Crazy Times with Uncle Ken

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Well, it isn’t our fault,’ said Grandfather, who had given permission to the Public Works Department to cut the tree, which had been on our land. They wanted to widen the road, and the tree and a bit of our wall were in the way. So both had to go.

  Several people protested, including the Maharaja of Jetpur, who lived across the road and who sometimes asked Grandfather over for a game of tennis.

  ‘That peepal tree has been there for hundreds of years,’ he said. ‘Who are we to cut it down?’

  ‘We,’ said the Chief Engineer, ‘are the P.W.D.’

  And not even a ghost can prevail against the wishes of the Public Works Department.

  They brought men with saws and axes, and first they lopped all the branches until the poor tree was quite naked. (It must have been at this moment that the Pret moved out.) Then they sawed away at the trunk until, finally, the great old peepal came crashing down on the road, bringing down the telephone wires and an electric pole in the process, and knocking a large gap in the Maharaja’s garden wall.

  It took them three days to clear the road, and during that time the Chief Engineer swallowed a lot of dust and tree pollen. For months afterwards he complained of a choking feeling, although no doctor could ever find anything in his throat.

  ‘It’s the Pret’s doing,’ said the Maharaja knowingly. ‘They should never have cut that tree.’

  Deprived of his tree, the Pret decided that he would live in our house.

  I first became aware of his presence when I was sitting on the veranda steps, reading a novel. A tiny chuckling sound came from behind me. I looked around, but no one was to be seen. When I returned to my book, the chuckling started again. I paid no attention. Then a shower of rose petals fell softly on to the pages of my open book. The Pret wanted me to know he was there!

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘So you’ve come to stay with us. Now let me read.’

  He went away then; but as a good Pret has to be bad in order to justify his existence, it was not long before he was up to all sorts of mischief.

  He began by hiding Grandmother’s spectacles.

  ‘I’m sure I put them down on the dining table,’ she grumbled.

  A little later they were found balanced on the snout of a wild boar, whose stuffed and mounted head adorned the veranda wall, a memento of Grandfather’s youthful hunting exploits. Naturally, I was at first blamed for this prank. But a day or two later, when the spectacles disappeared again, only to be found dangling from the bars of the parrot’s cage, it was agreed that I was not to blame; for the parrot had once bitten off a piece of my finger, and I did not go near it any more.

  The parrot was hanging upside down, trying to peer through one of the lenses. I don’t know if they improved his vision, but what he saw certainly made him angry, because the pupils of his eyes went very small and he dug his beak into the spectacle frames, leaving them with a permanent dent. I caught them just before they fell to the floor.

  Our parrot must have been psychic, because even without the help of the spectacles it seemed that he could see the Pret. He would keep turning this way and that, lunging out at unseen fingers, and protecting his tail from the tweaks of invisible hands. He had always refused to learn to talk, but now he became quite voluble and began to chatter in some unknown tongue, often screaming with rage and rolling his eyes in a frenzy.

  ‘We’ll have to give that parrot away,’ said Grandmother. ‘He gets more bad-tempered by the day.’

  Grandfather was the next to be troubled.

  He went into the garden one morning to find all his prize sweet peas broken off and lying on the grass. Chandu thought the sparrows had destroyed the flowers, but we didn’t think the birds could have finished off every single bloom just before sunrise.

  ‘It must be the Pret,’ said Grandfather, and I agreed.

  The Pret did not trouble me much, because he remembered me from his peepal tree days and knew I resented the tree being cut as much as he did. But he liked to catch my attention, and he did this by chuckling and squeaking near me when I was alone, or whispering in my ear when I was with someone else. Gradually I began to make out the occasional word. He had started learning English!

  Uncle Ken, who came to stay with us for long periods when he had little else to do (which was most of the time), was soon to suffer.

  He was a heavy sleeper, and once he’d gone to bed he hated being woken up. So when he came to breakfast looking bleary-eyed and miserable, we asked him if he was feeling all right.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep a wink last night,’ he complained. ‘Whenever I was about to fall asleep, the bedclothes would be pulled off the bed. I had to get up at least a dozen times to pick them off the floor.’ He stared suspiciously at me. ‘Where were you sleeping last night, young man?’

