The Best of Ruskin Bond

by Bond, Ruskin

  We were shut up in the hut all day, expecting, at any moment, to be discovered and killed. We had no food at all, but we could not have eaten any had it been there. My father gone, our future appeared a perfect void, and we found it difficult to talk. A hot wind blew through the cracks in the door, and our throats were parched. Late in the afternoon, a chatti of cold water was let down to us from a tree outside a window at the rear of the hut. This was an act of compassion on the part of a man called Chinta, who had worked for us as a labourer when our bungalow was being built.

  At about ten o’clock, Lala returned, accompanied by Dhani, our old bearer. He proposed to take us to his own house. Mother hesitated to come out into the open, but Lala assured her that the roads were quite clear now, and there was little fear of our being molested. At last, she agreed to go.

  We formed two batches. Lala led the way with a drawn sword in one hand, his umbrella in the other. Mother and Anet and I followed, holding each other’s hands. Mother had thrown over us a counterpane which she had been carrying with her when she left the house. We avoided the main road, making our way round the sweeper settlement, and reached Lala’s house after a fifteen-minute walk. On our arrival there, Lala offered us a bed to sit upon, while he squatted down on the ground with his legs crossed.

  Mother had thrown away her big bunch of keys as we left Tirloki’s house. When I asked her why she had done so, she pointed to the smouldering ruins of our bungalow and said: ‘Of what possible use could they be to us now?’

  The bearer, Dhani, arrived with the second batch, consisting of dear Granny, Pilloo and his mother, and Champa and Lado, and the dogs. There we were, eight of us in Lala’s small house; and, as far as I could tell, his own family was as large as ours.

  We were offered food, but we could not eat. We lay down for the night—Mother, Granny and I on the bed, the rest on the ground. And in the darkness, with my face against my mother’s bosom, I gave vent to my grief and wept bitterly. My mother wept, too, but silently, and I think she was still weeping when at last I fell asleep.

  In Lala’s House

  Lala Ramjimal’s family consisted of himself, his wife, mother, aunt and sister. It was a house of women, and our unexpected arrival hadn’t changed that. It must indeed have been a test of Lala’s strength and patience, with twelve near-hysterical females on his hands!

  His family, of course, knew who we were, because Lala’s mother and aunt used to come and draw water from our well, and offer bel leaves at the little shrine near our house. They were at first shy of us; and we, so immersed in our own predicament, herded together in a corner of the house, and looked at each other’s faces, and wept. Lala’s wife would come and serve us food in platters made of stitched leaves. We ate once in twenty-four hours, a little after noon, but we were satisfied with this one big meal.

  The house was an ordinary mud building, consisting of four flat-roofed rooms, with a low veranda in the front, and a courtyard at the back. It was small and unpretentious, occupied by a family of small means.

  Lala’s wife was a young woman, short in stature, with a fair complexion. We didn’t know her name, because it is not customary for a husband or wife to call the other by name; but her mother-in-law would address her as Dulhan, or bride.

  Ramjimal himself was a tall, lean man, with long moustaches. His speech was always very polite, like that of most Kayasthas but he had an air of determination about him that was rare in others.

  On the second day of our arrival, I overheard his mother speaking to him: ‘Lalaji, you have made a great mistake in bringing these Angrezans into our house. What will people say? As soon as the rebels hear of it, they will come and kill us.’

  ‘I have done what is right,’ replied Lala very quietly. ‘I have not given shelter to Angrezans. I have given shelter to friends. Let people say or think as they please.’

  He seldom went out of the house, and was usually to be seen seated before the front door, either smoking his small hookah, or playing chess with some friend who happened to drop by. After a few days, people began to suspect that there was somebody in the house about whom Lala was being very discreet, but they had no idea who these guests could be. He kept a close watch on his family, to prevent them from talking too much; and he saw that no one entered the house, keeping the front door chained at all times.

  It is a wonder that we were able to live undiscovered for as long as we did, for there were always the dogs to draw attention to the house. They would not leave us, though we had nothing to offer them except the leftovers from our own meals. Lala’s aunt told Mother that the third of our dogs, who had not followed us, had been seen going round and round the smoking ruins of our bungalow, and that on the day after the outbreak, he was found dead, sitting up—waiting for his master’s return!

