by Ruskin Bond
‘Where can I find him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Kapoor warily. ‘He is wanted by the police. He robs for others, and they pay him. It is easier for a young boy to steal than it is for a man, and as he seems to be quite a genius at it, his services are in demand. And I am sure he would not hesitate to rob us too . . .’
‘But you must know where I can find him,’ I persisted. ‘You must have some idea.’
Mrs Kapoor replied, ‘He has been seen along the river and in the bazaar. I don’t know where he lives. In a tree, perhaps, or in a temple, or in a brothel. He is somewhere in Hardwar, but exactly where I do not know . . . no one knows. He speaks to no one and runs from everyone. What can you want with him?’
‘He is my friend,’ I asserted.
‘He will rob you too.’
‘The money I have is what he gave me.’
I rose to leave; I was tired, but I did not want to stay much longer in this alien house.
‘You are tired,’ said Mrs Kapoor, ‘will you rest, and have your meal with us?’
‘No, there isn’t time.’
XV
All hope left me as I staggered down the hill, weak and exhausted. I could not think clearly; I hadn’t eaten since morning, and cursed myself for not accepting Mrs Kapoor’s hospitality.
I was hungry, I was thirsty; I was tormented by thoughts of what might have happened to Kishen, of what might happen . . .
I stumbled down the long steps that led to the water. The sun was strong, striking up from the stone and shimmering against the great white temple that overlooked the river. I crossed the courtyard and came to the water’s edge.
Lying on my belly on the river bank, I drank of the holy waters. Then I pulled off my shirt and sandals, and slipped into the water. There were men and women on all sides, praying with their faces to the sun. Great fish swam round them, unafraid and unmolested, safe in the sacred waters of the Ganges.
Bathed and refreshed I climbed back on to the stone bank. My sandals and shirt had disappeared.
No one was near except a beggar leaning on a stick, a young man massaging his body with oils, and a cow examining an empty, discarded basket; and, of the three, the cow was the most likely suspect; it had probably eaten the sandals.
But I no longer cared about my things. My money was in the leather purse attached to my belt; and, as long as I had the belt, I had both money and pyjamas.
I rolled the wet pyjamas up to my thighs; then, staring ahead with unseeing eyes, ignoring the bowls that were thrust before me by the beggars, I walked the length of the courtyard that ran parallel to the rising steps.
Children were shouting at each other, priests were chanting their prayers; vendors, with baskets on their heads—baskets of fruit and chaat—gave harsh cries; and cows pushed their way around at will. Steps descended from all parts of the hill; broad, clean steps from the temple, and narrow, winding steps from the bazaars; and a maze of alleyways zig-zagged about the hill, through the bazaar, round the temples, along the river, and were lost amongst themselves and found again and lost . . .
Kishen. There he was, barefooted and ragged and thin, but with the same supreme confidence in himself. He leant against the wall of an alleyway, and watched my progress along the river bank.
Too weak to shout, I stood in the sun, and looked up the steps at Kishen standing in the alleyway. I could see that he wanted to shout to me, to come to me, to embrace me, but for some reason he seemed to hold himself back. Maybe he was trying to understand the reason for my presence, perhaps he could not reveal himself for fear of a trap.
‘Hallo, Rusty,’ he called finally.
And I began to walk up the steps, slowly and painfully, my feet burning, my head reeling, my heart thundering with conflicting emotions.
‘Are you alone?’ called Kishen. ‘Don’t come if you are not alone.’
I advanced up the steps, until I was in the alleyway facing him. Despite the haze before my eyes, I couldn’t help noticing his wild condition; the bones protruded from the boy’s skin, his hair was knotted and straggly, his eyes danced, searching the steps for others.
‘Why are you here, Rusty?’
‘To see you . . .’
‘Why?’
‘I am going away.’
‘How can you go anywhere? You look sick enough to die.’
‘I came to see you, anyway.’
‘Why?’
I sat down on a step; my wrists hung loose on my knees, and my head drooped forward.
