PUFFIN BOOKS

RUSTY RUNS AWAY

Ruskin Bond’s first novel, Zhe Room on the Roof, written

when he was seventeen, received the John Llewellyn Rhys
Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written a number
of novellas (including Vagrants in the Valley, A Flight of
Pigeons and Mr Olivers Diary), essays, poems and children’s
books, many of which have been published in Puffin Books.
He has also written over 500 short stories and articles that
have appeared in magazines and anthologies. He received
the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993, the Padma Shri in
1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2014. :
Ruskin Bond was born in Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh,
and grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, New Delhi and Simla.
As a young man, he spent four years in the Channel Islands
and London. He returned to India in 1955. He now lives
in Landour, Mussoorie, with his adopted family.
 Also in Puffin by Ruskin Bond

Puffin Classics: The Room on the Roof

The Room of Many Colours: Ruskin Bond’ Treasury of Stories for Children
Panthers Moon and Other Stories
The Hidden Pool
The Parrot Who Wouldn't Talk and Other Stories
Mr Olivers Diary
Escape from Java and Other Tales of Danger
. Crazy Times with Uncle Ken
Rusty the Boy from the Hills
Rusty Runs Away
Rusty and the Leopard
Rusty Goes to London
Rusty. Comes Home
The Puffin Book of Classic School Stories
The Puffin Good Reading Guide for Children
The Kashmiri Storyteller
Hip-Hop Nature Boy and Other Poems
The Adventures ofRusty: Collected Stories
The Cherry Tree
Getting Granny’ Glasses
The Eyes of the Eagle
Thick as Thieves: Tales of Friendship
Uncles, Aunts and Elephants: Tales from Your Favourite Storyteller
RUSTY
Runs Away
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ARCHANA SREENIVASAN

PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

First published in Puffin by Penguin Books India 2003

This illustrated edition published 2014

Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2003

All rights reserved

10987654321

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 9780143333395

‘Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro by Ram Das Lal, New Delhi

Printed at Thomson Press India Ltd, New Delhi

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of
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copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into
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A PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE COMPANY

 Contents

Author’s Note vil

The Window

The Divipect of Flowers 10

A Job Well Done 22
The Woman on Platform No. 8 32
* Running Away 41
The Playing Fields of Simla 104
It Happened One Spring 15
 Author’s Note

HERE WE ARE again, with Rusty and Co:!

My young readers responded kindly to the first
‘Rusty’ book, and the Puffin editors (good-looking
Puffins, all of them) feel sufficiently encouraged to
bring out ‘Rusty 2’—i.e. Rusty Runs Away.
In Rusty, the Boy from the Hills, a lot of interesting
things happened around Rusty. In this volume, exciting
things happen to him—or rather, he makes things
happen, first by running away from his school (in
the company of the mischievous Daljit), and later by
escaping from the strict confines of his guardian’s home
and finding friendship and adventure with Somi, Ranbir,
Kishen and others. And in discovering this new life,
the teenaged Rusty also discovers a different kind of
India from that in which he grew up.
Once again, I am indebted to Udayan Mitra and
Anjana Ramakrishnan for bringing together these
episodes from Rusty’s life. And to Shubhadarshini Singh

vii
 Author’s Note

for her sensitive adaptation of the stories in her TV

serial, Ek Tha Rusty.

Landour, Mussoorie Ruskin Bond

October 2014

Viii
 Pie OO idaw

IT WAS SPRING, and I was living with my guardian

and his wife at Dehra. Every day, after attending the
day-school classes I was free to engage myself in any
way | fancied. But I did not have to go out anywhere
to occupy myself. I’d simply go upstairs—to my room,
it was on the roof—and Id spend all my free time
mthiere.
To be precise, I spent a// my time at the window.
For, from this window Ifelt as if I owned the world.
But only from the window.
The banyan tree, just opposite, was mine, and its
inhabitants my subjects. They were two squirrels, a few
mynahs, a crow, and at night, a pair of flying foxes.
The squirrels were busy in the afternoons, the birds in
the mornings and evenings, the foxes at night. Though
I had lots of homework and a lot more to study, I
wasn’t as busy as the inhabitants of the banyan tree.
 The Window

There was also a mango tree but that came later,

in the summer, when I met, Koki and the mangoes
were ripe.
At first, I was lonely in my room. a then I discovered —
the power of my window. It looked out on the banyan
tree, on the garden, on the broad path that ran beside
the building, and out over the roofs of other houses, over
roads and fields, as far as the horizon. The path was not a
very busy one but it held variety: an ayah, with a baby in
a pram; the postman, an eyent in himself; the fruit-seller,
the toy-seller, calling their wares in high-pitched familiar
cries; the rent-collector; a posse of cyclists; a long chain
of schoolgirls; a lame beggar . . . all passed my way, the
way of my window.
One day, a tonga came rattling and jingling down
the path and stopped in front of the house opposite
ours. A girl and an elderly lady climbed down, and a
servant unloaded their baggage. They went into that_
house and the tonga moved off, the horse snorting a
little.
The next afternoon the girl looked up from her
garden and saw me at my window. She had long
black hair that fell to her waist, tied with a single red
ribbon. Her eyes were black like her hair and just as
shiny. She must have been about ten, a year or two
younger than me.
 Rusty Runs Away

‘Hello, I said with a friendly smile.

She looked suspiciously at me. “Who are you?’ she
asked.
‘T’m a ghost.’
She laughed, and her laugh had a gay, mocking
quality. “You look like one!’
I didn’t think her remark particularly flattering, but
I had asked for it. I stopped smiling anyway.
‘What have you got up there?’ she asked.
‘Magic,’ I said.
She laughed again but this time without mockery.
‘I don't believe you,’ she said. |
“Why don’t you come up and see for yourself?? My
guardian, Mr John Harrison, and his wife were, as usual,
at the club. I think they played bridge or something.
Anyway, they always returned late if they went out, so
there was no fear of being caught at something they
didn't approve of—my mixing with Indians.
The girl hesitated a little but came round to the
steps of my house and began climbing them, slowly,
cautiously. And when she entered my room, she brought
a magic of her own.
‘Where’s your magic?’ she asked, looking me in
the eye.
‘Come here,’ I said, and I took her to the window,
and showed her the world.

4
 The Window

She said nothing but stared out of the window

uncomprehendingly at first, and then with increasing
interest. And after some time she turned round and
smiled at me, and we were friends.
I only knew that her name was Koki, and that
she had come with her aunt for the summer months;
I didn’t ask her anything more about herself, and she
didn’t ask me any questions either.
Even if she had asked me anything about myself,
I'd have nothing interesting to tell her. My name was
Rusty, I was of British parentage, and I was twelve
years old. I had been born right there—in Dehra—but
had no family to speak of. My parents had separated
when | was just four, and my mother had remarried. |
had. spent most of my childhood with my father, and
when he travelled because of his job—he worked for
a rubber company in Burma—lI’d spend my days with
my paternal grandparents in their house at Dehra. But
my father had passed away suddenly because of malaria
and my mother, though she tried to include me in
her life again, couldn’t really pay much attention to
me, as she also had her baby to take care of. I stayed
with my grandmother after that but she too: passed
away all of a sudden. Someone, I think it was one of
my aunts, had entrusted me to the care of Mr John
Harrison (a cousin of my father) and his wife. They

5
 Rusty Runs Away

were my guardians now, but I hardly felt the warmth

of a family even with them around. That was all I had
to say about my life until then. It was hardly worth
mentioning.
Koki came up my steps nearly every day, and joined
me at the window. There was a lot of excitement to
be had in our world, especially when the rains broke.
At the first rumblings, women would rush outside to
retrieve the washing on the clothesline and if there was
a breeze, to chase a few garments across the compound.
When the rain came, it came with a vengeance, making
a bog of the garden andariver of the path. A cyclist
would come riding furiously down the path, an elderly
gentleman would be having difficulty with an umbrella,
naked children would be frisking about in the rain.
Sometimes Koki would run out on the roof, and shout
and dance in the rain. And the rain would come through
the open door and window of the room, flooding the
floor and making an island of my bed.
But the window was more fun than anything else.
It gave us the power of detachment: we were deeply
interested in the life around us, but we were not
involved in it. |
‘It is like a cinema,’ said Koki. “The window is the
screen, the world is the picture.’
Soon the mangoes were ripe, and Koki was in the
 The Window

branches of the mango tree as often as she was in my

room. From the window I had a good view of the tree,
and we spoke to each other from the same height. We
ate far too many mangoes, at least five a day.
‘Let's make a garden on the roof, suggested Koki.
She was full of ideas like this. :
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ I asked.
‘It’s easy. We bring up mud and bricks and make
the flower beds. Then we plant the seeds. We'll grow
all sorts of flowers.’
“The roof will fall in, I predicted.
But it didn’t. We spent two days carrying buckets of
mud up the steps to the roof and laying out the flower
beds. All this was done in utmost secrecy—when my
guardian and his wife were away from home. It was very
hard work, but Koki did most of it. When the beds
were ready, we had the opening ceremony. Apart from
a few small plants collected from the garden below we
had only one species of seeds—pumpkin .. .
We planted the pumpkin seeds in the mud, and
felt proud of ourselves.
But it rained heavily that night, and in the morning
I discovered that everything—except the bricks—had
been washed away.
So we returned to the window.
A mynah had been in a fight—with a crow

7
 Rusty Runs Away

perhaps—and the feathers had been knocked off its

head. A bougainvillaea that had been climbing the wall
had sent a long green shoot in through the window.
Koki said, “Now we can’t shut the window without
spoiling the creeper.’
“Then we will never close the window,’ I said.
And we let the creeper into the room.
The rains passed, and an autumn wind came
whispering through the branches of the banyan tree.
There were red leaves on the ground, and the wind
picked them up and blew them about, so that they
looked like butterflies. I would watch the sun rise in
the morning, the sky all red, until its first rays splashed
the window-sill and crept up the walls of the room.
And in the evening Koki and I watched the sun go
down in a sea of fluffy clouds; sometimes the clouds
were pink, and sometimes orange; they were always
coloured clouds, framed in the window.
‘T’'m going tomorrow,’ said Koki one evening.
I was too surprised to say anything.
' “You stay here for ever, don’t you?” she said.
I remained silent.
‘When I come again next year you will still be
here, won't you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. I was so used to being
uprooted from any place that I called ‘home’ that I

8
 The Window

hardly dared to estimate how long Id be in one place.

‘But the window will still be here.’
‘Oh, do be here next year, she said, ‘or someone
will close the window!’ :
In the morning the tonga was at the door, and the
servant, the aunt and Koki were in it. Koki waved to
me at my window. Then the driver flicked the reins,
the wheels of the carriage creaked and rattled, the bell
jingled. Down the path went the tonga, down the path
and through the gate, and all the time Koki waved; and
from the gate I must have looked like a ghost, standing
alone at the high window, amongst the bougainvillaea.
When the tonga was out of sight I took the sprig
of bougainvillaea in my hand and pushed it out of the
room. Then I closed the window. It would be opened
only when the spring and Koki came again.
 The Prospect of Flowers

FERN HILL, THE Oaks, Hunter’s Lodge, The

Parsonage, The Pines, Dumbarnie, Mackinnon’s Hall
and Windermere. These are the names of some of the
old houses that still stand on the outskirts of Dehra.
Most of them have fallen into decay and ruin. They are
very old, of course—built over a hundred years ago by
Britishers who sought relief from the searing heat of
the plains. Today's visitors to Dehra prefer to live near
the markets and cinemas and many of the old houses,
set amidst oak and maple and deodar, are inhabited by
wild cats, bandicoots, owls, goats, and the occasional
charcoal-burner or mule-driver. -
But amongst these neglected mansions stood aneat,
whitewashed cottage called Mulberry Lodge. And in it
lived an elderly English spinster named Miss Mackenzie.
In years, Miss Mackenzie was more than ‘elderly’,
being well over eighty. But no one would have guessed

1 \
 The Prospect of Flowers

it. She was clean, sprightly, and wore old-fashioned

but well-preserved dresses. Once a week, she walked
the two miles to town to buy butter and jam and soap
and sometimes a small bottle of eau de cologne.
She had lived in the hill station since she had been
a girl in her teens, and that had been before the First
World War. Though ihe had never married, she had
experienced a few love affairs and was far from being
the typical frustrated spinster of fiction. Her parents had
been dead thirty years; her brother and sister were also
dead. She had no relatives in India, and she lived on
a small pension of forty rupees a month and the gift
parcels that were sent out to her from New Zealand
by a friend of her youth.
Like other lonely old people, she kept a pet, a large
black cat with bright yellow eyes. In her small garden
she grew dahlias, chrysanthemums, gladioli and a few
rare orchids. She knew a great deal about plants, and
about wild flowers, trees, birds and insects. She had
never made aserious study of these things, but having
lived with them for so many years, had developed an
intimacy with all that grew and flourished around her.
She had few visitors. Occasionally, the padre from the
local church called on her, and once a month the postman
came with a letter from New Zealand or her pension
papers. The milkman called every second day with alitre of

11
 The Prospect of Flowers

milk for the lady and hercat. And sometimes she received
_ a couple of eggs free, for the egg-seller remembered a time
when Miss Mackenzie, in her earlier prosperity, bought
eggs from him in large quantities. He was a sentimental
_man. He remembered her as a ravishing beauty in her
twenties when he had gazed at her in round-eyed, nine-
year-old wonder and consternation.
Now it was September and the rains were nearly over
and Miss Mackenzie’s chrysanthemums were coming
into their own. She hoped the coming winter:wouldn’t
be too severe because she found it increasingly difficult
to bear the cold.
One day, as she was pottering about in her garden,
she saw a schoolboy plucking wild flowers on the slope
about the cottage.
“Who's that?’ she called. “What are you up to,
young man?’
I was alarmed and tried to dash up the hillside, but
slipped on pine needles and came slithering down the
slope into Miss Mackenzie’s nasturtium bed.
When I found there was no escape, I gave her.a
bright disarming smile and said, ‘Good morning, Miss.’
I was supposed to be attending my classes at the
local English-medium school, so I was in my school
uniform—a bright red blazer and a red and black
striped tie.

13
 Rusty Runs Away

‘Good morning, said Miss Mackenzie severely.

‘Would you mind moving out of my flower bed?’
I stepped gingerly over the nasturtiums and looked
up at Miss Mackenzie with my dimpled cheeks and
appealing eyes. I was sure the lady would find it
impossible to be angry with me.
‘You're trespassing, said Miss Mackenzie.
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘And you ought to be in school at this hour.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
“Then what are you doing here?’
‘Picking flowers, Miss.’ And I held up a bunch of
ferns and wild flowers.
‘Oh.’ Miss Mackenzie was finally disarmed. Perhaps
it was a long time since she had seen a boy taking an
interest in flowers, and, what was more, playing truant
from school in order to gather them.
‘Do you like flowers?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Miss. ’m going to be a botan—a botantist?’
“You mean a botanist.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
“Well, that’s unusual. Most boys at your age want
to be pilots or soldiers or perhaps engineers. But you
want to be a botanist. Well, well. There’s still hope
for the world, I see. And do you know the names of
these flowers?’

14
 The Prospect of Flowers

“This is a bukhilo flower, I said, showing her a

small golden flower. “That’s a Pahari name. It means
puja, or prayer. The flower is offered during prayers.
But I don’t know what this is. . .’
I held out a pale pink flower with a soft, heart-
shaped leaf.
‘It’s a wild begonia,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘And that
purple stuff is salvia, but it isn’t wild. It’s a plant that
escaped from my garden. Don’t you have any books
on flowers?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘All right, come in and I'll show you a book.
She led me into a small front room which was
crowded with furniture and books and vases and jam
jars, and offered me a chair. I sat awkwardly on its
edge. The black cat immediately leapt on to my knees,
and settled down there, purring loudly.
“What's your name?’ asked Miss Mackenzie, as she
rummaged among her books.
‘Rusty, Miss.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘I live with my guardian here—in Dehra.’
‘Oh, and what’s that?’ she asked, pointing at my
blazer’s pocket which was bulging.
‘Bulbs, Miss.’
‘Flower bulbs?’
 Rusty Runs Away

‘No, electric bulbs.’

‘Electric bulbs! You might send me a few, when
you get home. Mine are always fusing, and they’re so
expensive, like everything else these days. Ah, here we
are!’ She pulled a heavy volume down from the shelf
and laid it on the table. ‘Flora Himaliensis, published
in 1892, and probably the only copy in India. This is
a very valuable book, Rusty. No other naturalist has
recorded so many wild Himalayan flowers. And let me
tell you this: there are many flowers and plants which
are still unknown to the fancy botanists who spend all
their time with microscopes instead of in the mountains.
But perhaps, you'll do something about that, one day.’
‘Yes, Miss.’ |
We went through the book together, and Miss
Mackenzie pointed out many flowers that grew in and
around the hill station, while I made notes of their
names and seasons. She lit a stove, and put the kettle
on for tea. And then the old lady and I sat side by
_ side over cups of hot sweet tea, absorbed in that book
of wild flowers. ,
‘May I come again?’ I asked as I rose to go.
‘If you like,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘But not during
school hours. You mustn't miss your classes.’
After that, I visited Miss Mackenzie about once
a week, and nearly always brought a wildflower for

16
 The Prospect of Flowers

her to identify, I knew that she looked forward to

these visits but sometimes, more than a week would
pass without a visit from me if I got busy with
schoolwork.
Then later she'd tell me about how disappointed and
_ lonely she had felt, and how much she hadoa
at her poor black cat. »
She often said that I reminded her of her brother,
when the latter had been a boy. There was the physical
resemblance of course, but there was something else
too. It was my eagerness, my alert bright look and the
way I stood—legs apart, hands on hips, a picture of
confidence—that reminded her of Andrew. :
And why did I visit her so often?
Partly because she knew about wild flowers, and I
really did want to become a botanist then. And partly ©
because she smelt of freshly-baked bread, and that was
a smell my grandmother had possessed. Partly because
I was a little different from other children. And partly
because she was lonely and sometimes a boy of twelve
can sense loneliness better than an adult. There was
really no one I could talk to or share my interests with
at my guardian’s house. I was left to my own devices
and any discussion with my guardian pertained to my
schooling and was dealt with cursorily.
By the middle of October, when there was only a

My.
 Rusty Runs Away

fortnight left for the school to close, the first snow had
fallen on the distant mountains. One peak stood high
above the rest, a white pinnacle against the azure-blue
sky. When the sun set, this peak turned from orange
to gold to pink to red.
‘How high is that mountain?’ I asked.
‘It must be over 12,000 feet,’ said Miss Mackenzie.
‘About thirty. miles from here, as the crow flies. I
always wanted to go there, but there was no proper
road. At that height, there'll be flowers that you don’t
get here—the blue gentian and the purple columbine,
the anemone and the edelweiss.’
T'll go there one day, I promised myself aloud.
‘I’m sure you will, if you really want to.’
The day before school closed, I went to say goodbye
to Miss Mackenzie. I was to leave for Delhi two days
later with my guardian who had some business to
attend to there. 3
‘I don’t suppose you'll be able to find many wild
flowers in Delhi, she said. ‘But nave a good holiday.’
“Thank you, Miss.’
Just as I was about to leave, Miss Mackenzie, on an
impulse, thrust the Flora Himaliensis into my hands.
‘You keep it,’ she said. ‘It’s a present for you.’
“But Pll be back soon, and I'll be able to look at
it then. It’s so valuable.’
 The Prospect of Flowers

‘I know it’s valuable and that’s why I’ve given it

to you. Otherwise it might fall into the hands of the
junk dealers.’
‘But, Miss...’ .
‘Don’t argue. Besides, I may not be here when you
come back.’
‘Are you going away?’
‘’m not sure. I may go to England.’
I knew that she had no intention of going to
England; she had not seen the country since she was
a child, and she knew she would not fit in with the
life of post-war Britain. Her home was inthese hills,
among the oaks and maples and deodars. It was lonely,
but at her age it would be lonely anywhere.
I tucked the book under my arm, straightened my
tie, stood stiffly to attention and said, ‘Goodbye, Miss
Mackenzie.’
It was the first time that I had addressed her by
her name. : i
When I returned several months later, the cottage
wore an empty, forlorn look. Miss Mackenzie's neighbour
Major Warwick told me what had happened. |
o,
5OCd

Winter had set in early, and strong winds brought rain

and sleet, and soon there were no flowers in the garden

19
 Rusty Runs Away

or on the hillside. The cat stayed indoors, curled up

at the foot of Miss Mackenzie’s bed.
Miss Mackenzie wrapped herself up in all her old
shawls and mufflers, but still she felt the cold. Her
fingers grew so stiff that she took almost an hour to
open a can of baked beans. And then it snowed and for
several days the milkman did not come. The postman
arrived with her pension papers, but she felt too tired
to take them up to town to the bank.
She spent most of the time in bed. It was the
warmest place. She kept a hot-water bottle at her
back, and the cat kept her feet warm. She lay in bed,
dreaming of the spring and summer months. In three |
months’ time, the primroses would be out and with
the coming of spring, the local school would reopen
and I was sure to be back.
One night the hot-water bottle burst and the
bedding was soaked through. As there was no sun
for several days, the blanket remained damp. Miss —
Mackenzie caught a chill and had to keep to her cold,
uncomfortable bed. She knew she had a fever but there
was no thermometer with which to take her temperature.
She had difficulty in breathing. ,
A strong wind sprang up one night, and the window
flew open and kept banging all night. Miss Mackenzie
was too weak to get up and close it, and the wind

20
 The Prospect of Flowers

swept the rain and sleet into the room. The cat crept
into the bed and snuggled close to its mistress’s warm
body. But towards morning that body had lost its
warmth and the cat left the bed and started scratching
about on the floor.
As a shaft of sunlight streamed through the open
window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk
into the cat’s saucer on the doorstep and the cat leapt
down from the windowsill and made for the milk.
The milkman called a greeting to Miss Mackenzie,
but received no answer. Her window was open and he
had always known her to be up before sunrise. So he
put his head in at the window and called again. But
Miss Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone away
to the mountain where the blue gentian and purple
columbine grow.

21
 A Job Well Done

‘ARE YOU GOING to cover the well?’ I asked. Puran

the gardener was clearing up the weeds that grew in
profusion around the old, disused well. I was a great
favourite of Puran’s. He had been the gardener at my
grandmother's house, and now he was with my mother
and stepfather.
Actually, it was only by a ‘multi-coincidence’ that
Puran was working for them. It was 1944, and the
Second World War was still on. My stepfather had
enrolled in the RAF, and before he left for Peshawar—
where he was stationed—he left my mother and
my half-brother in Dehra. At that point, my day
school had closed for summer vacation and I was at
a loose end because my guardian and Mrs Harrison
had to rush off to Bombay to solve some business
problem.
My mother invited me over to her place and asked

22
 A Job Well Done

me to stay there with her, at least till my guardian

returned. 1 accepted, not because I was fond of my
mother, but because I had no reason to not accept.
Puran was also at a loose end as his previous
employer, an elderly English lady, had just passed away.
When he realized that I was at my mother’s house and
that she needed a gardener, he just turned up one day
and offered his services. So that’s how he and I came
to be at my stepfather’s house that summer.
On our agenda today was the old well in the middle
of the garden. ‘I must cover it, I suppose,’ said Puran.
“That's what the Major Sahib wants. He'll be back any
day and if he finds the well still uncovered he'll get
into one of his raging fits and I'll be looking for yet
another job!’
The ‘Major Sahib’ was my stepfather, Major
Summerskill. A tall, hearty, back-slapping man, who
liked polo and pig-sticking. He was quite unlike my
father. My father had always given me books to read.
When Id first stayed with my mother and stepfather,
he had said that I would become a dreamer if I read
too much and had taken my books away. I had hated
him since then and did not think much of my mother
for marrying him.
“The boy’s too soft, I had often heard him tell my
mother.

23
 Rusty Runs Away

Now, he had been away for about two months.

Before leaving, he had left strict instructions for Puran
to cover up the old well.
‘Too damned dangerous having an open well in the
middle of the garden. My son is too small to be told
not to run around in the garden and to not peep into
open wells,’ my stepfather had said. ‘Make sure that
it’s completely covered by the time I get back.’
Puran was loth to cover up the old well. He said
that it had been there for over fifty years, long before
the house had been built. In its walls lived a colony of
pigeons. Their soft cooing filled the garden with a lovely
sound. And during the hot dry summer months, when
taps ran dry, the well was always a dependable source
of water. The bhisti still used it, filling his goatskin
bag with the cool, clear water and sprinkling the paths
around the house to keep the dust down. -
Puran pleaded with my mother to let him leave
the well uncovered.
‘What will happen to the pigeons?’ he asked.
‘Oh, surely they can find another well,’ said my
mother. “Do close it up soon, Puran. I don’t want the
Sahib to come back and find that you haven't done
anything about it.’
My mother seemed just a little bit afraid of the
Major. How can we be afraid of those we love? It

24
 A Job Well Done

was a question that puzzled me then and puzzles

me still. .
The Major's absence made life pleasant. I read books,
spent long hours in the banyan tree, ate buckets of
mangoes and dawdled in the garden, talking to Puran
and playing with Mohan—his son. My half-brother (born
to my mother from her second marriage) usually stayed
indoors with Mother, playing childish games with her.
Neither Puran nor I were looking forward to the
Major's return. Puran had really been my father’s man.
His loyalty to my father probably extended to my
mother as well, for it seemed to be just for her sake
that he put up with my stepfather’s rude and explosive
nature. My mother had always appeared deceptively
frail and helpless and most men, Major Summerskill
included, felt protective towards her. She liked people
who did things for her.
‘Your father would have liked this well,’ said Puran.
‘Remember the well in your grandparents’ backyard?
Your father would often sit there in the evenings with
a book in which he made drawings of birds and flowers
and insects.’
I remembered those drawings and how | had
managed to keep some of those drawings with me while
Grandma was selling off the house. I also remembered
how some of them had been thrown away by the Major

25
 Rusty Runs Away

when he had chanced upon them. Puran too knew

about it. I didn’t keep much from him.
‘It’s a sad business closing this well, said Puran
again. ‘Only a fool or a drunkard is likely to fall into
it. Any child, however small, is unlikely to fall into it,
if he is‘told that such a-well exists.’
Nevertheless, he made his preparations. Planks
of sal wood, bricks and cement were neatly piled up
around the well.
‘Tomorrow, said Puran, trying to evade this
unpleasant task which had been thrust upon him.
‘Tomorrow I will do it. Not today. Let the birds remain
for one more day. In the morning, baba, you can help
me drive the birds from the well.’
On the day my stepfather was expected back, my
mother hired a tonga and went to the bazaar to do some
shopping. As the Major was not expected before evening,
I decided to make full use of my last free morning. I
took all my favourite books and stored them away in
an outhouse where I could come for them from time
to time. Then, my pockets bursting with mangoes, I
climbed into the banyan tree. It was’ the darkest and
coolest place on a hot day in June. From behind the
screen of leaves that concealed me, I could see Puran
moving about near the well. He appeared to be most
unwilling to get on with the job of covering it up.

