by Ruskin Bond
Still, his pace did not slacken. He knew of only one way to walk, and that was at his steady long pace. At the end of another hour he felt sure he had passed the place where the bag had fallen. He had been inspecting the embankment very closely, and now he felt discouraged and dispirited. But still he walked on. He was worried more by the thought of his wife’s attitude than by the loss of the money or the problem of the next meal.
*
Rather than turn back, he continued walking until he reached the next station. He kept following the lines, and after half an hour dragged his aching feet on to Raiwala platform. To his surprise and joy, he saw a note in Hindi on the notice board: ‘Anyone having lost a bag containing some notes and coins may enquire at the station-master’s office.’ Some honest man or woman or child had found the bag and handed it in. Daya Ram felt that his faith in the goodness of human nature had been justified.
He rushed into the office and, pushing aside an indignant clerk, exclaimed: ‘You have found my money!’
‘What money?’ snapped the harassed-looking official. ‘And don’t just charge in here shouting at the top of your voice; this is not a hotel!’
‘The money I lost on the train,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Ten rupees.’
‘In notes or in coins?’ asked the station-master, who was not slow in assessing a situation.
‘Six one-rupee notes,’ said Daya Ram. ‘The rest in coins.’
‘Hmmm. . . .and what was the purse like?’
‘White cloth,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Dirty white cloth,’ he added for clarification.
The official put his hand in a drawer, took out the bag and flung it across the desk. Without further parley, Daya Ram scooped up the bag and burst through the swing doors, completely revived after his fatiguing march.
*
Now he had only one idea: to celebrate, in his small way, the recovery of his money.
So, he left the station and made his way through a sleepy little bazaar to the nearest tea shop. He sat down at a table and asked for tea and a hookah. The shopkeeper placed a record on a gramophone, and the shrill music shattered the afternoon silence of the bazaar.
A young man sitting idly at the next table smiled at Daya Ram and said, ‘You are looking happy, brother.’
Daya Ram beamed. ‘I lost my money and found it,’ he said simply.
‘Then you should celebrate with something stronger than tea,’ said the friendly stranger with a wink. ‘Come on into the next room.’ He took Daya Ram by the arm and was so comradely that the older man felt pleased and flattered. They went behind a screen, and then the shopkeeper brought them two glasses and a bottle of country-made rum.
Before long, Daya Ram had told his companion the story of his life. He had also paid for the rum and was prepared to pay for more. But two of the young man’s friends came in and suggested a card-game, and Daya Ram, who remembered having once played a game of cards in his youth, showed enthusiasm. He lost sportingly, to the tune of five rupees; the rum had such a benevolent effect on his already genial nature that he was quite ready to go on playing until he had lost everything, but the shopkeeper came in hurriedly with the information that a policeman was hanging about outside. Daya Ram’s table companions promptly disappeared.
Daya Ram was still happy. He paid for the hookah and the cup of tea he hadn’t had, and went lurching into the street. He had
some vague intention of returning to the station to catch a train, and had his ticket in his hand; by now his sense of direction was so confused that he turned down a side-alley and was soon lost in a labyrinth of tiny alley-ways. Just when he thought he saw trees ahead, his attention was drawn to a man leaning against a wall and groaning wretchedly. The man was in rags, his hair was tousled, and his face looked bruised.
*
Daya Ram heard his groans and stumbled over to him.
‘What is wrong?’ he asked with concern. ‘What is the matter with you?’
‘I have been robbed,’ said the man, speaking with difficulty. ‘Two thugs beat me and took my money. Don’t go any further this way.’
‘Can I do anything for you?’ said Daya Ram. ‘Where do you live?’
‘No, I will be all right,’ said the man, leaning heavily on Daya Ram. ‘Just help me to the corner of the road, and then I can find my way.’
‘Do you need anything?’ said Daya Ram. ‘Do you need any money?’
‘No, no just help me to those steps.’
Daya Ram put an arm around the man and helped him across the road, seating him on a step.
