DUST ON MOUNTAIN: COLLECTED STORIES

by Ruskin Bond

  Twenty oaks have been felled. Just in this small stretch near the cottage. By the time this bypass reaches Jabarkhet, about six miles from here, over a thousand oaks will have been slaughtered, besides many other fine trees—maples, deodars and pines—most of them unnecessarily, as they grow some fifty to sixty yards from the roadside.

  The trouble is, hardly anyone (with the exception of the contractor who buys the felled trees) really believes that trees and shrubs are necessary. They get in the way so much, don’t they? According to my milkman, the only useful tree is one which can be picked clean of its leaves for fodder! And a young man remarked to me: ‘You should come to Pauri. The view is terrific, there are no trees in the way!’

  Well, he can stay here now, and enjoy the view of the ravaged hillside. But as the oaks have gone, the milkman will have to look further afield for his fodder.

  Rakesh calls the maples the butterfly trees because when the winged seeds fall they flutter like butterflies in the breeze. No maples now. No bright red leaves to flame against the sky. No birds!

  That is to say, no birds near the house. No longer will it be possible for me to open the window and watch the scarlet minivets flitting through the dark green foliage of the oaks; the long-tailed magpies gliding through the trees; the barbet calling insistently from his perch on top of the deodar. Forest birds, all of them, they will now be in search of some other stretch of surviving forest. The only visitors will be the crows, who have learnt to live with, and off, humans and seem to multiply along with roads, houses and people. And even when all the people have gone, the crows will still be around.

  Other things to look forward to: trucks thundering past in the night; perhaps a tea and pakora shop round the corner; the grinding of gears, the music of motor horns. Will the whistling thrush be heard above them? The explosions that continually shatter the silence of the mountains—as thousand-year-old rocks are dynamited—have frightened away all but the most intrepid of birds and animals. Even the bold langoors haven’t shown their faces for over a fortnight.

  Somehow, I don’t think we shall wait for the tea shop to arrive. There must be some other quiet corner, possibly on the next mountain, where new roads have yet to come into being. No doubt this is a negative attitude, and if I had any sense I’d open my own tea shop. To retreat is to be a loser. But the trees are losers too; and when they fall, they do so with a certain dignity.

  Never mind. Men come and go; the mountains remain.

  Miss Bun and Others

  March 1, 1975

  Beer in the sun. High in the spruce tree the barbet calls, heralding summer. A few puffy clouds drift lazily over the mountains. Is this the great escape?

  I could sit here all day soaking up beer and sunshine, but at some time during the day I must wipe the dust from my typewriter and produce something readable. There’s only eight hundred rupees in the bank, book sales are falling off, and magazines are turning away from fiction.

  Prem spoils me, giving me rice and kofta curry for lunch, which means that I sleep till four when Miss Bun arrives with patties and samosas.

  Miss Bun is the baker’s daughter.

  Of course that’s not her real name. Her real name is very long and beautiful, but I won’t give it here for obvious reasons and also because her brother is big and ugly.

  I am seeing Miss Bun after two months. She’s been with relatives in Bareilly.

  She sits at the foot of my bed, absolutely radiant. Her raven-black hair lies loose on her shoulders, her eyelashes have been trimmed and blackened and so have her eyes, with kajal. Her eyes, so large and innocent—and calculating!

  There are pretty glass bangles on her wrists and she wears a pair of new slippers. Her kameez is new too—green silk, with gold-embroidered sleeves.

  ‘You must have a rich lover,’ I remark, taking her hand and gently pulling her towards me. ‘Who gave you all this finery?’

  ‘You did. Don’t you remember? Before I went away, you gave me a hundred rupees.’

  ‘That was for the train and bus fares, I thought.’

  ‘Oh, my uncle paid the fares. So I bought myself these things. Are they nice?’

  ‘Very pretty. And so are you. If you were ten years older and I ten years younger, we’d make a good pair. But I’d have been broke long before this!’

