Ruskin Bond Children's Omnibus Volume 2

by Ruskin Bond

  Mr Oliver returned to his tent in a huff.

  But I relented and made him a grand omelette, garnishing it with dandelion leaves and a chilli.

  ‘Never had such an omelette before,’ confessed Mr Oliver.

  ‘Would you like another, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Bond, tomorrow. We’ll breakfast early tomorrow.’

  But we had to break up our camp before we could do that because in the early hours of the next morning, a bear strayed into our camp, entered the tent where our stores were kept, and created havoc with all our provisions, even rolling our biggest degchi down the hillside.

  In the confusion and uproar that followed, the bear entered Mr Oliver’s tent (our Scoutmaster was already outside, fortunately) and came out entangled in his dressing gown. It then made off towards the forest, a comical sight in its borrowed clothes.

  And though we were a troop of brave little scouts, we thought it better to let the bear keep the gown.

  UR SCHOOL dormitory was a very long room with about thirty beds, fifteen on either side of the room. This was good for pillow fights. Class V would take on Class VI (the two senior classes in our Prep school) and there would be plenty of space for leaping, struggling small boys, pillows flying, feathers flying, until there was a cry of ‘Here comes Fishy!’ or ‘Here comes Olly!’ and either Mr Fisher, the Headmaster, or Mr Oliver, the Senior Master, would come striding in, cane in hand, to put an end to the general mayhem. Pillow fights were allowed, up to a point; nobody got hurt. But parents sometimes complained if, at the end of the term, a boy came home with a pillow devoid of cotton-wool or feathers.

  In that last year at Prep school in Shimla, there were four of us who were close friends—Bimal, whose home was in Bombay; Riaz, who came from Lahore; Bran, who hailed from Vellore; and your narrator, who lived wherever his father (then in the Air Force) was posted.

  We called ourselves the ‘Four Feathers’, the feathers signifying that we were companions in adventure, comrades-in-arms, and knights of the round table. Bimal adopted a peacock’s feather as his emblem—he was always a bit showy. Riaz chose a falcon’s feather—although we couldn’t find one. Bran and I were at first offered crows or murghi feathers, but we protested vigorously and threatened a walkout. Finally, I settled for a parrot’s feather (taken from Mrs Fisher’s pet parrot), and Bran found a woodpecker’s, which suited him, as he was always knocking things about.

  Bimal was all thin legs and arms, so light and frisky that at times he seemed to be walking on air. We called him ‘Bambi’, after the delicate little deer in the Disney film. Riaz, on the other hand, was a sturdy boy, good at games though not very studious; but always good-natured, always smiling.

  Bran was a dark, good-looking boy from the South; he was just a little spoilt—hated being given out in a cricket match and would refuse to leave the crease!—but he was affectionate and a loyal friend. I was the ‘scribe’—good at inventing stories in order to get out of scrapes—but hopeless at sums, my highest marks being twenty-two out of one hundred.

  On Sunday afternoons, when there were no classes or organized games, we were allowed to roam about on the hillside below the school. The Four Feathers would laze about on the short summer grass, sharing the occasional food parcel from home, reading comics (sometimes a book), and making plans for the long winter holidays. My father, who collected everything from stamps to seashells to butterflies, had given me a butterfly net and urged me to try and catch a rare species which, he said, was found only near Chotta Shimla. He described it as a large purple butterfly with yellow and black borders on its wings. A Purple Emperor, I think it was called. As I wasn’t very good at identifying butterflies, I would chase anything that happened to flit across the school grounds, usually ending up with Common Red Admirals, Clouded Yellows, or Cabbage Whites. But that Purple Emperor—that rare specimen being sought by collectors the world over—proved elusive. I would have to seek my fortune in some other line of endeavour.

  One day, scrambling about among the rocks, and thorny bushes below the school, I almost fell over a small bundle lying in the shade of a young spruce tree. On taking a closer look, I discovered that the bundle was really a baby, wrapped up in a tattered old blanket.

  ‘Feathers, feathers!’ I called, ‘come here and look. A baby’s been left here!’

