by Ruskin Bond
Although restored to the Maharaja’s favour, Uncle Ken was still without a job.
Granny refused to let him take the Hillman out again and so he decided to sulk. He said it was all Grandfather’s fault for not seeing to the steering wheel ten years ago, while he was still alive. Uncle Ken went on a hunger strike for two hours (between tiffin and tea), and we did not hear him whistle for several days.
‘The blessedness of silence,’ said Granny.
And then he announced that he was going to Lucknow to stay with Aunt Emily.
‘She has three children and a school to look after,’ said Granny. ‘Don’t stay too long.’
‘She doesn’t mind how long I stay,’ said Uncle Ken and off he went.
His visit to Lucknow was a memorable one, and we only heard about it much later.
When Uncle Ken got down at Lucknow station, he found himself surrounded by a large crowd, every one waving to him and shouting words of welcome in Hindi, Urdu and English. Before he could make out what it was all about, he was smothered by garlands of marigolds. A young man came forward and announced, ‘The Gomti Cricketing Association welcomes you to the historical city of Lucknow,’ and promptly led Uncle Ken out of the station to a waiting car.
It was only when the car drove into the sports’ stadium that Uncle Ken realized that he was expected to play in a cricket match.
This is what had happened.
Bruce Hallam, the famous English cricketer, was touring India and had agreed to play in a charity match at Lucknow. But the previous evening, in Delhi, Bruce had gone to bed with an upset stomach and hadn’t been able to get up in time to catch the train. A telegram was sent to the organizers of the match in Lucknow; but, like many a telegram, it did not reach its destination. The cricket fans of Lucknow had arrived at the station in droves to welcome the great cricketer. And by a strange coincidence, Uncle Ken bore a startling resemblance to Bruce Hallam; even the bald patch on the crown of his head was exactly like Hallam’s. Hence the muddle. And of course Uncle Ken was always happy to enter into the spirit of a muddle.
Having received from the Gomti Cricketing Association a rousing reception and a magnificent breakfast at the stadium, he felt that it would be very unsporting on his part if he refused to play cricket for them. ‘If I can hit a tennis ball,’ he mused, ‘I ought to be able to hit a cricket ball.’ And luckily there was a blazer and a pair of white flannels in his suitcase.
The Gomti team won the toss and decided to bat. Uncle Ken was expected to go in at number three, Bruce Hallam’s normal position. And he soon found himself walking to the wicket, wondering why on earth no one had as yet invented a more comfortable kind of pad.
The first ball he received was short-pitched, and he was able to deal with it in tennis fashion, swatting it to the mid-wicket boundary. He got no runs, but the crowd cheered.
The next ball took Uncle Ken on the pad. He was right in front of his wicket and should have been given out lbw. But the umpire hesitated to raise his finger. After all, hundreds of people had paid good money to see Bruce Hallam play, and it would have been a shame to disappoint them. ‘Not out,’ said the umpire.
The third ball took the edge of Uncle Ken’s bat and sped through the slips.
‘Lovely shot!’ exclaimed an elderly gentleman in the pavilion.
‘A classic late cut,’ said another.
The ball reached the boundary and Uncle Ken had four runs to his name. Then it was ‘Over’, and the other batsman had to face the bowling. He took a run off the first ball and called for a second run. Uncle Ken thought one run was more than enough. Why go charging up and down the wicket like a mad man? However, he couldn’t refuse to run, and he was half-way down the pitch when the fielder’s throw hit the wicket. Uncle Ken was run-out by yards. There could be no doubt about it this time.
He returned to the pavilion to the sympathetic applause of the crowd.
‘Not his fault,’ said the elderly gentleman. ‘The other chap shouldn’t have called. There wasn’t a run there. Still, it was worth coming here all the way from Kanpur if only to see that superb late cut. . .’
* * *
Uncle Ken enjoyed a hearty tiffin-lunch (taken at noon), and then, realizing that the Gomti team would probably have to be in the field for most of the afternoon—more running about!—he slipped out of the pavilion, left the stadium, and took a tonga to Aunt Emily’s house in the cantonment.
