by Ruskin Bond
We were all ordered into the assembly hall, where HM harangued us for half an hour, describing the unknown perpetrator as a fiendish and sinister creature who would grow up to be a terrorist. To make matters worse, a closer scrutiny of the portrait’s inscription revealed that the lettering of the founder’s name had been altered, so that it read, ‘Rev. Constant BEndover’!
When this was discovered, some of us couldn’t help laughing; it was infectious, and ripples of laughter spread through the hall.
‘Silence!’ bellowed HM. ‘I want to know who committed this outrage!’
There was absolute silence, and no one attempted to break it by confessing to the crime.
‘Unless the culprit comes forward, there will be no exits this weekend.’
A murmur of protest, but no one spoke out.
‘And the tuck shop will be closed for a week!’ added HM. Groans all around. This was the unkindest cut of all.
Suddenly, a squeaky voice from the front row—class 1—piped up, ‘It was me, sir!’
Popat, the smallest boy in the school, had confessed to the greatest of crimes!
Although taken aback, HM was always fussy about grammar.
‘It was I, Popat!’ corrected HM, his passion for correct usage strong even in a crisis.
‘No, sir, it wasn’t!’ cried Popat, under the impression that HM was taking the blame. ‘It was me!’
‘It was I!’
‘It was me!’
At this exchange, everyone in the hall broke down in fits of laughter, and eventually HM couldn’t help laughing as well.
Popat promised to clean up the portrait in his spare time, and Miss Ramola promised to help him. Weekend exits restored, tuck-shop closure postponed, and Popat a hero for a day.
7 MAY
Cyclonic storm in the early hours sends roofs flying and trees crashing down all over the town.
The big deodar on the slope above our main building is uprooted, flattening the roof of the upstairs dormitory. Amidst much confusion, the junior boys are evacuated and put to bed with the seniors. The howling wind and the clanging tin sheets frighten the youngsters, the situation made worse by the absence of any light, the electric wires having come down too.
Much shouting and screaming in the dorm but, finally, I arrange things so that the juniors occupy one end of the dorm and the seniors, the other. They start a sing-song, the juniors singing, ‘My Bonnie lies over the ocean’, while the seniors drown them out with the latest Hindi-film hit.
The school’s chowkidar turns up, informing me that HM and his wife are trapped inside their cottage, an uprooted maple tree having fallen across their front door. And half their roof missing!
I call for volunteers, and of course everyone wants to come; not because they love HM, but because they think it will be fun.
I select Tata, Basu, Gautam, Devinder and Gupta, and leave Mirchi in charge of the dormitory.
We can’t open HM’s door because the tree has fallen right across it; so we break his bedroom window and extricate his wife, still in her nightgown. HM still inside, looking for his violin. He won’t go anywhere without his precious violin. He plays it very badly and, one of these days, someone is going to smash it. But not tonight. He finds it, fondles it as though it were a baby, and thrusts it into my arms for safekeeping. Only then does he climb out of the window and join us in the garden.
HM and his wife spend the night in the girls’ school. I shepherd the boys back to their dormitory. Return to my room and apologize to Tota for all the disturbance. He takes it philosophically.
At 2 a.m., when I am just falling asleep, there is heavy banging on the door. It’s the chowkidar again.
‘Girls’ school is on fire!’ he announces. ‘Building hit by lightning!’
Forgetting my wig and dressing gown, I stumble into the night, to find all the boys collected at the far end of the playing field, watching the blaze emanating from the girls’ school.
‘Volunteers, come with me!’ I call out, and the whole lot follows me out of the gate and down the road to the burning building, which turns out to be their library and senior classrooms. Books burn well, unfortunately, and the library is completely gutted. The girls and the staff are safe, but HM—our HM—and his wife are missing!
They turn up later. HM had gone back into the guest wing for his violin and, as he was taking a long time to return, his wife had gone after him.
