Children's Omnibus

by Ruskin Bond

  On the day the exam results were due, Amir rose early. He got to the news agency at five o'clock, just as the morning papers arrived. Bhartu gave him a paper to look at and he found the page on which the results were listed. He looked down the 'passes' column for the town, but couldn't find Mohan's number on the list. He looked twice to make sure, and then returned the paper to Bhartu with a glum look.

  "Failed?" said Bhartu.

  Amir nodded and turned away. When he returned to the room, he found Mohan sitting at the top of the steps. He didn't have to tell him anything. Mohan knew by the look on the other's face.

  Amir sat down beside him, and they said nothing for a while.

  "Never mind," said Mohan. "I'll pass next year." It seemed that Amir was more in need of comforting than himself.

  "If only you'd had more time," said Amir.

  "I have plenty of time now. Another year... Can I still stay in your room?"

  "For as long as it's my room. That means I shall have to work too, otherwise my grandfather will drag me downstairs again."

  Mohan laughed and went into the room. When he came out, the tray was hanging from his shoulders.

  "What would you like to buy?" he asked. "I have everything you need."

  MUKESH KEEPS A GOAT

  ukesh's favourite pet was the little black goat who followed him home from the mustard fields one day.

  Each year, before the monsoon rains came, the little Song River outside Dehra was just a narrow stream. Mukesh liked wading across it and then wandering through the fields and tea gardens on the other side, watching the men moving about among the yellow mustard and the women in their bright red saris picking tea.

  He had been sitting on the bank of a small irrigation canal, gazing at a couple of herons fishing in the muddy water, when he felt something bump his elbow. Looking around, he found at his side a little goat, jet black and soft as velvet, with lovely grey eyes. Neither her owner nor her mother was around.

  She continued to nudge Mukesh, so he looked in his pockets for nourishment and, finding the remains of a samosa, held it out to her. She ate it eagerly, then sat down beside him and began nibbling at the grass.

  A little later, when Mukesh got up to leave, the goat rose too. And when he started walking home, she followed unsteadily, her thin legs taking her this way and that.

  "Go home!" said Mukesh as she danced around him. But it was clear that she had forgotten the way home, because she followed him to the river-bed. It was obvious that her trembling legs would not stand up to the current, so he took her in his arms and carried her across the stream. When he set her down, she remained by his side, rubbing against his legs.

  Mukesh set out for home at a brisk pace, feeling sure that he would soon leave the little goat behind. But her legs were stronger than he had supposed. She came hopping along, right up to the gate of the house.

  There was nothing he could do but carry her in and present her to his parents. "She's my friend," he announced.

  "Not another pet!" said his mother when she saw the goat on the verandah, lapping a saucer of milk. "I've told you again and again that I will not have any animals in or around the house!"

  It was easy to understand his mother's objections. Only a few weeks previously Mukesh had started his own zoo in the back garden. As a result, their neighbours' parrot, borrowed and put on display, had escaped; the washerman's donkey had gone missing for two days; and Mukesh's mother had found her kitchen full of fleeing lizards.

  "And besides," she said, "your dog won't be happy with a goat in the house."

  But Mukesh's black dog (with yellow eyes) merely looked up from the bone he was gnawing at the other end of the verandah, and paid no attention to the newcomer. There would be no competition from a grass-eater who could not dig for bones!

  "Goat's milk is good for your health," said Mukesh. "I read about it somewhere. That's why 1 brought her home. You haven't been looking well this week, Mother,"

  The prospect of an eventual supply of free milk tilted the decision in favour of keeping the goat, even though they knew it would be some time before it would provide any. Mukesh's little sister Dolly did not think highly of the new pet. "It smells," was all she said, when asked her opinion. So Mukesh gave his pet a liberal sprinkling of his mother's jasmine perfume, with the result that she reeked of perfume for a week.

