The Whistling Schoolboy and Other Stories of School Life Read online

  THE WHISTLING SCHOOLBOY

  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and has now over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys Award in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from the Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award.

  Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.

  A shy person, Ruskin says he likes being a writer because ‘When I’m writing there’s nobody watching me. Today, it’s hard to find a profession where you’re not being watched!’

  Published in Red Turtle by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2015

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Sales Centres:

  Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

  Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

  Kolkata Mumbai

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2015

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First impression 2015

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Printed by XXXXXX

  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 consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Contents

  Introduction

  SCHOOL DAYS WITH RUSKIN

  The Four Feathers

  Be Prepared

  My Desert Island

  Remember This Day

  Letter to My Father

  Our Great Escape

  Reading Was My Religion

  SCHOOL DAYS, RULE DAYS

  Here Comes Mr Oliver

  The Lady in White

  Missing Person: H.M.

  Miss Babcock’s Big Toe

  A Dreadful Gurgle

  A Face in the Dark

  The Whistling Schoolboy

  Children of India

  The School among the Pines

  Introduction

  Did I read school stories when I was at school?

  Very seldom; caught up in the monotonous routine of boarding-school life, I preferred to read about faraway places, desert islands, pirates, jungles infested with tigers and crocodiles—anything as far removed as possible from classroom and dormitories!

  I did, however, have one literary boy-hero. He was William Brown (just William to his thousands of fans), who did everything possible to stay out of school. If he did turn up, he was usually late. And if he remained in school till the end of the day, his headmaster would have a nervous breakdown.

  William is a little out of fashion now. Rebellious schoolboys are unwelcome in a technologically advanced, moralistic, exam-oriented society. We prefer a polished Bill Gates to an eccentric Einstein. Eccentrics do unpredictable things, and we have become afraid of the unpredictable.

  We had exams in my schooldays too, but they were only a part of the process of growing up. There were also such things as nature walks and picnics, excursions to historical places, football games, cricket, comic books, visits to the cinema, ice cream parlours and clandestine visits to the neighbouring girls’ school.

  Some of these things I remember, and some I have written about. Here is a personal selection. Dip into it, enjoy meeting some unusual people, and then back to your fantasy world!

  Ruskin Bond

  The Four Feathers

  ur school dormitory was a very long room with about thirty beds, fifteen on either side of the room. This was good for pillow fights. Class V would take on Class VI (the two senior classes in our Prep school) and there would be plenty of space for leaping, struggling small boys, pillows flying, feathers flying, until there was a cry of ‘Here comes Fishy!’ or ‘Here comes Olly!’ and either Mr Fisher, the Headmaster, or Mr Oliver, the Senior Master, would come striding in, cane in hand, to put an end to the general mayhem. Pillow fights were allowed, up to a point; nobody got hurt. But parents sometimes complained if, at the end of the term, a boy came home with a pillow devoid of cotton-wool or feathers.

  In that last year at Prep school in Shimla, there were four of us who were close friends—Bimal, whose home was in Bombay; Riaz, who came from Lahore; Bran, who hailed from Vellore; and your narrator, who lived wherever his father (then in the Air Force) was posted.

  We called ourselves the ‘Four Feathers’, the feathers signifying that we were companions in adventure, comrades-in-arms, and knights of the round table. Bimal adopted a peacock’s feather as his emblem—he was always a bit showy. Riaz chose a falcon’s feather—although we couldn’t find one. Bran and I were at first offered crows or murghi feathers, but we protested vigorously and threatened a walkout. Finally, I settled for a parrot’s feather (taken from Mrs Fisher’s pet parrot), and Bran found a woodpecker’s, which suited him, as he was always knocking things about.

  Bimal was all thin legs and arms, so light and frisky that at times he seemed to be walking on air. We called him ‘Bambi’, after the delicate little deer in the Disney film. Riaz, on the other hand, was a sturdy boy, good at games though not very studious; but always good-natured, always smiling.

  Bran was a dark, good-looking boy from the South; he was just a little spoilt—hated being given out in a cricket match and would refuse to leave the crease!—but he was affectionate and a loyal friend. I was the ‘scribe’—good at inventing stories in order to get out of scrapes—but hopeless at sums, my highest marks being twenty-two out of one hundred.

  On Sunday afternoons, when there were no classes or organized games, we were allowed to roam about on the hillside below the school. The Four Feathers would laze about on the short summer grass, sharing the occasional food parcel from home, reading comics (sometimes a book), and making plans for the long winter holidays. My father, who collected everything from stamps to seashells to butterflies, had given me a butterfly net and urged me to try and catch a rare species which, he said, was found only near Chotta Shimla. He described it as a large purple butterfly with yellow and black borders on its wings. A Purple Emperor, I think it was called. As I wasn’t very good at identifying butterflies, I would chase anything that happened to flit across the school grounds, usually ending up with Common Red Admirals, Clouded Yellows, or Cabbage Whites. But that Purple Emperor—that rare specimen being sought by collectors the world over—proved elusive. I would have to seek my fortune in some other line of endeavour.