He was just in time for a second lunch (taken at one o’clock) with Aunt Emily’s family: and it was presumed at the stadium that Bruce Hallam had left early to catch the train to Allahabad, where he was expected to play in another charity match.
Aunt Emily, a forceful woman, fed Uncle Ken for a week, and then put him to work in the boys’ dormitory of her school. It was several months before he was able to save up enough money to run away and return to Granny’s place.
But he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had helped the great Bruce Hallam to add another four runs to his grand aggregate. The scorebook of the Gomti Cricketing Association had recorded his feat for all time:
‘B. Hallam run-out 4’
The Gomti team lost the match. But, as Uncle Ken would readily admit, where would we be without losers?
The Typewriter
Working at nights in an attic room provided by my aunt, I took six months to complete my first book, a novel. I was eighteen at the time, and though the novel was about growing up in India, I was living in Jersey, in the Channel Islands, earning about four pounds a week as a Public Works’ clerk.
I hadn’t been away from India for as much as a year, but I was very homesick, and writing the book helped to take me back to the people and places I had known and loved.
Working in the same office was a sympathetic soul, a senior clerk whose name was Mr Bromley. He came from good Lancashire stock. His wife and son had predeceased him, and he lived alone in lodgings near the St Helier seafront. As I lived not far away, I would sometimes accompany Mr Bromley home after work, walking with him along the sea wall, watching the waves hissing along the sandy beaches or crashing against the rocks.
I gathered from some of his remarks that he had an incurable disease, and that he had come to live and work in Jersey in the hope that a sunnier climate would help him to get better. He did not tell me the nature of his illness; but he often spoke about his son, who had been killed in the War, and about the North Country, which was his home. He sensed that we were, in a way, both exiles, our real homes far from this small, rather impersonal island in the Channel.
He had read widely, and sympathized with my ambitions to be a writer. He had tried it once himself, and failed.
‘I didn’t have the perseverance, lad’ he said. ‘I wasn’t inventive enough, either. It isn’t enough to be able to write well—you have to know how to tell a good story . . . Those who could do both, like Conrad and Stevenson, those are the ones we still read today. The critics keep telling us that Henry James was a master stylist, and so he was, but who reads Henry James?’
Mr Bromley rather admired my naïve but determined attempt to write a book.
On a Saturday afternoon I was standing in front of a shop, gazing wistfully at a baby portable typewriter on display. It was just what I wanted. My book was nearly finished but I knew I’d have to get it typed before submitting it to a publisher.
‘Buying a typewriter, lad?’ Mr Bromley had stopped beside me.
‘I wish I could,’ I said. ‘But it’s nineteen pounds and I’ve only got six pounds saved up. I’ll have to hire some old machine.’
‘But a good-looking typescript can make a world of difference, lad. Editors are jaded people. If they find a dirty manuscript on the desk, they feel like chucking it in the wastepaper basket—even if it is a masterpiece!’
‘There’s an old typewriter belonging to my aunt, but it should be in a museum. The letter b is missing. She must have used that one a lot—or perhaps it was my uncle. Anyway when I type my stories on it, I ha
ve to go through them again and ink in all the missing b’s.’
‘That won’t do, lad. I tell you what, though. Give me your six pounds, and I’ll add thirteen pounds to it, and we’ll buy the machine. Then you can pay me back out of your wages—a pound every week. How would that suit you?’
I was both surprised and immensely thrilled. I had always thought Mr Bromley slightly stingy, as he seldom went to cinemas or restaurants. But here he was, offering to advance me the money for a new typewriter.
I accepted his offer and walked down the street in a state of happy euphoria, the gleaming new typewriter in my hand. I sat up late that night, hammering out the first chaper of my book.
It was midsummer then, and by the end of the year I had paid back six pounds to Mr Bromley. It was then that I received a letter from a publisher (the third to whom I had submitted the book) saying that they had liked my story but had some suggestions to make and could I call on them in London.
