by Ruskin Bond
Told Mirchandani and some others to get their hair cut if they did not want to be mistaken for girls. The order went out—short back and sides for everyone.
Late in the afternoon, the barber knocked on my door.
‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘I don’t think so. Who sent you?’
‘Young Mirchandani, sir. He told me you wanted a haircut.’
Must keep an eye on Mirchandani, or Mirchi as his friends call him. Apt to be a little too cheeky.
18 MARCH
Mirchi again.
‘Sir, why didn’t you get married?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘But sir, you’re still so strong and handsome.’
‘Strong enough to turn you upside down and give you a thrashing. Be off, you pest!’
He took off, smirking.
But perhaps there’s some truth in what he says. Took a good look at myself in the mirror. Not too bad. Removed the wig and looked again. Bald as a coot. But shaved heads are coming into fashion, I hear. And they say bald men are great lovers. Do I get another wig, or do I abandon them altogether? To bare my head or not to—that is the question.
Tried an experiment. Took a late evening walk, minus wig. Passed Miss Ramola—who teaches class 1—and her friend who teaches at the girls’ school. At first, they failed to recognize me. When I wished them good evening, they looked startled, then stopped and stared, then began giggling.
‘Why, it’s Mr Oliver!’ burst out Miss Ramola. ‘But where’s your—’
‘Toupée,’ added her companion, showing off her French.
‘Mr Oliver, you’re topless!’ cried Miss Ramola and burst out laughing.
I ignored their remarks and walked away in dignified silence. I shall cut them dead the next time I see them.
24 MARCH
Bought myself a parrot. And why not? I like having a pet around the place. Parrots are clever birds, more intelligent than some young female teachers I happen to know!
We are not allowed to keep dogs in school, but there is no rule about birds.
He has a spacious cage to himself, and once he gets used to me and my room and the small balcony, I shall let him out from time to time. Right now he is not in the best of moods, scowling and muttering to himself, and rolling his eyes at me. I think he wants another green chilli. He nearly took my finger off this morning when I offered him one.
The fellow who sold him to me said that his previous owner had been a heavy drinker, who had died of liver failure. The parrot had learnt just two words, and these he uttered only when he’d had taken a sip or two from his owner’s glass.
Well, I don’t drink, and of course alcohol isn’t allowed in the school, but I was intrigued to know more about the parrot’s talking abilities. There was a bottle of rhododendron wine in my cupboard, kindly given to me by Chippu, who runs the tuck shop. He told me it had been made in his village and that it was non-alcoholic, or almost so. I decided to try it out on Tota—I’ll give him a proper name soon—and poured a little into his tumbler. He took a few sips, rolled his eyes at me and uttered one word—‘More!’
‘You’re supposed to know two words,’ I said, and gave him a few more drops.
He drank up greedily, shut one eye and said, ‘Bottoms up!’
It had worked.
I thought I’d try the stuff myself, just to make sure it was non-alcoholic, and poured a little into a teacup. Not bad at all, though a little on the sour side. I poured myself another cup—since it was non-alcoholic—and gave Tota another drop or two.
‘Bottoms up!’ said Tota.
‘Bottoms up!’ I said, and emptied the cup. I was a little late getting up the next morning.
‘That rhododendron wine was excellent!’ I told Chippu when I saw him later in the day, ‘Non-alcoholic, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. Pure vegetarian.’
‘Just flowers, fruit and sugar?’
‘That’s right, sir. And distilled with pure water.’
Locked the bottle away—or what’s left in it.
Tota moody again.
1 APRIL
Everyone got up late and missed morning PT because no one rang the school bell.
It so happened that the bell was missing. Someone had removed it in the night and rolled it down the khud, where it was discovered around noon. So, there was no PT, breakfast was late, and classes were held in some confusion. When the bell was finally found, there was a sticker on it, which said, ‘APRIL FOOLS’.
