Rain In the Mountains

by Ruskin Bond

  Recently, confirmation came from an old India hand now living in London. He wrote to me reminiscing of early days in the hill-station and had this to say:

  Uncle Georgie Forster was working for the Crown Brewery when a coolie fell in. Coolies were employed to remove scum etc. from the vats. They walked along planks suspended over the vats. Poor devil must have slipped and fallen in. Uncle often told us about the incident and there was no doubt that the beer tasted very good.

  What with soldiers and coolies falling into the vats with seeming regularity, one wonders whether there may have been more to these accidents than met the eye. I have a nagging suspicion that Whymper and Buckle may have been the Burke and Hare of Mussoorie’s beer industry.

  But no beer is made in Mussoorie today, and Devilal probably regrets the passing of the breweries as much as I do. Only the walls of the breweries remain, and these are several feet thick. The roofs and girders must have been removed for use in other buildings. Moss and sorrel grow in the old walls, and wild cats live in dark corners protected from rain and wind.

  We have taken the sharpest curves and steepest gradients, and now our taxi moves smoothly along a fairly level road which might pass for a country lane in England were it not for the clumps of bamboo on either side.

  A mist has come up the valley to settle over Barlowganj, and out of the mist looms an imposing mansion, Sikander Hall, which is still owned and occupied by Skinners, descendants of Colonel James Skinner who raised a body of Irregular Horse for the Marathas. This was absorbed by the East India Company’s forces in 1803. The Cavalry regiment is still known as Skinners Horse, but of course it is a tank regiment now. Skinner’s troops called him ‘Sikander’ (a corruption of both Skinner and Alexander), and that is the name his property bears. The Skinners who live here now have, quite sensibly, gone in for keeping pigs and poultry.

  The next house belongs to the Raja of K but he is unable to maintain it on his diminishing privy-purse, and it has been rented out as an ashram for members of a saffron-robed sect who would rather meditate in the hills than in the plains. There was a time when it was only the sahibs and rajas who could afford to spend the entire ‘season’ in Mussoorie. The new rich are the industrialists and maharishis. The coolies and rickshaw- pullers are no better off than when I was a boy in Mussoorie. They still carry or pull the same heavy loads, for the same pittance, and seldom attain the age of forty. Only their clientele has changed.

  One more gate, and here is Colonel Powell in his khaki bush-shirt and trousers, a uniform that never varies with the seasons. He is an old shikari; once wrote a book called The Call of the Tiger. He is too old for hunting now, but likes to yarn with me when we meet on the road. His wife has gone home to England, but he does not want to leave India.

  ‘It’s the mountains,’ he was telling me the other day. ‘Once the mountains are in your blood, there is no escape. You have to come back again and again. I don’t think I’d like to die anywhere else.’

  Today there is no time to stop and chat. The taxi-driver, with a vigorous blowing of his horn, takes the car round the last bend, and then through the village and narrow bazaar of Barlowganj, stopping about a hundred yards from the polling stations.

  There is a festive air about Barlowganj today, I have never seen so many people in the bazaar. Bunting, in the form of rival posters and leaflets, is strung across the street. The teashops are doing a roaring trade. There is much last-minute canvassing, and I have to run the gamut of various candidates and their agents. For the first time I learn the names of some of the candidates. In all, seven men are competing for this seat.

  A schoolboy, smartly dressed and speaking English, is the first to accost me. He says: ‘Don’t vote for Devilal, sir. He’s a big crook. Vote for Jatinder! See, sir, that’s his symbol—the bow and arrow.’

  ‘I shall certainly think about the bow and arrow,’ I tell him politely.

  Another agent, a man, approaches, and says, ‘I hope you are going to vote for the Congress candidate.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him,’ I say.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It’s the party you are voting for. Don’t forget it’s Mrs Gandhi’s party.’

  Meanwhile, one of Devilal’s lieutenants has been keeping a close watch on both Vinod and me, to make sure that we are not seduced by rival propaganda. I give the man a reassuring smile and stride purposefully towards the polling station, which has been set up in the municipal schoolhouse. Policemen stand at the entrance, to make sure that no one approaches the voters once they have entered the precincts.

