DUST ON MOUNTAIN: COLLECTED STORIES (68 page)

‘Just light reading,’ he said. ‘I can’t concentrate for long periods.’

He has become extremely absent-minded and forgetful; one of the drawbacks of living to an advanced age. During a funeral last year at which he took the funeral service, he read out the service for Burial at Sea. It was raining heavily at the time, and no one seemed to notice.

Now he has borrowed two of my Ross Macdonalds—the same two he read last month. I refrained from pointing this out. If he has forgotten the books already, it won’t matter if he reads them again.

Having spent the better part of his seventy-odd years in India, the Rev. Biggs has a lot of stories to tell, his favourite being the one about the crocodile he shot in Orissa when he was a young man. He’d pitched his tent on the banks of a river and gone to sleep on a camp cot. During the night he felt his cot moving, and before he could gather his wits, the cot had moved swiftly through the opening of the tent and was rapidly making its way down to the river. Mr Biggs leapt for dry land while the cot, firmly wedged on the back of the crocodile, disappeared into the darkness.

Crocodiles, it seems, often bury themselves in the mud when they go to sleep, and Mr Biggs had pitched his tent and made his bed on top of a sleeping crocodile. Waking in the night, it had made for the nearest water.

Mr Biggs shot it the following morning—or so he would have us believe—the crocodile having reappeared on the river bank with the cot still attached to its back.

Now having told me this story for the umpteenth time, Biggs said he really must be going, and returning to the bookshelf, extracted Gibbons’
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, having forgotten the Ross Macdonalds on a side table.

‘I must do some serious reading,’ he said. ‘These modern novels are so violent.’

‘Lots of violence in
Decline and Fall
,’ I remarked.

‘Ah, but it’s history, isn’t it? Well, I must go now, Mr Macdonald. Mustn’t waste your time.’

As he stepped outside, he collided with Miss Bun, who dropped samosas all over the veranda steps.

‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,’ he apologized, and started picking up the samosas despite my attempts to prevent him from doing so. He then took the paper bag from Miss Bun and replaced the samosas.

‘And who is this little girl?’ he said benignly, patting Miss Bun on the head. ‘One of your nieces?’

‘That’s right, sir. My favourite niece.’

‘Well, I must not keep you. Service as usual, on Sunday.’

‘Right, Mr Biggs.’

I have never been to a local church service, but why disillusion Rev. Biggs? I shall defend everyone’s right to go to a place of worship provided they allow me the freedom to stay away.

Miss Bun was staring after Rev. Biggs as he crossed the road. Her mouth was slightly agape. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘He’s taken all the samosas!’

When I kiss Miss Bun, she bites my lip and draws blood.

‘What was that for?’ I complain.

‘Just to make you angry.’

‘But I don’t like getting angry.’

‘That’s why.’

I get angry just to please her, and we take a tumble on the carpet.

March 11

Does anyone here make money? Apart from the traders, of course, who tuck it all away …

A young man turned up yesterday, selling geraniums. He had a bag full of geraniums—cuttings and whole plants.

‘All colours,’ he told me confidently. ‘Only one rupee a cutting.’

‘I can buy them much cheaper at the government nursery.’

‘But you would have to walk there, sir—six miles! I have brought these to your very doorstep. I will plant them for you in your empty ghee tins at no extra cost!’

‘That’s all right, you can give me a few. But what makes you sell geraniums?’

‘I have nothing to eat, sir. I haven’t eaten for two days.’

He must have sold all his plants that day, because in the evening I saw him at the country liquor shop, tippling away—and all on an empty stomach, I presume!

March 12

Mrs Biggs tells me that someone slipped into her garden yesterday morning while she was out, and removed all her geraniums!

‘The most honest of people won’t hesitate to steal flowers—or books,’ I remark carelessly. ‘Never mind, Mrs Biggs, you can have some of my geraniums. I bought them yesterday.’

‘That’s extremely kind of you, Mr Bond. And you’ve only just put them down, I can tell,’ she says, spotting the cuttings in the Dalda tins. ‘No, I couldn’t deprive you—’

‘I’ll get you some,’ I offer, and generously surrender half the geraniums, vowing that if ever I come across that young man again, I’ll get him to recover all the plants he sold elsewhere.

