by Ruskin Bond
I thought it might be the leopard and, reaching for my torch, I got up, opened the door to the balcony and crept outside.
There was definitely something pacing about on the roof. Shone my torch on the creature.
It was Chopra, sleepwalking again. I helped him back to the dormitory, and put him to bed with some help from Basu and co.
‘I thought he was the leopard,’ I said.
Now everyone is calling Chopra ‘The Leopard’. He turns into one at night!
25 JULY
Ghosts, frogs, leopards. Or panthers, if you prefer them by their other name. What haven’t we had this year? Monsoon is usually dull and uneventful, but not this time around.
The leopard itself has become something of a ghost—a phantom panther—seen here, seen there, but never attacking anyone.
Last night, HM saw it from his study window. It was sitting in a flower bed, crushing his prized dahlias, and he was so incensed that he grabbed his gun—an ancient double-barrelled shotgun—and went after the beast.
HM’s wife and Mr Tuli woke me up to inform me that HM had gone off into the forest in pursuit of the leopard, and would I please help with looking for him and bringing him home.
‘He thinks he’s a great shikari,’ said Mrs H. ‘But he’s never shot anything in his life!’
By this time some of the boys were up too, and we all set off through the forest, carrying torches and shouting for HM. He had gone in the direction of the stream, according to Mrs H.
We made so much noise that no self-respecting leopard would have hung around for long, and naturally we never saw it. But suddenly, from ahead of us, there was a loud bang. HM’s gun had gone off!
‘He’s shot it!’ screamed Mrs H.
‘If he hasn’t shot himself,’ I said.
We dashed forward, or rather stumbled forward, over bushes and boulders, and found HM, gun in hand, aiming down a steep slope at some creature lying in the grass a short distance away.
‘Mr Oliver,’ he said, ‘would you go ahead and make sure it’s dead?’
‘You can’t make Mr Oliver risk his life,’ objected Mrs H. ‘For all you know, it may just be wounded.’
‘And wounded leopards are very dangerous,’ added Mr Tuli, retreating to where the boys had gathered.
Mirchi approached and said, ‘I’ll go with Mr Oliver. Shine your torch on it, sir. It looks like a black panther.’
It was black all right, but it wasn’t a panther. It was a large, black billy goat.
‘It’s dead all right,’ said Mirchi. ‘And here come the villagers. They’ll make roast mutton out of Headmaster!’
29 JULY
HM had to compensate the villagers. He gave them a thousand rupees for the goat. And we didn’t even get roast mutton. They took it away and had a feast.
But we haven’t seen the leopard again. I think it found the vicinity a little too noisy and excitable. Even leopards like a little peace and quiet. You won’t find that at our prep school.
‘Headmaster is a little cracked, isn’t he, sir?’ Mirchi tries to lure me into saying something critical of HM.
‘All the world is cracked except you and me,’ I tell him. ‘And even we are a little cracked.’
2 AUGUST
HM in lecture mood.
The great advances being made in science and technology, he tells us in assembly, can be used for the good of humanity or its destruction. ‘When man invented the axe, he had a choice. He could use it to build a house or he could use it to batter his neighbour’s head. What choice did he make?’
There was a pause, and then Rudra piped up, ‘He did both, sir!’
Applause all round, except from HM.
5 AUGUST
We have had nearly two months of rain, and it looks like it will go on forever. When it isn’t raining, the mist closes in, shutting out the rest of the world. This morning, the sun came out in a cloudless sky, and HM was prevailed upon by the staff and the boys to declare a ‘sunshine holiday’.
Everyone trooped into town, forgetting raincoats and umbrellas, and returned in the afternoon, soaked to the skin. Fortunately, I had taken my umbrella with me, and I was able to rescue Anjali Ramola from the downpour. Two under a single umbrella results in a certain intimacy and, for some twenty minutes, I enjoyed the freshness and proximity of this delightful young person. Then there was a shout from across the road, and we were joined by Miss D’Costa, who was determined to share the umbrella with us. Three under the umbrella was out of the question, especially with Miss D’Costa’s earrings swinging in the wind; so I surrendered it to the two of them and walked back to school on my own, soaked and sulking.
