by Ruskin Bond
Crocodiles, it seems, often bury themselves in the mud when they go to sleep, and Mr Biggs had pitched his tent and made his bed on top of a sleeping crocodile. Waking in the night, it had made for the nearest water.
Mr Biggs shot it the following morning—or so he would have us believe—the crocodile having reappeared on the river bank with the cot still attached to its back.
Now, having told me this story for the umpteenth time, Biggs says he really must be going, and, returning to the bookshelf, extracts Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, having forgotten the Ross Macdonalds on a side-table.
‘I must do some serious reading,’ he says. ‘These modern novels are so violent.’
‘Lots of violence in Decline and Fall,’ I remark.
‘Ah, but it’s history isn’t it? Well, I must go now, Mr Macdonald. Mustn’t waste your time.’
As he steps outside, he collides with Miss Bun, who drops samosas all over the veranda steps.
‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,’ he apologizes, and starts picking up the samosas, despite my attempts to prevent him from doing so. He then takes the paper-bag from Miss Bun and replaces the samosas.
‘And who is this little girl?’ he said benignly, patting Miss Bun on the head. ‘One of your nieces?’
‘That’s right, sir. My favourite niece.’
‘Well, I must not keep you. Service as usual, on Sunday.’ ‘Right, Mr Biggs.’
I have never been to a local church service, but why disillusion Rev. Biggs? I shall defend everyone’s right to go to a place of worship provided they allow me the freedom to stay away.
Miss Bun is staring after Rev. Biggs as he crosses the road. Her mouth is slightly agape. ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘He’s taken all the samosas!’
*
When I kiss Miss Bun, she bites my lip and draws blood.
‘What was that for?’ I complain.
‘Just to make you angry.’
‘But I don’t like getting angry.’
‘That’s why.’
I get angry just to please her, and we take a tumble on the carpet.
11 March
Does anyone here make money? Apart, of course, from the traders, who tuck it all away . . . .
A young man turned up yesterday, selling geraniums. He had a bag full of geraniums—cuttings and whole plants.
‘All colours,’ he told me confidently. ‘Only one rupee a cutting.’
‘I can buy them much cheaper at the government nursery.’ ‘But you would have to walk there, sir—six miles! I have brought these to your very doorstep. I will plant them for you, in your empty ghee tins, at no extra cost!’
‘That’s all right, you can give me a few. But what makes you sell geraniums?’
‘I have nothing to eat, sir. I haven’t eaten for two days.’
He must have sold all his plants that day, because in the evening I saw him at the country liquor shop, tippling away— and all on an empty stomach, I presume!
12 March
Mrs Biggs tells me that someone slipped into her garden
yesterday morning while she was out, and removed all her geraniums!
‘The most honest of people won’t hesitate to steal flowers— or books,’ I remark carelessly. ‘Never mind, Mrs Biggs, you can have some of my geraniums. I bought them yesterday.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you, Mr Bond. And you’ve only just put them down, I can tell,’ she says, spotting the cuttings in the Dalda tins.1 ‘No, I couldn’t deprive you—’
‘I’ll get you some,’ I offer, and generously surrender half the geraniums, vowing that if ever I come across that young man again, I’ll get him to recover all the plants he sold elsewhere.
19 March
Vinod, now selling newspapers, arrives as I am pouring
myself a beer under the cherry tree. It’s a warm day and I can see he is thirsty.
‘Can I have a drink of water?’ he asks.
‘Would you like some beer?’
‘Yes, sir!’
As I have an extra bottle, I pour him a glass and he squats on the grass near the old wall and brings me up to date on the local gossip. There are about fifty papers in his shoulder-bag, yet to be delivered.
‘You may feel drowsy after some time,’ I warn. ‘Don’t leave your papers in the wrong houses.’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he says, emptying the glass and gazing fondly at the bottle sparkling in the spring sunshine.
‘Have some more,’ I tell him, and go indoors to see what Prem was making for lunch. (Stuffed gourds, fried brinjal slices, pillau-rice. Prem was in a good mood, preparing my favourite dishes. Had I upset him, he would have given me string beans.) Returning to the garden, I find Vinod well into his second glass of beer. Half of Barlowganj and all of Jharipani (the next village), are snarling and cursing, waiting for their newspapers.
‘Your customers must be getting impatient,’ I remark. ‘Surely they want to know the result of the cricket test.’
‘Oh, they heard it on the radio. This is the morning edition. I can deliver it in the evening.’
I went indoors and had my lunch with little Raki, and asked Prem to give Vinod something to eat. When I came outside again, he was stretched out under the cherry tree, burping contentedly.
‘Thank you for the lunch,’ he said, and closed his eyes and went to sleep.
He’d gone by evening but his bag of papers was resting against my front door.
‘He’s left his papers behind,’ I remarked to Prem.
‘Oh, he’ll deliver them tomorrow, along with tomorrow’s paper. He’ll say the mail-bus was late, due to a landslide.’
In the evening I walk through the old bazaar and linger in front of a Tibetan shop, gazing at the brassware, coloured stones, amulets, masks; I am about to pass on, when I catch a glimpse of the girl who looks after the shop. Two soft brown eyes in a round jade-smooth face. A hesitant smile.
