by Ruskin Bond
From nine on the two men played cards and Bollinger deliberately played badly so that Sinclair might win and remain interested in the game. The simple device succeeded and Sinclair was so pleased that at eleven p.m. he was still absorbed in the piquet. Just then, someone tried the door, but Bollinger had bolted it. A few seconds later, the khansama appeared at the window in front of which had been fixed wire netting to keep the numerous pigeons from soiling the rooms.
‘I have brought iced lemonade for the Sahibs,’ said the khansama with an obsequious grin. Bollinger thought that he had never seen any man with such an odious expression and his yellow eyes were twinkling as if with some horrible anticipation.
‘All right,’ said Sinclair. ‘I’ll open the door.’ He rose, and before Bollinger could stop him he had drawn the bolt. Bollinger pushed him aside and flung his weight against the door. It was too late. A huge paw and the muzzle of a monstrous hyena forced their way through the opening. Bollinger brought his knife down with all his strength on the paw. It was too blunt to cut deeply through the hair, but the blow was a heavy one and numbed the brute’s limb. A bloodcurdling growl followed and the paw and snout were withdrawn. Bollinger slammed the door and shot the bolt.
‘Thank God, we got the better of that brute. I fancy we’re rid of it for the nightl’
Hearing a noise he looked round and cried ‘By God! We’re not!’ Through a gap in the netting of one of the windows the hyena had forced its head and in a few seconds would have been in the room. This time, Bollinger decided to use the point and not the edge of his knife. He made a thrust at the brute’s throat. It swung its head aside in time to avoid a fatal stab; nevertheless, the knife scored a deep cut in its neck. It gave another bloodcurdling growl, dragged out its head and, with blood streaming from its wound, it raced off laughing in the diabolical way that hyenas do when hurt.
‘By Jove! What an escapel’ said Sinclair thankfully; ‘but I suppose you fight that sort of brute everyday.’
No, thank Heaven, I don’t, ’ and then Bollinger told Sinclair the stationmaster’s story and how, on hearing it, he had come to the rest house to see if his help was needed.
Sinclair went up to Bollinger and shook him cordially by the hand: ‘Then, my dear chap, I owe you my life. I cannot say how grateful I feel. I shall never forget your help.’
The other smiled and said: ‘Oh, nonsensel You’d have done the same for me. But, I say, didn’t you bring your boy with you?’
‘Yes, I did. I wonder where he is. I hope to goodness the khansama has not killed him.’
‘Well, we had better go and look but we must be very way, for if the hyena killed your boy he’ll come back.’
‘All right, come along. You’ve got a knife, haven’t you? I’am afraid I’ve got nothing.’
The two men went to the back of the rest house and there they found below a slight slope the dead body of Sinclair’s Goanese servant. His throat was completely torn open. The hyena must have crept up noiselessly to the servant’s bed and torn out his throat, killing him instantly. Then, it must have again become the khansama and tried to enter the rest house with the iced lemonade.
Sinclair stood sorrowfully by the dead man, who had been many years in his service and to whom he was greatly attached.
‘I say, we can’t do anything for the poor chap,’ said Bollinger, ‘so we had better go straight back to the rest house. I have a horrid feeling that the brute is somewhere near, coming back to its kill. By God! There it is!’
He pointed to where a huge striped form was galloping straight for them. The two men ran for the rest house as fast as they could; they only reached it in time through Bollinger throwing his coat at the brute’s head and thus gaining a moment’s respite.
‘I wonder what it will do now,’ said Sinclair, but it did nothing. It went slowly back to the body of the Goanese and began to crunch it up, every now and then breaking into screams of diabolical laughter when its neck hurt it.
‘I wish to God I had a gun,’ said Bollinger, ‘but as we haven’t, let’s try to get some sleep. One will sit up and watch while the other lies down. I’ll sit up first.’
‘All right,’ said Sinclair, and lying down on one of the cots fell dead asleep in spite of the heat and his servant’s death.