26
 A Job Well Done

‘Baba!’ he called several times. But I did not feel

like stirring from the banyan tree. Puran grasped’a long
plank of wood and placed it across one end of the well.
He started hammering. From my vantage point in the
banyan tree, he looked very bent and old.
A jingle of tonga bells and the squeak of unoiled
wheels told me that a tonga was coming in at the gate.
It was too early for my mother to be back. I peered
through the thick, waxy leaves of the tree and nearly
fell off my branch in surprise. It was my stepfather, the
Major! He had arrived earlier than expected.
I did not come down from the tree. I had no intention
of facing my stepfather until my mother returned.
The Major had climbed down from the tonga
and was watching his luggage being carried on to the
veranda. He was red in the face and the ends of his
handlebar moustache were stiff with brilliantine. Puran
approached with a half-hearted salaam.
‘Ah, so there you are, you old scoundrel!’ exclaimed
the Major, trying to sound friendly and jocular. ‘More
jungle than garden, from what I can see. You're getting
too old for this sort of work, fellow. Time to retire!
And where’s the memsahib?’
‘Gone to the bazaar, said Puran.
‘And the boy?’
Puran shrugged. ‘I have not seen the boy today, Sahib.’

Zi,
 ‘Damn!’ said the Major. ‘A fine homecoming, this.
Well, wake up the cook-boy and tell him to get some
sodas.”
‘Cook-boy’s gone away,’ said Puran.
‘Well, Pl be double-damned,’ said the Majer
_ The tonga went away and the Major started pacing
up and down the garden path. Then he saw Puran’s
unfinished work at the well. He grew purple in the
face, strode across to the well, and started ranting at
the old gardener.
Puran began making excuses. He said something about
a shortage of bricks, the sickness ofa niece, unsatisfactory
cement, unfavourable weather, unfavourable gods. When
none of this seemed to satisfy the Major, Puran began
mumbling about something bubbling up from the
bottom of the well and pointed down into its depths.
The Major stepped on to the low parapet and looked
down. Puran kept pointing. The Major leant over a little
more.
Puran’s hand moved swiftly, like a conjurer making a
pass. He did not actually push the Major. He appeared
merely to tap him once on the bottom. I caught a
glimpse of my stepfather’s boots as he disappeared into
the well. I couldn't help thinking of Alice in Wonderland,
of Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole.
There was a tremendous splash and the pigeons

28
&8 i
 Rusty Runs Away

flew up, circling the well thrice before settling on the

roof of the bungalow.
By lunchtime—or tiffin, as we called it then—Puran
had the well covered over with the wooden planks.
“The Major will be pleased, said my mother when
she came home. ‘It will be quite ready by evening, won't
it, Puran?’ By evening the well had been completely
bricked over. It was the fastest bit of work Puran had
ever done.
Over the next fortnight, my mother’s concern
changed to anxiety, her anxiety to melancholy, and
her melancholy to resignation. By being gay and high-
spirited myself, I hope I did something to cheer her
up. She had written to the Colonel of the Regiment
and had been informed that the Major had gone home
on leave several weeks ago. Somewhere, in the vastness
of India, the Major had disappeared.
It was easy enough to disappear and never be found.
After seven months had passed without the Major
turning up, it was presumed that one of two things
must have happened. Either he had been murdered
on the train and his corpse flung into a river. Or, he
had run away with a tribal girl and was living in some
remote corner of the country.
Life had to carry on for the rest of us. The rains
were over and the guava season was approaching.

30
 A Job Well Done

‘My mother. was receiving visits from a colonel of

His Majesty's 32nd Foot. He was an elderly, easy-going,
seemingly absent-minded man, who didn’t get in the way
at all but left slabs of chocolate lying around the house.
‘A goed sahib, observed Puran as I stood beside
him behind the bougainvillaea, watching the colonel
saunter up the veranda steps. ‘See how well he wears
his sola topi! It covers his head completely.’
‘He’s bald underneath,’ I said.
‘No matter. I think he will be all right.’
‘And if he isn’t,’ I said, ‘we can always open up
the well again.’ !
Puran dropped the nozzle of the hose pipe and water
gushed out over our feet. But he recovered quickly and
taking me by the hand led me across to the old well
now surmounted by a: three-tiered cement platform
which looked rather like a wedding cake.
“We must not forget this old well,’ he said. “Let —
us make it beautiful, baba. Some flowerpots, perhaps.’
And together we fetched pots and decorated the
covered well with ferns and geraniums. Everyone
congratulated Puran on the fine job he had done. My
only regret was that the pigeons had gone away.

31
 The Woman.on
Platform No. 8

IT WAS MY first year at boarding school, and I was

sitting on platform no. 8 at Ambala station, waiting for _
the northern-bound train. I think I was about fourteen
at the time. My guardian was having to go out of Dehra
quite often now for business reasons. And my mother
had married the colonel and left Dehra with him. There
was no one to look after me in Dehra. So I was made
to leave the day school I went to in Dehra and join
Arundel—a boarding school at my guardian’s place in
Paharganj. Now after a brief vacation, I was travelling
from Dehra to Kalka via Ambala. From Kalka I had
to board a bus to Paharganj. Most of the time I had
been pacing up and down the platform, browsing at
the bookstall, or feeding broken biscuits to stray dogs;
trains came and went, and the platform would be quiet
for a while and then, when atrain arrived, itwould be

32.
 The Woman on Platform No. 8

an inferno of heaving, shouting, agitated human bodies.

As the carriage doors opened, a tide of people would
sweep down upon the nervous little ticket-collector
at the gate; and every time this happened I would’ be
caught in the rush and swept outside the station. Now
tired of this game and of ambling about the platform,
I sat down on my suitcase and gazed dismally across
the railway tracks.
Trolleys rolled past me, and I was conscious of
the cries of the various vendors—the men who sold
curds and lemon, the sweetmeat-seller, the newspaper
boy—but I had lost interest in all that went on along
the busy platform, and continued to stare across the
railway tracks, feeling bored and alittle lonely.
‘Are you all alone, my son?’ asked a soft voice close
behind me. 7
I looked up and saw a woman standing near me.
“She was leaning over, and I saw a pale face and dark,
kind eyes. She wore no jewels, and was dressed very
simply in a white sari.
‘Yes, I am going to school,’ I said, and stood up
respectfully.
She seemed poor, but there was a dignity about her
that commanded respect.
_‘] have been watching you for some time,’ she said.
‘Didn't your parents come to see you off?’

33
 Rusty Runs Away

‘I don’t live here, I said. ‘I had to change trains.

Anyway, I can travel alone.’
‘I am sure you can,’ she said, and I liked her for
saying that, and I also liked her for the simplicity of
her dress, and for her oe soft voice and the serenity
of her face.
‘Tell me, what is your name?’ she asked.
‘Rusty,’ I said.
And how long do you have to wait for your train?”
‘About an hour, I think. It comes at twelve o'clock.’
“Then come with me and have something to eat.’
I was going to refuse, out of shyness and suspicion,
but she took me by the hand, and then I felt it would
be silly to pull my hand away. She told a coolie to
look after my suitcase, and then she led me away down
the platform. Her hand was gentle, and she held mine
neither too firmly nor too lightly. I looked up at her
again. She was not young. And she was not old. She
must have been over thirty, but had she been fifty,J
think she would have looked much the same.
She took me into the station dining room, ordered
tea and samosas and jalebis, and at once I began to
thaw and take a new interest in this kind woman. Our
strange encounter had little effect on my appetite. I was
a hungry schoolboy, and I ate as much as I could in as
polite a manner as possible. She took obvious pleasure

34
 The Woman on:Platform No. 8

in watching me eat, and | think it was the food that

strengthened the bond between us and cemented our
friendship, for under the influence of the tea and sweets |
began totalk quite freely, and told her about my school,
my friends, my likes and dislikes. She questioned me.
quietly from time to time, but preferred listening; she
drew me out very well, and I soon forgot that we were
strangers. But she did not ask me about my family or
where I lived, and I did not ask her where she lived.
I accepted her for what she had been to me—a quiet,
kind and gentle woman who gave sweets to a lonely
boy on a railway platform .. .
After about half an hour we left the dining room and
began walking back along the platform. An engine was
shunting up and down beside platform no. 8, and as it
approached, a boy leapt off the platform and ran across
the rails, taking a shortcut to the next platform. He was
at a safe distance from the engine, but as he leapt across
the rails, the woman clutched my arm. Her fingers dug
into my flesh, and I winced with pain. I caught her
fingers and looked up at her, and I saw a spasm of pain
and fear and sadness pass across her face. She watched the
boy as he climbed the platform, and it was not until he
had disappeared in the crowd that she relaxed her hold
on my arm. She smiled at me reassuringly, and took my
hand again, but her fingers trembled against mine.

35
 Rusty Runs Away

‘He was all right,’ I said, mehing that it was she

who needed reassurance.
She smiled gratefully at me and pressed my hand.
We walked together in silence until we reached the place
where I had left my suitcase. One of my schoolfellows,
Satish, had turned up with his mother.
‘Hello, Rusty!’ he called. ‘The train’s coming in late,
as usual. Did you know we have a new headmaster
this year?’ We shook hands, and then he turned to his
mother and said, “This is Rusty, Mother. He is one of
my friends, and the best student in the class.’
‘I am glad to know that,’ said his mother, a large,
imposing woman who wore spectacles. She looked at
the woman who held my hand and said, ‘And I suppose
youre Rusty’s mother?’
I opened my mouth to make some explanation, but
before I could say anything the woman replied, “Yes, I am
Rusty's mother.’ I was unable to speak a word. I looked
quickly up at the woman, but she did not appear to be
at all embarrassed, and was smiling at Satish’s mother.
Satish’s mother said, ‘It’s such a nuisance having
to wait for the train right in the middle of the night.
But one can’t let the child wait here alone. Anything
can happen to a boy at a big station like this—there
are so many suspicious characters hanging about. These
days one has to be very careful of strangers.”

36
 The Woman on Platform No. 8

‘Rusty can travel alone though,’ said the woman

beside me, and somehow I felt grateful to her for saying
that. I had already forgiven her for lying; besides, I had
taken an instinctive dislike to Satish’s mother.
‘Well, be very careful, Rusty, cautioned Satish’s
mother looking sternly at me through her spectacles.
‘Be very careful when your mother is not with you.
And never talk to strangers!’ I looked at Satish’s mother
and then looked at the woman who had given me tea
and sweets, and looked back at Satish’s mother.
‘Tike strangers, I said.
Satish’s mother definitely staggered a little, as she
was obviously not used to being contradicted by anyone,
especially youngsters. “There you are, you see! If you
don’t watch over them all the time, they'll walk straight
into trouble. Always listen to what your mother tells
you, she said, wagging a fat little finger at me. ‘And »
never, never talk to strangers.’
I glared resentfully at her, and moved closer to the
woman who had befriended me. Satish was standing
behind his mother, grinning at me, and delighting
in my clash with his mother. Apparently he was on
my side.
The station bell clanged, and the people who had
‘till now been squatting resignedly on the platform
began bustling about.

37
 Rusty Runs Away

‘Here it comes!’ shouted Satish, as the engine whistle

shrieked and its front lights played over the rails.
The train moved slowly into the station, the engine
hissing and sending out waves of steam. As it came to
a stop, Satish jumped on to the footboard of a lighted
compartment and shouted, ‘Come on, Rusty, this one’s
_ empty!’ and I picked up my suitcase and made a dash
for the open door. :
We placed ourselves at the open windows, and the
two women stood outside on the platform, talking up
to us. Satish’s mother did most of the talking.
‘Now don’t jump on and off moving trains, as you
did just now,’ she said. ‘And don’t stick your heads out
of the windows, and don’t eat any rubbish on the way.’
She allowed me to share the benefit of her advice, as
she probably didn’t think my ‘mother’ a very capable
person. She handed Satish a bag of fruit, a cricket bat
and a big box of chocolates, and told him to share the
food with me. Then she stood back from the window
to watch how my ‘mother’ behaved.
I was smarting under the patronizing tone of Satish’s
mother, who obviously thought mine a very poor
family; and I did not intend giving the other woma
n
away. I let her take my hand in hers, but I could think
of nothing to say. I was conscious of Satish’s mother
staring at us with hard, beady eyes, and I found myself

38
 The Woman on Platform No. 8

hating her with a firm, unreasoning hate. The guard

walked up the platform, blowing his whistle for the
train to leave. I looked straight into the eyes of the
woman who held my hand, and she smiled ina gentle,
understanding way. I leaned out of the window then,
and put my lips to her cheek, and kissed her.
The carriage jolted forward, and she drew her hand
away. | :
‘Good-bye, Mother!’ shouted Satish, as the train
began to move slowly out of the station. Satish and
his mother waved to each other.
‘Good-bye, I said to the other woman, ‘sood-
bye—Mother.’ 7
I didn’t wave or shout, but sat still in front of the
window, gazing at the woman on the platform. Satish’s
mother was talking to her, but she didn’t appear to be
listening; she was looking at me, as the train took me
away. She stood there on the busy platform, a pale
sweet woman in white, and I watched her until she
was lost in the milling crowd.

aD
#2 <—
 Running Away

AS THE BIG clock on the top of the school pavilion

struck eleven, I crept out of bed, slipped on my gym
shoes, and moved silently across the dormitory.
I stopped in the doorway and peered back into the
dark room to make sure that no one else was awake,
then I hurried along the corridor and down the stairs.
Daljit was already on the veranda. He was a Sikh
and a good friend of mine—we studied in the same
class. He had removed his turban for the night and
his long hair was now bunched up on his head in a
big knot. The white pyjama-suit he was wearing stood
out like a beacon in the darkness. If any teachers were
about, we would certainly be seen.
Daljit put a finger to his lips as soon as he saw me.
This was quite unnecessary, since I was the cautious
to
one, but Daljit was enjoying himself, and wanted
make everything seem mysterious.

4]
 Rusty Runs Away

Tiptoeing was not in Daljit’s line; he had big feet,

and was often teased about them. There is a saying in
Punjab that if you have big feet you will be good only
for manual work. Daljit denied this. Instead, he said
that if you had big feet you would travel a lot, and
he was now out to prove his theory.
We ran silently across the flat in front of the pavilion,
while heavy monsoon clouds scurried overhead. Running
down the pavilion steps, we entered the gymnasium.
The gym door was usually left open, and it was in this
huge damp room, smelling of coir--matting, varnish
and perspiration, that we held our nocturnal meetings.
This was to be our final meeting before running
away from school.
‘Have you got everything ready?’ asked Daljit,
lighting a candle stub and placing it on the floor
between us.
We sat cross-legged, facing each other. The candle
cast a glow on Daljit’s round, good-natured face. It
left me in the shadows.
"Yes. Everything’s ready, I replied. ‘A knife, two
packets of biscuits, some bread, a tin of sardines, and
some sweets.’
The bread, which had been pocketed during the
previous week’s meals, was now quite stale and hard,
but I wanted to make my list as long as possible.

42
 Running Away

‘Not much; commented Daljit. ‘And how much

money do you have?’
‘Six rupees. That’s two months’ pocket money.
‘Not bad, Rusty.’ He knew I did not get much
pocket money from my guardian. “Well, I’ve got about
thirty rupees, so we don’t have to worry too much
about money—not -yet, anyway. And I’ve got some
cheese, jam, chocolate and pickle which I saved from
my last parcel.’
‘Pickle with chocolate?’
‘No, of course not. But it will go with any stuff
we'll get to eat on the way.’
Daljit frequently received food parcels from his
father who was a businessman in East Africa. Part of
Daljit’s plan was to get back to Africa because he was
fed up with living in a boarding school in India. This
was where we joined forces. My uncle Jim was the
captain of a small tramp-steamer which sometimes plied
between Mombasa in East Africa and either Jamnagar
or Dwarka, two small ports on the west coast of India.
His ship, the O.H. Iris, was due to call at Jamnagar
at the end of the month, and we hoped to persuade
him to take us on board.
Daljit wanted to get back to Africa. He was certain
his father would realize that if he could get back to
Africa on his own from India, it might not be a good

43
 Rusty Runs Away

idea after all to send him to school in India once again.

I too wanted to get away—but for different reasons.
True, school was one of them. Though not as grim as
Dickens's Dotheboy’s Hall, it was not a good school.
‘The principal ran the place more as a business enterprise
than as a school. ‘Give a little, take a lot, was his
motto. He charged his fees, and in return gave us bad
teachers and worse food. At any rate, that’s what we
boys thought.
Daljit, of course, had only himself to blame for
ending up in Arundel. He had refused to settle down in
any of the other schools he had been sent to, and had,
by a process of elimination, come to Arundel, where,
after only three months of a diet consisting mostly of
lentil soup and mutton fat, he was eager to get away.
Tl have no more schools after this one, he declared.
‘T'll go straight into my father’s business in Nairobi. I can
read and write, and I know the difference between aprofit
and a loss. That’s all I need. What about you, Rusty?’
‘I want to be a writer, I said. Gone were the days
when I wanted to study plants and become a botanist.
I was now fifteen years old. Big enough to make up
my mind for once and for all. ‘I don’t mind going to
_a school, but I have been here for a year now, and |
don’t like it one bit, and I know my guardian won't
send me to any other.’

44
 Running Away

Mr Harrison had sent me to Arundel because the

principal was a friend of his, and he had only to pay
half-fees for me. Before coming to Arundel, I had
attended a day school and stayed with my guardian and
his wife. But they travelled often for business purposes
and I think they found it very irksome to look after me
as I grew older. I was inclined to be rebellious, to spend
my time in the bazaars instead of at home, and to read
books instead of taking an interest in manly pastimes
like those enjoyed by my guardian, which consisted of
shooting wild animals. I had never cared much for my
guardian and he had been disappointed in me.
But the main reason for running away was not to
get back to the bazaars or my guardian’s house, but to
reach my uncle’s ship in Jamnagar.
Uncle Jim was another of my father’s cousins. He
had last seen me when I was a small boy of five and
had written to me off and on throughout the years.
His letters had been gay and came in envelopes that
bore colourful stamps of different countries. They came
from Valparaiso, San Diego, San Francisco, Buenos
Aires, Dar-es-Salaam, Mombasa, Freetown, Singapore,
Bombay, Marseilles, London . . . these were some of
the places where Uncle Jim’s ship called. He was seldom
on the same route, and seemed to move leisurely across
the oceans of the earth, calling at ports which had

45
 Rusty Runs Away

only the most romantic associations for me, for I had

already read Stevenson, Captain Marryat, some Conrad
and W.W. Jacobs.
In his letters, Uncle Jim often spoke of my joining
him at sea—‘When you are alittle older, Rusty.’
I felt I was old enough now. I was sick of school
and sick of my guardian. But that was not all. I was in
love with the world. I wanted to see the world, every
corner of it, the places I had read about in books—the
junks and sampans of Hong Kong, the palm-fringed
lagoons of the Indies, the streets of London, the
beautiful ebony-skinned people of Africa, the bright —
birds and exotic plants of the Amazon...
- When Uncle Jim’s last letter had arrived, telling
me that his ship would call at Jamnagar towards the
end of the month, I felt a deep thrill of anticipation.
Here was my chance at last! True, Uncle Jim had said
nothing about my joining him, but he was not to know
that I was seriously considering it.
It was not simply a question of walking out of
school and taking a quick ride down to the docks.
Jamnagar, on the west coast, was at least 800 miles
from Paharganj, the hill station in northern India where
Arundel was located. Eight hundred miles!
>,
%e

46
 Running Away

I doubt if I would have made the attempt if Daljit had

not agreed to come too. It isn’t much fun running away
on your own. It is even worse if you have a companion
who is full of enthusiasm at the beginning and who
backs out at the last moment. This leaves one feeling
defeated and crushed.
Daljit was not that kind of companion. He meant
the things he said. About a month earlier, when I had
told him of my uncle's ship and my wish to get to
it, he had said, without a moment’s hesitation: ‘I’m
coming too!’
Daljit lived impulsively. Sometimes he made
mistakes. But he never went halfway and stopped.
Someone had to stop him, otherwise he did whatever
it was he set out to do.
We had become friends during the early monsoon
marathon runs. I was much better at short races, and
Daljit was a little too chubby to keep up with the
other boys. Allowing the good athletes to forge ahead, I
would sit down on a grassy knoll and read a comic or
a chapter from David Copperfield. One evening, while 3
I was making use of the run in this way, I saw Daljit
strolling down the road, whistling cheerfully.
‘Aren't you in the race?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and returned to my book.

47
 Rusty Runs Away

Daljit sat down beside me.

“They won't miss us if we're a little late,’ he said.
“Why don’t we go over to that stall and eat some hot
pakoras? Don't worry about money. I have more than
enough. I can’t stop my mother from spoiling me.’
It was the beginning of a steady friendship. Based
initially on pakoras, and a mutual aversion to long-
distance races, it soon developed a stronger foundation.
After several marathons — we felt we had known
each other for years.
Now, sitting together in the dark, high-ceilinged
gymnasium, we felt we understood each other perfectly.
I did not mind the fact that Daljit had more money.
He did not mind the fact that I was more ‘brainy’,
as he put it. He was impressed by the extent of my
reading. But I was an impractical fellow, and in the
ways of the world Daljit was more experienced.
He pulled a folder from his pyjama-suit and opened
it out on the floor. It was a railway map of India. We
had purchased it during our last and final marathon
run, a memorable occasion when we had cut off to the
bazaar, and then, having made several purchases, taken
a shortcut back to school, arriving first and second
respectively in the race. (We were, of course, disqualified
when the judges came back and insisted that they
had not seen us anywhere along the prescribed route,

48
 Running Away

but we had our few moments of glory, with everyone

congratulating us on our victory.) |
With the map spread out before us, I took a red
pencil and circled Paharganj in the Himalayan foothills.
Then I circled Jamnagar, at the tip of the Kathiawar
Peninsula, facing the Gulf of Kutch. What lay in
between? First, hills and forests; then the flat, fertile
plains of the Doab (the Ganga-Jamuna basin) stretching
to a little beyond Delhi; then the bare brown hills and
sand dunes of the Rajasthan desert; and finally the fertile
coastal regions of Gujarat and Maharashtra. There were
rivers and lakes. We would make what use we could
of all available means of transport, as we did not have
much time to lose. Uncle Jim’s ship would not stay
in port any longer than was necessary; it would sail
again at the end of July, before the monsoon became
too troublesome.
‘We must get to Delhi as soon as possible,’ I pointed
out, ‘otherwise we'll be caught easily. Once Delhi has
been left behind, they won't know where to look. India’s
too big. It’s easy to get lost.’
‘Do you think they'd bother to look for us?’
‘Yes, of course. Remember, my guardian is a friend
of the principal. And your father will sue the school
if anything happens to you. As soon as they find us
missing, they'll start searching in Paharganj, and if

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 Rusty Runs Away

they don’t find us here or in Dehra, they'll inform the

police, and we'll be on the Wanted list, like criminals.
The railway stations and bus stands will be watched.’
‘Does that mean we're going to walk to Delhi?’
asked Daljit, looking dismayed. ‘I can’t walk 200 miles.’
“We'll walk only as far as Dehra. That’s twenty
miles, downhill. Can you manage that?’
‘I suppose so, if it’s all downhill.’
‘From Dehra we'll have to get a train or a bus or
a truck. We'll have to avoid the railway stations.’
‘All right, Rusty. That’s fine. Let’s not plan too far
ahead. Let’s get to Delhi first. It’s far enough. After
that, we'll take our chances.’
We fell silent for a few minutes, busy with our
own thoughts—thinking of the consequences if we
were caught, of the dangers and difficulties we might
encounter. The candle spluttered and went out. There
was total darkness for a minute, then a thin light darted
across the floor and over my feet.
‘Do you like my pencil torch?’ asked Daljit. ‘Made
in Japan, and designed by James Bond. I bought it in
Nairobi last year. But we mustn't waste the battery; this
size isn't available here.’ He switched it off.
‘You must have been terribly spoilt at home,’ |
said enviously. At times I felt that it was unfair that
some children should enjoy being indulged by their

50
 Running Away

family so much when I didn’t even have a ae to

my name anymore.
‘I was,’ said Daljit with a chuckle. ‘In fact, I’m still
thoroughly spoilt!’ He gave me his hand. ‘It’s tomorrow
night, then?’ he whispered. There was no need to whisper,
but Daljit never let up a chance to dramatize things.
‘Yes, tomorrow night,’ I said.
“Where do we meet?’
‘Down in the pine forest. Near the big rock. At
ten. From there we'll follow the stream until we meet
the bridle-path to Dehra.’
“Be on time,’ said Daljit. ‘I don’t want to be waiting
for you in the dark, in the middle of the forest. They
say it’s haunted.’
“Well, you have your torch,’ I said reassuringly.
He gripped my hand again. “We won't talk to each
other in school tomorrow. No one must have any
suspicion. Now let’s go to bed, I’m sleepy.’
‘Sleep well, I said. “There won't be much sleep for
us from tomorrow.’
As we emerged from the gymnasium, we saw that the
moon had risen. The flat, the pavilion and the dormitory
building stood out clearly in the moonlight. The deodars
threw ghostly shadows on the hillside. There were only
a few clouds drifting overhead. It was a beautiful night.
‘I hope we don’t get spotted,’ said Daljit.

