Classic Ruskin Bond (2 page)

Chapter Two

W
HEN A LARGE WHITE
butterfly settled on the missionary’s wife’s palatial bosom, she felt flattered, and allowed it to remain there. on ‘exclusively European lines
Her garden was beginning to burst into flower, giving her great pleasure—her husband gave her none—and such fellow-feeling as to make her tread gingerly among the caterpillars.

Mr John Harrison, the boy’s guardian, felt only contempt for the good lady’s buoyancy of spirit, but nevertheless gave her an ingratiating smile.

‘I hope you’ll put the boy to work while I’m away,’ he said. ‘Make some use of him. He dreams too much. Most unfortunate that he’s finished with school. I don’t know what to do with him.’

‘He doesn’t know what to do with himself,’ said the missionary’s wife. ‘But I’ll keep him occupied. He can do some weeding, or read to me in the afternoon. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

‘Good,’ said the guardian. And, having cleared his conscience, he made quick his escape.

Overlunch he told the boy, ‘I’m going to Delhi tomorrow. Business.’

It was the only thing he said during the meal. When he had finished eating, he lighted a cigarette and erected a curtain of smoke between himself and the boy. He was a heavy smoker. His fingers were stained a deep yellow.

‘How long will you be gone, sir?’ asked Rusty, trying to sound casual.

Mr Harrison did not reply. He seldom answered the boy’s questions, and his own were stated, not asked; he probed and suggested, sharply, quickly, without ever encouraging loose conversation. He never talked about himself; he never argued: he would tolerate no argument.

He was a tall man, neat in appearance; and, though over forty, looked younger because he kept his hair short, shaving above the ears. He had a small ginger toothbrush moustache.

Rusty was afraid of his guardian.

Mr Harrison, who was really a cousin of the boy’s father, had done a lot for Rusty, and that was why the boy was afraid of him. Since his parents had died, Rusty had been kept, fed and paid for, and sent to an expensive school in the hills that was run
on ‘exclusively European lines’. He had, in a way, been bought by Mr Harrison. And now he was owned by him. And he must do as his guardian wished.

Rusty was ready to do as his guardian wished: he had always obeyed him. But he was afraid of the man, afraid of his silence and of the ginger moustache and of the supple malacca cane that lay in the glass cupboard in the drawing-room.

Lunch over, the boy left his guardian giving the cook orders, and went to his room.

The window looked out on the garden path, and a sweeper boy moved up and down the path, a bucket clanging against his naked thighs. He wore only a loincloth, his body was bare and burnt a deep brown, and his head was shaved clean. He went to and from the water-tank, and every time he returned to it he bathed, so that his body continually glistened with moisture.

Apart from Rusty, the only boy in the European community of Dehra was this sweeper boy, the low-caste untouchable, the cleaner of pots. But the two seldom spoke to each other, one was a servant and the other a sahib and anyway, muttered Rusty to himself, playing with the sweeper boy would be unhygienic . . .

The missionary’s wife had said, ‘Even if you were an Indian, my child, you would not be allowed to play with the sweeper boy.’ So that Rusty often wondered: with whom, then,
could
the sweeper boy play?

The untouchable passed by the window and smiled, but Rusty looked away.

Over the tops of the cherry trees were mountains. Dehra lay in a valley in the foothills, and the small, diminishing European community had its abode on the outskirts of the town.

Mr John Harrison’s house, and the other houses, were all built in an English style, with neat front gardens and nameplates on the gates. The surroundings on the whole were so English that the people often found it difficult to believe that they lived at the foot of the Himalayas, surrounded by India’s thickest jungles. India started a mile away, where the bazaar began.

To Rusty, the bazaar sounded a fascinating place, and what he
had seen of it from the window of his guardian’s car had been enough to make his heart pound excitedly and his imagination soar; but it was a forbidden place—‘full of thieves and germs’ said the missionary’s wife—and the boy never entered it save in his dreams.

For Mr Harrison, the missionaries, and their neighbours, this country district of blossoming cherry trees was India. They knew there was a bazaar and a real India not far away, but they did not speak of such places: they chose not to think about them.

The community consisted mostly of elderly people, the others had left soon after Independence. These few stayed because they were too old to start life again in another country, where there would be no servants and very little sunlight; and though they complained of their lot and criticized the government, they knew their money could buy them their comforts: servants, good food, whisky, almost anything—except the dignity they cherished most . . .

But the boy’s guardian, though he enjoyed the same comforts, remained in the country for different reasons. He did not care who were the rulers so long as they didn’t take away his business; he had shares in a number of small tea-estates and owned some land—forested land—where, for instance, he hunted deer and wild pig.

Rusty, being the only young person in the community, was the centre of everyone’s attention, particularly the ladies’.

He was also very lonely.

Every day he walked aimlessly along the road, over the hillside; brooding on the future, or dreaming of sudden and perfect companionship, romance and heroics; hardly ever conscious of the present. When an opportunity for friendship did present itself, as it had the previous day, he shied away, preferring his own company.