  ‘In Grandfather’s room,’ I said. ‘I’ve lent you my room.’

  ‘It’s that ghost from the peepal tree,’ said Grandmother with a sigh.

  ‘Ghost!’ exclaimed Uncle Ken. ‘I didn’t know the house was haunted.’

  ‘It is now,’ said Grandmother. ‘First my spectacles, then the sweet peas, and now Ken’s bedclothes! What will it to be up to next, I wonder?’

  We did not have to wonder for long.

  There followed a series of minor disasters. Vases fell off tables, pictures fell from walls. Parrots’ feathers turned up in the teapot, while the parrot himself let out indignant squawks and swear words in the middle of the night. Windows which had been closed would be found open, and open windows closed.

  Finally, Uncle Ken found a crow’s nest in his bed, and on tossing it out of the window was attacked by two crows.

  Then Aunt Ruby came to stay, and things quietened down for a time.

  Did Aunt Ruby’s powerful personality have an effect on the Pret, or was he just sizing her up?

  ‘I think the Pret has taken a fancy to your aunt,’ said Grandfather mischievously. ‘He’s behaving himself for a change.’

  This may have been true, because the parrot, who had picked up some of the English words being tried out by the Pret, now called out ‘Kiss, kiss’ whenever Aunt Ruby was in the room.

  ‘What a charming bird,’ said Aunt Ruby.

  ‘You can keep him if you like,’ said Grandmother.

  One day Aunt Ruby came into the house covered in rose petals.

  ‘I don’t know where they came from,’ she exclaimed. ‘I was sitting in the garden, drying my hair, when handfuls of petals came showering down on me!’

  ‘It likes you,’ said Grandmother.

  ‘What likes me?’

  ‘The ghost.’

  ‘What ghost?’

  ‘The Pret. It came to live in the house when the peepal tree was cut down.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ said Aunt Ruby.

  ‘Kiss, kiss!’ screamed the parrot.

  ‘There aren’t any ghosts, Prets or other kinds,’ said Aunt Ruby firmly.

  ‘Kiss, kiss!’ screeched the parrot again. Or was it the parrot? The sound seemed to be coming from the ceiling.

  ‘I wish that parrot would shut up.’

  ‘It isn’t the parrot,’ I said. ‘It’s the Pret.’

  Aunt Ruby gave me a cuff over the ear and stormed out of the room.

  But she had offended the Pret. From being her admirer he turned into her enemy. Somehow her toothpaste got switched with a tube of Grandfather’s shaving cream. When she appeared in the dining room, foaming at the mouth, we ran for our lives, Uncle Ken shouting that she’d got rabies.

  Two days later Aunt Ruby complained that she had been struck on the nose by a grapefruit, which had leapt mysteriously from the pantry shelf and hurled itself at her.

  ‘If Ruby and Ken stay here much longer, they’ll both have nervous breakdowns,’ said Grandfather thoughtfully.

  ‘I thought they broke down long ago,’ I said.

  ‘None of your cheek,’ snapped Aunt Ruby.

  ‘He’s in league with that Pret to try and get us out of here,’
said Uncle Ken.

  ‘Don’t listen to him—you can stay as long as you like,’ said Grandmother.

  The Pret, however, did not feel so hospitable, and the persecution of Aunt Ruby continued.

  ‘When I looked in the mirror this morning,’ she complained bitterly, ‘I saw a little monster, with huge ears, bulging eyes, flaring nostrils and a toothless grin!’

  ‘You don’t look that bad, Aunt Ruby,’ I said trying to be nice.

  ‘It was either you or that imp you call a Pret,’ said Aunt Ruby. ‘And if it’s a ghost, then it’s time we all moved to another house.’

  Uncle Ken had another idea.

  ‘Let’s drive the ghost out,’ he said. ‘I know a sadhu who rids houses of evil spirits.’

  ‘But the Pret’s not evil,’ I said. ‘Just mischievous.’

  Uncle Ken went off to the bazaar and came back a few hours later with a scruffy-looking sadhu—a sadhu being a man who is supposed to have given up all worldly goods, including most of his clothes.