  I join the patient queue of voters. Everyone is in good humour, and there is no breaking of the line; these are not film stars we have come to see. Vinod is in another line, and grins proudly at me across the passageway. This is the one day in his life on which he has been made to feel really important. And he is. In a small constituency like Barlowganj every vote counts.

  Most of my fellow-voters are poor people. Local issues mean something to them, affect their daily living. The more affluent can buy their way out of trouble, can pay for small conveniences; few of them bother to come to the polls. But for the ‘common’ man’—the shopkeeper, clerk, teacher, domestic servant, milkman, mule-driver—this is a big day. The man he is voting for has promised him something, and the voter means to take the successful candidate up on his promise. Not for another five years will the same fuss be made over the local cobblers, tailors and laundrymen. Their votes are indeed precious.

  And now it is my turn to vote. I confirm my name, address and roll-number. I am down on the list as ‘Rusking Bound’, but I let it pass: I might forfeit my right to vote if I raise any objection at this stage! A dab of marking-ink is placed on my forefinger—this is so that I do not come round a second time— and I am given a paper displaying the names and symbols of all the candidates. I am then directed to the privacy of a small booth, where I place the official rubber-stamp against Devilal’s name. This done, I fold the paper in four and slip it into the ballot-box.

  All has gone smoothly. Vinod is waiting for me outside. So is Devilal.

  ‘Did you vote for me?’ asks Devilal.

  It is my eyes that he is looking at, not my lips, when I reply in the affirmative. He is a shrewd man, with many years’ experience in seeing through bluff. He is pleased with my reply, beams at me, and directs me to the waiting taxi.

  Vinod and I get in together, and soon we are on the road again, being driven swiftly homewards up the winding hill road.

  Vinod is looking pleased with himself; rather smug, in fact. ‘You did vote for Devilal?’ I ask him. ‘The symbol of the cock-bird?’

  He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘No, the cow,’ he says.

  ‘You ass!’ I exclaim. ‘Devilal’s symbol was the cock, not the cow!’

  ‘I know,’ he says, ‘but I like the cow better.’

  I subside into silence. It is a good thing no one else in the taxi has been paying any attention to our conversation. It would be a pity to see Vinod turned out of Devilal’s taxi and made to walk the remaining mile to the top of the hill. After all, it will be another five years before he gets another free taxi-ride.

  (In spite of Vinod’s defection, Devilal won.)

  1974

  Miss Bun and Others

  1 March 1975

  BEER IN THE sun. High in the spruce tree the barbet calls, heralding summer. A few puffy clouds drift lazily over the mountains. Is this the great escape?

  I could sit here all day, soaking up beer and sunshine, but at some time during the day I must wipe the dust from my typewriter and produce something readable. There’s only Rs 800 in the bank, book sales are falling off, and magazines are turning away from fiction.

  Prem spoils me, gives me rice and kofta curry for lunch, which means that I sleep till four when Miss Bun arrives with patties and samosas.

  Miss Bun is the baker’s daughter.

  Of course that’s not her real name. Her real n
ame is very long and beautiful, but I won’t give it here for obvious reasons and also because her brother is big and ugly.

  I am seeing Miss Bun after two months. She’s been with relatives in Bareilly.

  She sits at the foot of my bed, absolutely radiant. Her raven- black hair lies loose on her shoulders; her eyelashes have been trimmed and blackened; so have her eyes, with kajal. Her eyes, so large and innocent—and calculating!

  There are pretty glass bangles on her wrists and she wears a pair of new slippers. Her kameez is new, too; green silk, with gold-embroidered sleeves.

  ‘You must have a rich lover,’ I remark, taking her hand and gently pulling her toward me. ‘Who gave you all this finery?’

  ‘You did. Don’t you remember? Before I went away, you gave me a hundred rupees.’

  ‘That was for the train and bus fares. I thought.’

  ‘Oh, my uncle paid the fares. So I bought myself these things. Are they nice?’

  ‘Very pretty. And so are you. If you were ten years older, and I was ten years younger, we’d make a good pair. But, I’d have been broke long before this!’

