by Ruskin Bond
‘The Maharani of Jetpur needs a tutor for her children,’ she said. ‘Just a boy and a girl.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Granny.
‘I heard it from their ayah. The pay is two hundred rupees a month, and there is not much work—only two hours every morning.’
‘That should suit Uncle Ken,’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s a good idea,’ said Granny. ‘We’ll have to talk him into applying. He ought to go over and see them. The Maharani is a good person to work for.’
Uncle Ken agreed to go over and enquire about the job. The Maharani was out when he called, but he was interviewed by the Maharaja.
‘Do you play tennis?’ asked the Maharaja.
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Ken, who remembered having played a bit of tennis when he was a schoolboy.
‘In that case, the job’s yours. I’ve been looking for a fourth player for a doubles match … By the way, were you at Cambridge?’
‘No, I was at Oxford,’ said Uncle Ken.
The Maharaja was impressed. An Oxford man who could play tennis was just the sort of tutor he wanted for his children.
When Uncle Ken told Granny about the interview, she said, ‘But you haven’t been to Oxford, Ken. How could you say that!’
‘Of course I have been to Oxford. Don’t you remember? I spent two years there with your brother Jim!’
‘Yes, but you were helping him in his pub in the town. You weren’t at the University.’
‘Well, the Maharaja never asked me if I had been to the University. He asked me if I was at Cambridge, and I said no, I was at Oxford, which was perfectly true. He didn’t ask me what I was doing at Oxford. What difference does it make?’
And he strolled off, whistling.
To our surprise, Uncle Ken was a great success in his job. In the beginning, anyway.
The Maharaja was such a poor tennis player that he was delighted to discover that there was someone who was even worse. So, instead of becoming a doubles partner for the Maharaja, Uncle Ken became his favourite singles opponent. As long as he could keep losing to His Highness, Uncle Ken’s job was safe.
In between tennis matches and accompanying his employer on duck shoots, Uncle Ken squeezed in a few lessons for the children, teaching them reading, writing and arithmetic. Sometimes he took me along, so that I could tell him when he got his sums wrong. Uncle Ken wasn’t very good at subtraction, although he could add fairly well.
The Maharaja’s children were smaller than me. Uncle Ken would leave me with them, saying, ‘Just see that they do their sums properly, Ruskin,’ and he would stroll off to the tennis courts, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly.
Even if his pupils had different answers to the same sum, he would give both of them an encouraging pat, saying, ‘Excellent, excellent. I’m glad to see both of you trying so hard. One of you is right and one of you is wrong, but as I don’t want to discourage either of you, I won’t say who’s right and who’s wrong!’
But afterwards, on the way home, he’d ask me, ‘Which was the right answer, Ruskin?’
Uncle Ken always maintained that he would never have lost his job if he hadn’t beaten the Maharaja at tennis.
Not that Uncle Ken had any intention of winning. But by playing occasional games with the Maharaja’s secretaries and guests, his tennis had improved and so, try as hard as he might to lose, he couldn’t help winning a match against his employer.
The Maharaja was furious.
‘Mr Clerke,’ he said sternly, ‘I don’t think you realize the importance of losing. We can’t all win, you know. Where would the world be without losers?’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘It was just a fluke, Your Highness.’
The Maharaja accepted Uncle Ken’s apologies; but a week later it happened again. Kenneth Clerke won and the Maharaja stormed off the court without saying a word. The following day he turned up at lesson time. As usual Uncle Ken and the children were engaged in a game of noughts and crosses.
‘We won’t be requiring your services from tomorrow, Mr Clerke. I’ve asked my secretary to give you a month’s salary in lieu of notice.’
Uncle Ken came home with his hands in his pockets, whistling cheerfully.
‘You’re early,’ said Granny.
‘They don’t need me any more,’ said Uncle Ken.
‘Oh well, never mind. Come in and have your tea.’
Granny must have known the job wouldn’t last very long. And she wasn’t one to nag. As she said later, ‘At least he tried. And it lasted longer than most of his jobs—two months.’