March 19

Vinod, now selling newspapers, arrives as I am pouring myself a beer under the cherry tree. It’s a warm day and I can see he is thirsty.

‘Can I have a drink of water?’ he asks.

‘Would you like some beer’?’

‘Yes,
sir
!’

As I have an extra bottle, I pour him a glass and he squats on the grass near the old wall and brings me up to date on the local gossip. There are about fifty papers in his shoulder bag, yet to be delivered.

‘You may feel drowsy after some time,’ I warn. ‘Don’t leave your papers in the wrong houses.’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ he says, emptying the glass and gazing fondly at the bottle sparkling in the spring sunshine.

‘Have some more,’ I tell him, ‘and go indoors to see what Prem is making for lunch. (Stuffed gourds, fried brinjal slices and
pilaf
. Prem is in a good mood, preparing my favourite dishes. When I upset him, he gives me string beans.) Returning to the garden, I find Vinod well into his second glass of beer. Half of Barlowganj and all of Jharipani (the next village) are snarling and cursing, waiting for their newspapers.

‘Your customers must be getting impatient,’ I remark. ‘Surely they want to know the result of the cricket test.’

‘Oh, they heard it on the radio. This is the morning edition. I can deliver it in the evening.’

I go indoors and have my lunch with little Raki, and ask Prem to give Vinod something to eat. When I come outside again, he is stretched out under the cherry tree, burping contentedly.

‘Thank you for the lunch,’ he says, and closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

He’s gone by evening but his bag of papers rests against my front door.

‘He’s left his papers behind,’ I remark to Prem.

‘Oh, he’ll deliver them tomorrow, along with tomorrow’s paper. He’ll say the mail bus was late due to a landslide.’

In the evening I walk through the old bazaar and linger in front of a Tibetan shop, gazing at the brassware, coloured stones, amulets, masks. I am about to pass on, when I catch a glimpse of the girl who looks after the shop. Two soft brown eyes in a round jade-smooth face. A hesitant smile.

I step inside. I have never cared much for Tibetan handicrafts, but beautiful brown eyes are different.

‘Can I look around? I want to buy a present for a friend.’

I look around. She helps me by displaying bangles, necklaces, rings—all on the assumption that my friend is a young lady.

I choose the more frightening of two devil masks, and promise to come again for the pair to it.

On the way home I meet Miss Bun.

‘When shall I come?’ she asks, pirouetting on the road.

‘Next year.’

‘Next year!’ Her pretty mouth falls open.

‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You’ve just lost the election.’

March 31

Miss Bun hasn’t been for several days. This morning I find her washing clothes at the public tap. She gives me a quick smile as I pass.

‘It’s nice to see you hard at work,’ I remark.

She looks quickly to left and right, then says, ‘It’s punishment, because I bought new bangles with the money you gave me.’

I hurry on down the road.

During the afternoon siesta I am roused by someone knocking on the door. A slim boy with thick hair and bushy eyebrows is standing there. I don’t know him, but his eyes remind me of someone.

He tells me he is Miss Bun’s older brother. At a guess, he would be only a year or two older than her.

‘Come in,’ I say. It’s best to be friendly! What could he possibly want?

He produces a bag of samosas and puts them down on my bedside table.

‘My sister cannot come this week. I will bring you samosas instead. Is that all right?’

‘Oh, sure. Sit down, sit down. So you’re Master Bun. It’s nice to know you.’

He sits down on the edge of the bed and studies the picture on the wall—a print of Kurosawa’s
Wave
.

‘Shall I pay you now for the samosas?’ I ask.

‘No, no, whenever you like.’

‘And do you go to school or college?’

‘No, I help my father in the bakery. Are you ill, sir?’

‘No. What makes you think so?’

‘Because you were lying down.’

‘Well, I like lying down. It’s better than standing up. And I do get a headache if I read or write for too long.’

He offers to give me a head massage, and I submit to his ministrations for about five minutes. The headache is now much worse, but I pay for both massage and samosas and tell him he can come again—preferably next year.

