by Ruskin Bond
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘But who do you think is stealing the daffodils?’
‘Obviously it’s someone who owns a dog. Someone who takes a dog out regularly for a morning walk. That points to a woman. A woman in London is likely to keep a small dog—and, judging from the animal’s footprints, it was a little Pekinese or a very young Pomeranian. If you observe the damp patch on that lamp-post, you will realize that it could not have been very tall. So what I propose, Bond, is that we conceal ourselves behind this herbaceous border and wait for the culprit to return to the scene of the crime. She is sure to come again this morning. She has been stealing daffodils for the past week. And stealing daffodils, like smoking opium, soon becomes a habit.’
Holmes and I concealed ourselves behind the hedge and settled down to a long wait. After half an hour, our patience was rewarded. An elderly but upright woman in a smart green hat, resembling Margaret Thatcher, came walking towards us across the grass, followed by a small white Pom on a lead. Holmes had been right! More than ever did I admire his brilliance. We waited until the woman began pulling daffodil bulbs out of the loose soil, then Holmes leapt from the bushes.
‘Ah, we have you, madam!’ he cried springing upon her so swiftly that she shrieked and dropped the daffodils. I bent over to gather the evidence, but my efforts were rewarded by a nip on the posterior from the outraged Pomeranian.
Holmes was restraining the woman simply by peering at her heaving bosom through his magnifying glass. I don’t know what frightened her more—being caught, or being confronted by that grim-visaged countenance, with its pipe, cloak and hunting-cap.
‘Now, madam,’ he said firmly, ‘why were you stealing Her Majesty’s daffodils?’
She had begun to weep—always a woman’s best defence—and I thought Holmes would soften. He always did when confronted by weeping women. And this wasn’t Mrs Thatcher; she would have gone on the offensive.
‘I would be obliged, Bond, if you would call the park attendant,’ he said.
I hurried off to a distant greenhouse and after a brief search found a gardener. ‘Stealing daffodils, is she?’ he said, running up at the double, a wicked-looking rake in one hand.
But when he got to the daffodil bed, we couldn’t find the thief anywhere. Nor was Holmes to be seen. Apparently they’d gone off together, leaving me in the lurch. I was overcome by doubt and embarrassment. But then I looked at the ground and saw daffodil bulbs scattered about on the grass.
‘Holmes must have taken her to the police,’ I said.
‘Holmes,’ repeated the gardener. ‘And who’s Holmes?’
‘Sherlock Holmes, of course. The celebrated detective. Haven’t you heard of him?’
The gardener gave me a suspicious look.
‘Sherlock Holmes, eh? And you’ll be Dr Watson, I presume?’
‘Well, no,’ I said apologetically. ‘The name is Bond.’
That was enough for the gardener. He’d seen madmen in the park before. He turned and disappeared in the direction of the greenhouse.
Eventually I found my way out of the park, feeling that Holmes had let me down a little. Then, just as I was crossing Baker Street, I thought I saw him on the opposite curb. He was alone, looking up at a lighted room, and his arm was raised as though he was waving to someone. I thought I heard him shout ‘Watson!’, but I couldn’t be sure. I started to cross the road, but a big red bus came out of the fog in front of me and I had to wait for it to pass. When the road was clear, I dashed across. By that time, Mr Holmes had gone, and the rooms above were dark.
The Eyes Have It
I had the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off was 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 totally 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 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 was 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 log fire 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 wheels, 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, that 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 talk. 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?’
The Night Train at Deoli
When I was at college I used to spend my summer vacations in Dehra, at my grandmother’s place. I would leave the plains early in May and return late in July. Deoli was a small station about thirty miles from Dehra. It marked the beginning of the heavy jungles of the Indian Terai.
The train would reach Deoli at about five in the morning when the station would be dimly lit with electric bulbs and oil lamps, and the jungle across the railway tracks would just be visible in the faint light of dawn. Deoli had only one platform, an office for the stationmaster and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit vendor and a few stray dogs; not much else because the train stopped there for only ten minutes before rushing on into the forests.
Why it stopped at Deoli, I don’t know. Nothing ever happened there. Nobody got off the train and nobody got on. There were never any coolies on the platform. But the train would halt there a full ten minutes and then a bell would sound, the guard would blow his whistle, and presently Deoli would be left behind and forgotten.
I used to wonder what happened in Deoli behind the station walls. I always felt sorry for that lonely little platform and for the place that nobody wanted to visit. I decided that one day I would get off the train at Deoli and spend the day there just to please the town.
I was eighteen, visiting my grandmother, and the night train stopped at Deoli. A girl came down the platform selling baskets.
It was a cold morning and the girl had a shawl thrown across her shoulders. Her feet were bare and her clothes were old but she was a young girl, walking gracefully and with dignity.
When she came to my window, she stopped. She saw that I was looking at her intently, but at first she pretended not to notice. She had pale skin, set off by shiny black hair and dark, troubled eyes. And then those eyes, searching and eloquent, met mine.