  But there was something fairy-like about the little goat, and Mukesh named her Pari, meaning 'fairy'. She skipped about very daintily, and her feet seemed equipped with springs when she leaped around the small lawn. To make the name even more fitting, Mukesh tied a little bell to her neck so he'd always know by its fairy tinkling where she was.

  She loved an early-morning walk and was in many ways as good or even a better companion than a dog: she did not wander off on her own or get into quarrels with cows, cats, stray dogs, or porcupines. The only things she chased were butterflies, and she would tumble into ditches and slither down slopes in her eagerness to follow them.

  But unlike fairies, who never grow up, Mukesh's Pari had to grow up, and she soon developed a neat little pair of horns. Her appetite began to increase, too. She loved the leaves and flowers of the sweet-pea, the nasturtium and the geranium. These were also Mukesh's father's favourite garden flowers! It was he, rather than Mukesh's mother, who loved growing flowers, and every year his sweet-peas won prizes at the annual Flower Show.

  One morning he found most of his sweet-peas destroyed. Hastily Mukesh blamed a cow, suggesting that it had got into the garden during the night. His father made no comment, but gave him a look that suggested he knew just who the culprit was; it was obvious that he bitterly regretted having allowed Mukesh to keep the goat. By the time the Flower Show came around, he had only his zinnias left — apparently the goat disliked zinnias — and they won third prize. Mukesh took care to keep the goat well out of his father's sight.

  Of course, trouble, just like unseasonal rain, came when Mukesh was least expecting it.

  Pari, having discovered various uses to which she could put her horns, began trying them out at almost every opportunity A part-time gardener, who had never been known to grumble, came to Mukesh's mother to complain that he had been bending over the sweet-pea bed, putting it right again, when the goat had come up quietly and butted him from behind. He refused to work in the garden unless Pari was tied up.

  "And by the way," said Mukesh's mother to her son, after she had been calmed down, "when are we going to have that milk we were promised?

  It wasn't long before the postman, the fruit-seller and the newspaper boy all had complaints to make. They dared not turn their backs on the playful young goat.

  Events reached a climax during the visit of one of Mukesh's aunts. Chachi (his uncle's wife) was in a habit of bending over flower-pots and holding brief conversations with the flowers. She said it helped them grow faster.

  She was poised over a pot, talking to a geranium, when the goat, suspecting that Chachi was eating the leaves, decided to butt this intruder out of the way of her favourite snack.

  Chachi did not take kindly to being pushed off the verandah. She insisted that she had been badly bruised, though she refused all offers of first-aid from Mukesh.

  It was the end of the goat's comfortable stay with the family. Mukesh's father asked Nathu, the newspaper boy, to take her straight to the bazaar and sell her at any price to the first customer that came along.

  Mukesh stood at the gate and watched his Pari being led away. She kept looking back and bleating, probably wondering why Mukesh was not accompanying her on this particular walk.

  Nathu gave Mukesh a smile and a wink, as if to suggest that all would be well. Nathu had worked as a cleaner at a local co-op bank before it had collapsed; now he sold newspapers; but his 'banking experience', as he put it, had made him a good judge of a promising investment. When he came back from the bazaar, he announced that the goat had been sold, and handed Mukesh's father a fifty-rupee note. But later, when he was alone w
ith Mukesh, he told him that he had bought the goat himself, and that Mukesh could come and see her from time to time in her new home behind the bazaar.

  Mukesh did visit her sometimes. And in due course he found her with a little kid. Pari had also become a good provider of milk, and Nathu and his small brothers and sisters were great milk drinkers. She was on good terms with everyone in the family and only butted strangers who bowed too low when entering or leaving by the small courtyard door.

  KOKI'S SONG

  hen Koki was nearly twelve, she and her mother went to spend part of the year with Koki's maternal grandmother who lived in a lonely old house near the riverbed. Her mother was busy all day, cooking and washing clothes, while her grandmother, a round, bouncy little woman, would sit in the sun recounting stories from her own childhood.

