Rusty and the Leopard Read online

  Ruskin Bond

  RUSTY AND THE LEOPARD

  Illustrations by Archana Sreenivasan

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Alone in the World

  The Hills and Beyond

  Author’s Note

  Read More in Puffin

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  RUSTY AND THE LEOPARD

  Ruskin Bond’s first novel, The 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 Oliver’s 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’s Treasury of Stories for Children

  Panther’s Moon and Other Stories

  The Hidden Pool

  The Parrot Who Wouldn’t Talk and Other Stories

  Mr Oliver’s 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 of Rusty: Collected Stories

  The Cherry Tree

  Getting Granny’s Glasses

  The Eyes of the Eagle

  Thick as Thieves: Tales of Friendship

  Uncles, Aunts and Elephants: Tales from Your Favourite Storyteller

  Alone in the World

  I

  I WAS STANDING on the threshold of a very exciting life, or at least that is how it seemed to me then. I had finally rid myself of my guardian Mr John Harrison, and here I was—employed as a tutor of English to a chap called Kishen. More important: here I was in the company of his breathtakingly beautiful mother—Meena Kapoor. I was to live with the Kapoors, and Meena Kapoor was just telling me about my room.

  I gazed into her eyes all the time she talked.

  ‘It is a very nice room,’ she said, ‘but of course there is no water or electricity or lavatory.’

  I was bathing in the brown pools of her eyes.

  She said: ‘You will have to collect your water at the big tank, and for the rest, you will have to do it in the jungle . . .’

  I thought I saw my own gaze reflected in her eyes.

  ‘Yes?’ I said.

  ‘You can give Kishen his lessons in the morning until twelve o’clock. Then no more, then you have your food.’

  ‘Then?’

  I watched the movement of her lips.

  ‘Then nothing, you do what you like, go out with Kishen or Somi or any of your friends.’

  ‘Where do I teach Kishen?’

  ‘On the roof, of course.’

  I retrieved my gaze, and scratched my head. The roof seemed a strange place for setting up school.

  ‘Why the roof?’

  ‘Because your room is on the roof.’

  Meena led me round the house until we came to a flight of steps, unsheltered, that went up to the roof. We had to hop over a narrow drain before climbing the steps.

  ‘This drain,’ warned Meena, ‘is very easy to cross. But when you are coming downstairs be sure not to take too big a step because then you might bump into the wall on the other side or fall over the stove which is usually there . . .’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I promised.

  We began climbing, Meena in the lead. I watched Meena’s long, slender feet. The slippers she wore consisted only of two straps that passed between her toes, and the backs of the slippers slapped against her heels like Somi’s (Somi was a very close friend of mine), only the music created by her slippers—like the feet—was different . . .

  ‘Another thing about these steps,’ continued Meena, ‘there are twenty-two of them. No, don’t count, I have already done so . . . But remember, if you are coming home in the dark, be sure you take only twenty-two steps, because if you don’t, then’—and she snapped her fingers in the air—‘you will be finished! After twenty-two steps you turn right and you find the door, here it is. If you do not turn right and you take twenty-three steps, you will go over the edge of the roof!’

  Both of us laughed, and suddenly Meena took my hand and led me into the room.

  It was a small room, but this did not matter much as there was very little in it: only a string cot, a table, a shelf and a few nails in the wall. In comparison to my room in my guardian’s house, it wasn’t even a room: it was four walls, a door and a window.

  The door looked out on the roof, and Meena pointed through it, at the big round water tank.

  ‘That is where you bathe and get your water,’ she said.

  ‘I know, I went with Somi.’

  There was a big mango tree behind the tank, and Kishen was sitting in its branches, watching us. Surrounding the house were a number of litchee trees, and in the summer they and the mango would bear fruit.

  Meena and I stood by the window in silence, hand in hand. I was prepared to stand there, holding hands for ever. Perhaps all that Meena felt for me was a sisterly affection; but I was stumbling into love—of that I was certain.

  From the window we could see many things. In the distance, towering over the other trees, was the Flame of the Forest, its flowers glowing red-hot against the blue of the sky. Through the window came a shoot of pink bougainvillaea creeper; and I knew I would never cut it; and so I knew I would never be able to shut the window. The room, the window with this spray of bougainvillaea—all of it reminded me of a summer several years back and my summertime friend Koki.

  Meena’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘If you do not like it, we will find another . . .’

  I squeezed her hand, and smiled into her eyes, and said: ‘But I like it. This is the room I want to live in. And do you know why, Meena? Because it isn’t a real room, that’s why!’

  I was a bit surprised at myself for addressing her by her first name. But she let it pass, so I made up my mind to call her thus from then on—at least whenever we were alone.