I step inside. I have never cared much for Tibetan handicrafts, but beautiful jade eyes are different.
‘Can I look around? I want to buy a present for a friend.’
I look around. She helps me, by displaying bangles, necklaces, rings—all on the assumption that my friend is a young lady.
I choose the more frightening of two devil masks, and promise to come again for the pair to it.
On the way home I meet Miss Bun.
‘When shall I come?’ she asks, pirouetting on the road.
‘Next year.’
‘Next year!’ Her pretty mouth falls open.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You’ve just lost the election.’
31 March
Miss Bun hasn’t been for several days. This morning I find
her washing clothes at the public tap. She gives me a quick smile as I pass.
‘It’s nice to see you hard at work,’ I remark.
She looks quickly to left and right, then says, ‘It’s punishment, because I bought new bangles with the money you gave me.’
I hurry on down the road.
During the afternoon siesta I am roused by someone knocking on the door. A slim boy, with thick hair and bushy eyebrows is standing there. I don’t know him, but his eyes remind me of someone.
He tells me he is Miss Bun’s older brother. At a guess, he would be only a year or two older than her.
‘Come in,’ I say. It’s best to be friendly! What could he possibly want?
He produces a bag of samosas and puts them down on my bedside table.
‘My sister cannot come this week. I will bring you samosas instead. Is that all right?’
‘Oh, sure. Sit down, sit down. So you’re Master Bun. It’s nice to know you.’
He sits down on the edge of the bed and studies the picture on the wall—a print of Kurosawa’s Wave.
‘Shall I pay you now for the samosas?’ I ask.
‘No, no, whenever you like.’
‘And do you go to school or college
?’
‘No, I help my father in the bakery. Are you ill, sir?’
‘No. What makes you think so?’
‘Because you were lying down.’
‘Well, I like lying down. It’s better than standing up. And I do get a headache if I read or write for too long.’
He offers to give me a head massage, and I submit to his ministrations for about five minutes. The headache is now much worse, but I pay for both massage and samosas and tell him he can come again—preferably next year.
My next visitor is Constable Ghanshyam Singh, who tells me that the SP has extracted confessions from a couple of thieves simply by making them stand for hours and listen to him reciting his poetry. I know our police have a reputation for torturing suspects, but I think this is carrying things a bit too far.
‘And what about your transfer?’ I ask.
‘As soon as those poems are published in the Weekly.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I promise.
They appeared in the Bhopal Weekly.
And a year later, when I was editing Imprint, I was able to publish one of the SP’s poems. He has always maintained that if I’d published more of them, the magazine would never have folded.
A note on Miss Bun:
Little Miss Bun is fond of bed,
But she keeps a cash-box in her head.
8 April
Rev. Biggs at the door, book in hand.
‘I won’t take up your time, Mr Bond. But I thought it was
time I returned your Butterfly book.’
‘My butterfly book?’
‘Yes, thank you very much. I enjoyed it a great deal.’
Mr Biggs hands me the book on butterflies, a handsomely illustrated volume. It isn’t my book, but if Mr Biggs insists on giving me someone else’s book, who am I to quibble? He’d never find the right owner, anyway.
‘By the way, have you seen Mrs Biggs?’ he asks.
‘No, not this morning, sir.’
‘She went off without telling me. She’s always doing things like that. Very irritating.’
After he has gone, I glance at the fly-leaf of the book. The name-plate says W. Biggs. So it’s one of his own . . . .
A little later Mrs Biggs comes by.
‘Have you seen Will?’ she asks.
‘He was here about fifteen minutes ago He was looking for you.’
‘Oh, he knew I’d gone to the garden shed. How tiresome! I suppose he’s wandered off somewhere.’
‘Never mind, Mrs Biggs, he’ll make his way home when he gets hungry. A good lunch will always bring a wanderer home. By the way, I’ve got his book on butterflies. Perhaps you’d return it to him for me? And he shouldn’t lend it to just anyone, you know. It’s a valuable book, you don’t want to lose it.’
‘I’m sure it was quite safe with you, Mr Bond.’
Books always are, of course. On principle, I never steal another man’s books. I might take his geraniums or his old school tie, but I wouldn’t deprive him of his books. Or the song or melody or dream he lives by. And I wrote a little lullaby for Raki:
Little one, don’t be afraid of this big river.
Be safe in these warm arms for ever.
Grow tall, my child, be wise and strong.
But do not take from any man his song.
Little one, don’t be afraid of this dark night.
Walk boldly as you see the truth and light.
Love well, my child, laugh all day long,
But do not take from any man his song.
16 April
Is there something about the air at this height that makes people light-headed, absent-minded? Ten years from now I will probably be as forgetful as Mr Biggs. I must climb the next mountain before I forget where it is.