  Koki would spend the morning helping her mother and the afternoons talking to her grandmother. Towards evening the old lady would go indoors, and then Koki would be on her own in the large garden.

  The garden had not been looked after too well, and it was over-run with semi-wild marigolds, nasturtiums and roses. Koki liked it this way because she could wander about discovering flowers emerging from tall grass and thistles. A wall went round the garden, and on the other side of the wall a stretch of grassland went sloping down to the riverbed. A shallow stream ran along the middle of this otherwise dry watercourse. During the monsoon rains it was a rushing torrent, but just now it was a murmuring brook, with little silver fish darting about in the water.

  Koki seldom went beyond the garden wall because across the riverbed was jungle, and wild animals frequently came down to the water to drink. The wild boar, who were often seen, frightened her. But once she saw a deer, quite close, moving about with supple grace and dignity. It was a chital, a spotted deer. Koki stared at the animal in fascination, and the deer must have become conscious of her gaze, for it looked up and stared back at Koki. What the deer saw was a small dark face, half-hidden by a lot of loose black hair, and two large brown eyes shining with wonder.

  The deer and the girl stared at each other for two or three minutes, then somewhere a twig snapped and the startled deer went bounding away across the stream.

  One evening Koki heard the distant music of a flute. She had not heard it before, and she looked over the wall to see where it came from.

  A boy sat near the stream, playing on a flute, while his small herd of cows grazed on the slopes. He had a thin shawl thrown over his shoulders, his feet were bare, and his clothes dusty and torn. But Koki did not notice these things; she was enthralled by the simple, plaintive melody of the flute and, for her, the boy was a prince who made beautiful music.

  She climbed up on the wall and sat there with her legs dangling over the other side. When the boy looked up and saw her, he rose and came nearer. He sat down on the grass about twenty metres from the wall, put the flute to his lips again and, with his eyes on Koki, continued his playing.

  It reminded Koki of the day she and the deer had stared at each other, both fascinated, neither of them stirring or making a sound; only now it was for a much longer time, and one played while the other listened.

  Next evening, Koki heard the flute again and was soon sitting astride the wall. When the boy saw Koki, he put down his flute and smiled at her, and then began playing again. That evening, besides playing and listening, all they did was smile at each other.

  On the third evening Koki asked the boy his name. "Somi," he said, and he played on the flute and did not say another word.

  But on the fourth evening he asked Koki her name, and she told him.

  "I will make a song about you," he said, and he played the sweetest melody Koki had ever heard. She found herself putting words to it and singing softly:

  "When you are far away,

  I'll sing this song,

  And in my heart you'll play.

  All summer long."

  After that, Somi always played Koki's song.

  It wasn't long before Koki came down from the wall, and sometimes she and Somi would walk up the river-bed and paddle in the cold mountain water. They never said much to each other, and yet a lot seemed to have been said. Somi would leave at dusk, herding the cattle before him, calling each by a different name, and Koki would watch him go until he was a speck on the dusty road and the cow-bells tinkled distantly. She never knew where he came from or where he went. She thought she might ask him some day, but it didn't seem necessary.

  One day Somi did not play the flute. Instead he put it in Koki's hands and said, "Keep it for me, I am going away for some time. To the summer pastures in the hills." He had come without his herd that day and, after he had given Koki the flute, he turned and ran fleet-footed across the grass that was now turning from green to brown.

  Koki missed the boy, but she still had the flute. She tried playing on it sometimes, but she did not have the magic touch and all she achieved was a shrill, broken piping. But sometimes, when she was walking by herself along the dry riverbed, she thought she heard the music, sweet and low and all around her. She did not sing her song. She had made the words for Somi, and she would sing them for Somi when he returned — if ever he returned...

  At night, when she lay awake, the flute seemed to play her song. It was as though the flute was actually playing by itself.