  One day, scrambling about among the rocks, and thorny bushes below the school, I almost fell over a small bundle lying in the shade of a young spruce tree. On taking a closer look, I discovered that the bundle was really a baby, wrapped up in a tattered old blanket.

  ‘Feathers, feathers!’ I called, ‘come here and look. A baby’s been left here!’

  The feathers joined me and we all stared down at the infant, who was fast asleep.

  ‘Who would leave a baby on the hillside?’ asked Bimal of no one in particular.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t want it,’ said B
ran.

  ‘And hoped some good people would come along and keep it,’ said Riaz.

  ‘A panther might have come along instead,’ I said. ‘Can’t leave it here.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to adopt it,’ said Bimal.

  ‘We can’t adopt a baby,’ said Bran.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We have to be married.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Not us, you dope. The grown-ups who adopt babies.’

  Well, we can’t just leave it here for grown-ups to come along,’ I said.

  ‘We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl,’ said Riaz.

  ‘Makes no difference. A baby’s a baby. Let’s take it back to school.’

  ‘And keep it in the dormitory?’

  ‘Of course not. Who’s going to feed it? Babies need milk. We’ll hand it over to Mrs Fisher. She doesn’t have a baby.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want one. Look, it’s beginning to cry. Let’s hurry!’

  Riaz picked up the wide-awake and crying baby and gave it to Bimal who gave it to Bran who gave it to me. The Four Feathers marched up the hill to school with a very noisy baby.

  ‘Now it’s done potty in the blanket,’ I complained. ‘And some of it’s on my shirt.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bimal. ‘It’s in a good cause. You’re a Boy Scout, remember? You’re supposed to help people in distress.’

  The headmaster and his wife were in their drawing room, enjoying their afternoon tea and cakes. We trudged in, and Bimal announced, ‘We’ve got something for Mrs Fisher.’

  Mrs Fisher took one look at the bundle in my arms and let out a shriek. ‘What have you brought here, Bond?’

  ‘A baby, ma’am. I think it’s a girl. Do you want to adopt it?’

  Mrs Fisher threw up her arms in consternation, and turned to her husband. ‘What are we to do, Frank? These boys are impossible. They’ve picked up someone’s child!’

  ‘We’ll have to inform the police,’ said Mr Fisher, reaching for the telephone. ‘We can’t have lost babies in the school.’

  Just then there was a commotion outside, and a wild-eyed woman, her clothes dishevelled, entered at the front door accompanied by several menfolk from one of the villages. She ran towards us, crying out, ‘My baby, my baby! Mera bachcha! You’ve stolen my baby!’

  ‘We found it on the hillside,’ I stammered. ‘That’s right,’ said Bran. ‘Finder’s keepers!’

  ‘Quiet, Adams,’ said Mr Fisher, holding up his hand for order and addressing the villagers in a friendly manner. ‘These boys found the baby alone on the hillside and brought it here before…before…’

  ‘Before the hyenas got it,’ I put in.

  ‘Quite right, Bond. And why did you leave your child alone?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘I put her down for five minutes so that I could climb the plum tree and collect the plums. When I came down, the baby had gone! But I could hear it crying up on the hill. I called the menfolk and we come looking for it.’

  ‘Well, here’s your baby,’ I said, thrusting it into her arms. By then I was glad to be rid of it! ‘Look after it properly in future.’

  ‘Kidnapper!’ she screamed at me.

  Mr Fisher succeeded in mollifying the villagers. ‘These boys are good Scouts,’ he told them. ‘It’s their business to help people.’

  ‘Scout Law Number Three, sir,’ I added. ‘To be useful and helpful.’

  And then the Headmaster turned the tables on the villagers. ‘By the way, those plum trees belong to the school. So do the peaches and apricots. Now I know why they’ve been disappearing so fast!’

  The villagers, a little chastened, went their way.

  Mr Fisher reached for his cane. From the way he fondled it I knew he was itching to use it on our bottoms.

  ‘No, Frank,’ said Mrs Fisher, intervening on our behalf. ‘It was really very sweet of them to look after that baby. And look at Bond—he’s got baby-goo all over his clothes.’

  ‘So he has. Go and take a bath, all of you. And what are you grinning about, Bond?’

  ‘Scout Law Number Eight, sir. A Scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties.’

  And so ended the first adventure of the Four Feathers.

  Be Prepared

  was a Boy Scout once, although I couldn’t tell a slip knot from a granny knot, nor a reef knot from a thief knot. I did know that a thief knot was to be used to tie up a thief, should you happen to catch one. I have never caught a thief—and wouldn’t know what to do with one since I can’t tie the right knot. I’d just let him go with a warning, I suppose. And tell him to become a Boy Scout.