‘Are you sure I can do nothing for you?’ persisted Daya Ram. The man shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Daya Ram hesitated a little, and then left. But as soon as Daya Ram turned the corner, the man opened his eyes. He transferred the bag of money from the fold of his shirt to the string of his pyjamas. Then, completely recovered, he was up and away.
Daya Ram discovered his loss when he had gone about fifty yards, and then it was too late. He was puzzled, but was not upset. So many things happened to him today, and he was confused and unaware of his real situation. He still had his ticket, and that was what mattered most.
The train was at the station, and Daya Ram got into a half- empty compartment. It was only when the train began to move
that he came to his senses and realized what had befallen him. As the engine gathered speed, his thoughts came faster. He was not worried (except by the thought of his wife) and he was not unhappy, but he was puzzled; he was not angry or resentful, but he was a little hurt. He knew he had been tricked, but he couldn’t understand why; he had really liked those people he had met in the tea shop of Raiwala, and he still could not bring himself to believe that the man in rags had been putting on an act.
‘Have you got a bidi ?’ asked a man beside him, who looked like another farmer.
Daya Ram had a bidi. He gave it to the other man and lit it for him. Soon they were talking about crops and rainfall and their respective families, and although a faint uneasiness still hovered at the back of his mind, Daya Ram had almost forgotten the day’s misfortunes. He had his ticket to Dehra and from there he had to walk only three miles, and then he would be home, and there would be hot milk and cooked vegetables waiting for him. He and other farmer chattered away, as the train went panting across the wide brown plain.
Masterji
I was strolling along the platform, waiting for the arrival of the Amritsar Express, when I saw Mr Khushal, handcuffed to a policeman.
I hadn’t recognized him at first—a paunchy gentleman with a lot of grey in his beard and a certain arrogant amusement in his manner. It was only when I came closer, and we were almost face to face, that I recognized my old Hindi teacher.
Startled, I stopped and stared. And he stared back at me, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. It was over twenty years since I’d last seen him, standing jauntily before the classroom blackboard, and now here he was tethered to a policeman and looking as jaunty as ever. . . .
‘Good—good evening, Sir’, I stammered, in my best public- school manner. (You must always respect your teacher, no matter what the circumstances.)
Mr Kushal’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘So you remember me! It’s nice to see you again, my boy.’
Forgetting that his right hand was shackled to the policeman’s left, I made as if to shake hands. Mr Khushal thoughtfully took my right hand in his left and gave it a rough squeeze. A faint odour of cloves and cinnamon reached me, and I remembered how he had always been redolent of spices when standing beside my desk, watching me agonize over my Hindi-English translation.
He had joined the school in 1948, not long after the Partition. Until then there had been no Hindi teacher; we’d been taught Urdu and French. Then came a ruling that Hindi was to be a compulsory subject, and at the age of sixteen I found myself struggling with a new script. When Mr Khushal joined the staff (on the recommendation of a local official), there was no one else in the school who knew Hindi, o
r who could assess Mr Khushal’s abilities as a teacher. . . .
And now once again he stood before me, only this time he was in the custody of the law.
I was still recovering from the shock when the train drew in, and everyone on the platform began making a rush for the compartment doors. As the policeman elbowed his way through the crowd, I kept close behind him and his charge, and as a result I managed to get into the same third-class compartment. I found a seat right opposite Mr Khushal. He did not seem to be the least bit embarrassed by the handcuffs, or by the stares of his fellow-passengers. Rather, it was the policeman who looked unhappy and ill-at-ease.
As the train got under way, I offered Mr Khushal one of the parathas made for me by my Ferozepur landlady. He accepted it with alacrity. I offered one to the constable as well, but although he looked at it with undisguised longing, he felt duty- bound to decline.
‘Why have they arrested you sir?’ I asked. ‘Is it very serious?’
‘A trivial matter,’ said Mr Khushal. ‘Nothing to worry about. I shall be at liberty soon.’
‘But what did you do ?’