  She giggles and drops a paper bag full of samosas on the bedside table. I hate samosas and patties, but I keep ordering them because it gives Miss Bun a pretext for visiting me. It’s all in the way of helping the bakery get by. When she goes, I give the lot to Bijju and Binya or whoever might be passing.

  ‘You’ve been away a long time,’ I complain. ‘What if I’d got married while you were away?’

  ‘Then you’d stop ordering samosas.’

  ‘Or get them from that old man Bashir, who makes much better ones, and cheaper!’

  She drops her head on my shoulder. Her hair is heavily scented with jasmine hair oil, and I nearly pass out. They should use it instead of anaesthesia.

  ‘You smell very nice,’ I lie. ‘Do I get a kiss?’

  She gives me a long kiss, as though to make up for her long absence. Her kisses always have a nice wholesome flavour, as you would expect from someone who lives in a bakery.

  ‘That was an expensive kiss.’

  ‘I want to buy some face cream.’

  ‘You don’t need face cream. Your complexion is perfect. It must be the good quality flour you use in the bakery.’

  ‘I don’t put flour on my face. Anyway, I want the cream for my elder sister. She has pockmarks.’

  I surrender and give her two fives, quickly putting away my wallet.

  ‘And when will you pay for the samosas?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘I’ll bring you something nice next week,’ she says, pausing in the doorway.

  ‘Well, thanks, I was getting tired of samosas.’

  She was gone in a twinkling.

  I’ll say this for Miss Bun—she doesn’t trouble to hide her intentions.

  March 4

  My policeman calls on me this morning. Ghanshyam, the constable attached to the Barlowganj outpost.

  He is not very tall for a policeman, and he has a round, cheerful countenance, which is unusual in his profession. He looks smart in his uniform. Most constables prefer to hang around in their pyjamas most of the time.

  Nothing alarming about Ghanshyam’s visit. He comes to see me about once a week, and has been doing so ever since I spent a night in the police station last year.

  It happened when I punched a Muzzaffarnagar businessman in the eye for bullying a rickshaw coolie. The fat slob very naturally lodged a complaint against me, and that same evening a sub-inspector called and asked me to accompany him to the thana. It was too late to arrange anything and in any case I had only been taken in for questioning, so I had to spend the night at the police post. The sub-inspector went home and left me in the charge of a constable. A wooden bench and a charpoy were the only items of furniture in my cell, if you could call it that. The charpoy was meant for the night-duty constable, but he very generously offered it to me.

  ‘But where will you sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t feel like sleeping. Usually I go to the night show at the Picture Palace, but I suppose I’ll have to stay here because of you.’

  He looked rather sulky. Obviously I’d ruined his plans for the night.

  ‘You don’t have to stay because of me,’ I said. ‘I won’t tell the SHO. You go to the Picture Palace, I’ll look after the thana.’

  He brightened up considerably, but still looked a bit doubtful.

  ‘You can trust me,’ I said encouragingly. ‘My grandfather was a private soldier who became a Buddhist.’

  ‘Then I can trust you as far as your grandfather.’ He was quite cheerful now, and sent for two cups of tea from the shop across the road. It came gratis, of course. A little later he left me, and I settled down on the cot and slept fitfully. The constable
came back during the early hours and went to sleep on the bench. Next morning I was allowed to go home. The Muzzaffarnagar businessman had got into another fight and was lodged in the main thana. I did not hear about the matter again.

  Ghanshyam, the constable, having struck up a friendship with me, was to visit me from time to time.

  And here he is today, boots shining, teeth gleaming, cheeks almost glowing, far too charming a person to be a policeman.

  ‘Hello, Ghanshyam bhai,’ I welcome him. ‘Sit down and have some tea.’

  ‘No, I can’t stop for long,’ he says, but sits down beside me on the veranda steps. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘I’m fed up with Barlowganj. I want to get a transfer.’

  ‘And how can I help you? I don’t know any netas or bigwigs.’

  ‘No, but our SP will be here next week and he can have me transferred. Will you speak to him?’