His idle hours were crowded with memories, snatches of childhood. He could not remember what his parents were like, but in his mind there were pictures of sandy beaches covered with sea shells of every description. They had lived on the west
coast, in the Gulf of Kutch; there had been a gramophone that played records of Gracie Fields and Harry Lauder, and a captain of a cargo ship who gave the child bars of chocolate and piles of comics—
The Dandy, Beano, Tiger Tim
—and spoke of the wonderful countries he had visited.

But the boy’s guardian seldom spoke of Rusty’s childhood, or his parents, and this secrecy lent mystery to the vague, undefined memories that hovered in the boy’s mind like hesitant ghosts.

Rusty spent much of his time studying himself in the dressing-table mirror; he was able to ignore his pimples and see a grown man, worldly and attractive. Though only sixteen, he felt much older.

He was white. His guardian was pink, and the missionary’s wife a bright red, but Rusty was white. With his thick lower lip and prominent cheekbones, he looked slightly Mongolian, especially in a half-light. He often wondered why no one else in the community had the same features.

*

Mr John Harrison was going to Delhi.

Rusty intended making the most of his guardian’s absence: he would squeeze all the freedom he could out of the next few days; explore, get lost, wander afar; even if it were only to find new places to dream in. So he threw himself on the bed and visualized the morrow . . . where should he go—into the hills again, into the forest? Or should he listen to the devil in his heart and go into the bazaar? Tomorrow he would know, tomorrow . . .

Chapter Three

I
T WAS A COLD
morning, sharp and fresh. It was quiet until the sun came shooting over the hills, lifting the mist from the valley and
clearing the blood-shot from the sky. The ground was wet with dew.

On the maidan, a broad stretch of grassland, Ranbir and another youth wrestled each other, their muscles rippling, their well-oiled limbs catching the first rays of the sun as it climbed the horizon. Somi sat on his veranda steps; his long hair loose, resting on his knees, drying in the morning sun. Suri was still dead to the world, lost in blanket; he cared not for the morning or the sun.

Rusty stood at the gate until his guardian was comfortably seated behind the wheel of the car, and did not move until it had disappeared round the bend in the road.

The missionary’s wife, that large cauliflower-like lady, rose unexpectedly from behind a hedge and called, ‘Good morning, dear! If you aren’t very busy this morning, would you like to give me a hand pruning this hedge?’

The missionary’s wife was fond of putting Rusty to work in her garden: if it wasn’t cutting the hedge, it was weeding the flower-beds and watering the plants, or clearing the garden path of stones, or hunting beetles and ladybirds and dropping them over the wall.

‘Oh, good morning,’ stammered Rusty. ‘Actually, I was going for a walk. Can I help you when I come back, I won’t be long . . .’

The missionary’s wife was rather taken aback, for Rusty seldom said no; and before she could make another sally the boy was on his way. He had a dreadful feeling she would call him back; she was a kind woman, but talkative and boring, and Rusty knew what would follow the garden work: weak tea or lemonade, and then a game of cards, probably beggar-my-neighbour.

But to his relief she called after him, ‘All right, dear, come back soon. And be good!’

He waved to her and walked rapidly down the road. And the direction he took was different to the one in which he usually wandered.

Far down this road was the bazaar. First Rusty must pass the rows of neat cottages, arriving at a commercial area—Dehra’s
Westernized shopping centre—where Europeans, rich Indians, and American tourists en route for Mussoorie, could eat at smart restaurants and drink prohibited alcohol. But the boy was afraid and distrustful of anything smart and sophisticated, and he hurried past the shopping centre.

He came to the Clock Tower, which was a tower without a clock. It had been built from public subscriptions but not enough money had been gathered for the addition of a clock. It had been lifeless five years but served as a good landmark. On the other side of the Clock Tower lay the bazaar, and in the bazaar lay India. On the other side of the Clock Tower began life itself. And all three—the bazaar and India and life itself—were forbidden.

Rusty’s heart was beating fast as he reached the Clock Tower. He was about to defy the law of his guardian and of his community. He stood at the Clock Tower, nervous, hesitant, biting his nails. He was afraid of discovery and punishment, but hungering curiosity impelled him forward.

The bazaar and India and life itself all began with a rush of noise and confusion.

The boy plunged into the throng of bustling people; the road was hot and close, alive with the cries of vendors and the smell of cattle and ripening dung. Children played hopscotch in alleyways or gambled with coins, scuffling in the gutter for a lost anna. And the cows moved leisurely through the crowd, nosing around for paper and stale, discarded vegetables; the more daring cows helping themselves at open stalls. And above the uneven tempo of the noise came the blare of a loudspeaker playing a popular piece of music.

Rusty moved along with the crowd, fascinated by the sight of beggars lying on the roadside: naked and emaciated half-humans, some skeletons, some covered with sores; old men dying, children dying, mothers with sucking babies, living and dying. But, strangely enough, the boy could feel nothing for these people; perhaps it was because they were no longer recognizable as humans or because he could not see himself in the same circumstances. And no one else in the bazaar seemed to feel for
them. Like the cows and the loudspeaker, the beggars were a natural growth in the bazaar, and only the well-to-do—sacrificing a few annas to placate their consciences—were aware of the beggars’ presence.

