Classic Ruskin Bond (5 page)

Chapter Eight

R
USTY HAD NEVER SLEPT
well in his guardian’s house, because he had never been tired enough; also his imagination would disturb him. And, since running away, he had slept very badly, because he had been cold and hungry and afraid. But in Somi’s house he
felt safe and a little happy, and so he slept; he slept the remainder of the day and through the night.

In the morning Somi tipped Rusty out of bed and dragged him to the water-tank. Rusty watched Somi strip and stand under the jet of tap water, and shuddered at the prospect of having to do the same.

Before removing his shirt, Rusty looked around in embarrassment; no one paid much attention to him, though one of the ayahs, the girl with the bangles, gave him a sly smile; he looked away from the women, threw his shirt on a bush and advanced cautiously to the bathing place.

Somi pulled him under the tap. The water was icy cold and Rusty gasped with the shock. As soon as he was wet, he sprang off the platform, much to the amusement of Somi and the ayahs.

There was no towel with which to dry himself; he stood on the grass, shivering with cold, wondering whether he should dash back to the house or shiver in the open until the sun dried him. But the girl with the bangles was beside him 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, Rusty met Somi’s mother, and liked her.

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 dressed simply, in a plain white sari. Her life had been difficult. After 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 and the mother had carried Somi, who was then six, on her back. Life in India had to be started again right from the beginning, for they had lost most of their property: the father found work in Delhi, the sisters were married off, and Somi and his mother settled down in Dehra, where the boy attended school.

The 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 know, I 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. I’ll go and see Mr Kapoor and tell him 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!’

Rusty felt very dubious about the proposal; he was not sure he could teach English or anything else to the wilful son of a rich man; but he was not in a position to pick and choose. Somi mounted his bicycle and rode off to see Mr Kapoor to secure for Rusty the post of Professor of English. When he returned he seemed pleased with himself, and Rusty’s heart sank with the knowledge that he 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.’

‘What kind of a job is without pay?’ complained Rusty.

‘No pay,’ said Somi, ‘but everything else. Food—and no cooking is better than Punjabi cooking; water—’

‘I should hope so,’ said Rusty.

‘And a room, sir!’

‘Oh, even a room,’ said Rusty ungratefully, ‘that will be nice.’

‘Anyway,’ said Somi, ‘come and see him, you don’t have to accept.’

*

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 Rusty arrived, and 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 giving a party. Somi and Rusty joined the people who were grouped round the fire, and Rusty wondered if he 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; he hated parties, preferring the company of certain wild friends in the bazaar.

Mr Kapoor was once a Big Man himself, and everyone knew this, but he had fallen 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 with a glass and a bottle of whisky. He wore a green dressinggown 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. Rusty gazed admiringly at her; he wanted to compliment her, to say, ‘Mrs Kapoor, you are beautiful’, but he had no need to tell her, she was fully conscious of the fact.

Meena 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 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 had thrown a pot of the most delicious sweetmeats on to the flames.

To Rusty this was sacrilege. ‘Oh, Mr Kapoor . . .’ he cried, but there was some confusion in the rear, and his words were drowned in a series of explosions.

Suri and 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 was all the women had been waiting for; headed by Suri’s mother, they rushed the boy and smothered him with attention; whilst the men, who were in a minority, looked on sheepishly and wished the accident had been of a more serious nature.

Something rough brushed against Rusty’s cheek.

It was Kapoor’s beard. Somi had brought his host to Rusty, the bemused man put his face close to Rusty’s and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders in order to steady himself. Kapoor nodded his head, his eyes red and watery.

‘Rusty . . . so you are Mister Rusty . . . I hear you are going to be my schoolteacher.’

‘Your son’s, sir,’ said Rusty, ‘but that is for you to decide.’

‘Do not call me “Sir”,’ he said, wagging his finger in Rusty’s face, ‘call me by my name. So you are going to England, eh?’

‘No, I’m going to be your schoolteacher.’ Rusty had to put his arm round Kapoor’s waist to avoid being dragged to the ground; Kapoor leant heavily on the boy’s 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?’

It was impossible for Rusty to make any sense of the conversation or discuss his appointment as Professor of English for Kishen Kapoor. Kapoor began to slip from his arms, and the boy took the opportunity of changing his own position for a more comfortable one, before levering his host up again. The amused smiles of the company rested on this little scene.