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘If you're caught, say you saw me sleepwalking, and

followed to keep an eye on me.’
“That's a good idea. I suppose you get your brilliant
ideas out of books.’
We flitted across the flat like a couple of ghouls,
and ran swiftly upstairs to our dormitories. -
At the entrance to his dormitory, Daljit turned
and gave me a conspiratorial wave. I crept into my
bed and tried to sleep. But sleep was elusive. I kept
thinking of our coming adventure, imagining the kind
of journey we would have, and visualizing my uncle’s
surprise when we turned up on his ship.
I would work for my passage, of course. Daljit and
I could be deckhands.
Yokohama, Valparaiso, San Diego, London!
,
“2°

Running away from school! It is not to be recommended

to everyone. Parents and teachers would disapprove.
Or would they, deep down in their hearts? Everyone
has wanted to run away, at some time in his life, if
not from a bad school or an unhappy home, then
from something equally unpleasant. Running away
seems to be in the best of traditions. Huck Finn did
it. So did Master Copperfield and Oliver Twist. So
did Kim. Various enterprising young men have run

52
 Running Away

away to sea. Most great men have run away from

school at some stage in their lives; and if they haven't,
then perhaps it is something they should have done.
Anyway, Daljit and I ran away from school, and we
did it quite successfully too, up to a point. But then,
all this happened in India, which, though it forms only
two per cent of the world’s land mass, has fifteen per
cent of its population, and so it is an easy place to
hide in, or be lost in, or disappear in, and never be
seen or heard of again! CaN Re
Not that we intended disappearing. We were headed
for a particular place—Jamnagar—and as soon as I took
my first step into the unknown, that first step on the
slippery pine needles below the school, I knew quite
definitely that I wasn’t running away from anything,
but that I was running towards something. Call it a
dream, if you like. I was running towards a dream.
In bare feet and pyjamas, I slid down the steep
slope of the hill, and was the first to reach the flat rock
in the middle of the forest. There was a soft breeze
sighing in the pine trees. The night was pleasant and
cool. From the ravine below came the subdued murmur
of the stream; it made a sound like a man humming
rather tunelessly to himself. The full moon came out
from behind massed monsoon clouds, and the trees,
bushes and boulders emerged from the darkness.

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 Rusty Runs Away

Daljit arrived a few minutes later. Though still in

his pyjamas, he was wearing his turban. Daljit’s turban
was a source of great pride to him as turbans are to
most Sikhs. He removed it only at night, or for games,
and he would never have dreamt of running away
bareheaded. When going to bed that night he had
taken it off without unwinding it, and on leaving bed
he had put it on again like a hat, very neatly, without
spoiling a single fold.
We had brought our gym clothes along in bundles
and changed into them before going any further as
our, school clothes would be too conspicuous and
our home clothes were packed away in the box room
during the term. We had put on our gym shoes. Our
haversacks were filled with our provisions; pyjamas, and
a couple of books, went in with them. The bulk of —
our possessions—our clothes, bedding and boxes—we
had gaily left behind. ©
A narrow path ran downhill, and we. followed it
until it levelled out, running parallel with the small
stream that rumbled down the’ mountainside. We
followed the stream for a mile, walking swiftly and
silently, until we met the bridle path which was little
more than a mule track going steeply down the last
hills to the valley.
The going was easy. We knew the road well. And by

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 Running Away

the time we reached the last foothills it was beginning

to rain, not heavily, but as a light, thin drizzle. —
We took shelter in a small dhaba on the outskirts
of a village. The dhabawallah was sleeping, and his dog,
a mangy pariah with only one ear, sniffed at us in a
friendly way instead of chasing us off the premises. _
We sat down on an old bench and watched the
sun rising over the distant mountains.
This was something I have always remembered. Not
because it was a more beautiful sunrise than on any
other day, but because the special importance of that
morning made me look at everything in a new way,
hence the details still stand out clearly
in my memory.
As the sky grew lighter, the pines and deodars
stood out clearly, and the birds came to life. A black-'
bird started it all with a low, mellow call, and then
the thrushes began chattering in the bushes. A barbet
shrieked monotonously at the top of a spruce tree, and
as the sky grew lighter still, a flock of bright green
parrots flew low over the trees.
The drizzle continued and there was a bright crimson
glow in the east. And then, quite suddenly, the sun
shot through a gap in the clouds, and the lush green
monsoon grass sprang into relief. Both Daljit and |
were wonderstruck. Never before had we been up so
early. Hundreds of spiderwebs, which were spun in trees

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 Rusty Runs Away

and bushes and on the grass, where they would not

normally have been noticed, were now clearly visible,
spangled with gold and silver raindrops. The strong
silk threads of the webs held the light rain and the
sun, making each drop of water look like a tiny jewel.
A great wild dahlia, its scarlet flowers drenched and
heavy, sprawled over thehillside and an emerald-green
grasshopper reclined on a petal, stretching its legs in
the sunshine.
The dhabawallah was now up. His dog, emboldened
by his master’s presence, began to bark at us. The man
lit a charcoal fire in a choolah, and put on it a kettle
of water to boil.
‘Would you like to eat something?’ he asked
conversationally in Hindi.
‘No, just tea for us,’ I said.
He placed two brass tumblers on atable.
‘The milk hasn’t yet been delivered,’ he said. ‘You're
very early.’
“We'll take the tea without milk,’ said Daljit, ‘but
give us lots of sugar.’
‘Sugar is costly these days. But because you are
schoolboys, and need more, you can help yourselves.’
‘Oh, we are not schoolboys,’ I said hurriedly.
‘Not at all,’ added Daljit.
‘We are just tourists,’ I lied unconvincingly.

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 Running Away

‘We have to catch the early train at Dehra,’ offered

Daljit.
‘But there’s no train before ten o'clock,’ said the
puzzled dhabawallah.
‘It is the ten o’clock train we are catching!’ said
Daljit smartly. “Do you think we will be down in time?’
‘Oh yes, there’s plenty of time...’
The dhabawallah poured out steaming hot tea into
the tumblers and placed the sugar bowl in front of us.
‘At first I thought you were schoolboys,’ he said. with
_a laugh. ‘I thought you were running away.’
Daljit almost gave us away by laughing nervously.
“What made you think that?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’ve been here many years,’ the dhabawallah
replied, gesturing towards the small clearing in which
his little wooden stall stood, almost like a trading
outpost ina wild country. ‘Schoolboys always pass this
way when they’re running away!’
‘Do many run away?’ | asked. I felt a little downcast
at the thought that Daljit and I were not the first to
embark on such an adventure. :
‘Not many. Just two or three every year. They get
as far as the railway station in Dehra and there they're
caught!’ |
‘It is silly of them to ‘get caught,’ said Daljit
disgustedly.

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘Are they always caught?’ I asked.

‘Always! I give them a glass of tea on their way
down, and I give them a glass of tea on their way up,
when they are returning with their teachers.’
“Well, you won't be seeing us again,’ said Daljit,
ignoring the warning look that I gave him.
‘Ah, but you aren't schoolboys!’ said the shopkeeper,
beaming at us. ‘And you aren't running away!’
- We paid for our tea and hurried on down the path.
The parrots flew over again, screeching loudly, and
settled in a lichee tree. The sun was warmer now, and
as the altitude decreased, the temperature and humidity
rose and we could almost smell the - of the plains
rising to meet us.
The hills levelled out into ee rolling countryside,
patterned with fields. Rice had been planted out, and
the sugarcane was waist-high.
The path had become quite slushy. Removing our
shoes and wrapping them in newspaper, we walked
barefoot in the soft mud. All these little out-of-routine
acts simply added to our excitement and thrill, making
everything quite unforgettable for life.
‘It’s about three miles into Dehra,’ I said. ‘We must
go round the town. By now, everyone in school will
be up and they'll have found out we’ve gone!’
‘We must avoid the Dehra station then,’ said Daljit.

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 Running Away

‘We'll walk to the next station, Raiwala. Then we'll

hop on to the first train that comes along.’
‘How far must we walk?’
‘About ten miles.’ : .
‘Ten miles!’ Daljit looked dismayed. ‘It'll take us
all day!’ | 3
Well, we can’t stop here nor can we wander about
in Dehra, neither can we enter the station. We have
to keep on walking.’
All right, Rusty. We'll keep on walking. I suppose
the beginning of an adventure is always the most
difficult part.’
>,
+“

Already the fields were giving way to jungle. But there

were still some fields of sugarcane stretching away from
the railway lines. ‘.
‘How much further do we have to walk?’ asked
Daljit impatiently. ‘Is Raiwala in the middle of the
jungle?’ |
‘Yes, I think it is. We've covered about four miles
I suppose. Six to go! It’s funny how some miles seem
longer than others. It depends on what one is thinking
about, I suppose. If our thoughts are pleasant, the miles
are not so long.’ |
‘Then let’s keep thinking pleasant thoughts. Isn’t

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 Rusty Runs Away

there a shortcut anywhere, Rusty? You've been in these

forests before.’
‘We'll take the firepath through the jungle. It'll save
us three or four miles. But we'll have to swim or wade
across a small river. The rains have only just started,
so the water shouldn't be too swift or deep.’
Heavy forests have paths cut through them at
various places to prevent forest fires from spreading
easily. These paths are not used much by people since
they don't lead anywhere in particular, but they are
frequently used by the larger animals.
We had gone about a mile along the path when we
heard the sound of rushing water. The path emerged
from the forest of sal trees and stopped on the banks
of the small river 1 had mentioned earlier. The main
bridge across the river stood on the main road, about
three miles downstream.
‘It isn’t more than waist-deep anywhere,’ I said. ‘But
the water is swift and the stones are slippery.’
We removed our clothes and tied everything into
two bundles, which we carried on our heads. Daljit
was a well-built boy, strong in the arms and thighs. I
was slimmer. But I had quick reflexes.
‘The stones were quite slippery underfoot, and we
stumbled, hindering rather than helping each other.
We stopped in mid-stream, waist-deep, hesitating

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about going any further for fear of being swept off our
feet. 3
‘I can hardly stand, said Daljit.
‘It shouldn't get worse, I said hopefully. But the
current was strong, and I felt very wobbly at the knees.
Daljit tried to move forward, but slipped and went
over backwards into the water, bringing me down too.
He began kicking and thrashing about in fear, but
eventually, using me as a support, he came up spouting
water like a whale.
When we found we were not being swept away, we
stopped struggling and cautiously made our way to the
opposite bank, but we had been thrust about twenty
yards downstream.
We rested on warm sand, while a hot sun beat
down on us. Daljit sucked at a cut in his hand. But
we were soon up and walking again, hungry now, and
munching biscuits.
‘We haven't far to go;’ I said.
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ said Daljit.
We shuffled along the forest path, tired but not
discouraged. :
Soon we were on the main road again, and there
were fields and villages on either side. A cool breeze
came across the open plain, blowing down from the hills.
In the fields there was a gentle swaying movement as

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the wind stirred the cane. Then the breeze came down
the road, and dust began to swirl and eddy around °
us. Out of the dust, behind us, came the rumble of
cart wheels.
‘Ho! Heeyah! Heeyah!’ shouted the driver of the
cart. The bullocks snorted and came lumbering through
the dust. We moved to the side of the road.
‘Are you going to Raiwala?’ called Daljit. ‘Can you
take us with you?’
‘Climb up!’ said the man, and we ran through the
dust and clambered on to the back of the moving cart.
The cart lurched forward and rattled and bumped so
much that we had to cling to its sides to avoid falling
off. It smelt of grass and mint and cow-dung cakes. The
driver had a red cloth tied round his head, and wore
a tight vest and a dhoti. He was smoking a beedi, and
yelling at his bullocks, and he seemed to have forgotten
our presence. We were too busy clinging to the sides of
the cart to bother about making conversation. Before
long we were involved in the traffic of Raiwala—a simall
but busy: market town. We jumped off the bullock
cart and walked beside it. ‘Should we offer him any
money?’ I asked. “No. He will be offended. He is not
a taxi driver.’ ‘All right, we'll just say thank you.’ We
called out our thanks to the cart driver, but he didn’t
look back. He appeared to be talking to his bullocks.

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 Running Away

‘Tm hungry,’ declared Daljit. ‘We haven't had a

proper meal since last night.’
“Then let’s eat,’ I said. ‘Come on, Daljit.’ We walked
through the small Raiwala bazaar, looking in at the tea
and sweet shops until we found the cheapest-looking
dhaba. A servant-boy brought us rice and dal and Daljit
ordered an ounce of ghee which he poured over the
curry. The meal cost us two rupees but we could have
as much dal as we wanted, and between us we finished
four bowls of it.
‘We'll rest at the station, I said, as we emerged
from the dhaba. “We'll buy second-class tickets, and
rest in the first-class waiting room. No one will check
on us. We look first class, don’t we?’
‘Not after that walk through the jungle,’ replied
Daljit.
But we did occupy the best waiting room and Daljit
made himself comfortable in an armchair.
“Wake me when the train comes in,’ he said drowsily.
We didn’t have long to wait. I was leaning against the
door, staring across the railway tracks, when I heard the
whistle of the approaching train. It came in slowly, the
big, hissing engine sending out waves of steam. A crowd
was waiting on the platform, and it surged forward as
the train drew up. At the same time the carriage doors
opened and passengers started pouring out.

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 Rusty Runs Away

I had to shake Daljit to wake him up, and we

emerged on to the platform to join the fray. Men,
women and children pushed and struggled, and bundles
of belongings were passed through windows over the
heads of people. Daljit and I, clinging to our bundles,
were caught up in the general rush and confusion, and
were conveniently swept into a compartment.
By the time we had settled down in a corner seat,
the train was moving. One or two people still hung
on to the doors and windows, worming their way in
as opportunity offered.
Iwas near a window, and as the train gathered speed
and mango groves and villages mingled with telegraph
posts as we rushed past, I realized that we were now
really on our way, moving into the mysterious unknown.
In my excitement I gripped Daljit by the arm.
‘We are on our way!’ I said.
“That's obvious,’ said Daljit, who was trying to
extract his haversack from under a fat fellow passenger
who had fallen asleep on it in the midst of all the
commotion.
But Daljit knew what I meant, and after retrieving
the haversack, he gave me a grin, and’ his eyes were
alive with excitement.

o,re
e

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 Running Away

At Old Delhi Station we got down from the train like

perfectly respectable people and moved confidently
towards the exit, quite pleased at the prospect of handing
over our tickets to the ticket-collector. The crowd was
dense and movement slow. And this was a good thing,
because when we were only about thirty feet from the
exit, I spotted Mr Jain, our maths teacher, talking to
the ticket-collector.
Mr Jain was the most efficient teacher we had at
Arundel and he had obviously been sent after us. He
was tubby and wore glasses, but he was a shrewd man
and knew just where to intercept us. We had to get
away from the exit right away.
‘Let’s get away from here,’ I whispered fiercely,
grabbing at Daljit.
‘Why?’ asked Daljit, who had not yet spotted our
teacher.
‘Can't you see?’ I said. “With the ticket- eolléerat!
Daljit almost tripped himself up in his hurry to
vanish. The crowd was pushing towards the exit, and
we were up against a human wall which would not
give way at any point. Just then Mr Jain spotted us,
and we heard him shout: ;
‘Boys, come here! Rusty! Daljit!’
For a brief moment, I was on the verge of obeying
the familiar voice of my teacher; and then I had a swift

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 Rusty Runs Away

vision of classrooms and dormitories and the principal’s

gloomy, rat-whiskered face, and I hated it all and
wanted to get away as fast as I could; I wanted to keep
running until I reached the sea and my uncle's ship.
Daljit did not hesitate for a moment. He plunged
beneath the legs of a tall Jat farmer, and almost lost
‘his turban as he went through. I headed for a narrow
gap between two stout Punjabi women, but they closed
their ranks before I was completely through, and the
result was a tangle of legs and arms. Mr Jain was
close behind me. And then a coolie sprinted across
the platform to get to a compartment, and collided
with Mr Jain.
Mr Jain rolled over and lost his glasses. Idisengaged
myself from the women and ran after Daljit who was
far ahead, using his fists and elbows to cut a path
through the crowd.
He stopped once, turned to see if I had freed
myself, and shouted: ‘Come on, Rusty! Across
the -
railway tracks!’
He leapt down from the platform, and slipped
between two carriages of a waiting train. I follo
wed
unwillingly. I have always had a superstitious
dread
of crossing railway lines, and sometimes
I'd get
nightmares in which I'd find myself lying
helpless
(though not bound) on a railway track, while
a steam
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 Running Away

engine thundered towards me. I’d somehow manage

to get away all of a sudden in the nick of time, with
the engine about three feet away, but sometimes I'd
wonder what would happen if I failed to get up at
the crucial moment!
Daljit had already crossed two sets of railway lines,
and was climbing the railings on the other side. |
looked left, and then right, and then left again, and
saw a shunting engine in the distance. It was far away,
and I had plenty of time in which to cross the lines
and join Daljit. But 1 was overcome by an irrational
fear and sweat broke out on my forehead and on the ©
palms of my hands.
‘Come on!’ called Daljit urgently.
I took a deep breath, looked straight ahead and
made a dash across the tracks. I was so nervous that
I tripped and fell across the lines. A feeling of nausea
swept over me and the ground seemed to be in the
throes of an earthquake. Was my nightmare going to
come true at last? I could still hear Daljit shouting; I
could hear the puff-puff of the engine coming closer.
‘Come on, Rusty, get up, Daljit’s voice was in my
ear now, and I was surprised to find him beside me,
tugging at my arm.
His presence gave me confidence: I scrambled to
my feet, snatched up my haversack, and ran with him

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 Rusty Runs Away

to the embankment. A fence made of corrugated iron

sheeting blocked our way. It was about ten feet high
and there were no footholds which would enable us
to climb it. So we ran along the side of the fence
until we found an opening which gave on to a goods
yard.
We dashed through an open turnstile, and entered
a small side street. We kept running, keeping to narrow
lanes and alleys, where small mosques, temples, schools
and shops jostled with each other, and then found
ourselves on a wide thoroughfare, bustling with people
and noisy with traffic.
We were in Chandni Chowk, Delhi’s famed and
historic street of silversmiths.
o,
~

Here, in the crowd of shoppers, pedlars, clerks, urchins,

sadhus, jewellers, barbers and pickpockets, we felt fairly
safe. The heart ofa city is always a good place to get
lost in. Fugitives usually make the mistake of fleeing
into the countryside, where, being strangers, they are
soon noticed. By sheer accident we had come upon
the safest place in Delhi.
Tongas, bullock carts, cycles, scooter-rickshaws, and
cars new, old and ancient, all struggled for advantage
on the road. Any vehicle that had a horn blew it and

68
 Running Away

anything that had a bell jangled it, and if you had

neither horn nor bell, you used your vocal chords.
We found a sweet stall, and while Daljit dropped
syrupy; brown gulab jamuns down his throat, I helped
myself to some golden-spangled jalebies. _
A sudden sharp shower drove us into the shelter of
a veranda. As it began to rain quite heavily, the street
rapidly emptied, and in no time at all the throng of
people had. melted away. A couple of cars churned
their way through the rushing water and stray cows
continued rummaging in the garbage heaps.
A group of small boys came romping along the
street which was now like a river in spate. When they
came to a gutter filled with rainwater, they plunged in,
screaming with laughter. A garland of marigolds came
floating down the middle of the road.
And then the rain stopped suddenly. The sun came
out. A paper boat came sailing between my legs.
‘Where do we go now?’ asked Daljit. “The station
isn't safe.’
“We must leave Delhi by some other way. Meanwhile,
let’s find a cheap hotel for the night.’
‘Oh that’s not a problem, I’ve still got over thirty
rupees, said Daljit.
‘Even then, I don’t think it will be enough for both
of us, not if we are going to buy tickets.’

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 Rusty Runs Away

“Then we won't buy tickets, said Daljit rather

flippantly.
It didn’t take us long to find a hotel. It was called
the Great Oriental Hotel, and. was just behind the
police station. It didn’t pretend to be even a third-class
hotel, and for five rupees we were given a small back
room which had a window overlooking the godown
of an Afghan spice merchant. The powerful smell of
asafoetida came up from the courtyard below.
We were tired and hot, so we tossed our belongings
down on the floor and took turns at the bathroom
tap. Then we stretched out on the only cot in the
room and slept through the afternoon, oblivious to
the noises from the street, the attentions of the insect
population in the hotel mattress and the creaking of
the old fan overhead.
It was late evening when we woke up, and we were
hungry again. Daljit opened the door and shouted.
Presently a servant-boy appeared.
‘Bring us tea, toast, two big omelettes and a bottle
of tomato sauce,’ ordered Daljit with a confidence that
I wished I had. |
The omelettes, when they arrived twenty minutes later,
were tiny. Both had obviously been made from one egg.
The sauce had been diluted with water, and the toasts were
burnt. The salt was damp, and we had to prise open the

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salt cellar to get to it. The pepper, however, came out in

a generous rush and made up the major portion of the
meal. As our hunger had not been satisfied by this poor
fare, we ordered eggs again, boiled eggs this time. No
matter how tiny, they would have to be whole.
‘Let’s go out, said Daljit after we had eaten the
eggs. ‘It’s stuffy in here.’
‘Tm still sleepy,’ I said.
‘Then I'll go out for a little while. I may go to
the gurdwara.’ :
‘All right, but don’t get lost.’
Daljit left me, and I settled back on the cot, and
opened Tagore’s The Gardener but I didn’t read for
long because as the evening wore on, I found myself
a witness to the great yearly flight of the insects into
the cool brief freedom of the night. ;
Termites and white ants, which had been sleeping
through the hot season, emerged from their lairs. Out of
every hole, crevice and crack, huge winged ants emerged,
at first fluttering about heavily, on this, the first and
last flight of their lives. There was only one direction
in which they could fly, towards the light—towards
electric bulbs and street lamps and kerosene lanterns
throughout the city. The street lamp beneath our room
attracted a massive swarm of clumsy termites, which
gave the impression of one thick, slowly revolving body.

fan
 ~ Rusty Runs Away

It was the hour of lizards. They had their reward

for weeks of patient waiting. Plying their sticky pink
tongues, they devoured insects swiftly. For hours
they crammed their stomachs, knowing that such a
feast would not be theirs again till the next season.
Throughout the entire hot season the insect world
prepares for this flight out of darkness into light, but
not one survives its bid for freedom.
Drowsy,I closed my eyes, but the sounds of the |
city’s unceasing traffic came through the window. Ships
and distant ports seemed very far, away but so did hills
and mountain streams.
I fell asleep and woke up only when Daljit returned.
‘ve solved our problem!’ he said, beaming. ‘We
wont bother with the train. I got friendly with a truck
driver, and he has offered to take us as far as Jaipur.
That’s nearly 300 miles. It will be quite safe to take a
train from Jaipur.’
‘When can your friend take us?’
“The truck leaves at four o’clock in the morning.’
“There's no rest for the wicked,’ I said. ‘Still, the
less time we lose the better. It’s Wednesday, and my
uncle’s ship might sail on Saturday. What will we have
to pay?’
‘Nothing. It’s a free ride. The driver is a Sikh, and
I persuaded him that we are related to each other

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 Running Away

through the marriage of my brother-in-law to his

sister-in-law’s niece!’
+,
“2

At four the next morning we made our way towards

the Red Fort, its ramparts dark against the starry sky.
The streets which had been teeming with so much life
the previous evening were now deserted. The street
lamps shed lonely pools of light on the pavements. The
occasional car glided silently past, but it belonged to
another kind of world altogether.
Near the Fort we found a couple of dhabas which
were still open. They did business with the truck drivers
who slept by day and drove by night.
: Our driver, a tall, bearded Sikh, loomed over us
out of the darkness. He had a companion with him,
also a Sikh, who was still in his underwear.
‘You can get in at the back,’ said the driver in his
‘thick Punjabi, which I could follow sufficiently well.
‘We'll be off in a few minutes.’
The truck was parked beneath a ca tree. We
pulled ourselves up into the back of the open truck,
only to find our way barred by what seemed at first
to be a prehistoric monster.
The monster snorted once, stamped heavily on the
boards, and sent us tumbling backwards.