Every little shop was different from the one next to it. After the vegetable stand, green and wet, came the fruit stall; and, after the fruit stall, the tea and betel-leaf shop; then the astrologer’s platform (Manmohan Mukuldev, B.Astr., foreign degree); and after the astrologer’s the toy shop, selling trinkets of gay colours. And then, after the toy shop, another from whose doors poured clouds of smoke.

Out of curiosity Rusty turned to the shop from which the smoke was coming. But he was not the only person making for it. Approaching from the opposite direction was Somi on his bicycle.

Somi, who had not seen Rusty, seemed determined on riding right into the smoky shop on his bicycle. Unfortunately his way was blocked by Maharani, the queen of the bazaar cows, who moved aside for no one. But the cycle did not lose speed.

Rusty, seeing the cycle but not recognizing the rider, felt sorry for the cow, it was sure to be hurt. But, with the devil in his heart or in the wheels of his machine, Somi swung clear of Maharani and collided with Rusty and knocked him into the gutter.

Accustomed as Rusty was to the delicate scents of the missionary’s wife’s sweet peas and the occasional smell of bathroom disinfectant, he was nevertheless overpowered by the odour of bad vegetables and kitchen water that rose from the gutter.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he cried, choking and spluttering.

‘Hullo,’ said Somi, gripping Rusty by the arm and helping him up, ‘so sorry, not my fault. Anyway, we meet again!’

Rusty felt for injuries and, finding none, exclaimed, ‘Look at the filthy mess I’m in!’

Somi could not help laughing at the other’s unhappy condition. ‘Oh, that is not filth, it is only cabbage water! Do not worry, the clothes will dry . . .‘

His laugh rang out merrily, and there was something about the laugh, some music in it perhaps, that touched a chord of gaiety in Rusty’s own heart. Somi was smiling, and on his mouth the smile was friendly and in his soft brown eyes it was mocking.

‘Well, I am sorry,’ said Somi, extending his hand.

Rusty did not take the hand but, looking the other up and down, from turban to slippers, forced himself to say, ‘Get out of my way, please.’

‘You are a snob,’ said Somi without moving. ‘You are a very funny one too.’

‘I am not a snob,’ said Rusty involuntarily.

‘Then why not forget an accident?’

‘You could have missed me, but you didn’t try.’

‘But if I had missed you, I would have hit the cow! You don’t know Maharani, if you hurt her she goes mad and smashes half the bazaar! Also, the bicycle might have been spoilt . . . Now please come and have chaat with me.’

Rusty had no idea what was meant by the word chaat, but before he could refuse the invitation Somi had bundled him into the shop from which the smoke still poured.

At first nothing could be made out; then gradually the smoke seemed to clear and there in front of the boys, like some shining god, sat a man enveloped in rolls of glistening, oily flesh. In front of him, on a coal fire, was a massive pan in which sizzled a sea of fat; and with deft, practised fingers, he moulded and flipped potato cakes in and out of the pan.

The shop was crowded; but so thick was the screen of smoke and steam, that it was only the murmur of conversation which made known the presence of many people. A plate made of banana leaves was thrust into Rusty’s hands, and two fried cakes suddenly appeared in it.

‘Eat!’ said Somi, pressing the novice down until they were both on the floor, their backs to the wall.

‘They are tikkees,’ explained Somi, ‘tell me if you like them.’

Rusty tasted a bit. It was hot. He waited a minute, then tasted another bit. It was still hot but in a different way; now it was
lively, interesting; it had a different taste to anything he had eaten before. Suspicious but inquisitive, he finished the tikkee and waited to see if anything would happen.

‘Have you had before?’ asked Somi.

‘No,’ said Rusty anxiously, ‘what will it do?’

‘It might worry your stomach a little at first, but you will get used to it the more often you eat. So finish the other one too.’

Rusty had not realized the extent of his submission to the other’s wishes. At one moment he had been angry, ill-mannered; but, since the laugh, he had obeyed Somi without demur.

Somi wore a cotton tunic and shorts, and sat cross-legged, his feet pressed against his thighs. His skin was a golden brown, dark on his legs and arms but fair, very fair, where his shirt lay open. His hands were dirty; but eloquent. His eyes, deep brown and dreamy, had depth and roundness.

He said, ‘My name is Somi, please tell me what is yours, I have forgotten.’

‘Rusty . . .’

‘How do you do,’ said Somi, ‘I am very pleased to meet you, haven’t we met before?’

Rusty mumbled to himself in an effort to sulk.

‘That was a long time ago,’ said Somi, ‘now we are friends, yes, best favourite friends!’

Rusty continued to mumble under his breath but he took the warm muddy hand that Somi gave him, and shook it. He finished the tikkee on his leaf, and accepted another. Then he said, ‘How do you do, Somi, I am very pleased to meet you.’