Mr Khushal leant forward. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said in a confiding tone. ‘Even a great teacher like Socrates fell foul of the law.’
‘You mean—one of your pupil’s—made a complaint?’
‘And why should one of my pupils make a complaint?’ Mr Khushal looked offended. ‘They were the beneficiaries—it was for them.’ He noticed that I looked mystified, and decided to come straight to the point: ‘It was simply a question of false certificates.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling deflated. Public school boys are always prone to jump to the wrong conclusions. . . .
‘ Your certificates, sir?’
‘Of course not. Nothing wrong with my certificates—I had them printed in Lahore, in 1946.’
‘With age comes respectability,’ I remarked. ‘In that case, whose. . . .?’
‘Why, the matriculation certificates I’ve been providing all these years to the poor idiots who would never have got through on their own!’
‘You mean you gave them you own certificates?’
‘That’s right. And if it hadn’t been for so many printing mistakes, no one would have been any wiser. You can’t find a good press these days, that’s the trouble. . . .It was a public service, my boy, I hope you appreciate that. . . .It isn’t fair to hold a boy back in life simply because he can’t get through some puny exam. . . .Mind you, I don’t give my certificates to anyone. They come to me only after they have failed two or three times.’
‘And I suppose you charge something?’
‘Only if they can pay. There’s no fixed sum. Whatever they like to give me. I’ve never been greedy in these matters, and you know I am not unkind. . . . ’
Which is true enough, I thought, looking out of the carriage window at the green fields of Moga and remembering the half- yearly Hindi exam, when I had stared blankly at the question paper, knowing that I was totally incapable of answering any of it. Mr Khushal had come walking down the line of desks stopping at mine and breathing cloves all over me, ‘Come on, boy, why haven’t you started?’
‘Can’t do it sir,’ I’d said. ‘It’s too difficult.’
‘Never mind,’ he’d urged in a whisper. ‘Do something. Copy it out, copy it out!’
And so, to pass the time, I’d copied out the entire paper, word for word. And a fortnight later, when the results were out, I found I had passed!
‘But sir,’ I had stammered, approaching Mr Khushal when I found him alone. ‘I never answered the paper. I couldn’t translate the passage. All I did was copy it out!’
‘That’s why I gave you pass-marks,’ he’d answered imperturbably. ‘You have such neat handwriting. If ever you do learn Hindi, my boy, you’ll write a beautiful script!’
And remembering that moment, I was now filled with compassion for my old teacher; and leaning across, I placed my hand on his knee and said: ‘Sir, if they convict you, I hope it won’t be for long. And when you come out, if you happen to be in Delhi or Ferozepur, please look me up. You see, I’m still rather hopeless at Hindi, and perhaps you could give me tuition. I’d be glad to pay. . . .’
Mr Khushal threw back his head and laughed, and the entire compartment shook with his laughter.
‘Teach you Hindi!’ he cried. ‘My dear boy, what gave you the
idea that I ever knew any Hindi?’
‘But, sir—if not Hindi what were you teaching us all the time at school?’
‘Punjabi!’ he shouted, and everyone jumped in their seats. ‘Pure Punjabi! But how were you to know the difference?’
Listen to the Wind
March is probably the most uncomfortable month in the hills. The rain is cold, often accompanied by sleet and hail, and the wind from the north comes tearing down the mountain-passes with tremendous force. Those few people who pass the winter in the hill-station remain close to their fires. If they can’t afford fires, they get into bed.
I found old Miss Mackenzie tucked up in bed with three hot- water bottles for company. I took the bedroom’s single easy chair, and for some time Miss Mackenzie and I listened to the thunder and watched the play of lightning. The rain made a tremendous noise on the corrugated tin roof, and we had to raise our voices in order to be heard The hills looked blurred and smudgy when seen through the rain-spattered windows. The wind battered at the doors and rushed round the cottage, determined to make an entry; it slipped down the chimney, but stuck there choking and gurgling and protesting helplessly.
