Mr Oliver's Diary

by Ruskin Bond

  10 JUNE

  Mirchi banned from the next match. Too many objections came in—from opponents, organizers, spectators. So, in his place, I used ‘Fatty’ Prakash—not very fast or skilful, but he uses his weight to good effect; we call him the bulldozer of the football field. And in the game against the high school team—the same lot who had thrashed us at cricket—he was assisted by the elements, for it rained heavily and the field became a quagmire. Anyone who came into contact with Fatty, ended up in slush. Covered in mud, they moved around in slow motion and were no match for our forwards, who revelled in the rain. We won the game 7–0.

  We won the tournament, too, for after this, no team was prepared to take the field against us. Unsportingly, the town mayor refused to present us with the trophy, saying we deserved to be labelled the ‘Most Unfair Players’ instead.

  Never mind. We know we’re the best. Let the mayor stuff the trophy in his toilet.

  13 JUNE

  Mirchi very cheeky at times. Apropos my Roman—Armenian?—nose, of which I am justly proud, he came up to me with a look of innocence and asked, ‘Sir, do people with large noses have a better sense of smell than people with small noses?’

  I knew he was trying to be funny, so I said, ‘I don’t know, but I, for one, have a very strong sense of smell; and if you get up to mischief, I shall certainly smell you out!’

  ‘Like smelling a rat, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. Now tell me—do boys with long tongues talk more than boys with short tongues?’

  ‘Can’t say, sir.’

  ‘Show me your tongue.’

  Mirchi stuck out his tongue.

  ‘Not only is it long, it’s dirty,’ I told him. ‘You need a strong dose of salts. Go down to the hospital and tell Miss Babcock that I’ve sent you to her for something to clean your stomach out.’

  ‘After the party, sir.’

  ‘What party?’

  ‘You promised us a party if we won the football tournament.’

  ‘I did? Can’t remember. But I may have done. You certainly deserve a party. Tell the team to be at the tuck shop at 4 o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ And Mirchi took off with the good news.

  Boys are never late for parties, and there they were, a sturdy crew of thirteen—the playing eleven and two reserves—waiting for me at Chippu’s tuck shop, all smiles and good manners. I did not disappoint them. They put away samosas, jalebis, rasgullas, gulab jamuns, pastries and pakoras in record time, and would have been ready for more if the study bell hadn’t rung. It then occurred to me that Miss Ramola had been a loyal supporter of the team, turning out at all the matches and cheering vociferously. So I decided to send her an assortment of cakes and sweetmeats.

  ‘Mirchi,’ I said, ‘before you go to class, kindly take this box of sweets and other eatables to Miss Ramola, and tell her they are from all of us.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Mirchi and, taking the box, sped away.

  Next day, in the break, I asked Miss Ramola if she had enjoyed the sweets and pastries.

  ‘What sweets?’ she asked. ‘What pastries?’

  I sent for Mirchi and asked him why he hadn’t delivered the box.

  ‘I was in a hurry, sir—felt sick—so I gave it to Fatty Prakash to deliver.’

  And Fatty had eaten the lot!

  Sent for Fatty and made him run five times round the playing field. At the end of his run, he came up to me and said, ‘Now I’m really hungry, sir. Can you lend me five rupees?’

  I apologized to Miss Ramola and invited her to lunch in town. To my surprise, she accepted—and came without her friend Miss D’Costa.

  We had a splendid lunch, enlivened by intelligent conversation. And then—disaster! In my excitement, I had left my wallet behind. The bill arrived, and my pockets were empty except for some loose change.

  Miss Ramola came to my rescue and paid the bill.

  ‘You can give the tip,’ she said.

  Once again, I apologized.

  ‘Don’t worry, Olly,’ she said. ‘It was a great lunch.’

  ‘Can you come out again next week?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

  A great girl, Anjali Ramola.

  15 JUNE

  Monsoon breaks—right on time.

  Umbrellas, raincoats, gumboots to the fore. These first rains are welcome but we have to live with them for three months; and by the end of August, the boys will be bored and restless. They are a restless lot anyway.