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘Bhaiyyaji’ cried Daljit to the dikes “There’s some

kind of animal in here!’
‘Don't worry, it’s only Mumta,’ said our friend.
‘But what is it doing in here?”
‘She is going with us. I am taking her to the market
in Jaipur. So get in with her boys, and make yourselves
comfortable.’ 3
There was now enough light to enable us to take
a closer look at our travelling companion. She was a
full-grown buffalo from the Punjab.
‘An excellent buffalo,’ said Daljit, who appeared —
to be familiar with the finer ee of these animals.
‘Notice her blue eyes!’
‘I didn't know buffaloes had blue eyes,’ I said dryly.
‘Only the best buffaloes have them, said Daljit.
‘Blue-eyed buffaloes give more milk than brown-
eyed ones.’
Fortunately for us, the Sardarji started the truck
and an early morning breeze, blowing across the river,
swept away some of the stench so typical of buffaloes.
We were soon out of Delhi and bowling along at
a fair speed on the road to Jaipur. The recent rain had
waterlogged low-lying areas, and the herons, cranes
and snipe were numerous. Fields and trees were alive
with strange, beautiful birds: the long-tailed king crow,
blue jays and weaver birds, and occasionally the great

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white-headed kite, which is said to be Garuda, God

Vishnu’s famous steed.
As we travelled further into Rajasthan, the oe
became more numerous, so did the camels loping along
the side of the road in straight, orderly lines. And, as
the vegetation grew less and the desert took over, the
people themselves grew more colourful, as though to
make up for the absence of colour in the landscape.
The women wore wide red skirts, and gold and silver
ornaments. They were handsome, tall, fair and strong.
The men were tall too and the older among them had
flowing white beards.
As the day grew older, and the sun rose higher in
the sky, the traffic on the road increased, but our truck
driver, instead of slowing down, drove faster.
Perhaps he was in a hurry to dispose of the buffalo.
Soon he was trying to overtake another truck.
‘The truck in front was moving fast too, and its
driver had no intention of giving up the middle of
the road. It was piled high with stacks of sugarcane.
‘It’s going to be a race!’ cried Daljit excitedly, standing
up against the buffalo, in order to get a better view.
The road was not wide enough to take two large
vehicles at once, and as the other truck wouldn't make
way, ours had to fall in behind it, almost suffocating
us with the exhaust fumes. We were thrown to the

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floorboards as the truck lurched over the ruts in the

rough road, and Mumta, getting nervous, almost
trampled upon us. Then there was a tremendous bump,
a grinding of brakes, and we came toastop.
As the dust cleared, we made out our driver’s bearded
face gazing anxiously down at us.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Did you overtake the other truck?’ asked Daljit.
‘No, grunted our friend. ‘He would not give way.
He was a Sikh, too. You had better come in front.’
_ We agreed without any hesitation and his assistant
rather grudgingly joined the buffalo.
After a few miles, the driver became friendly and
told us that his name was Gurnam Singh.
‘Would you like to hear my new horn?’ he asked
in Punjabi.
‘Have we not been hearing it all this time?’ I asked
rather pointedly in Hindi. We got along well enough.
‘You can’t hear it well in the back,’ he said, quite
oblivious to what I meant. “That’s why I’ve brought you
here in front. What do you think of it?’ he asked, as
a shattering sound filled the cabin of the truck.
‘It is a fine horn,’ I said, fingers in my ears. ‘It
could not be louder.’
‘You can hear it half a mile ahead, said Gurnam

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Singh proudly, and he blasted off at two young men

who were sharing a bicycle. They moved out of the
way with alacrity.
‘It makes a lot of noise in here, too,’ I said, and
added hastily, for fear of offending him, ‘not that it
matters, of course...” |
‘Doesn't your horn have more than one tone of
voice?’ asked Daljit.
I thought this was a bit rude, but Gurnam Singh
seemed to welcome the question.
‘Two!’ he exclaimed. ‘Male and female. See. And
he produced a high note and then a low note, both
equally ear-shattering. Ahead of us, a camel ran off the
road and into the fields.
‘This is a terrific horn,’ said Gurnam Singh. ‘Tve
had it made specially for this truck. No foreign horns
for me. They are not loud enough. Indian horns are
the best!”
In an interval of comparative quiet, I found myself |
reflecting on the nature of sound—the unpleasantness
of some sounds, and the sweetness of others, and why
certain sounds (like those made by monster-horns) can
be sweet to some and terrible to others.
‘It was made in Old Delhi, continued Gurnam
Singh, interrupting my thoughts with further comment
on his horn. ‘Seventy-five rupees only. Made by hand,

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to my own specifications. There is only one drawback—

it mustn't get wet!’
As his fist came down on the horn again, I thought
of praying for rain, but the sky was quite clear and |
decided that such a prayer would be an unreasonable and
ungrateful demand considering the huge kindness this
man was showing us by letting us ride with him so far.
‘Ah, but you don’t know what it is to have a horn
like mine. Try it, friend. Why don’t you try it for
yourself?’
The question was addressed to me, as I was sitting
beside him, Daljit being near the door.
‘Oh, that is quite all right,’ I said. ‘You have already
_ proved its excellence.’
‘No, you must try it. I insist that you try it!’ He
was like a big boy, suddenly generous, determined to
share a new toy with a younger brother.
He grabbed my right hand and placed it on the
horn, and, as I felt it give a little, a thrill of pleasure
rushed up my arm. I pressed hard, and a stream of
music flowed in and out of the truck. And as I kept
pressing down, I experienced the driver’s happiness,
for, with a horn like his, one felt the power and glory
that belongs to the kings of the road.
>,
“

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It was getting dark by the time we reached Jaipur, so

we were not able to see much of the city. We spent the
night in the truck, sleeping in the back with Gurnam
Singh. Mumta had been disposed of on the way. Jaipur
nights can be chilly, even in summer, so Gurnam Singh
considerately shared his bedding with us. Because he
was accustomed to sleeping in the body of the truck,
he was soon asleep, snoring loudly and rhythmically.
Daljit and I tossed and turned restlessly. He kicked me
several times in the night. The floor of the truck was
hard, and retained various buffalo smells.
We had hardly fallen asleep (or so it seemed), when
Gurnam Singh woke us up, saying that it was almost
four o'clock and that he had to start on his return
journey, this time with a load of red sandstone.
“What a life!’ exclaimed Daljit, sleepily rubbing
his eyes with one hand. ‘I'd hate to be a truck driver.’
‘One has to live somehow,’ philosophized Gurnam |
Singh. ‘T like driving. I knew how to drive when I was
merely six or seven. The money is not so bad, either.
Now, when I get back to Delhi, I will have two days
off, which I will spend with my wife and children.
Goodbye friends, and if you pass through Delhi again,
you will find me near the walls of the Red Fort.’
We waved to him as he shot off in his truck,
throwing up huge clouds of dust, making a great noise

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and probably waking the local inhabitants. Dogs barked,

and a cock began to crow.
We were on the outskirts of the city, facing a large
lake. On the other side was open country, bare hills
and desert. We could also make out the ruins of a
building—probably a palace or a hunting lodge—among
some thorn bushes and babul trees.
‘Let's go out there, suggested Daljit. “We can bathe
in the lake and rest. Then later in the morning we can
come into the city and find out‘about trains.’
We set out along the shores of the lake, and it was
a good half hour before we reached. the opposite bank.
_ There was no one in the fields, but a camel was going
round and round a well, drawing up water in small trays.
Smoke rose from houses in a nearby village, and the notes
of a flute floated over to us on the still morning air.
It took us about twenty minutes to reach the ruin,
which seemed like an old hunting lodge put up by some
Rajput prince when game must have been plentiful.
The gate of the lodge was blocked with rubble, but
part of the wall had crumbled apart and we climbed
through the gap and found ourselves in a stone-paved
courtyard in the centre of which stood a dry, disused
stone fountain. A small peepul tree was growing from
the cracks in the floor of the fountain.
We crossed the courtyard to the main structure,

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and then Daljit stopped and asked: ‘Do you smell

something, Rusty?’
Yess <1 ‘said; ‘curty.’
This was the last thing we expected to find. It
meant the ruin was inhabited. I wondered if it would
be better to turn around and leave, but curiosity got
the better of us—curiosity, and the tantalizing aroma
of curry! So Daljit and I moved forward, out of the
sun and into the shade of a covered veranda. A door
led into a dark chamber from which the curry smells
appeared to be wafting across, and there we stood,
hesitating on the brink of the unknown.
‘Well, go ahead,’ prompted Daljit.
‘I was waiting for you, I said, feeling a bit
apprehensive for no clear reason.
Smiling at each other in mutual understanding, we
stepped into the room together and found it empty.
There was a choolah in one corner, and on it stood
a pot in which something delicious was cooking. Of
the cook there was no sign.
I moved warily towards the fire, lifted the lid off
the pot, and sniffed. Chicken curry!.Chicken curry in
a ruined hunting lodge in the middle of nowhere! We
didn't stop to wonder how or why it had got there.
There weren't any utensils about, so we dipped our
fingers into the curry and I had just sunk my teeth into

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a fleshy bit when a pair of strong arms came around

from behind and lifted me off my feet.
I was so startled that I dropped the piece of chicken.
I struggled to get free from the other’s grip but his arms
were very powerful. That they were a man’s arms and not
a ghost’s I could tell by the black hair on his forearm.
I struggled and kicked about wildly, and then someone,
another man, loomed up in front of me and grabbed me
by the legs. I could hear Daljit struggling with someone
else, and tried to shout to him, but the man who held
me by my legs stuck an oily rag into my mouth. He
caught my hands and held them while my feet were
tied together with a length of rope.:I was dumped on
the ground, face downwards, with my hands and feet in
ropes. Daljit, I saw, was in much the same position at
the other end of the room. There wasn’t much we could
do. There were at least three men with us.
‘He’s only a boy, said one of the men, in the
local dialect of Hindi (which to my surprise I found
I understood), bending over and examining my face.
In the darkness of the room I could not make out his
features, but I knew he had a beard, because I had felt
it on my neck, and his breath smelt strongly of garlic.
‘Boy, man or girl,’ said another, ‘whoever tries to
make off with our food deserves a good thrashing.’
‘He is quite fair, this one, said the bearded man.

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‘Is he a foreigner?’
"Yes, he looks like one. Let us take them into the
courtyard. We'll be able to see them better outside.’
‘No, we mustn't show ourselves! If the villagers spot
us in here, word would soon get around. We want to
use this place again, don’t we?’
‘Light the lamp, then.
The man who set to work lighting a kerosene lantern
was the tallest man in the group. As the flame in the
lantern shot up, it cast a huge shadow on the wall.
This man was a giant, several inches over six feet. He
was bare-chested, and his hair was close-cropped. His
muscles stood out like lumps of iron. Another man
behind the bearded one appeared to be the one giving
the orders; I could not see him as yet.
‘Turn him over so that we can have a good look,’
he said.
The giant rolled me over on the ground, so that I was
staring helplessly at the blackened ceiling. A few moments
later three faces were staring down at me. At their mercy
in that dark, dark room, tied, gagged and trussed up, I was
quaking with fear. They looked like criminals. Probably
they were dacoits, using the ruin as a hideout.
The bearded man had high cheekbones and slanting
eyes. The giant did not have a cruel face, inspite of
his broad nose and thick, heavy lips. It was the third

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man who frightened me most. He wasn’t big and he |

wasnt ugly. He was, in fact, rather short, and he was
smiling down at me, but it was a smile that sent a
shiver down my spine.
‘It wasn’t very nice of you to help yourself to our
chicken,’ he said in a smooth voice. “Not after Bhambiri
here went to so much trouble to steal it.’
‘Yes, in the middle of the night,’ said the giant,
who had the quaint name of Bhambiri, which means
spinning tcp. ‘I had three dogs and half the village
chasing me through the fields. But I gave them the
slip” And he chuckled hugely to himself.
‘It’s all very well to make a joke of it, said the
bearded one with a look of gloom. “The chicken isn’t
important. Why did they really come here? What do
you think they know?’
‘Let’s ask this one,’ said the short, sinister man. He
bent down, stared hard into my eyes and then pulled
the rag out of my mouth. No sooner had the gag
gone than I felt something cold and hard against my
lower teeth. It was like a dentist making a preliminary
examination of his patient’s teeth, but this short, sinister
man was doing it with point of a dagger.
‘Don’t talk or shout except when we tell you,’ he
warned. Then, taking the knife away he stood back.
‘Let him sit up a little. Do you understand me?’

8D.
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I nodded. Bhambiri came forward, and lifting me

with ease, set me up against the wall.
‘My wrists are hurting,’ I said.
Bhambiri made as if to untie my hands, but his
leader said: ‘Don’t untie him, you fool,’ and the giant
moved away.
‘Now. Tell us what you are doing here.’
‘We were just looking for a place to rest,’ I said,
deciding that there was no harm in telling the truth.
‘Twist his arm, Bhambiri.’
I don’t think the giant meant to twist my arm very
hard, but even the slight wrench he gave it made me
cry out. He had obviously been a wrestler at some
point in his career.
‘Don't lie!’ spat out the leader. ‘It’s very painful to
lie. You've been spying on us.’
‘We do not know anything about you,’ I said
desperately. “We have only been in Jaipur one night.’
“They're only boys.’
‘We are on our way to the coast,’ I said. “We do
not have much money.’
‘So you were about to steal our food,’ said Bhambiri
sternly. A lost meal concerned him more than the
possibility of our being police spies. 7
‘Let’s see if they have any money on them,’ said the
short one. He went through my pockets and produced

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the few notes and loose change that I possessed. Then

he went over to Daljit, still gagged and helpless, took
his wallet, examined it and said: ‘There’s thirty or forty
here.’ He put everything into his own pockets. I was
dismayed. Now what were we to do?
‘Shall I let them go now?’-asked Bhambiri.
‘No, you idiot, they'll set up an alarm. We should
just finish what’s left of the food, and then be off.’
So we lay there, trussed up for about fifteen minutes,
while the dacoits finished their meal. I could see that
Daljit, like me, was itching to be set free and leave this
horrible place for ever. Meanwhile, it looked as if the
dacoits had no intention of leaving anything behind,
and when they finished, they licked their fingers and
belched. I couldn’t help thinking that Bhambiri had
a wonderful belch. It came from deep down in his
belly, gathered volume as it rose to the surface, and ~
then resounded round the chamber as though a gong
had been struck. The short one belched very quietly,
in his mean way. ,
‘We'll leave them here,’ he said, giving me a narrow
sly smile. “Ihey can have as much rest as they like.
They won't be found for a day or two, perhaps. Close
the fair boy's mouth again, Bhambiri.’
The giant bent over me, shutting off the light from
the lantern and though it was dark I thought I had

eye
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detected a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. He thrust

the dirty rag back into my mouth and made it fast
with a strip of cloth. And then, while he still had me
away from the light, he slipped his hands behind my
back and swiftly loosened the knot of the rope that
bound my hands.
‘All right, let’s go,’ said the leader.
He walked out of the chamber, followed by the
others. Bhambiri went out last but he did not look
back at us. I waited until I could no longer hear their
footsteps and then I slipped my hands out of the rope
that Bhambiri had loosened, and wrenched the gag
off my mouth. I managed to free my feet, and then
crawled over to Daljit. I removed his gag, then started
on the rope round his wrists.
‘How did you get loose?’ he asked, as soon as he
was able to find his voice.
‘Don't talk too loudly, I said. “They might return.
Their cooking pots are still here, though they probably
belong to someone else.’
: ‘But how did you get loose, Rusty?’
‘The big fellow freed my hands when the others
weren't looking. I think he felt sorry for us.’
‘God bless his soft heart,’ said Daljit fervently. “We
might have been lying here for days starving to death.
Or dying of thirst, whichever happens first.’

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He sat up as soon as his limbs were free, and began

stretching his arms and legs. Then he brought his knees
up to his chin and gave me an anxious look.
‘What do we do now, Rusty? They've taken our
money. We can’t go anywhere, forward or backward.
We'll have to give ourselves up at the nearest
police station.’
“They have taken our hisersnsted too. Well, if they’re
dacoits, I suppose it’s their business to take what they
can. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky. They
might have murdered us.’
‘We wouldn't have been their first victims. That
short fellow . . .’ Daljit, with a scowl on his face, was
considering the possibilities; then, his hands in his
pockets, his face brightened. “They weren't so clever,
Rusty. They forgot my watch, just imagine, and there’s
still some change in one of my pockets!’
“Well, that’s something,’ I said. “We won't starve.
We can always sell the watch. But if we can get to
Jamnagar somehow without selling it... We should
keep it in case of a real emergency.’
‘Isn't this an emergency?’
‘I suppose so. Still...’
‘And you think we can go on? You haven't given
up yet?’
‘What about you?’

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‘Do you think I’m likely to give up before you?

Come on, Rusty, let’s get out of here. It’s Saturday
tomorrow and we have to get to that ship!’
>,
“2°

Daljit andI lay stretched out on the floor of a goods

wagon, which was open to the sky. The train jogged
slowly through the desert, and hot winds blew the sand
in upon us. The gritty sand got in our hair and into our
eyes and mouths. There was no escape from it. Daljit’s
face, caked with sand, was the same colour as mine. The
sun beat down on us mercilessly and there was only a
small corner of the wagon which gave us some shade.
We had bought some bananas with what was left of our
money, and we took bites on them from time to time.
‘We'll be half starved by morning, I said. ‘I think
we should save something of these bananas.’
‘Morning comes tomorrow, said Daljit. ‘I’m hungry
today. Besides, we'll reach Jamnagar in the morning.’
‘And if the ship has gone?’ I couldn't help wondering
about all the possible situations we might find ourselves
in—even if they weren't what we hoped for.
‘The ship will be there.’ Daljit was, as usual,
confident about everything.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘I don't. I’m just an optimist.’

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‘It will sail any day now. Perhaps it has left already.
Daljit, we'll be stuck without any money; what will
we do then?’ ;
‘Stop worrying, Rusty. Don’t be so nervous. If we're
in trouble, we'll sell the watch and go back to school and
be expelled. No, they won't expel us—they'll lose all my
father’s money—but if you like, we can run away again.’
“That ship had better be there,’ I muttered.
‘It will be there. We'll be off in it tomorrow. I
hope you will come and live with me in Mombasa
for some time.’
‘Oh, I'll probably be too busy travelling with my
uncle,’ I said.
‘How wonderful! No more school. I may come with
you, Rusty. I don't think business will be very interesting.’
‘We could see the world together,’ I said. ‘What
dreamers we are!’ ©
“Well, we are on our way somewhere. As my
grandfather used to say (he was the grandfather who
travelled round the world selling cloth made in the
Punjab), “The best reason for going from one place to
another is to see what’s in between.”’
‘He sold cloth in between, I said. ‘He wasn’t
dreaming like us.’
‘You're giving up, Rusty.’
‘No, I’m not.’

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But it was a hard night’s journey. The train was

agonizingly slow and stopped at many places. At one
small station, a number of sacks filled with what must
have been cattle-fodder were tossed into the wagon,
almost burying us in our fitful sleep. But we- found
they were comfortable to rest on and lay stretched out
on top of them until the first light of morning.
As the sky cleared, we knew we were not far from our
journey’s end. The landscape had undergone a complete
change. We had left the desert for the coastal plain.
The tall waving palms parted, and then I spotted
the sea.
It was the sea as I had always dreamt of it ever
since my days in Kathiawar with my father. It was vast,
lonely and blue, blue as the sky was blue, and the first
ship I saw was a sailing ship, an Arab dhow, listing
slightly in the mild breeze that blew onto the shore.
‘The train stopped at a small bridge spanning a stream
which wound its way across the plain down to the sea.
We got down here, and waved our thanks to the
brakesman who had tolerated our presence on the train.
Then we slid down the banks of the stream, and hid
beneath the bridge until the train moved off again.
We didn’t want the guard to see us; he might not be
as tolerant as the brakesman.
Seeing that no one was about, we removed our dusty,

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travel-stained clothes, and waded out into the stream,

pushing our way through a tangle of water lilies. The
current was sluggish unlike the swift streams in the
hills, and the warm water was not as invigorating as
the water we were used to from the mountain springs,
but it was fresh enough for our purpose, and brought
new life into our weary bodies. We thrashed about,
splashing away and ducking each other, and Daljit,
trying to swim underwater, came up witha water lily
clinging to his long hair, which had come undone.
We stayed in the water for about fifteen minutes,
and by then had lost all awareness of our surroundings.
When we finally climbed back on the bank, we got a
rude shock: our clothes were missing. Daljit’s turban
was all that remained.
Higher up the bank, three boys, clad only in
loincloths, stood staring down at us. The biggest of
them held out our clothes teasingly.
‘Please bring us our clothes,’ said Daljit good-
naturedly in. Hindi. ‘It is kind of you to leave my
turban, but I do not wear a turban anywhere except
on my head!’
The three boys burst into laughter and turned on
their heels, ambling away through the fields.
‘Come back!’ shouted Daljit. .
‘Let’s go after them,’ I said.

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 Rusty Runs Away

It was almost a matter of life and death for us. All

‘that Daljit had on his person was his turban and his
watch, but I didn’t even have that much. We scrambled
up the bank and ran in desperate pursuit of the boys.
But they had had a good start, and knew their way
through the fields. They had reached the village while
we were still struggling through the field, tripping over
culverts and irrigation ditches. A shower of pebbles,
thrown at us from behind a wall, brought us to
a stop.
‘Let’s try persuasion, I suggested. Cupping my
_hands to my mouth, I shouted: ‘Please give us back
our clothes, we do not have any others!’ I took the
trouble to use my best Hindi.
The only response was a large stone, which flew
past my ear. 3
‘I don’t think they speak Hindi here,’ I told
Daljit. “Shall I try English? I don’t know any other
language.’ “Not English! It will only result in more
stones. I suppose they speak Gujarati . . . and I don’t
know any.’
A man appeared at the edge of the field, waving a
stick at us and shouting incomprehensibly.
‘What do you think he’s saying?’ asked Daljit.
‘How should I know? He probably wants us to get
off his land.’

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 Running Away

‘Well, we're not going without our clothes.’

‘I think we are,’ I said. “Here come the dogs!’
Several village dogs, baying like the hounds of the
Baskervilles, came bounding towards us, followed by two
men with sticks and several boys with stones. Daljit and
I lost no time in presenting them with a rear view, and
we made off through the fields as fast as our weary limbs .
would take us. It wasn’t until we had crossed the stream
again that we paused for breath. ‘The villagers did not
follow us across, so we concluded that we were now on
someone else’s land. The village men shook their sticks
at us and we shook our fists at them, but we were still
without our clothes. We left the stream and took shelter
in a grove of mango trees. There, we were left alone.
‘And now what do we do?’ Daljit wanted to know.
“Wearing nothing, you mean?’ :
‘Why not? We'll wait until it gets dark.’
‘And when morning comes?’
‘Oh, we'll find something. We can sell my watch
and buy some clothes.’
‘T can’t imagine walking into a shop wearing nothing
but a watch, which we then offer for sale.’
_ ‘We can pretend to be sadhus,’ he said. ‘Or at least
the disciples of sadhus, chelas. It’s the fashion these
days. Only the best sadhus go about naked. We might
even be given free board and lodging for the night.’

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘And by the morning we'd find the ship has sailed

without us.’
‘I hadn't thought of that...
But as we sat there discussing our predicament we
saw two men, probably railway workers, walking down
to the stream on our side of it. They wore trousers and
shirts and shoes unlike the farmers who wore dhotis. At
first I thought they were going to the stream to drink
water, but when I saw them removing their clothes, I
sat up with a wild hope.
‘Daljit,’ I said urgently, ‘do you see them?’
‘Of course I see them.’ He was not slow in grasping
what I meant. ‘Yes, this is our only chance, Rusty. We
must show no mercy, remember! This world is no place
for gentlemen like us. We must change our ways, and
do as the local people do! They will ‘probably blame
the villagers. But move quietly.’
‘Let’s keep to the bushes. They mustn’t see us!’
Crawling along on all fours, heedless of the thorns
that scratched our bare flesh, we approached the
stream again, at the approximate place where the men
were bathing. They were making a fair noise as they
romped about in the water like boys (bathing in the
open seems to make adults quite skittish, I’ve noticed,
perhaps because they are back in the element from
which mankind first emerged as playful amoebae!) and

96
did not see or hear us. Their clothes lay in an untidy
heap a few yards away.
Til get them, whispered Daljit. ‘If they see me,
they'll mistake me for a boy from the village. But if
they see you, we've had it!’
He dashed out from the bushes with great speed (and
if he had shown the same spirit in school, he would
have made a good athlete), swept up all the clothes
in his arms, and scrambled back to me. ‘Brilliant!’ I
whispered. “They didn’t see a thing.’ We didn’t wait
for them to discover their loss (though we were sorely
tempted to do so), but took to our heels and fled back
through the mango grove.
We crossed the railway tracks and ran across the
open countryside until we got to an old well, and there,
in the generous shade of an ancient banyan tree, we
got into our new clothes, which were several sizes too
big for us. But who cared about that anyway? At least
we were not naked anymore!
\/
“2

Two hours later we were at Jamnagar.

We stopped near a small tea shop and watched
other people eating laddoos and bhelpuri. We couldn't
even afford a coconut.
‘Where is the harbour?’ I.asked the shopkeeper.

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 Rusty Runs Away

“Iwo miles from here,’ he replied.

‘Are there any a in the port?’ I asked, relieved
yet anxious.
‘What do you want with a ship?’
‘What does anyone want with a ship?’
“Well there’s only one and it sails today, so you had
better hurry if you want to go away on it’
‘Let’s go,’ said Daljit
‘Wait!’ said a young man who was lounging against
the counter. ‘It will take you almost an hour to get there
if you walk. I will take you in my cart.’ He pointed
to a shabby pony-cart close by. The pony did not look
as though it wanted to go anywhere.
‘My pony is fast!’ said the young man, following
our glances. ‘Never go by appearances. She may look
tired but she runs like a era eee Get in, friends, I
will charge you only one rupee.’
‘We don’t have any money,’ I said. We'll walk.’
‘Fifty paisa, then,’ he said. ‘Fifty paisa and a glass
of tea. Jump in my friends!”
All right,’ agreed Daljit. “There’s no time to lose.
Fifty paisa and buy your own tea.’
We climbed into the cart, and the youth jumped
up in front and cracked his whip. The pony lurched
forward, the wheels rattled and shook, and we set off
down the bazaar road at a tremendous trot.

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 Running Away

‘T didn’t know you had fifty paisa left,’ I said.

‘I don't, Daljit replied. ‘But we'll worry about that
later. Your uncle can pay!’ |
As soon as we were out of the town and on the
open road to the sea, the pony went faster. She couldn't
help. doing so, as the road was downhill. The wind blew
my hair across my eyes, and the salty tang of the sea
was in the air.
Daljit shook me in his excitement.
‘We will soon be at the harbour,’ he yelled joyfully.
‘And then away at last!’
The driver called out endearments to his pony,
and, exhilarated by the sea breeze and the comparative
speed of his carriage, he burst into song. As we turned
a bend in the road, the seafront came into view. There
were several sma!l dhows close to the shore, and fishing
boats were beached on the sand. The fishermen were
drying their nets while their children ran naked in
the surf. A steamer stood out on the sea and though
I could not make out its name from that distance, I
was sure it was the Jris.
The cart stopped at the beginning of the pier, and
we tumbled out and began running along the pier. But
even as we ran, it became clear to me that the ship
was moving away from us, moving out to the sea. Its
propeller sent small waves rippling back to the pier.

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 Running Away

‘Captain! I shouted. “Uncle Jim! Wait for us!’