‘There’s a ghost in your chimney and he can’t get out,’ I said. ‘Then let him stay there,’ said Miss Mackenzie.
A vivid flash of lightning lit up the opposite hill showing me for a moment a pile of ruins which I never knew were there.
‘You’re looking at Burnt Hill,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘It always gets the lightning when there’s a storm.’
‘Possibly there are iron deposits in the rocks,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t know. But it’s the reason why no one ever lived there for long. Almost every dwelling that was put up was struck by lightning and burnt down.’
‘I thought I saw some ruins just now.’
‘Nothing but rubble. When they were first settling in the hills they chose that spot. Later they moved to the site where the town now stands. Burnt Hill was left to the deer and the leopards and the monkeys—and to its ghosts, of course. . . . ’
‘Oh, so it’s haunted, too.’
‘So they say. On evenings such as these. But you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘No. But you’ll understand why they say the hill is haunted when you hear its story. Listen.’
I listened, but at first I could hear nothing but the wind and the rain. Then Miss Mackenzie’s clear voice rose above the sound of the elements, and I heard her saying:
‘. . . .it’s really the old story of ill-starred lovers, only it’s true. I’d met Robert at his parent’s house some weeks before the tragedy took place He was eighteen, tall and fresh-looking, and full of manhood. He’d been born out here, but his parents were hoping to return to England when Robert’s father retired. His father was a magistrate, I think—but that hasn’t any bearing on the story.
‘Their plans didn’t work out the way they expected. You see, Robert fell in love. Not with an English girl, mind you, but with a hill girl, the daughter of a landholder from the village behind Burnt Hill. Even today it would be unconventional. Twenty-five years ago, it was almost unheard of! Robert liked walking, and he was hiking through the forest when he saw or rather heard her. It was said later that he fell in love with her voice. She was singing, and the song—low and sweet and strange to his ears— struck him to the heart. When he caught sight of the girl’s face, he was not disappointed. She was young and beautiful. She saw him and returned his awestruck gaze with a brief, fleeting smile.
‘Robert, in his impetuousness
, made enquiries at the village, located the girl’s father, and without much ado asked for her hand in marriage. He probably thought that a sahib would not be refused such a request. At the same time, it was really quite gallant on his part, because any other young man might simply have ravished the girl in the forest. But Robert was in love, and, therefore, completely irrational in his behaviour.
‘Of course the girl’s father would have nothing to do with the proposal. He was a Brahmin, and he wasn’t going to have the good name of his family ruined by marrying off his only daughter to a foreigner. Robert did not argue with the father; nor
did he say anything to his own parents, because he knew their reaction would be one of shock and dismay. They would do everything in their power to put an end to his madness.
‘But Robert continued to visit the forest—you see it there, that heavy patch of oak and pine—and he often came across the girl, for she would be gathering fodder or fuel. She did not seem to resent his attentions, and, as Robert knew something of the language, he was soon able to convey his feelings to her. The girl must at first have been rather alarmed, but the boy’s sincerity broke down her reserve. After all, she was young too—young enough to fall in love with a devoted swain, without thinking too much of his background. She knew her father would never agree to a marriage—and he knew his parents would prevent anything like that happening. So they planned to run away together. Romantic, isn’t it? But it did happen. Only they did not live happily ever after.’
‘Did their parents come after them?’
‘No. They had agreed to meet one night in the ruined building on Burnt Hill—the ruin you saw just now; it hasn’t changed much, except that there was a bit of roof to it then. They left their homes and made their way to the hill without any difficulty. After meeting, they planned to take the little path that followed the course of a stream until it reached the plains. After that—but who knows what they had planned, what dreams of the future they had conjured up? The storm broke soon after they’d reached the ruins. They took shelter under the dripping ceiling. It was a storm just like this one—a high wind and great torrents of rain and hail, and the lightning flitting about and crashing down almost every minute. They must have been soaked, huddled together in a corner of that crumbling building, when lightning struck. No one knows at what time it happened. But next morning their charred bodies were found on the worn yellow stones of the old building.’