  ‘But why should he listen to me?’

  ‘Well, you see, he has a weakness …’

  ‘We all have our weaknesses. Does your SP have a weakness similar to mine? Do we proceed to blackmail him?’

  ‘Yes. You see, he writes poetry. And you are a kavi, a poet, aren’t you?’

  ‘At times,’ I concede. ‘And I have to admit it’s a weakness, especially as no one cares to read my poetry.’

  ‘No one reads the SP’s poetry, either. Although we have to listen to it sometimes. When he has finished reading out one of his poems, we salute and say “Shabash!”’

  ‘A captive audience. I wish I had one.’

  Ignoring my sarcasm, Ghanshyam continues: ‘The trouble is, he can’t get anyone to publish his poems. This makes him bad-tempered and unsympathetic to applications for transfer. Can you help?’

  ‘I am not a publisher. I can only salute like the rest of you.’

  ‘But you know publishers, don’t you? If you can get some of his poems published, he’d be very grateful. To you. To me. To both of us!’

  ‘You really are an optimist.’

  ‘Just one or two poems. You see, I’ve already told him about you. How you spent all night in the lock-up writing verses. He thinks you are a famous writer. He’s depending on me now. If his poems get published he will give me a transfer. I’m sick of Barlowganj!’ He gives me a hug and pinches me on the cheek.

  Before he can go any further, I say: ‘Well, I’ll do my best’—I am thinking of a little magazine published in Bhopal where most of my rejects find a home. ‘For your sake, I’ll try. But first I must see the poems.’

  ‘You shall even see the SP,’ he promises. ‘I’ll bring him here next week. You can give him a cup of tea.’

  He gets up, gives me a smart salute and goes up the path with a spring in his step. The sort of man who knows how to get his transfers and promotions in a perfectly honest manner.

  March 7

  It gets warmer day by day.

  This morning I decided to sunbathe—quite modestly, of course. Retaining my old khaki shorts but removing all other clothing, I stretched out on a mattress in the garden. Almost immediately I was disturbed by the baker (Miss Bun’s father for a change), who presented me with two loaves of bread and half a dozen chocolate pastries, ordered the previous day. Then Prem’s small son, Raki, turned up, demanding a pastry, and I gave him two. He insisted on joining me on the mattress, where he proceeded to drop crumbs in my hair and on my chest. ‘Good morning, Mr Bond!’ came the dulcet tones of Mrs Biggs, leaning over the gate. Forgetting that she was short-sighted, I jumped to my feet, and at the same time my shorts slipped down over my knees. As I grabbed for them, Mrs Biggs’s effusiveness reached greater heights. ‘Why, what a lovely agapanthus you’ve got!’ she exclaimed, referring no doubt to the solitary lily in the garden. I must confess I blushed. Then, recovering myself, I returned her greeting, remarking on the freshness of the morning.

  Mrs Biggs, at eighty, was a little deaf as well, and replied, ‘I’m very well, thank you, Mr Bond. Is that a child you’re carrying?’

  ‘Yes, Prem’s small son.’

  ‘Prem is your son? I didn’t know you had a family.’

  At this point Raki decided to pluck the spectacles off Mrs Biggs’s nose, and after I had recovered them for her, she beat a hasty retreat. Later, the Rev. Mr Biggs came over to borrow a book.

  ‘Just light reading,’ he said. ‘I can’t concentrate for long periods.’

  He has become extremely absent-minded and forgetful; one of the drawbacks of living to an advanced age. During a funeral last year at which he took the funeral service, he read out the service for Burial at Sea. It was raining heavily at the time, and no one seemed to notice.

  Now he has borrowed two of my Ross Macdonalds—the same two he read last month. I refrained from pointing this out. If he has forgotten the books already, it won’t matter if he reads them again.