Late in the evening, Miss Ramola had the umbrella delivered to me by one of the boys, along with a thank-you note which said, ‘Dear Mr Oliver, it was really kind of you to lend us your umbrella. Julie (Miss D’Costa) thinks you’re a wonderful person. So do I. Sincerely, Anjali.’
I hope Julie drowns in the next downpour.
10 AUGUST
Sensational disappearance of Headmaster.
He hasn’t been seen for two days, three nights. Stepped out of his house just after daybreak, saying he was going for a walk, and did not return.
Had he been taken by the leopard? Had he been kidnapped? Had he lost his footing and fallen off a cliff?
HM’s wife in distress. Police called in. Inspector Keemat Lal, CID, asked questions of everyone but was none the wiser, it appeared. He is more at home with dead bodies than missing persons.
Finally he asked, ‘Did he take anything with him? A bag, a suitcase? Did he have money on him?’
‘I don’t know about money,’ said Mrs H. ‘But he took his gun.’
‘He must have gone after that leopard,’ I surmised. ‘I hope the leopard hasn’t got him.’
And so, once again, we all trooped off into the forest—the inspector, two constables, Mr Tuli, four senior boys (including Tata and Mirchi) and myself. After two hours of slogging through mist and drizzle, we made enquiries in two neighbouring villages without receiving much by way of information or encouragement. One small boy told us he had seen a man with a gun, wandering about, further down the valley. So we trudged on for another two hours, the portly Inspector Keemat Lal perspiring profusely and cursing all the while. Some of our police officers acquire a colourful vocabulary in the course of their careers.
Trudging back to school, I got into conversation with Inspector Keemat Lal, who had a tendency to reminisce.
‘What was the closest shave you ever had?’ I asked.
‘The closest shave. Oddly enough, it was when I went to a barber’s shop for a shave. This was in Agra, when I was a sub-inspector.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, the barber was a friendly enough fellow, a bit of a joker. After lathering my cheeks and stropping his razor, he casually remarked, “How easy it would be for me to cut your throat, sir!”
‘I didn’t take him seriously, but I resented his familiarity, and the bad taste of his remark. So I got up from the chair, wiped the soap from my face and walked out of the shop. The next customer gratefully took my place.’
‘Of course he was joking,’ I said.
‘So I thought. But the next day, when I went on duty, I learnt that he had cut the throat of one of his customers. Quite possibly the one who took my place. The barber was a homicidal maniac. He had been acting strangely for some time, and something had snapped in his head.’
‘Getting up and leaving—that was good reasoning on your part.’
‘No, reasoning didn’t come into it. It was pure instinct. When it comes to self-preservation, instinct is more reliable than reason.’
No sign of HM, no further news of his whereabouts, not even a sighting. The return journey was even more arduous as it was uphill all the way. Everyone complained of thirst, and at the first small shop we came to, I had to buy soft drinks for everyone, although the policemen were hoping for something stronger. Arriving at school, we
straggled into HM’s garden just as it was getting dark. Mrs H opened the front door for us. She was beaming. And no wonder. For there was HM, sitting in his favourite armchair, enjoying a cup of tea!
No thanks for our efforts and no tea either, not even for the policemen.
It transpired that HM had been feeling very depressed for some time, on account of his being unable to master the intricacies of Kreisler’s violin sonata, and in a fit of frustration and anger he had smashed his violin, then taken off with his gun, meaning to shoot himself. He had spent a day in the forest, a night in a seedy hotel, and a day and a night in the Barog tunnel and railway waiting room, before deciding that the violin sonata could wait for another violin.
‘Cracked,’ said Mirchi, not for the first time. ‘Sir, are all headmasters like this?’