  She giggles and drops a paper-bag full of samosas on the bedside table. I hate samosas and patties, but I keep ordering them because it gives Miss Bun a pretext for visiting me. It’s all in the way of helping the bakery get by. When she goes, I give the lot to Bijju and Binya or whoever might be passing.

  ‘You’ve been away a long time,’ I complain. ‘What if I’d got married while you were away?’

  ‘Then you’d stop ordering samosas.’

  ‘Or get them from that old man Bashir, who makes much better ones, and cheaper!’

  She drops her head on my shoulder. Her hair is heavily scented with jasmine hair-oil, and I nearly pass out. They should use it instead of anaesthesia.

  ‘You smell very nice,’ I lie. ‘Do I get a kiss?’

  She gives me a long kiss, as though to make up for her long absence. Her kisses always have a nice wholesome flavour, as you would expect from someone who lives in a bakery.

  ‘That was an expensive kiss.’

  ‘I want to buy some face-cream.’

  ‘You don’t need face-cream. Your complexion is perfect. It must be the good quality flour you use in the bakery.’

  ‘I don’t put flour on my face. Anyway, I want the cream for my elder sister. She has pock-marks.

  I surrender and give her two fives, quickly putting away my wallet.

  ‘And when will you pay for the samosas?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘I’ll bring you something nice next week,’ she says, pausing in the doorway.

  ‘Well, thanks, I was getting tired of samosas.’

  She was gone in a twinkling.

  I’ll say this for Miss Bun: she doesn’t trouble to hide her intentions.

  4 March

  My policeman calls on me this morning. Ghanshyam, the

  constable attached to the Barlowganj outpost.

  He is not very tall for a policeman, and he has a round, cheerful countenance, which is unusual in his profession. He looks smart in his uniform. Most constables prefer to hang around in their pyjamas most of the time.

  Nothing alarming about Ghanshyam’s visit. He comes to see me about once a week, and has been doing so ever since I spent a night in the police station last year.

  It happened when I punched a Muzzaffarnagar businessman in the eye for bullying a rickshaw coolie. The fat slob very naturally lodged a complaint against me, and that same evening a sub-inspector called and asked me to accompany him to the thana. It was too late to arrange anything and in any case I had only been taken in for questioning, so I had to spend the night at the police post. The sub-inspector went home and left me in the charge of a constable. A wooden bench and a charpoy, were the only items of furniture in my ‘cell’, if you could call it that. The charpoy was meant for the night-duty constable, but he very generously offered it to me.

  ‘But where will you sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t feel like sleeping. Usually I go to the night show at the Picture Palace, but I suppose I’ll have to stay here because of you.’

  He looked rather sulky. Obviously I’d ruined his plans for the night.

  ‘You don’t have to stay because of me,’ I said. ‘I won’t tell the SHO. You go to the Picture Palace, I’ll look after the thana.’

  He brightened up considerably, but still looked a bit doubtful. ‘You can trust me,’ I said encouragingly. ‘My grandfather was a private soldier who became a Buddhist.’

  ‘Then I can trust you as far as your grandfather.’ He was quite cheerful now, and sent for two cups of tea from the shop across the road. It came gratis, of course. A little later he left me, and I settled down on the cot and slept fitfully. The constable came back during the early hours and went to sleep on the bench. Next morning I was allowed to go home. The Muzzaffarnagar businessman had got into another fight and was lodged in the main thana. I did not hear about the matter again.

  Ghanshyam, the constable, having struck up a friendship with me, was to visit me from time to time.

  And here he is today, boots shining, teeth gleaming, cheeks almost glowing, far too charming a person to be a policeman.

  ‘Hello, Ghanshyam-bhai,’ I welcome him. ‘Sit down and have some tea.’

  ‘No, I can’t stop for long,’ he says, but sits down beside me on the veranda steps. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘I’m fed up with Barlowganj. I want to get a transfer.’

  ‘And how can I help you? I don’t know any netas or bigwigs.’

  ‘No, but our SP will be here next week, and he can have me transferred. Will you speak to him?’

  ‘But why should he listen to me?’

  ‘Well, you see, he has a weakness . . . .’