Uncle Ken at the wheel
On my next visit to Dehra, Mohan met me at the station. We got into a tonga with my luggage and we went rattling and jingling along Dehra’s quiet roads to Granny’s house.
‘Tell me all the news, Mohan.’
‘Not much to tell. Some of the sahibs are selling their houses and going away. Suzie has had kittens.’
Granny knew I’d been in the train for two nights, and she had a huge breakfast ready for me. Porridge, scrambled eggs on toast. Bacon with fried tomatoes. Toast and marmalade. Sweet milky tea.
She told me there’d been a letter from Uncle Ken.
‘He says he’s the assistant manager at Firpo’s hotel in Simla,’ she said. ‘The salary is very good, and he gets free board and lodging. It’s a steady job and I hope he keeps it.’
Three days later Uncle Ken was on the veranda steps with his bedding roll and battered suitcase.
‘Have you given up the hotel job?’ asked Granny.
‘No,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘They have closed down.’
‘I hope it wasn’t because of you.’
‘No, Mother. The bigger hotels in the hill stations are all closing down.’
‘Well, never mind. Come along and have your tiffin. There is a kofta curry today. It’s Ruskin’s favourite.’
‘Oh, is he here too? I have far too many nephews and nieces. Still, he’s preferable to those two girls of Mabel’s. They made life miserable for me all the time I was with them in Simla.’
Over tiffin (as lunch was called in those days), Uncle Ken talked very seriously about ways and means of earning a living.
‘There is only one taxi in the whole of Dehra,’ he mused. ‘Surely there is business for another?’*
‘I’m sure there is,’ said Granny. ‘But where does it get you? In the first place, you don’t have a taxi. And in the second place, you can’t drive.’
‘I can soon learn. There’s a driving school in town. And I can use Dad’s old car. It’s been gathering dust in the garage for years.’ (He was referring to Grandfather’s vintage Hillman Roadster. It was a 1926 model: about twenty years old.)
‘I don’t think it will run now,’ said Granny.
‘Of course it will. It just needs some oiling and greasing and a spot of paint.’
‘All right, learn to drive. Then we will see about the Roadster.’
So Uncle Ken joined the driving school.
He was very regular, going for his lessons for an hour in the evening. Granny paid the fee.
After a month, Uncle Ken announced that he could drive and that he was taking the Roadster out for a trial run.
‘You haven’t got your licence yet,’ said Granny.
‘Oh, I won’t take her far,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘Just down the road and back again.’
He spent all morning cleaning up the car. Granny gave him money for a can of petrol.
After tea, Uncle Ken said, ‘Come along, Ruskin, hop in and I will give you a ride. Bring Mohan along too.’
Mohan and I needed no urging. We got into the car beside Uncle Ken.
‘Now don’t go too fast, Ken,’ said Granny anxiously. ‘You are not used to the car as yet.’
Uncle Ken nodded and smiled and gave two sharp toots on the horn. He was feeling pleased with himself.
Driving through the gate, he nearly ran over Crazy.
Miss Kellner, who was carrie
d out to the rickshaw for her evening ride, saw Uncle Ken at the wheel of the Roadster and begged to be taken indoors.
Uncle Ken drove straight and fast, tootling the horn without a break.
At the end of the road there was a roundabout.
‘We’ll turn here,’ said Uncle Ken, ‘and then drive back again.’
He turned the steering wheel; we began going round the roundabout; but the steering wheel wouldn’t turn all the way, not as much as Uncle Ken would have liked it to … So, instead of going round, we took a right turn and kept going, straight on—and straight through the Maharaja of Jetpur’s garden wall!
It was a single-brick wall, and the Roadster knocked it down and emerged on the other side without any damage to the car or any of its occupants. Uncle Ken brought it to a halt in the middle of the Maharaja’s lawn.
Running across the grass came the Maharaja himself, flanked by his secretaries and their assistants.
When he saw that it was Uncle Ken at the wheel, the Maharaja beamed with pleasure.
‘Delighted to see you, old chap!’ he exclaimed. ‘Jolly decent of you to drop in again. How about a game of tennis?’