  ‘Be prepared!’ That’s the Boy Scout motto. And it is a good one, too. But I never seem to be well prepared for anything, be it an exam or a journey or the roof blowing off my room. I get halfway through a speech and then forget what I have to say next. Or I make a new suit to attend a friend’s wedding, and then turn up in my pyjamas.

  So, how did I, the most impractical of boys, survive as a Boy Scout?

  Well, it seems a rumour had gone around the junior school (I was still a junior then) that I was a good cook. I had never cooked anything in my life, but of course I had spent a lot of time in the tuck shop making suggestions and advising Chimpu, who ran the tuck shop, and encouraging him to make more and better samosas, jalebies, tikkees and pakoras. For my unwanted advice, he would favour me with an occasional free samosa. So, naturally, I looked upon him as a friend and benefactor. With this qualification, I was given a cookery badge and put in charge of our troop’s supply of rations.

  There were about twenty of us in our troop. During the summer break our Scoutmaster, Mr Oliver, took us on a camping expedition to Taradevi, a temple-crowned mountain a few miles outside Shimla. That first night we were put to work, peeling potatoes, skinning onions, shelling peas and pounding masalas. These various ingredients being ready, I was asked, as the troop cookery expert, what should be done with them.

  ‘Put everything in that big degchi,’ I ordered. ‘Pour half a tin of ghee over the lot. Add some nettle leaves, and cook for half an hour.’

  When this was done, everyone had a taste, but the general opinion was that the dish lacked something. ‘More salt,’ I suggested.

  More salt was added. It still lacked something. ‘Add a cup of sugar,’ I ordered.

  Sugar was added to the concoction, but it still lacked something.

  ‘We forgot to add tomatoes,’ said one of the Scouts. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘We have tomato sauce. Add a bottle of tomato sauce!’

  ‘How about some vinegar?’ suggested another boy. ‘Just the thing,’ I said. ‘Add a cup of vinegar!’

  ‘Now it’s too sour,’ said one of the tasters.

  ‘What jam did we bring?’ I asked.

  ‘Gooseberry jam.’

  ‘Just the thing. Empty the bottle!’

  The dish was a great success. Everyone enjoyed it, including Mr Oliver, who had no idea what had gone into it.

  ‘What’s this called?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an all-Indian sweet-and-sour jam-potato curry,’ I ventured.

  ‘For short, just call it Bond bhujjia,’ said one of the boys. I had earned my cookery badge!

  Poor Mr Oliver; he wasn’t really cut out to be a Scoutmaster, any more than I was meant to be a Scout.

  The following day, he told us he would give us a lesson in tracking. Taking a half-hour start, he walked into the forest, leaving behind him a trail of broken twigs, chicken feathers, pine cones and chestnuts. We were to follow the trail until we found him.

  Unfortunately, we were not very good trackers. We did follow Mr Oliver’s trail some way into the forest, but then we were distracted by a pool of clear water. It looked very inviting. Abandoning our uniforms, we jumped into the pool and had a great time romping about or just lying on its grassy banks and enjoying the sunshine. Many hours later, feeling hungry, we returned to our campsite and set about preparing the evening meal. It
was Bond bhujjia again, but with a few variations.

  It was growing dark, and we were beginning to worry about Mr Oliver’s whereabouts when he limped into the camp, assisted by a couple of local villagers. Having waited for us at the far end of the forest for a couple of hours, he had decided to return by following his own trail, but in the gathering gloom he was soon lost. Village folk returning home from the temple took charge and escorted him back to the camp. He was very angry and made us return all our good-conduct and other badges, which he stuffed into his haversack. I had to give up my cookery badge.

  An hour later, when we were all preparing to get into our sleeping bags for the night, Mr Oliver called out, ‘Where’s dinner?’

  ‘We’ve had ours,’ said one of the boys. ‘Everything is finished, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Bond? He’s supposed to be the cook. Bond, get up and make me an omelette.’

  ‘I can’t, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You have my badge. Not allowed to cook without it. Scout rule, sir.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such a rule. But you can take your badges, all of you. We return to school tomorrow.’

  Mr Oliver returned to his tent in a huff.

  But I relented and made him a grand omelette, garnishing it with dandelion leaves and a chilli.

  ‘Never had such an omelette before,’ confessed Mr Oliver.

  ‘Would you like another, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Bond, tomorrow. We’ll breakfast early tomorrow.’

  But we had to break up our camp before we could do that because in the early hours of the next morning, a bear strayed into our camp, entered the tent where our stores were kept, and created havoc with all our provisions, even rolling our biggest degchi down the hillside.

  In the confusion and uproar that followed, the bear entered Mr Oliver’s tent (our Scoutmaster was already outside, fortunately) and came out entangled in his dressing gown. It then made off towards the forest, a comical sight in its borrowed clothes.