Naturally, the whole school was punished. No town-leave on Saturday. Extra classes instead of the usual half-holiday.
‘Now who’s the April Fool?’ snarled HM.
We never did find out who rolled the bell down the khud, though I had my suspicions. I noticed that Tata and Mirchi received a lot of dirty looks from the other boys who were not happy with the outcome. And I’m told that when Mirchi got into bed that night, he shot out with a yelp, as someone had placed some stinging nettles under the sheets. The dormitory has its own system of justice.
6 APRIL
Several boys go down with mumps. Extra beds needed in our little six-bed hospital ward. Nurse Babcock in a flutter, says she can’t cope with so many unruly patients. The problem is worse at night because, being deaf, Nurse doesn’t know what’s going on in the ward. Her snoring doesn’t help either.
She has devised a system whereby she can be woken up in an emergency. A large ball of parcel-string is the first requirement. At night, when she goes to bed, one end of the string is tied to her big toe; the rest of the string is then taken through her door and into the boys’ ward, where it is kept on the medicine table. A sharp tug on the string will wake Miss Babcock. She has a sensitive toe. All the more sensitive because the boys delight in waking her on the slightest pretext, and the frequent tugging has rendered her right toe quite sore and inflamed. She has now transferred the knot to her left foot.
I feel it is my duty to visit the sick boys, HM having failed to do so. So I walk down the steep path to our little hospital, which is housed in an old cottage. There, I find about a dozen boys, ranging from classes 1 to 6, cavorting about in their pyjamas—some in the garden, some in the ward, a couple on the roof. They don’t look very sick; but then mumps, they say, is mild in young people, severe in the middle-aged. I’d better keep a safe distance.
‘What are you two doing up there?’ I ask the boys on the roof.
‘There are frogs in the water tank,’ says Gautam from class 3, fishing out a frog and holding it up for me to see. ‘Would you like to have one, sir?’
‘Get down from there immediately. You’re supposed to be sick. I’ll send someone along to clean the tank.’
Reluctantly, the boys descend.
Meanwhile, a pillow fight is going on in the ward, between two class 5 boys and three from class 4. As I enter the room, a pillow seems to arrive from nowhere, striking me in the face. It bursts open and feathers fly in all directions. I think I swallowed one; couldn’t stop coughing.
When I’ve recovered a little, I say, ‘I’ll have you all sent to the government hospital. They’ll strap you to your beds there. Now, then—where’s Nurse Babcock?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Just after breakfast, sir, when she took our temperature. Then she said she was taking a little walk.’
‘And that’s when you started your free-for-all. Now, back to your beds while I look for Nurse.’
I go looking for her in the garden and presently hear calls for help coming from a shed behind the building, where gardening implements are kept. Miss Babcock is locked inside. I unlatch the door, and she steps out with a large shovel in her hand, ready for battle.
‘Those wicked boys locked me in,’ she says, striding past me. ‘But I’ll teach them a lesson. Come and give me a hand, Mr Oliver.’
I help Nurse prepare a jugful of laxative salts, and each patient is administered a
cupful of the stuff. It tastes terrible too.
‘That should keep them quiet until tomorrow,’ says Nurse.
I don’t know if it was part of the treatment for mumps, but it certainly speeded up their recovery.
10 APRIL
Still haven’t got a name for my parrot. But as everyone is calling him Totaram, I’ll settle for Tota.
Put his cage out in the balcony so that he could enjoy the April sunshine. I’d hardly gone back indoors when I heard him screeching. Dashed outside to see a large ginger cat sitting on the balcony railing, eyeing Tota rather menacingly. Shooed the cat away, but it took up its position on the boundary wall and continued its vigil. Brought Tota in. He seems happier indoors.
Miss Ramola passed by and said, ‘I believe you have a beautiful parrot. May I see it?’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Do come in.’
Miss Ramola admired Tota, put her face near the cage and said, ‘Kiss, kiss!’
