by Deepak Dalal
The squirrel chatter from the tree attracted his attention again. This time when he spied Shikar’s white head, his heart beat faster. That awful squirrel! The creature behind all his troubles! Chintu’s spiteful mind conjured an image of his catapult. Yes . . . the catapult! It was in his room. It would enable him to get even with that horrible animal. Chintu strode inside.
Kabul sensed trouble.
But it was Blackpie who spoke first. ‘I have an idea,’ he squawked. ‘Follow me.’
The magpie-robin winged to the table. Dropping low, he grabbed one of the tiny glasses in his beak and then rose into the air. Kabul instantly understood the robin’s plan.
‘Come,’ she called to the other birds. ‘Do as Blackpie has done. All of you. Collect those hunkins* and fly high.’
Winging to the table, the birds each collected a glass and flapped skyward. It wasn’t easy. The glasses were heavy, particularly for a small bird like Senora. But she flapped hard and rose alongside her companions.
By the time Chintu returned, catapult in hand, the birds were fluttering high above the table.
Up in the sky, Blackpie looked around him. The minivets, Snow-prise, Kabul and Senora hovered beside him, a glass held fast in each of their beaks. On the ground below, Chintu was loading his catapult, his eyes fixed on the jamun tree.
‘Now!’ hissed Blackpie, letting go of his glass. The other birds released theirs too. It took just a couple of seconds, no more. There was an ear-splitting crash as the glasses fell to the table. They shattered instantly, smashing the others on the tabletop too.
Chintu jumped on hearing the sound. Loud shouts came from inside his home.
‘What’s that?’ It was Chintu’s father.
‘My glasses!’ gasped his mother. ‘My beautiful glasses. Oh no!’
Chintu’s mother came rushing out. Her eyes shrank with horror when she saw the table. Her precious glasses were smashed—all of them—their fragments catching the sunlight on the lawn. Lifting her gaze, she saw Chintu standing beside the table, catapult in hand.
‘YOU!’ screeched his mother. ‘You terrible boy. You did this!’
‘Me? No, I didn’t, Mother!’
‘Yes, you did! With that horrible catapult of yours. Give that to me. Give it to me now!’
‘No-no! Mom, it wasn’t me. Promise.’
‘They just exploded on their own, did they?’ barked Chintu’s father, who had stepped out too.
‘I-I-I . . . Mom, Dad, it wasn’t me!’
‘You rascal,’ ranted his mother. ‘First you disobey me—you don’t wash the glasses when you were instructed to. Then you smash them. And look at you! What have you done to your pockets?’
Chintu dropped his catapult. His hands fell to the ripped pockets that dangled at his hips, trying desperately to cover them.
‘My money!’ roared his dad. ‘Two thousand rupees that I gave you to buy the lights. Has my money gone with your pockets? WHERE’S THE MONEY?’
Anger blazed in the man’s eyes. Unable to hold his father’s gaze, Chintu looked away. He turned to the Rose Garden wall and blinked. Mitalee, Alisha and Maitreya were standing there. They were staring and laughing at him. Wow-Wow was there too, his tongue hanging to one side.
‘You there,’ hollered Chintu’s father, pointing at Maitreya. ‘You’re his friend, aren’t you? Do you know what he did with my money?’
‘Friend, huh?’ whispered Mitalee.
Maitreya winked at her. ‘I’m on this side of the fence today, aren’t I?’ Then he looked at Chintu’s dad. ‘Yes, I do know what Chintu did with the money, Uncle. He gave it all to a man this morning. I saw him.’
Chintu’s dad had turned red. Froth was collecting at his mouth. His lips were twitching. The words were coming out, but they were strained and low.
‘You . . . you gave away my money . . .?’
Chintu’s mother turned away from her broken crockery. She looked at the children, a grim expression on her face. ‘Did you see him break the glasses?’ she asked.
‘No, Auntie,’ replied Mitalee. ‘We heard them breaking. It made such an awful noise, so we came running. But Chintu keeps using that catapult of his. I’ve seen him hurt birds and animals.’
The garden turned silent. It was an ominous silence. Chintu’s parents glared at their son. The expression on their faces wasn’t of the loving variety. Far from it. Suddenly a whimper filled the garden, echoing everywhere. It was a pathetic grovelling whine, the kind Wow-Wow often made. Mitalee looked at the dog. But the sound wasn’t coming from him.
It was Chintu.
His father was pointing at the house. Chintu walked, his moaning turning steadily louder, swelling to a wail by the time he entered. His parents followed, slamming the door shut behind them.
The three friends burst into laughter. Wow-Wow barked. Six birds flew low—in formation, like fighter jets—and swept above the children’s heads. In the jamun tree, three squirrels gazed happily at one another. And in the rose bushes, a bird sang in a bright, sunny voice.
Summer, summer, summer,
Oh, summertime.
Ooh la la, the sun, it shines.
Summer, summer, summer,
Summertime.
Time to sing the sunbird summer song.
* The expanse of the forests of Wayanad, Mudumalai, Bandipur and Nagarhole in southern India.
* Cities, where humans live.
* Planet Earth.
* The Himalayas.
* The vehicle that humans travel in.
* Objects belonging to humans.
THE BEGINNING
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PUFFIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
This collection published 2018
Copyright © Deepak Dalal 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Krishna Bala Shenoi
ISBN: 978-0-143-44174-8
This digital edition published in 2018.
e-ISBN: 978-9-387-62509-9
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