‘I’m hungry,’ I said. Now that I had found him, Kishen would certainly take care of my hunger and thirst. On second thoughts, he looked too miserable to do anything for me.
Kishen walked into the open, and approached a fruit vendor. He came back with two large watermelons.
‘You have money?’ I asked incredulously.
‘No. just credit. I bring them profits, they give me credit.’
He sat down beside me, produced a small but wicked-looking knife from the folds of his shirt, and proceeded to slice the melons in half.
‘You can’t go away,’ he said.
‘I can’t go back.’
‘Why not?’
‘No money, no job, no friends.’
We sunk our teeth into the watermelon, and ate at terrific speed. I felt much refreshed; I put my weakness and fever down to an empty stomach.
‘Stay here with me then,’ said Kishen with his usual flippancy.
‘I’ll be no good as a bandit,’ I replied. ‘I can be recognized at sight, I can’t go round robbing people, I don’t think it’s very nice anyway.’
‘I don’t rob poor people,’ objected Kishen, prodding his nose. ‘I only rob those who’ve got something to be robbed. And I don’t do it for myself, that’s why I’m never caught. People pay me to do their dirty work. Like that, they are safe because they are somewhere else when everything happens, and I am safe because I don’t have what I rob, and haven’t got a reason for taking it anyway . . . so it is quite safe. But don’t worry, bhai, we will not stay here—we shall go to Dehra. And do something else, because I am tired of running from the police.’
‘But what will we do?’
‘Oh, we will find someone for you to give English lessons. Not one, but many. And I will start a chaat shop.’
‘When do we go?’ I asked hurriedly; and England and fame and riches were all forgotten, and would soon be dreams again.
‘Tomorrow morning, early,’ said Kishen. ‘There is a boat crossing the river. We must cross the river, on this side I am known, and there are many people who would not like me to leave. If we went by train, I would be caught at the station, for sure. On the other side no one knows me, it is only jungle.’
I was amazed at how competent and practical Kishen had become; his mind had developed far quicker than his body, and he seemed like a funny cross between an experienced adventurer and a ragged urchin. A month ago he had clung to me for protection; now I looked to Kishen for guidance.
I wondered if my absence in Dehra had been noticed by anyone. After all, I had only been away a day, though it seemed an age . . . the room on the roof would still be vacant when I returned, no one but me could be crazy enough to live in such a room . . . I decided that once Kishen and I were back in Dehra, we would go back to the room as though nothing had happened.
The afternoon ripened into evening.
As the sun sank, the temple changed from white to gold, from gold to orange, from orange to pink, and from pink to crimson, and all these colours were in turn reflected in the surrounding waters.
The noise subsided gradually, the night came on.
Kishen and I slept in the open, on the temple steps. It was a warm night, the air was close and heavy. In the shadows lay small bundles of humanity, the roofless and the homeless, sleeping only to pass the time of night. I slept fitfully, waking frequently with a nagging pain in my stomach; poor stomach, it couldn’t stand the unfamiliar strain of emptiness.
&
nbsp; XVI
Before the steps and the river bank came to life, Kishen and I climbed into the ferry boat. It would be crossing the river all day, carrying pilgrims from temple to temple, charging nothing. And though it was very early, and this the first crossing, a free passage across the river made for a crowded boat.
The people who climbed in were even more diverse than those I had met on the train: women and children, bearded old men and wrinkled women, strong young peasants—not the prosperous or mercantile class, but the poor—who had come miles, mostly on foot, to bathe in the sacred waters of the Ganges.
On shore, the steps began to come to life. The previous day’s cries and prayers and rites were resumed with the same monotonous devotion, at the same pitch, in the same spirit of timelessness; and the steps sounded to the tread of many feet, sandalled, slippered and bare.
The boat floated low in the water, it was so heavy, and the oarsmen had to strain upstream in order to avoid being swept down by the current. Their muscles shone and rippled under the grey iron of their weather-beaten skins. The blades of the oars cut through the water, in and out; and between grunts, the oarsmen shouted the time of the stroke.