Bollinger sat in a chair and tried as best he could to keep awake. Still, he must have dropped off for a minute or so, for waking up with a start he saw in the bright moonlight the baleful glare of the hyena’s eyes as it stared at him through the wire netting. He drew his knife and ran with a shout towards the netting but the hyena with a growl of fury jumped back and galloped off.
Sinclair woke and hearing what had happened said: ‘We must both sit up, otherwise the brute will return and get us.’
The two friends sat and smoked and talked through the weary hours until about 5.30 a.m. when their troubles came to an end. A crowd of Sindis, led by Isarmal, came to the rest house to see what had happened to the two Englishmen.
‘God be praised!’ exclaimed Isarmal earnestly. ‘Nothing has happened and you are both safe!’
‘We are safe, but look at this,’ and Bollinger led the crowd of Sindis to the half-eaten remains of the unfortunate Goanese: The khansama killed him!’
Isarmal’s face grew grim and turning to the rest of the crowd he cried: ‘Brothers, we are Sindis. The khansama is a Panjabi and therefore, of a race that we hate. He is clearly the reincarnation of Anu Kasai. When the train has gone we must deal with him.’
The two Englishmen walked back with Isarmal to the station, where the train was standing; as they walked, Bollinger related the events of the night. Afterwards, Isarmal repeated the story in Sindi to the men following him. On reaching the saloon nothing more was said. The two weary travellers got in and Isarmal, as he waved on the train, turned to the Sindis, who were mostly Musulmans, and cried: ‘The Sahibs are safe, Alhamdalilla (God be praised)!’
After a hot, slow journey the Englishmen reached Karachi. On the way Bollinger said: ‘I fancy the khansama has had a bad quarter of an hour. He is a Panjabi and as Isarmal said of a race hated by the Sindis.’
‘But why do the Sindis hate the Panjabis? I like them.’
‘I really do not quite know. Perhaps, like French and Germans Sindis and Panjabis live too near together. The Panjabis, too, are bigger men as a rule than the Sindis and they throw their weight about. The Sindis seem very much afraid of them. Indeed I remember hearing a Sindi proverb that says: “If one Panjabi comes, sit still and say nothing. If two come, then pack up your kit at once, abandon your house and clear out.” Anyway, Panjabis are not liked in these parts.’
‘They don’t seem to be!’
Two mornings after their arrival Davidson, the District Superintendent of Police, burst unceremoniously into Bollinger’s bungalow and onto the verandah, where he was having his chota hazri or morning tea.
‘I’m sorry, Bollinger, but I must see you. I have just received an official report from the Chief Constable of Sehwan to the effect that the villagers, led by the stationmaster, broke into the khansama’s house, dragged him out although he was very ill and walled him into the battlements of the old fort. He hints that you know something about it. In the meantime, he has arrested the stationmaster, Isarmal I think he calls him.’
‘Half a mo’, Davidson! I fancy I have a letter from the stationmaster in my morning post. I’ll open it.’ Tearing open the envelope, Bollinger read aloud the following note, very short and quaintly expressed:
Honoured Sir,
The Chief Constable of Sehwan, who is a Panjabi, is troubling us because of the death of that Anu Kasai, the khansama. After Your Honour’s departure we went to his house and found him very ill from a severe wound in the throat. We found in his house the property of the two missing Chota Sahibs; seeing this he became very obstinate and refused to answer our questions. Very soon he died. When dead, we put him where Anu Kasai was walled up. The Sahib knows the facts and will kindly do the needful.
‘Well, Bollinger, he says you know the facts, for goodness sake let me have them.’
Bollinger told the full story of the adventure and Sinclair supported him in every detail. Still, as told in an Englishman’s house in Karachi, it did not sound very convincing.
‘Hang it all, Bollinger! You can’t expect me to believe this tale of a werewolf.’
‘Well, Isarmal says that they found in the khansama’s house the property of those two missing subordinates. That raises a presumption that he is a murderer, anyway.’
‘The Chief Constable says nothing about that.’
‘He is a brother Panjabi and can scarcely be expected to. Look here, instead of arguing, let’s go off and call on the Commissioner. He is Inspector-General of Police, as well as of everything else and we’ll abide by his orders.’
