School Days

by Ruskin Bond

  Neither Toma nor Munda wanted to go with such a large group, but the older men were insistent. At ten after five the party started down the bush path. Ninety minutes later, Munda returned alone.

  From his hysterical report, we pieced the tragic story together. The party had followed the trail of blood and loose stringy dung to the Jong Swamp. There the gory evidence and the huge circular and oval prints of Kafa's fore and hind feet ended.

  The older men hung head (consulted with each other) and decided the injured tusker had swum across. Immediately, they ordered Toma and Munda to lead the party around the swamp. Their attention was centred on the bush opposite the end of Kafa's trail. They had not gone six hundred feet when the great white rogue came crashing from the bush behind them.

  With an enraged scream he tossed and crushed the panic stricken men as though they were made of straw. Toma and Munda fled to a giant baobab tree where Munda hid behind the massive trunk. Toma stood to one side. He aimed the 470 and prepared for Kafa's certain head-on attack. No doubt, he hoped to hit the orange-sized skull opening on his forehead.

  But Kafa thundered toward him with head held high; his trunk curved like a giant fist. The first shot hit him in the chest. Then the mammoth tusker lowered his head and Toma fired the fatal shot, hitting the frontal bump. Kafa lunged, knocking Toma to the ground. A split-second later he toppled, crushing his courageous tormentor under his six tonne dead weight.

  Though years have passed since that fateful evening, the sound of wailing echoes in my ears. I see again the faces of those who went to the Jong Swamp to recover parts of barely recognisable loved ones. I see and smell the carcass of the once mighty Kafa being mutilated by rats, roaches and driver ants.

  Fortunately, I cannot picture Toma crushed beneath the stinking carcass. Instead, I see his handsome young face across the table. His eyes dance with amusement as he corrects my ridiculous pronunciation of a Mende word he knows so well.

  I am thankful the nightmarish memories do not include the crushed body of this very special young man. If they did, I could not bear to keep the ivory Kafa on my desk. In that case, I would miss the exquisite reminder of Toma's friend, Munda. For it was the ex-hunter who carved my beautiful miniature and in doing so, discovered his real talent was carving - not killing.

  Student Series, Short Story International

  The Candidate Who Knew Too Much

  Surendra Mohanty

  'RIGHT, I'VE GONE THROUGH YOUR APPLICATION,' SAID PROFESSOR Klaus, without looking up at the candidate sitting across the table, 'Honestly, from what I see here, I'm not impressed. What makes you think you're fit for this post?'

  Twenty-four-year old Albert was seeking the job of a teacher in physics at the Technische Akademie, Berne. He looked at Klaus, Professor of Physics, with little hope of getting selected. He had faced nine interviews in as many months, and had been rejected in each of them by men like Klaus.

  'Herr professor, please don't go merely by those documents. Couldn't you give me an opportunity to demonstrate my abilities? Let me conduct a lecture, and you can judge for yourself. Any topic. . .' pleaded the candidate.

  The professor's office was tastefully decorated with oak panelling covering the walls up to the door height. Above the panelling, pictures of the world's greatest scientists hung - Galileo, Charles Darwin, Van Leeuwenhoek, Alfred Nobel, and the like - with their names and years of birth and death inscribed below. Behind the professor, hung a portrait of Newton, framed in carved mahogany, under which was written in bold SIR ISAAC NEWTON (1643-1727). There were also a few photographs that carried only the year of birth, the space after the hyphen was left blank. These were living scientists - Mendeleev, Wilhelm Roentgen and Marie Curie - yet the professor recognized their profound contribution and considered them worthy to be introduced into his gallery and his syllabus.

  Any topic! You've no experience, and your grades are nothing to speak of. Are you a wunderkind or what?' Mr Klaus raised his eyebrows briefly, without lifting his head, and glanced at him. He then lowered his eyes back to the file of papers on his desk.

  These professors, they all look the same, thought the young man as he sized up Klaus. Hair immaculately groomed, pale-eyed, with heavy spectacles. They always wear a perfectly starched and ironed shirt beneath a black jacket. And they seldom look at you directly through their glasses; instead they peer at you disapprovingly over the rim.

  'No, mein Herr. I didn't mean that. I just wanted to. . .'

  'How come your school report isn't here?' interrupted Klaus with his next premeditated question. In fact, he had gone through his file meticulously, and was quite unnerved at what he found in it. He had prepared a volley of questions to snub the candidate at the interview.

  'Well, actually, I didn't complete school. . . I mean, formally. Did it on my own. I am a trained teacher, done a four-year diploma in physics and mathematics.' He told the truth, as he always did, and, as on other occasions, saw the professor's jaw drop.

  'You mean, you're a school dropout?' This time he looked straight through his glasses at the applicant, and noticed his ruffled hair.

  'Well, I'm afraid, yes.'

  Mr Klaus heaved a sigh, dropped his head to avoid further eye contact, and continued turning pages, 'Now, what's this picture doing in your file? Are you also trying for the post of art teacher?' he said with icy sarcasm. He made it appear spontaneous, though it was a well-rehearsed question from his arsenal.