Kishen and I sat crushed together in the middle of the boat. There was no likelihood of our being separated now, but we held hands.
The people in the boat began to sing.
It was a low hum at first but someone broke in with a song, and the voice—a young voice, clear and pure—reminded me of Somi; and I comforted myself with the thought that Somi would be back in Dehra in the spring.
They sang in time to the stroke of the oars, in and out, and the grunts and shouts of the oarsmen throbbed their way into the song, becoming part of it.
An old woman, who had white hair and a face lined with deep ruts, said: ‘It is beautiful to hear the children sing.’
‘Then you too should sing,’ I said. I felt happy and secure in the company of my friend Kishen.
She smiled at me, a sweet, toothless smile.
‘What are you my son, are you one of us? I have never, on this river, seen blue eyes and golden hair.’
‘I am nothing, I am everything.’
I stated it bluntly, proudly.
‘Where is your home, then?’
‘I have no home,’ I said, and felt proud of that too.
‘And who is the boy with you?’ asked the old woman, a genuine busybody. ‘What is he to you?’
I did not answer; I was asking myself the same question: what was Kishen to me? I was sure of one thing though, both of us were refugees—refugees from the world . . . we were each other’s shelter, each other’s refuge, each other’s help. Kishen was a jungli, divorced from the rest of mankind, and I was the only one who understood him—because I too was divorced from mankind. And ours was a tie that would hold, because we knew and liked and understood each other.
Because of this tie, I had to go back. And it was with relief that I went back. My return was justified.
I let my hand trail over the side of the boat: I wanted to remember the touch of the water as it moved past the boat, down and away: it would go to the ocean, the ocean that was life.
I could not run away. I could not escape the life I had made, the ocean into which I had floundered the night I left my guardian’s house. I had to return to the room—my room—I had to go back.
The song died away as the boat came ashore. We disembarked, walking over the smooth pebbles; and the forest rose from the edge of the river, and beckoned us.
I remembered the forest on the day of the picnic, when I had kissed Meena and held her hands, and I remembered the magic of the forest and the magic of Meena.
‘One day,’ I said, ‘we must live in the jungle.’
‘One day,’ said Kishen, and he laughed. ‘But now we walk back. We walk back to the room on the roof! It is our room, we have to go back!’
We had to go back: to bathe at the water tank and listen to the morning gossip, to sit in the fruit trees and eat in the chaat shop and perhaps make a garden on the roof; to eat and sleep; to work; to live; to die.
Kishen laughed.
‘One day you’ll be great, Rusty. A writer or an actor or a prime minister or something. Maybe a poet! Why not a poet, Rusty?’
I smiled. I knew I was smiling, because I was smiling at myself.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘why not a poet?’
So we began to walk.
Ahead of us lay forest and silence—and what was left of time . . .
The Hills and Beyond
The Homeless
IT WAS DECEMBER and the sun was up, pouring into the banyan tree at the side of the road to Dehra where Kishen and I were sitting on the great tree’s gnarled, protruding roots. A boy played on a flute as he drove his flock of sheep down the road. He was barefoot and his clothes were old. A faded red shawl was thrown across his shoulders.
The flute player passed the banyan tree and glanced at us, but did not stop playing. Presently he was only a speck on the dusty road, and the flute music was thin and distant, subdued by the tinkle of sheep-bells.
We left the shelter of the banyan tree and began walking in the direction of the distant hills.
The road stretched ahead, lonely and endless, towards the low ranges of the Siwalik hills. The dust was in our clothes and in our eyes and in our mouths. The sun rose higher in the sky, and as we walked, the sweat trickled down our armpits and down our legs.
I walked with my hands in the pockets of my thin cotton pyjamas, with my eyes on the road. My hair was matted with dust, and my cheeks and arms were scorched red by the fierce sun. Kishen was in the same state as me, but walked with an air of nonchalance, whistling to himself. For a change, he wasn’t chewing gum.