‘Right-o!’ said the District Superintendent and at 11 a.m. all three men met to call on Government House.
The Commissioner was a big genial man who combined with a very cordial manner a vast amount of commonsense. He greeted all three men pleasantly. Then, he turned to the D.S.R. who was in uniform:
‘Well, Davidson, what’s the trouble?’
‘I think, Sir, Bollinger had better tell you his yarn first and then I’ll supplement it with my information.’
‘Capital! Go ahead, Bollinger.’
The railwayman repeated his story and Sinclair confirmed it. Then, Davidson showed the Commissioner his Chief Constable’s report and Bollinger produced Isarmal’s letter.
The Commissioner’s keen intellect grasped immediately all the facts and came at once to a decision.
‘Look here, Bollinger, you can’t expect me to accept as gospel your story of the werewolf or werehyena; but the khansama seems to have been a murderer all right. The discovery in his house of the property of the two subordinates points to that. I have often been worried as to what became of them. Again, I do not see why we should not believe Isarmal’s statement that they did not wall in the khansama until he was dead. Anyway, it will be impossible to disprove it; for all the eyewitnesses will support Isarmal. In any case, if you go into the witness box, Bollinger, and tell your adventure with the khansama-cum-hyena, my administration will be the laughing stock of all India. Think how the young lions of the Pioneer will sharpen their wit at our expense. No! No, we must stop the prosecution at all costs. Look here, Davidson, you wire to the Chief Constable to drop the case and release Isarmal and any others he may have arrested; I shall myself transfer to some other district the Chief Constable; for he seems to have been very slack over the disappearance of the two subordinates. Well, good morning.’
Isarmal was duly released and resumed his duties as stationmaster. But Bollinger did not forget him. Using his influence with the railway chiefs, he got Isarmal first promoted to be stationmaster of Radhan and then of Sukkur, a very important post. This Isarmal retained until his retirement. He lived for many years on an ample pension and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to tell the story of the Panjabi who could turn himself into a hyena and how he nearly ate up the two Sahibs. He gave ample credit to Bollinger Sahib for his courage and resource; but the person for whom he reserved the fullest commendation was none other than Mr Isarmal, late stationmaster of Sukkur.
The Trouble with Jinns
Ruskin Bond
My friend Jimmy has only one arm. He lost the other when he was a young man of twenty-five. The story of how he lost his good right arm is a little difficult to believe, but I swear that it is absolutely true.
To begin with, Jimmy was (and presumably still is) a Jinn. Now a Jinn isn’t really a human like us. A Jinn is a spirit creature from another world who has assumed, for a lifetime, the physical aspect of a human being. Jimmy was a true Jinn and he had the Jinn’s gift of being able to elongate his arm at will. Most Jinns can stretch their arms to a distance of twenty or thirty feet. Jimmy could attain forty feet. His arm would move through space or up walls or along the ground like a beautiful gliding serpent. I have seen him stretched out beneath a mango tree, helping himself to ripe mangoes from the top of the tree. He loved mangoes. He was a natural glutton and it was probably his gluttony that first led him to misuse his peculiar gifts.
We were at school together at a hill station in northern India. Jimmy was particularly good at basketball. He was clever enough not to lengthen his arm too much because he did not want anyone to know that he was a Jinn. In the boxing ring he generally won his fights. His opponents never seemed to get past his amazing reach. He just kept tapping them on the nose until they retired from the ring bloody and bewildered.
It was during the half-term examinations that I stumbled on Jimmy’s secret. We had been set a particularly difficult algebra paper but I had managed to cover a couple of sheets with correct answers and was about to forge ahead on another sheet when I noticed someone’s hand on my desk. At first I thought it was the invigilator’s. But when I looked up there was no one beside me. Could it be the boy sitting directly behind? No, he was engrossed in his question paper and had his hands to himself. Meanwhile, the hand on my desk had grasped my answer sheets and was cautiously moving off. Following its descent, I found that it was attached to an arm of amazing length and pliability. This moved stealthily down the desk and slithered across the floor, shrinking all the while, until it was restored to its normal length. Its owner was of course one who had never been any good at algebra.
