Who Kissed Me in the Dark

by Ruskin Bond

  That was the end of his job. ‘I’ll have to go home now,’ he told me. ‘I won’t get another job in this area. The mem will see to that.’

  ‘Stay a few days,’ I said.

  ‘I have only enough money with which to get home.’

  ‘Keep it for going home. You can stay with me for a few days, while you look around. Your uncle won’t mind sharing his food with you.’

  His uncle did mind. He did not like the idea of working for his nephew as well; it seemed to him no part of his duties. And he was apprehensive that Prem might get his job.

  So Prem stayed no longer than a week.

  Here on the knoll the grass is just beginning to turn October yellow. The first clouds approaching winter cover the sky. The trees are very still. The birds are silent. Only a cricket keeps singing on the oak tree. Perhaps there will be a storm before evening. A storm like the one in which Prem arrived at the cottage with his wife and child—but that’s jumping too far ahead…

  After he had returned to his village, it was several months before I saw him again. His uncle told me he had taken up a job in Delhi. There was an address. It did not seem complete, but I resolved that when I was next in Delhi I would try to see him.

  The opportunity came in May, as the hot winds of summer blew across the plains. It was the time of year when people who can afford it, try to get away to the hills. I dislike New Delhi at the best of times, and I hate it in summer. People compete with each other in being bad-tempered and mean. But I had to go down—I don’t remember why, but it must have seemed very necessary at the time—and I took the opportunity to try and see Prem.

  Nothing went right for me. Of course the address was all wrong, and I wandered about in a remote, dusty, treeless colony called Vasant Vihar (Spring Garden) for over two hours, asking all the domestic servants I came across if they could put me in touch with Prem Singh of Village Koli, Pauri Garhwal. There were innumerable Prem Singhs, but apparently none who belonged to Village Koli. I returned to my hotel and took two days to recover from heatstroke before returning to Mussoorie, thanking God for mountains!

  And then the uncle gave notice. He’d found a better-paid job in Dehra Dun and was anxious to be off. I didn’t try to stop him.

  For the next six months, I lived in the cottage without any help. I did not find this difficult. I was used to living alone. It wasn’t service that I needed but companionship. In the cottage it was very quiet. The ghosts of long-dead residents were sympathetic but unobtrusive. The song of the whistling thrush was beautiful, but I knew he was not singing for me. Up the valley came the sound of a flute, but I never saw the flute player. My affinity was with the little red fox who roamed the hillside below the cottage. I met him one night and wrote these lines:

  As I walked home last night

  I saw a lone fox dancing

  In the cold moonlight.

  I stood and watched—then

  Took the low road, knowing

  the night was his by right.

  Sometimes, when words ring true,

  I’m like a lone fox dancing

  In the morning dew.

  During the rains, watching the dripping trees and the mist climbing the valley, I wrote a great deal of poetry. Loneliness is of value to poets. But poetry didn’t bring me much money, and funds were low. And then, just as I was wondering if I would have to give up my freedom and take a job again, a publisher bought the paperback rights of one of my children’s stories, and I was free to live and write as I pleased—for another three months!

  That was in November. To celebrate, I took a long walk through the Landour bazaar and up the Tehri road. It was a good day for walking; and it was dark by the time I returned to the outskirts of the town. Someone stood waiting for me on the road above the cottage. I hurried past him.

  If I am not for myself,

  Who will be for me?

  And if I am not for others,

  What am I?

  And if not now, when?

  I startled myself with the memory of these words of Hillel, the ancient Hebrew sage. I walked back to the shadows where the youth stood, and saw that it was Prem.

  ‘Prem!’ I said. ‘Why are you sitting out here, in the cold? Why did you not go to the house?’

  ‘I went, sir, but there was a lock on the door. I thought you had gone away.’

  ‘And you were going to remain here, on the road?’

  ‘Only for tonight. I would have gone down to Dehra in the morning.’

  ‘Come, let’s go home. I have been waiting for you. I looked for you in Delhi, but could not find the place where you were working.’

  ‘I have left them now.’

  ‘And your uncle has left me. So will you work for me now?’

  ‘For as long as you wish.’

  ‘For as long as the gods wish.’

  We did not go straight home, but returned to the bazaar and took our meal in the Sindhi Sweet Shop—hot puris and strong sweet tea.

  We walked home together in the bright moonlight. I felt sorry for the little fox dancing alone.

  That was twenty years ago, and Prem and his wife and three children are still with me. But we live in a different house now, on another hill.

  The Girl on the Train

  I had the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off were probably her parents; they seemed very anxious about her comfort, and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers.

  They called their goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station. As I was going blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like; but I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels.

  It would take me some time to discover something about her looks, and perhaps I never would. But I liked the sound of her voice, and even the sound of her slippers.

  ‘Are you going all the way to Dehra?’ I asked.

