by Ruskin Bond
‘Travelling,’ I said. ‘We have been doing a world tour.’
‘On foot,’ added Kishen.
We sat in cane chairs on the veranda, and I gave Somi’s mother an account of our journey, deliberately omitting to mention that we were without work or money. But she had sensed our predicament.
‘Are you having any trouble about your room?’ she asked.
‘We left it,’ I said. ‘We are staying in a bigger place now.’
‘Yes, much bigger,’ said Kishen.
‘What about that book you were going to write—is it published?’
‘No, I’m still writing it,’ I said.
‘How much have you done?’
‘Oh, not much as yet. These things take a long time.’
‘And what is it about?’
‘Oh, everything I suppose,’ I answered, feeling guilty and changing the subject, for my novel had not progressed beyond the second chapter. ‘I’m starting another tuition soon. If you know of any people who want their children to learn English, please pass them on to me.’
‘Of course I will. Somi would not forgive me if I did not do as you asked. But why don’t you stay here? There is plenty of room.’
‘Oh, we are quite comfortable in our place,’ I lied.
‘Oh, yes, very comfortable,’ said Kishen, glaring at me.
Somi’s mother persuaded us to stay for dinner, and we did not take much persuading, for the aroma of rich Punjabi food had been coming to us from the kitchen. We were prepared to sleep in churches and waiting rooms all our lives, provided there was always good food to be had—rich, non-vegetarian food, for we scorned most vegetables . . .
We feasted on tandoor bread and buffalo’s butter, meat cooked with spinach, vegetables with cheese, a sour pickle of turnip and lemon, and a jug of lassi. We did full justice to the meal, under the watchful eyes of Somi’s mother.
‘Do you need any money?’ she asked, when we had finished.
‘Oh, no,’ I lied yet again, ‘we have plenty of that.’ A painful kick on my right leg from Kishen made me jump up from my seat.
‘Enough for a week, anyway,’ I continued.
After the meal, I took Somi’s address in Amritsar with the intention of writing to him the next day. I also stuffed my pockets with pencils and writing paper. When we were about to leave, Somi’s mother thrust a ten-rupee note into my hand, and I blushed, unable to refuse the money.
Once on the road, I said: ‘We didn’t come to borrow money, Kishen.’ I knew he was smouldering with rage at my refusal to take more money from Somi’s mother.
‘But you can pay it back in a few days. What’s the use of having friends if you can’t go to them for help?’
‘I would have gone when there was nothing left. Until there is nothing left, I don’t want to trouble anyone.’
We walked back to the church, buying two large candles on the way. I lit one candle at the church gate and led the way down the dark, disused path.
New Encounters
‘It’s creepy here,’ said Kishen, keeping close to me. ‘So quiet. I think we should go back and stay at Somi’s house. Also, it must be wrong to sleep in a church.’ ‘It is no more wrong than sleeping in a tree.’ Once we were inside, I placed the burning candle on the altar steps. A bat swooped down from the rafters and Kishen ducked under a pew. ‘I would rather sleep in the maidan,’ he said.
‘It’s better here,’ I insisted. I brought out a bundle of cassocks from the vestry and dumped them on the floor. ‘Now, I’ll do some writing,’ I declared, sitting down near the candle and producing pencil and paper from my pocket.
Kishen sat down on a bench and removed his shoes, rubbing his feet and playing with his toes. When he had got used to the bats diving overhead, he stood up and undressed. Long and bony in his vest and underpants, he sat down on the pile of cassocks, and with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin cupped in the palms of his hands, he watched me write.
I was rudely awakened by a yelp from Kishen in the early hours of the morning.
‘I’ve been bitten,’ he said urgently as I tried to surface from the cassocks. ‘I’ve been bitten on my toes by a church mouse.’
‘At least it isn’t a cathedral rat,’ I said. ‘I’ve had one crawling over me all night.’ I shook out the cassocks, and with a squeak, a mouse leapt from the clothes and made a dash for safety.
Kishen put out his hand and touched my shoulder. He looked reassured by my presence, and he drew nearer and went to sleep with his arm around me.