  The afternoon was warm, and I sat beneath the big banyan tree that grew behind the house, a tree that was almost a house in itself; its spreading branches drooped to the ground and took new root, forming a maze of pillared passages. The tree sheltered scores of birds and squirrels.

  A squirrel stood in front of me. It looked at me from between its legs, its tail in the air, back arched gracefully and nose quivering excitedly.

  ‘Hallo,’ I said.

  The squirrel brushed its nose with its forepaw, winked at me, hopped over my leg, and ran up a pillar of the banyan tree.

  I leant back against the broad trunk of the banyan, and listened to the lazy drone of the bees, the squeaking of the squirrels and the incessant bird talk.

  I thought of Meena and of Kishen, and felt miserably happy; and
then I remembered Somi and the chaat shop—this was our favourite haunt. I climbed down the tree in a hurry and literally ran all the way to the chaat shop. Somi was already there, waiting for me rather impatiently. As soon as he saw me he ordered for plates of alu chhole. The chaatwallah, that god of the tikkees, handed us each a leaf bowl, and prepared the dish: first sliced potatoes, then peas, then red and gold chilli powders, then a sprinkling of juices, then he shook it all up and down in the leaf bowl and, in a simplicity, the alu chhole was ready.

  Somi removed his slippers, crossed his legs, and looked a question.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said I.

  ‘You are sure?’

  There was concern in Somi’s voice, and the smile on his lips did not reach his eyes. He looked doubtful as if he wasn’t sure after all about this job that he had helped me get.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll soon get used to the room.’ There was a silence. I concentrated on my alu chhole, feeling guilty and ungrateful.

  ‘Ranbir has gone,’ said Somi. Ranbir and Somi were best friends; Ranbir was a good friend of mine too—he had introduced me to this new life I led now, by making me play Holi with him. Now he had gone to Mussoorie to attend school there.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t even say goodbye!’

  ‘He has not gone for ever. And anyway, what would be the use of saying goodbye . . .’

  He sounded depressed. He finished his alu chhole and said: ‘Rusty, best favourite friend, if you don’t want this job I’ll find you another.’

  ‘But I like it, Somi, I want it, really I do. You are trying to do too much for me. Mrs Kapoor is wonderful, and Mr Kapoor is good fun, and Kishen is not so bad, you know . . . Come on to the house and see the room. It’s the kind of room in which you write poetry or create music.’

  We walked home in the evening. The evening was full of sounds. I noticed the sounds, because I was happy, and a happy person notices things.

  Carriages passed us on the road, creaking and rattling, wheels squeaking, hoofs resounding on the ground; and the whip-cracks above the horse’s ear, and the driver’s shouts, and the wheels going round, squeaking and creaking, and the hoofs going clippetyclippety, clip-clop-clop . . .

  A bicycle came swishing through the puddles, the wheels purring and humming smoothly, the bell tinkling . . . In the bushes there was the chatter of sparrows and seven-sisters, but I could not see them no matter how hard I looked.

  And there were footsteps . . .

  Our own footsteps, quiet and thoughtful; and ahead of us an old man, with a dhoti round his legs and a black umbrella in his hand, walking at a clockwork pace. At each alternate step he tapped with his umbrella on the pavement; he wore noisy shoes, and his footsteps echoed off the pavement to the beat of the umbrella. Somi and I quickened our own steps, passed him by, and let the endless tapping die on the wind.

  We sat on the roof for an hour, watching the sun set; and Somi sang.

  Somi had a beautiful voice, clear and mellow, matching the serenity of his face. And when he sang, his eyes wandered into the night, and he was lost to the world and to me; for when he sang of the stars he was of the stars, and when he sang of a river he was a river. He communicated his mood to me, as he could not have done in plain language; and, when the song ended, the silence returned and all the world fell asleep.

  II

  I watched the dawn blossom into light.

  At first everything was dark, then gradually objects began to take shape—the desk and chair, the walls of the room—and the darkness lifted like the raising of a veil, and over the treetops the sky was streaked with crimson. It was like this for some time, while everything became clearer and more distinguishable; and then, when nature was ready, the sun reached up over the trees and hills, and sent one tentative beam of warm light through the window. Along the wall crept the sun, across to the bed, and up my bare legs, until it was caressing my entire body and whispering to me,

  ‘Get up, get up, it is time to get up . . .’

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes and looked around. It was my first morning in the room, and perched on the window sill was a small brown and yellow bird, a maina, looking at me with its head cocked to one side. The maina was a common sight, but this one was unusual: it was bald; all the feathers had been knocked off its head in a series of fights.

  I wondered if I should get up and bathe, or wait for someone to arrive. But I didn’t have to wait for long. Something bumped me from under the bed.

  I stiffened with apprehension. Something was moving beneath me, the mattress rose gently and fell. Could it be a jackal or a wolf that had stolen in through the open door during the night? I trembled, but did not move . . . It might be something even more dangerous, the house was close to the jungle . . . or it might be a thief . . . but what was there to steal?