  Having spent the better part of his seventy-odd years in India, the Rev. Biggs has a lot of stories to tell, his favourite being the one about the crocodile he shot in Orissa when he was a young man. He’d pitched his tent on the banks of a river and gone to sleep on a camp cot. During the night he felt his cot moving, and before he could gather his wits, the cot had moved swiftly through the opening of the tent and was rapidly making its way down to the river. Mr Biggs leapt for dry land while the cot, firmly wedged on the back of the crocodile, disappeared into the darkness.

  Crocodiles, it seems, often bury themselves in the mud when they go to sleep, and Mr Biggs had pitched his tent and made his bed on top of a sleeping crocodile. Waking in the night, it had made for the nearest water.

  Mr Biggs shot it the following morning—or so he would have us believe—the crocodile having reappeared on the river bank with the cot still attached to its back.

  Now having told me this story for the umpteenth time, Biggs said he really must be going, and returning to the bookshelf, extracted Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, having forgotten the Ross Macdonalds on a side table.

  ‘I must do some serious reading,’ he said. ‘These modern novels are so violent.’

  ‘Lots of violence in Decline and Fall,’ I remarked.

  ‘Ah, but it’s history, isn’t it? Well, I must go now, Mr Macdonald. Mustn’t waste your time.’

  As he stepped outside, he collided with Miss Bun, who dropped samosas all over the veranda steps.

  ‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,’ he apologized, and started picking up the samosas despite my attempts to prevent him from doing so. He then took the paper bag from Miss Bun and replaced the samosas.

  ‘And who is this little girl?’ he said benignly, patting Miss Bun on the head. ‘One of your nieces?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. My favourite niece.’

  ‘Well, I must not keep you. Service as usual, on Sunday.’

  ‘Right, Mr Biggs.’

  I have never been to a local church service, but why disillusion Rev. Biggs? I shall defend everyone’s right to go to a place of worship provided they allow me the freedom to stay away.

  Miss Bun was staring after Rev. Biggs as he crossed the road. Her mouth was slightly agape. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s taken all the samosas!’

  When I kiss Miss Bun, she bites my lip and draws blood.

  ‘What was that for?’ I complain.

  ‘Just to make you angry.’

  ‘But I don’t like getting angry.’

  ‘That’s why.’

  I get angry just to please her, and we take a tumble on the carpet.

  March 11

  Does anyone here make money? Apart from the traders, of course, who tuck it all away …

  A young man turned up yesterday, selling geraniums. He had a bag full of geraniums—cuttings and whole plants.

  ‘All colours,’ he told me confidently. ‘Only one rupee a cutting.’

  ‘I can buy them much cheaper at the government nursery.’

  ‘But you would hav
e to walk there, sir—six miles! I have brought these to your very doorstep. I will plant them for you in your empty ghee tins at no extra cost!’

  ‘That’s all right, you can give me a few. But what makes you sell geraniums?’

  ‘I have nothing to eat, sir. I haven’t eaten for two days.’

  He must have sold all his plants that day, because in the evening I saw him at the country liquor shop, tippling away—and all on an empty stomach, I presume!

  March 12

  Mrs Biggs tells me that someone slipped into her garden yesterday morning while she was out, and removed all her geraniums!

  ‘The most honest of people won’t hesitate to steal flowers—or books,’ I remark carelessly. ‘Never mind, Mrs Biggs, you can have some of my geraniums. I bought them yesterday.’

  ‘That’s extremely kind of you, Mr Bond. And you’ve only just put them down, I can tell,’ she says, spotting the cuttings in the Dalda tins. ‘No, I couldn’t deprive you—’

  ‘I’ll get you some,’ I offer, and generously surrender half the geraniums, vowing that if ever I come across that young man again, I’ll get him to recover all the plants he sold elsewhere.

  March 19

  Vinod, now selling newspapers, arrives as I am pouring myself a beer under the cherry tree. It’s a warm day and I can see he is thirsty.

  ‘Can I have a drink of water?’ he asks.

  ‘Would you like some beer’?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  As I have an extra bottle, I pour him a glass and he squats on the grass near the old wall and brings me up to date on the local gossip. There are about fifty papers in his shoulder bag, yet to be delivered.