‘Bottoms up,’ said Tota.
Miss Ramola withdrew her face, accosted me and said, ‘You could have taught him to say something nice!’
Before I could explain that his vocabulary had been acquired before he came to me, Miss Ramola had left in a huff.
I gave Tota a fresh chilli and tried to teach him to say ‘Kiss, kiss’, but he was having none of it. As with humans, so with birds, after a certain age, we develop a resistance to learning anything new—I think Tota is a middle-aged parrot.
20 APRIL
Just occasionally, HM gets some VIP or the other to visit the school. Politicians are always ready to come, but he does his best to avoid them as they expect to be garlanded and fussed over, and will inevitably request that some relative’s child be admitted as a ‘special case’. HM prefers academics or sportsmen or even film people—provided they don’t charge for coming.
Yesterday, we had Buster Bragge—the Commonwealth middleweight boxing champion—an Australian, touring the country and performing exhibition bouts at various places. He gave the boys a lecture on the noble art of boxing, but because of his accent, no one could follow what he was saying. I read somewhere that Australians get their accent by trying to talk while at the same time keeping the dust out of their mouths.
He took everyone down to our small gym, where he displayed his muscular torso, making his biceps dance to the tune of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, the Australian anthem, which he whistled quite effectively—probably because one of his front teeth was missing. He then sparred in the ring with a couple of the bigger boys—Tata and Basu—and invited any of the teachers to fight a round with him.
There were, of course, no takers. Neither Mr Tuli, our maths teacher, nor Mr Ganguli, who teaches art, have any pretensions to athletic ability. Mr Tuli is quite portly, and Mr Ganguli is helpless without his strong bifocals. That left HM and me, if you did not count the lady teachers, although it would not have surprised me if Miss D’Costa had taken up the challenge; she has the build of an all-in wrestler.
‘Come on, Mr Oliver,’ called HM. ‘Why don’t you fight a round with Mr Bragge? You boxed when you were at college, we know that from your curriculum vitae!’
Well, it’s true that I did box at school and college—I wouldn’t have made it up—but that was twenty years ago! I said I was completely out of training, but HM was having none of it. He insisted on helping me put on the gloves. Patted me on the back and told me to uphold the honour of the school.
Of course I wasn’t going to strip to the waist—not with Miss Ramola present! I removed my tie and rolled up my sleeves. I knew Mr Bragge wasn’t taking me too seriously, because he danced around me, ducked and feinted, and gave me a few taps on the forehead. The boys cheered wildly, no doubt longing to see me bruised and battered. But Mr Bragge was a sporting Australian—or so I thought—until, apparently tired of all our harmless skirmishes, he suddenly delivered a hefty blow to my chin.
I staggered back, and my wig fell off.
Cheers all round!
Enraged, I went at Mr Bragge, taking him completely by surprise, and struck him several ferocious blows, one of which gave him a copious nosebleed. He staggered from the ring, calling for a towel.
I don’t know if I was hero or villain, but everyone kept cheering; and Mirchi very thoughtfully collected my wig and returned it to me.
Instead of congratulating me, HM was most upset, saying that this was not the way to treat an honoured guest. But Mr Bragge did not seem to mind. He slapped me on the back and told me I ought to become a pro.
As we were leaving the gym, I caught sight of Miss Ramola, quite hysterical with laughter, trying to hide her face from me.
25 APRIL
We have a sleepwalker in the junior dormitory.
Last night, Basu, who is a prefect in the junior dorm, comes knocking on my door at around 11 p.m., with the startling information that the Chopra boy has walked out of the dormitory and is presently wandering about on the playing field.
Putting on my dressing gown and slippers, I follow the pyjama-clad Basu on to the field where, true enough, young Chopra is walking around in some kind of trance.
‘Chopra!’ I call out. ‘What do you think you’re up to? Get back to your dormitory at once!’
No response. He keeps walking away from us.
