by Ruskin Bond
One day, as Binya passed the shop, twirling her blue umbrella, Rajaram noticed that his employer gave a deep sigh and began muttering to himself.
‘What’s the matter, Babuji?’ asked the boy.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Ram Bharosa. ‘It’s just a sickness that has come upon me. And it’s all due to that girl Binya and her wretched umbrella.’
‘Why, what has she done to you?’
‘Refused to sell me her umbrella! There’s pride for you. And I offered her ten rupees.’
‘Perhaps, if you gave her twelve...’
‘But it isn’t new any longer. It isn’t worth eight rupees now. All the same, I’d like to have it.’
‘You wouldn’t make a profit on it,’ said Rajaram.
‘It’s not the profit I’m after, wretch! It’s the thing itself. It’s the beauty of it!’
‘And what would you do with it, Babuji? You don’t visit anyone—you’re seldom out of your shop. Of what use would it be to you?’
‘Of what use is a poppy in a cornfield? Of what use is a rainbow? Of what use are you, numbskull? Wretch! I, too, have a soul. I want the umbrella, because—because I want its beauty to be mine!’
Rajaram put the kettle on to boil, began dusting the counter, all the time muttering: ‘I’m as useful as an umbrella,’ and then, after a short period of intense thought, said: ‘What will you give me, Babuji, if I get the umbrella for you?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the old man.
‘You know what I mean. What will you give me?’
‘You mean to steal it, don’t you, you wretch? What a delightful child you are! I’m glad you’re not my son or my enemy. But look, everyone will know it has been stolen, and then how will I be able to show off with it?’
‘You will have to gaze upon it in secret,’ said Rajaram with a chuckle. ‘Or take it into Tehri, and have it coloured red! That’s your problem. But tell me, Babuji, do you want it badly enough to pay me three rupees for stealing it without being seen?’
Ram Bharosa gave the boy a long, sad look. ‘You’re a sharp boy,’ he said. ‘You’ll come to a bad end. I’ll give you two rupees.’
‘Three,’ said the boy.
‘Two,’ said the old man.
‘You don’t really want it, I can see that,’ said the boy.
‘Wretch!’ said the old man. ‘Evil one! Darkener of my doorstep! Fetch me the umbrella, and I’ll give you three rupees.’
5
Binya was in the forest glade where she had first seen the umbrella. No one came there for picnics during the monsoon. The grass was always wet and the pine needles were slippery underfoot. The tall trees shut out the light, and poisonous-looking mushrooms, orange and purple, sprang up everywhere. But it was a good place for porcupines, who seemed to like the mushrooms, and Binya was searching for porcupine quills.
The hill people didn’t think much of porcupine quills, but far away in southern India, the quills were valued as charms and sold at a rupee each. So Ram Bharosa paid a tenth of a rupee for each quill brought to him, and he in turn sold the quills at a profit to a trader from the plains.
Binya had already found five quills, and she knew there’d be more in the long grass. For once, she’d put her umbrella down. She had to put it aside if she was to search the ground thoroughly.
It was Rajaram’s chance.
He’d been following Binya for some time, concealing himself behind trees and rocks, creeping closer whenever she became absorbed in her search. He was anxious that she should not see him and be able to recognize him later.
He waited until Binya had wandered some distance from the umbrella. Then, running forward at a crouch, he seized the open umbrella and dashed off with it.
But Rajaram had very big feet. Binya heard his heavy footsteps and turned just in tune to see him as he disappeared between the trees. She cried out, dropped the porcupine quills, and gave chase.
Binya was swift and sure-footed, but Rajaram had a long stride. All the same, he made the mistake of running downhill. A long-legged person is much faster going up hill than down. Binya reached the edge of the forest glade in time to see the thief scrambling down the path to the stream. He had closed the umbrella so that it would not hinder his flight.
Binya was beginning to gain on the boy. He kept to the path, while she simply slid and leapt down the steep hillside. Near the bottom of the hill the path began to straighten out, and it was here that the long-legged boy began to forge ahead again.