  One day, Lala came in while we were seated on the floor talking about the recent events. Anxiety for the morrow had taken the edge off our grief, and we were able to speak of what had happened without becoming hysterical.

  Lala sat down on the ground with a foil in his hand—the weapon had become his inseparable companion, but I do not think he had yet had occasion to use it. It was not his own, but one that he had found on the floor of the looted and ransacked courthouse.

  ‘Do you think we are safe in your house, Lala?’ asked Mother. ‘What is going on outside these days?’

  ‘You are quite safe here,’ said Lala, gesturing with the foil. ‘No one comes into this house except over my dead body. It is true, though, that I am suspected of harbouring kafirs. More than one person has asked me why I keep such a close watch over my house. My reply is that as the outbreak has put me out of employment, what would they have me do except sit in front of my house and look after my women? Then they ask me why I have not been to the Nawab, like everyone else.’

  ‘What Nawab, Lala?’ asked Mother.

  ‘After the sepoys entered the city, their leader, the Subedar Major, set up Qadar Ali Khan as the Nawab, and proclaimed it throughout the city. Nizam Ali, a pensioner, was made Kotwal, and responsible posts were offered to Javed Khan, and to Nizam Ali Khan, but the latter refused to accept office.’

  ‘And the former?’

  ‘He has taken no office yet, because he and Azzu Khan have been too busy plundering the sahibs’ houses. Javed Khan also instigated an attack on the treasurer. It was like this. . . .’

  ‘Javed Khan, as you now, is one of the biggest ruffians in the city. When the sepoys had returned to their lines after proclaiming the Nawab, Javed Khan paid a visit to their commander. On learning that the regiment was preparing to leave Shahjahanpur and join the Bareilly brigade, he persuaded the Subedar-major, Ghansham Singh, to make a raid on the Rosa Rum Factory before leaving. A detachment, under Subedar Zorawar Singh, accompanied Javed Khan, and they took the road which passes by Jhunna Lal, the treasurer’s house. There they halted, and demanded a contribution from Jhunna Lal. It so happened that he had only that morning received a sum of six thousand rupees from the Tehsildar of Jalalabad, and this the Subedar seized at once. As Jhunna Lal refused to part with any more, he was tied hand and foot and suspended from a tree by his legs. At the same time Javed Khan seized all his account books and threw them into a well saying, “Since you won’t give us what we need, there go your accounts! We won’t leave you with the means of collecting money from others!”

  ‘After the party had moved on, Jhunna Lal’s servants took him down from the tree. He was half-dead with fright, and from the rush of blood to his head. But when he came to himself, he got his servants to go down the well and fish up every account book!’

  ‘And what about the Rosa Factory?’ I asked.

  ‘Javed Khan’s party set fire to it, and no less than 70,000 gallons of rum, together with a large quantity of loaf sugar, were destroyed. The rest was carried away. Javed Khan’s share of loaf sugar was an entire cart-load!’*

  The next day when Lala came in and sat beside us—he used to spend at least an hour in our company
every day—I asked him a question that had been on my mind much of the time, but the answer to which I was afraid of hearing: the whereabouts of my father’s body.

  ‘I would have told you before, Missy-baba,’ he said, ‘but I was afraid of upsetting you. The day after I brought you to my house I went again to the church, and there I found the body of your father, of the Collector-Sahib, and the doctor, exactly where I had seen them the day before. In spite of their exposure and the great heat they had not decomposed at all, and neither the vultures nor the jackals had touched them. Only their shoes had gone.

  ‘As I turned to leave I saw two persons, Muslims, bringing in the body of Captain James, who had been shot a little distance from the church. They laid it beside that of your father and Dr Bowling. They told me that they had decided to bury the mortal remains of those Christians who had been killed. I told them that they were taking a risk in doing so, as they might be accused by the Nawab’s men of being in sympathy with the Firangis. They replied that they were aware of the risk, but that something had impelled them to undertake this task, and that they were willing to face the consequences.

