by Ruskin Bond
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Uncle Bill.
‘It’s a custom in these parts. You turn the tray with the sun, a complete revolution. It brings good luck.’
Uncle Bill looked thoughtful for a few moments, then said, ‘Well, let’s have some more luck,’ and turned the tray around again.
‘Now you’ve spoilt it,’ I said. ‘You’re not supposed to keep revolving it! That’s bad luck. I’ll have to turn it about again to cancel out the bad luck.’
The tray swung round once more, and Uncle Bill had the glass that was meant for me.
‘Cheers!’ I said, and drank from my glass.
It was good sherry. Uncle Bill hesitated. Then he shrugged, said ‘Cheers’, and drained his glass quickly.
But he did not offer to fill the glasses again.
Early next morning he was taken violently ill. I heard him retching in his room, and I got up and went to see if there was anything I could do. He was groaning, his head hanging over the side of the bed. I brought him a basin and a jug of water.
‘Would you like me to fetch a doctor?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be all right. It must be something I ate.’
‘It’s probably the water. It’s not too good at this time of the year. Many people come down with gastric trouble during their first few days in Fosterganj.’
‘Ah, that must be it,’ he said, and doubled up as a fresh spasm of pain and nausea swept over him.
He was better by the evening — whatever had gone into the glass must have been by way of the preliminary dose, and a day later he was well enough to pack his suitcase and announce his departure. The climate of Fosterganj did not agree with him, he told me.
Just before he left, I said, ‘Tell me, Uncle, why did you drink it?’
‘Drink what? The water?’
‘No, the glass of sherry into which you’d slipped one of your famous powders.’
He gaped at me, then gave a nervous, whinnying laugh. ‘You will have your little joke, won’t you?’
‘No, I mean it,’ I said. ‘Why did you drink the stuff? It was meant for me, of course.’
He looked down at his shoes, then gave a little shrug and turned away.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said, ‘it seemed the only decent thing to do.’
I’ll say this for Uncle Bill: he was always the perfect gentleman.
Here Comes Mr Oliver
Apart from being our Scoutmaster, Mr Oliver was also our maths teacher, a subject in which I had some difficulty in obtaining pass marks. Sometimes I scraped through; usually I got something like twenty or thirty out of a hundred.
‘Failed again, Bond,’ Mr Oliver would say. ‘What will you do when you grow up?’
‘Become a Scoutmaster, sir.’
‘Scoutmasters don’t get paid. It’s an honorary job. But you could become a cook. That would suit you.’ He hadn’t forgotten our Scout camp, when I had been the camp’s cook.
If Mr Oliver was in a good mood, he’d give me grace marks, passing me by a mark or two. He wasn’t a hard man, but he seldom smiled. He was very dark, thin, stooped (from a distance he looked like a question mark) and balding. He was about forty, still a bachelor, and it was said that he had been unlucky in love — that the girl he was going to marry had jilted him at the last moment, had run away with a sailor while he was waiting at the church, ready for the wedding ceremony. No wonder he always had such a sorrowful look.
Mr Oliver did have one inseparable companion — a Dachshund, a snappy little ‘sausage’ of a dog, who looked upon the human race and especially small boys with a certain disdain and frequent hostility. We called the dog Hitler. He was impervious to overtures of friendship, and if you tried to pat or stroke him, he would do his best to bite your fingers — or your shin or ankle. However, he was devoted to Mr Oliver and followed him everywhere, except into the classroom; this our Headmaster would not allow.
You remember that old nursery rhyme:
Mary had a Little Lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went
The Lamb was sure to go.
Well, we made up our own version of the rhyme, and I must confess to having had a hand in its composition. It went like this:
Olly had a little dog,
’Twas never out of sight,
And everyone that Olly met
The dog was sure to bite!
It followed him about the school grounds. It followed him when he took a walk through the pines, to the Brockhurst tennis courts. It followed him into town and home again. Mr Oliver had no other friend, no other companion. The dog slept at the foot of Mr Oliver’s bed. It did not sit at the breakfast table, but it had buttered toast for breakfast and soup and crackers for dinner. Mr Oliver had to take his lunch in the dining hall with the staff and boys, but he had an arrangement with one of the bearers whereby a plate of dal, rice and chapattis made its way to Mr Oliver’s quarters and his well-fed pet.
And then tragedy struck.
Mr Oliver and Hitler were returning to school after their evening walk through the pines. It was dusk, and the light was fading fast. Out of the shadows of the trees emerged a lean and hungry panther. It pounced on the hapless dog, flung it across the road, seized it between its powerful jaws, and made off with its victim into the darkness of the forest.
Mr Oliver, untouched, was frozen into immobility for at least a minute. Then he began calling for help. Some bystanders who had witnessed the incident began shouting, too. Mr Oliver ran into the forest, but there was no sign of dog or panther.