Bijju was coming home from another direction. He had a bundle of sticks which he’d collected for the kitchen fire. As he reached the path, he saw Binya rushing down the hill as though all the mountain spirits in Garhwal were after her.
‘What’s wrong?’ he called. ‘Why are you running?’
Binya paused only to point at the fleeing Rajaram.
‘My umbrella!’ she cried. ‘He has stolen it!’
Bijju dropped his bundle of sticks, and ran after his sister. When he reached her side, he said, ‘I’ll soon catch him!’ and went sprinting away over the lush green grass. He was fresh, and he was soon well ahead of Binya and gaining on the thief.
Rajaram was crossing the shallow stream when Bijju caught up with him. Rajaram was the taller boy, but Bijju was much stronger. He flung himself at the thief, caught him by the legs, and brought him down in the water. Rajaram got to his feet and tried to drag himself away, but Bijju still had him by a leg. Rajaram overbalanced and came down with a great splash. He had let the umbrella fall. It began to float away on the current. Just then Binya arrived, flushed and breathless, and went dashing into the stream after the umbrella.
Meanwhile, a tremendous fight was taking place. Locked in fierce combat, the two boys swayed together on a rock, tumbled on to the sand, rolled over and over the pebbled bank until they were again thrashing about in the shallows of the stream. The magpies, bulbuls and other birds were disturbed, and flew away with cries of alarm.
Covered with mud, gasping and spluttering, the boys groped for each other in the water. After five minutes of frenzied struggle, Bijju emerged victorious. Rajaram lay flat on his back on the sand, exhausted, while Bijju sat astride him, pinning him down with his arms and legs.
‘Let me get up!’ gasped Rajaram. ‘Let me go—I don’t want your useless umbrella!’
‘Then why did you take it?’ demanded Bijju. ‘Come on—tell me why!’
‘It was that skinflint Ram Bharosa,’ said Rajaram. ‘He told me to get it for him. He said if I didn’t fetch it, I’d lose my job.’
6
By early October, the rains were coming to an end. The leeches disappeared. The ferns turned yellow, and the sunlight on the green hills was mellow and golden, like the limes on the small tree in front of Binya’s home. Bijju’s days were happy ones as he came home from school, munching on roasted corn. Binya’s umbrella had turned a pale milky blue, and was patched in several places, but it was still the prettiest umbrella in the village, and she still carried it with her wherever she went.
The cold, cruel winter wasn’t far off, but somehow October seems longer than other months, because it is a kind month: the grass is good to be upon, the breeze is warm and gentle and pine-scented. That October, everyone seemed contented—everyone, that is, except Ram Bharosa.
The old man had by now given up all hope of ever possessing Binya’s umbrella. He wished he had never set eyes on it. Because of the umbrella, he had suffered the tortures of greed, the despair of loneliness. Because of the umbrella, people had stopped coming to his shop!
Ever since it had become known that Ram Bharosa had tried to have the umbrella stolen, the village people had turned against him. They stopped trusting the old man, instead of buying their soap and tea and matches from his shop, they preferred to walk an extra mile to the shops near the Tehri bus stand. Who would have dealings with a man who had sold his soul for an umbrella? The children taunted him, twisted his name around. From ‘Ram the Trustworthy’ he became �
�Trusty Umbrella Thief’.
The old man sat alone in his empty shop, listening to the eternal hissing of his kettle and wondering if anyone would ever again step in for a glass of tea. Ram Bharosa had lost his own appetite, and ate and drank very little. There was no money coming in. He had his savings in a bank in Tehri, but it was a terrible thing to have to dip into them! To save money, he had dismissed the blundering Rajaram. So he was left without any company. The roof leaked and the wind got in through the corrugated tin sheets, but Ram Bharosa didn’t care.
