The Parrot Who Wouldn't Talk & Other Stories Read online




  RUSKIN BOND

  THE PARROT WHO WOULDN’T TALK & OTHER STORIES

  Illustrations By Archana Sreenivasan

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Grandfather’s Many Faces

  2. Battles Long Ago

  3. The Parrot Who Wouldn’t Talk

  4. Trapped by a Tiger

  5. White Mice

  6. We Capture a Ghost

  7. Bitter Gooseberries

  8. A Bicycle Ride with Uncle Ken

  9. At Sea with Uncle Ken

  10. The Regimental Myna

  11. Boy Scouts Forever!

  12. Here Comes Mr Oliver

  13. The Tree Lover

  14. The Garden of Memories

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  THE PARROT WHO WOULDN’T TALK

  AND OTHER STORIES

  Born in Kasauli in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, New Delhi and Shimla. His 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 over five hundred short stories, essays and novellas (some included in the collections Dust on the Mountains and Classic Ruskin Bond) and more than forty books for children.

  He received the Sahitya Akademi Award for English writing in India in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999, and the Delhi government’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 2012. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi’s Bal Sahitya Puraskar for his ‘total contribution to children’s literature’ in 2013 and was honoured with the Padma Bhushan in 2014. He lives in Landour, Mussoorie, with his extended 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

  Ranji’s Wonderful Bat 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

  Introduction

  Gentle Reader,

  I’d like you to meet some of my friends and relatives. These are the important ones:

  Grandfather, a man of many gifts, and good company for a growing boy.

  Granny, who made great gooseberry jam and looked after everyone.

  Uncle Ken, who got into some strange situations and needed his nephew’s help in getting out of them.

  Aunt Ruby, who was afraid of flowers, especially snapdragons and sunflowers. Wisteria gave her hysteria.

  Mr Oliver, Scoutmaster and schoolmaster; eagerly looking forward to his retirement.

  There are others, too, including your author as a boy.

  I wrote most of the stories in Mussoorie early this year, during a particularly severe winter. As I sat by the fire, the ghosts of long-gone relatives crowded around me, demanding that I write something about them.

  I think everyone has at least one eccentric aunt or uncle in the family. I had more than one. My boyhood days were enlivened by their presence. Strong, unforgettable characters, all of them. I hope you’ll enjoy their antics—and mine too!

  Ruskin Bond

  August 2008

  Grandfather’s Many Faces

  Grandfather had many gifts, but perhaps the most unusual—and at times startling—was his ability to disguise himself and take on the persona of another person, often a street vendor or carpenter or washerman; someone he had seen around for some time, and whose habits and characteristics he had studied.

  His normal attire was that of the average Anglo-Indian or Englishman—bush-shirt, khaki shorts, occasionally a sola topi or sun helmet—but if you rummaged through his cupboards, you would find a strange assortment of garments: dhotis, lungis, pyjamas, embroidered shirts and colourful turbans. He could be a maharaja one day, a beggar the next. Yes, he even had a brass begging bowl, but he used it only once, just to see if he could pass himself off as a bent-double beggar hobbling through the bazaar. He wasn’t recognized, but he had to admit that begging was a most difficult art.

  ‘You have to be on the street all day and in all weathers,’ he told me that day. ‘You have to be polite to everyone—no beggar succeeds by being rude! You have to be alert at all times. It’s hard work, believe me. I wouldn’t advise anyone to take up begging as a profession.’

  Grandfather really liked to get the ‘feel’ of someone else’s occupation or lifestyle. And he enjoyed playing tricks on his friends and relatives.

  Grandmother loved bargaining with shopkeepers and vendors of all kinds. She would boast that she could get the better of most men when it came to haggling over the price of onions or cloth or baskets or buttons . . . Until one day the sabzi-walla, a wandering vegetable seller who carried a basket of fruit and vegetables on his head, spent an hour on the veranda arguing with Granny over the price of various items before finally selling her what she wanted.

  Later that day, Grandfather confronted Granny and insisted on knowing why she had paid extra for tomatoes and green chillies. ‘Far more than you’d have paid in the bazaar,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know what I paid him?’ asked Granny.

  ‘Because here’s the ten-rupee note you gave me,’ said Grandfather, handing back her money. ‘I changed into something suitable and borrowed the sabzi-walla’s basket for an hour!’

  Grandfather never used make-up. He had a healthy tan and with the help of a false moustache or beard, and a change of hairstyle, he could become anyone he wanted to be.

  For my amusement, he became a tonga-walla; that is, the driver of a pony-drawn buggy, a common form of conveyance in the days of my boyhood.