  The feathers joined me and we all stared down at the infant, who was fast asleep.

  ‘Who would leave a baby on the hillside?’ asked Bimal of no one in particular.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t want it,’ said Bran.

  ‘And hoped some good people would come along and keep it,’ said Riaz.’

  ‘A panther might have come along instead,’ I said. ‘Can’t leave it here.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to adopt it,’ said Bimal.

  ‘We can’t adopt a baby,’ said Bran.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We have to be married.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Not us, you dope. The grown-ups who adopt babies.’

  Well, we can’t just leave it here for grows-ups to come along,’ I said.

  ‘We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl,’ said Riaz.

  ‘Makes no difference. A baby’s a baby. Let’s take it back to school.’

  ‘And keep it in the dormitory?’

  ‘Of course not. Who’s going to feed it? Babies need milk. We’ll hand it over to Mrs Fisher. She doesn’t have a baby.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want one. Look, it’s beginning to cry. Let’s hurry!’

  Riaz picked up the wide-awake and crying baby and gave it to Bimal who gave it to Bran who gave it to me. The Four Feathers marched up the hill to school with a very noisy baby.

  ‘Now it’s done potty in the blanket,’ I complained. ‘And some, of it’s on my shirt.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bimal. ‘It’s in a good cause. You’re a Boy Scout, remember? You’re supposed to help people in distress.’

  The headmaster and his wife were in their drawing room, enjoying their afternoon tea and cakes. We trudged in, and Bimal announced, ‘We’ve got something for Mrs Fisher.’

  Mrs Fisher took one look at the bundle in my arms and let out a shriek. ‘What have you brought here, Bond?’

  ‘A baby, ma’am. I think it’s a girl. Do you want to adopt it?’

  Mrs Fisher threw up her arms in consternation, and turned to her husband. ‘What are we to do, Frank? These boys are impossible. They’ve picked up someone’s child!’

  ‘We’ll have to inform the police,’ said Mr Fisher, reaching for the telephone. ‘We can’t have lost babies in the school.’

  Just then there was a commotion outside, and a wild-eyed woman, her clothes dishevelled, entered at the front door accompanied by several menfolk from one of the villages. She ran towards us, crying out, ‘My baby, my baby! Mera bachcha! You’ve stolen my baby!’

  ‘We found it on the hillside,’ I stammered. ‘That’s right,’ said Bran. ‘Finder’s keepers!’

  ‘Quiet, Adams,’ said Mr Fisher, holding up his hand for order and addressing the villagers in a friendly manner. ‘These boys found the baby alone on the hillside and brought it here before…before…’

  ‘Before the hyenas got it,’ I put in.

  ‘Quite right, Bond. And why did you leave your child alone?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘I put her down for five minutes so that I could climb the plum tree and collect the plums. When I came down, the baby had gone! But I could hear it crying up on the hill. I called the menfolk and we come looking for it.’

  ‘Well, here’s your baby,’ I said, thrusting it into her arms. By then I was glad to be rid of it! ‘Look after it properly in future.’

  ‘Kidnapper!’ she screamed at me.

  Mr Fisher succeeded in mollifying the villagers. ‘These boys are good Scouts,’ he told them. ‘It’s their business to help people.’

  ‘Scout Law Number Three, sir,’ I added. ‘To be useful and helpful.’
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  And then the Headmaster turned the tables on the villagers. ‘By the way, those plum trees belong to the school. So do the peaches and apricots. Now I know why they’ve been disappearing so fast!’

  The villagers, a little chastened, went their way.

  Mr Fisher reached for his cane. From the way he fondled it I knew he was itching to use it on our bottoms.

  ‘No, Frank,’ said Mrs Fisher, intervening on our behalf. ‘It was really very sweet of them to look after that baby. And look at Bond —he’s got baby-goo all over his clothes.’

  ‘So he has. Go and take a bath, all of you. And what are you grinning about, Bond?’

  ‘Scout Law Number Eight, sir. A Scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties.’

  And so ended the first adventure of the Four Feathers.