I took a few days’ leave and crossed the Channel to England.
London swept me off my feet. The theatres and bookshops exerted their magic on me. And the publishers said they would take my book if only I’d try writing it again.
At eighteen, I was prepared to rewrite a book a dozen times, so I took a room in Hampstead, and grabbed the first job that came my way. I would have to keep working until I established myself as a writer. I did not know, then, how long this would take, but life was only just beginning, and I fell in love with someone, and someone fell in love with me, and both loves were unrequited, but all the same I was very happy.
For some time I did not send any money to Mr Bromley. My wage was modest, and London was expensive, and I wanted to enjoy myself a little. I meant to write to him, explaining the situation, but kept putting it off, telling myself that I would write as soon as I had some money to send him.
Several months passed. I wrote the book a third time, and this time it was accepted and I received a modest advance. I opened an account with Lloyd’s, and then, finally, I made out a cheque in the name of Mr Bromley and mailed it to him with a letter.
But it was never to be cashed. It came back in the post with my letter, and along with it was a letter from my former employer saying that Mr Bromley had gone away and left no address. It seemed to me that he had given up his quest for better health, and had gone home to his own part of the country.
And so my debt was never paid.
The typewriter is still with me. I have used it for over thirty years, and it is now old and battered. But I will not give it away. It’s like a guilty conscience, always beside me, always reminding me to pay my debts in time.
IV
Mussoorie Snapshots
In Search of John Lang
I had lived in Mussoorie just over four years without realizing that someone of literary distinction might be buried in the old English cemetery. Just as I was about to return to Delhi, a friend in Australia sent me a newspaper clipping which made mention of the first Australian-born novelist, John Lang, who spent the last years of his life in Mussoorie and was known to have been buried here. There is still an unsolved mystery about Lang’s manuscripts. He left his papers to his second wife, nee Margaret Watter, but neither they, nor any trace of her after his death, have ever been found.
John Lang was born in Sydney in 1816. His father, a young soldier turned merchant, died before his birth. His mother was Elizabeth Harris, born on Norfolk Island, the daughter of two convicts. Lang proved a brilliant Latin scholar at Sydney College, then went to England to study law. He was expelled from Cambridge for Botany Bay Tricks—believed to be the writing of blasphemous litanies—but was admitted to the Society of the Middle Temple and called to the bar in 1841. He returned to Sydney shortly afterwards, but his convict connections stood in the way of his advancement, and it was only when he went to India that he began to lead a successful legal and literary life. The Forger’s Wife—a robust tale of Australian outlaws—was published in England in 1855; Botany Bay—a collection of stories based on life in Sydney in the early years of the century—was written for Charles Dickens’ magazine Household Words and published in 1859. The best of his books on India are The Weatherbys (1853) and The Ex-Wife (1859). These take a lightly satirical look at English social life in India, and are precursors of Kipling’s stories of Simla society.*
Lang practiced at the Bar in Calcutta, and repre-sented the Rani of Jhansi in her legal battles against the East India Company. He did well both as a barrister and as a newspaper proprietor. But none of his manuscripts, and no portrait of him, have ever been discovered. When he died he left everything to his second wife, whom he married in Mussoorie in 1861: but what happened to her after his death remains a mystery.
Although Lang’s books are elusive, I decided that his grave should not be so hard to find, and set out in search of it on a crisp October morning. This is the best time of year in the hills, with the grass still fresh and green, the horse chestnut leaves yellowing, the hillsides sprinkled with wild geranium and umbrella-fronds of lady’s lace.
I take the Camel’s Back Road that leads round the northern and more forested face of Gun Hill, which is a rocky outcrop in the centre of the hill station. Gun Hill is so named because in Lang’s time it boasted a cannon which boomed out at noon each day. The gun was a mixed blessing. Once on a Sunday morning during service in the Anglican Church of St Thomas (built in 1834 and now beginning to crumble), one of Fisher’s straw cannon balls shot through the open door, bounced off a pew, and landed in the lap of a stout lady who had been sleeping through the sermon. Fisher was finally relieved of his job, and the cannon was shifted to the municipal godowns where, for all I know, it may still be gathering rust.