A lascar standing in the stern waved to us, but
that was all. I stood at the end of the pier, waving my
hands and shouting into the wind.
‘Captain! Uncle Jim! Wait for us!’
Nobody answered. The seagulls, wheeling in the
wake of the steamer, seemed to take up the cry—
‘Captain, Captain...” ;
The ship drew further away, gaining speed. And
still I called to it in a hoarse, pleading voice.
Yokohama, San Diego, Valparaiso, London, all
slipping away for ever...
We stood by ourselves on the pier, in the late
afternoon, with gulls wheeling around us, mocking
us with their calls. A phrase from one of Uncle Jim's
letters ran through my head. ‘First call Aden, then Suez
and up the Canal...’ But for me there was only the
long journey back, the indignation of my guardian,
the boredom of the classroom and the misery of
boarding school.
Daljit had been silent. When at last I forced myself
to look at him, I was surprised to see him smiling. He
did not seem at all downcast.
“We've arrived too late,’ I said. “We've come iced
of miles, and we're five minutes too late!’
‘Never mind!’

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘Everything has been for nothing, Daljit. All our

plans . . . all our dreams!’
‘What's wrong with dreams? Nothing. As long as
they don’t come true, we can keep on dreaming. We'll
go back to school and we'll have other dreams.’
‘I didn’t know you were a philosopher, Daljit. And
how do you think we are going to get back to school?
Even if you sell your watch, it won't be enough. Tm
fed up. I don’t want to go anywhere. I’ll sit on this
pier until my uncle returns.’ _
‘How long will you have to wait?’
‘One or two years,’ I said, smiling.
| ‘Don’t worry about getting back,’ said Daljit
reassuringly. “When we ran away, it had to be secret,
but it isn’t a secret any more. We'll sell the watch, pay
the cart driver, and send a telegram!’
‘To the principal?’
‘No. To an uncle of mine in Bombay. He can come
and fetch us in his car. And he can take us back to
school too by car. We'll travel in comfort this time!
We'll eat chicken and have ice cream all the way. We'll
enjoy ourselves for a few days!’
Yes,’ I said gloomily. ‘We won't have anything to
enjoy when we get back.’
I didn’t say much else as we walked back to the cart.
My thoughts were far away. I told myself that next

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 Running Away

year, some time, Uncle Jim would return in the Jris,

and then I wouldn't make another mistake. I'd be on
the ship long before it sailed.
And so I stopped and stared out at the sea for the
last time. The steamer looked very small in that vast
expanse of ocean.
This year, next year, some time . . . Yokohama,
Valparaiso, San Diego, London .. .

103
 The Playing Fields of Simla

IT HAD BEEN alonely winter for a sixteen-year-old.

I had spent the first few weeks of the vacation with
my guardian and his wife in Dehra. Then they left for
Delhi, and I was pretty much on my own. Of course,
the servants were there to take care of my needs,
but there was no one to keep me company. I would
wander off in the mornings taking some path up the
hills, come back home for lunch, read a bit and then
stroll off again till it was time for dinner. Sometimes
I walked up to my grandparents’ house, but it seemed
so different now—with people I didn’t know occupying
the house. At those times I felt as if I had never ever
lived in that house or loved it the way I actually had.
The three-month winter break over, I was almost eager
to return to my boarding school in Simla. No, I wasn’t
at Arundel anymore—not after that ‘running-away-
from-school-fiasco’. When we (Daljit and I) got back to

104
 The Playing Fields of Simla

Arundel, his father and my guardian were summoned.

We were reprimanded, and rusticated without much
delay. Now I stayed and studied at a better school—it
was a better school, for I was surely happier there.
It wasn't as though I had many friends at school. I
needed a friend but it was not easy to find one among a
horde of rowdy, pea-shooting eighth formers, who carved
their names on desks and stuck chewing gum on the class
teacher's chair. Had I grown up with other children, I
might have developed a taste for schoolboy anarchy, but,
in sharing my father’s loneliness after his separation from
my mother, and in being bereft of any close family ties, 2
I had turned into a premature adult. The mixed nature
of my reading—Dickens, Richmal Crompton, Tagore and
Champion and Film Fun comics—probably reflected the
confused state of my life. A book reader was rare even
‘in those pre-electronic times. On rainy days most boys
played cards or Monopoly, or listened to Artie Shaw on
the wind-up gramophune in the common room.
After a month in the eighth form I began to notice
a new boy, Omar, and then only because he was a
quiet, almost taciturn person who took no part in the
form’s feverish attempts to imitate the Marx Brothers at
the circus. He showed no resentment at the prevailing
anarchy, nor did he make a move to participate in it.
Once he caught me looking at him, and he smiled

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 Rusty Runs Away

ruefully, tolerantly. Did I sense another adult in the

class? Someone who was a little older than his years?
Even before we began talking to each other, Omar
and I developed an understanding of sorts, and we'd nod
almost respectfully to each other when we met in the
classroom corridors or the environs of the dining hall
or the dormitory. We were not in the same house. The
house system practised its own form of apartheid, whereby
a member of, say, Curzon House was not expected to
fraternize with someone belonging to Rivaz or Lefroy!
Those public schools certainly knew how to clamp you
into compartments. However, these barriers vanished when
Omar and I found ourselves selected for the School Colts
hockey team—Omar as a full-back, I as goalkeeper.
The taciturn Omar now spoke to me occasionally,
and we combined well on the field of play. A good
understanding is needed between goalkeeper and full-
back. We were on the same wavelength. I anticipated
his moves, he was familiar with mine. Years later, when
-
I read Conrad’s The Secret Sharer, 1 thought of Omar.
It wasn’t until we were away from the confines of
school, classroom and dining hall that our friendship
flourished. The hockey team travelled to Sanawar on
the next mountain range,. where we were to play
a
couple of matches against our old rivals, the Lawrence
Royal Military School. This had been my father’s
old

106
 The Playing Fields of Simla

school, so I was keen to explore its grounds and peep

into its classrooms.
Omar and I were thrown together a good deal
during the visit to Sanawar, and in our more leisurely
moments, strolling undisturbed around a school where
we were guests and not pupils, we exchanged life
histories and other confidences. Omar, too, had lost
his father—had I sensed that before?—shot in some
tribal encounter on the Frontier, for he hailed from
the lawless lands beyond Peshawar. A wealthy uncle
was seeing to Omar's education.
We wandered into the school chapel, and there I
found my father’s name—A.A. Bond—on the school’s
roll of honour board: old boys who had lost their lives
while serving during the two World Wars.
‘What did his initials stand for?’ asked Omar.
‘Aubrey Alexander.’
‘Unusual names, like yours. Why did your parents
call you Rusty?’
‘I am not sure.’ I told him about the book I was
writing. It was my first one and was called Nine Months
(the length of the school term, not a pregnancy), and
it described some of the happenings at school and
lampooned a few of our teachers. I had filled three slim
exercise books with this premature literary project, and I
allowed Omar to go through them. He must have been

107
 Rusty Runs Away

my first reader and critic. ‘They're very interesting,’ he

said, ‘but you'll get into trouble if someone finds them.
Specially Mr Oliver.’ And he read out an offending
verse—Oily, Oily, Oily with his balls on a trolley, And
his arse all painted green!
I have to admit it wasn’t great literature. I was better
at hockey and football. I made some spectacular saves,
and we won our matches against Sanawar. When we
returned to Simla, we were school heroes for a couple
of days and lost some of our reticence; we were even
a little more forthcoming with other boys. And then
Mr Fisher, my housemaster, discovered my literary
opus, Nine Months, under my mattress, and took it
away and read it (as he told me later) from cover to
cover. Corporal punishment then being in vogue, I
was given six of the best with a springy malacca cane,
and my manuscript was torn up and deposited in Mr
Fisher’s waste-paper basket. All I had to show for my
efforts were some. purple welts on my bottom. These
were proudly displayed to all who were interested, and
I was a hero for another two days.
“Will you go away too when the British leave India?”
Omar asked me one day.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I don’t have anyone to go
back to in England, and my guardian, Mr Harrison,
too seems to have no intention of going back.’

108
 The Playing Fields of Simla

‘Everyone is saying that our leaders and the British

are going to divide the country. Simla will be in India,
Peshawar in Pakistan!’
‘Oh, it won't happen,’ I said glibly. “How can they
cut up such a big country?’ But even as we chatted about
the possibility, Nehru and Jinnah and Mountbatten and
all those who mattered were preparing their instruments
for major surgery.
Before their decision impinged on our lives and
everyone else’s, we found alittle freedom of our own—
in an underground tunnel that we discovered below
the third flat.
It was really part of an old, disused drainage system,
and when Omar and I began exploring it, we had no
idea just how far it extended. After crawling along on
our bellies for some twenty feet, we found ourselves in
complete darkness. Omar had brought along a small pencil
torch, and with its help we continued writhing forward
(moving backwards would have been quite impossible)
until we saw a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.
Dusty, musty, very scruffy, we emerged at last on to a
grassy knoll, a little way outside the school boundary.
It’s always a great thrill to escape beyond the
boundaries that adults have devised. Here we were in
unknown territory. To travel without passports—that
would be the ultimate in freedom!

109
 The Playing Fields of Simla

But more passports were on their way—and more

boundaries. 1c
Lord Mountbatten, viceroy and governor-general-
to-be, came for our Founder’s Day and gave away the
prizes. I had won a prize for something or the other,
and mounted the rostrum to receive my book from
this towering, handsome man in his pinstripe suit.
Bishop Cotton’s was then the premier school of India,
often referred to as the ‘Eton of the East’. Viceroys
and governors had graced its functions. Many of its
boys had gone on to eminence in the civil services and
armed forces. There was one ‘old boy about whom they
maintained a‘ stolid silence—General Dyer, who had
ordered the massacre at Amritsar and destroyed the trust
that had been building up between Britain and India.
Now Mountbatten spoke of the momentous events
that were happening all around us—the War had just
come to an end, the United Nations held out the
promise of a world living in peace and harmony, and
India, an equal partner with Britain, would be among
the great nations...
A few weeks later, Bengal and the Punjab provinces
were bisected. Riots flared up across northern India,
and there was a great exodus of people crossing the
newly-drawn frontiers of Pakistan and India. Homes
were destroyed, thousands lost their lives.

nisl
 Rusty Runs Away

The common-room radio and. the occasional

newspaper kept us abreast of events, but in our tunnel,
Omar and I felt immune from all that was happening,
worlds away from all the pillage, murder and revenge.
And outside the tunnel, on the pine knoll below the
school, there was fresh untrodden grass, sprinkled with
clover and daisies, the only sounds we heard were the
hammering of a woodpecker and the distant insistent
call of the Himalayan barbet. Who could touch us there?
‘And when all the wars are done,’ I said, ‘a butterfly
will still be beautiful.’ :
‘Did you read that somewhere?’
“No, it just came into my head.’
‘Already you're a writer.’
‘No, I want to play hockey for India or football
for Arsenal. Only winning teams!’
‘You can’t win forever. Better to be a writer.’ When the
monsoon arrived, the tunnel was flooded, the drain choked
with rubble. We were allowed out to the cinema to see
Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet, a film that did nothing to raise
our spirits on a wet and gloomy afternoon, but it was our
last picture that year, because communal riots suddenly
broke out in Simla’s Lower Bazaar, an area that was still
much as Kipling had described it—‘a man who knows
his way there can defy all the police of India’s summer
capital’—and we were confined to school indefinitely.

112
 The Playing Fields of Simla

One morning after prayers in the chapel, the

headmaster announced that the Muslim boys—those
who had their homes in what was now Pakistan—would
have to be evacuated, sent to their homes across the
border with an armed convoy.
The tunnel no longer provided an escape for us.
The bazaar was out of bounds. The flooded playing
field was deserted. Omar and I sat on a damp wooden
bench and talked about the future in vaguely hopeful
terms, but we didn’t solve any problems. Mountbatten
and Nehru and Jinnah were doing all the solving.
It was soon time for Omar to leave—he left along
with some fifty other boys from Lahore, Pindi and
Peshawar. The rest of us—Hindus, Christians, Parsis—
helped them load their luggage into the waiting trucks.
A couple of boys broke down and wept. So did our
_ departing school captain, a Pathan who had been known
for his stoic and unemotional demeanour. Omar waved
cheerfully to me and I waved back. We had vowed to
meet again some day.
The convoy got through safely enough. There was
only one casualty—the school cook, who had strayed
into an off-limits area in the foothill-town of Kalka
and been set upon by a mob. He wasnt seen again.
Towards the end of the school year, just as we
were all getting ready to leave for the school holidays,

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 Rusty Runs Away

I received a letter from Omar. He told me something

about his new school and how he missed my company
and our games and our tunnel to freedom. I replied
and gave him my home address, but I did not hear
from him again.
Some seventeen or eighteen years later I did get
news of Omar, but in an entirely different context.
India and Pakistan were at war and in a bombing raid
over Ambala, not far from Simla, a Pakistani plane was
shot down. Its crew died in the crash. One of them,
Tlearnt later, was Omar. .
Did he, I wonder, get a glimpse of the playing
fields we knew so well as boys?
Perhaps memories of his school days flooded back
as he flew over the foothills. Perhaps he remembered
the tunnel through which we were able to make our
little escape to freedom.
But there are no tunnels in the sky.

114
 It Happened One Spring

THE LIGHT SPRING rain rode on the wind, into

the trees, down the road; it brought an exhilarating
freshness to the air, a smell of earth, a scent of flowers;
it made me feel carefree and happy, and I smiled to
myself as | walked along.
The long road wound round the hills, rose and fell
and twisted down to Dehra; the road came from the
mountains and passed through the jungle and valley
and, after passing through Dehra, ended somewhere
in the bazaar. But just where it ended no one knew,
for the bazaar was a baffling place, where roads were
easily lost. ?
I was three miles out of Dehra. The further I could
get from Dehra, the happier I was likely to be. Just now
J was only three miles out of Dehra, so I wasn't very
happy, and, what was worse, I was walking homewards.
I felt good as the rain flecked my face; I liked

115
 Rusty Runs Away

the smell and the freshness of it. I did not look at

my surroundings or notice them—my mind, as usual,
was very far away—but I felt their atmosphere, and I
smiled again.
My mind was so very far away that it was a few
minutes before I noticed the swish of bicycle wheels
beside me. The cyclist did not pass me, but rode beside
me, studying me, taking in every visible detail that I
presented: the pale-faced adolescent with blue-grey eyes
and fair hair; my face rough and marked, the lower
lip hung loose and heavy. The way I walked (this was
my usual style)—my hands in my pockets and my
head bowed down. This gait of mine always gave me
a deceptively tired appearance. I was a lazy person but
not a tired one. The cyclist observed my bare head, the
open-necked shirt, the flannel trousers, the sandals and
the thick hide belt round my waist. A European was
no longer a common sight in Dehra, but the cyclist
was perhaps interested in meeting one.
‘Hullo,’ he said, giving his bell a tinkle.
I looked up properly now and saw a young, friendly
face wrapped untidily in a turban.
‘Hullo, said the stranger, ‘would you like me to
ride you into town? If you are going to town?’
‘No, I’m all right,’ I replied, without slackening my
pace. ‘T like to walk.’

116
 It Happened One Spring

‘So do I, but it’s raining.’ |

And to support his argument, the rain fell harder.
‘T like to walk in the rain,’ I asserted. ‘And I don’t
live in the town, I live outside it.’
Nice people didn’t live in the town...
“Well, I can pass your way, he eo determined
to help me for some reason.
I looked again at this cyclist, who was dressed like
me except for short pants and turban. His legs were
long and athletic, his colour was an unusually rich
gold, his features were fine, his mouth broke easily into
friendliness. It was impossible to resist the warmth of
his nature. |
I pulled myself up on the crossbar, in front of him,
and we moved off.
We rode slowly, gliding round the low hills, and
soon the jungle on either side of the road began to
give way to open fields and tea gardens and then to
orchards and one or two houses.
‘My name is Somi,’ the cyclist said. ‘Tell me when
you reach your place. You stay with your parents?’
I considered the question too familiar for a stranger
to ask, and made no reply. 7
‘Do you like Dehra?’ asked Somi. Obviously nothing
was going to deter him from making conversation with
me and satisfying his curiosity.

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘Not much,’ I said with pleasure.

‘Well, after England it must seem dull...’
There was a pause and then I said: ‘I haven’t been
to England. I was born here. I’ve never been anywhere
else except Delhi, Kathiawar, Simla and Java.’
‘Do you like Delhi?’
‘Not much.’
We rode on in silence. The rain still fell, but the
cycle moved smoothly over the wet road, making a
soft, swishing sound.
Presently a man came in sight—no, it was not a
man, it was a youth, but he had the appearance, the
build of a man. He was walking towards town.
‘Hey, Ranbir, shouted Somi, as they neared the
burly figure, ‘want a lift?’
Ranbir ran into the road and slipped on to the
carrier, behind Somi. The cycle wobbled a bit, but
soon controlled itself and moved on, a little faster now.
Somi spoke into my ear: ‘Meet my friend Ranbir.
He is the best wrestler in the bazaar.’
‘Hullo, mister,’ said Ranbir, before I could even
open my mouth. |
‘Hullo, mister, I said, rather overwhelmed by his
size and voice. Then Ranbir and Somi began a swift
conversation in Hindi, and I felt a bit lost, even, for
some strange reason, jealous of the newcomer.

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 It Happened One Spring

Now someone was standing in the middle of

the road, frantically waving his arms and shouting
incomprehensibly.
‘It is Suri, said Somi.
It was Suri. He lived with his parents somewhere
around our neighbourhood so I knew of him, though
I hadn’t ever met him personally. :
Bespectacled and owlish to behold, Suri posal
an almost criminal cunning, and was both respected
and despised by all who knew him. His interests were
confined to people and their privacies (privacies which,
when known to Suri, were soon made public).
He was a pale, bony, sickly boy, but he would
probably live longer than Ranbir. |
‘Hey, give me alift!’ he shouted.
‘Too many already,’ said Somi.
‘Oh, come on Somi, I’m nearly drowned.’
‘It’s stopped raining.’
‘Obs come on i."
So Suri climbed on to the handlebar, which rather
obscured Somi’s view of the road and caused the cycle
to wobble all over the place. Ranbir kept slipping on
and off the carrier, and I soon found the crossbar
exceedingly uncomfortable. The cycle had barely been
controlled when Suri started to complain.
‘It hurts, he whimpered.

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘I haven’t got a cushion,’ said Somi.

‘It is a cycle,’ said Ranbir bitingly, ‘not a Rolls Royce.’
Suddenly the road fell steeply, and the cycle
gathered speed.
‘Take it easy now,’ said Suri, ‘or I'llay off!’
‘Hold tight,’ warned Somi. ‘It’s downhill nearly all
the way. We will have to go fast because the brakes
arent very good.’
‘Oh, Mummy!’ wailed Suri.
‘Shut up!’ said Ranbir.
The wind hit us with a sudden force, and our
clothes blew up like balloons, almost tearing us from the
machine. I forgot my discomfort and clung desperately
to the crossbar, too nervous to say a word. Suri howled
and Ranbir kepttelling him to shut up, but Somi was
enjoying the ride. He laughed merrily, a clear, ringing
laugh, a laugh that bore no malice and no derision but
only enjoyment, fun...
‘It’s all right for you to laugh,’ complained Suri.
‘If anything happens, /7/ get hurt!’
‘If anything happens,’ said Somi, ‘we'll all get hurt!’
‘That's right, shouted Ranbir from behind.
I closed my eyes and muttered a quick prayer to
God and put my trust in this cyclist who didn’t seem
to care about our fate. ..
‘Oh, Mummy!’ wailed Suri.

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 aa
pe
 Rusty Runs Away

‘Shut up!’ said Ranbir.

The road twisted and turned as much as it could,
and rose a little only to fall more steeply the other
side. But eventually it began to even out, for we were
nearing the town and almost in the residential area.
‘The run is over,’ said Somi, a little regretfully.
‘Oh, Mummy!’
‘Shut up.’
‘I must get off now,’ I said. ‘I live very near.’ Somi
skidded the cycle to a standstill, and Suri shot off
the handlebar into a muddy sidetrack. I slipped off,
but Somi and Ranbir remained on their seats, Ranbir
steadying the cycle with his feet on the ground.
‘Well, thank you,’ I said.
Somi said: “Why don’t you come and have your
meal with us, there is not much further to go.’
I felt too shy and awkward to accept such an offer.
After all, we weren't even friends. ‘I’ve got to go home,’
I murmured. ‘I’m expected. Thanks very much.’
‘Well, come and see us some time,’ said Somi. ‘If
you come to the chaat shop in the bazaar, you are sure
to find one of us. You know the bazaar?’
‘Well, I have passed through it.’
I then began walking away, my hands once more
in my pockets. ,
‘Hey!’ shouted Somi. “You didn’t tell us your name!”

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 It Happened One Spring

I turned around hesitantly and then said, ‘Rusty

..
‘See you soon, Rusty,’ yelled eas and the Hols
pushed off.
I watched the cycle receding down the road, and
Suri's shrill voice came to me on the wind. It had
stopped raining, but I was actually aware of only one
thing—that I was almost home, and that was a miserable
thought. To my surprise and disgust, I found myself
wishing that I had gone into Dehra with Somi.
I stood in the sidetrack and stared down the empty
road, feeling immeasurably lonely.
o,
9%

I was standing in a corner of the missionary’s garden

admiring the riot of flowers that swayed in the gentle
breeze. From that corner I could hear snatches of the
conversation between the missionary’s wife and my
guardian. ;
‘I hope you'll put the boy to work while I’m away,’
he was saying. ‘Make some use of him. He dreams too
much. Most unfortunate that he’s finished with school,
I don’t know what to do with him.’
‘He doesn’t know what to do with himself,’ replied
the missionary’s wife. “But I'll keep him occupied. He
can do some weeding, or read to me in the afternoon.
Pll keep an eye on him.’

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘Good,’ said Mr Harrison, my guardian. And, having

cleared his conscience, he made quick his escape. He
had totally forgotten about the fact that he had asked
me to accompany him to the missionary’s house, and
that I was actually waiting for him in the garden!
Later, over lunch he told me:
‘I’m going to Delhi tomorrow. Business.’
It was the only thing he said during the meal. When
he had finished eating, he lit a cigarette and erected a
curtain of smoke between himself and me. He was a
heavy smoker, his fingers were stained a deep yellow.
‘How long will you be gone, sir?’ I asked, trying
to sound casual.
Mr Harrison did not reply. He seldom answered
my questions, and his own were stated, not asked; he
probed and suggested, sharply, quickly, without ever
encouraging loose conversation. He never talked about
himself, he never argued, he would tolerate no argument.
His wife had been in England for the last one year, so
I was the sole recipient of all his monologues—whether
they were conducted in instructions and commands,
or fury and reprimands. |
He was a tall man, neat in appearance, and, though
over forty, looked younger because he kept his hair
short, shaving above the ears. He had a small ginger
toothbrush moustache.

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 It Happened One Spring

I was afraid of my guardian.

Mr Harrison had done a lot for me. I can never
deny this, yet this very fact made me afraid of him. I
had been kept, fed and paid for, and sent to schools in
the hills that were run on ‘exclusively European lines’.
I had, in a way, been bought by Mr Harrison. And
now I felt that I was being owned by him. And that
-I must do only as my guardian wished.
I was ready to do as he wished: I had always obeyed
him (except for that instance when I ran away from
boarding school two years back). But I was ready to
obey him not because I felt any respect for him, but
because I was afraid of the man, afraid of his silence
and of the ginger moustache and of the supple malacca
cane that lay in the glass cupboard in the drawing room.
Lunch iover, I left my guardian giving the cook
orders, and went to my room.
The window looked out on to the garden path, and
a sweeper boy moved up and down the path, a bucket
clanging against his naked thighs. He wore only a
loincloth, his body was bare and burnt a deep brown,
and his head was shaved clean. He went to and from the
water tank, and every time he returned to it he bathed,
so that his body continually glistened with moisture.
Apart from me, the only boy in the European
community of Dehra was this sweeper boy, the low-

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caste untouchable, the cleaner of pots. But the two of

us seldom spoke to each other, one was a servant and
the other a sahib and anyway, playing with the sweeper
boy would be unhygienic . . . The missionary’s wife
had said: ‘Even if you were an Indian, my child, you
would not be allowed to play with the sweeper boy.’
So, with whom, then, could the sweeper boy play?
The untouchable passed by the window and smiled,
but I looked away.
Over the tops’ of the cherry trees were mountains.
Dehra lay in a valley in the foothills, and the small,
diminishing European community had its abode on
the outskirts of the town.
My guardian’s house and the other houses were all _
built in an English style, with neat front gardens and
name-plates on the gates. The surroundings on the whole
were so English that people often found it difficult to
believe that they did live at the foot of the Himalayas,
surrounded by India’s thickest jungles. India started a
mile away, where the bazaar began.
The bazaar was a fascinating place, and what I had
seen of it recently from the window of my guardian’s car
had been enough to make my heart pound excitedly and
my imagination soar, but it was a forbidden place—‘full
of thieves and germs’ said the missionary’s wife—and I
never entered it nowadays save in my dreams.