I had to write out my answers a second time but after the exam I went straight up to Jimmy, told him I didn’t like his game and threatened to expose him. He begged me not to let anyone know, assured me that he couldn’t really help himself, and offered to be of service to me whenever I wished. It was tempting to have Jimmy as my friend, for with his long reach he would obviously be useful. I agreed to overlook the matter of the pilfered papers and we became the best of pals.
It did not take me long to discover that Jimmy’s gift was more of a nuisance than a constructive aid. That was because Jimmy had a second-rate mind and did not know how to make proper use of his powers. He seldom rose above the trivial. He used his long arm in the tuck shop, in the classroom, in the dormitory. And when we were allowed out to the cinema, he used it in the dark of the hall.
Now the trouble with all Jinns is that they have a weakness for women with long black hair. The longer and blacker the hair, the better for Jinns. And should a Jinn manage to take possession of the woman he desires, she goes into a decline and her beauty decays. Everything about her is destroyed except for the beautiful long black hair.
Jimmy was still too young to be able to take possession in this way, but he couldn’t resist touching and stroking long black hair. The cinema was the best place for the indulgence of his whims. His arm would start stretching, his fingers would feel their way along the rows of seats, and his lengthening limb would slowly work its way along the aisle until it reached the back of the seat in which sat the object of his admiration. His hand would stroke the long black hair with great tenderness and if the girl felt anything and looked round, Jimmy’s hand would disappear behind the seat and lie there poised like the hood of a snake, ready to strike again.
At college two or three years later, Jimmy’s first real victim succumbed to his attentions. She was a lecturer in economics, not very good-looking, but her hair, black and lustrous, reached almost to her knees. She usually kept it in plaits but Jimmy saw her one morning, just after she had taken a head bath, and her hair lay spread out on the cot on which she was reclining. Jimmy could no longer control himself. His spirit, the very essence of his personality, entered the woman’s body and the next day she was distraught, feverish and excited. She would not eat, went into a coma, and in a few days dwindled to a mere skeleton. When she died, she was nothing but skin and bone but her hair had lost none of its loveliness.
I took pains to avoid Jimmy after this tragic event. I could not prove that he was the cause of the lady’s sad demise but in my own heart I was quite certain of it.
For since meeting Jimmy, I had read a good deal about Jinns and knew their ways.
We did not see each other for a few years. And then, holidaying in the hills last year, I found we were staying at the same hotel. I could not very well ignore him and after we had drunk a few beers together I began to feel that I had perhaps misjudged Jimmy and that he was not the irresponsible Jinn I had taken him for. Perhaps the college lecturer had died of some mysterious malady that attacks only college lecturers and Jimmy had nothing at all to do with it.
We had decided to take our lunch and a few bottles of beer to a grassy knoll just below the main motor road. It was late afternoon and I had been sleeping off the effects of the beer when I woke to find Jimmy looking rather agitated.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Up there, under the pine trees,’ he said. ‘Just above the road. Don’t you see them?’
‘I see two girls,’ I said. ‘So what?’
‘The one on the left. Haven’t you noticed her hair?’
‘Yes, it is very long and beautiful and—now look, Jimmy, you’d better get a grip on yourself!’ But already his hand was out of sight, his arm snaking up the hillside and across the road.
Presently I saw the hand emerge from some bushes near the girls and then cautiously make its way to the girl with the black tresses. So absorbed was Jimmy in the pursuit of his favourite pastime that he failed to hear the blowing of a horn. Around the bend of the road came a speeding Mercedes-Benz truck.
Jimmy saw the truck but there wasn’t time for him to shrink his arm back to normal. It lay right across the entire width of the road and when the truck had passed over it, it writhed and twisted like a mortally wounded python.
By the time the truck driver and I could fetch a doctor, the arm (or what was left of it) had shrunk to its ordinary size. We took Jimmy to hospital where the doctors found it necessary to amputate. The truck driver, who kept insisting that the arm he ran over was at least thirty feet long, was arrested on a charge of drunken driving.