  Took my old umbrella out from under the dressing table. When I opened it, a mouse ran out!

  It was actually a little chuchundar—a shrew—and it ran around the room half-blind and squeaking in panic. A chuchundar is supposed to bring good luck and, as I could do with a little luck, I let it be. Finally it took up its abode behind the clothes cupboard.

  I left a crust of bread between the wall and the cupboard, just so that it would know I wasn’t an enemy. Tota watched with interest, but said nothing. But I’ll have to make sure that ginger cat doesn’t get into my room.

  16 JUNE

  Tota left his cage—I don’t close his door any more—and took a bath in the rain, cavorting on the balcony, flapping his wings and uttering shrill cries of delight. I’d love to do the same—remove all these uncomfortable clothes and cavort about in the nanga-panga (to recall an expression of my mother’s). But HM’s veranda has a clear view of my balcony, and I have often noticed Mrs H spying on me from behind the wisteria creeper. It may not be politic to expose myself to her probing eyes—not if I want to continue teaching here next year.

  I wouldn’t mind a change of school and better pay, but I’m only a BA, BEd—and there are lots of them about. I’ll stick it out here for a year or two, and take my MA privately. In any case, it’s better living and working in the cool of the hills than in some torrid city of the plains.

  ‘You should get married now,’ said my dear mother the year before she passed away, forgetting that it was because of her illness and dependency that I had remained single. That was five years ago, and my prospects are no better.

  Still, mustn’t allow it to get me down. Smarten up, Oliver—brush the dust off your wig, press your trousers carefully, straighten your tie, stride out confidently—and maybe you’ll impress Anjali Ramola.

  I strolled out confidently, but it was just as well that I didn’t meet Anjali Ramola. I bumped into young Rudra, and the first thing he said was, ‘Sir, there’s polly’s dirt on your coat collar.’

  20 JUNE

  Conducted the school marathon. Everyone ran, but hardly anyone crossed the finishing line.

  I accompanied the boys to the starting point—near the governor’s mansion—and flagged them off, then followed at a slow jog.

  The first to drop out was Chopra, our sleepwalker. I found him sitting on the parapet, holding his sides.

  ‘Exhausted, sir,’ he said. ‘The distance is too much for me.’

  ‘You cover enough distance in your sleep,’ I remarked. ‘You’ve led us on a merry chase on several occasions.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I’m so tired, sir. All that sleepwalking. But I don’t remember any of it.’

  ‘Well, if you finish the marathon, perhaps you’ll be too tired to sleepwalk—so get a move on!’

  Chopra groaned, got up and trundled down the road.

  The next dropout was Gautam.

  ‘I’ve got a stitch in my side, sir. Not used to so much running.’

  ‘Well, here’s your chance to get used to it. Exits next Saturday for the first three to cross the finishing line. You’re a good sprinter, always first to reach the tuck shop; so try your luck at a longer distance.’ And I prodded him into action.

  Rounded a corner and found Tata, Mirchi and Basu standing around a small fire on which corncobs were being roasted.

  ‘Have a bhutta, sir,’ said Tata, always hospitable.

  ‘They’re good with a little salt,’ added Mirchi.

 
; ‘But best with butter,’ said Basu. ‘Except, we don’t have any butter.’

  ‘I’ll butter the three of you if you don’t get a move on!’ I said. They collected their roasted corn and sped down the road. But I’ve no idea where they went next, because they did not finish the race.

  Caught up with Rudra, who was strolling along while talking to someone on his mobile phone.

  ‘You know mobile phones are not allowed in school,’ I said, taking it from him.

  ‘But we’re outside the school, sir. And I was only listening to music.’

  ‘You can collect the phone at the end of term. Now make music with your feet! Let’s see you tap-dance down to school.’

  Rudra grinned and started dancing on the road.

  ‘That’s not a tap dance,’ I said.

  ‘No, sir, its Kathakali. Didn’t you know I’m from the south?’