  I must have been sitting in a dark corner, because my voice startled her. She gave a little exclamation and said, ‘I didn’t know anyone else was here.’

  Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers most tellingly on their remaining senses.

  ‘I didn’t see you either,’ I said. ‘But I heard you come in.’

  I wondered if I would be able to prevent her from discovering that I was blind. Provided I keep to my seat, I thought, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

  The girl said, ‘I’m getting off at Saharanpur. My aunt is meeting me there.’

  ‘Then I had better not get too familiar,’ I replied. ‘Aunts are usually formidable creatures.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To Dehra, and then to Mussoorie.’

  ‘Oh, how lucky you are. I wish I were going to Mussoorie. I love the hills. Especially in October.’

  ‘Yes, this is the best time,’ I said, calling on my memories. ‘The hills are covered with wild dahlias, the sun is delicious, and at night you can sit in front of a logfire and drink a little brandy. Most of the tourists have gone, and the roads are quiet and almost deserted. Yes, October is the best time.’

  She was silent. I wondered if my words had touched her, or whether she thought me a romantic fool. Then I made a mistake.

  ‘What is it like outside?’ I asked.

  She seemed to find nothing strange in the question. Had she noticed already that I could not see? But her next question removed my doubts.

  ‘Why don’t you look out of the window?’ she asked.

  I moved easily along the berth and felt for the window ledge. The window was open, and I faced it, making a pretence of studying the landscape. I heard the panting of the engine, the rumble of the wh
eels, and, in my mind’s eye, I could see telegraph posts flashing by.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ I ventured, ‘that the trees seem to be moving while we seem to be standing still?’

  ‘That always happens,’ she said. ‘Do you see any animals?’

  ‘No,’ I answered quite confidently. I knew that there were hardly any animals left in the forests near Dehra.

  I turned from the window and faced the girl, and for a while we sat in silence.

  ‘You have an interesting face,’ I remarked. I was becoming quite daring, but it was a safe remark. Few girls can resist flattery. She laughed pleasantly—a clear ringing laugh.

  ‘It’s nice to be told I have an interesting face. I’m tired of people telling me I have a pretty face.’

  Oh, so you do have a pretty face, thought I; and aloud I said, ‘Well, an interesting face can also be pretty.’

  ‘You are a very gallant young man,’ she said ‘but why are you so serious?’

  I thought, then, I would try to laugh for her, but the thought of laughter only made me feel troubled and lonely.

  ‘We’ll soon be at your station,’ I said.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s a short journey. I can’t bear to sit in a train for more than two or three hours.’

  Yet I was prepared to sit there for almost any length of time, just to listen to her talking. Her voice had the sparkle of a mountain stream. As soon as she left the train, she would forget our brief encounter; but it would stay with me for the rest of the journey, and for some time after.

  The engine’s whistle shrieked, the carriage wheels changed their sound and rhythm, the girl got up and began to collect her things. I wondered if she wore her hair in a bun, or if it was plaited; perhaps it was hanging loose over her shoulders, or was it cut very short?

  The train drew slowly into the station. Outside, there was the shouting of porters and vendors and a high-pitched female voice near the carriage door; that voice must have belonged to the girl’s aunt.

  ‘Goodbye,’ the girl said.

  She was standing very close to me, so close that the perfume from her hair was tantalizing. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair, but she moved away. Only the scent of perfume still lingered where she had stood.

  There was some confusion in the doorway. A man, getting into the compartment, stammered an apology. Then the door banged, and the world was shut out again. I returned to my berth. The guard blew his whistle and we moved off. Once again, I had a game to play and a new fellow traveller.

  The train gathered speed, the wheels took up their song, the carriage groaned and shook. I found the window and sat in front of it, staring into the daylight that was darkness for me.

  So many things were happening outside the window: it could be a fascinating game, guessing what went on out there.

  The man who had entered the compartment broke into my reverie.

  ‘You must be disappointed,’ he said. ‘I’m not nearly as attractive a travelling companion as the one who just left.’

  ‘She was an interesting girl,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me—did she keep her hair long or short?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said, sounding puzzled. ‘It was her eyes I noticed, not her hair. She had beautiful eyes—but they were of no use to her. She was completely blind. Didn’t you notice?’

  Sounds I Like to Hear

  All night the rain has been drumming on the corrugated tin roof. There has been no storm, no thunder, just the steady swish of a tropical downpour. It helps one to lie awake; at the same time, it doesn’t keep one from sleeping.

  It is a good sound to read by—the rain outside, the quiet within—and, although tin roofs are given to springing unaccountable leaks, there is in general a feeling of being untouched by, and yet in touch with, the rain.