  Grandfather borrowed a tonga from one of his cronies and took me for a brisk and eventful ride around the town. On our way we picked up the odd customer and earned a few rupees which were dutifully handed over to the tonga owner at the end of the day. We picked up Dr Bisht, our local doctor, who failed to recognize him. But of course I was the giveaway. ‘And what are you doing here?’ asked the good doctor. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

  ‘I’m just helping Grandfather,’ I replied. ‘It’s part of my science project.’ Dr Bisht then took a second look at Grandfather and burst out laughing; he also insisted on a free ride.

  On one occasion Grandfather drove Granny to the bank without her recognizing him, and that too in a tonga with a white pony. Granny was superstitious about white ponies and avoided them as far as possible. But Grandfather, in his tonga driver’s disguise, persuaded her that his white pony was the best behaved little pony in the world. And so it was, under his artful guidance. As a result, Granny lost her fear of white ponies.

  One winter the Gemini Circus came to our small north Indian town and set up its tents on the old Parade Ground. Grandfather, who liked circuses and circus people, soon made friends with all the show folk—the owner, the ringmaster, t
he lion tamer, the pony riders, clowns, trapeze artistes and acrobats. He told me that as a boy he had always wanted to join a circus, preferably as an animal trainer or ringmaster, but his parents had persuaded him to become an engine driver instead.

  ‘Driving an engine must be fun,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but lions are safer,’ said Grandfather.

  And he used his friendship with the circus folk to get free passes for me, my cousin Melanie, and my small friend Gautam, who lived next door.

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked Grandfather.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with my friends. See if you can spot me!’

  We were convinced that Grandfather was going to adopt one of his disguises and take part in the evening’s entertainment. So for Melanie, Gautam and me the evening turned out to be a guessing game.

  We were enthralled by the show’s highlights—the tigers going through their drill, the beautiful young men and women on the flying trapeze, the daring motorcyclist bursting through a hoop of fire, the jugglers and clowns—but we kept trying to see if we could recognize Grandfather among the performers. We couldn’t make too much of noise because in the row behind us sat some of the town’s senior citizens—the mayor, a turbaned maharaja, a formally dressed Englishman with a military bearing, a couple of nuns and Gautam’s class teacher! But we kept up our chatter for most of the show.

  ‘Is your Grandfather the lion tamer?’ asked Gautam.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had any practice with lions. He’s better with tigers!’ But there was someone else in charge of the tigers.

  ‘He could be one of the jugglers,’ said Melanie.

  ‘He’s taller than the jugglers,’ I said.

  Gautam made an inspired guess: ‘Maybe he’s the bearded lady!’

  We looked hard and long at the bearded lady when she came to our side of the ring. She waved to us in a friendly manner, and Gautam called out, ‘Excuse me, are you Ruskin’s grandfather?’

  ‘No, dear,’ she replied with a deep laugh. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ And she skipped away to another part of the ring.

  A clown came up to us and made funny faces.

  ‘Are you Grandfather?’ asked Melanie.

  But he just grinned, somersaulted backwards, and went about his funny business.

  ‘I give up,’ said Melanie. ‘Unless he’s the dancing bear . . .’

  ‘It’s a real bear,’ said Gautam. ‘Just look at those claws!’

  The bear looked real enough. So did the lion, though a trifle mangy. And the tigers looked tigerish.

  We went home convinced that Grandfather hadn’t been there at all.

  ‘So did you enjoy the circus?’ he asked, when we sat down to dinner later that evening.

  ‘Yes, but you weren’t there,’ I complained. ‘And we took a close look at everyone—including the bearded lady!’

  ‘Oh, I was there all right,’ said Grandfather. ‘I was sitting just behind you. But you were too absorbed in the circus and the performers to notice the audience. I was that smart-looking Englishman in suit and tie, sitting between the maharaja and the nuns. I thought I’d just be myself for a change!’

  Battles Long Ago

  Dukhi, the old gardener, spent a lot of time on his haunches, digging with a little spade called a khurpi. He’d dig up weeds, turn the soil in order to sow new seeds or transplant delicate young seedlings, or just fuss around the zinnias and rose bushes.

  I liked to dig too, and made several attempts to help, but Dukhi just sent me away, saying I was spoiling his arrangements or damaging the stems of Granny’s prize sweet peas. I guess dedicated gardeners are like that—they hate interference!

  So I decided I’d have a patch of my own to cultivate. I wasn’t sure what I’d grow in it, but I liked the idea of digging up the soil and planting something—anything—in the good earth. And Granny said I could use a patch of wasteland near the old wall behind the bungalow.

  ‘Dig to your heart’s content,’ she said. ‘And while you’re about it, you can remove that patch of nettles!’

  Dutifully I removed the stinging nettles, getting a few blisters in the process. But what are a few stings to a small boy who is enjoying himself? Armed with a pitchfork and spade, I was soon digging up the stony soil near our boundary wall.

  ‘You won’t get far with that little spade,’ said Grandfather, who had come over to watch my progress. ‘Here, try this pickaxe.’