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 It Happened One Spring

For Mr Harrison, the missionaries, and their

neighbours, this country district of blossoming cherry
trees was India. They knew there was a bazaar and a
real India not far away, but they did not speak of such
places, they chose not to think about them.
The community consisted mostly of elderly people,
the others had left soon after Independence. These few
stayed because they were too old to start life again in
another country, where there would be no servants
and very little sunlight; and, though they complained
of their lot and criticized the government, they knew
their money could buy them their comforts: servants,
good food, whisky, almost anything—except the dignity
they cherished most...
But Mr Harrison, though he enjoyed the same
comforts, remained in the country for different reasons.
He did not care who the rulers were so long as they
didn’t take away his business; he had shares in a number
of small tea estates and owned some land—forested —
land—where, for instance, he hunted deer and wild pig.
I was the only young person in the community, so
I was the centre of everyone’s attention, particularly
the ladies’.
Despite this, I was very lonely.
Every day I walked aimlessly along the road, over
the hillside, brooding on the future, or dreaming

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of sudden and perfect companionship, romance and

heroics, hardly ever conscious of the present. When an
opportunity for friendship did present itself, as it had
the previous day, I simply withdrew into my invisible
shell, preferring my own company.
My idle hours were crowded with memories, snatches
of childhood. I remembered with fondness my father;
he had truly loved me and cared for me, I remembered
our long walks and conversations—I missed these so
much ... I had pleasant memories of Grandfather and _
Grandmother, not so pleasant ones of my mother. At
times I wondered about my half-brother . ..
A lot of time now went in studying myself in the
dressing-table mirror: J deliberately ignored my pimples
and saw instead a grown man, worldly and attractive.
Though only seventeen, I felt much older.
Mr John Harrison was going to Delhi.
I intended making the most of his absence: I would
squeeze all the freedom I could out of the next few
days—explore, get lost, wander afar, even if it were only
to find new places to dream in. So I threw myself on
the bed and visualized the morrow . . . where should
I go—into the hills again, into the forest? Or should I
listen to the devil in my heart and go into the bazaar?
Tomorrow I would know, tomorrow .
|
“2°

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 It Happened One Spring

The next morning was cold, sharp and fresh. It was

quiet until the sun came shooting over the hills, lifting
the mist from the valley and clearing the blood-shot
from the sky. The ground was wet with dew.
I stood at the gate until my guardian was comfortably
seated behind the wheel of the car, and did not move
until the car disappeared round the bend in the road.
The missionary’s wife, that large, cauliflower-like
lady, appeared unexpectedly from behind a hedge
and called:
‘Good morning, dear! If you aren't very busy this
morning, would you like to give me a hand pruning
the hedges in my garden?’
The missionary’s wife was fond of putting me to
work in her garden: if it wasn’t cutting the hedge, it
was weeding the flower beds and watering the plants,
or clearing the garden path of stones, or hunting beetles
and ladybirds and dropping them over the wall.
‘Oh, good morning, I stammered. ‘Actually, I was
going for a walk. Can I help you when I come back,
I won't be long...’ |
The missionary’s wife looked rather taken aback, for
I seldom said no, and before she could make another
sally I was on my way. I had a dreadful feeling she
would call me back; she was a kind woman; but talkative
and boring, and I knew what would follow the garden

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work: weak tea or lemonade, and then a game of cards,

probably beggar-my-neighbour.
But to my relief she called after me: ‘All right, dear, -
come back soon. And be good!’
I waved to her and walked rapidly down the road.
And I took a direction different from the one in which
I usually wandered.
Far down this road was the bazaar. First I had
to pass the rows of neat cottages, and arrive at a
commercial area—Dehra’s westernized shopping centre,
where Europeans, rich Indians, and American tourists en
route for Mussoorie could eat at smart restaurants and
drink prohibited alcohol. But I had always been afraid
and distrustful of anything smart and sophisticated, so
I hurried past the shopping centre.
I came to the Clock Tower, which was a tower
without a clock. It had been built from public
subscriptions, but not enough money had been gathered
for the addition of a clock. It had been lifeless five years
but served as a good landmark. On the other side of
the Clock Tower lay the bazaar, and in the bazaar lay
India. On the other side of the Clock Tower began
life itself. And all three—the bazaar and India and life
itself{—were forbidden to me.
My heart raced as I reached the Clock Tower. ]
was now about to defy the laws of my guardian and of

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 It Happened One Spring

my community. I stood at the Clock Tower, nervous,

hesitant, biting my nails. I was afraid of discovery
and punishment, but hungering curiosity impelled
me forward. |
The bazaar and India and life itself all began with
a rush of noise and confusion.
A split second of hesitation, and then I plunged
into the throng of bustling people; the road was hot
and close, alive with the cries of vendors and the smell
of cattle and ripening dung. Children played hopscotch
in alleyways or gambled with coins, scuffling in the
gutter for a lost anna. And the cows moved leisurely
through the crowd, nosing around for paper and stale,
discarded vegetables; the more daring cows helping
themselves at open stalls. And above the uneven tempo
of the noise came the blare of a loudspeaker playing a
popular piece of music.
I moved along with the crowd, fascinated by the
sight of beggars lying on the \roadside: naked and
emaciated half-humans, some skeletons, some covered
with sores; old men dying, children dying, mothers with
sucking babies, living and dying. But, strangely enough,
I felt nothing for these people; perhaps it was because
they were no longer recognizable as humans or because
I could not see myself in the same circumstances. And
no one else in the bazaar seemed to feel for them.

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 Rusty Runs Away

Like the cows and the loudspeaker, the beggars were

a natural growth in the bazaar, and only the well-to-
do sacrificing a few annas to placate their consciences
were aware of the beggars’ presence. _
Every little shop was different from the one next to
it. After the vegetable stand, green and wet, came the
fruit stall; and after the fruit stall, the tea and betel-
leaf shop; then the astrologer’s platform (Manmohan
Mukuldev, B.Astr., foreign degree); and after the
astrologer’s the toyshop, selling trinkets of gay colours.
And then, after the toyshop, another from whose doors
poured clouds of smoke.
Curious, I turned to the shop from which the smoke
was coming. But I was not the only person making
for it. Approaching from the opposite direction was
Somi on his bicycle.
Somi, who had not seen me, seemed determined
on riding right into the smoky shop on his bicycle;
unfortunately his way was blocked by a cow which
firmly stood her ground in all the chaos. But the cycle
did not lose speed.
I saw the cycle but could only feel sorry for the
cow, she was sure to be hurt. But, with the devil in_
his heart or in the wheels of his machine, Somi swung
clear of the animal and collided with me instead—and
knocked me into the gutter. |

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 It Happened One Spring '

Accustomed as I was to the delicate scents of

the missionary’s wife’s sweet peas and the occasional
smell of the bathroom disinfectant, I was nevertheless
overpowered by the odour of bad vegetables and kitchen
water that rose from the gutter.
‘What the hell do you think you!re doing?’ I cried,
choking and spluttering.
‘Hullo,’ said Somi, gripping me by the arm and helping
me up, ‘so sorry, not my fault. Anyway, we meet again!’
Anxiously I felt for injuries and, finding none,
exclaimed:
‘Look at the filthy mess [’m in!’
Somi could not help laughing at my unhappy
condition. ‘Oh, that is not filth, it is only cabbage
water! Do not worry, your clothes will dry .. .’ His
laugh rang out merrily, and there was something about
the laugh, some music in it perhaps, that touched a
chord of gaiety in my own heart. Somi was smiling,
and on his mouth the smile was friendly and in his
soft brown eyes it was mocking.
‘Well, I am sorry, said Somi, extending his hand.
I did not take the hand but, looking the other up
and down, from turban to slippers, forced myself to say:
‘Get out of my way, please.’
‘You are a snob,’ said Somi without moving. “You
are a very funny one too.’

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘I am not a snob,’ I retorted involuntarily.

‘Then why not forget an accident?’
‘You could have missed me, but you didn’t try.” _
‘But if I had missed you, I would have hit the cow!
You don’t know Maharani—she is the queen of the
bazaar cows—if you hurt her she goes mad and smashes
half the bazaar! Also, the bicycle might have been spoilt
. . . Now please come and have chaat with me.’
I had no idea what was meant by the word chaat, but
before I could refuse the invitation Somi had bundled
me into the shop from which the smoke still poured.
At first nothing could be made out; then gradually
the smoke seemed to clear and there in front of us,
like some shining god, sat a man enveloped in rolls of
glistening, oily flesh. In front of him, on a coal fire,
was a massive pan in which sizzled a sea of fat, and
with deft, practised fingers, he moulded and flipped
potato cakes in and out of the pan.
The shop was crowded, but so thick was the screen
of smoke and steam, that it was only the murmur of
conversation which made known the presence of many
people. A plate made of banana leaves was thrust into
my hands, and two fried cakes suddenly appeared on it.
‘Eat!’ said Somi, pressing me down until both of us
were seated on the floor, our backs to the wall. “They
are tikkees, explained Somi, ‘tell me if you like them.’

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 Rusty Runs Away

I took a small bite. The tikkee was hot. I waited

a minute, then tasted another bit. It was still hot but
in a different way—now it was lively, interesting; it
had a different taste to anything I had eaten before.
Suspicious but inquisitive, I finished the stikkee and
waited to see if anything would happen.
‘Have you had this before?’ asked Somi.
‘No,’ I replied anxiously, ‘what will it do?’
‘It might worry your stomach alittle at first, but
you will get used to it the more often you eat. So
finish the other one too.’
The extent of my submission to Somi’s wishes
amazed me. At one moment I had been angry, ill-
mannered, but, since that laugh of his, I felt like
obeying Somi without demur.
He wore a cotton tunic and shorts, and sat cross-
legged, his feet pressed against his thighs. His skin was
a golden brown, dark on his legs and arms but fair,
very fair, where his shirt lay open. His hands were dirty,
but eloquent. His eyes, deep brown and dreamy, had
depth and roundness. |
He said: “My name is Somi, please tell me what is
yours, I have forgotten.’
‘Rusty ss
‘How do you do,’ said Somi, ‘I am very pleased
to meet you, haven't we met before? That was perhaps

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 It Happened One Spring

a long time ago . . . now we are friends, yes, best

favourite friends!’
Even though I was a bit peeved by the fact that
Somi had forgotten the specifics of our first meeting,
I took the warm muddy hand that he offered and
shook it. I finished the rikkee on my leaf, and accepted
another. Then I said: ‘How do you do, Somi, I am very
pleased to meet you.’
\/
2%

The missionary’s wife’s head projected itself over the

garden wall and broke into a beam of welcome as she
spotted me. Hurriedly I returned the smile.
‘Where have you been, dear?’ asked my garrulous
neighbour. ‘I was expecting you for lunch. You've never
been away so long, I’ve finished all my work now, you
know .. . Was it a nice walk? I know youre thirsty,
come in and have a nice cool lemonade, there’s nothing
like iced lemonade to refresh one after a long walk.
I remember when I was a girl, having to walk down
to Dehra from Mussoorie, I filled my thermos with
lemonade. . .’ Aol
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of her story—I simply
made my escape. I did not wish to hurt the missionary’s
wife’s feelings by refusing the lemonade but, after
experiencing the chaat shop, the very idea of a lemonade

Noy
 Rusty Runs Away

offended me. But I decided that this Sunday I would

contribute an extra four annas to the missionary’s fund
for upkeep of church, wife and garden; and, with this
good thought in mind, I went to my room.
The sweeper boy passed by the window, his buckets
clanging, his feet going slip-slop on the watery path.
I threw myself on my bed. And now my imagination
began building dreams on a newfound reality, for I had
agreed to meet Somi again.
_ And so, the next day, my feet—as if they were acting
on their own volition—took me to the chaat shop in
the bazaar, past the Clock Tower, past the smart shops,
down the road, far from my guardian’s house.
The fleshy god of the tikkees smiled at me in a manner
that seemed to signify that he had recognized in me the
potential to become a Regular Customer. The banana plate
was ready, the tikkees in it flavoured with spiced sauces.
‘Hullo, best favourite friend,’ said Somi, appearing
out of the surrounding vapour, his slippers loose,
chup-chup-chup, loose, open slippers that hung on to
the toes by a strap and slapped against the heels as he
walked. ‘I am glad you came again. After rikkees you
must have something else, chaat or gol-guppas, all right?’
Somi removed his slippers and joined me—I had
somehow managed to sit cross-legged on the ground
in the proper fashion.

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 It Happened One Spring

Somi said, “Tell me something about. yourself. By

what misfortune are you an Englishman? How is it
that you have been here all your life and never been
to a chaat shop before?’
“Well; my guardian is very strict, I said. ‘He wants to
bring me up in English ways, and he has succeeded . . .’
‘Till. now,’ said Somi, and laughed, the laugh
rippling up in his throat, breaking out and forcing its
way through the smoke.
Then a large figure loomed in front of us, and I
recognized him as Ranbir, the youth I had met on
the bicycle. i
‘Another best favourite friend,’ said Somi.
Ranbir did not smile, but opened his mouth alittle,
gaped at me, and nodded his head. When he nodded,
hair fell untidily across his forehead, thick, black, bushy
hair, wild and uncontrollable. Heé wore.a long white
cotton tunic hanging out over his baggy pyjamas; his
feet were bare and dirty; his feet were big and strong.
‘Hullo, mister, said Ranbir, in a gruff voice that
disguised his shyness. He said no more for a while,
but joined us in our meal.
It was a satisfying fare and I opened upalittle as
I ate chaat, a spicy salad of potato, guava and orange,
and then gol-guppas, baked flour cups filled with burning
syrups. I felt at ease and began to talk, telling my

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 Rusty Runs Away

companions about my school in the hills, the house

of my guardian, Mr Harrison himself, and the supple
malacca cane. The story was listened to with some
amusement: apparently my life had been very dull to
date, and Somi and Ranbir pitied me for it.
‘Tomorrow is Holi,’ said Ranbir, ‘you must play
with me, then you will be my friend.’
‘What is Holi?’ I asked.
Ranbir looked at me in amazement. “You do not
know about Holi! It is the Hindu Festival of Colour! It
is the day on which we celebrate the coming of spring,
when we throw colour on each other and shout and
sing and forget our misery, for the colours mean the
rebirth of spring and a new life in our hearts . . . You
do not know of it!’
I was somewhat bewildered by Ranbir’s sudden
eloquence, and began to have doubts about this game; it
seemed to me a primitive sort of pastime, this throwing
of paint about the place.
‘I might get into trouble,’ I said rather uncertainly.
‘I'm not supposed to come here, anyway, and my
guardian might return any day...’
‘Don't tell him about it,’ said Ranbir.
‘Oh, he has ways of finding out. I’ll get a thrashing.’
‘Huh!’ said Ranbir, a disappointed and somewhat
_ disgusted expression on his mobile face. ‘You are afraid

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 It Happened One Spring

of spoiling your clothes, mister, that is it. You are just

a snob.’
Somi laughed. “That’s what I told him yesterday,
and only then did he join me in the chaat shop. I
think we should call him a snob whenever he makes
excuses. Meanwhile, I was enjoying the chaat. | ate
gol-guppa after gol-guppa, until my throat was almost
aflame and my stomach burning itself out. I was not
very concerned about Holi. I was content with the
present, content to enjoy the newfound pleasures of
the chaat shop, and said:
“Well Pll see . . . If my guardian doesn't come back
tomorrow, I'll play Holi with you, all right?’
Ranbir was pleased. He said, ‘I will be waiting
in the jungle behind your house. When you hear the
drumbeat in the jungle, understand that I am waiting
for you. Then come.’
“Will you be there too, Somi?’ I asked. Somehow,
I felt safe in Somi’s presence.
‘I do not play Holi, said Somi. ‘You see, I am
different from Ranbir. I wear a turban and he does
not, also there is a bangle on my wrist, which means
that I am a Sikh. We don’t play Holi. But I will see
you the day after, here in the chaat shop.’
Somi left the shop, and was swallowed up by smoke
and steam, but the chup-chup of his loose slippers could

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 Rusty Runs Away

be heard for some time, until their sound was lost in

the greater sound of the bazaar outside.
In the bazaar, people haggled over counters, children
played in the spring sunshine, dogs courted one another,
and Ranbir and I continued eating gol-guppas.
The afternoon was warm and lazy, unusually so for
spring, very quiet, as though resting in the interval
between the spring and the coming summer. There
was no sign of the missionary’s wife or the sweeper
boy when I returned, but Mr Harrison’s car stood in
the driveway of the house.
At that sight of the car, I felt a little weak and
frightened; I had not expected my guardian to return
so soon and had, in fact, almost forgotten his existence.
But now I forgot all about the chaat shop and Somi
and Ranbir, and ran up the veranda steps in panic.
Mr Harrison was at the top of the veranda steps,
standing behind the potted palms.
‘Oh, hullo, sir, you're back!’ I exclaimed, trying to
make my little piece sound enthusiastic as I knew of
nothing else to say.
‘Where have you been all day?’ asked Mr Harrison,
without even looking at me. ‘Our neighbours haven't
seen much of you lately.’
I was startled. So he had already been informed ..
no doubt, it was the missionary’s wife who was forever

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 It Happened One Spring

gossiping. I had to lie—had to prevent Mr Harrison

from finding out the truth. |
‘lve been for a walk, sir.’
‘You have been to the bazaar.’
I hesitated before making a denial; his eyes were
on me now, and to lie I would have had to lower my
eyes—and this I could not do...
‘Yes, sir, I went to the bazaar.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because I had nothing to do.’
‘If you had nothing to do, you could have visited
our neighbours. The bazaar is not the place for you.
You know that.’
‘But nothing happened to me.. .’
‘That is not the point,’ said Mr Harrison, and now
his normally dry voice took on a faint shrill note of
excitement, and he spoke rapidly. “The point is, I have
told you never to visit the bazaar. You belong here,
to this house, this road, these people. Don’t go where
_ you don’t belong.’
I wanted to argue, longed to rebel, but fear of Mr
Harrison held me back. I wanted ‘to resist the man’s
authority, but I was conscious of the supple malacca
cane in the glass cupboard.
TY mesorry,/sire cx:
But my cowardice did me no good. Mr Harrison

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went over to the glass cupboard, brought out the cane

and flexed it in his hands. He said: 3
‘It is not enough to say you are sorry, you must be
made to feel sorry. Bend over the sofa.’ I bent over the
sofa, clenched my teeth and dug my fingers into the
cushions. The cane swished through the air, landing
on my bottom with a slap, knocking the dust from
my pants. I felt no pain. But my guardian waited,
allowing the cut to sink in, then he administered the
second stroke, and this time it hurt, it stung into my
buttocks, burning up the flesh, conditioning it for the
remaining cuts.
At the sixth stroke of the supple malacca cane, which
was usually the last, a wild whoop escaped involuntarily
from my throat, and I leapt over the sofa and charged
from the room.
I lay on my bed groaning until the pain had eased.
But the flesh was so sore that I could not touch
the place where the cane had fallen. Wriggling out of
my pants, I examined my backside in the mirror. Mr
Harrison had been most accurate: a thick purple welt
stretched across both cheeks, and a little blood trickled
down my thigh. The blood had a cool, almost soothing
effect, but the sight of it made me feel faint.
I lay down and moaned for pleasure. I indulged in
so much self-pity that I felt like crying but I knew the

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futility of tears. Nevertheless, the pain and the sense

of injustice I felt were both real.
A shadow fell across the bed. Someone was at the
window, and I looked up.
The sweeper boy showed his teeth.
‘What do you want?’ I asked gruffly. |
‘You hurt, chotta sahib?
The sweeper boy’s sympathies provoked only
suspicion in me.
‘You told Mr Harrison where I went!’ I said
accusingly. I was so furious with him. But the sweeper
boy cocked his head to one side, and asked innocently,
‘Where you went, chotta sahib?’ .
‘Oh, never mind. Go away.’
‘But you hurt?’
‘Get out!’ I shouted.
The smile vanished, leaving only a sad, frightened
look in the sweeper boy’s eyes.
I hated hurting people’s feelings, but I was not
accustomed to the sweeper boy, and yet, only a few
minutes ago, I had been beaten for visiting the bazaar
where there were so many like the sweeper boy.
The sweeper boy turned from the window, leaving
wet finger-marks on the sill, then lifted his buckets
from the ground and, with his knees bent to take the
weight, walked away. His feet splashed a little in the

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water he had spilt, and the soft red mud flew up and
flecked his legs.
Angry with my guardian and with the servant and
most of all with myself, I buried my head in my pillow .
and tried to shut out reality; I fabricated a wonderful
dream, in which I was thrashing Mr Harrison until he
begged me for mercy.
o,
+2

I woke to the sound of drumbeats, and lay in bed and

listened; it was repeated, travelling over the still air and
in through the bedroom window. Dhum!.. . A double-
beat now, one deep, one high, insistent, questioning . . .
It was still dark, dawn was yet to come. I remembered
my promise, that I would play Holi with Ranbir, meet
him in the jungle when he beat the drum. But I had
made the promise on the condition that my guardian
did not return; I could not possibly keep it now, not
after the thrashing I had received.
Dhum-dhum, spoke the drum in the forest, dhum-
dhum, impatient and getting annoyed .. .
‘Why can’t he shut up,’ I wondered with annoyance,
‘does he want to wake Mr Harrison. . .’
Holi, the Festival of Colours, the arrival of spring,
the rebirth of the new year, the awakening of love, of —
what importance were these things to me? They did

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 It Happened One Spring

not concern my life. I could not start a new life, not

for one day . . . besides, it all sounded very primitive,
this throwing of colour and beating of drums... .
Dhum-dhum!
I sat up in bed.
The sky had grown lighter.
From the distant bazaar came.a new music, many
drums and voices, faint but steady, growing in rhythm
and excitement. I felt as if that sound was conveying
something to me... something wild and emotional,
something that belonged to my dream world, and on
a sudden impulse I sprang out of bed.
I went to the door and listened; the house was quiet. I
bolted the door. The colours of Holi, I knew, would stain
my clothes, so I did not remove my pyjamas. In an old
pair of flattened rubber-soled tennis shoes, I climbed out
of the window and ran over the dew-wet grass, down the
path behind the house, over the hill and into the jungle.
When Ranbir saw me approach, he rose from the
ground. The long hand-drum, the dholak, hung at his
waist. As he rose, the sun rose. But the sun did not
look as fiery as Ranbir who appeared as a painted
demon. His thick mass of hair was covered with red
dust and his body, naked but for a cloth round his
waist, was smeared green; he looked like a painted
demon, a green demon.

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‘You are late, mister,’ said Ranbir, ‘I thought you

were not coming.’
He had both his fists closed, but when he walked
towards me he opened them, smiling widely, a white
smile in a green face. In his right hand was red dust
and in his left hand green dust. And with his right
hand he rubbed the red dust on my left cheek, and
then with the other hand he put the green dust on
my right cheek; then he stood back and looked at
me and laughed. Then he embraced me. Seeing my
bewildered expression, he told me that it was local
custom to embrace on. Holi. It was a wrestler’s hug,
and I winced breathlessly.
‘Come,’ said Ranbir, ‘let us go and paint the town
in the colours of a rainbow.’
And truly, that day there was an outbreak of spring.
The sun came up, and the bazaar woke up. The walls
of the houses were suddenly patched with splashes of
colour, and just as suddenly the trees seemed to have
burst into flower, for in the forest there were armies of
thododendrons, and by the river the poinsettias danced;
the cherry and the plum were in blossom; the snow
in the mountains had melted, and the streams were
rushing down in torrents; the new leaves on the trees
were full of sweetness, and the young grass held both
dew and sun, making an emerald of every dewdrop.

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The infection of spring spread simultaneously

through the world of man and the world of nature,
and made them one. |
Ranbir and I moved round the hill, keeping in
the fringe of the jungle until we had skirted not only
the European community but also the smart shopping
centre. We came down dirty little side streets where |
the walls of houses, stained with the wear and tear of
many years of meagre habitation, were now stained
again with the vivid colours of Holi. Then we came
to the Clock Tower.
At the Clock Tower, spring had really been declared
open. Clouds of coloured dust rose in the air and spread,
and jets of water—green and orange and purple, all
rich and vibrant colours—burst out everywhere.
Children played in groups and were armed mainly
with bicycle pumps, or pumps fashioned from bamboo
stems, from which was squirted coloured water. And
the children paraded the main road, chanting shrilly
and clapping their hands. Adults preferred the dust
to the water. They too sang, but their chanting held
a significance, their hands and fingers drummed the
rhythms of spring, the same rhythms, the same songs
that belonged to this day every year of their lives.
Ranbir was met by some friends and greeted with
great hilarity. Before I could realize what was happening

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a bicycle pump was directed at me and a jet of sooty

black water squirted on my face.
Blinded for a moment, I blundered about in great|
confusion. A horde of children bore down on me, and
I was subjected to a pumping from all sides. My shirt
and pyjamas, drenched through, stuck to my skin; then
someone gripped the end of my shirt and tugged at
it until it tore and came away. Dust was thrown on
my face and body, roughly and with full force, and
my skin—tender and underexposed—smarted beneath
the onslaught.
Then my eyes cleared. I blinked and looked wildly
round at the. group of boys and girls who cheered and
danced in front of me. My body was running mostly
with sooty black, streaked with red, and my mouth
seemed full of it too, and I began to spit.
Then, one by one, Ranbit’s friends approached me.
Gently, they rubbed dust ‘on my cheeks, and
embraced me; they were like so many flaming demons
that I could not distinguish one from the other. But
this gentle greeting coming so soon after the stormy
bicycle-pump attack, bewildered me even more.
Ranbir said: “Now you are one of us, Rusty, come,’
and I went with him and the others.
‘Suri is hiding, cried someone. ‘He has locked
himself in his house and won't play Holi!’

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 It Happened One Spring

‘Well, he will have to play,’ said Ranbir, ‘even if

we break the house down.’
We knocked on the door of Suri’s house. His mother
answered the door and told us that Suri, who dreaded
Holi, had decided to spend the day ina state of siege.
He had set up camp in the kitchen, where there were
provisions enough for the whole day. We then went to
that side of the courtyard and yelled out at him. He
listened to us calling to him, and ignored our invitations,
jeers and threats; the door was strong and well-barricaded
so he must have happily thought that he was safe. But
we were too intoxicated by the drumming and shouting
and high spirits to be done out of the pleasure of
discomfiting Suri. So we acquired a ladder and made
our entry into the kitchen by the skylight. There we saw
Suri settled beneath a table, going through a English
nudists’ journal. We yelled at him. Suri squealed with
fright. The door was opened and he was bundled out,
and his spectacles were trampled upon.
‘My glasses!’ he screamed. ‘You’ve broken them!’
‘You can afford a dozen pairs!’ jeered someone in
our group. 3
‘But I can’t see, you fools, I can’t see!’
‘He can’t see!’ cried someone else in scorn. ‘For
once in his life, Suri can’t see what’s going on! Now,
whenever he spies, we'll smash his glasses!’