Rusty said, ‘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’re right.’

‘Of course I am. But speak up, don’t be afraid to say what you think. Stand up for your rights, even if you’re wrong! Throw some more wood on the fire, keep it burning.’

Kapoor leapt from Rusty’s arms and stumbled towards the fire. The boy cried a warning and, catching hold of the end of the green dressing-gown, dragged his host back to safety. Meena ran to them and, without so much as a glance at Rusty, took her husband by the arm and propelled him indoors.

Rusty stared after Meena Kapoor, and continued to stare even when she had disappeared. The guests chattered 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 returned to his friend’s side. ‘What did Mr Kapoor have to say?’

‘He said he built Monte Carlo.’

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 with his wife, she’s the only one with any sense.’

They walked away from the party, out of the circle of firelight, into the shadows of the banana trees. The voices of the guests became a distant murmur: Suri’s high-pitched shout came to them on the clear, still air.

Somi said, ‘We must go to the chaat shop tomorrow morning, Ranbir is asking for you.’

Rusty had almost forgotten Ranbir: he felt ashamed for not having asked about him before this. Ranbir was an important person, he had changed the course of Rusty’s life with nothing but a little colour, red and green, and the touch of his hand.

Chapter Nine

A
GAINST HIS PARENTS’ WISHES
, Kishen Kapoor spent most of his time in the bazaar; he loved it because it was forbidden, because it was unhealthy, dangerous and full of germs to carry home.

Ranbir loved the bazaar because he was born in it; he had known few other places. Since the age of ten he had looked after his uncle’s buffaloes, grazing them on the maidan and taking them down to the river to wallow in mud and water; and in the evening he took them home, riding on the back of the strongest and fastest animal. When he grew older, he was allowed to help in his father’s cloth shop, but he was always glad to get back to the buffaloes.

Kishen did not like animals, particularly cows and buffaloes. His greatest enemy was Maharani, the Queen of the Bazaar, who, like Kishen, was spoilt and pampered and fond of having her own way. Unlike other cows, she did not feed at dustbins and rubbish heaps, but lived on the benevolence of the bazaar people.

But Kishen had no time for religion; to him a cow was just a cow, nothing sacred, and he saw no reason why he should get off the pavement in order to make way for one, or offer no protest
when it stole from under his nose. One day, he tied an empty tin to Maharani’s tail and looked on in great enjoyment as the cow pranced madly and dangerously about the road, the tin clattering behind her. Lacking in dignity, Kishen found some pleasure in observing others lose theirs. But a few days later Kishen received Maharani’s nose in his pants, and had to pick himself up from the gutter.

Kishen and Ranbir ate mostly at the chaat shop; if they had no money they went to work in Ranbir’s uncle’s sugarcane fields and earned a rupee for the day; but Kishen did not like work, and Ranbir had enough of his own to do, so there was never much money for chaat; which meant living on their wits—or rather, Kishen’s wits, for it was his duty to pocket any spare money that might be lying about in his father’s house—and sometimes helping themselves at the fruit and vegetable stalls when no one was looking.

Ranbir wrestled. That was why he was so good at riding buffaloes. He was the best wrestler in the bazaar, not very clever, but powerful; he was like a great tree, and no amount of shaking could move him from whatever spot he chose to plant his big feet. But he was gentle by nature. The women always gave him their babies to look after when they were busy, and he would cradle the babies in his open hands, and sing to them, and be happy for hours.

Ranbir had a certain innocence which was not likely to leave him. He had seen and experienced life to the full, and life had bruised and scarred him, but it had not crippled him. One night he strayed unwittingly into the intoxicating arms of a local temple dancing-girl; but he acted with instinct, his pleasure was unpremeditated, and the adventure was soon forgotten—by Ranbir. But Suri, the scourge of the bazaar, uncovered a few facts and threatened to inform Ranbir’s family of the incident; and so Ranbir found himself in the power of the cunning Suri, and was forced to please him from time to time; though, at times such as the Holi festival, that power was scorned.

On the morning after the Kapoors’ party Ranbir, Somi, and
Rusty were seated in the chaat shop discussing Rusty’s situation. Ranbir looked miserable; his hair fell sadly over his forehead, and he would not look at Rusty.

‘I have got you into trouble,’ he apologized gruffly, ‘I am too ashamed.’

Rusty laughed, licking sauce from his fingers and crumpling up his empty leaf bowl.