*
Outline for a story:
Someone lives in a small hut near a spring, within sound of running water. He never leaves the place, except to walk into the town for books, post, and supplies. ‘Don’t you ever get bored here?’ I asked. ‘Do you never wish to leave?’ ‘No,’ he replies, and tells me of his experience in the desert, when for two days and two nights (the limit of human endurance in regard to thirst), he went without water. On the second night, half dead, lying in the open beneath the stars, he dreamt of just such a spring in the mountains, and it was as though it gave him spiritual sustenance. So later, when he was fully recovered, he went in search of the spring (which he was sure existed), and found it while hiking in the Himalayas. He knew that as long as he remained by the spring he would never feel unsafe; it was where his guardian-spirit lived . . . .
And so I feel safe near my own spring, my own mountain, for this is where my guardian-spirit lives too.
16 April
Visited the Tibetan shop and bought a small brass vase
encrusted with pretty stones.
I’d no intention of buying anything, but the girl smiled at me as I passed, and then I just had to go in; and once in, I couldn’t just stand there, a fatuous grin on my face.
I had to buy something. And a vase is always a good thing to buy. If you don’t like it, you can give it away.
If she smiles at me every time I pass, I shall probably build up a collection of vases.
She isn’t a girl, really; she’s probably about thirty. I suppose she has a husband who smuggles Chinese goods in from Nepal, while her children—‘charity cases’—go to one of the posh public schools; but she’s fresh and pretty, and then of course I don’t have many young women smiling at me these days. I shall be forty-three next month.
17 April
Miss Bun still smiles at me, even though I frown at her when we pass.
This afternoon she brought me samosas and a rose.
‘Where’s your brother?’ I asked gruffly. ‘He has more to talk about.’
‘He’s busy in the bakery. See, I’ve brought you a rose.’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s a present.’
‘Thanks. I didn’t know you grew roses.’
‘I don’t. It’s from the school garden.’
‘Well, thank you anyway. You actually stole something on my behalf!’
‘Where shall I put it?’
I found my new vase, filled it with fresh water, placed the rose in it, and set it down on my dressing-table.
‘It leaks,’ remarked Miss Bun.
‘My vase?’ I was incredulous.
‘See, the water’s spreading all over your nice table.’
She was right, of course. Water from the bottom of the vase was running across the varnished wood of great-grandmother’s old rosewood dressing-table. The stain, I felt sure, would be permanent.
‘But it’s a new vase!’ I protested.
‘Someone must have cheated you. Why did you buy it without looking properly?’
‘Well, you see, I didn’t buy it actually. Someone gave it to me as a present.’
I fumed inwardly, vowing never again to visit the brassware shop. Never trust a smiling woman! I prefer Miss Bun’s scowl.
‘Do you want the vase?’ she asks.
‘No. Take it away.’
She places the rose on my pillow, throws the water out of the window, and drops the vase into her cloth shopping- bag.
‘What will you do with it?’ I ask.
‘I’ll seal the leak with flour,’ she says.
21 April
A clear fresh morning after a week of intermittent rain. And
what a morning for birds! Three doves acourting, a cuckoo calling, a bunch of mynas squabbling, and a pair of king-crows doing Swedish exercises.
I find myself doing exercises of an original nature, devised by Master Bun; these consist of various contortions of the limbs which, he says, are good for my sex drive.
‘But I don’t want a sex drive,’ I tell him. ‘I want something that will take my mind off sex.’
So he gives me another set of exercises, which consist mostly of deep breathing.
<
br /> ‘Try holding your breath for five minutes,’ he suggests.
‘I know of someone who committed suicide by doing just that.’ ‘Then hold it for two minutes.’
I take a deep breath and last only a minute.
‘No good,’ he says. ‘You have to relax more.’
‘Well, I am tired of trying to relax. It doesn’t work this way. What I need is a good meal.’
And Prem obliges by serving up my favourite kofta curry and rice. Satiated, I have no problem in relaxing for the rest of the afternoon.
28 April
Master Bun wears a troubled expression.
‘It’s about my sister,’ he says.
‘What about her?’ I ask, fearing the worst.
‘She has run away.’
‘That’s bad. On her own?’
‘No . . . . With a professor.’
‘That should be all right. Professors are usually respectable people. Maths or English?’
‘I don’t know. He has a wife and children.’
‘Then obviously he hasn’t taken them along.’
‘He has taken her to Roorkee. My sister is an innocent girl.’ ‘Well, there is a certain innocence about her,’ I say, recalling Nabokov’s Lolita. ‘Maybe the professor wants to adopt her.’
‘But she’s a virgin.’
‘Then she must be rescued! Why are you here, talking to me about it, when you should be rushing down to Roorkee?’
‘That’s why I’ve come. Can you lend me the bus fare?’
‘Better still, I’ll come with you. We must rescue the professor—sorry, I mean your sister!’
1 May
To Roorkee, to Roorkee, to find a sweet girl,
Home again, home again, oh what a whirl!
We did everything except find Miss Bun. Our first evening in Roorkee we roamed the bazaar and the canal banks; the second day we did the rounds of the University, the regimental barracks, and the headquarters of the Boys’ Brigade. We made enquiries from all the bakers in Roorkee (many of them known to Master Bun), but none of them had seen his sister. On the college campus we asked for the professor, but no one had heard of him either.