Escorted by the boys, myself, and some of our staff, HM and his wife return to the school, but have nowhere to sleep.
I suggest the hospital and, this being agreed upon, we take them down to the cottage and succeed in rousing Nurse Babcock, who has slept through the storm and all that has followed.
There are only two patients in the ward; and at the risk of catching dhobi itch from one and whooping cough from the other, HM and his lady occupy the spare beds, the violin having been returned to me for safekeeping.
‘Back to bed, boys!’ I call out, and we all troop back to the half-empty dormitory.
‘Nearly time for breakfast, sir,’ remarks Tata.
I look at my watch. It’s almost five. At least the kitchen is unaffected.
‘Tell the cook we want an extra large breakfast,’ I tell the boys. ‘Order of the headmaster!’ (He won’t know, in his present condition.) Loud cheers from the boys.
I am back in my room again. Try out a few notes on HM’s violin. Tota screeches in protest. Don’t blame him.
10 MAY
School and HM take a few days to recover. I am left in charge of general activities while HM gets his house repaired.
First things first, and I give the boys a say in the choice of menus—within reason, of course. To my surprise, the majority opt for chowmein and related Chinese dishes instead of the usual fare. And in Britain, I’m told, people now go for curries and biryani rather than the traditional fish and chips.
Globalization, I suppose. Personally, I still prefer a good mutton-kofta curry to anything else. Pleased everyone by ordering chowmein for lunch and kofta curry for dinner.
‘And what should we have tomorrow?’ I ask Basu.
‘Kebabs,’ he replies.
‘And the vegetarians?’
‘Vegetable fried rice—and spring rolls!’ requests Mirchi.
‘This is school, not a five-star hotel.’ But I indulge their fancies. In a day or two, when HM takes over, they’ll be back to dal, roti and aloo gobi.
‘Anyone for bhindi—ladies’ fingers?’ I ask. A loud chorus of ‘NO, SIR!’
Must catch up with my reading. Book in hand, I am relaxing in my only armchair, enjoying the warm spring sunshine. A light breeze blows across the grounds, but the winter chill has gone out of it.
‘What are you reading, sir?’ asks Hirday Gupta.
‘Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. He was a great Russian writer.’
‘Is it a thriller?’
‘It is indeed. But it’s not a mystery or detective story. You know the criminal right from the beginning. It’s a story of how his mind works and how he’s finally brought to justice.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘When you’re a little older. Meanwhile, you can try Oliver Twist. Plenty of young criminals in it.’
I lend him my copy of Oliver Twist. He could have got it from the library, but, somehow, kids develop a resistance to books they are supposed to read. They prefer to make their own choices.
Still, if I have converted one young boy into a book lover, I’ll be happy.
15 MAY
Took the cricket team down to Annandale, to play a match against the boys from a local high school. They were bigger boys and far superior to us, and the match did not last very long. We played eight overs and were all out for fifteen runs.
‘Is it a record, sir?’ asked Gautam, who was our scorer.
‘It must be.’
‘Can we send our score to the Guinness World Records?’
‘I don’t think Headmaster would
like that.’
The high school notched up the winning runs in three overs—another record, I suppose.
‘I like these short games,’ said Mirchi, our wicketkeeper. ‘Now you can take us somewhere nice for lunch, sir. And then to a movie!’
‘No movie,’ I said. ‘But I’ll buy you all lunch.’
‘We must celebrate our record-breaking feat,’ said Devinder.
‘Do losers celebrate?’ asked Basu.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘There wouldn’t be any games if there were no losers. They are just as necessary as winners.’
‘And winners have to try so hard,’ said Hirday, ‘they end up having nervous breakdowns!’
On that positive note, we trudged up to the Mall, and I treated them to lunch. Chowmein and momos, naturally.