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Not knowing Suri all that well, I could not help

pitying the frantic boy.
‘Why don’t you let him go,’ I asked Ranbir. hate
force him if he doesn’t want to play.’
‘But this is the only chance we have of repaying
him for all his dirty tricks. It is the only day on which
no one needs to be afraid of him!’
I could not imagine how anyone could possibly be
afraid of this pale, struggling, spindly-legged boy who
was almost being torn apart, and was glad when the
others had finished their sport with him.
All day I roamed the town and countryside with
Ranbir and his friends, and Suri was soon forgotten.
For one day, Ranbir and his friends forgot their homes
and their work, and danced down the roads, out of the
town and into the forest. And, for one day, I forgot
my guardian and the missionary’s wife and the supple
malacca cane, and ran along joyously with the others.
The crisp, sunny morning ripened into afternoon.
In the forest, in the cool dark silence of the jungle,
everyone stopped singing and shouting, suddenly
exhausted. We lay down in the shade of many trees,
and the grass was soft and comfortable, and very soon
most of us were fast asleep.
But sleep evaded me. I was tired. And iba I had
lost my shirt and shoes, my feet were bruised, my body

t2
 It Happened One Spring

sore. It was only now, resting, that I noticed these things,

for I had been so far caught up in the excitement of the
colour game, overcome by an exhilaration I had never
known. My hair was tousled and streaked with colour.
I was exhausted, but I felt happy.
I wanted this to go on for ever, this day of feverish
emotion, this life in another world. I did not want
to leave the forest; it was safe, its earth soothed me,
gathered me in, so that the pain of my body became
a pleasure...
No, I did not want to go home.
o,
%,¢

Mr Harrison stood at the top of the veranda steps. |

The house was in darkness, but his cigarette glowed
more brightly for it. A road lamp cast light on me as
I opened the gate. I knew I had been spotted, but I
didn’t care much; but if I had known then that Mr
Harrison had not recognized me, I would have turned
back instead of walking resignedly up the garden path.
Mr Harrison did not move, nor did he appear to
notice my approach. It was only when I started up the
veranda steps that he moved and said:
‘Who's that?’
Obviously he had not recognized me; I wished that
I realized this earlier for in that instant I became aware

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of my own condition, for my body was a patchwork of

paint. Wearing only torn pyjamas I could, in the half-light,
have easily been mistaken for the sweeper boy or someone
else’s servant. It must have been a newly-acquired bazaar-
instinct that made me think of escape. I turned about.
But Mr Harrison shouted, ‘Come here, you!’ and
the tone of his voice—the tone reserved for the sweeper
boy—stopped me in my tracks.
‘Come up here!’ repeated Mr Harrison.
I returned to the veranda, and my guardian switched
on a light, but even now there was no recognition. !
‘Good evening, sir, I said as calmly as I could.
Mr Harrison received a shock. I felt like laughing
out loud, but I know what he must have gone through:
anger and then pain. As soon as he recovered from that
shock he began to fire me. “Are you the same Rusty I
trained and educated? No, you are just a wild, ragged,
ungrateful wretch who does not know the difference
between what is proper and what is improper, what
is civilized and what is barbaric, what is decent and .
what is shameful! All my years of training have come
to nothing.’ He then came out of the shadows and
cursed. He brought his hand down on the back of my
neck, propelled me into the drawing room, and pushed
me across the room so violently that I lost my balance,
collided with a table and rolled over on to the ground.

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 It Happened One Spring

I looked up from the floor to find my guardian

standing over me, and in his right hand was the supple
malacca cane, and the cane was twitching.
Mr Harrison's face was twitching too; it was full of
fire. His lips were stitched together, sealed up with the
ginger moustache, and he looked at me with narrowed,
unblinking eyes full of contempt.
‘Filth!’ he said, almost spitting the words in my
face. ‘My God, what filth!’
I don't know what came over me—instead of begging
for mercy I simply stood and stared, fascinated by
the deep yellow nicotine stains on the fingers of my
guardian's raised hand. Then the wrist moved suddenly
and the cane cut across my face like a knife, stabbing
and burning into my cheek.
I cried out and cowered back against the wall; I could
feel the blood trickling across my mouth. I looked round
desperately for a means of escape, but Mr Harrison was
in front of me, over me, and the wall was behind.
Mr Harrison broke into a torrent of words once
again. “How can you call yourself an Englishman? How
can you come back to this house in such a condition?
In what gutter, in what brothel have you been! Have
you seen yourself? Do you know what you look like?’
‘No, I replied. For the first time I did not address
my guardian as ‘sir’. ‘I don’t care what I look like.’

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‘You don’t! . . . Well, Pll tell you what you look

like! You look like the native that you are!’
‘That’s a lie!’ I exclaimed, outraged more by his
tone than byhis words.
‘I’s the truth. I’ve tried to bring you up as an
Englishman, as your father would have wished. But,
as you won't have it our way, I’m telling you that your
parentage is just about the only thing English about
you. You're no better than the sweeper boy!’
I flared into a temper and showed some spirit in
front of that man for the first time in my life. “I’m
no better than the sweeper boy, but I’m as good as
him! I’m as good as you! I’m as good as anyone!’ And,
instead of cringing to take the cut from the cane, |
flung myself at my guardian’s legs. The cane swished
through the air, grazing my back. But I was beyond
caring. I wrapped my arms round my guardian's legs
and pulled on them with all my strength.
Mr Harrison went over, falling flat on his back.
The suddenness of the fall must have knocked the
breath from his body, because for a moment he did
not move.
I sprang to my feet. The cut across my face had
stung me to madness, to an unreasoning hate, and |
then did what previously I would only have dreamt
of doing. Lifting a vase of the missionary’s wife's best
J

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 It Happened One Spring

sweet peas off the glass cupboard, I flung it at Mr

Harrison's face. It hit him on the chest, but the water
and flowers flopped out over his face. He tried to get
up, but he was speechless.
The look of alarm on Mr Harrison's face gave me
greater courage. Before the man could recover his feet
and his balance, I gripped him by the collar and pushed
him backwards, until both of us fell over on to the
floor. With one hand still twisting his collar, I slapped
my guardian’s face. Mad with the pain in my own face,
I hit the man again and again, wildly and awkwardly,
but with the giddy thrill of knowing I could do it:I
was a child no longer, I was seventeen, I was a man.
I could inflict pain, that was a wonderful discovery;
there was a power in my body—a devil or a god—and
f gained confidence in my power.
‘Stop that, stop it!’
The shout of a hysterical woman brought me to
my senses. | still held my guardian by the throat, but
I stopped hitting him. Mr Harrison’s face was very red.
The missionary’s wife stood in the doorway, her face
white with fear. She was perhaps under the impression
that Mr Harrison was being attacked by a servant or
some bazaar hooligan. I did not wait for her to recognize
me, so before she even found her tongue I darted out
of the drawing room with a newfound speed and agility.

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I made my escape through the bedroom window.

From the gate I could see the missionary’s wife
silhouetted against the drawing-room light. I laughed
out loud. The woman swivelled round and came forward
a few steps. And I laughed again and began running
down the road to the bazaar. |
It was late. The sweet shops and restaurants were
closed. In the bazaar, oil lamps hung outside each
doorway; people were asleep on the steps and platforms
of shopfronts, some huddled in blankets, others rolled
tight into themselves. The road, which during the day
was a busy, noisy crush of people and animals, was
quiet and deserted. Only a lean dog still sniffed in
the gutter. A woman sang in a room high above the
street—a plaintive, tremulous song—and in the far
distance a jackal cried to the moon. But the empty,
lifeless street was very deceptive; if the roofs could
have been removed from but a handful of buildings,
it would be seen that life had not really stopped but,
beautiful and ugly, persisted through the night.
It was past midnight, though the Clock Tower had
no way of saying it. I was in the empty street, and the
chaat shop was closed, a sheet of tarpaulin draped across
the front. I looked up and down the road, hoping to
meet someone I knew: the chaat-wallah, 1 felt sure,
would give me a blanket for the night and a place to

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sleep; and the next day when Somi came to meet me,
I would tell my friend of my predicament, that I had
run away from my guardian’s house and did not intend
returning. But I would have to wait till morning: the
chaat shop was shuttered, barred and bolted.
I sat down on the steps, but the stone was cold
and my thin cotton pyjamas offered no protection. I
folded my arms and huddled up in a corner, but still
I shivered. My feet were becoming numb, lifeless.
The hazards of the situation had not yet sunk
into me. I was still mad with anger and rebellion
and though the blood on my cheek had dried, my
face was still smarting. I could not think clearly: the
present seemed confusing and unreal and I could not
see beyond it; what worried me in fact was the cold
and the discomfort and the pain.
The singing stopped in the high window. I looked
up and saw a beckoning hand. As no one else in the
street showed any signs of life, I got up and walked
across the road until I was under the window. The
woman pointed to a stairway, and I mounted it, glad
of the hospitality I was being offered.
The stairway seemed to go to the stars, but it turned
suddenly to lead into the woman’s room. The door was
slightly ajar. I knocked and a voice said, ‘Come. . .’
The room was filled with perfume and burning

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incense. A musical instrument lay in one corner. The

woman reclined on a bed, her hair scattered about the
pillow; she had a round, pretty face, but she was losing
her youth, and the fat showed in rolls at her exposed
waist. She smiled at me, and beckoned again.
‘Thank you, I said, closing the door. ‘Can I
sleep here?’
‘Where else?’ said the woman.
‘Just for tonight.’
She smiled, and waited. I just stood in front of
her, my hands behind my back.
‘Sit down,’ she said, and patted the bedclothes
beside her. |
Reverently, and as respectfully as was possible, I
sat down. The woman ran little fair fingers over my
body, and drew my head to hers; our lips were very
close, almost touching. I thought that our breathing
sounded terribly loud, but I only said:
‘I am hungry.’
In reply, the woman kissed me full on the lips.
I drew away in embarrassment, unsure of myself. |
liked this woman, but for some inexplicable reason her
behaviour worried me...
‘What is wrong?’ she asked.
‘I’m tired,’ I said.
The friendly smile on her face turned to a look of

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 It Happened One Spring

scorn. Then she must have seen the unhappiness in my

eyes, for in a voice full of kindness she said, ‘You can
sleep here until you-have lost your tiredness.’
But now I didn’t want to remain in that room any
longer—it didn’t seem right. I shook my head. ‘I will
come some other time,’ I said, not wishing to hurt
her feelings.
I left the room not knowing what prompted my
actions. Mechanically, I descended the staircase, and
walked up the bazaar road, past the silent, sleeping
forms, until I reached the Clock Tower. To the right of
the Clock Tower was a broad stretch of grassland where,
during the day, cattle grazed and children played and
young men like Ranbir wrestled and kicked footballs.
But now, at night, it was a vast empty space.
The grass was soft, like the grass in the forest, and I
walked the length of the maidan. I found a bench and sat
down, warmer for the walk. A light breeze was blowing
across the maidan, pleasant and refreshing, playing with
my hair. Around me everything was dark and silent and
lonely. I had got away from the bazaar, which held the
misery of beggars and homeless children and starving©
dogs, and I could now concentrate on my own misery,
for nothing made me unhappier than my own lonely
state. Madness and freedom and violence were new to
me: loneliness was familiar, something I understood.

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I was alone. Until tomorrow, I was alone for the

rest of my life.
If tomorrow there was no Somi at the chaat shop, no
Ranbir, then what would I do? This question badgered
me persistently, making me an unwilling slave to reality.
I did not know where these friends of mine lived, I had
no money, I could not ask the chaat-wallah for credit
on the strength of two visits. Perhaps I would return
to the amorous lady in the bazaar, perhaps . . . but
no, one thing was certain, I would never return to my
guardian...
The moon had been hidden by clouds, and presently
there was a drizzle. I did not mind the rain, it refreshed
me and made the colour run from my body; but, when
it began to fall harder, I started shivering again. I felt
sick. I got up, rolled my ragged pyjamas up to my
thighs and crawled under the bench.
There was a hollow under the bench, and at first I
found it quite comfortable. But there was no grass and
gradually the earth began to soften: soon I was on my
hands and knees in a pool of muddy water, with the
slush oozing up through my fingers and toes. Crouching
there, wet and cold and muddy, I was overcome by
a feeling of helplessness and self-pity: everyone and
everything seemed to have turned against me, not only
my people, but also the bazaar and the chaat shop

162
 It Happened One Spring

and even the elements. I admitted to myself rather

grudgingly that I had been too impulsive in rebelling
and running away from home; perhaps there was still
time to return and beg Mr Harrison’s forgiveness. But
could my behaviour be forgiven? I may be clapped in
irons for attempted murder. Most certainly I would
be given another beating: not six strokes this time,
but nine.
My only hope was Somi. If not Somi, then Ranbir.
If not Ranbir . . . well, it was no use thinking further,
there was no one else to think of.
The rain had ceased. I crawled out from under the
bench, and stretched my cramped limbs. The moon came
out from a cloud, and played on my wet, glistening
body, and showed me the vast, naked loneliness of
the maidan and my own insignificance. I longed now
for the presence of people, be they beggars or women,
and I broke into a trot, and the trot became a run,
a frightened run. I did not stop until I reached the
Clock Tower.
4,
+9

_ My weariness coupled with hunger and pain was so

great that even long after the sun had come striding
down the road, knocking on nearly every door and
window, I was still asleep on the steps of the chaat

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shop. Someone shook me by my shoulders and woke

me up. It was Somi. ‘Hey, Rusty, get up, what has
happened? Where is Ranbir? Holi got over yesterday,
you know! Anyway, by the time you rouse yourself, let
me take my bath.’
Somi went a little ahead and bathed at the common
water tank. He stood under the tap and slapped his body
into life and spluttered with the shock of mountain water.
At the tank were many people: children shrieking
with delight—or discomfort—as their ayahs slapped
them about roughly and affectionately; the ayahs
themselves, strong, healthy hill-women, with heavy
bracelets on their ankles; the b/isti—water-carrier—
with his skin bag; and the cook with his pots and pans.
The ayahs sat on their haunches, bathing the children,
their saris rolled up to the thighs; every time they
moved their feet, the bells on their anklets jingled, so
that there was a continuous shrieking and jingling and
slapping of buttocks. The cook smeared his utensils
with ash and washed them, and filled an earthen chatty
with water; the bhisti hoisted the water-bag over his
shoulder and left, dripping; a piedog lapped at water
rolling off the stone platform; and a baleful-looking
cow nibbled at wet grass.
Obviously, it was with these people that Somi-spent
his mornings, laughing and talking and bathing with

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them. When he had finished his ablutions, dried his

hair in the sun, dressed and tied his turban, he walked
up to me, and seeing me lying there with my eyes
open he said, “Hey, your guardian will be very angry!’
I sat up with a start. I was wide awake -now,
sweeping up my scattered thoughts and sorting them .
out. It was difficult for me to be straightforward, but
I forced myself to look Somi straight in the eyes and,
very simply and without preamble, said:
‘Tve run away from home.’
Somi showed no surprise. A half-smile on his lips,
he said:
‘Good. Now you can come and stay with me.’ Oh,
what a relief to hear those words! I felt weak in the legs,
but my mind was at ease and I no longer felt alone:
once again, Somi gave me a feeling of confidence. We
headed for Somi’s house on his bicycle.
‘Do you think I can get a job?’ I asked.
‘Don't worry about that yet, you have only just
run away.’
‘Do you think I can get a job?’ I asked again. If I
didn't get a job, how would I live?
‘Why not? But don't worry, you are going to stay
with me.’
‘Tl stay with you only until I find a job. Any kind
of job, there must be something.’

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 It Happened One Spring

‘Of course, don’t worry, said Somi, and pressed

harder on the pedals.
We came to a canal; it was noisy with the rush
of mountain water, for the snows had begun to melt.
The road, which ran parallel to the canal, was flooded
in some parts, but Somi steered a steady course. Then
the canal turned left and the road kept straight, and
presently the sound of water was but a murmur, and
the road quiet and shady; there were trees at the road-
sides, covered in pink and white blossoms, and behind
them more trees, thicker and greener, and amongst the
trees were houses.
A boy swung on a creaking wooden gate. He whistled
out, and Somi waved back; that was all. “Who’s that?’
I asked. ,
‘Son of his parents.’
“What do you mean by that?’
‘His father is rich. So Kishen is somebody. He has
money, andit is as powerful as Suri’s tongue.’
‘Is he Suri’s friend or yours?’
‘When it suits him, he is our friend. When it suits
him, he is Suri’s friend.’
“Then he’s clever as well as rich,’ I deduced.
“The brains are his mother’s.’
‘And the money his father’s?’
‘Yes, but there isn’t much left now. Mr Kapoor

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is finished . . . Kishen looks like his father too, his

mother is beautiful. Well, here we are!’
Somi rode the bicycle in amongst the trees and
along a snaky path that dodged this way and that, and
then we reached his house.
It was a small flat house, covered completely by a
crimson bougainvillaea creeper. The garden was a mass
of marigolds, which had sprung up everywhere, even in
the cracks at the sides of the veranda steps. No one was
at home. Somi’s father was in Delhi, and his mother
was out for the morning, buying the week’s vegetables.
‘Have you any brothers?’ I asked, as we entered
the front room.
‘No. But P’ve got two sisters. But they're married.
Come on, let’s see if my clothes will fit you.’ I laughed,
for I was older and bigger than my friend, and I was
used to wearing shirts and trousers. I sat down on a sofa
in the front room, whilst Somi went for the clothes.
The room. was cool and spacious, and had very
little furniture. But on the walls were many pictures,
and in the centre a large one of Guru Nanak, the
founder of the Sikh religion; his body bare, the saint
sat with his legs crossed and the palms of his hands
touching in prayer, and on his face there was a serene
expression: the serenity of Nanak’s countenance seemed
to communicate itself to the room. There was a serenity

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about Somi too, maybe because of the smile that always

hovered near his mouth.
Somi's family appeared to be middle-class people;
that is, they were neither saat nor beggars, but managed
to live all the same.
Somi came back with the clothes.
“They are mine,’ he said, ‘so maybe they will be
a little small for you. Anyway, the warm weather is
coming and it will not matter what you wear—better
nothing at all!’ 2
I put on a long white shirt which, to my surprise,
hung loose; it had a high collar and broad sleeves:
‘It is loose,’ I said wonderingly, ‘how can it be yours?”
‘It is made loose,’ said Somi.
I pulled on a pair of white pyjamas, and these were
definitely small for me, ending a few inches above the
ankle. The sandals would not buckle; so, when’I walked, -
they behaved like Somi’s and slapped against my heels.
‘There!’ exclaimed Somi in satisfaction. ‘Now
everything is settled, chaat in your stomach, clean
clothes on your body, and in a few days we find a job!
Now is there anything else?’
I knew Somi well enough now to know that it
wasnt necessary to thank him for anything. Gratitude
was taken for granted; in true friendship there are no
formalities and no obligations. I did not even ask him

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if he had consulted his mother about taking me in as

a guest; perhaps she was used to this sort of thing.
‘Is there anything else?’ repeated Somi.
A small yawn escaped me.
‘Can I go to sleep now, please?’
>,
“2°

I had never slept well in my guardian’s house, because

I had never been tired enough; also, my imagination
often disturbed me. And, since running away, I had
slept very badly, because I had been cold and hungry
and afraid. But in Somi’s house I felt safe and a little
happy, and so I slept; in fact I slept through the rest
of the day and through the night.
In the morning Somi tipped me out of bed and
dragged me to the water tank. I watched him strip and
stand under the jet of tap water, and shuddered at the
prospect of having to do the same.
Before removing my shirt, I looked around in
embarrassment; no one paid much attention to me,
though one of the ayahs, a girl with bangles, gave me a
sly smile. I looked away from the women, threw my shirt
on a bush and advanced cautiously to the bathing place.
Somi pulled me under the tap. I gasped with shock
at the icy-cold water and sprang off the platform, much
to the amusement of everyone present.

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 It Happened One Spring

There was no towel with which to dry myself so

I stood on the grass, shivering with cold, wondering
whether I should dash back to the house or shiver in
the open until the sun dried me. But the girl with the
bangles was beside me holding a towel. Her eyes were
full of mockery, but her smile was friendly.
At the midday meal, which consisted of curry and
curds and chapattis, 1 met Somi’s mother. I liked her
quite a bit.
She was a woman of about thirty-five; she had a
few grey hairs at the temples, and her skin—unlike
Somi’s—was rough and dry. She was dressed simply, in —
a plain white sari. Her life had been difficult. During
the partition of the country, when hate made religion
its own, Somi’s family had to leave their home in the
Punjab and trek southwards; they had walked hundreds
of miles. Life had to be started again right from the
beginning, for they had lost most of their property:
Somi’s father found work in Delhi, his sister was married
off, and Somi and his mother settled down in Dehra,
where Somi attended school. ;
His mother said: ‘Mister Rusty, you must give Somi _
a few lessons in spelling and arithmetic. Always, he
comes last in class.’
‘Oh, that’s good!’ exclaimed Somi. “We'll have fun,
Rusty!’ Then he thumped the table. ‘I have an idea! I

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think I have a job for you! Remember Kishen, the boy

we passed yesterday? Well, his father wants someone
to give him private lessons in English.’
‘Teach Kishen?’
‘Yes, it will be easy. Pll go and see Mr Kapoor
and tell him that I’ve found a professor of English or
something like that, and then you can come and see
him. Brother, it is a first-class idea, you are going to
be a teacher!’
I felt very dubious about the proposal; I wasn’t sure
I could teach English or anything else to the wilful
son of a rich man, but | wasn’t in a position to pick
and choose. Somi mounted his bicycle and rode off to
see Mr Kapoor about the job. When he returned he
seemed pleased with himself, and my heart sank with
the knowledge that I had got a job.
‘You are to come and see him this evening,
announced Somi, ‘he will tell you all about it. They
want a teacher for Kishen, especially if they don’t have
to pay.’ ek | |
‘What kind of a job is this—without pay?’ I
complained.
‘No pay, said Somi, ‘but everything else—food
and a room, sir!’ 7
‘Oh, even a room,’ I muttered, a trifle ungratefully,
‘that will be nice.’

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 It Happened One Spring

‘Anyway, said Somi, ‘go and see him, you don’

have to accept the job right away.’
The house the Kapoors lived in was very near the
canal; it was a squat, comfortable-looking bungalow,
surrounded by uncut hedges, and shaded by banana
and papaya trees. It was late evening when Somi and
I arrived; the moon was up, and the shaggy branches
of the banana trees shook their heavy shadows out over
the gravel path.
In an open space in front of the house a log fire
was burning; the Kapoors appeared to be throwing a
party. We joined a group of people who were standing
round the fire, and I wondered if Somi and J had been
invited to the party. The fire lent a friendly warmth to
the chilly night, and the flames leapt up, casting the
glow of roses on people’s faces.
Somi pointed out different people: various
shopkeepers, one or two ‘Big Men’, the sickly-looking
Suri (who was never absent from a social occasion
such as this) and a few total strangers who had invited
themselves to the party just for the fun of the thing and
a free meal. Kishen, the Kapoors’ son, was not present;
apparently he hated parties, preferring the company of
certain wild friends in the bazaar.
Apparently, Mr Kapoor was once a ‘Big Man’
himself, and everyone knew this, but he had fallen

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from the heights, and until he gave up the bottle, was

not likely to reach them again. Everyone felt sorry for
his wife, including herself.
Presently Kapoor tottered out of the front door arm-
in-arm witha glass and.a bottle of whisky. He wore
a green dressing-gown and a week's beard; his hair, or
what was left of it, stood up on end; and he dribbled
. slightly. An awkward silence fell on the company, but
Kapoor, who was a friendly, gentle sort of drunkard, —
looked round benevolently, and said:
‘Everybody here? Fine, fine, they are all here, all of
them .. . Throw some more wood on the fire!’ The fire
was doing very well indeed, but not well enough for
Kapoor; every now and then he would throw a log on’
the flames until it was feared the blaze would reach the
house. Meena, Kapoor’s wife, did not look flustered,
only irritated; she was a capable person, still young, a
charming hostess, and, in her red sari and white silk
jacket, her hair plaited and scented with jasmine, she
looked beautiful. I could not help gazing admiringly at
her. I wanted to compliment her, to say ‘Mrs Kapoor,
you are beautiful’, but I had no need to tell her, she »
appeared to be fully conscious of the fact.
Meena Kapoor made her way over to one of the
‘Big Men’, and whispered something in his ear, and
then she went to a ‘Little Shopkeeper’ and whispered

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something in his ear, and then both the ‘Big Man’ and
the ‘Little Shopkeeper’ advanced stealthily towards the
spot where Mr Kapoor was holding forth, and made a
gentle attempt to convey him indoors.
But Kapoor was having none of it. He pushed the
men aside and roared:
‘Keep the fire burning! Keep it burning, don’t let
it go out, throw some more wood on it!’
And before he could be restrained, he threw a pot
of the most delicious sweetmeats on to the flames.
I found this absolutely sacrilegous. ‘Oh, Mr.
Kapoor . . . I cried out, but there was some confusion
in the rear, and my words were drowned ina series of
explosions. :
Suri, with one or two others, had begun letting
off fireworks: fountains, rockets and explosives. The
fountains gushed forth in green and red and silver
lights, and the rockets struck through the night with
crimson tails, but it was the explosives that caused the
confusion. The guests did not know whether to press
forward into the fires, or retreat amongst the fireworks;
neither prospect was pleasing, and the women began
to show signs of hysterics. Then Suri burnt his finger
and began screaming, and this distraction was what
all the women needed. Headed by Suri’s mother, they
rushed to the boy and smothered him with attention,

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 Rusty Runs Away

whilst the men, who were in a minority, looked on

sheepishly as if they wished that the accident had been
of a more serious nature.
Something rough brushed against my cheek. It was
Kapoor's beard. Somi had brought our host to me,
and the bemused man put his face close to mine and
placed his hands on my shoulders in order to steady
himself. He nodded his head, his eyes red and watery.
‘Rusty . . . so you are Mister Rusty . . . I hear you
are going to be my school teacher.’
‘Your son’s, sir, I corrected him, ‘but that is for
you to decide.’
‘Do not call me “sir”, he said, wagging his finger
in my face, ‘call me by my name. So you are going
to England, eh?’
“No, I’m going to be your school teacher.’ I couldn't
help being sarcastic. I don’t think I’ve ever had patience
for people who drink themselves silly and make fools
of themselves. I had to put my arm round Kapoor's
waist to avoid being dragged to the ground; Kapoor
was leaning heavily on my shoulders.
‘Good, good. Tell me after you have gone, I want to
give you some addresses of people I know. You must go
to Monte Carlo. You've seen nothing until you've seen
Monte Carlo, it’s the only place with a future . . . Who
built Monte Carlo, do you know?’

