The Parrot Who Wouldn't Talk & Other Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  In 1888, the regiment got orders to proceed to Calcutta, en route to Burma, where it was to take part in the Chin Lushai Expedition. All pets had to be left behind, and Dickens was no exception.

  But Dicky had his own views on the subject.

  The regiment travelled in stages, marching along the Grand Trunk Road, moving at night and going into rest camps for the day.

  Dickens caught up on the third day. He arrived in camp after a journey of more than three hundred kilometres—dull, dejected and starving, as he still depended on being fed from Great-grandfather’s mouth.

  Route marching and travelling by train (the railway was just beginning to spread across India), the battalion finally reached Calcutta. From there, contrary to orders, Dickens embarked for Burma along with the soldiers.

  On board the ship, Dickens would amuse himself by peeping from the portholes and flapping from one to the other. He would also go up on the deck, and sometimes even take experimental flights out to the sea. But one day he was caught in a gale and had such difficulty getting back to the ship that he gave up that kind of adventuring.

  Dickens stayed with his regiment all through the expedition and the campaign. Many of his soldier friends lost their lives, but Great-grandfather and Dickens survived the fighting and returned safely to Calcutta.

  Great-grandfather, now a Corporal, was given six months’ home leave along with the rest of the regiment. This meant sailing home to England.

  During the first part of the voyage, Dicky was his usual cheerful self. But when the ship left the Suez Canal, the weather grew cold and he was no longer to be seen on the yardarms or on the bridge with the Captain. He even lost interest in going on deck with Great-grandfather, preferring to stay with the parrots on the waste deck.

  After the ship passed Gibraltar, Dickens went below. He never came on deck again.

  Dickens was laid out in a Huntley and Palmers biscuit tin, and buried at sea. Not, perhaps, with full military honours, but certainly to the sound of Great- grandfather’s bagpipes playing The Last Post.

  Boy Scouts Forever!

  I was a Boy Scout once, although I couldn’t tell a slip knot from a granny knot, or a reef knot from a thief knot, except that a thief knot was supposed to be used to tie up a thief, should you happen to catch one! I have never caught a thief, and wouldn’t know what to do with one since I can’t tie a knot. Just let him go with a warning, I suppose. Tell him to become a Boy Scout.

  ‘Be prepared!’ That’s the Boy Scout motto. And a good one, too. But I never seem to be well prepared for anything, be it an exam or a journey or the roof blowing off my room. I get halfway through a speech and then forget what I have to say next. Or I make a new suit to attend a friend’s wedding, and then turn up in my pyjamas.

  So how did I, the most impractical of boys, become a Boy Scout? I was at boarding school in Simla when it happened.

  Well, it seems a rumour had gone around the junior school (I was still a junior then) that I was a good cook. I had never cooked anything in my life, but of course I had spent a lot of time in the tuck shop making suggestions and advising Chippu, who ran the tuck shop, and encouraging him to make more and better samosas, jalebis, tikkees and pakoras. For my unwanted advice he would favour me with an occasional free samosa, so naturally I looked upon him as a friend and benefactor. With this qualification I was given a cookery badge and put in charge of our troop’s supply of rations.

  There were about twenty of us in our troop, and during the summer break our Scoutmaster, Mr Oliver, took us on a camping expedition to Tara Devi, a temple-crowned mountain a few miles outside Simla. That first night we were put to work, peeling potatoes, skinning onions, shelling peas and pounding masalas. These various ingredients being ready, I was asked—as the troop’s cookery expert—what should be done with them.

  ‘Put everything in that big degchi,’ I ordered. ‘Pour half a tin of ghee over the lot. Add some nettle leaves and cook for half an hour.’

  When this was done, everyone had a taste, but the general opinion was that the dish lacked something.

  ‘More salt,’ I suggested.

  More salt was added. It still lacked something.

  ‘Add a cup of sugar,’ I ordered.

  Sugar was added to the concoction. But still it lacked something.

  ‘We forgot to add tomatoes,’ said Bimal, one of the Scouts.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘We have tomato sauce. Add a bottle of tomato sauce!’

  ‘How about some vinegar?’ asked another boy.

  ‘Just the thing,’ I said. ‘A cup of vinegar!’

  ‘Now it’s too sour,’ said one of the tasters.

  ‘What jam did we bring?’ I asked.