Bijju and Binya passed his shop almost every day. Bijju went by with a loud but tuneless whistle. He was one of the world’s whistlers; cares rested lightly on his shoulders. But, strangely enough, Binya crept quietly past the shop, looking the other way, almost as though she was in some way responsible for the misery of Ram Bharosa.
She kept reasoning with herself, telling herself that the umbrella was her very own, and that she couldn’t help it if others were jealous of it. But had she loved the umbrella too much? Had it mattered more to her than people mattered? She couldn’t help feeling that, in a small way, she was the cause of the sad look on Ram Bharosa’s face (‘His face is a yard long,’ said Bijju) and the ruinous condition of his shop. It was all due to his own greed, no doubt, but she didn’t want him to feel too bad about what he’d done, because it made her feel bad about herself; and so she closed the umbrella whenever she came near the shop, opening it again only when she was out of sight.
One day towards the end of October, when she had ten paise in her pocket, she entered the shop and asked the old man for a toffee.
She was Ram Bharosa’s first customer in almost two weeks. He looked suspiciously at the girl. Had she come to taunt him, to flaunt the umbrella in his face? She had placed her coin on the counter. Perhaps it was a bad coin. Ram Bharosa picked it up and bit it; he held it up to the light; he rang it on the ground. It was a good coin. He gave Binya the toffee.
Binya had already left the shop when Ram Bharosa saw the closed umbrella lying on his counter. There it was, the blue umbrella he had always wanted, within his grasp at last! He had only to hide it at the back of his shop, and no one would know that he had it, no one could prove that Binya had left it behind.
He stretched out his trembling, bony hand, and took the umbrella by the handle. He pressed it open. He stood beneath it, in the dark shadows of his shop, where no sun or rain could ever touch it.
‘But I’m never in the sun or in the rain,’ he said aloud. ‘Of what use is an umbrella to me?’
And he hurried outside and ran after Binya.
‘Binya, Binya!’ he shouted. ‘Binya, you’ve left your umbrella behind!’
He wasn’t used to running, but he caught up with her, held out the umbrella, saying, ‘You forgot it—the umbrella!’
In that moment it belonged to both of them.
But Binya didn’t take the umbrella. She shook her head and said, ‘You keep it. I don’t need it any more.’
‘But it’s such a pretty umbrella!’ protested Ram Bharosa. ‘It’s the best umbrella in the village.’
‘I know,’ said Binya. ‘But an umbrella isn’t everything.’
And she left the old man holding the umbrella, and went tripping down the road, and there was nothing between her and the bright blue sky.
7
Well, now that Ram Bharosa has the blue umbrella—a gift from Binya, as he tells everyone—he is sometimes persuaded to go out into the sun or the rain, and as a result he looks much healthier. Sometimes he uses the umbrella to chase away pigs or goats. It is always left open outside the shop, and anyone who wants to borrow it may do so; and so in a way it has become everyone’s umbrella. It is faded and patchy, but it is still the best umbrella in the village.
People are visiting Ram Bharosa’s shop again. Whenever Bijju or Binya stop for a cup of tea, he gives them a little extra milk or sugar. They like their tea sweet and milky.
A few nights ago, a bear visited Ram Bharosa’s shop. There had been snow on the higher ranges of the Himalayas, and the bear had been finding it difficult to obtain food; so it had come lower down, to see what it could pick up near the village. That night it scrambled on to the tin roof of Ram Bharosa’s shop, and made off with a huge pumpkin which had been ripening on the roof. But in climbing off the roof, the bear had lost a claw.
Next morning Ram Bharosa found the claw just outside the door of his shop. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. A bear’s claw was a lucky find.
A day later, when he went into the market town, he took the claw with him, and left it with a silversmith, giving the craftsman certain instructions.
The silversmith made a locket for the claw, then he gave it a thin silver chain. When Ram Bharosa came again, he paid the silversmith ten rupees for his work.
The days were growing shorter, and Binya had to be home a little earlier every evening. There was a hungry leopard at large, and she couldn’t leave the cows out after dark.
She was hurrying past Ram Bharosa’s shop when the old man called out to her.
