father and mother visited friends for the entire day. If I came back before dark, they wouldn’t know where I had been.
I went into the house and wrapped the loaf of bread in a newspaper. Then I closed all the doors and windows.
The path to the river dropped steeply into the valley, then rose and went round the big mountain. It was frequently used by the villagers, woodcutters, milkmen, shepherds, mule drivers—but there were no villages beyond the mountain or near the river.
I passed a woodcutter and asked him how far it was to the river. He was a short, powerful man, with a creased and weathered face, and muscles that stood out in hard lumps.
‘Seven miles,’ he said. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I am going there,’ I said.
‘Alone?’
‘Of course.’
‘It will take you three hours to reach it, and then you have to come back. It will be getting dark, and it is not an easy road.’
‘But I’m a good walker,’ I said, though I had never walked further than the two miles between our house and my school. I left the woodcutter on the path, and continued down the hill.
It was a dizzy, winding path, and I slipped once or twice and slid into a bush or down a slope of slippery pine needles. The hill was covered with lush green ferns, the trees were entangled in creepers, and a great wild dahlia would suddenly rear its golden head from the leaves and ferns.
Soon I was in the valley, and the path straightened out and then began to rise. I met a girl who was coming from the opposite direction. She held a long curved knife with which she had been cutting grass, and there were rings in her nose and ears and her arms were covered with heavy bangles. The bangles made music when she moved her wrists. It was as though her hands spoke a language of their own.
‘How far is it to the river?’ I asked.
The girl had probably never been to the river, or she may have been thinking of another one, because she said, ‘Twenty miles,’ without any hesitation.
I laughed and ran down the path. A parrot screeched suddenly, flew low over my head, a flash of blue and green. It took the course of the path, and I followed its dipping flight, running until the path rose and the bird disappeared amongst the trees.
A trickle of water came down the hillsid
e, and I stopped to drink. The water was cold and sharp but very refreshing. But I was soon thirsty again. The sun was striking the side of the hill, and the dusty path became hotter, the stones scorching my feet. I was sure I had covered half the distance: I had been walking for over an hour.
Presently, I saw another boy ahead of me driving a few goats down the path.
‘How far is the river?’ I asked.
The village boy smiled and said, ‘Oh, not far, just round the next hill and straight down.’
Feeling hungry, I unwrapped my loaf of bread and broke it in two, offering one half to the boy. We sat on the hillside and ate in silence.
When we had finished, we walked on together and began talking; and talking I did not notice the smarting of my feet and the heat of the sun, the distance I had covered and the distance I had yet to cover. But after some time my companion had to take another path, and once more I was on my own.
I missed the village boy; I looked up and down the mountain path but no one else was in sight. My own home was hidden from view by the side of the mountain, and there was no sign of the river. I began to feel discouraged. If someone had been with me, I would not have faltered; but alone, I was conscious of my fatigue and isolation.
But I had come more than half way, and I couldn’t turn back; I had to see the river. If I failed, I would always be a little ashamed of the experience. So I walked on, along the hot, dusty, stony path, past stone huts and terraced fields, until there were no more fields or huts, only forest and sun and loneliness. There were no men, and no sign of man’s influence—only trees and rocks and grass and small flowers—and silence …
The silence was impressive and a little frightening. There was no movement, except for the bending of grass beneath my feet, and the circling of a hawk against the blind blue of the sky.
Then, as I rounded a sharp bend, I heard the sound of water. I gasped with surprise and happiness, and began to run. I slipped and stumbled, but I kept on running, until I was able to plunge into the snow-cold mountain water.
And the water was blue and white and wonderful.