We rose before the sun was up, and went straight to the pool. It was a cold morning. The water was startlingly ice cold. As we swam about, the sun came striking through the sal trees, making emeralds of the dewdrops, and pouring through the clear water till it touched the yellow sand. I felt the sun touch my skin, felt it sink deep into my blood and bones and marrow, and, exulting in it, I hurled myself at Kishen. We tumbled over in the water, going down with a wild kicking of legs, and came spluttering to the surface, gasping and shouting. Then we lay on the rocks till we were dry.
We then left the pool and walked to the maidan.
Every morning a group of young men wrestled at one end of the maidan, in a pit of soft, newly-dug earth. Hathi was one of the wrestlers. He was like a young bull, with a magnificent chest, and great broad thighs. His light brown hair and eyes were quite a contrast to the rest of his dark body.
We found him at the tap, washing the mud and oil from his body, pummelling himself with resounding slaps. Obviously, he had just finished his bout of wrestling for the morning. When he looked up and saw us, he left the tap running, and gave me an exuberant wet hug, transferring a fair amount of mud and oil on to my already soiled shirt.
‘My friend! Where have you been all these weeks? I thought you had forgotten me. And Kishen bhaiya, how are you?’
Kishen received the bear hug with a grumble: ‘I’ve already had my bath, Hathi.’
But Hathi continued talking while he put on his shirt and pyjamas. ‘You are just in time to see me, as I am going away in a day or two,’ he said.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘I’m going to my village in the hills. I have land there, you know—I am going back to look after it. Come and have tea with me—come!’
He took us to the tea shop near the Clock Tower, where he mixed each of us a glass of hot milk, honey and beaten egg. The morning bath had refreshed us and we were feeling quite energetic.
‘How do you get to your village?’ I asked. ‘Is there a motor road?’
‘No. The road ends at Landsdowne. From there one has to walk about thirty miles. It is a steep road, and you have to cross two mountains, but it can be done in a day if you start out early enough. Why don’t you come with me?’ he asked suddenly. ‘There you will be able to write many stories. That is what you want to do, isn’t it? There will be no noise or worry.’
‘I can’t come just now,’ I replied. ‘Maybe later, but not now.’
‘You come too, Kishen,’ pressed Hathi. ‘Why not?’
‘Kishen would be bored by mountains,’ I said teasingly. ‘How do you know?’ said Kishen, looking annoyed. ‘Well, if you want to come later,’ said Hathi, ‘you have only to take the bus to Lansdowne, and then take the north-east road for the village of Manjari. You can come whenever you like. I will be living alone.’
‘If we come,’ I said, ‘we should be of some use to you there.’
‘I will make farmers of you!’ exclaimed Hathi, slapping himself on the thigh.
‘Kishen is too lazy.’
‘And Rusty too clumsy.’
‘Well, maybe we will come,’ I said. ‘But first I must see if I can get some sort of work here. I’m going to one of the schools again today. What will you do, Kishen?’
Kishen shrugged. ‘I’ll wait for you in the bazaar.’
‘Stay with me,’ said Hathi. ‘I have nothing to do except recover money from various people. If I don’t get it now, I w
ill never get it.’
The school to which I had been (the visit proved fruitless) stood near the dry river bed of the Rispana, and on the other side of the river bed lay mustard fields and tea gardens. As I had more than an hour left before meeting Kishen, I crossed the sandy river bed and wandered through the fields. A peacock ran along the path with swift, ungainly strides.
A small canal passed through the tea gardens, and I followed the canal, counting the horny grey lizards that darted in and out of the stones. I picked a tea leaf from a bush and holding it to my nose, found the smell sweet and pleasant. When I had walked about a mile, I came to a small clearing. There was a house in the clearing, surrounded by banana and poinsettia trees, the poinsettia leaves hanging down like long red tongues of fire. Bougainvillaea and other creepers covered the front of the house.
Sitting in a cane chair on the veranda was an Englishman. At least, he seemed to be an Englishman. He may have been a German or an American or a Russian, but the only Europeans I had known in Dehra were Englishmen, so I immediately took the white-haired gentleman in the cane chair to be English.