Afterwards they persuaded me to take them to the skating rink, where they hired and then donned roller skates, and went rumbling around a large wooden-floored hall. Very noisy and boring for me. Mirchi and Tata executed some spectacular pirouettes; the others were novices but appeared to enjoy themselves. I made the mistake of allowing the boys to persuade me to put on a pair of skates and join them in gliding about the rink. I found it difficult to keep my balance and came down with some force on at least two occasions. Then Tata took me by the hand and led me around the rink, picking up speed after each round, until we were gliding along nicely. Then, without warning, he let go of my hand and left me to my own devices. We had built up considerable momentum, and I could not stop, or execute a turn, with the result that I glided straight out of the rink and into a busy tea stall at the perimeter. Away went cups and saucers, pots and pans, samosas and pakoras, as I slammed into the stall, somersaulted over the counter and ended up in the arms of a large, imposing lady who turned out to be the stallholder.
Had to pay for the damages, naturally.
Herded the boys back to school.
‘You skate very well, sir,’ said Mirchi, trying to flatter me.
‘A little more practice, and you’ll be perfect,’ added Gautam.
‘Can we go again next week?’ asked Devinder.
‘Half-yearly exams next week,’ I reminded him. ‘Forget about skating until next year.’
20 MAY
HM has had a fountain erected in front of the school office. He feels it will make a good impression on visitors. Invites Mrs Tonk, the headmistress of the girls’ school, to do the honours at the opening ceremony. She gives a little speech, and the fountain is turned on. But it is one of those days when the water pressure is low and, at first, nothing happens. HM, Mr Tuli, the gardener and I get into the fountain to examine the pipes. As we do so, the water comes on with a spurt, and we are all drenched.
Everyone claps.
Mrs Tonk presents the school with a bucketful of goldfish, and these are introduced into the fountain.
‘They will make a pretty sight,’ she predicts.
They will indeed. But I couldn’t help noticing that a number of tadpoles had gone into the fountain along with the goldfish.
In a few weeks, we should expect a population of handsome frogs.
25 MAY
Invited Miss Ramola to the pictures, and she accepted! But insisted on bringing her friend Miss D’Costa along too.
We saw The Boston Strangler.
Sat between the two ladies.
Miss Ramola—first name, Anjali—watched it without any fuss, but Miss D’Costa was quite hysterical at times, clutching at my arm whenever the strangler murdered someone—which was quite often—during the two-hour thriller. My arm was quite sore by the time she had finished with it. I was tempted to add her to the list of the strangler’s victims by strangling her myself. Of course, if it had been Miss Ramola clinging to me for protection, I would not have minded. She is really quite pretty, though rather reserved.
At one point during the film, when the strangler was squeezing the life out of one of his female victims, Miss D’Costa hid her face against my shoulder, and her earring got caught in my collar and ripped it open. She wears very large, fancy earrings. HM says she looks like a Christmas tree, and, for once, he’s right.
After the film, we escorted Miss D’Costa back to her school. It was growing dark and she was very nervous, squealing with fright when a jackal howled on the hillside. Definitely not taking her to the pictures again.
Walked back to our school with Miss Ramola. She apologized for her friend’s behaviour.
‘I hope your coat’s not torn too badly,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, I have another.’
‘You have two of everything, don’t you?’
Did she mean my wigs, I wondered. I looked at her, but she wasn’t laughing.
‘You can call me Anjali,’ she said.
‘A pretty name. You can call me Christopher.’
‘I prefer Oliver. Or Olly, for short. Can I call you Olly? If it doesn’t sound too familiar?’
‘Not at all.’
I saw her to her front door, and we parted as friends. We even shook hands. I held hers a minute or so longer than I should have, perhaps. Because she drew it away rather sharply.
‘Goodnight, Mr Oliver,’ she said.
‘Goodnight—er—Miss Ramola.’
27 MAY
Received a nasty shock.
Came home from my evening walk to find Totaram’s cage-door open, and no sign of Tota!