‘No, of course not,’ I hastened to assure him. ‘Some of them are quite sane.’
15 AUGUST
Independence Day passed off peacefully.
Mrs Tonk, from the girls’ school, was our chief guest. The boys marched past with gusto, and she unfurled the flag and made a little speech. Then, in the hall, HM made a longer speech, and I noticed that several boys had fallen asleep. However, they woke with a start when HM produced his violin—a new violin!—and passed his bow across the strings in a shrill crescendo. He treated us to a medley of Tagore songs, but, unfortunately, his recent escapade had affected his playing skills and he did not do justice to the melodies. Great music should be played only by the best musicians.
In the evening, a firework display—much enjoyed by the boys, who were permitted to set off their own crackers, fountains and rockets. At least two boys admitted to the hospital with minor burns. A rocket landed on my head and singed my wig. I had to run indoors and replace it with a hat.
16 AUGUST
After lunch, HM said he has a special announcement. Good news for someone, but bad news for the school. ‘Miss Ramola is leaving us in order to get married!’
A double blow for me, as I had been having some hopes in that direction myself.
Apparently she has been engaged for over a year—to a young man in Bangalore, who works with Infosys. I’m surprised she did not mention it to anyone.
I must take it philosophically. Can’t compete with some whiz-kid from the IT capital.
‘Congratulations, Anjali,’ I said, when I met her after classes. ‘When does the wedding take place?’
‘Next month, Olly.’
‘And will you come back?’
‘I don’t think so. But HM has found a replacement for me.’
‘Replacements are never the same. You’ll be badly missed.’
‘Well, thank you, Olly,’ she said, and patted me on the cheek. ‘It’s been fun knowing you.’
Fun! I suppose that’s all it amounted to.
Took a lonely walk through the pines. Words of an old song kept running through my head—‘Are you lonesome tonight?’
Saw Miss D’Costa in the distance. Avoided her.
Returned to my room. ‘Bottoms up,’ said Tota cheerfully.
‘Rock bottom,’ I said gloomily. Found the remnants of the rhododendron wine and polished it off. It had gone sour. Gave me acute acidity.
‘Not my day,’ I told Tota. ‘One rode a horse and one rhododendron.’
The chuchundar ran across the room, squeaking.
‘You were supposed to bring good luck,’ I said.
An old postcard lies on my desk. A scene from a Beckett play. ‘No matter,’ it says. ‘Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’
But I feel lonely tonight.
At least HM has his violin.
18 AUGUST
Tried to immerse myself in school activities, but nothing much is happening at this time of the year. Even Tota looks morose, and the chuchundar confines himself to his quarters behind the cupboard. The balcony is never dry, so the ginger cat stays away.
I break the monotony by going for a swim—we are allowed to use the swimming pool while the girls are in class. Unfortunately, I forgot to remove my wig and, when I did an underwater plunge, it came off and floated away. Before I could rescue it, a hawk swooped down and carried it off! Must have mistaken it for a rabbit.
Felt very foolish, especially as I was aware that Miss D’Costa was watching me from the shower rooms. Resolved not to wear a wig again. After all, there’s no one around to impress. Only Nurse Babcock. She says a wig suits me.
I must say the boys are very decent about it. There are no funny remarks, although a few smiles here and there.
21 AUGUST
Not sure if I should continue at the prep school next year. Feeling rather restless. Need a change. Applied for a job in Dehradun. New schools are opening there every day.
But as Grandmother used to say, ‘The wise swimmer praises the sea but hugs the shore.’
25 AUGUST
I must say word gets around very quickly. Mirchi came up to me and said, ‘Sir, we heard you’re not returning next year.’
‘And what made you think so?’
‘There’s a rumour, sir.’
‘It doesn’t take much to start a rumour, does it? Well, I haven’t made up my mind. And anyway, what’s it to you? You’ll be in senior school next year. I won’t see much of you, thank heavens.’
‘But we want to see you, sir.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘All of us, sir. The boys like you, sir.’
