The Absolutely True Adventures of Daydreamer Dev (omnibus edition, 3 in 1)

by Ken Spillman

  KEN SPILLMAN

  THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE ADVENTURES OF DAYDREAMER DEV

  Illustrations by Michelle Farooqi

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  1. Daydreamer Dev Climbs Mount Everest

  2. Daydreamer Dev Traces the Amazon

  3. Daydreamer Dev Crosses the Sahara

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE ADVENTURES OF DAYDREAMER DEV

  Ken Spillman developed his imagination while playing games in bushland, on the edge of one of Australia’s most isolated cities, and by reading adventures set in faraway places. He is now the author of around eighty books, published in around twenty languages. Ken is a frequent visitor to India and has written a number of books featuring sharp-witted young Indian characters. These include the Daydreamer Dev stories; Advaita the Writer (2011); No Fear, Jiyaa! (2017); and Radhika Takes the Plunge (2012), which was listed in 101 Indian Children’s Books We Love! For more information, visit www.kenspillman.com.

  Praise for the Book

  ‘Ken Spillman knows all about kids. He frequently gets in their heads and comes up with the most imaginative and creative results’ —The Star

  ‘[Spillman] paints his characters with warmth and sympathy, sketching just enough of their fine details to lift them beyond the typical caricatures of much writing for young people’—West Australian

  ‘Spillman knows how to capture children and their quirks and everyday experiences with an honesty that will have both adults and kids nodding and smiling’—Kids’ Book Review

  ‘If there were just one reason why writers should be treasured, it is that they can articulate the inarticulate. That’s exactly what Spillman does’—Sunday Times Magazine

  Introduction

  Before my first visit to India more than a dozen years ago, I was advised by several compatriots that I would either love it, and plan to return, or find it an interesting eye-opener to be filed under ‘once-only experiences’. India has changed much since then— as have I—but I knew within twenty-four hours that I would be back. My regular visits to India now account for well over one year of my life. I have countless Indian friends and, for my reading, I choose Indian fiction over that of any other country.

  I had never planned to write stories with Indian characters and settings, and the first one came to me while I was writing something else. That first story was about a homesick girl in love with reading and inspired by Ruskin Bond, and I just had to give it priority. Later published as Advaita the Writer, it paved the way for many more books set in India or featuring Indian characters living in Australia.

  As I reflect on this now, I see just how inspired I have been—and how immediately inspired I was— by the spirit of India. My characters are inclined to take on life’s challenges with imagination and a sense of humour. They are optimistic, enterprising, feisty and unbreakable. These are attributes I associate more with the people of India than those of any other country, and perhaps the ‘no-limits’ attitude underpinning the reveries of Dev is my central message to all young readers.

  The Daydreamer Dev stories were first published in separate volumes, and each of those has been out of print for a number of years now. I am delighted, therefore, to be able to bring all three to a new young readership in this special omnibus edition. I trust that Dev’s journeys will bring you all the fun and adventure I experienced while travelling by his side.

  The stories were written for every kid who has ever taken an extraordinary flight of fancy because, as Albert Einstein once said, ‘Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world’.

  —KS

  DEDICATED TO ARJUN VAJPAI

  and to those who allow young people to dream

  1.

  Baba had two favourite subjects. The first was the superiority of the carpets sold at Kwality Carpets. Baba’s other favourite subject made

  Dev want to plop himself down on one of those high quality carpets and fly away.

  Sometimes, that is exactly what he did— and who could say that he didn’t?

  Off he would go, high above the noise of Delhi, up through the dust and smog to a place of . . .

  What? Other wonderful things, other imaginings!

  He didn’t tell Baba of his travels. He didn’t even tell Baba of his thoughts.

  He couldn’t.

  He couldn’t because Baba’s other favourite subject was daydreaming. The importance of not daydreaming, to be precise. The importance of Dev not daydreaming, to be still more precise.

  ‘It is unfortunate for you,’ Baba lectured, ‘that there are no prizes for daydreaming. You would be top of the class! All India champion!’

  Dev liked that idea. To become a champion would be awesome—without having to lift a single finger! Perhaps he could even go to the Olympics and win gold. He would stand with tears in his upturned eyes, mouthing the words of the national anthem ‘Jana Gana Mana’ as the tricolour ascended the flagpole.

  Bhārata bhāgya vidhāta

  Jaya he jaya he jaya he

  Jaya jaya jaya jaya he!

  Baba’s morning lectures followed his nighttime lectures. Night lectures followed notes sent home from school, and notes from school followed lectures from Mrs Kaur.

  The pattern had such familiarity. Mrs Kaur’s notes were so regularly in Dev’s satchel that Amma only rolled her eyes as she fished them out.

  ‘That woman should photocopy one of these notes,’ she said once. ‘Then she could sign and date it only.’

  Dev smiled. He liked Mrs Kaur, in spite of her notes.

  ‘Oh Dev!’ Amma said. ‘What shall we do with you?’

  2.

  Dev kissed Amma and went down two flights of stairs to the shop. Baba sat at his cluttered desk, pressing buttons on a calculator.