Although Mussoorie’s Camel’s Back Road was not as high in social hierarchy as Scandal Point in Simla, it was, until the 1930s, almost exclusively an European preserve; and so was the cemetery, where most of the names on the tombstones are of Anglo-Saxon vintage. The graves occupy terraced slopes which face the snow-covered Nilkanth and Bandarpoonchh ranges.
I am unable to enter at the gate which is securely padlocked and encircled by barbed wire, making the two large noticeboards—‘No Trespassing’ and ‘Visitors Should Leave Their Dogs Behind’—seem rather unnecessary. I walk along the railing until I notice a small footpath leading off the verge. Climbing over the railings, I start down the path; but it is steep and slippery with pine-needles, and I end by tobogganing down the slope into a thicket of myrtle.
Brushing dust, burrs and pine-needles from my clothes, I stand up and survey the hillside, my eyes finally coming to rest on a small knoll where several bulky obelisks rise from the ground. Obelisks were all the rage in the late 19th century, and it is just possible that John Lang’s grave will be among them.
The knoll does seem to be the oldest part of the cemetery; it is certainly the prettiest. The sunlight, penetrating the gaps in the tall trees, plays chess on the gravestones, shifting slowly and thoughtfully across the worn old stones. The wind, like a hundred violins, plays perpetually in the topmost branches of the deodars. The only living thing in sight is an eagle, wheeling high overhead. The snows are just a great dazzle in the sky. This is a romantic spot, a fit burial ground for adventurers and pioneers. Here are the graves of soldiers, merchants, evangelists. The largest of the graves belongs to Mr Henry Bohle, who died in 1852. The financial benefits accruing to the hill station from Bohle’s Brewery (now a ruin) led to Mackinnon going one better by building a cart road for his produce, and this road formed the basis for the present motor road from Dehra to Mussoorie.
There are a number of Mackinnons buried here. But unless John Lang left his widow in a generous mood, the chances of my finding his grave here are rather remote. Only the more expensive gravestones with marble insets have retained their inscriptions. The sandstone graves are now just anonymous slabs. Over a hundred monsoons have worn away the lettering on many old tombs.
I am still searching the knoll when I am hai
led by a man holding a bundle of sticks in one hand and an axe in the other. He calls out to me in a belligerent tone:
‘What are you doing here? And how did you get in?’
‘I am looking for a grave,’ I reply mildly.
‘You may come across your own grave if you walk in here without permission!’
This must be the mali, who is both gardener and caretaker. I have been warned about him; a fierce man who has been known to eject intruders at the point of a lathi. I am told he is short-sighted; and, like a bear, which is also short-sighted, believes that there is no point in trying to identify an intruder until he has been finished off.
It is only when the mali comes closer, and finds that I look fairly respectable, that his bluster disappears.
‘Some people come here to rob the graves,’ he explains in an injured tone. ‘And every time an arm or a head or a piece of marble goes,’ he says, gesturing towards a decapitated angel, ‘the Committee-memsahibs take me to task for carelessness.’
‘Well, I’ll tell the memsahibs how vigilant you are. I am looking for an old grave. Over a hundred years old.’
‘There are some old ones near my house,’ he says, beginning to mellow. ‘But you should look at the register, sahib. That will help you find your relative’s grave.’
I am about to tell him that it is not a relative’s grave, then decide not to as I do not want to raise his suspicions again. And it is pleasant to invent a relationship with another writer, a fellow Indo-Anglian, who lived, loved, died and was buried here over a hundred years ago.
‘Who has the register?’
‘The Garlah miss-sahib. She will tell you everything.’
‘All right, I’ll see her and come again tomorrow.’
‘If you bring a chit from the miss-sahib, I can open the gate for you.’
I continue searching on my own for a while, to the evident unease of the mali. Does he really think I shall make off with a headstone?