  'Oh no, Herr professor. That's the cover design of a research paper I'm working on. In fact, it's nearly complete. You'll find it in that booklet there.' The aspirant smiled, pleased that he finally got an opportunity to talk about his research work.

  'It intrigues me; what research are you doing?' he continued questioning as he leafed through the neat handwritten booklet titled Relativity. The professor clenched his other fist under the table, in a bid to fight nervousness born out of jealousy.

  The young applicant brightened up, moved forward in his seat and explained with enthusiasm. 'Let me explain. In my theory, I've expounded the relativity of time and space. The speed of light through vacuum - and space is the ultimate vacuum - is constant. Only relative motion can be measured. Since time and space are not absolute, but relative, even Newton's Laws of Motion are found inadequate.' He paused, quite satisfied with himself for having stirred the professor's intellect.

  But it had quite the opposite effect. 'So you're going to teach me Newton's Laws of Motion? Or their fallacy? And according to you,' he tapped the thesis paper with his forefinger, 'all that we've learnt about Newton's Laws in the last hundred and fifty years are erroneous?'

  'No, mein Herr. They are perfectly correct. Just some of his postulates suffer a drawback, when viewed. . . .' He sensed an agitation in the professor and thought it wise to speak no further.

  'Yes? Why did you stop? Go ahead. Tell me, what else have you got here?'

  Unwilling, but prodded, he went on, 'I've discovered the equivalence of energy and mass in an atom. You'll find it there on page fourteen. I've established a formula giving their relationship. My discovery remains to be proven experimentally, though. Energy equals mass multiplied by the square of. . .'

  'Your discovery! Are you telling me you're some kind of a genius?' retorted Mr Klaus, in a burst of outrage. 'First you attempt to demolish Newton. Now some weird formula! Look, my dear. We have just stepped into the twentieth century; science no longer tolerates such nonsense.'

  'Herr Klaus,' replied the young man resolutely, 'I didn't come here to be ridiculed. My theory has nothing to do with this job. Yet, if you are keen, I can explain it to you. Or else, I shall waste no more of your time.' He got up to leave.

  'Mr Albert, let alone the position of a teacher, you're not even fit to be a technical assistant. Take your papers, and my advice - try your luck somewhere as a fiction writer.'

  The candidate young Albert Einstein, left having been rejected for the tenth time, but, not, in the least, dejected. He was all the
more determined to prove his mettle.

  Uncle Ken's Rumble in the Jungle

  Ruskin Bond

  UNCLE KEN DROVE GRANDFATHER'S OLD FIAT ALONG THE FOREST road at an incredible 30 mph. scattering pheasants, partridges and jungle fowl as he scattered along. He had come in search of the disappearing Red Jungle Fowl, and I could see why the bird had disappeared. Too many noisy human beings had invaded its habitat.

  By the time we reached the forest rest house, one of the car doors had fallen off its hinges, and a large lantana bush had got entwined in the bumper.

  'Never mind,' said Uncle Ken. 'It's all part of the adventure.'

  The rest house had been reserved for Uncle Ken, thanks to grandfather's good relations with the forest department. But I was the only other person in the car. No one else would trust himself or herself to Uncle Ken's driving. He treated a car as though it were a low-flying aircraft having some difficulty in getting of the runway.

  As we arrived at the rest house, a number of hens made a dash for safety.

  'Look, jungle fowl!' exclaimed Uncle Ken.

  'Domestic fowl,' I said, 'They must belong to the forest guards.'

  I was right, of course. One of the hens was destined to be served up as chicken curry later that day. The jungle birds avoided the neighbourhood of the rest house, just in case they were mistaken for poultry and went into the cooking-pot.

  Uncle Ken was all for starting his search right away, and after a brief interval during which we were served with tea and pakoras (prepared by the forest guard, who it turned out was also a good cook), we set off on foot into the jungle in search of the elusive Red Jungle Fowl.

  'No tigers around here! are there?' asked Uncle Ken, just to be on the safe side.

  'No tigers on this range,' said the guard, 'Just elephants.'

  Uncle Ken wasn't afraid of elephants. He'd been for numerous elephants rides at the Lucknow zoo. He'd also seen Sabu in 'Elephant Boy'.

  A small wooden bridge took us across a little river, and then we were in third jungle, following the forest guard who led us along a path that was frequently blocked by broken tree branches and pieces of bamboo.

  'Why all these broken branches?' asked Uncle Ken.

  'The elephants sir,' replied our guard, 'They passed through last night. They like certain leaves, as well as young bamboo shoots.'

  We saw a number of spotted deer and several pheasants, but no Red jungle fowl.

  That evening we sat out on the verandah of the rest house. All was silent except for the distant trumpeting of elephants. Then, from the stream, came the chanting of hundreds of frogs.