We follow at a discreet distance. Don’t want to startle him. Sleepwalkers should be woken gently, or so we are told.
Chopra picks up speed. I have a hard time keeping up with him.
‘Shall I catch him, sir?’ asked Basu.
‘No, let’s see where he goes.’
Chopra left the field and walked out of the school gate!
‘He’s going to town, sir!’ exclaimed Basu.
‘He can’t sleepwalk all the way to town.’
I was right. He walked about a hundred metres up the road, then turned and walked back straight past us!
‘His eyes are open, but he doesn’t see us,’ observed Basu.
‘Definitely sleepwalking.’
Chopra next made a round of HM’s vegetable garden, disturbing a couple of porcupines who were rooting around for potatoes; then returned to the main building—with Basu and I in hot pursuit—passed through the dining room and took the stairs to his dormitory. We were in time to see him climb into his bed and nestle down under the blankets. After leading us on a merry chase, he was sleeping peacefully, unaware of what had happened.
Basu returned to his bed and I returned to my room, disturbing Tota in the process, who greeted me with a squawk and a ‘Bottoms up’.
Made this diary entry in the morning. Looking over it, I see that I have got my tenses all mixed up. Must have been the excitement.
27 APRIL
Chopra at his sleepwalking again.
Tota and I were woken up in the middle of the night—this time, by Basu and two others informing me that everyone in the dormitory was awake, wanting to know where Chopra goes next.
I accompanied the boys to their dorm, to find that the sleepwalker had made his exit from a window and was somnambulating on the roof!
We peered out of the open window and saw him moving quite confidently along the perimeter of the sloping, corrugated iron roof.
‘If he gets to the end of the roof, he’ll fall off the edge,’ warned Basu.
‘It’s a drop of about twenty feet,’ said someone.
‘Into Headmaster’s garden,’ added a third.
Well, there was nothing for it but to clamber out on the roof myself, and make my way slowly and gingerly towards the somnambulator. Lovely word!
‘Well done, sir!’ called Basu.
‘Keep it up!’ called the other.
‘You’re nearly there!’ encouraged the third.
The trouble was, by the time I’d got to the end of the roof, Chopra had disappeared! Had he fallen off? Was he injured? No, he had simply dropped like a panther into HM’s cabbage patch, and was standing there in a trance, ready to explore new vistas.
I decided to jump off t
he roof in similar fashion, but I am afraid I’ve lost my panther-like agility, and I landed awkwardly and sprained an ankle.
The disturbance brought HM and his wife out of their cottage. They wanted to know what we were doing in their manure pit. By this time, Chopra had woken up.
‘I don’t know how I got here, sir,’ he said, which was probably true.
We were joined by Basu and the others, who explained the situation.
‘Well, back to your beds,’ said HM. ‘We’ll have to give Chopra a room of his own, and lock him in at night! Can’t have him sleepwalking all over the place. He could end up in the swimming pool next door!’ He was referring to the swimming pool in the girls’ school; we did not have one, which was just as well.
I could barely put my foot down, it was so painful. So Basu and co. were deputed to take me down to the hospital, where I was left in the tender care of Nurse Babcock.
Today I have my foot in a plaster. A week’s rest, and then I can hobble back to class. In the meantime, the boys will be making the most of my absence; not by revising Coral Island or Malgudi Days, but by writing letters home asking for food parcels and pocket money.
4 MAY
Someone has disfigured our founder’s portrait, and HM is furious.
The portrait hangs at one end of our assembly hall—an oil painting of Rev. Constant Endover, who started our schools a century ago. His other achievement was translating the gospels into Pashto. Later, he was murdered by one of his retainers. His grave, near Peshawar, bears the inscription:
Well done, thou good and faithful servant.
But let me not digress.
The Rev. Endover was a clean-shaven man, but the desecrator had given him a large handlebar moustache, a bright-red clown’s nose, a yellow paper hat and a pair of earrings!