Uncles, Aunts and Elephants

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Where are we?’ asked one of the passengers.

  ‘A long way from anywhere,’ said another.

  ‘There must be a few islands in the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘But we may be at sea for days before we come to one of them.’

  ‘Days or even weeks,’ said the captain. ‘Let us look at our supplies.’

  The dinghy appeared to be fairly well provided with emergency rations: biscuits, raisins, chocolates (we’d lost our own) and enough water to last a week. There was also a first-aid box, which was put to immediate use, as Mr Muggeridge’s nose needed attention. A few others had cuts and bruises. One of the passengers had received a hard knock on the head and appeared to be suffering from a loss of memory. He had no idea how we happened to be drifting about in the middle of the Indian Ocean; he was convinced that we were on a pleasure cruise a few miles off Batavia.

  The unfamiliar motion of the dinghy, as it rose and fell in the troughs between the waves, resulted in almost everyone getting seasick. As no one could eat anything, a day’s rations were saved.

  The sun was very hot, and my father covered my head with a large spotted handkerchief. He’d always had a fancy for bandana handkerchiefs with yellow spots, and seldom carried fewer than two on his person; so he had one for himself too. The sola topee, well soaked in sea water, was being used by Mr Muggeridge.

  It was only when I had recovered to some extent from my seasickness that I remembered the valuable stamp album, and sat up, exclaiming, ‘The stamps! Did you bring the stamp album, Dad?’

  He shook his head ruefully. ‘It must be at the bottom of the sea by now,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I kept a few rare stamps in my wallet.’ And looking pleased with himself, he tapped the pocket of his bush shirt.

  The dinghy drifted all day, with no one having the least idea where it might be taking us.

  ‘Probably going round in circles,’ said Mr Muggeridge pessimistically.

  There was no compass and no sail, and paddling wouldn’t have got us far even if we’d had paddles; we could only resign ourselves to the whims of the current and hope it would take us towards land or at least to within hailing distance of some passing ship.

  The sun went down like an overripe tomato dissolving slowly in the sea. The darkness pressed down on us. It was a moonless night, and all we could see was the white foam on the crests of the waves. I lay with my head on my father’s shoulder, and looked up at the stars which glittered in the remote heavens.

  ‘Perhaps your friend Sono will look up at the sky tonight and see those same stars,’ said my father. ‘The world isn’t so big after all.’

  ‘All the same, there’s a lot of sea around us,’ said Mr Muggeridge from out of the darkness.

  Remembering Sono, I put my hand in my pocket and was reassured to feel the smooth outline of the jade seahorse.

  ‘I’ve still got Sono’s seahorse,’ I said, showing it to my father.

  ‘Keep it carefully,’ he said. ‘It may bring us luck.’

  ‘Are seahorses lucky?’

  ‘Who knows? But he gave it to you with love, and love is like a prayer. So keep it carefully.’

  I didn’t sleep much that night. I don’t think anyone slept. No one spoke much either, except, of course, Mr Muggeridge, who kept muttering something about cold beer and salami.

  I didn’t feel so sick the next day. By ten o’clock I was quite hungry; but breakfast consisted of two biscuits, a piece of chocolate and a little drinking water. It was another hot day, and we were soon very thirsty, but everyone agreed that we should ration ourselves strictly.

  Two or three still felt ill, but the others, including Mr Muggeridge, had recovered their appetites and normal spirits, and there was some discussion about the prospects of being picked up.

  ‘Are there any distress rockets in the dinghy?’ asked my father. ‘If we see a ship or a plane, we can fire a rocket and hope to be spotted. Otherwise there’s not much chance of our being seen from a distance.’

  A thorough search was made in the dinghy, but there were no rockets.

  ‘Someone must have used them last Guy Fawkes Day,’ commented Mr Muggeridge.

  ‘They don’t celebrate Guy Fawkes Day in Holland,’ said my father. ‘Guy Fawkes was an Englishman.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Muggeridge, not in the least put out. ‘I’ve always said, most great men are Englishmen. And what did this chap Guy Fawkes do?’