  ‘I was put to shame by their intentions, and, removing my long coat, began to help them carry the bodies to a pit they had dug outside the church. Here I saw, and was able to identify, the bodies of Mr MacCullam, the Padri-Sahib, and Mr Smith, the Assistant Collector. All six were buried side-by-side, and we covered the grave with a masonry slab upon which we drew parallel lines to mark each separate grave. We finished the work within an hour, and when I left the place I felt a satisfaction which I cannot describe . . .

  Later, when we had recovered from the emotions which Ramjimal’s words had aroused in us, I asked him how Mr MacCullam, the chaplain, had me this death; for I remembered seeing him descending from his pulpit when the ruffians entered the church, and running through the vestry with Mr Ricketts’ mother.

  ‘I cannot tell you much,’ said Lala. ‘I only know that while the sepoys attacked Mr Ricketts, Mr MacCullam was able to reach the melon field and conceal himself under some creepers. But another gang found him there, and finished him off with their swords.’

  ‘Poor Mr MacCullam!’ sighed Mother. ‘He was such a harmless little man. And what about Arthur Smith, Lala?’ Mother was determined to find out what had happened to most of the people we had known.

  ‘Assistant Sahib was murdered in the city,’ said Lala. ‘He was in his bungalow, ill with fever, when the trouble broke out. His idea was to avoid the cantonment and make for the city, thinking it was only the sepoys who had mutinied. He went to the courts, but found them a shambles, and while he was standing in the street, a mob collected round him and began to push him about. Somebody prodded him with the hilt of his sword. Mr Smith lost his temper and, in spite of his fever, drew his revolver and shot at the man. But alas for Smith-Sahib, the cap snapped and the charge refused to explode. He levelled again at the man, but this time the bullet had no effect, merely striking the metal clasp of the man’s belt and falling harmlessly to the ground. Mr Smith flung away his revolver in disgust, and now the man cut at him with his sword and brought him to his knees. Then the mob set upon him. Fate was against Smith-Sahib. The Company Bahadur’s prestige has gone, for who ever heard of a revolver snapping, or a bullet being resisted by a belt?’

  Extract From The Room On The Roof

  In his room, Rusty was a king. His domain was the sky and everything he could see. His subjects were the people who passed below, but they were his subjects only while they were below and he was on the roof; and he spied on them through the branches of the banyan tree. His close confidants were the inhabitants of the banyan tree; which, of course, included Kishen.

  It was the day of the picnic, and Rusty had just finished bathing at the water-tank. He had become used to the people at the tank and had made friends with the ayahs and their charges. He had come to like their bangles and bracelets and ankle-bells. He liked to watch one of them at the tap, squatting on her haunches, scrubbing her feet, and making much music with the bells and bangles, she would roll her sari up to the knees to give her legs greater freedom, and crouch forward so that her jacket revealed a modest expanse of waist.

  It was the day of the picnic, and Rusty had bathed, and now he sat on a disused chimney, drying himself in the sun.

  Summer was coming. The lichis were almost ready to eat, the mangoes ripened under Kishen’s greedy eye. In the afternoons the sleepy sunlight stole through the branches of the banyan tree, and made a patchwork of arched shadows on the walls of the house. The inhabitants of the trees knew it, and slapped lazily against his heels; and Kishen grumbled and became more untidy, and even Suri seemed to be taking a rest from his private investigations. Yes, summer was coming.

  And it was the day of the picnic.

  The car had been inspected, and the two bottles that Kapoor had hidden in the dickey had been found and removed; Kapoor was put in top khaki drill trousers and a bush-shirt and pronounced fit to drive; a basket of food and a gramophone were in the dickey. Suri had a camera slung over his shoulders; Kishen was sporting a Gurkha hat; and Rusty had on a thick leather belt reinforced with steel knobs. Meena had dressed in a hurry, and looked the better for it. And for once, Somi had tied his turban to perfection.

  ‘Everyone present?’ said Meena. ‘If so, get into the car.’

  ‘I’m waiting for my dog,’ said Suri, and he had hardly made the announcement when from around the corner came a yapping mongrel.

