by Ruskin Bond
‘And what are those stones?’ I asked.
‘They look like pearls,’ said Rocky.
‘They are pearls,’ said the shopkeeper, making a grab for them.
‘It’s that dreadful monkey!’ cried Aunt Ruby. ‘I knew that boy would bring him here!’
The necklace was already adorning Tutu’s neck. I thought she looked rather nice in them, but she gave us no time to admire the effect. Springing out of our reach Tutu dodged around Rocky, slipped between my legs, and made for the crowded road. I ran after her, shouting to her to stop, but she wasn’t listening.
There were no branches to assist Tutu in her progress, but she used the heads and shoulders of people as springboards and so made rapid headway through the bazaar.
The jeweller left his shop and ran after us. So did Rocky. So did several bystanders who had seen the incident. And others, who had no idea what it was all about, joined in the chase. As Grandfather used to say, ‘In a crowd, everyone plays follow-the-leader even when they don’t know who’s leading.’
She tried to make her escape speedier by leaping on to the back of a passing scooterist. The scooter swerved into a fruit stall and came to a standstill under a heap of bananas, while the scooterist found himself in the arms of an indignant fruitseller. Tutu peeled a banana and ate part of it before deciding to move on.
From an awning she made an emergency landing on a washerman’s donkey. The donkey promptly panicked and rushed down the road, while bundles of washing fell by the wayside. The washerman joined in the chase. Children on their way to school decided that there was something better to do than attend classes. With shouts of glee, they soon overtook their panting elders.
Tutu finally left the bazaar and took a road leading in the direction of our house. But knowing that she would be caught and locked up once she got home, she decided to end the chase by riding herself of the necklace. Deftly removing it from her neck, she flung it in the small canal that ran down that road.
The jeweller, with a cry of anguish, plunged into the canal. So did Rocky. So did I. So did several other people, both adults and children. It was to be a treasure hunt!
Some twenty minutes later, Rocky shouted, ‘I’ve found it!’ Covered in mud, water lilies, ferns and tadpoles, we emerged from the canal, and Rocky presented the necklace to the relieved shopkeeper.
Everyone trudged back to the bazaar to find Aunt Ruby waiting in the shop, still trying to make up her mind about a suitable engagement ring.
Finally the ring was bought, the engagement was announced, and a date was set for the wedding.
‘I don’t want that monkey anywhere near us on our wedding day,’ declared Aunt Ruby.
‘We’ll lock her up in the outhouse,’ promised Grandfather. ‘And we’ll let her out only after you’ve left for your honeymoon.’
A few days before the wedding I found Tutu in the kitchen helping Grandmother prepare the wedding cake. Tutu often helped with the cooking, and, when Grandmother wasn’t looking, added herbs, spices, and other interesting items to the pots—so that occasionally we found a chilli in the custard or an onion in the jelly or a strawberry floating on the chicken soup.
Sometimes these additions improved a dish, sometimes they did not. Uncle Ken lost a tooth when he bit firmly into a sandwich which contained walnut shells.
I’m not sure exactly what went into that wedding cake when Grandmother wasn’t looking—she insisted that Tutu was always very well-behaved in the kitchen—but I did spot Tutu stirring in some red chilli sauce, bitter gourd seeds, and a generous helping of eggshells!
It’s true that some of the guests were not seen for several days after the wedding but no one said anything against the cake. Most people thought it had an interesting flavour.
The great day dawned, and the wedding guests made their way to the little church that stood on the outskirts of Dehra—a town with a church, two mosques, and several temples.
I had offered to dress Tutu up as a bridesmaid and bring her along, but no one except Grandfather thought it was a good idea. So I was an obedient boy and locked Tutu in the outhouse. I did, however, leave the skylight open a little. Grandmother had always said that fresh air was good for growing children, and I thought Tutu should have her share of it.
The wedding ceremony went without a hitch. Aunt Ruby looked a picture, and Rocky looked like a film star.
Grandfather played the organ, and did so with such gusto that the small choir could hardly be heard. Grandmother cried a little. I sat quietly in a corner, with the little tortoise on my lap.