  Unable to bear the suspense, I brought my fists down on the uneven lump in the quilt, and Kishen sprang out with a cry of pain and astonishment.

  He sat on his bottom and cursed me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but you frightened me.’

  ‘I’m glad, because you hurt me, mister.’

  ‘Your fault. What’s the time?’

  ‘Time to get up. I’ve brought you some milk, and you can have mine too, I hate it, it spoils the flavour of my chewing gum.’

  He then accompanied me to the water tank, where we met Somi. After we had bathed and filled our sohrais with drinking water, Kishen and I went back to the room for the first lesson.

  We sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other. I fingered my chin wondering what to teach him, and Kishen played with his toes.

  ‘What do you want to learn today?’ I asked.

  ‘How should I know? That’s your problem, pardner.’

  ‘As it’s the first day, you can make a choice.’

  ‘Let’s play noughts and crosses.’

  ‘Be serious. Tell me, what books have you read?’

  Kishen turned his eyes up to the ceiling. ‘I’ve read so many I can’t remember the names.’

  ‘Well, you can tell me what they were about.’ Kishen looked disconcerted. ‘Oh, sure . . . sure . . . let me see now . . . what about the one in which everyone went down a rabbit hole?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Called Treasure Island.’

  ‘Hell!’ I was disgusted with Kishen. Was he truly confused about the books and their names, or was he trying to act smart with me?

  ‘Which ones have you read?’ asked Kishen, warming to the discussion.

  ‘Treasure Island and the one about the rabbit hole, and you haven’t read either. What do you want to be when you grow up, Kishen? A businessman, an officer, an engineer?’

  ‘Don’t want to be anything. What about you?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be asking me. But if you want to know, I’m going to be a writer. I’ll write books. You’ll read them.’

  ‘You’ll be a great writer, Rusty, you’ll be great . . .’

  ‘Maybe, who knows.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kishen, quite sincerely and getting carried away, ‘you’ll be a terrific writer. You’ll be famous. You’ll be a king.’

  ‘Shut up . . .’

  It looked like the Kapoors liked me. They didn’t admire me—for after all, I wasn’t anyone great or special— but they liked me. Kishen liked me for my company, Kapoor liked me for my flattering conversation, and Meena liked me because—well, because I liked her . . .

  Anyway, they were glad to have me in their house.

  As I stayed there with them I slowly understood them—individually, as persons, and collectively as a family. Meena had been betrothed to Kapoor since childhood, before they knew each other, and despite the fact that there was a difference of nearly twenty years between their ages. Kapoor was a promising young man, intelligent and beginning to make money; and Meena, at thirteen, possessed the freshness and promise of spring. After they were married, they fell in love.

  They toured Europe, and Kapoo
r returned a connoisseur of wine. Kishen was born, looking just like his father. Kapoor never stopped loving his wife, but his passion for her was never so great as when the warmth of old wine filled him with poetry. Meena had a noble nose and forehead (‘aristocratic,’ said Kapoor, ‘she has blue blood’) and long raven-black hair (‘like seaweed,’ said Kapoor, dizzy with possessive glory). She was tall, strong, perfectly formed, and she had grace and charm and a quick wit.

  Now Kapoor lived in his beard and green dressing-gown, something of an outcast. The self-made man likes to boast of humble origins and initial poverty, and his rise from rags can be turned to effective publicity; the man who has lost much recalls past exploits and the good name of his family, and the failure at least publicizes these things. But Kapoor had gone full cycle: he could no longer harp on the rise from rags, because he was fast becoming ragged; and he had no background except the one which he himself created and destroyed; he had nothing but a dwindling bank balance, a wife and a son. And the wife was his best asset.

  On the second evening of my stay, I sat with them in the front room, and Kapoor extolled the virtues of chewing gum, much to Kishen’s delight and Meena’s disgust.

  ‘Chewing gum,’ declared Kapoor, waving a finger in the air, ‘is the secret of youth. Have you observed the Americans, how young they look, and the English, how haggard? It has nothing to do with responsibilities, it is chewing gum. By chewing, you exercise your jaws and the muscles of your face. This improves your complexion and strengthens the tissues of your skin.’

  ‘You’re very clever, Daddy,’ said Kishen.

  ‘I’m a genius,’ said Kapoor, ‘I’m a genius.’

  ‘The fool!’ whispered Meena, so that only I could hear.

  I decided that a change of topic was necessary before Meena lost her temper completely. ‘I have an idea, let’s form a club,’ I said.

  ‘Good idea!’ exclaimed Kishen. ‘What do we call it?’

  ‘Before we call it anything, we must decide what sort of club it should be. We must have rules, we must have a president, a secretary . . .’