  ‘Tried to blow up Parliament,’ said my father.

  That afternoon we saw our first sharks. They were enormous creatures, and as they glided backward and forward under the boat it seemed they might hit and capsize us. They went away for some time, but returned in the evening.

  At night, as I lay half asleep beside my father, I felt a few drops of water strike my face. At first I thought it was the sea spray; but when the sprinkling continued, I realized that it was raining lightly.

  ‘Rain!’ I shouted, sitting up. ‘It’s raining!’

  Everyone woke up and did his best to collect water in mugs, hats or other containers. Mr Muggeridge lay back with his mouth open, drinking the rain as it fell.

  ‘This is more like it,’ he said.

  ‘You can have all the sun an’ sand in the world. Give me a rainy day in England!’

  But by early morning the clouds had passed, and the day turned out to be even hotter than the previous one. Soon we were all red and raw from sunburn. By midday even Mr Muggeridge was silent. No one had the energy to talk.

  Then my father whispered, ‘Can you hear a plane, lad?’

  I listened carefully, and above the hiss of the waves I heard what sounded like the distant drone of a plane; it must have been very far away, because we could not see it. Perhaps it was flying into the sun, and the glare was too much for our sore eyes; or perhaps we’d just imagined the sound.

  Then the Dutchman who’d lost his memory thought he saw land, and kept pointing towards the horizon and saying, ‘That’s Batavia, I told you we were close to shore!’ No one else saw anything. So my father and I weren’t the only ones imagining things.

  My father said, ‘It only goes to show that a man can see what he wants to see, even if there’s nothing to be seen!’

  The sharks were still with us. Mr Muggeridge began to resent them. He took off one of his shoes and hurled it at the nearest shark; but the big fish ignored the shoe and swam on after us.

  ‘Now, if your leg had been in that shoe, Mr Muggeridge, the shark might have accepted it,’ observed my father.

  ‘Don’t throw your shoes away,’ said the captain. ‘We might land on a deserted coastline and have to walk hundreds of miles!’

  A light breeze sprang up that evening, and the dinghy moved more swiftly on the choppy water.

  ‘At last we’re moving forward,’ announced the captain.

  ‘In circles,’ said Mr Muggeridge.

  But the breeze was refreshing; it cooled our burning limbs, and helped us to get some sleep. In the middle of the night I woke up feeling very hungry.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked my father, who had been awake all the time.

  ‘Just hungry,’ I said.

  ‘And what would you like to eat?’

  ‘Oranges!’

  He laughed. ‘No oranges on board. But I kept a piece of my chocolate for you. And there’s a little water, if you’re thirsty.’ I kept the chocolate in my mouth for a long time, trying to make it last. Then I sipped a little water.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I asked.

  ‘Ravenous! I could eat a whole turkey. When we get to Bombay or Madras or Colombo, or wherever it is we get to, we’ll go to the best restaurant in town and eat like — like — ‘

  ‘Like shipwrecked sailors!’ I said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever get to land, Dad?’

  ‘I’m sure we will. You’re not afraid, are you?’

  ‘No. Not as long as you’re with me.’

  Next morning, to e
veryone’s delight, we saw seagulls. This was a sure sign that land couldn’t be far away; but a dinghy could take days to drift a distance of thirty or forty miles. The birds wheeled noisily above the dinghy. Their cries were the first familiar sounds we had heard for three days and three nights, apart from the wind and the sea and our own weary voices.

  The sharks had disappeared, and that too was an encouraging sign. They didn’t like the oil slicks that were appearing in the water.

  But presently the gulls left us, and we feared we were drifting away from land.

  ‘Circles,’ repeated Mr Muggeridge. ‘Circles.’

  We had sufficient food and water for one more week at sea; but no one even wanted to think about spending another week at sea.

  The sun was a ball of fire. Our water ration wasn’t sufficient to quench our thirst. By noon, we were without much hope or energy.