When the service was over, we trooped out into the sunshine and made our way back to the house for the reception.
The feast had been laid out on tables in the garden. As the gardener had been left in charge, everything was in order. Tutu was on her best behaviour. She had, it appeared, used the skylight to avail of more fresh air outside, and now sat beside the three-tier wedding cake, guarding it against crows, squirrels and the goat. She greeted the guests with squeals of delight.
It was too much for Aunt Ruby. She flew at Tutu in a rage. And Tutu, sensing that she was not welcome, leapt away, taking with her the top tier of the wedding cake.
Led by Major Malik, we followed her into the orchard, only to find that she had climbed to the top of the jack-fruit tree. From there she proceeded to pelt us with bits of wedding cake. She had also managed to get hold of a bag of confetti, and when she ran out of cake she showered us with confetti.
‘That’s more like it!’ said the good-humoured Rocky. ‘Now let’s return to the party, folks!’
Uncle Ken remained with Major Malik, determined to chase Tutu away. He kept throwing stones into the tree, until he received a large piece of cake bang on his nose. Muttering threats, he returned to the party, leaving the Major to do battle.
When the festivities were finally over, Uncle Ken took the unnecessary old car out of the garage and drove up to the verandah steps. He was going to drive Aunt Ruby and Rocky to the nearby hill resort of Mussoorie, where they would have their honeymoon.
Watched by family and friends, Aunt Ruby and Rocky climbed into the back seat. Aunt Ruby waved regally to everyone. She leant out of the window and offered me her cheek and I had to kiss her farewell. Everyone wished them luck.
As Rocky burst into song Uncle Ken opened the throttle and stepped on the accelerator. The car shot forward in a cloud of dust.
Rocky and Aunt Ruby continued to wave to us. And so did Tutu from her perch on the rear bumper! She was clutching a bag in her hands and showering confetti on all who stood in the driveway.
‘They don’t know Tutu’s with them!’ I exclaimed. ‘She’ll go all the way to Mussoorie! Will Aunt Ruby let her stay with them?’
‘Tutu might ruin the honeymoon,’ said Grandfather. ‘But don’t worry—our Ken will bring her back!’
Colonel Wilkie’s Good Hunting
Colonel Wilkie and I set off into the foothills on a cold, dew-fresh February morning, while the Siwaliks were still shrouded in mist. The Colonel, wearing an old Army bush shirt and khaki trousers, carried his .12-bore shotgun. I carried his walking stick, which I handed to him whenever the going was difficult. Ahead of us, or sometimes behind us as the mood took him, ran the Colonel’s gun dog, Flash, a young spaniel who had been trained to flush out birds for the benefit of his master.
The Colonel was in his early sixties, and lived on a pension. He had been a good shot in his younger days, and his veranda walls were decorated with the mounted heads of gazelles, antelope, wild buffalo and snow leopard, all shot at different times and places during his long sojourn in India.
Advancing years, an arthritic arm, and the high cost of good whisky, had all combined to spoil the Colonel’s aim. When inviting me to be his house guest for a week, he had promised me a partridge shoot, and he wasn’t one to break his promises. Though I would gladly have foregone the shoot (for I hate early risings), I remembered that the Colonel had oiled and cleaned his gun the
night before, and I did not want to disappoint him.
‘This is the right sort of country for partridge,’ he said, as he exchanged his gun for his walking stick in order to surmount a steep bank. ‘Plenty of scrub, and fields not far off. That suits ’em nicely. But there’s not much else, I’m afraid. The deer were shot out years ago.’
We had not gone far when Flash raised his head and sniffed into the wind.
‘He’s scented them,’ said the Colonel, ‘Go, send them up, boy!’
Flash ran ahead with his nose to the ground, and disappeared into a thicket of lantana bushes. As he did so, a covey of partridges whirred up from the bushes. The Colonel dropped his walking stick, grabbed his gun, raised it to his shoulder, and blazed away.