‘We will be in Raiwala soon,’ I told him. ‘Would you like to rest?’
Kishen shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘We’ll rest when we get to Raiwala. If I sit down now, I’ll never be able to get up. I suppose we have walked about ten miles this morning.’
‘From Raiwala we’ll take the train,’ I said. ‘It will cost us about five rupees.’
‘Never mind,’ said Kishen. ‘We’ve done enough walking. And we’ve still got twelve rupees. Is there anything in our old room in Dehra that we can sell?’
‘Let me see . . . The table, the bed and the chair are not mine. There’s an old tiger skin, a bit eaten by rats, which no one will buy. There are one or two shirts and trousers.’
‘Which we will need. These are all torn.’
We were quiet for a few minutes, wondering how we would sustain ourselves once we were back in Dehra.
‘Somi!’ said Kishen. ‘Somi will be in Dehra—he’ll help us! He got you a job once, he can do it again.’
I was silent. I didn’t want to dishearten Kishen by telling him that we would be pretty much without anyone to help us for Somi too had left Dehra.
Now a cool breeze came across the plain, blowing down from the hills. In the fields there was a gentle swaying movement as the wind stirred the wheat. Then the breeze hit the road, and the dust began to swirl and eddy about the footpath. We moved into the middle of the road, holding our hands to our eyes, and stumbling forward.
Finally we reached Raiwala after an exhausting, seemingly endless walk.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Kishen. ‘We haven’t eaten since last night.’
‘Then we must eat,’ I said. ‘Come on, Kishen, let’s eat.’
We walked through the narrow Raiwala bazaar, looking in at the tea and sweet shops until we found a place that looked dirty enough to be cheap. A servant boy brought us chappatis and dal and Kishen ordered an ounce of butter; this was melted and poured over the dal. The meal cost us a rupee, and for this amount we could eat as much as we liked. The butter was an extra, and cost six annas. At the end of the meal we were left with a little over ten rupees.
When we came out, the sun was low in the sky and the day was cooler.
‘We can’t walk tonight,’ I said. ‘We’ll have
to sleep at the railway station. Maybe we can get on the train without a ticket.’
‘And if we are caught, we’ll spend a month in jail. Free board and lodging.’
‘And then the social workers will get us, or they’ll put us in a remand home and teach us to make mattresses.’
‘I think it’s better to buy tickets,’ said Kishen.
‘I know what we’ll do,’ I said. ‘We won’t get the train till past midnight, so let’s not buy tickets. We’ll get to Harrawala early in the morning. Then it’s only about eight miles by road to Dehra.’
Kishen agreed, and we found our way to the railway station, where we made ourselves comfortable in a first-class waiting room. It didn’t matter that we didn’t own any tickets—we just wanted to rest in some comfort.
Kishen settled down in an armchair and covered his face with a handkerchief. ‘Wake me when the train comes in,’ he said drowsily.
I went to the bathroom and put my head under a tap to let cold water play over my neck. I washed my face, drying it with a handkerchief before returning to the waiting room.
A man entered, setting out his belongings on the big table in the centre of the room. He seemed to be in his thirties. The man was white, but he was too restless to be a European. He looked smart, but tired; he had a lean, sallow face, and pouches under the eyes. I sat down on the edge of Kishen’s armchair.
‘Going to Delhi?’ asked the stranger. His accent, though not very pronounced, was American.
‘No, the other way,’ I replied. ‘We live in Dehra.’
‘I’ve often been there,’ said the man. ‘I’ve been trying to popularize a new steel plough in northern India, but, without much success. Are you a student?’
‘Not now. I finished with school two years ago.’
‘And your friend?’ He inclined his head towards Kishen.
‘He’s with me,’ I said vaguely. ‘We’re travelling together.’
‘Buddies.’
‘Yes.’
The American took a flask from his bag and looked enquiringly at me. ‘Will you join me for a drink while we’re waiting? There’s almost an hour left for my train to arrive.’