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 ; It Happened One Spring

Naturally it was impossible for me to make any sense

of such a conversation or discuss my appointment as
Professor in English to Kishen Kapoor. Kapoor meanwhile
began to slip from my arms, and | took the opportunity
of changing my own position for a more comfortable
one, before levering my host up again. The amused smiles
of the company rested on this little scene.
I asked the question which Mr Kapoor wanted
me to ask and to which he wanted to reply: ‘No, Mr
Kapoor, who built Monte Carlo?’
‘I did. I built Monte Carlo!’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘Yes, I built this house, I’m a genius, there's no
doubt of it! I have a high opinion of my own opinion,
what is yours?’ -
‘Oh, I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ right.’
‘Of course I am. But speak up, don’t be afraid to
say what you think. Stand up for your rights, even
if youre wrong! Throw some more wood on the fire,
keep it burning.’
Suddenly Kapoor leapt from my arms and stumbled
towards the fire. I shouted out to him, and, catching
hold of the end of his green dressing-gown, dragged
my host back to safety. Meena Kapoor ran to us and,
without so much as a glance at me, took her husband
by the arm and propelled him indoors.

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 Rusty Runs Away

I stared after Meena Kapoor, and continued to stare

even when she had disappeared. The guests chattered away
pleasantly, pretending nothing had happened, keeping
the gossip for the next morning, but the children giggled
amongst themselves, and the devil Suri shouted:
‘Throw'some more wood on the fire, keep it burning!’
Somi appeared at my side. “What did Mr Kapoor
have to say?’
‘He said he built Monte Geiloe
Somi slapped his forehead. ‘Toba! Now we'll have
to come again tomorrow evening. And then, if he’s
drunk, we'll have to discuss the matter with his wife,
she’s the only one with any sense.’
We walked away from the party, out of the circle
of fire-light, into the shadows of the banana trees. The
voices of the guests became a distant murmur. Suddenly,
Suri's high-pitched shout came to us on the clear, still air.
Somi said: “We must go to the chaat shop tomorrow
morning, Ranbir is asking for you.’
I had almost forgotten about Ranbir. I felt ee
for not having asked after him before this. Ranbir was
an important person in my life, he had changed the
course of my life with nothing but a little colour, red
and green, and the touch of his hand.
7
OC

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 It Happened One Spring

One day when Ranbir and I were at the chaat shop

having potato tikkees I asked him how Somi and he had
become such close friends. They seemed to understand
each other so well, trust each other with their lives,
and depend on each other in times of need, yet keep
a bit of distance between them. I couldn't help but
feel envious of such a wonderful friendship, specially
since I had no close friends myself.
Ranbir laughingly said, “Well, you won't believe
this, Rusty, but when we first met, Somi and I couldn't
stand the sight of each other. . .’ ;
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘Then . . . the pool incident happened.’
I looked at him enquiringly.
‘T had been less than a month in Dehra,’ said Ranbir,
‘when I discovered this pool in the forest. It was the
height of summer, and school had not yet opened,
and, having made no friends in this place, I wandered
about a good deal by myself into the hills and forests.
It was hot, very hot, at that time of the year, and as I
walked about in my vest and shorts, my brown feet, I
remember now, were white with the chalky dust that
flew up from the ground. The earth was parched, the
grass brown, the trees listless, hardly stirring, waiting
for a cool wind or a refreshing shower of rain.
‘It was on such a day—a hot, tired day—that I

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 Rusty Runs Away

found the pool in the forest. The water had a gentle

translucency, and you could see the smooth round
pebbles at the bottom of the pool.
“When I saw the pool, I did not hesitate to get
into it. I had often gone swimming, alone or with
friends, when I had lived with my parents in a thirsty
town in the middle of the Rajputana desert. There, I
had known only sticky, muddy pools, where buffaloes
wallowed and women washed clothes. I had never seen
a pool like this—so clean and cold and inviting .. .
I threw off all my clothes, as I had done when I went
swimming in the plains, and leapt into the water.
“The next day I went there again to quench my body
in the cool waters of the forest pool. I was there for
almost an hour, sliding in and out of the limpid green
water, or lying stretched out on the smooth yellow rocks
in the shade of the broad-leaved sal trees. While I lay like
this, naked on a rock, I noticed another boy standing
a little distance away, staring at me in a rather hostile
manner. A Sikh fellow. I had seen him before in town,
but hadn't spoken to him. Not my type, I had thought.
‘The boy had only just noticed me, and he stood at
the edge of the pool, wearing a pair of bathing shorts,
waiting, perhaps, for me to explain myself.
‘I did not say anything, and the other called out,
“What are you doing here, mister?”

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 It Happened One Spring

‘I had been prepared to be friendly, but was taken

aback at the hostility of that fellow’s tone.
‘““T am swimming,” I replied. “Why don’t you join
mie?”
‘“T always swim alone,” said the other. “This is my
pool, I did not invite you here. And why: are you not
wearing any clothes?”
“Te is not your business if I do not wear clothes.
I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You fat fellow, put on your clothes.”
‘Skinny fool, take yours off.” :
‘I suppose I had provoked him too much. He
strode up to me—I was still sitting on the rock—and,
planting his broad feet firmly on the sand, said (as
though this would settle the matter once and for all),
“Don’t you know I am a Punjabi? I do not take replies
from loafers like you!”
““So you like to fight with loafers?” I asked. “Well,
I am not a loafer. | am a Rajput!”
“T am a Punjabi!”
“T am a Rajput!”
‘We had reached an impasse. There was little else
that could be said. |
“You understand that I am a Punjabi?” said the
stranger, feeling that perhaps this information had not
penetrated my head, for I was still sitting there coolly.

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 Rusty Runs Away

cee
I have heard you say it three times,” I replied.
“Then why are you not running away?”
“I am waiting for you to run away!”
"I will have to beat you,” said the stranger, assuming
a violent attitude, showing me the palm of his hand. —
Ca
I am waiting to see you do it,” I said.
“You will see me do it,” said the other boy.
“Well, I waited,’ said Ranbir. ‘The other boy made
a strange, hissing’sound. We stared each other in the
eye for almost a minute. Then the Punjabi boy slapped
me across the face with all the force he could muster.
I staggered, feeling quite dizzy. I saw later that there
were thick red finger marks on my cheek.
“There you are!” exclaimed my assailant. “Will you
be off now?”
‘I was so furious at that skinny fellow’s gall to slap
me that I swung my arm up and pushed ahard, bony
fist into the other’s face.’
“Then what happened, Ranbir?’ I asked, My last
potato tikkee was getting cold on the banana leaf. I
was so mesmerized by Ranbir’s storytelling that I had
stopped eating.
“Then the obvious happened, Rusty. We were at
each other’s throats, swaying on the rock, tumbling on
to the sand, rolling over and over, our legs and arms
locked in a desperate, violent struggle. Gasping and

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cursing, clawing and slapping, we rolled right into the

shallows of the pool.
‘Even in the water the fight continued as, spluttering
and covered with mud, we groped for each other's head
and throat. But after five minutes of frenzied, unscientific
struggle, neither of us had emerged victorious. Our bodies
heaving with exhaustion, we stood back from each other,
making tremendous efforts to speak.
‘““Now—now do you realize—I am a Punjabi?”
gasped the stranger.
“Do you know I am a Rajput?” :
‘We gave a moment’s consideration to each other's
answers and, in that moment of silence, there was only
our heavy breathing to be heard.
‘““Then you will not leave the pool?” said the
Punjabi boy.
‘“T will not leave it,” I said stoutly.
‘““Then we shall have to continue the fight,” said
the other.
““All right,” I said—I wasn’t going to give in so easily.
‘But neither of us moved, neither took the initiative.
The Punjabi boy had an inspiration.
‘““We will continue the fight tomorrow,” he said.
“If you dare to come here again tomorrow, we will
continue this fight, and I will not show you mercy as
I have done today.”

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 Rusty Runs Away

I will come tomorrow,” I said. “I will be ready

ce

for you.”
‘We turned from each other then and, going to
our respective rocks, put on our clothes, and left the
forest by different routes.’
I was surprised at two things—the antagonism
between Somi and Ranbir when they first met, and
Ranbir’s capability to narrate the encounter so well.
So eloquent and articulate was he that I could
picturize in my mind every little detail in that scene.
It was like watching a movie being played just for me.
‘So did you both meet the next day as well, Ranbir?
Dont stop, just continue with what happened next!’
By now Ranbir was also hugely enjoying himself.
He was itching to tell me the rest. “Well, when I got
home, I found it difficult to explain the cuts .and
bruises that showed on my face, legs and arms. It
was difficult to conceal the fact that I had been in an
unusually violent fight, and my mother insisted on my
staying at home for the rest of the day. That evening,
though, I slipped out of the house and went to the
bazaar, where I found comfort and solace in a bottle
of vividly-coloured lemonade and a banana-leaf full
of hot, sweet jalebis. 1 had just finished the lemonade
when I saw my adversary coming down the road. My
first impulse was to turn away and look elsewhere, my

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 It Happened One Spring

second to throw the lemonade bottle at my enemy.

But I did neither of these things. Instead, I stood my
ground and scowled at the fellow. He said nothing,
either, but scowled back with equal ferocity.
“The next day was as hot as the previous one. I felt
weak and lazy, Rusty, and not at all eager for a fight.
My body was stiff and sore after the previous day’s
encounter. ButI could not refuse the challenge. Not
to turn up at the pool would be an acknowledgement
of defeat. Frankly speaking, from the way'I felt just
then, I knew I would be beaten in another fight. But
I could not acquiesce in my own defeat. I had to
defy my enemy to the last, or outwit him, for only
then could I gain his respect. If I surrendered at that
point, I would be beaten for all time, but to fight and
be beaten today left me free to fight and be beaten
again. As long as I fought, I had a right to the pool in
the forest.
‘I was half hoping that the Punjabi boy would have
forgotten the challenge, but these hopes were dashed
when I saw my opponent sitting, stripped to the waist,
on a rock on the other side of the pool. He was rubbing
oil on his body, massaging it into his thighs. He saw
me beneath the sal trees, and called a challenge across
the waters of the pool. :
““Come over to this side and fight!” ae shouted.

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 Rusty Runs Away

‘But I was not going to submit to any conditions

laid down by my opponent.
“Come this side and fight!” I shouted back with
equal vigour.
“Swim across and fight me here!” called the other.
“Or perhaps you cannot swim the length of this pool?”
‘He didn’t know then that I am a wrestler, and that
at any given time I can swim the length of that pool.a
dozen times without tiring. I felt that this was a good
opportunity to show the Punjabi boy my superiority. So,
slipping out of my vest and shorts, I dived straight into
the water, cutting through it like a knife, and surfaced
with hardly a splash. My adversary’s mouth hung open
in amazement. Obviously, I had scored a point.
“You can dive!” he exclaimed.
“It is easy,” I said casually, treading water, waiting
for a further challenge. “Can’t you dive?”
“No,” said the other. “I jump straight in. But if
you will tell me how, I will make a dive.”
“It is easy,” I said. “Stand on the rock, stretch your
arms out and allow your head to displace your feet.”
“The Punjabi boy stood up, stiff and straight,
stretched out his arms, and threw himself into the
water. He landed flat on his belly, with a crash that
sent the birds screaming out of the trees.
‘I just dissolved into laughter.

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 It Happened One Spring

“Are you trying to empty the pool?” I asked him

as he came to the surface, spouting water like a small
whale. :
“Wasn't it good?” he asked me, evidently proud °
of his feat.
““Not very good. You should have more practice. See,
I will do it again.” And I executed another perfect dive.
He waited for me to come up, but, swimming underwater,
I circled him and came upon him from behind.
““How did you do that?” he asked, astonished.
“Can't you swim underwater?” I asked.
‘““No, but I will try it. Will you teach me?”
cee
If you like, I will teach you.”
‘““You must teach me. If you do not teach me, I will
beat you. Will you come here every day and teach me?”
““Tf you like,” I replied. We pulled ourselves out of
the water, and sat side by side on a smooth grey rock.
‘““My name is Somi,” said the Punjabi boy. “What
is yours?”
“Te is Ranbir.”
“You are strong,” said Somi. “You are a real
pahelwan.”
‘“Yes, I wrestle quite a bit,” I said. “One day I will
be the world’s champion wrestler. You are quite strong
yourself, Somi,” I conceded. “But you are too bony. I
know, you people do not eat enough. You must come

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and have your food with me. I drink one seer of milk
every day. We have got our own cow! Be my friend,
and I will make you a pahelwan like me!”
‘Somi put his arm around my shoulders and said,
“We are friends now, yes?” And in that moment love
and understanding were born between us. “We are
-friends,” I agreed.
“Now this is our pool,” said Somi. “Nobody else can
come here without our permission. Who would dare?”
‘Who would indeed, Rusty? We make a super
team—Somi and I. Today everyone is envious of our
_ friendship, but very few know that it is that beautiful,
cool green pool in the forest which brought us together.’
I felt curiously content after hearing this long story
from Ranbir. In the company of such true and good
friends, life seemed to be beautiful and the world a
happier place to live in. ‘Let’s celebrate!’ I said, and
ordered another round of tikkees.
},
+e

A couple of days later, Ranbir, Somi and I were seated

in the chaat shop, discussing my situation. Ranbir
looked miserable; his hair fell sadly over his forehead,
and he shied away from looking me straight in the eye.
‘I have got you into trouble,’ he apologized gruffly,
‘Iam too ashamed.’

188
 It Happened One Spring

I laughed. After licking the sauce off my fingers and

crumpling up my empty leaf bowl, I admonished him,
‘Silly fellow, for what are you sorry? For making me
_ happy? For taking me away from my guardian? Well,
I am not sorry, you can be sure of that’
“You are not angry?’ asked Ranbir in wonder.
‘No, but you will make me angry if you go on
moping this way.’ Ranbir’s face lit up, and he slapped
my back with a sudden enthusiasm and said, ‘Come
on, misters, I am going to make you sick with gol-
guppas so that you wont be able to eat any more until
I return from Mussoorie!’
‘Mussoorie?’ Somi looked puzzled. “You are going
to Mussoorie?’
‘To school!’
‘That’s right, said a voice from the door, a voice
hidden in smoke. ‘Now we've had it...’
Somi whispered, ‘It’s that monkey-millionaire
Kishen! He’s come to make a nuisance of himself.’
Then, louder: “Come over here, Kishen, come and join
us in gol-guppas!’
Kishen appeared from the mist of vapour, walking
with an affected swagger, his hands in his pockets; he was
the only one present wearing pants instead of pyjamas.
‘Hey!’ exclaimed Somi, ‘who has given you a black
eye?’

189
 Rusty Runs Away

Kishen did not answer immediately, but sat down

opposite me. His shirt hung over his pants, and his
pants hung over his knees. He had bushy eyebrows and
hair, and a drooping, disagreeable mouth; the sulky
expression on his face had become a permanent one,
not a mood of the moment. Kishen’s swagger, money,
unattractive face and qualities made him curiously
attractive, at least, that’s what I thought . . . Anyway,
it didn’t matter to me whether Kishen swaggered
consciously, whether he had money or possessed an
unattractive face. As far as I was concerned, he was
the boy who I was to tutor, and with whose father’s
money I was to survive.
He prodded his nose with his forefinger, as he always
did when atrifle excited. “Ihose damn wrestlers, they
piled on to me.’
‘Why?’ said Ranbir, sitting up instantly.
‘I was making a badminton court on the maidan,
and these fellows came along and said they had reserved
the place for a wrestling ground.’ —
‘So then?’
Kishen’s affected American twang—I don’t know
how he even came to have such an accent—became
more pronounced. ‘I told them to go to hell!’
Ranbir laughed. ‘So they all started wrestling you?’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t know they would hit me too. I

190
 It Happened One Spring

bet if you fellows were there, they wouldn't have tried

- anything. Isn’t that so, Ranbir?’
Ranbir smiled; he knew it was so, but did not care
to speak of his physical prowess. Kishen took notice
of me suddenly.
‘Are you Mister Rusty?’ be asked.
‘Yes, I am,’ I replied and for the lack of anything
else to say, asked, ‘are you Mister Kishen?’
‘Lam Mister Kishen. You know how to box, Rusty?’
‘Well, I said, unwilling to become involved in a
local feud, ‘P've never boxed wrestlers.’
Somi changed the subject. ‘Rusty’s coming to see
your father this evening. You must try and persuade
your pop to give him the job of teaching you English.’
Kishen prodded his nose, and gave me a sly wink.
‘Yes, Daddy told me about you, he says you are a
professor. You can be my teacher on the condition
that we don’t work too hard, and that you support
me when I tell them lies, and that you tell them I am
working hard. Sure, you can be my teacher, sure .. .
better you than a real one.’
‘Tll try to please everyone,’ | said.
‘You're a clever person if you can. But I think you
are clever.’
‘Yes, I agreed, and was inwardly amazed at the
way I spoke.

191
 Rusty Runs Away

-Somi then suggested that the two of us—Kishen

and I—should go to Kishen’s house together. So that
evening, I met Kishen in the bazaar and walked home
with him.
There was a crowd in front of the bazaar’s only
cinema, and it was getting restive and demonstrative.
One had to fight to get into this particular cinema,
as there was no organized queuing or booking.
‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no, said Kishen, ‘it is just Laurel and Hardy
today, they are very popular. Whenever a popular film
is shown, there is usually a riot. But 1 know of a way
in through the roof, Pll show you some time.’
‘Sounds crazy.’
‘Yeah, the roof leaks, so people usually bring their
umbrellas. Also their food, because when the projector
breaks down or the electricity fails, we have to wait
a long time. Sometimes, when it is a long wait, the
chaat-wallah comes in and does some business.’
‘Sounds crazy, I repeated.
‘You'll get used to it. Have a chewing gum.’ Kishen’s
jaws had been working incessantly on a lump of gum
that had been increasing in size over the last three days;
he started on a fresh stick every hour or so, without
throwing away the old ones. I was used to seeing Indians
chew paan, the betel-leaf preparation which stained

192
 It Happened One Spring

the mouth with red juices, but Kishen wasn’t like any
of the Indians I had met so far. I accepted a stick of
gum, and we walked home in silent concentration, our
jaws moving rhythmically, and Kishen’s tongue making
sudden sucking sounds.
As we entered the front room, Meena Kapoor
pounced on Kishen.
‘Ah! So you have decided to come home at last!
And what do you mean by asking Daddy for money
without letting me know? What have you done with
it, Kishen? Where is it?’
Kishen sauntered across the room and deposited
himself on the couch. ‘I’ve spent it.’ |
Mrs Kapoor’s hands went to her hips. “What do
you mean, you've spent it!’
‘I mean I’ve eaten it.’
He got two resounding slaps across his face, and
his flesh went white where his mother’s fingers left
their mark. I backed towards the door hurriedly; it was
embarrassing to be present at this intimate family scene.
‘Don’t go, Rusty, shouted Kishen, ‘or she: won't
stop slapping me!’
Kapoor, still wearing his green dressing-gown and
beard, came in from the adjoining room, and his wife
turned on him.
‘Why do you give the child so much money?’ she

193
 Rusty Runs Away

demanded. ‘You know he spends it on nothing but

bazaar food and makes himself sick.’
I seized at the opportunity of pleasing the whole
- family—of saving Mr Kapoor's skin, pacifying his wife,
and gaining the affection and regard of Kishen.
‘It is all my fault, I said, ‘I took Kishen to the
chaat shop. I’m very sorry.’
Meena Kapoor became quiet and her eyes softened;
but I resented her kindly expression because I knew it
was prompted by pity—pity for me—and asatisfied
pride. Mrs Kapoor was proud because she thought her
son had shared his money with one who apparently
hadn’t any. |
‘I did not see you come in,’ she said.
‘I only wanted to explain about the money.’
‘Come in, don’t be shy.’
Her smile was full of kindness, but I was not looking
for kindness. For no apparent reason, I felt lonely; I
missed Somi, felt lost without him, helpless and clumsy.
‘There is another thing,’ I said, remembering the
post of professor in English.
‘But come in, Mister Rusty . . .’
It was the first time she had used my name, and
the gesture immediately placed us on equal terms. She
was a graceful woman, much younger than Kapoor; her
features had a clear classic beauty, and her voice was

194
 It Happened One Spring

gentle but firm. Her hair was tied in a neat bun and
laced with a string of jasmine flowers.
Comedinas,'
‘About teaching Kishen . . .2 I mumbled, not
knowing what else to say.
‘Come and play carom,’ said Kishen from the
couch. “We are none of us any good. Come and sit
down, pardner.’
‘He fancies himself as an American,’ said Mrs
Kapoor. ‘If ever you see him in the cinema, drag him
out.’
The carom board was brought in from the next
room, and it was arranged that Mr Kapoor and I
would be partners. We began to play, but the game
didn't progress very fast because Kapoor kept leaving —
the table in order to disappear behind a screen, from
the direction of which came a tinkle of bottles and
glasses. I started getting apprehensive about Kapoor
getting drunk before he could be approached about
the job of teaching Kishen.
‘My wife,’ said Kapoor in a loud whisper to me,
‘does not let me drink in public any more, so J have
to do it in a cupboard.’
He looked sad. There were tear stains on his cheeks;
the tears were caused not by his wife’s scolding, which
he ignored, but by his own self-pity. Somi had told

195
 Rusty Runs Away

me that Mr Kapoor often cried for himself, usually in

his sleep. | |
Whenever I pocketed one of the carom men, Kapoor
exclaimed: ‘Ah, nice shot, nice shot!’ as though it were
a cricket match we were playing. ‘But hit it slowly,
slowly . . . And when it was his turn, he gave the striker
a feeble push, moving it a bare inch from his finger.
‘Play properly, murmured Mrs Kapoor, who was
intent on winning the game, but Kapoor would be up
from his seat again, and the company would sit back
_ and wait for the tune of clinking glass.
It was’ a very irritating game. Kapoor insisted on
showing me how to strike the men, and whenever I
made a mistake, Mrs Kapoor said ‘thank you in an
amused and conceited manner that angered me. When
she and Kishen had cleared the board of whites, Kapoor
and I were left with eight blacks. |
“Thank you, said Mrs Kapoor sweetly.
“We are too good for you,’ scoffed Kishen, busily
arranging the board for another game.
Kapoor took sudden interest in the proceedings:
‘Who won, I say, who won?’
Much to my disgust, another game was started, and
with the same partners, but we had just started to play
when Kapoor flopped forward and knocked the carom
board off the table. He had fallen asleep. I took him

196
 It Happened One Spring

by the shoulders and eased him back into the chair,

Kapoor’s breathing was heavy; saliva had collected at
the sides of his mouth, and he snorted alittle.
I thought it was time I left. Rising from the table,I
said, ‘I will have to ask another time about the job...’
‘Hasn't he told you as yet?’ said Kishen’s mother.
‘What?’ |
“That you can have the job.’
an 1!
She gave a little laugh. ‘But of course! Certainly
there is no one else who would take it on, Kishen is
not easy to teach. There is no fixed pay, but we will
give you anything you need. You are not our servant.
You will be doing us a favour by giving Kishen some
of your knowledge and conversation and company, and
in return we will be giving you our hospitality. You
will have a room of your own, and your food you will
have with us. What do you think?’
‘Oh, it is wonderful!’ I said.
And it was wonderful, and I felt gay and light-headed,
and it looked like all the troubles in the world had
scurried away: I even felt successful—I had a profession.
And Meena Kapoor was smiling at me, and looking
more beautiful than she really was, and Kishen was saying:
‘Tomorrow you must stay till twelve o'clock, all
right, even if Daddy goes to sleep. Promise me?’

197
 Rusty Runs Away

‘Promise.’
I saw an unaffected enthusiasm bubbling up in
Kishen. It was quite different to the sulkiness of
his usual manner. I had liked him in spite of his
unattractive qualities, and now liked him more, for
Kishen had taken me into his home and confidence
without knowing me very well and without asking any
questions. Kishen was a scoundrel, a monkey—crude
and well-spoilt—but, for him to have taken a liking to
me (and I held myself in high esteem), he must ‘have
some virtues . . . or so I reasoned. .
WhileI walked back to Somi’s house, I dwelt on
my relationship with Kishen, but my tongue, when
I
loosened it in Somi’s presence, dwelt on Meena Kapoo
r.
And when I lay down to sleep, I saw her in my mind’
s
eye, and for the first time took conscious note of
her
beauty, of her warmth and softness, and made up
my
mind that I would fall in love with her.

198
‘The adventures of Rusty will provide children
with a more realistic view of life faced
by a lonely boy experiencing
growing-up pangs’
The Hindu

A fantastic collection of Rusty’s

teenage escapades!
Rusty’s world is turned topsy-turvy when his father
and grandmother pass away in quick succession.
The twelve-year-old is sent away to boarding school
by his guardian, Mr Harrison. Restlessness, coupled with
an ambition to travel the world, compels him to run away
from his.rather humdrum life at school. But the plan fails,
and he is soon back in Dehra, with his strict guardian. .
Rusty is now seventeen. He rebels and leaves home
again, this time for good.

This gorgeous re-illustrated edition of Rusty Runs

Away lends a fresh lease of life to Bond’s classic story ;
about adolescence. » 7 .

Cover illustrations by Archana Sreenivasan

Cover design by Aparajita Ninan

read more C

BN 978- 443-

wa 3333
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