My next visitor is Constable Ghanshyam Singh, who tells me that the SP has extracted confessions from a couple of thieves simply by making them stand for hours and listen to him reciting his poetry. I know our police have a reputation for torturing suspects, but I think this is carrying things a bit too far.

‘And what about your transfer?’ I ask.

‘As soon as those poems are published in the
Weekly
.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I promise.

(They appeared in the Bhopal
Weekly
. And a year later, when I was editing
Imprint
, I was able to publish one of the SP’s poems. He has always maintained that if I’d published more of them, the magazine would never have folded.)

A note on Miss Bun

Little Miss Bun is fond of bed
,

But she keeps a cash box in her head
.

April 8

Rev. Biggs at the door, book in hand.

‘I won’t take up your time, Mr Bond. But I thought it was time I returned your butterfly book.’

‘My butterfly book?’

‘Yes, thank you very much. I enjoyed it a great deal.’

Mr Biggs hands me the book on butterflies, a handsomely illustrated volume. It isn’t my book, but if Mr Biggs insists on giving me someone else’s book, who am I to quibble? He’d never find the right owner, anyway.

‘By the way, have you seen Mrs Biggs?’ he asks.

‘No, not this morning, sir.’

‘She went off without telling me. She’s always doing things like that. Very irritating.’

After he has gone, I glance at the fly leaf of the book. It says W. Biggs. So it’s one of his own …

A little later Mrs Biggs comes by.

‘Have you seen Will?’ she asks.

‘He was here about fifteen minutes ago. He was looking for you.’

‘Oh, he knew I’d gone to the garden shed. How tiresome! I suppose he’s wandered off somewhere.’

‘Never mind, Mrs Biggs, he’ll make his way home when he gets hungry. A good lunch will always bring a wanderer home. By the way, I’ve got his book on butterflies. Perhaps you’d return it to him for me? And he shouldn’t lend it to just anyone, you know. It’s a valuable book, you don’t want to lose it.’

‘I’m sure it was quite safe with you, Mr Bond.’

Books always are, of course. On principle, I never steal another man’s books. I might take his geraniums or his old school tie, but I wouldn’t deprive him of his books. Or the song or melody or dream he lives by. And here’s a little lullaby for Raki:

Little one, don’t be afraid of this big river
.

Be safe in these warm arms for ever
.

Grow tall, my child, be wise and strong
.

But do not take from any man his song
.

Little one, don’t be afraid of this dark night
.

Walk boldly as you see the truth and light
.

Love well, my child, laugh all day long
,

But do not take from any man his song
.

April 16

Is there something about the air at this height that makes people light-headed, absent-minded? Ten years from now I will probably be as forgetful as Mr Biggs. I must climb the next mountain before I forget where it is.

Outline for a story.

Someone lives in a small hut near a spring, within sound of running water. He never leaves the place, except to walk into the town for books, post, and supplies. ‘Don’t you ever get bored here?’ I ask. ‘Do you never wish to leave?’ ‘No,’ he replies, and tells me of his experience in the desert, when for two days and two nights (the limit of human endurance in regard to thirst), he went without water. On the second night, half dead, lying in the open beneath the stars, he dreamt of just such a spring in the mountains, and it was as though it gave him spiritual sustenance. So later, when he was fully recovered, he went in search of the spring (which he was sure existed), and found it while hiking in the Himalayas. He knew that as long as he remained by the spring he would never feel unsafe; it was where his guardian spirit lived …

And so I feel safe near my own spring, my own mountain, for this is where my guardian spirit lives too.

April 16

Visited the Tibetan shop and bought a small brass vase encrusted with pretty stones.

I’d no intention of buying anything, but the girl smiled at me as I passed, and then I just had to go in; and once in, I couldn’t just stand there, a fatuous grin on my face.

I had to buy something. And a vase is always a good thing to buy. If you don’t like it, you can give it away.

If she smiles at me every time I pass, I shall probably build up a collection of vases.

She isn’t a girl, really; she’s probably about thirty. I suppose she has a husband who smuggles Chinese goods in from Nepal, while her children—‘charity cases’—go to one of the posh public schools. But she’s fresh and pretty, and then, of course, I don’t have many young women smiling at me these days. I shall be forty-three next month.