  The sadhu prowled about the house and lighted incense in all the rooms, despite squawks of protest from the parrot. All the time he chanted various magic spells. He then collected a fee of thirty rupees and promised that we would not be bothered again by the Pret.

  As he was leaving, he was suddenly blessed with a shower—no, it was really a downpour—of dead flowers, decaying leaves, orange peels and banana skins. All spells forgotten, he ran to the gate and made for the safety of the bazaar.

  Aunt Ruby declared that it had become impossible to sleep at night because of the devilish chuckling that came from beneath her pillow. She packed her bags and left.

  Uncle Ken stayed on. He was still having trouble with his bedclothes, and he was beginning to talk to himself, which was a bad sign.

  One day I found him on the drawing room sofa, laughing like a mad man. Even the parrot was so alarmed that it was silent, head lowered and curious. Uncle Ken was red in the face—literally red all over!

  ‘What happened to your face, Uncle?’ I asked.

  He stopped laughing and gave me a long, hard look. I realized that there had been no joy in his laughter.

  ‘Who painted the washbasin red without telling me?’ he asked in a quavering voice.

  ‘We’ll have to move, I suppose,’ said Grandfather later. ‘Even if it’s only for a couple of months. I’m worried about Ken. I’ve told him that I painted the washbasin myself but forgot to tell him. He doesn’t believe me. He thinks it’s the Pret or the boy, or both of them! Ken needs a change. So do we. There’s my brother’s house at the other end of the town. He won’t be using it for a few months. We’ll move in next week.’

  And so, a few days and several disasters later, we began moving house.

  Two bullock carts laden with furniture and heavy luggage were sent ahead. Uncle Ken went with them. The roof of our old car was piled high with bags and kitchen utensils. Grandfather took the wheel, I sat beside him, and Granny sat in state at the back.

  We started off and had gone some way down the main road when Grandfather started having trouble with the steering wheel. It appeared to have got loose, and the car began veering about on the road, scattering cyclists, pedestrians and stray dogs, pigs and hens. A stray cow refused to move, but we missed it somehow, and then suddenly we were off the road and making for a low wall.

  Grandfather pressed his foot down on the brake, but we only went faster. ‘Watch out!’ he shouted.

  It was the Maharaja of Jetpur’s garden wall made of single bricks, and the car knocked it down quite easily and went on through it, coming to a stop on the Maharaja’s lawn.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Grandmother.

  ‘Well, we missed the flower beds,’ said Grandfather. ‘Someone’s been tinkering with the car. Our Pret, no doubt.’

  The Maharaja and two attendants came running towards us.

  The Maharaja was a perfect gentleman, and when he saw that the driver was Grandfather, he beamed with pleasure.

  ‘Delighted to see you, old chap!’ he exclaimed. ‘Jolly decent of you to drop in. How about a game of tennis?’

  ‘Sorry to have come in through the wall,’ apologized Grandfather.

  ‘Don’t mention it, old chap. The gate was closed, so what else could you do?’

  Grandfather was as much of a gentleman as the Maharaja, so he thought it only fair to join him in a game of tennis. Grandmother and I watched and drank lemonades. After the game, the Maharaja waved us goodbye and we drove back through the hole in the wall and out on to the road. There was nothing much wrong with the car.

  We hadn’t gone far when we heard a peculiar sound, as if someone was chuckling and talking to himself. It came from the roof of the car.

  ‘Is the parrot out there on the luggage-rack?’ asked Grandfather.

  ‘No,’ said Grandmother. ‘He went ahead with Ken.’

  Grandfather stopped the car, got out, and examined the roof.

  ‘Nothing up there,’ he said, getting in again and starting the engine. ‘I thought I heard the parrot.’

  When we had gone a little further, the chuckling started again. A squeaky little voice began talking in English in the tones of the parrot.

  ‘It’s the Pret,’ whispered Grandmother. ‘What is he saying?’

  The Pret’s squawk grew louder. ‘Come on, come on!’ he cried gleefully. ‘A new house! The same old friends! What fun we’re going to have!’

  Grandfather stopped the car. He backed into a driveway, turned round, and began driving back to the old house.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Grandfather.