  My best friend

  Is the baker’s son;

  I gave him a book

  And he gave me a bun.

  I told him a tale

  Of a magical lake,

  And he was so thrilled

  That he baked me a cake.

  Yes, he’s my best friend;

  We go cycling together

  On bright sunny days,

  And even in rain and bad weather.

  And, if we feel hungry,

  There’s always a pie

  Or a pastry to munch on,

  As we go riding by!

  OU’RE NO beauty! Can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’

  With these words Aunt Ruby would taunt the unfortunate parakeet who glared morosely at everyone from his ornamental cage at one end of the long veranda of Granny’s bungalow in North India.

  In those distant days, almost everyone—Indian or European—kept a pet parrot or parakeet, or ‘lovebird’ as some of the smaller ones were called. Sometimes these birds became great talkers, or rather mimics, and would learn to recite entire mantras (religious chants), or admonitions to the children of the house, such as ‘Paro, beta, paro!’ (‘Study, child, study!’) or, for the benefit of boys like me—‘Don’t be greedy, don’t be greedy.’

  These expressions were, of course, picked up by the parrot over a period of time, after many repetitions by whichever member of the household had taken on the task of teaching the bird to talk.

  But our parrot refused to talk.

  He’d been bought by Aunt Ruby from a birdcatcher who’d visited all the houses on our road, selling caged birds ranging from colourful budgerigars to chirpy little munnias and even common sparrows that had been dabbed with paint and passed off as some exotic species. Neither Granny nor Grandfather were keen on keeping caged birds as pets, but Aunt Ruby threatened to throw a tantrum if she did not get her way—and Aunt Ruby’s tantrums were dreadful to behold.

  Anyway, she insisted on keeping the parrot and teaching it to talk. But the bird took an instant dislike to my aunt and resisted all her blandishments.

  ‘Kiss, kiss,’ Aunt Ruby would coo, putting her face close to the barge of the cage. But the parrot would back away, its beady little eyes getting even smaller with anger at the prospect of being kissed by Aunt Ruby. And, on one occasion, it lunged forward without warning and knocked my aunt’s spectacles off her nose.

  After that, Aunt Ruby gave up her endearments and became quite hostile towards the poor bird, making faces at it and calling out, ‘Can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’ and other nasty comments.

  It fell upon me, then ten years old, to feed the parrot, and it seemed quite happy to receive green chillies and ripe tomatoes from my hands, these delicacies being supplemented by slices of mango, for it was then the mango season. It also gave me an opportunity to consume a couple of mangoes while feeding the parrot.

  One afternoon, while everyone was indoors enjoying a siesta, I gave the parrot his lunch and then deliberately left the cage door open. Seconds later, the bird was winging its way to the freedom of the mango orchard.

  At the same time Grandfather came on to the veranda, and remarked, ‘I see your aunt’s parrot has escaped.’

  ‘The door was quite loose,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Well, I don’t suppose we’ll see it again.’

  Aunt Ruby was upset at first, and threatened to buy another bird. We put her off by promising to buy her a bowl of goldfish.

  ‘But goldfish don’t talk,’ she protested.

  ‘Well, neither did your bird,’ said Grandfather. ‘So we’ll get you a gramophone. You can listen to Clara Cluck all day. They say she sings like a nightingale.’

  I thought we’d never see the parrot again, but it probably missed its green chillies, because a few days later, I found the bird sitting on the veranda railing, looking expectantly at me with its head cocked to one side. Unselfishly, I gave the parrot half of my mango.

  While the bird was enjoying the mango, Aunt Ruby emerged from her room and, with a cry of surprise, called out, ‘Look, my parrot’s come back! He must have missed me!’

  With a loud squawk, the parrot flew out of her reach and, perching on the nearest rose bush, glared at Aunt Ruby and shrieked at her in my aunt’s familiar tones, ‘You’re no beauty! Can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’

  Aunt Ruby went ruby red and dashed indoors. But that wasn’t the end of the affair. The parrot became a frequent visitor to the garden and veranda and whenever it saw Aunt Ruby it would call out, ‘You’re no beauty, you’re no beauty! Can’t sing, can’t dance!’