  ‘Well, Kathakali down to school, then. Maybe you’ll get a prize from Mrs Tonk.’

  Mrs Tonk, principal of the girls’ school, was waiting to give away the first prize—a hamper of chocolates, biscuits, buns and laddoos. And who should come in first but Fatty Prakash, huffing and puffing, but pounding down the road with grim determination. He must have had prior information as to the nature of the first prize.

  If you have an object in life, you will attain it with a little extra effort.

  25 JUNE

  A ghost on the main motorway past our school. She’s known as Bhoot Aunty—a spectral apparition who appears to motorists on their way to Sanjauli. She waves down passing cars and asks for a lift; and if you give her one, you are liable to have an accident.

  This lady in white is said to be the revenant of a young woman who was killed in a car accident not far from here, a few months ago. Several motorists claim to have seen her. Oddly enough, pedestrians don’t come across her.

  Miss Ramola, Miss D’Costa and I are the exceptions.

  I had accompanied some of the staff and the boys to the girls’ school, to see a hockey match; and afterwards the ladies asked me to accompany them back as it was getting dark, and they had heard there was a panther about.

  ‘The only panther is Mr Oliver,’ remarked Miss D’Costa, who was spending the weekend with Anjali Ramola.

  ‘Such a harmless panther,’ said Anjali.

  I wanted to say that panthers always attack women who wore outsize earrings—such as Miss D’Costa’s—but my gentlemanly upbringing prevented a rude response.

  As we turned the corner near our school gate, Miss D’Costa cried out, ‘Oh, do you see that strange woman sitting on the parapet?’

  Sure enough, a figure clothed in white was resting on the wall, its face turned away from us.

  ‘Could it . . . could it be—Bhoot Aunty?’ stammered Miss D’Costa.

  The two ladies stood petrified in the middle of the road. I stepped forward and asked, ‘Who are you, and what can we do for you?’

  The ghostly apparition raised its arms, got up suddenly and rushed past me. Miss D’Costa let out a shriek. Anjali turned and fled. The figure in white flapped about, then tripped over its own winding sheet, and fell in front of me.

  As it got to its feet, the white sheet fell away and revealed—Mirchi!

  ‘You wicked boy!’ I shouted. ‘Just what do you think you are up to?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he gasped. ‘It’s just a joke. Bhoot Aunty, sir!’ And he fled the scene.

  When the ladies had recovered, I saw them home and promised to deal severely with Mirchi. But on second thoughts, I decided to overlook his prank. Miss D’Costa deserved getting a bit of a fright for calling me a panther.

  I had picked up Mirchi’s bed sheet from the road, and after supper, I carried it into the dormitory and placed it on his bed without any comment. He was about to get into bed, and looked up at me in some apprehension.

  ‘Er—thank you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘An enjoyable performance,’ I told him. ‘Next time, make it more convincing.’

  After making sure that all the dormitory and corridor lights were out, I went for a quiet walk on my own. I am not averse to a little solitude. I have no objection to my own company. This is different from loneliness, which can assail you even when you are amongst people. Being a misfit in a group of boisterous partygoers can be a lonely experience. But being alone as a matter of choice is one of life’s pleasures.

  As I passed the same spot where Mirchi had got up to mischief, I was surprised to see a woman sitting by herself on the low parapet. Another lover of solitude, I thought. I gave her no more than a glance. She was looking the other way. A pale woman, dressed very simply. I had gone some distance when a thought suddenly came to me. Had I just passed Bhoot Aunty? The real bhoot? The pale woman in white had seemed rather ethereal.

  I stopped, turned and looked again.

  The lady had vanished.

  2 JULY

  Frogs everywhere.

  Frogs in the dormitory. In the kitchen. In HM’s veranda. In the staff quarters. In the loo. Yes, I found one swimming around in my potty!

  A veritable invasion of frogs. Where have they all come from?

  My own theory is that they are the outcome of all those tadpoles that were introduced into the fountain along with the goldfish. Those tadpoles are now frogs and, finding the confines of the fountain rather cramped, have decided to look for better accommodation.