  My father had his pipe in his mouth. He didn’t have any tobacco, but he liked holding the pipe between his teeth. He said it prevented his mouth from getting too dry.

  The sharks had come back.

  Mr Muggeridge removed his other shoe and threw it at them.

  ‘Nothing like a lovely wet English summer,’ he mumbled.

  I fell asleep in the well of the dinghy, my father’s large handkerchief spread over my face. The yellow spots on the cloth seemed to grow into enormous revolving suns.

  When I woke up, I found a huge shadow hanging over us. At first I thought it was a cloud. But it was a shifting shadow. My father took the handkerchief from my face and said, ‘You can wake up now, lad. We’ll be home and dry soon.’

  A fishing boat was beside us, and the shadow came from its wide, flapping sail. A number of bronzed, smiling, chattering fishermen — Burmese, as we discovered later — were gazing down at us from the deck of their boat.

  A few days later my father and I were in Bombay. My father sold his rare stamps for over a thousand rupees, and we were able to live in a comfortable hotel. Mr Muggeridge was flown back to England. Later we got a postcard from him saying the English rain was awful!

  ‘And what about us?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t we going back to England?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said my father. ‘You’ll be going to a boarding school in Simla, until the war’s over.’

  ‘But why should I leave you?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I’ve joined the RAF,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Don’t worry, I’m being posted to Delhi. I’ll be able to come up to see you sometimes.’

  A week later I was on a small train which went chugging up the steep mountain track to Simla. Several Indian, Anglo-Indian and English children tumbled around in the compartment. I felt quite out of place among them, as though I had grown out of their pranks. But I wasn’t unhappy. I knew my father would be coming to see me soon. He’d promised me some books, a pair of roller skates and a cricket bat, just as soon as he got his first month’s pay.

  Meanwhile, I had the jade seahorse which Sono had given me.

  And I have it with me today.

  The Black Cat

  Before the cat came, of course, there had to be a broomstick.

  In the bazaar of one of our hill stations is an old junk shop — dirty, dingy and dark — in which I often potter about looking for old books or Victorian bric-a-brac. Sometimes one comes across useful household items, but I do not usually notice these. I was, however, attracted to an old but well-preserved broom standing in a corner of the shop. A long-handled broom was just what I needed. I had no servant to sweep out the rooms of my cottage, and I did not enjoy bending over double when using the common short-handled jharoo.

  The old broom was priced at ten rupees. I haggled with the shopkeeper and got it for five. It was a strong broom, full of character, and I used it to good effect almost every morning. And there this story might have ended — or would never have begun — if I had not found the large black cat sitting on the garden wall.

  The black cat had bright yellow eyes, and it gave me a long, penetrating look, as though it were summing up my possibilities as an exploitable human. Though it miaowed once or twice, I paid no attention. I did not care much for cats. But when I went indoors, I found that the cat had followed and begun scratching at the pantry door.

  It must be hungry, I thought, and gave it some milk.

  The cat lapped up the milk, purring deeply all the while, then sprang up on a cupboard and made itself comfortable.

  Well, for several days there was no getting rid of that cat. It seemed completely at home, and merely tolerated my presence in the house. It was more interested in my broom than me, and would dance and skittle around the broom whenever I was sweeping the rooms. And when the broom was resting against the wall, the cat would sidle up to it, rubbing itself against the handle and purring loudly.

  A cat and a broomstick — the combination was suggestive, full of possibilities . . . The cottage was old, almost a hundred years old, and I wondered about the kind of tenants it might have had during these long years. I had been in the cottage only for a year. And though it stood alone in the midst of a forest of Himalayan oaks, I had never encountered any ghosts or spirits.

  Miss Bellows came to see me in the middle of July. I heard the tapping of a walking stick on the rocky path outside the cottage, a tapping which stopped near the gate.

  ‘Mr Bond!’ called an imperious voice. ‘Are you at home?’