  Gentle rain on a tin roof is one of my favourite sounds. And early in the morning, when the rain has stopped, there are other sounds I like to hear—a crow shaking the raindrops from his feathers and cawing rather disconsolately; babblers and bulbuls bustling in and out of bushes and long grass in search of worms and insects; the sweet, ascending trill of the Himalayan whistling thrush; dogs rushing through damp undergrowth.

  A cherry tree, bowed down by the heavy rain, suddenly rights itself, flinging pellets of water in my face.

  Some of the best sounds are made by water. The water of a mountain stream, always in a hurry, bubbling over rocks and chattering, ‘I’m late, I’m late!’ like the White Rabbit, tumbling over itself in its anxiety to reach the bottom of the hill, the sound of the sea, especially when it is far away—or when you hear it by putting a seashell to your ear. The sound made by dry and thirsty earth, as it sucks at a sprinkling of water. Or the sound of a child drinking thirstily, the water running down his chin and throat.

  Water gushing out of the pans of an old well outside a village while a camel moves silently round the well. Bullock cart wheels creaking over rough country roads. The clip clop of a pony carriage, and the tinkle of its bell, and the sing-song call of its driver…

  Bells in the hills. A school bell ringing, and children’s voices drifting through an open window. A temple bell, heard faintly from across the valley. Heavy silver ankle bells on the feet of sturdy hill women. Sheep bells heard high up on the mountainside.

  Do falling petals make a sound? Just the tiniest and softest of sounds, like the drift of falling snow. Of course big flowers, like dahlias, drop their petals with a very definite flop. These are show-offs, like the hawk moth who comes flapping into the rooms at night instead of emulating the butterfly dipping lazily on the afternoon breeze.

  One must return to the birds for favourite sounds, and the birds of the plains differ from the birds of the hills. On a cold winter morning in the plains of northern India, if you walk some way into the jungle you will hear the familiar call of the black partridge: ‘Bhagwan teri qudrat’ it seems to cry, which means: ‘Oh God! Great is thy might.’

  The cry rises from the bushes in all directions; but an hour later not a bird is to be seen or heard and the jungle is so very still that the silence seems to shout at you.

  There are sounds that come from a distance, beautiful because they are far away, voices on the wind—they ‘walketh upon the wings of the wind’. The cries of fishermen out on the river. Drums beating rhythmically in a distant village. The croaking of frogs from the rainwater pond behind the house. I mean frogs at a distance. A frog croaking beneath one’s window is as welcome as a motor horn.

  But some people like motor horns. I know a taxi driver who never misses an opportunity to use his horn. It was made to his own specifications, and it gives out a resonant bugle call. He never tires of using it. Cyclists and pedestrians always scatter at his approach. Other cars veer off the road. He is proud of his horn. He loves its strident sound—which only goes to show that some men’s sounds are other men’s noises!

  Homely sounds, though we don’t often think about them, are the ones we miss most when they are gone. A kettle on the boil. A door that creaks on its hinges. Old sofa springs. Familiar voices lighting up the dark. Ducks quacking in the rain.

  And so we return to the rain, with which my favourite sounds began.

  I have sat out in the open at night, after a shower of rain when the whole air is murmuring and tinkling with the voices of crickets and grasshoppers and little frogs. There is one melodious sound, a sweet repeated trill, which I have never been able to trace to its source. Perhaps it is a little tree frog. Or it may be a small green cricket. I shall never know.

  I am not sure that I really want to know. In an age when a scientific and rational explanation has been given for almost everything we see and touch and hear, it is good to be left with one small mystery, a mystery sweet and satisfying and entirely my own.

  Listen!

  Listen to the night wind in the trees,

  Listen to the summer grass singing;

  Listen to the time that’s tripping by,

  And the dawn
dew falling.

  Listen to the moon as it climbs the sky,

  Listen to the pebbles humming;

  Listen to the mist in the trembling leaves,

  And the silence calling.

  The Monkeys

  I couldn’t be sure, next morning, if I had been dreaming or if I had really heard dogs barking in the night and had seen them scampering about on the hillside below the cottage. There had been a golden Cocker, a Retriever, a Peke, a Dachshund, a black Labrador and one or two nondescripts. They had woken me with their barking shortly after midnight, and had made so much noise that I had got out of bed and looked out of the open window. I saw them quite plainly in the moonlight, five or six dogs rushing excitedly through the bracket and long monsoon grass.

  It was only because there had been so many breeds among the dogs that I felt a little confused. I had been in the cottage only a week, and I was already on nodding or speaking terms with most of my neighbours. Colonel Fanshawe, retired from the Indian army, was my immediate neighbour. He did keep a Cocker, but it was black. The elderly Anglo-Indian spinsters who lived beyond the deodars kept only cats. (Though why cats should be the prerogative of spinsters, I have never been able to understand.) The milkman kept a couple of mongrels. And the Punjabi industrialist who had bought a former prince’s palace—without ever occupying it—left the property in charge of a watchman who kept a huge Tibetan mastiff.