Not one of the birds fell. They flew low over the bushes, swept round the contour of the hill, and then settled down again about a furlong away.
‘Bad luck,’ I said.
‘Too damned far,’ said the Colonel. ‘Out of range. Good boy, Flash,’ he said, as the dog came back in high spirits. ‘We’ll get ‘em yet.’
Forgetting his stick, Colonel Wilkie set off across the mustard field, calling Flash to heel whenever the dog showed signs of running too far ahead. When we were well into the field, the Colonel allowed the dog to run on.
Flash certainly knew his job. The birds took to the air again, and the Colonel blasted off another barrel.
He missed by yards. The partridges flew swift and low over the field, and settled down less than a hundred yards away. They had been shot at by the Colonel on previous occasions, and were secure in the knowledge that he invariably missed.
Flash came back, his stumpy tail gyrating with pleasure. He did not expect anything wonderful from the Colonel, but he was enjoying himself.
‘It’s these damned cartridges,’ grumbled Colonel Wilkie, now rather red in the face. ‘They’re absolutely no good—the shot just bounces off those birds!’
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Have another go. They’re not far off.’
We advanced further into the mustard field, muddying our boots and trousers, while Flash went tearing off through the flowering yellow mustard. Up rose the birds. Up went Colonel Wilkie’s gun. Off went both barrels, one immediately after the other.
To the amazement of everyone—Colonel Wilkie, Flash, the partridges and myself—one of the birds plummeted to the ground.
‘Good shot, sir!’ I cried.
‘Go fetch it, Flash!’ shouted the Colonel with delight. And to me, ‘Roast partridge for supper, old boy!’
He was as pleased as if he had just shot his first partridge. I could not help sharing in his enthusiasm.
Flash bounded forward. He’d had plenty of experience in flushing out birds, but this was the first time, since graduating from the Saharanpur Kennel Club, that he had been called upon to retrieve one. Perhaps that was why his next act was out of keeping with the character of a gun dog.
He picked the bird up in his mouth, and then, instead of bringing it back to us, made off with the precious trophy!
‘Flash, come back at once!’ cried Colonel Wilkie. ‘The silly dog thinks the bird was meant for him!’
‘Well, perhaps he deserves it,’ I said.
‘And so do I—deserve it,’ snapped the Colonel, adding, in a rare moment of frankness, ‘First partridge I’ve shot for years. Ever since this arm started giving me trouble …’
We trudged home through the fields, still faintly hoping that Flash would be waiting for us with the bird intact. But we were disappointed. The dog came home two hours later, looking very guilty, with a few partridge feathers stuck to the sides of his mouth.
‘Well, he certainly hasn’t wasted anything,’ I observed.
The Colonel was too fond of his dog to think of punishing him. But, for several minutes, polite civilian formality gave way to some good old Army profanity, and several new words were added to my vocabulary.
The Family Ghost
‘Now tell us a ghost story,’ I told Bibiji, my landlady, evening, as she made herself comfortable on the old couch in the veranda. ‘There must have been at least one ghost in your village.’
‘Oh, there were many,’ said Bibiji, who never tired of telling us weird tales. ‘Wicked churels and mischievous prets. And there was a munjia who ran away.’
‘What is a munjia?’ I asked.
‘A munjia is the ghost of a brahmin youth who had committed suicide on the eve of his marriage. Our village munjia had taken up residence in an old peepul tree.’
‘I wonder why ghosts always live in peepul trees!’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you about that another time,’ said Bibiji. ‘But listen to the story about the munjia …’
Near the village peepul tree (according to Bibiji) there lived a family of brahmins who were under the special protection of this munjia. The ghost had attached himself to this particular family (they were related to the girl to whom he had once been betrothed) and showed his fondness for them by throwing stones, bones, night soil and rubbish at them, making hideous noises, and terrifying them whenever he found an opportunity. Under his patronage, the family soon dwindled away. One by one they died, the only survivor being an idiot boy, whom the ghost did not bother, because he thought it beneath his dignity to do so.