He was elderly, red-faced, dressed in a tweed coat and flannel shorts and thick woollen stockings. An unlit pipe was held between his teeth, and on his knees lay a copy of the Times Literary Supplement.
The last Englishman I had interacted with had been my guardian, and I had hated him. But the old man in the chair seemed, somehow, bluff and amiable. Cautiously I advanced up the veranda steps, then waited for the old man to look up from his paper.
The old man did not look up, but he said, ‘Yes, come in, boy. Pull up a chair and sit down.’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ I said.
‘You are, but it doesn’t matter. Don’t be so self-effacing.’ He looked up at me, and his grey eyes softened a little, but he did not smile; it must have been too much trouble to remove the pipe from his mouth.
I pulled up a chair and sat down awkwardly, twiddling my thumbs. The old man looked me up and down, said, ‘Have a drink, I expect you’re old enough,’ and producing another glass from beneath the table, poured out two fingers of Solan whisky into my glass. He poured three fingers into his own glass. Then, from under the table, he produced two soda-water bottles and an opener. The bottle-tops flew out of the veranda with loud pops, and the golden liquid rose fuzzily to the top of the glass.
‘Cheers,’ he said, tossing down most of his drink. ‘Pettigrew is the name. They used to call me Petty, though, down in Bangalore.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Pettigrew,’ I said politely. ‘Is this your house?’
‘Yes, the house is mine,’ said Mr Pettigrew, knocking out his pipe on the table. ‘It’s all that is still mine—the house and my library. These gardens were mine once, but I only have a share in them now. It’s third-grade tea, anyway. Only used for mixing.’
‘Isn’t there anyone to look after you?’ I asked, noticing the emptiness of the house.
‘Look after me!’ exclaimed Pettigrew indignantly. ‘Whatever for? Do you think I’m a blooming invalid! I’m seventy, my boy, and I can ride a horse better than you can sit a bicycle!’
‘I’m sure you can,’ I replied hastily. ‘And you don’t look a year older than sixty. But I suppose you have a servant.’
‘Well, I always thought I had one. But where the blighter is half the time, I’d like to know. Running after some wretched woman, I suppose.’ A look of reminiscence passed over his face. ‘I can remember the time when I did much the same thing. That was in the Kullu valley. There were two things Kullu used to be famous for—apples and pretty women!’ He spluttered with laughter, and his face became very red. I was afraid the old man’s big blue veins were going to burst.
‘Did you ever marry anyone?’ I asked.
‘Marry!’ exclaimed Pettigrew. ‘Are you off your head, young fellow? What do you think a chap like me would want to marry for? Only invalids get married, so that they can have someone look after them in their old age. No man’s likely to be content with one woman in his life.’
He stopped then, and looked at me in a peculiar defiant way, and I gathered that the old man was not really as cynical as he sounded.
‘You’re Harrison’s boy, aren’t you?’ he asked suddenly.
‘He was my guardian,’ I replied. ‘How did you know?’
‘Never mind, I know. You ran off on your own a year ago, didn’t you? Well, I don’t blame you. Never could stand Harrison myself. Awful old bounder. Never bought a man a drink if he could help it. Guzzled other people’s though. Don’t blame you for running away. But what made you do it?’
‘He was mean and he thrashed me and didn’t allow me to make Indian friends. I was fed up. I wanted to live my own life.’
‘Naturally. You’re a man now. Your father, too, was a fine man.’
‘Did you know him?’ I was quite surprised to find someone who claimed to be acquainted with my father.
‘Of course I knew him. He managed this estate for me once. I wanted to meet you before, but Harrison never gave me the opportunity.’
‘It was just chance that brought me this way.’
‘I know. That’s how everything happens.’
‘Tell me whatever you can about my father,’ I said.