  I had been doing some gardening, and looked up to find an elderly straight-backed Englishwoman peering at me over the gate.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said, dropping my hoe.

  ‘I believe you have my cat,’ said Miss Bellows.

  Though I had not met the lady before, I knew her by name and reputation. She was the oldest resident in the hill station.

  ‘I do have a cat,’ I said, ‘though it’s probably more correct to say that the cat has me. If it’s your cat, you’re welcome to it. Why don’t you come in while I look for her?’

  Miss Bellows stepped in. She wore a rather old-fashioned black dress, and her ancient but strong walnut stick had two or three curves in it and a knob instead of a handle.

  She made herself comfortable in an armchair while I went in search of the cat. But the cat was on one of her mysterious absences, and though I called for her in my most persuasive manner, she did not respond. I knew she was probably quite near. But cats are like that — perverse, obstinate creatures.

  When finally I returned to the sitting room, there was the cat, curled up on Miss Bellows’ lap.

  ‘Well, you’ve got her, I see. Would you like some tea before you go?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Bellows. ‘I don’t drink tea.’

  ‘Something stronger, perhaps. A little brandy?’ She looked up at me rather sharply. Disconcerted, I hastened to add, ‘Not that I drink much, you know. I keep a little in the house for emergencies. It helps ward off colds and things. It’s particularly good for — er — well, for colds,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘I see your kettle’s boiling,’ she said. ‘Can I have some hot water?’

  ‘Hot water? Certainly.’ I was a little puzzled, but I did not want to antagonize Miss Bellows at our first meeting.

  ‘Thank you. And a glass.’

  She took the glass and I went to get the kettle. From the pocket of her voluminous dress, she extracted two small packets, similar to those containing chemists’ powders. Opening both packets, she poured first a purple powder and then a crimson powder into the glass. Nothing happened.

  ‘Now the water, please,’ she said.

  ‘It’s boiling hot!’

  ‘Never mind.’

  I poured boiling water into her glass, and there was a terrific fizzing and bubbling as the frothy stuff rose to the rim. It gave off a horrible stench. The potion was so hot that I thought it would crack the glass; but before this could happen, Miss Bellows put it to her lips and drained the contents.

  ‘I think I’ll be going now,’ she said, putting the glass down and smacking her l
ips. The cat, tail in the air, voiced its agreement. Said Miss Bellows said, ‘I’m much obliged to you, young man.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I said humbly. ‘Always at your service.’

  She gave me her thin, bony hand, and held mine in an icy grip.

  I saw Miss Bellows and the black cat to the gate, and returned pensively to my sitting room. Living alone was beginning to tell on my nerves and imagination. I made a half-hearted attempt to laugh at my fancies, but the laugh stuck in my throat. I couldn’t help noticing that the broom was missing from its corner.

  I dashed out of the cottage and looked up and down the path. There was no one to be seen. In the gathering darkness I could hear Miss Bellows’ laughter, followed by a snatch of song:

  With the darkness round me growing,

  And the moon behind my hat,

  You will soon have trouble knowing

  Which is witch and witch’s cat.

  Something whirred overhead like a Diwali rocket.

  I looked up and saw them silhouetted against the rising moon. Miss Bellows and her cat were riding away on my broomstick.

  Grandfather’s Many Faces

  Grandfather had many gifts, but perhaps the most unusual — and at times startling — was his ability to disguise himself and take on the persona of another person, often a street vendor or carpenter or washerman: someone he had seen around for some time, and whose habits and characteristics he had studied.

  His normal attire was that of the average Anglo-Indian or Englishman — bush shirt, khaki shorts, occasionally a sola topee or sun helmet — but if you rummaged through his cupboards you would find a strange assortment of garments: dhotis, lungis, pyjamas, embroidered shirts, colourful turbans . . . He could be a maharaja one day, a beggar the next. Yes, he even had a brass begging bowl, but he used it only once, just to see if he could pass himself off as a bent-double beggar hobbling through the bazaar. He wasn’t recognized but he had to admit that begging was a most difficult art.