She stood by my window for some time and neither of us said anything. But when she moved on, I found myself leaving my seat and going to the carriage door. I stood waiting on the platform looking the other way. I walked across to the tea stall. A kettle was boiling over on a small fire, but the owner of the stall was busy serving tea somewhere on the train. The girl followed me behind the stall.
‘Do you want to buy a basket?’ she asked. ‘They are very strong, made of the finest cane …’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t want a basket.’
We stood looking at each other for what seemed a very long time, and she said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want a basket?’
‘All right, give me one,’ I said, and took the one on top and gave her a rupee, hardly daring to touch her fingers.
As she was about to speak, the guard blew his whistle. She said something, but it was lost in the clanging of the bell and the hissing of the engine. I had to run back to my compartment. The carriage shuddered and jolted forward.
I watched her as the platform slipped away. She was alone on the platform and she did not move, but she was looking at me and smiling. I watched her until the signal box came in the way and then the jungle hid the station. But I could still see her standing there alone …
I stayed awake for the rest of the journey. I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl’s face and her dark, smouldering eyes.
But when I reached Dehra the incident became blurred and distant, for there were other things to occupy my mind. It was only when I was making the return journey, two months later, that I remembered the girl.
I was looking out for her as the train drew into the station, and I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her walking up the platform. I sprang off the footboard and waved to her.
When she saw me, she smiled. She was pleased that I remembered her. I was pleased that she remembered me. We were both pleased and it was almost like a meeting of old friends.
She did not go down the length of the train selling baskets but came straight to the tea stall. Her dark eyes were suddenly filled with light. We said nothing for some time but we couldn’t have been more eloquent.
I felt the impulse to put her on the train there and then, and take her away with me. I could not bear the thought of having to watch her recede into the distance of Deoli station. I took the baskets from her hand and put them down on the ground. She put out her hand for one of them, but I caught her hand and held it.
‘I have to go to Delhi,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I do not have to go anywhere.’
The guard blew his whistle for the train to leave, and how I hated the guard for doing that.
‘I will come again,’ I said. ‘Will you be here?’
She nodded again and, as she nodded, the bell clanged and the train slid forward. I had to wrench my hand away from the girl and run for the moving train.
This time I did not forget her. She was with me for the remainder of the journey and for long after. All that year she was a bright, living thing. And when the college term finished, I packed in haste and left for Dehra earlier than usual. My grandmother would be pleased at my eagerness to see her.
I was nervous and anxious as the train drew into Deoli, because I was wondering what I should say to the girl and what I should do. I was determined that I wouldn’t stand helplessly before her, hardly able to speak or do anything about my feelings.
The train came to Deoli, and I looked up and down the platform but I could not see the girl anywhere.
I opened the door and stepped off the footboard. I was deeply disappointed and overcome by a sense of foreboding. I felt I had to do something and so I ran up to the stationmaster and said, ‘Do you know the girl who used to sell baskets here?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said the stationmaster. ‘And you’d better get on the train if you don’t want to be left behind.’
But I paced up and down the platform and stared over the railings at the station yard. All I saw was a mango tree and a dusty road leading into the jungle. Where did the road go? The train was moving out of the station and I had to run up the platform and jump for the door of my compartment. Then, as the train gathered speed and rushed through the forests, I sat brooding in front of the window.
What could I do about finding a girl I had seen only twice, who had hardly spoken to me, and about whom I knew nothing—absolutely nothing—but for whom I felt a tenderness and responsibility that I had never f
elt before?
My grandmother was not pleased with my visit after all, because I didn’t stay at her place more than a couple of weeks. I felt restless and ill at ease. So I took the train back to the plains, meaning to ask further questions of the stationmaster at Deoli.
But at Deoli there was a new stationmaster. The previous man had been transferred to another post within the past week. The new man didn’t know anything about the girl who sold baskets. I found the owner of the tea stall, a small, shrivelled-up man, wearing greasy clothes, and asked him if he knew anything about the girl with the baskets.
‘Yes, there was such a girl here. I remember quite well,’ he said. ‘But she has stopped coming now.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What happened to her?’
‘How should I know?’ said the man. ‘She was nothing to me.’
And once again I had to run for the train.
As Deoli platform receded, I decided that one day I would have to break journey there, spend a day in the town, make inquiries, and find the girl who had stolen my heart with nothing but a look from her dark, impatient eyes.
With this thought I consoled myself throughout my last term in college. I went to Dehra again in the summer and when, in the early hours of the morning, the night train drew into Deoli station, I looked up and down the platform for signs of the girl, knowing I wouldn’t find her but hoping just the same.
Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to break journey at Deoli and spend a day there. (If it was all fiction or a film, I reflected, I would have got down and cleaned up the mystery and reached a suitable ending to the whole thing.) I think I was afraid to do this. I was afraid of discovering what really happened to the girl. Perhaps she was no longer in Deoli, perhaps she was married, perhaps she had fallen ill …