  There were tenors and baritones, sopranos and contraltos, and occasionally a bass deep enough to have pleased the great Chaliapin. They sang duets and quartets from La Boheme and other Italian operas, drowsing out all other jungle sounds except for the occasional cry of a jackal doing his best to join in.

  'We might as well sing too,' said Uncle Ken, and began singing the 'Indian Love Call' in his best Nelson Eddy manner.

  The frogs fell silent, obviously awestruck; but instead of receiving an answering love-call, Uncle Ken was answered by even more strident jackal calls - not one, but several - with the result that all self-respecting denizens of the forest fled from the vicinity, and we saw no wildlife that night apart from a frightened rabbit that sped across the clearing and vanished into the darkness.

  Early next morning we renewed our efforts to track down the Red Jungle Fowl, but it remained elusive. Returning to the rest house dusty and weary, Uncle Ken exclaimed: 'There it is - a Red Jungle Fowl!'

  But it turned out to be the caretaker's cock-bird, a handsome fellow all red and gold, but not the jungle variety.

  Disappointed, Uncle Ken decided to return to civilization. Another night in the rest house did not appeal to him. He had run out of songs to sing.

  In any case, the weather had changed overnight and a light drizzle was falling as we started out. This had turned to a steady downpour by the time we reached the bridge across the Suseva river. And standing in the middle of the bridge was an elephant.

  He was a long tusker and he didn't look too friendly.

  Uncle Ken blew his horn, and that was a mistake.

  It was a strident, penetrating horn, highly effective on city roads but out of place in the forest.

  The elephant took it as a challenge, and returned the blast of the horn with a shrill trumpeting of its own. It took a few steps forward. Uncle Ken put the car into reverse.

  'Is there another way out of here?' he asked.

  'There's a side road,' I said, recalling an earlier trip with grandfather, 'It will take us to the Kansrao railway station.'

  'What ho!' cried Uncle Ken. 'To the station we go!'

  And he turned the car and drove back until we came to the turning.

  The narrow road was now a rushing torrent of rain water and all Uncle Ken's driving-skills were put to the test. He had on one occasion driven through a brick wall, so he knew all about obstacles; but they were usually stationary ones.

  'More elephants,' I said, as two large pachyderms loomed out of the rain-drenched forest.

  'Elephants to the right of us, elephants to the left of us!' chanted Uncle Ken, misquoting Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade,' 'Into the valley of death rode the six hundred!'

  'There are now three of them,' I observed.

  'Not my lucky number,' said Uncle Ken and pressed hard on the accelerator. We lurched forward, almost running over a terrified barking-deer.

  'Is four your lucky number, Uncle Ken?'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'Well, there are now four of them behind us. And they are catching up quite fast!'

  I see the station ahead,' cried Uncle Ken, as we drove into a clearing where a tiny railway station stood like a beacon of safety in the wilderness.

  The car came to a grinding halt. We abandoned it and ran for the building.

  The station-master saw our predicament, and beckoned to us to enter the station building, which was little more than a two-room shed and platform. He took us inside his tiny control room and shut the steel gate behind us.

  'The elephants won't bother you here,' he said. 'But say goodbye to your car.'

  We looked out of the window and were horrified to see Grandfather's Fiat overturned by one of the elephants, while another proceeded to trample it underfoot. The other elephants joined in the mayhem and soon the car was a flattened piece of junk.

  'I'm station-master Abdul Ranf,' the station-master introduced himself. 'I know a good scrap-dealer in Doiwala. I'll give you his address.'

  'But how do we get out of here?' asked Uncle Ken.

  'Well, it's only an hour's walk to Doiwala, not with those elephants around. Stay and have a cup of tea. The Dehra Express will pass through shortly. It stops for a few minutes. And it's only half-an-hour to Dehra from here.' He punched out a couple of rail tickets, 'Here you are, my friends. Just two rupees each. The cheapest rail journey in India. And these tickets carry an insurance value of two lakh rupees each, should an accident befall you between here and Dehradun.'

  Uncle Ken's eyes lit up.

  'You mean, if one of us falls out of the train?' he asked.

  'Out of the moving train,' clarified the station-master. 'There will be an enquiry, of course, some people try to fake an accident.'

  But Uncle Ken decided against falling out of the train and making a fortune. He'd had enough excitement for the day. We got home safely enough, taking a pony-cart from Dehradun station to our house.

  'Where's my car?' asked Grandfather, as we staggered up the verandah steps.

  'It had a small accident,' said Uncle Ken. 'We left it outside the Kansrao railway station. I'll collect it later.'

  'I'm starving,' I said. 'Haven't eaten since morning.'

  'Well, come and have your dinner,' said granny. 'I've made something special for you. One of your grandfather's hunting friends sent us a jungle fowl. I've made a nice roast. Try
it with apple sauce.'

  Uncle Ken did not ask if the jungle fowl was red, grey, or technicoloured. He was first to the dining table.

  Granny had anticipated this, and served me with a chicken leg, giving the other leg to grandfather.

  'I rather fancy the breast myself,' she said, and this left Uncle Ken with a long and scrawny neck - which was more than he deserved.