‘Well, he was a good friend of mine, and we saw quite a lot of each other. He was interested in birds and insects and wild flowers—in fact, anything that had to do with natural history. Both of us were great readers and collectors of books, and that was what brought us together. But what I’ve been wanting to tell you is this: before he passed away, he had spent a couple of months with an aunt and uncle of yours in the hills—near some village in Garhwal. He was ill with malaria then. And it was probably malaria which caused his death a few months later. Well, I may be wrong, but I think that your father probably guessed that he had not much time to live. So if there was anything of value that your father may have wanted you to have, he’d have left it in the keeping of this couple. He trusted them—he trusted them a great deal. It was only recently that I heard of your uncle’s death. But perhaps that aunt of yours still lives in that house.’
‘What is her name?’ I asked. ‘I don’t remember. I never saw her myself. But I do know she lived in the hills, where she had some land of her own.’
‘Do you think I should look for her?’ I asked, surprised at my growing interest and enthusiasm.
‘It might be a good idea,’ replied Mr Pettigrew, ‘She must be about fifty-five now. I think she lived in a small house on the banks of the river, about forty miles from Lansdowne. You’ll have to walk much of the way from Lansdowne.’
‘I’m used to walking. I have a Garhwali friend; perhaps he can help me.’ I was thinking of Hathi. I rose to go, anxious to tell Kishen and Hathi about this new development.
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ said Mr Pettigrew. ‘Have you got any money?’
‘A little.’
‘Well, if you need any help, remember I’m here. I was your father’s friend, you know.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pettigrew. I’ll see you again before I leave.’
Prospect of a Journey
I waited at the Clock Tower for almost an hour, until it was nearly one o’clock. I had been feeling slightly impatient, not because I was anxious about Kishen, but because I wanted to tell him about Mr Pettigrew and the aunt in the hills. I presumed Kishen was loafing about somewhere in the bazaar with Hathi, or spending money at the Sindhi Sweet Shop. This did not worry me as I had kept most of the money; but one never knew what indiscretions Kishen might indulge in.
I leant against the wall of the Clock Tower, watching the peddlars move lazily about the road, calling out their wares in desultory, afternoon voices; the toy seller, waiting for the schools to close for the day and spill their children out into the streets; the fruit vendor, with his basket of papayas, oranges, bananas and Kashmiri apples, which he continually sprinkled with water to make them look fresh; a cobbler drowsing in the sh
ade of the tamarind tree, occasionally fanning himself with a strip of uncut leather. I saw them all, without being very conscious of their existence, for my thoughts were far away, visualizing a strange person in the mountains.
A tall Sikh boy with a tray hanging by a string from his shoulders, approached me. He stopped near me, but did not ask me if there was anything I wanted to buy. He stopped only to look at me, I think.
We stared at each other for a minute with mutual interest. He wore a bright red turban, broad white pyjamas, and black Peshawari chappals which had been left unbuckled. He stood tall and upright, and his light brown eyes were friendly and direct. In the tray hanging from his neck lay an assortment of goods—combs, buttons, key rings, reels of thread, bottles of cheap perfume, soaps and hair oils. It was the first time we had set eyes on each other, but there was a compelling expression in the stranger’s eyes, a haunting, half-sad, half-happy quality that held my attention, appealing to some odd quirk in my nature. The atmosphere was charged with this quality of sympathy.
A crow flapped down between us, and the significance of the moment vanished, and the bond of sympathy was broken.
I turned away, and the Sikh boy wandered on down the road.
After waiting for another ten minutes, I left the Clock Tower and began walking in the direction of the church, thinking that perhaps Kishen had gone there instead. I had not walked far when I found the Sikh boy sitting in the shade of a mango tree with his tray beside him and a book in his hands. I paused to take a look at the book. It was Goldsmith’s The Traveller. That gave me enough confidence to start a conversation with the boy.
‘Do you like the book?’ I asked.
The Sikh looked up with a smile. ‘It is in my Intermediate course. My exams begin next month. But I read other books too,’ he added.
‘But when do you go to school?’ I asked, looking at the tray which was obviously his means of livelihood.
‘In the evening there are classes. During the day I sell this rubbish. I make enough to eat and to pay for my tuition. My name is Devinder.’