Of course, I hadn’t troubled to lock my front door, and anyone could have entered. Perhaps one of the boys, bent on mischief. Or even HM’s wife. She has disliked my bird ever since it bit her prying finger. Or it could have been Tota himself. He has a strong beak, and he’s smart enough to manipulate a wire-latch.
Anyway, he’s gone, and I hope he hasn’t been set upon by crows. I shall miss his strident squawk.
29 MAY
Tota is back.
I awoke to a tapping on my windowpane. And there he was, trying to attract my attention.
I opened the window, and he hopped in and said, ‘Bottoms up!’ No doubt he wanted his breakfast.
I gave him some grapes on a saucer, and he sat there and enjoyed them, eyeing me all the time.
Instead of returning him to his cage, I decided to let him have the run of my room, balcony and bathroom. Left the window open, so he can come and go as he wishes.
When I left my quarters to go to class, he was perched on a curtain-rod, looking quite contented.
31 MAY
Tota came to class!
I was telling the boys something about Charles Dickens and the autobiographical nature of David Copperfield, when I heard a squawk. And there, sitting on the windowsill, was my parrot, listening attentively to my lecture.
‘What the dickens!’ I exclaimed; and the boys began to clap, at which Tota shrieked, ‘Bottoms up, bottoms up!’ This refrain was taken up by the boys who all shouted ‘Bottoms up!’ and there was pandemonium for several minutes. I had to shoo Tota away and shut the window—which was a pity, because it was a warm summer’s day and the scent of honeysuckle was in the air.
Returned to my quarters to find Tota sitting in his cage, sulking. I offered him a fresh green chilli but he turned away disdainfully. I placed a slice of mango in his cage. He pretended not to notice it; but as soon as my back was turned, he sidled across to the mango and began tucking into it.
‘Bottoms up!’ I said, and quickly closed the cage-door. I shall let him out only when I’m at home. Can’t have him creating a scene in the classroom.
2 JUNE
Took charge of the school football team, and gave them a demonstration on how to take corners, penalties and free kicks. To ‘bend it like Beckham’ was the order of the day.
The boys were suitably impressed. Told them I’d played as centre forward for East Bengal some twenty years ago. They believed me only when they saw me kick the ball about.
Organized a game between the probables and possibles. Will pick the first eleven in a couple of days. We are taking part in the inter-sc
hool tournament. Must put up a good show. Can’t have another farce like last month’s cricket match.
When I left the field after a session with the boys, Miss Ramola passed by and complimented me on my skills.
‘Where did you learn your football?’ she asked.
‘When I was their age,’ I said. ‘On the Calcutta Maidan.’
She looked me up and down, smiled rather mischievously and said, ‘You must have looked quite dashing in your shorts.’
This gave me food for thought. I do have an old pair of shorts in my trunk. Perhaps I’ll wear them one of these days—should make me feel young again!
3 JUNE
Found my old shorts and tried them on. They fit! I’m not the type to put on weight in spite of enjoying a good appetite.
Looked at myself in the large bathroom mirror. Not so good, I’m afraid. Was I always so bandy-legged? Got my legs from my gypsy grandmother. And so hairy, too. My Armenian grandfather must have been a hairy man! ‘Hirsute’ is the word. Still, it’s nice to have so many interesting ancestral traits.
Put the shorts away. I doubt if Anjali Ramola will appreciate my legs. The boys will have something to say about them, too. Better stick to my tracksuit.
There’s something about tracksuits that makes us all look alike. Like those players in twenty-over cricket matches. The more colourful the tracksuit, the less recognizable the player.
6 JUNE
To everyone’s surprise, we won our first match against Bishop Woollen’s school.
It’s true we were a bit rough with them. These polite public-school boys aren’t used to being kicked on the shins, and at least three of them were limping around by the time the match was over. Mirchi seems to be adept at disabling his opponents without being detected. If he continues to develop these skills, he should do well at the international level.