‘Nonsense. None of your flattery. It won’t help you pass.’
‘I know, sir. Exams are a bore. But the boys like you, sir. Really, they do. They think you’re a great sport.’
I must say I was rather touched by what Mirchi said. He’s a mischievous boy, but truthful.
‘I’ll think about it, Mirchi,’ I said. ‘But tell me something. What, in your opinion, would be the perfect school?’
‘A school without exams, sir,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Perhaps I’ll start one, some day. And you can come and teach there, sir.’
‘I appreciate your confidence in my teaching abilities. Now go and do some work. History test tomorrow.’
1 SEPTEMBER
September song . . .
And it’s a long long time
From May to December,
And the days grow short
As we reach September . . .
The rains are almost over. Yesterday evening there was a rainbow over Tara Devi. And this morning, the sun was hot; the sky, a blinding blue.
Took the boys for a long afternoon walk. Talked to them about the importance of history. They were not listening, except for Hirday. Well, even one listener can make a difference.
On our return, the clouds gathered in force and there was a downpour. We were all soaking wet by the time we reached school.
2 SEPTEMBER
Down with fever and body pains, due, no doubt, to that drenching. Admitted to the hospital. At the mercy of Nurse Babcock, who puts me to bed with a leaking hot-water bottle.
Gives me spinach soup for supper.
There are three in the boys’ ward—all tummy upsets—but I have a room of my own. Stuffy in the small room, so I leave the window open.
3 SEPTEMBER
Wake up early morning to find a large monkey sitting at the foot of my bed, staring at me speculatively. She—I presume it’s a she—grins at me and emits little cries of delight.
I call for help. Nurse Babcock can’t hear me, but the boys rush in and chase the monkey away. I shall have to keep the window closed.
At noon, a visit from Miss D’Costa. Very good of her to come, but I feel more at home with the monkey. Miss D’Costa presents me with a bunch of dahlias, and arranges them in a mug on my bedside table. Some of them are giving off pollen, and naturally I start sneezing. Nurse Babcock arrives and takes the dahlias away.
At four o’clock, Tata and Mirchi turn up to wish me a speedy recovery. They bring me jalebis from the tuck shop. Nurse Babcock tells me I can’t have jalebis and takes them away
. Later, she eats them all by herself.
5 SEPTEMBER
Our civil surgeon is called Dr Butcher—his real name, believe it or not—and he does his best to live up to it. If you go to him with a sore throat, he will remove your tonsils. If you go to him with a tummy ache, he will remove your appendix. He just loves to get his patients on the operating table.
I think Nurse Babcock has an arrangement with him. We’ve had three boys who’ve had their appendixes removed this year, and five who have had their tonsils removed. Boys are now afraid to go down to the hospital in case they are referred to Dr Butcher.
When Mirchi came to me with an infected and swollen finger, I suggested he show it to Nurse Babcock.
‘No, sir!’ said Mirchi. ‘She’ll send me to Dr Butcher, and he’ll cut it off!’
I had to take him to the dispensary and stand by while his wound was cleaned and dressed by Nurse.
‘Should be all right now,’ I said.
‘And if it isn’t,’ said Nurse, ‘we’ll send him to Dr Butcher!’
My own opinion of Dr Butcher is not very high. I consulted him about my frequent bouts of insomnia, and all he could say was, ‘You happen to be a bad sleeper.’
Brilliant diagnosis!
Mirchi did better.
He happened to overhear my remark—that I wasn’t sleeping very well—and he turned to Tata and whispered, ‘Still thinking of Miss Ramola!’
6 SEPTEMBER
As Nurse Babcock is due to retire at the end of the term, HM presented her with a silver teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl. The ceremony took place in the dining hall, after supper. HM made a little speech, extolling Nurse Babcock’s abilities and her sterling character. And then he ended it by saying, ‘It is said that all nurses are angels, but I’m sure I can truly say that our dear nurse is an exception to that rule.’