Mr Oliver appeared to be a broken man. He went about his duties with a poker face, but we could all tell that he was grieving for his lost companion. In the classroom he was listless, indifferent to whether or not we followed his calculations on the blackboard. In times of personal loss, the Highest Common Factor made no sense.
Mr Oliver was not to be seen on his evening walk. He stayed in his room, playing cards with himself. He played with his food, pushing most of it aside; there were no chapattis to send home.
‘Olly needs another pet,’ said Bimal, wise in the ways of adults.
‘Or a wife,’ suggested Tata, who thought on those lines.
‘He’s too old. Over forty.’
‘A pet is best,’ I decided. ‘What about a parrot?’
‘You can’t take a parrot for a walk,’ said Bimal. Olly wants someone to walk beside him.’
‘A cat, maybe . . .’
‘Hitler hated cats. A cat would be an insult to Hitler’s memory.’
‘He needs another Dachshund. But there aren’t any around here.’
‘Any dog will do. We’ll ask Chippu to get us a pup.’
Chippu ran the tuck shop. He lived in the Chotta Simla bazaar, and occasionally we would ask him to bring us tops or marbles or comics or little things that we couldn’t get in school. Five of us Boy Scouts contributed a rupee each, and we gave Chippu five rupees and asked him to get us a pup. ‘A good breed,’ we told him. ‘Not a mongrel.’
The next evening Chippu turned up with a pup that seemed to be a combination of at least five different breeds — all good ones, no doubt. One ear lay flat, the other stood upright. It was spotted like a Dalmatian, but it had the legs of a Spaniel and the tail of a Pomeranian. It was quite fluffy and playful, and the tail wagged a lot, which was more than Hitler’s ever did.
‘It’s quite pretty,’ said Tata. ‘Must be a female.’
‘He may not want a female,’ put in Bimal.
‘Let’s give it a try,’ I said.
During our play hour, before the bell rang for supper, we left the pup on the steps outside Mr Oliver’s front door. Then we knocked, and sped into the hibiscus bushes that lined the pathway.
Mr Oliver opened the door. He looked down at the pup with an expressionless face. The pup began to paw at Mr Oliver’s shoes, loosening one of his laces in the process.
‘Away with you!’ mutter
ed Mr Oliver. ‘Buzz off!’ And he pushed the pup away, gently but firmly.
After a break of ten minutes we tried again, but the result was much the same. We now had a playful pup on our hands, and Chippu had gone home for the night. We would have to conceal it in the dormitory.
At first we hid the pup in Bimal’s locker, but it began yapping and struggling to get out. Tata took it into the shower room, but it wouldn’t stay there either. It began running around the dormitory, playing with socks, shoes, slippers, and anything else it could get hold of.
‘Watch out!’ hissed one of the boys. ‘Here’s Ma Fisher!’
Mrs Fisher, the Headmaster’s wife, was on her nightly rounds, checking to make sure we were all in bed and not up to some mischief.
I grabbed the pup and hid it under my blankets. It was quiet there, happy to nibble at my toes. When Ma Fisher had gone, I let the pup loose again, and for the rest of the night it had the freedom of the dormitory.
At the crack of dawn, before first light, Bimal and I sped out of the dormitory in our pyjamas, taking the pup with us. We banged hard on Mr Oliver’s door, and kept knocking until we heard footsteps approaching. As soon as the door opened just a bit (for Mr Oliver, being a cautious man, did not open it all at once) we pushed the pup inside and ran for our lives.
Mr Oliver came to class as usual, but there was no pup with him. Three or four days passed, and still no sign of the pup! Had he passed it on to someone else, or simply let it wander off on its own?
‘Here comes Olly!’ called Bimal, from our vantage point near the school bell.
Mr Oliver was setting out for his evening walk. He was carrying a stout walnut-wood walking stick — to keep panthers at bay, no doubt. He looked neither left nor right, and if he noticed us watching him, he gave no sign of it. But then, scurrying behind him, came the pup! The creature of various good breeds was accompanying Mr Oliver on his walk. It had been well brushed and was wearing a bright red collar. Like Mr Oliver it took no notice of us, but scampered along beside its new master.
Mr Oliver and the pup were soon inseparable companions, and my friends and I were quite pleased with ourselves. Mr Oliver gave absolutely no indication that he knew where the pup had come from, but when the end-of-term exams were over, and Bimal and I were sure we had failed our maths paper, we were surprised to find that we had passed after all — with grace marks!
‘Good old Olly!’ said Bimal. ‘So he knew all the time.’
Tata, of course, did not need grace marks; he was a whiz at maths. But Bimal and I decided we would thank Mr Oliver for his kindness.
‘Nothing to thank me for,’ said Mr Oliver brusquely. ‘I’ve seen enough of you two in junior school. It’s high time you went up to the senior school — and God help you there!’