  ‘Gooseberry jam.’

  ‘Just the thing. Empty the bottle.’

  The dish was a great success. Everyone enjoyed it, including Mr Oliver, who had no idea what went into it.

  ‘What’s this called?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an all-Indian sweet-and-sour jam-potato curry,’

  I ventured.

  ‘For short, just call it a Bond-bhujji,’ said Bimal.

  I had earned my cookery badge!

  *

  Poor Mr Oliver! He wasn’t really cut out to be a Scoutmaster, any more than I was meant to be a Scout. The following day he announced that he would give us a lesson in tracking. He would take a half-hour start and walk into the forest, leaving behind him a trail of broken twigs, chicken feathers, pine cones and chestnuts, and we were to follow the trail until we found him.

  Unfortunately, we were not very good trackers. We did follow Mr Oliver’s trail some way into the forest, but were distracted by a pool of clear water which looked very inviting. Abandoning our uniforms, we jumped into the pool and had a great time romping around or just lying on the grassy banks and enjoying the sunshine. A couple of hours later, feeling hungry, we returned to our campsite and set about preparing the evening meal. Bond-bhujji again, but with further variations.

  It was growing dark, and we were beginning to worry about Mr Oliver’s whereabouts when he limped into camp, assisted by a couple of local villagers. Having waited for us at the far end of the forest for a couple of hours, he had decided to return by following his own trail, but in the gathering gloom he was soon lost. Some locals returning from the temple took charge of him and escorted him back to camp. He was very angry and made us return all our good-conduct and other badges, which he stuffed into his haversack. I had to give up my cookery badge, too.

  An hour later, when we were all preparing to get into our sleeping bags for the night, Mr Oliver called out: ‘Where’s dinner?’

  ‘We’ve had ours,’ said Bimal. ‘Everything is finished, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Bond? He’s supposed to be the cook. Bond, get up and make me an omelette.’

  ‘Can’t, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You have my badge. Not allowed to cook without it. Scout rule, sir.’

  ‘Never heard of such a rule. But you can have your badges, all of you. We return to school tomorrow.’

  Mr Oliver returned to his tent in a huff. But I relented and made him a grand omelette, garnishing it with dandelion leaves and an extra chilli.

  ‘Never had such an omelette before,’ confessed Mr Oliver, blowing out his cheeks. ‘A little too hot, but otherwise quite interesting.’

  ‘Would you like another, sir?’

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

  But we had to break up our camp very early the next day. In the early hours, a bear had 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 (he was already outside, fortunately) and came out entangled in Mr Oliver’s dressing gown. It then made off in the direction of the forest.

  A bear in a dressing gown? It was
a comical sight. And though we were a troop of brave little Scouts, we thought it better to let the bear keep the gown.

  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 him 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,’ said Tata, who thought on those lines.

  ‘He’s too old. Over forty.’

  ‘A pet is best,’ I said. ‘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 Chota 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,’ said 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!’ muttered 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 it 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 nocturnal 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 many 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 f
ailed 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!’

  The Tree Lover

  I was never able to get over the feeling that plants and trees loved Grandfather with the same tenderness that he showed towards them. One morning, while I was sitting beside him on the veranda steps, I noticed the tendril of a creeping vine trailing across the steps. As we sat there, in the soft sunshine of a north Indian winter, I saw the tendril moving very slowly towards Grandfather. We gazed at it in fascination. Twenty minutes later it had crossed the steps and was touching Grandfather’s feet!

  There is probably a scientific explanation for the plant’s behaviour—something to do with light or warmth—but I liked to think that it moved across the steps simply because it wanted to be near Grandfather. One always felt like drawing close to him. Sometimes when I sat by myself beneath a tree, I would feel rather lonely; but as soon as Grandfather joined me, the garden became a happy place, the tree itself more friendly.

  Grandfather had served many years in India, and it was natural that he should know and understand and like trees. On his retirement, he had built a bungalow on the outskirts of the town of Dehra, planting trees all around it: lime, mango, orange, guava, laburnum, jacaranda, and sweet-scented magnolias. In Dehra’s fertile valley, plants and trees grew tall and strong.

  Grandfather was about sixty, a lean active man who still rode his bicycle at good speed. He had stopped climbing trees only the year before, when he had got to the top of the jackfruit tree and was unable to come down. We’d had to fetch a ladder for him.