  HM’s wife is afraid to step out of her front room, there are so many frogs in her veranda. And at night, they set up a tremendous din—all singing tenor, bass and baritone as they warble operatic arias to each other.

  ‘Oliver, how do we get rid of these frogs?’ asked HM, looking haggard after a sleepless night. ‘There must be two or three hundred on the premises.’

  ‘We’ll start a frog-hunt,’ I suggested.

  ‘You mean shoot them?’

  ‘No, collect them. Put the boys to work. Let’s see how many frogs they can collect between lunch and dinner.’

  ‘And then what are we supposed to do? Export them to France or China?’

  ‘No. We pack them in baskets or cardboard cartons, and release them on Jakko Hill. The monkeys will deal with them.’

  ‘Excellent idea, Oliver!’

  ‘Thank you, sir. The boys will appreciate the day off from classes.’

  And so they did. Most of the boys had a wonderful time catching frogs. They used buckets, degchis, teapots, pillowcases and mugs. The frogs, all in heaps and croaking madly, were dropped into two laundry baskets and three empty mango-wood boxes. Then Tata, Mirchi and several others crowded around me, and asked for further instructions.

  ‘Into the jungle,’ I said. ‘Down near the stream. But it’s getting late, so be back within an hour.’

  It was late evening, and twilight had given way to dusk by the time they returned. Baskets and boxes empty. Not a frog in sight, not a warble to be heard.

  3 JULY

  Mrs Tonk storms into the school office, greatly agitated. The girls’ school has been invaded by hundreds of frogs. They are all over the place, and the girls are quite hysterical. The frogs have come from outer space and are taking over the hill station!

  HM rings up the municipal corporation. They don’t have any frog catchers, they say, but they are sending over a team of dogcatchers.

  I send for Tata and Mirchi.

  ‘Where did you deposit those baskets of frogs?’ I demand.

  ‘Well, sir, it was getting dark,’ says Tata, ‘and we heard there’s a leopard near the stream. So we dropped all the frogs into the swimming pool in the girls’ school. They seemed quite happy there.’

  ‘I’m sure they were. But don’t let HM hear about it, or you’ll be gated for a week.’

  7 JULY

  Fortunately, the frogs dispersed on their own, most of them making their own way down to the stream.

  As Grandmother would often say, ‘Not even a king can command the clouds.’

  10 JULY

  Chowkidar reports seeing a
leopard on the playing field last night.

  Makes a change from frogs.

  15 JULY

  Leopard seen again, prowling around the hospital. Miss Babcock saw nothing, but two boys—down with jaundice—say that the leopard stared at them through a window—closed, fortunately—and licked its lips.

  Do leopards lick their lips?

  The ginger cat licks its lips, but only after drinking a saucer of milk.

  18 JULY

  Miss D’Costa attends the school play and insists on being escorted back to the girls’ school because the leopard has been seen in the vicinity. This unpleasant duty devolves upon me.

  No self-respecting leopard would think of attacking or consuming Miss D’Costa. It wouldn’t get past her earrings.

  Saw her home but kept a safe distance. On my return, Anjali met me at the school gate and thanked me for seeing her friend home.

  ‘Always at your service,’ I said gallantly.

  ‘It was a good opportunity to get you two together. I think she likes you.’

  I refrained from saying that the liking was not mutual. Instead I said, ‘But I would much rather see you home.’

  ‘But I’m almost there. You’re so gallant, Mr Oliver! Just like an elder brother.’

  ‘Elder or older?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. Better than saying I’m just like a father.’

  She laughed pleasantly and gave me her hand. I hung on to it for a little longer than I should have.

  ‘Good night, Olly,’ she said, finally taking her hand away. ‘You really are a dear . . .’

  ‘I shall grow antlers to please you,’ I said, and laughed heartily at my own feeble joke.

  20 JULY

  Woke up just before midnight. Something was clambering about on the corrugated iron roof. Too heavy for the ginger cat.