  ‘Going home,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘And what about the Pret?’

  ‘What about him? He’s decided to live with us so we’ll have to make the best of it. You can’t solve a problem by running away from it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Granny. ‘But what will we do about Ken?’

  ‘It’s up to him, isn’t it? He’ll be all right if he finds something to do.’

  Grandfather stopped the car in front of the veranda steps.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I said.

  ‘It will have to be a picnic lunch,’ said Grandmother. ‘Almost everything was sent off on the bullock carts.’

  As we got out of the car and climbed the veranda steps, we were greeted by showers of rose petals and sweet-scented jasmine.

  ‘How lovely!’ exclaimed Grandmother, smiling. ‘I think he likes us, after all.’

  Monkey Trouble

  Grandfather bought Tutu from a street entertainer for a sum of ten rupees. The man had three monkeys. Tutu was the smallest, but the most mischievous. She was tied up most of the time. The little monkey looked so miserable with a collar and chain that Grandfather decided it would be much happier in our home. Grandfather had a weakness for keeping unusual pets. It was a habit that I, at the age of eight or nine, used to encourage.

  Grandmother at first objected to having a monkey in the house. ‘You have enough pets as it is,’ she said, referring to Grandfather’s goat, several white mice, and a small tortoise.

  ‘But I don’t have any,’ I said.

  ‘You’re wicked enough for two monkeys. One boy in the house is all I can take.’

  ‘Ah, but Tutu isn’t a boy,’ said Grandfather triumphantly. ‘This is a little girl monkey!’

  Grandmother gave in. She had always wanted a little girl in the house. She believed girls were less troublesome than boys. Tutu was to prove her wrong.

  She was a pretty little monkey. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief beneath deep-set eyebrows. And her teeth, which were a pearly white, were often revealed in a grin that frightened the wits out of Aunt Ruby, whose nerves had already suffered from the presence of Grandfather’s pet python in the house at Lucknow. But this was Dehra, my grandparents’ house, and aunts and uncles had to put up with our pets.

  Tutu’s hands had a dried-up look, as though they had been pickled in the sun for many years. On
e of the first things I taught her was to shake hands, and this she insisted on doing with all who visited the house. Peppery Major Malik would have to stoop and shake hands with Tutu before he could enter the drawing room, otherwise Tutu would climb on to his shoulder and stay there, roughing up his hair and playing with his moustache.

  Uncle Ken couldn’t stand any of our pets and took a particular dislike to Tutu, who was always making faces at him. But as Uncle Ken was never in a job for long, and depended on Grandfather’s good-natured generosity, he had to shake hands with Tutu, like everyone else.

  Tutu’s fingers were quick and wicked. And her tail, while adding to her good looks (Grandfather believed a tail would add to anyone’s good looks!) also served as a third hand. She could use it to hang from a branch, and it was capable of scooping up any delicacy that might be out of reach of her hands.

  Aunt Ruby had not been informed of Tutu’s arrival. Loud shrieks from her bedroom brought us running to see what was wrong. It was only Tutu trying on Aunt Ruby’s petticoats! They were much too large, of course, and when Aunt Ruby entered the room, all she saw was a faceless white blob jumping up and down on the bed.

  We disentangled Tutu and soothed Aunt Ruby. I gave Tutu a bunch of sweet peas to make her happy. Granny didn’t like anyone plucking her sweet peas, so I took some from Major Malik’s garden while he was having his afternoon siesta.

  Then Uncle Ken complained that his hairbrush was missing. We found Tutu sunning herself on the back veranda, using the hairbrush to scratch her armpits.

  I took it from her and handed it back to Uncle Ken with an apology; but he flung the brush away with an oath.

  ‘Such a fuss about nothing,’ I said. ‘Tutu doesn’t have fleas!’

  ‘No, and she bathes more often than Ken,’ said Grandfather, who had borrowed Aunt Ruby’s shampoo to give Tutu a bath.

  All the same, Grandmother objected to Tutu being given the run of the house. Tutu had to spend her nights in the outhouse, in the company of the goat. They got on quite well, and it was not long before Tutu was seen sitting comfortably on the back of the goat, while the goat roamed the back garden in search of its favourite grass.