  ‘You see this?’ Baba said, pointing to the calculator. ‘This does not daydream. It lives by the truth of numbers! And this month, the numbers are not so dreamy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Baba.’

  ‘No more notes, Dev. Please listen in class. How can you learn if you don’t listen?’

  Dev didn’t know.

  As he made his way to school, he saw OP kicking a bottle cap along the side of the road.

  ‘Wait!’ he called.

  OP kicked the bottle cap into the traffic and watched it dance and dodge and clip the wheels of cars, motorbikes and autos.

  ‘Dude,’ he said as Dev reached him. ‘That maths homework was hard!’

  Dev groaned. He hadn’t even known where to start. Baba’s calculator lived by the truth of numbers, but Mrs Kaur’s homework held their secrets. Dev wished again to be like the kids who unlocked such secrets without effort. He wished again that he pleased Mrs Kaur more often.

  OP didn’t like numbers either. What OP liked was facts that hardly anybody else knew. He collected them like others collect foreign coins. A lull in any conversation was all it took for OP to rummage through his collection and gleefully produce a shiny fact.

  ‘Did you know that a Chinese dude bounced a football on his head 341 times in sixty seconds?’

  Dev scoffed. ‘What? You’re joking!’

  ‘And did you know that a sixteen-year-old dude from Noida climbed Mount Everest?’

  Dev didn’t. His mouth dropped open.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ OP exclaimed, his eyes alight. ‘Arjun Vajpai did it—8,848 metres a
bove sea level!’

  Eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-eight metres? What a view! From that height, Mrs Kaur’s maths homework and those notes that upset Baba and Amma would look small.

  Very small.

  Lucky Arjun! Dev thought.

  3.

  All through the morning’s Hindi and General Knowledge lessons, Dev listened with fierce concentration. He coloured his map of India carefully, never allowing the pencil to cross state borders.

  After lunch, Mrs Kaur began her science lesson. Dev felt hot and drowsy. Mrs Kaur opened the windows and turned on the overhead fans.

  Pht-pht-pht they went. Outside, the traffic hummed and honked.

  Pht-pht-pht went the fans. Pht-pht-pht.

  Chka-chka-chka went the helicopter’s blades above Dev’s head.

  He felt a bitter chill.

  Chka-chka-chka. Light snow fell. With his school satchel over his shoulder, Dev clung to the rope and was lowered to the ground. A cluster of tents was abuzz with satellite phones.

  Journalists rushed back and forth between them.

  ‘At last,’ Dev thought. ‘Base camp.’

  ‘He’s arrived,’ said a man dressed in so many layers of clothing that he looked the size of a sumo wrestler.

  In the shadow of Mount Everest, Dev was surrounded by a small welcoming throng. Questions came at him thick and fast.

  ‘Why Everest? Isn maths challenging you enough?’

  ‘Were you inspired by Arjun?’

  ‘How old are you, Dev?’ This came from a woman with an American accent. ‘Where are your parents? Where is your jacket? Why attempt this alone, without oxygen?’

  Dev wanted only to get on with his climb. There was no time for such questions.

  ‘Oxygen tanks are heavy, no?’ he said. ‘I would rather take this!’

  He tapped his school satchel, opened it and, to his surprise, saw a chocolate bar. He held it up, then put it away quickly as he felt his mouth water.

  A couple of journalists scribbled on their pads. Others talked into little machines.

  ‘A chocolate bar! How wonderful! But you will catch a terrible cold wearing only that school uniform!’

  ‘When do you plan to set out?’ asked another.

  ‘Right now,’ Dev said. ‘The summit awaits!’

  4.

  ‘Wait!’

  The voice came from a Sherpa woman, shimmering behind the flames of a campfire. She wore high boots, long woollen pantaloons and a coarse robe, with a sash around the middle. Perched on her head was a colourful bonnet.

  ‘Auntie, I must go.’

  ‘You do not know the way,’ said the woman.

  ‘The way? Of course I know the way.’

  The woman looked at him doubtfully. ‘And it is . . .’

  Surely she was trying to make a fool of him. Dev laughed. ‘Up, of course!’

  Everybody knew that. The summit of Everest? How much further up was it possible to go without wings, or a rug from Kwality Carpets? The woman eyed Dev thoughtfully.

  ‘Correct—up! But there are many ways one can go up, and none of them are easy.’

  ‘Auntie, you are very kind, but I’m quite a climber you know. For many years I have climbed banyan trees and eucalyptus. And I have also climbed to the roof of Kwality Carpets— that is best when Baba is angry with me. Please point out the shortest way and I will go.’

  ‘I will come with you.’

  ‘But Auntie, you are not so young.’

  ‘And you are so young. I am a Sherpa. I have climbed Everest to the summit. I died coming down and now live without fear, hunger or age.’

  ‘Coo-ool,’ Dev said in wonder. Somehow he hadn’t expected to meet a ghost—but if the Sherpa really was a ghost, he’d still be climbing solo, no? ‘Okay, come,’ he said. ‘But let’s hurry!’

  ‘We must first ask for the mountain’s blessing,’ she replied.

  This they did. Then Sherpa Auntie gathered up a rucksack, and off they went.

  5.