But, in a village, birth, marriage and death must come to all, and so it was not long before the neighbours began to make plans for the marriage of the idiot.
After a meeting of the village elders, they agreed, first, that the idiot should be married; and second, that he should be married to a shrew of a girl who had reached the age of sixteen without finding a suitor.
The shrew and the idiot were soon married off, and then left to manage for themselves. The poor idiot had no means of earning a living and had to resort to begging. Previously, he had barely been able to support himself, and now his wife was an additional burden. The first thing she did when she entered his house was to give him a box on the ear and send him out to bring something home for their dinner.
The poor fellow went from door to door, but nobody gave him anything, because the same people who had arranged his marriage were annoyed that he had not given them a wedding feast. When, in the evening, he returned home empty-handed, his wife cried out, ‘Are you back, you lazy idiot? Where have you been so long, and what have you brought for me?’
When she found he hadn’t even a paisa, she flew into a rage and, tearing off his turban, threw it into the peepul tree. Then, taking up her broom, she thrashed her husband until he fled from the house, howling with pain.
But the shrew’s anger had not yet diminished. Seeing her husband’s turban in the peepul tree, she began to beat the tree trunk, accompanying her blows with strong abuses. The ghost who lived in the tree was sensitive to her blows and, alarmed that her language might have the effect of finishing him off altogether, he took to his invisible heels, and left the tree on which he had lived for many years.
Riding on a whirlwind, the ghost soon caught up with the idiot who was still running down the road leading away from the village.
‘Not so fast, brother!’ cried the ghost. ‘Desert your wife, certainly, but not your old family ghost! The shrew has driven me out of my peepul tree. Truly, a ghost is no match for a woman with a vile tongue! From now on we are brothers and must seek our fortunes together. But first promise me that you will not return to your wife.’
The idiot made this promise very willingly, and together they continued their journey until they reached a large city.
Before entering the city, the ghost said, ‘Now listen, brother, and if you follow my advice, your fortune is made. In this city there are two very beautiful girls, one is the daughter of a Raja, and the other the daughter of a rich moneylender. I will go and possess the daughter of the Raja and her father will try every sort of remedy without effect. Meanwhile you must walk daily through the streets in the robes of a sadhu, and when the Raja comes and asks you to cure his daughter, make any terms that you think suitable
. As soon as I see you, I shall leave the girl. Then I shall go and possess the daughter of the moneylender. But do not go anywhere near her, because I am in love with the girl and do not intend giving her up. If you come near her, I shall break your neck.’
The ghost went off on his whirlwind, and the idiot entered the city on his own, and found a bed in the local rest house for pilgrims.
The next day the city was agog with the news that the Raja’s daughter was dangerously ill. Physicians—hakims and vaids—came and went, and all pronounced the girl incurable. The Raja was distracted with grief, and offered half his fortune to anyone who would cure his beautiful and only child. The idiot, having smeared himself with dust and ashes, began walking the streets, occasionally crying out: ‘Bhum, bhum, bho! Bom Bhola Nath!’
The people were struck by his appearance, and taking him for a wise and holy man, reported him to the Raja. The latter immediately entered the city and, prostrating himself before the idiot, begged him to cure his daughter. After a show of modesty and reluctance, the idiot was persuaded to accompany the Raja back to the palace, and the girl was brought before him.
Her hair was dishevelled, her teeth were chattering, and her eyes almost starting from their sockets. She howled and cursed and tore at her clothes. When the idiot confronted her, he recited certain meaningless spells; and the ghost, recognizing him, cried out: ‘I go I go! Bhum, bhum, bho!’
‘Give me a sign that you have gone,’ demanded the idiot.
‘As soon as I leave the girl,’ said the ghost, ‘you will see that mango tree uprooted. That is the sign I’ll give.’
A few minutes later, the mango tree came crashing down. The girl recovered from her fit, and seemed unaware of what had happened to her. The news spread through the city, and the idiot became an object of respect and wonder. The Raja kept his word and gave him half his fortune; and so began a period of happiness and prosperity for the idiot.