‘Silly fellow,’ he said, ‘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 in this way.’

Ranbir’s face lit up, and he slapped Somi and Rusty on their backs with such sudden enthusiasm that Somi dropped his bowl of aloo chhole.

‘Come on, misters,’ he said, ‘I am going to make you sick with gol-guppas so that you will not 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 said, ‘It’s that monkey-millionaire Kishen come to make anuisance 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?’

Kishen did not answer immediately, but sat down opposite Rusty. 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—for Rusty, anyway—curiously attractive . . .

He prodded his nose with his forefinger, as he always did when a trifle excited. ‘Those 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 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 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 the newcomer.

‘Are you Mister Rusty?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I am,’ said the boy. ‘Are you Mister Kishen?’

‘I am Mister Kishen. You know how to box, Rusty?’

‘Well,’ said the boy, unwilling to become involved in a local feud, ‘I’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 Rusty 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 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.’

‘I’ll try to please everyone,’ said Rusty.

‘You’re a clever person if you can. But I think you are clever.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Rusty, and was inwardly amazed at the way he spoke.

*

As Rusty had now met Kishen, Somi suggested that the two should go to the Kapoors’ house together; so that evening, Rusty 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?’ asked Rusty.

‘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 I know of a way in through the roof, I’ll 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-walla comes in and does some business.’

‘Sounds crazy,’ repeated Rusty.

‘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. Rusty was used to seeing Indians chew paan, the betel-leaf preparation which stained the mouth with red juices, but Kishen wasn’t like any of the Indians Rusty had met so far. He accepted a stick of gum, and the pair walked home in silent concentration, their jaws moving rhythmically, and Kishen’s tongue making sudden sucking sounds.

As they 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 bhaiya? Where is it?’

Kishen sauntered across the room and deposited himself on the couch. ‘I’ve spent it.’

Meena’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. Rusty backed towards the door; 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 demanded. ‘You know he spends it on nothing but bazaar food and makes himself sick.’

Rusty 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,’ he said, ‘I took Kishen to the chaat shop. I’m very sorry.’

Meena Kapoor became quiet and her eyes softened; but Rusty resented her kindly expression because he knew it was prompted by pity—pity for him—and a satisfied pride. Meena 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.’

Meena’s smile was full of kindness, but Rusty was not looking for kindness; for no apparent reason, he felt lonely; he missed Somi, felt lost without him, helpless and clumsy.

‘There is another thing,’ he said, remembering the post of Professor of English.

‘But come in, Mister Rusty . . .’

It was the first time she had used his name, and the gesture immediately placed them on equal terms. She was a graceful woman, much younger than Kapoor; her features had a clear, classic beauty, and her voice was gentle but firm. Her hair was tied in a neat bun and laced with a string of jasmine flowers.

‘Come in . . .’

‘About teaching Kishen,’ mumbled Rusty.

‘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 Meena. ‘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 Rusty partner Mr Kapoor. They began 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. Rusty was afraid of Kapoor getting drunk before he could be approached about the job of teaching Kishen.

‘My wife,’ said Kapoor in a loud whisper to Rusty, ‘does not let me drink in public any more, so I have to do it in a cupboard.’

He looked sad; there were tear-stains on his cheeks; the tears were caused not by Meena’s scolding, which he ignored, but by his own self-pity; he often cried for himself, usually in his sleep.

Whenever Rusty pocketed one of the carom men, Kapoor exclaimed, ‘Ah, nice shot, nice shot!’ as though it were a cricket match they 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 Meena, 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 Rusty how to strike the men; and whenever Rusty made a mistake, Meena said ‘thank you’ in an amused and conceited manner that angered the boy. When she and Kishen had cleared the board of whites, Kapoor and Rusty were left with eight blacks.

‘Thank you,’ said Meena 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 Rusty’s disgust, they began another game, and with the same partners; but they had just started when Kapoor flopped forward and knocked the carom board off the table. He had fallen asleep. Rusty took him by the shoulders, eased him back into the chair. Kapoor’s breathing was heavy; saliva had collected at the sides of his mouth, and he snorted a little.

Rusty thought it was time he left. Rising from the table, he said, ‘I will have to ask another time about the job . . .’

‘Hasn’t he told you as yet?’ said Meena.

‘What?’

‘That you can have the job.’

‘Can I!’ exclaimed Rusty.

Meena 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?’