  ‘We have reached Icefall,’ Sherpa Auntie said.

  White cliff faces and peaks surrounded them, but Dev couldn’t see anything falling.

  ‘Icefall?’ He questioned, puffing hard. It had already been a long climb. ‘Are we near the top?’

  ‘Oh no. . . But we cannot get there without first passing Icefall, and here many die. A heavy lump of ice might fall on you. A crack might open up and swallow you. Here, ice and snow and rocks tumble down in a great rush almost every day.’

  ‘Like an avalanche?’

  Sherpa Auntie nodded.

  Dev had seen avalanches on TV, and he didn’t have to wait long to see one for real. The sound came first, a distant whooshing and rumbling. High above, ice boulders had suddenly broken free. They were tumbling down the mountain as if hurled by an angry giant.

  ‘Quick!’ Sherpa Auntie cried. She grabbed the strap of Dev’s satchel and almost tugged his arm out from its socket as she drew him behind a big wall of ice.

  Dev flattened himself against it. Truckloads of white rubble crashed over their heads. Lying on a railway track with a train passing could not have been more terrifying—but Dev felt nothing but the thrill of adventure.

  ‘Cool!’ he said.

  ‘You were lucky,’ said the woman.

  ‘Sherpa Auntie, don’t you mean that we were lucky?’

  ‘I’m already dead, remember? It’s not so easy to die twice. Once bitten, twice shy!’

  ‘Auntie, did you really die?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘Mercifully, it was quick. Now, give thanks to the mountain for sparing you.’

  Dev smiled broadly. He faced the ice wall again, placed his hands together and bowed his head.

  ‘I have a feeling you are only being cheeky,’ Sherpa Auntie told him. ‘Everest has no time for smart alecks.’

  They set off again. At the foot of an even larger wall of ice, the woman opened her rucksack and took out two ice picks and an assortment of climbing gear. She laid them out carefully, and looked up the sheer ice face.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said. ‘Don’t lose your grip on the rope, but climb with your legs, okay?’

  Dev wanted to say, ‘I’ll go first,’ but thought better of it.

  6.

  The higher they climbed, the harder it got. At the top of the ice wall, Dev sat down, exhausted.

  ‘If you stay like that, your bottom will freeze and stick hard to the ice.’

  ‘Auntie, if that happened I would get pizza delivery by rescue helicopter. I would melt the ice with the force of nature.’

  Sherpa Auntie chuckled, and Dev got up to face the next part of the climb. As they passed through the Valley of Silence, there was scarcely one moment of silence. Ice cracking deep in the glacier sent murmurings into the biting air, while Sherpa Auntie kept Dev entertained with her stories.

  ‘My name is Pasang Lhamu Sherpa—you can Google me. I was the first woman to summit this mountain. Going up went well— going down was the death of me.’

  ‘Auntie, why not just sit on something and slide down? Next time, I will bring you a rug from Kwality Carpets. On a nice blue one I even flew to the moon and landed softly. Today I will empty my satchel and ride it like a sled.’

  ‘So full of ideas! Good for you. Some will work, some will not. That one will not.’

  A little further on, Pasang spoke of Tenzing Norgay. ‘Oh yes, that first time with Edmund Hillary he summited exactly as a baby climbs into the lap of its mother. That is what he told me—and that is what Everest is to us—Mother of the World. I also knew Babu—he climbed seven times without oxygen!’

  ‘Auntie, how long have you been a Sherpa?’

  ‘That, young man, is a most ridiculous question. One doesn’t become a Sherpa—one is born a Sherpa, just as the Queen of England is born English.’

  Well, thought Dev, if I had the choice between being born a Sherpa and the Queen of England, I’d give up the throne in a flash!

  7.

/>   ‘There are no plants here, Sherpa Auntie,’ Dev said. Rocks now peeped through the ice and snow, and the view behind them was stunning. Clouds rolled in across the lower ranges of the Himalayas.

  ‘Plants are more sensible than people,’ Sherpa Auntie replied. ‘They grow where they grow.’

  Dev thought for a while. The air was thin. He felt heavy and was breathing short and fast. ‘But will I not grow if I strive for new heights?’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed the woman. ‘Now you are talking about the mind, and the spirit. And those are different. There you will grow.’

  Dev knew she was right. He already felt respect for the mountain. In its size there was majesty, and in its majesty there was a beauty that even the Taj Mahal couldn’t match.

  They came upon a long, flat stretch and the going was easier—until the heavens unleased a snowfall and high winds forced Dev to lean sideways like a speed skater on a turn.

  ‘A blizzard,’ Sherpa Auntie grumbled. ‘This is what comes when you ask for blessing without sincerity.’

  Dev stayed silent, watching the snow thicken on the ground. He knew he’d been too cocky, and prayed for the Mother of the World’s forgiveness. For a while, she refused. Dev was bashed around the ears by sleet, and he longed for one of Sherpa Auntie’s strange caps. He ploughed through cushions of snow, uncertain whether he should have undertaken the journey at all.

  Dev tried to breathe deeply, but felt like he was hardly breathing at all.

  What this place needs, he thought, is more air. Why don’t they pump some up from below?