Mr Oliver’s Diary
Mr Oliver, our maths teacher and Scoutmaster, kept a diary. Here is an extract.
25 April
We have a sleepwalker in the junior dormitory.
Last night Basu, who is 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 is going to town, sir!’ exclaimed Basu.
‘He can’t sleepwalk all the way to town.’
I was right. He walked about 100 metres up the road, then turned, and walked straight back straight past us!
‘His eyes are open, but he doesn’t see us,’ observed Basu.
‘Definitely sleepwalking.’
Chopra next made a round of H.M.’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 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 ‘bottom’s 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.
4 May
Someone has disfigured our Founder’s portrait, and H.M. is furious.
The portrait hangs at one end of our assembly hall — a portrait in oils of Rev Constant Endover, who started our schools a century ago. His other achievement was translating the gospels into Pashtu. 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!
We were all ordered in the Assembly Hall, where H.M. harangued us for half an hour, describing the unknown perpetrator as a fiendish and sinister creature who would grow up to be a terrorist. To make matters worse, a closer scrutiny of the portrait’s inscription revealed that the lettering of the Founder’s name had been altered, so that it read ‘Rev Constant Bendover’!
When this was discovered, some of us couldn’t help laughing; this was infectious, and ripples of laughter spread through the hall.
‘Silence!’ bellowed H.M. ‘I want to know who committed this outrage!’
There was an absolute silence, and no one attempted to break it by confessing to the crime.
‘Unless the culprit comes forward there will be no exits this weekend.’
A murmur of protest, but no one spoke out.
‘And the tuck shop will be closed for a week!’ added H.M. Groans all around. This is the unkindest cut of all.
Suddenly a squeaky voice from the front row (Class 1) piped up, ‘It was me, sir!’
Popat, the smallest boy in the school, had confessed to the greatest of crimes!
Although taken aback, H.M. was always fussy about grammar.
‘It was I, Popat!’ corrected H.M., his passion for correct usage strong even in a crisis.
‘No, sir, it wasn’t!’ cried Popat, under the impression that H.M. was taking the blame. ‘It was me!’
‘It was I!’
‘It was me!’
At this exchange, everyone in the hall broke down in fits of laughter, and eventually H.M. couldn’t help smiling as well.
Popat promised to clean up the portrait in his spare time, and Miss Ramola promised to help him. Weekend exits restored, tuck shop closure postponed, and Popat a hero for a day.
20 June
Conducted the school marathon. Everyone ran, but hardly anyone crossed the finishing line.
I accompanied the boys to the starting point, near the Governor’s mansion, and flagged them off, then followed at a slow jog.
The first to drop out was Chopra, our sleepwalker. I found him on the parapet, holding his sides.
‘Exhausted, sir,’ he said. ‘The distance is too much for me.’
‘You cover enough distance in your sleep,’ I remarked. ‘You’ve led us a merry chase on several occasions.’
‘Maybe that’s why I’m so tired, sir. All that sleepwalking. But I don’t remember any of it.’
&nbs
p; ‘Well, if you finish the marathon perhaps you’ll be too tired to sleepwalk, so get a move on !’
Chopra groaned, got up, and trundled down the road. The next dropout was Gautam.
‘I’ve got a stich in my side, sir. Not used to so much running.’
‘Well, here’s your chance to get used to it. Exits next Saturday for the first three to cross the finishing line. You’re a good sprinter, always first to reach the tuck shop, so try your luck at a longer distance.’ And I prodded him into action.
Rounded a corner and found Tata, Mirchi and Basu standing around a small fire on which corn cobs were being roasted.
‘Have a bhutta, sir,’ said Tata, always hospitable.
‘They’re good with a little salt,’ added Mirchi.
‘But best with butter,’ said Basu,’ except we don’t have any butter.’
‘I’ll butter the three of you if you don’t get a move on,’ I said. And they collected their roasted corn and sped down the road. But I’ve no idea where they went next, because they did not finish the race.
Caught up with Rudra who was strolling along, talking to someone on his cell phone.
‘You know cell phones are not allowed in school,’ I said, taking it from him.
‘But we’re outside the school, sir. And I was only listening to music.’
‘You can collect the phone at the end of the term. Now make music with your feet. Let’s see you tap dance down the school.’
Rudra grinned and started dancing on the road.
‘That’s not a tap dance,’ I said.
‘No sir, it’s Kathakali. Didn’t you know I’m from the South?’
‘Well, Kathakali down to the school, then. Maybe you’ll get a prize from Mrs Tonk.’
Mrs Tonk, principal of the girls’ school, was waiting to give away the first prize — a hamper of chocolates, biscuits, buns, and laddoos. And who should come in first but ‘Fatty’ Prakash, huffing and puffing, but pounding down the road with grim determination. He must have had prior information as to the nature of the first prize. If you have an object in life, you will attain it with a little extra effort.