Uncle Ken at the wicket
Although restored to the Maharaja’s favour, Uncle Ken was still without a job.
Granny refused to let him take the Hillman out again and so he decided to sulk. He said it was all Grandfather’s fault for not seeing to the steering wheel ten years ago, while he was still alive. Uncle Ken went on a hunger strike for two hours (between tiffin and tea), and we did not hear him whistle for several days.
‘The blessedness of silence,’ said Granny.
And then he announced that he was going to Lucknow to stay with Aunt Emily.
‘She has three children and a school to look after,’ said Granny. ‘Don’t stay too long.’
‘She doesn’t mind how long I stay,’ said Uncle Ken and off he went.
His visit to Lucknow was a memorable one, and we only heard about it much later.
When Uncle Ken got down at Lucknow station, he found himself surrounded by a large crowd, everyone waving to him and shouting words of welcome in Hindi, Urdu and English. Before he could make out what it was all about, he was smothered by garlands of marigolds. A young man came forward and announced, ‘The Gomti Cricketing Association welcomes you to the historical city of Lucknow,’ and promptly led Uncle Ken out of the station to a waiting car.
It was only when the car drove into the sports’ stadium that Uncle Ken realized that he was expected to play in a cricket match.
This is what had happened.
Bruce Hallam, the famous English cricketer, was touring India and had agreed to play in a charity match at Lucknow. But the previous evening, in Delhi, Bruce had gone to bed with an upset stomach and hadn’t been able to get up in time to catch the train. A telegram was sent to the organizers of the match in Lucknow; but, like many a telegram, it did not reach its destination. The cricket fans of Lucknow had arrived at the station in droves to welcome the great cricketer. And by a strange coincidence, Uncle Ken bore a startling resemblance to Bruce Hallam; even the bald patch on the crown of his head was exactly like Hallam’s. Hence the muddle. And, of course, Uncle Ken was always happy to enter into the spirit of a muddle.
Having received from the Gomti Cricketing Association a rousing reception and a magnificent breakfast at the stadium, he felt that it would be very unsporting on his part if he refused to play cricket for them. ‘If I can hit a tennis ball,’ he mused, ‘I ought to be able to hit a cricket ball.’ And luckily there was a blazer and a pair of white flannels in his suitcase.
The Gomti team won the toss and decided to bat. Uncle Ken was expected to go in at number three, Bruce Hallam’s normal position. And he soon found himself walking to the wicket, wondering why on earth no one had as yet invented a more comfortable kind of pad.
The first ball he received was short-pitched, and he was able to deal with it in tennis fashion, swatting it to the mid-wicket boundary. He got no runs, but the crowd cheered.
The next ball took Uncle Ken on the pad. He was right in front of his wicket and should have been given out lbw. But the umpire hesitated to raise his finger. After all, hundreds of people had paid good money to see Bruce Hallam play, and it would have been a shame to disappoint them. ‘Not out,’ said the umpire.
The third ball took the edge of Uncle Ken’s bat and sped through the slips.
‘Lovely shot!’ exclaimed an elderly gentleman in the pavilion.
‘A classic late cut,’ said another.
The ball reached the boundary and Uncle Ken had four runs to his name. Then it was ‘over’, and the other batsman had to face the bowling. He took a run off the first ball and called for a second run. Uncle Ken thought one run was more than enough. Why go charging up and down the wicket like a mad man? However, he couldn’t refuse to run, and he was halfway down the pitch when the fielder’s throw hit the wicket. Uncle Ken was run-out by yards. There could be no doubt about it this time.
He returned to the pavilion to the sympathetic applause of the crowd.
‘Not his fault,’ said the elderly gentleman. ‘The other chap shouldn’t have called. There wasn’t a run there. Still, it was worth coming here all the way from Kanpur if only to see that superb late cut …’
Uncle Ken enjoyed a hearty tiffin-lunch (taken at noon), and then, realizing that the Gomti team would probably have to be in the field for most of the afternoon—more running about!—he slipped out of the pavilion, left the stadium, and took a tonga to Aunt Emily’s house in the cantonment.