  Soon I was toiling away with the pickaxe, my shirt soaked in perspiration, for it was April and already hot in our small town in north India.

  Uncle Ken strolled by and stopped to watch me at work. He was munching a chicken sandwich. Uncle Ken did not go in for physical activity of any kind, but he did believe in a constant supply of food and refreshment.

  ‘All that digging should give you a good appetite,’ he said approvingly. ‘Lunch is only an hour away!’ And he finished his sandwich and wandered off.

  Next day, when I was digging again and beginning to wonder if it was all too much of a bother, my spade struck something hard and I found I’d dug up a small, round iron ball, a little bigger than one of my marbles.

  I went in search of Grandfather and found him on the veranda steps, feeding the sparrows.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, showing him the iron ball. ‘I found it while digging.’

  ‘It looks like an old musket ball,’ he said, examining it closely. ‘Interesting that you should find it here.’

  ‘It must have been here a long time,’ I said.

  ‘A hundred years, at least. Probably during the battle for this town. Muskets were used at the time. Sit down while I tell you something about those times.’

  Grandfather sat back in his favourite armchair, while I sat on the veranda steps, and he continued:

  ‘Once upon a time these hills were held by the Gurkhas, fighting men from Nepal. They were at war with the British, who were in control of the territory across the river—all a part of India at a period when rival powers were fighting over a land that wasn’t theirs to begin with! Well, the Gurkhas held the steep hill that you see from our boundary wall. They’d built a stockade on the summit, and it gave them a vantage point from which they could fire upon the advancing British force. The British lost many officers and men before they were able to occupy the Gurkha stronghold. I think our house is situated on the plain where the soldiers formed up with their scaling ladders.’

  ‘Did they use swords then?’ I asked.

  ‘They had swords, but they also had muskets and small cannons. They couldn’t bring heavy cannon up this incline. I’m sure you’ll find more musket balls if you keep digging.’

  I kept digging, of course. And I’d forgotten about having my own flower bed. I’d become an archaeologist, digging up the past! Although I did not find another musket ball, I did turn up a belt buckle—‘it must have come off a soldier’s uniform,’ said Grandfather—and then, after three or four days of digging in different places, a small piece of metal with some lettering on it.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked Grandfather. I’d had enough of hard labour by then, and was ready to turn to some other activity, such as making sandwiches in the manner of Uncle Ken!

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Grandfather. ‘It looks like a piece of silver. It’s been flattened out, but I think it might have been a card case. They were quite fashionable then. A young officer might have had one. Look, that’s a name engraved on one side. See if you can read it, Ruskin. I’m wearing the wrong glasses.’

  ‘A-n-s-e,’ I spelt out. ‘I think one or two letters are missing.’

  ‘Well, let’s clean it up and take good care of it,’ said Grandfather. ‘It’s a bit of history, after all.’

  Encouraged by this, I began to excavate different parts of the garden and compound, much to Granny’s horror. She swooped down on me and forbade me from going anywhere near her flower beds. Her sweet peas were in full bloom, set to win a prize at
the local flower show. Granny allowed me to dig around the cucumber patch in the back garden, but I found no more treasures apart from a soap dish and a broken chamber pot.

  ‘Very ancient, that pot,’ said Grandfather. ‘I remember breaking it when I was a boy.’

  He had been going through his collection of old books, and late one afternoon he called out to me from his armchair on the veranda.

  ‘Look here, Ruskin. I think I’ve found that name!’ He had been reading through an account of the Gurkha War, and had come across a list of British officers who had fallen in the battle nearby. He pointed at a name halfway down the list: ‘Lieutenant Ansell. Killed in action, 5 May 1818, at the storming of Kalinga Fort.’

  ‘That must be our man,’ said Grandfather with certainty.

  ‘And we have his belt buckle and card case,’ I added. ‘Do you think he could be buried in the garden? Under Granny’s sweet peas?’

  ‘Now don’t let your imagination run away with you,’ said Grandfather with a laugh. ‘Those who fell in the fighting would have been carried away behind the regimental lines. But I have an idea, Ruskin. Why don’t you start your own museum with the things you’ve found? You can use that little storeroom on the roof.’

  So Grandfather helped me clear out the storeroom, and I set up my exhibits on a couple of old trunks. But I didn’t have much to put on display—just the musket ball, the belt buckle and the card case. Granny had thrown away the chamber pot.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Grandfather. ‘Keep digging. You’re sure to find something.’

  ‘It should keep him out of mischief,’ said Granny. ‘And thanks to all his digging, I now have somewhere to grow sunflowers!’

  But after some time I missed my bicycle and my exploration of the town and its surroundings. All digging was left to Dukhi the gardener. He’d been digging for years, and when he stood up, he looked like a question mark.

  ‘Are you going to look like a question mark, too?’ teased Uncle Ken.

 

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