  ‘We all have our weaknesses. Does your SP have a weakness similar to mine? Do we proceed to blackmail him?’

  ‘Yes. You see, he writes poetry. And you are a kavi, a poet, aren’t you?’

  ‘At times,’ I conceded. ‘And I have to admit it’s a weakness, especially as no one cares to read my poetry.’

  ‘No one reads the SP’s poetry, either. Although we have to listen to it sometimes. When he has finished reading out one of his poems, we salute and say “Shabash!”’

  ‘A captive audience. I wish I had one.’

  Ignoring my sarcasm, Ghanshyam continued: ‘The trouble is, he can’t get anyone to publish his poems. This makes him bad- tempered and unsympathetic to applications for transfer. Can you help?’

  ‘I am not a publisher. I can only salute like the rest of you.’ ‘But you know publishers, don’t you? If you can get some of his poems published, he’d be very grateful. To you. To me. To both of us!’

  ‘You really are an optimist.’

  ‘Just one or two poems. You see, I’ve already told him about you. How you spent all night in the lock-up writing verses. He thinks you are a famous writer. He’s depending on me now. If the poems get published, he will give me a transfer. I’m sick of Barlowganj!’ He gives me a hug and pinches me on the cheek. Before he can go any further, I say: ‘Well, I’ll do me best—’ I was thinking of a little magazine published in Bhopal where most of my rejects found a home. ‘For your sake, I’ll try. But first I must see the poems.’

  ‘You shall even see the SP,’ he promised. ‘I’ll bring him here next week. You can give him a cup of tea.’

  He got up, gave me a smart salute, and went up the path with a spring in his step. The sort of man who knows how to get his transfers and promotions in a perfectly honest manner.

  7 March

  It gets warmer day by day.

  This morning I decided to sunbathe—quite modestly, of course. Retaining my old khaki shorts but removing all other clothing, I stretched out on a mattress in the garden. Almost immediately I was disturbed by the baker (Miss Bun’s father for a change), who presented me with two loaves of bread
and half a dozen chocolate pastries, ordered the previous day. Then Prem’s small son, Raki, turned up, demanding a pastry, and I gave him two. He insisted on joining me on the mattress, where he proceeded to drop crumbs in my hair and on my chest. ‘Good morning, Mr Bond!’ came the dulcet tones of Mrs Biggs, leaning over the gate. Forgetting that she was short- sighted, I jumped to my feet, and at the same time my shorts slipped down over my knees. As I grabbed for them, Mrs Biggs’s effusiveness reached greater heights. ‘Why, what a lovely agapanthus you’ve got!’ she exclaimed, referring no doubt to the solitary lily in the garden. I must confess I blushed. Then, recovering myself, I returned her greeting, remarking on the freshness of the morning.

  Mrs Biggs, at eighty, was a little deaf as well, and replied, ‘I’m very well, thank you, Mr Bond. Is that a child you’re carrying?’

  ‘Yes, Prem’s small son.’

  ‘Prem is your son? I didn’t know you had a family.’

  At this point Raki decided to pluck the spectacles off Mrs Biggs’s nose, and after I had recovered them for her, she beat a hasty retreat. Later, the Rev. Mr Biggs came over to borrow a book.

  ‘Just light reading,’ he said. ‘I can’t concentrate for long periods.’

  He has become extremely absent-minded and forgetful; one of the drawbacks of living to an advanced age. During a funeral last year, at which he took the funeral service, he read out the service for Burial at Sea. It was raining heavily at the time, and no one seemed to notice.

  Now he borrows two of my Ross Macdonalds—the same two he read last month. I refrain from pointing this out. If he has forgotten the books already, it won’t matter if he reads them again.

  Having spent the better part of his seventy-odd years in India, the Rev. Biggs has a lot of stories to tell, his favourite being the one about the crocodile he shot in Orissa when he was a young man. He’d pitched his tent on the banks of a river and gone to sleep on a camp-cot. During the night he felt his cot moving, and before he could gather his wits, the cot had moved swiftly through the opening of the tent and was rapidly making its way down to the river. Mr Biggs leapt for dry land while the cot, firmly wedged on the back of the crocodile, disappeared into the darkness.