He was just in time for a second lunch (taken at one o’ clock) with Aunt Emily’s family: and it was presumed at the stadium that Bruce Hallam had left early to catch the train to Allahabad, where he was expected to play in another charity match.
Aunt Emily, a forceful woman, fed Uncle Ken for a week, and then put him to work in the boys’ dormitory of her school. It was several months before he was able to save up enough money to run away and return to Granny’s place.
But he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had helped the great Bruce Hallam to add another four runs to his grand aggregate. The scorebook of the Gomti Cricketing Association had recorded his feat for all time:
‘B. Hallam run-out 4.’
The Gomti team lost the match. But, as Uncle Ken would readily admit, where would we be without losers?
A Bicycle Ride with Uncle Ken
Kissing a girl while sharing a bicycle with her is no easy task, but I managed it when I was thirteen and my cousin Melanie was fourteen. Of course we both fell off in the process, and landed in one of Granny’s flower beds where we were well cushioned by her nasturtiums.
I was a clumsy boy always falling off bicycles, and Cousin Melanie was teaching me to ride properly, making me sit on the front seat while she guided the infernal machine from the carrier seat. The kiss was purely experimental. I had not kissed a girl before, and as Cousin Melanie seemed eminently kissable, I thought I’d start with her. I waited until we were stationary, and she was instructing me on the intricacies of the cycle chain, and then I gave her a hurried kiss on the cheek. She was so startled that she fell backwards, taking me and the bicycle with her.
Later, she reported me to Granny, who said, ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on that boy. He’s showing signs of a dissolute nature.’
‘What’s dissolute, Uncle Ken?’ I asked my favourite uncle.
‘It means you’re going to the dogs. You’re not supposed to kiss your cousin.’
‘Can I kiss other girls?’
‘Only if they are willing.’
‘Did you ever kiss a girl, Uncle Ken?’
Uncle Ken blushed. ‘Er … well … a long time ago.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Another time.’
‘No, tell me now. How old were you?’
‘About twenty.’
‘And how old was she?’
‘A bit younger.’
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‘And what happened?’
‘We went cycling together. I was staying in Agra, when your grandfather worked there on the railways. Daisy’s father was an engine-driver. But she didn’t like engines; they left her covered with soot. Everyone had a bicycle in those days, only the very rich had cars. And the cars could not keep up with the bicycles.
‘We lived in the cantonment, where the roads were straight and wide. Daisy and I went on cycle rides to Fatehpur Sikri and Secunderabad and of course the Taj Mahal, and one evening we saw the Taj Mahal by moonlight and it made us very romantic, and when I saw her home we kissed under the Asoka trees.’
‘I didn’t know you were so romantic, Uncle Ken. Why didn’t you marry Daisy?’
‘I didn’t have a job. She said she’d wait until I got one, but after two years, she got tried of waiting. She married a ticket inspector.’
‘Such a sad story,’ I said. ‘And you still don’t have a job.’
Uncle Ken had been through various jobs—private tutor, salesman, shop assistant, hotel manager (until he brought about the closure of the hotel), and cricket coach, this last on the strength of bearing a close resemblance to Bruce Hallam—but at present he was unemployed, and only too ready to put his vast experience of life at my disposal.
Not only did he teach me to ride a bicycle but also accompanied me on cycle rides around Dehra and along the lanes and country roads outside the town.
A bicycle provides its rider with a great amount of freedom. A car will take you further but the fact that you’re sitting in a confined space detracts from the freedom of the open spaces and unfamiliar roads. On a cycle you can feel the breeze on your face, smell the mango trees in blossom, slow down and gaze at the buffaloes wading in their ponds, or just stop anywhere and get down and enjoy a cup of tea or a glass of sugar cane juice. Foot-slogging takes time, and cars are too fast—everything whizzes past you before you can take a second look—and car drivers hate having to stop; they are intent only on reaching their destinations in good time. But a bicycle is just right for someone who likes to take a leisurely look at the world as well as to give the world a chance to look at him.