  One day when Koki was at the riverbed, ankle-deep in water, the flute fell from her hands. It was carried into the middle of the stream and swept away. Koki ran downstream, splashing through the water, stumbling frequently and wetting her clothes. She could see the flute bobbing up and down on the water, but it was getting further and further away, and soon she had to stop running because she was tired and far from home.

  The flute was lost, and she did not hear its music any more.

  Koki became quiet and listless. Grandmother complained that she could no longer interest the girl in her stories, so Koki tried hard to listen and pay attention, but her mind was always wandering to other things. No one really knew the reason for Koki's unhappiness; even Koki wasn't sure. Grandmother had of course seen Koki and the boy talking to each other but did not realise the strength of the bond between them.

  Koki saw the deer once, when it came to the stream to drink. She was sitting on the wall, and the deer took one look at her and was so startled that it went bounding away into the forest.

  And so another month passed. The mountain snows melted and the swollen stream came rushing down the valley and past the lonely old house. The garden was full of little green shoots, the grass was fresh and sweet, and the flame-tree was bursting into colour. Koki had grown a little taller, too.

  She sat under a mango tree, watching the sunlight stalk the shadows on the wall. A couple of bulbuls were twittering away in a rose bush. Grandmother had told Koki that birds sang because they were happy, but what proof was there of that, Koki wondered? For all she knew, birds could just as well be singing because they felt miserable.

  And then, as though accompanying the song of the birds, came the music of a flute.

  Koki heard it, and looked up and listened. There was no mistaking the melody. It was Koki's song. She pulled herself up on the wall and looked over.

  Somi sat on the grass, playing a new flute, but looking as though he had been sitting there for ages. When he saw Koki, he put down his flute and smiled, and then began playing again.

  That evening they walked together down to the edge of the stream, and she noticed that the herd was larger than before. Somi was wearing new clothes. He told her about the lush mountain meadow where he had taken the herd for the dry month; she told him that she would soon be returning to her school and home in the nearby town.

  "Will you come again?" he asked.

  "At the end of every month," she said. "My grandmother says I must come." But she knew that wasn't the only reason.

  "I'll be here," said Somi simply, and played her song. And Koki sang to his music.

  THE GREAT TRAIN JOURNEY

  uraj
waved to a passing train, and kept waving until only the spiralling smoke remained. He liked waving to trains. He wondered about the people in them, and about where they were going and what it would be like there. And when the train had passed, leaving behind only the hot, empty track, Suraj was lonely.

  He was a little lonely now. His hands in his pockets, he wandered along the railway track, kicking at loose pebbles and sending them down the bank. Soon there were other tracks, a railway-siding, a stationary goods train.

  Suraj walked the length of the goods train. The carriage doors were closed and, as there were no windows, he couldn't see inside. He looked around to see if he was observed, and then, satisfied that he was alone, began trying the doors. He was almost at the end of the train when a carriage door gave way to his thrust.

  It was dark inside the carriage. Suraj stood outside in the bright sunlight, peering into the darkness, trying to recognise bulky, shapeless objects. He stepped into the carriage and felt around. The objects were crates, and through the cross-section of woodwork he felt straw. He opened the other door and the sun streamed into the compartment, driving out the musty darkness.

  Suraj sat down on a packing-case, his chin cupped in his hands. The school was closed for the summer holidays, and he had been wandering about all day and still did not know what to do with himself. The carriage was bare of any sort of glamour. Passing trains fascinated him — moving trains, crowded trains, shrieking, panting trains all fascinated him — but this smelly, dark compartment filled him only with gloom and more loneliness.

  He did not really look gloomy or lonely. He looked fierce at times, when he glared out at people from under his dark eyebrows, but otherwise he usually wore a contented look — and no one could guess just how deep his thoughts were!

  Perhaps, if he had company, some fun could be had in the carriage. If there had been a friend with him, someone like Ranji ....