‘Binya, spare a minute! I want to show you something.’
Binya stepped into the shop.
‘What do you think of it?’ asked Ram Bharosa, showing her the silver pendant with the claw.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ said Binya, just touching the claw and the silver chain.
‘It’s a bear’s claw,’ said Ram Bharosa. ‘That’s even luckier than a leopard’s claw. Would you like to have it?’
‘I have no money,’ said Binya.
‘That doesn’t matter. You gave me the umbrella, I give you the claw! Come, let’s see what it looks like on you.’
He placed the pendant on Binya, and indeed it looked very beautiful on her.
Ram Bharosa says he will never forget the smile she gave him when she left the shop.
She was halfway home when she realized she had left the cows behind.
‘Neelu, Neelu!’ she called. ‘Oh, Gori!’
There was a faint tinkle of bells as the cows came slowly down the mountain path.
In the distance she could hear her mother and Bijju calling for her.
She began to sing. They heard her singing, and knew she was safe and near.
She walked home through the darkening glade, singing of the stars, and the trees stood still and listened to her, and the mountains were glad.
1980s AND ONWARDS:
IVY COTTAGE, MUSSOORIE
A Long Walk for Bina
1
A LEOPARD, LITHE AND sinewy, drank at the mountain stream, and then lay down on the grass to bask in the late February sunshine. Its tail twitched occasionally and the animal appeared to be sleeping. At the sound of distant voices it raised its head to listen, then stood up and leapt lightly over the boulders in the stream, disappearing among the trees on the opposite bank.
A minute or two later, three children came walking down the forest path. They were a girl and two boys, and they were singing in their local dialect an old song they had learnt from their grandparents.
Five more miles to go!
We climb through rain and snow.
A river to cross...
A mountain to pass...
Now we’ve four more miles to go!
Their school satchels looked new, their clothes had been washed and pressed. Their loud and cheerful singing startled a Spotted Forktail. The bird left its favourite rock in the stream and flew down the dark ravine.
‘Well, we have only three more miles to go,’ said the bigger boy, Prakash, who had been this way hundreds of times. ‘But first we have to cross the stream.’
He was a sturdy twelve-year-old with eyes like black currants and a mop of bushy hair that refused to settle down on his head. The girl and her small brother were taking this path for the first time.
‘I’m feeling tired, Bina,’ said the little boy.
Bina smiled at him, and Prakash said, ‘Don’t worry, Sonu, you’ll get used to the walk.
There’s plenty of time.’ He glanced at the old watch he’d been given by his grandfather. It needed constant winding. ‘We can rest here for five or six minutes.’
They sat down on a smooth boulder and watched the clear water of the shallow stream tumbling downhill. Bina examined the old watch on Prakash’s wrist. The glass was badly scratched and she could barely make out the figure on the dial. ‘Are you sure it still gives the right time?’ she asked.
‘Well, it loses five minutes every day, so I put it ten minutes forward at night. That means by morning it’s quite accurate! Even our teacher, Mr Mani, asks me for the time. If he doesn’t ask, I tell him! The clock in our classroom keeps stopping.’
They removed their shoes and let the cold mountain water run over their feet. Bina was the same age as Prakash. She had pink cheeks, soft brown eyes, and hair that was just beginning to lose its natural curls. Hers was a gentle face, but a determined little chin showed that she could be a strong person. Sonu, her younger brother, was ten. He was a thin boy who had been sickly as a child but was now beginning to fill out. Although he did not look very athletic, he could run like the wind.
Bina had been going to school in her own village of Koli, on the other side of the mountain. But it had been a Primary School, finishing at Class 5. Now, in order to study in the Class 6, she would have to walk several miles every day to Nauti, where there was a High School going up to Class 8. It had been decided that Sonu would also shift to the new school, to give Bina company. Prakash, their neighbour in Koli, was already a pupil at the Nauti school. His mischievous nature, which sometimes got him into trouble, had resulted in his having to repeat a year.