  ‘He’s called Prickly-Heat,’ said Suri. ‘We’ll put him in the back seat.’

  ‘He’ll go in the dickey,’ said Kishen. ‘I can see the lice from here.’

  Prickly Heat wasn’t any particular kind of dog, just a kind of dog; he hadn’t even the stump of a tail. But he had sharp, pointed ears that wagged as well as any tail, and they were working furiously this morning.

  Suri and the dog were both deposited in the dickey; Somi, Kishen and Rusty made themselves comfortable in the back seat, and Meena sat next to her husband in the front. The car belched and lurched forward, and stirred up great clouds of dust; then, accelerating, sped out of the compound and across the narrow wooden bridge that spanned the canal.

  The sun rose over the forest, and a spiral of smoke from a panting train was caught by a slanting ray spangled with gold. The air was fresh and exciting. It was ten miles to the river and the sulphur springs, ten miles of intermittent grumbling and gaiety with Prickly Heat yapping in the dickey and Kapoor whistling the wheel and Kishen letting fly from the window with a catapult.

  Somi said: ‘Rusty, your pimples will leave you if you bathe in the sulphur springs.’

  ‘I would rather have pimples than pneumonia,’ replied Rusty.

  ‘But it’s not cold,’ said Kishen. ‘I would bathe myself, but I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have come,’ said Meena from the front.

  ‘I didn’t want to disappoint you all,’ said Kishen.

  Before reaching the springs, the car had to cross one or two river-beds, usually dry at this time of the year. But the mountains had tricked the party, for there was a good deal of water to be seen, and the current was strong.

  ‘It’s not very deep,’ said Kapoor, at the first river-bed, ‘I think we can drive through easily.’

  The car dipped forward, rolled down the bank, and entered the current with a great splash. In the dickey, Suri got a soaking.

  ‘Got to go fast,’ said Mr Kapoor, ‘or we’ll stick.’

  He accelerated, and a great spray of water rose on both sides of the car. Kishen cried out for sheer joy, but at the back Suri was having a fit of hysterics.

  ‘I think the dog’s fallen out,’ said Meena.

  ‘Good,’ said Somi.

  ‘I think Suri’s fallen out’, said Rusty.

  ‘Good,’ said Somi.

  Suddenly the engines spluttered and choked, and the car came to a standstill.

  ‘We have stuck,’ said Kapoor
.

  ‘That,’ said Meena bitingly, ‘is obvious. Now I suppose you want us at all to get out and push?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  Kishen had his shoes off in a flash, and was leaping about in the water with great abandon. The water reached up to his knees and, as he hadn’t been swept off his feet, the others followed his example.

  Meena rolled her sari up to the thighs, and stepped gingerly into the current. Her legs, so seldom exposed, were very fair in contrast to her feet and arms, but they were strong and nimble, and she held herself erect. Rusty stumbled to her side, intending to aid her; but ended by clinging to her dress for support. Suri was not to be seen anywhere.

  ‘Where is Suri?’ said Meena.

  ‘Here,’ said a muffled voice from the floor of the dickey. ‘I’ve got sick. I can’t push.’

  ‘All right,’ said Meena. ‘But you’ll clean up the mess yourself.’

  Somi and Kishen were looking for fish. Kapoor tooted the horn.

  ‘Are you all going to push?’ he said. ‘Or are we going to have the picnic in the middle of the river?’

  Rusty was surprised at Kapoor’s unusual display of common sense; when sober, Mr Kapoor did sometimes have moments of sanity.

  Everyone put their weight against the car, and pushed with all their strength; and, as the car moved slowly forward, Rusty felt a thrill of health and pleasure run through his body. In front of him, Meena pushed silently, the muscles of her thighs trembling with the strain. They all pushed silently, with determination; the sweat ran down Somi’s face and neck, and Kishen’s jaws worked desperately on his chewing-gum. But Kapoor sat in comfort behind the wheel, pressing and pulling knobs, and saying ‘harder, push harder’, and Suri began to be sick again. Prickly Heat was strangely quiet, and it was assumed that the dog was sick too.