  The parrot had learnt to talk after all.

  HOUGH THEIR numbers have diminished over the years, there are still a few compulsive daily walkers around: the odd ones, the strange ones, who will walk all day, here, there and everywhere, not in order to get somewhere, but to escape from their homes, their lonely rooms, their mirrors, themselves…

  Those of us who must work for a living and would love to be able to walk a little more don’t often get the chance. There are offices to attend, deadlines to be met, trains or planes to be caught, deals to be struck, people to deal with. It’s the rat race for most people, whether they like it or not. So who are these lucky ones, a small minority it has to be said, who find time to walk all over this hill station from morning to night?

  Some are fitness freaks, I suppose, but several are just unhappy souls who find some release, some meaning, in covering miles and miles of highway without so much as a nod in the direction of others on the road. They are not looking at anything as they walk, not even at a violet in a mossy stone.

  Here comes Miss Romola. She’s been at it for years. A retired schoolmistress who never married. No friends. Lonely as hell. Not even a visit from a former pupil. She could not have been very popular.

  She has money in the bank. She owns her own flat. But she doesn’t spend much time in it. I see her from my window, tramping up the road to Lal Tibba. She strides around the mountain like the character in the old song ‘She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain’, only she doesn’t wear pink pyjamas; she dresses in slacks and a shirt. She doesn’t stop to talk to anyone. It’s quick march to the top of the mountain, and then down again, home again, jiggety-jig. When she has to go down to Dehradun (too long a walk even for her), she stops a car and catches a lift. No taxis for her; not even the bus.

  Miss Romola’s chief pleasure in life comes from conserving her money. There are people like that. They view the rest of the world with suspicion. An overture of friendship will be construed as taking an undue interest in her assets. We are all part of an international conspiracy to relieve her of her material possessions. She has no servants, no friends; even her relatives are kept at a safe distance.

  A similar sort of character but even more eccentric is Mr Sen, who used to live in the USA and walks from the Happy Valley to Landour (five miles) and back every day, in all seasons, year in and year out. Once or twice every week, he will stop at the Community Hospital to have his blood pressure checked or undergo a blood or urine test. With all that walking, he should have no health problems, but he is a hypochondriac and is convinced that he is dy
ing of something or the other.

  He came to see me once. Unlike Miss Romola, he seemed to want a friend, but his neurotic nature turned people away. He was convinced that he was surrounded by individual and collective hostility. People were always staring at him, he told me. I couldn’t help wondering why, because he looked fairly nondescript. He wore conventional western clothes, perfectly acceptable in urban India, and looked respectable enough, except for a constant nervous turning of the head, looking to the left, right, or behind, as though to check on anyone who might be following him. He was convinced that he was being followed at all times.

  ‘By whom?’ I asked.

  ‘Agents of the government,’ he said.

  ‘But why should they follow you?’

  ‘I look different,’ he said. ‘They see me as an outsider. They think I work for the CIA.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No, no.’ He shied nervously away from me. ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Only because you. brought the subject up. I haven’t noticed anyone following you.’

  ‘They’re very clever about it. Perhaps you’re following me too.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t walk as fast or as far as you,’ I said with a laugh; but he wasn’t amused. He never smiled, never laughed. He did not feel safe in India, he confided. The saffron brigade was after him.

  ‘But why?’ I asked. ‘They’re not after me. And you’re a Hindu with a Hindu name.’

  ‘Ah yes, but I don’t look like one.’

  ‘Well, I don’t look like a Taoist monk, but that’s what I am,’ I said, adding, in a more jocular manner: ‘I know how to become invisible, and you wouldn’t know I’m around. That’s why no one follows me. I have this wonderful cloak, you see, and when I wear it I become invisible.’

  ‘Can you lend it to me?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, ‘but it’s at the cleaners right now. Maybe next week.’

  ‘Crazy,’ he muttered. ‘Quite mad.’ And he hurried on.