Bond Collection for Adults Page 12

  She was always on the move—flitting about on the veranda, running errands of no consequence, dancing on the steps, singing on the rooftop as she hung out the family washing. Only once was she still. That was when we met on the steps in the dark and I stole a kiss, a sweet phantom kiss. She was very still then, very close, a butterfly drawing out nectar, and then she broke away from me and ran away laughing.

  ‘What is your work?’ she asked me one day.

  ‘I write stories.’

  ‘Will you write one about me?’

  ‘Some day.’

  I was living in a room above Moti Bibi’s grocery shop near the cinema. At night I could hear the soundtrack from the film. The songs did not help me much with my writing, nor with my affair, for Kamla could not come out at night. We met in the afternoons when the whole town took a siesta and expected us to do the same. Kamla had a young brother who worked for Moti Bibi (a widow who was also my landlady) and it was through the boy that I had first met Kamla.

  Moti Bibi always sent me a glass of kanji or sugar cane juice or lime juice (depending on the season) around noon. Usually the boy brought me the drink but one day I looked up from my typewriter to see what at first I thought was an apparition hovering over me. She seemed to shimmer before me in the hot sunlight that came slashing through the open door. I looked up into her face and our eyes met over the rim of the glass. I forgot to take it from her.

  What I liked about her was her smile. It dropped over her face slowly, like sunshine moving over brown hills. She seemed to give out some of the glow that was in her face. I felt it pour over me. And this golden feeling did not pass when she left the room. That was how I knew she was going to mean something special to me.

  They were poor, but in time I was to realize that I was even poorer. When I discovered that plans were afoot to marry her to a widower of forty, I plucked up enough courage to declare that I would marry her myself. But my youth was no consideration. The widower had land and a generous gift of money for Kamla’s parents. Not only was this offer attractive, it was customary. What had I to offer? A small rented room, a typewriter, and a precarious income of two to three hundred rupees a month from freelancing. I told the brother that I would be famous one day, that I would be rich, that I would be writing bestsellers! He did not believe me. And who can blame him? I never did write bestsellers or become rich. Nor did I have parents or relatives to speak on my behalf.

  I thought of running away with Kamla. When I mentioned it to her, her eyes lit up. She thought it would be great fun. Women in love can be more reckless than men! But I had read too many stories about runaway marriages ending in disaster and I lacked the courage to go through with such an adventure. I must have known instinctively that it would not work. Where would we go and how would we live? There would be no home to crawl back to for either of us.

  Had I loved more passionately, more fiercely, I might have felt compelled to elope with Kamla, regardless of the consequences. But it never became an intense relationship. We had so few moments together. Always stolen moments—on the stairs, on the roof, in the deserted junkyard behind the shops. She seemed to enjoy every moment of this secret affair. I fretted and longed for something more permanent. Her responses, so sweet and generous, only made my longing greater. But she seemed content with the immediate moment and what it offered.

  And so the marriage took place and she did not appear to be too dismayed about her future. But before she left for her husband’s house, she asked me for some of the plants that I had owned and nourished on my small balcony.

  ‘Take them all,’ I said. ‘I am leaving, anyway.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To Delhi—to find work. But I shall come this way sometimes.’

  ‘My husband’s house is on the Delhi road. You will pass that way. I will keep these flowers where you can see them.’

  We did not touch each other in parting. Her brother came and collected the plants. Only the cactii remained. Not a lover’s plant, the cactus! I gave the cactii to my landlady and went to live in Delhi.

  And whenever I passed through the old place, summer or winter, I looked out of the window of my bus or taxi and saw the garden flourishing on Kamla’s balcony. Leaf and fern abounded and the flowers grew rampant on the sunny ledge.

  Once I saw her, leaning over the balcony railing. I stopped the taxi and waved to her. She waved back, smiling like the sun breaking through clouds. She called to me to come up but I said I would come another time. I never did visit her home and I never saw her husband. Her parents had gone back to their village. Her brother had vanished into the great grey spaces of India.

  In recent years, after leaving Delhi and making my home in the hills, I have passed through the town less often, but the flowers have always been there, bright and glowing in their increasingly shabby surroundings. Except on this last journey of mine. . .

  And on the return trip, only yesterday, I looked again, but the house was empty and desolate, I got out of the car and looked up at the balcony and called Kamla’s name—called it after so many years—but there was no answer.

  I asked questions in the locality. The old man had died, his wife had gone away, probably to her village. There had been no children. Would she return? No one could say. The house had been sold. It would be pulled down to make way for a block of flats.

  I glanced once more at the deserted balcony, the withered, drooping plants. A butterfly flitted about the railing, looking in vain for a flower on which to alight. It settled briefly on my hand before opening its wings and fluttering away into the blue.

  A Little Song of Love

  The wild rose is blooming

  And new leaves shine green,

  The sky when it’s open

  Is ultramarine.

  Sleep well, my darling,

  Keep dreaming, stay warm,

  The blackbird is singing

  To tell us it’s dawn.

  The wild geese are winging

  Their way to the north,

  And I know from their calling

  It’s time we went forth.

  The spring sap is rising

  As we set out together,

  And you’ll be my sweetheart

  For ever and ever.

  We Must Love Someone

  We Must Love Someone

  If we are to justify

  Our presence on this earth.

  We must keep loving all our days,

  Someone, anyone, anywhere

  Outside our selves;

  For even the sarus crane

  Will grieve over its lost companion,

  And the seal its mate.

  Somewhere in life

  There must be someone

  To take your hand

  And share the torrid day.

  Without the touch of love

  There is no life, and we must fade away.

  The Room on the Roof (Extract)

  n his room, Rusty was a king. His domain was the sky and everything he could see. His subjects were the people who passed below, but they were his subjects only while they were below and he was on the roof; and he spied on them through the branches of the banyan tree. His close confidants were the inhabitants of the banyan tree; which, of course, included Kishen.

  It was the day of the picnic, and Rusty had just finished bathing at the water tank. He had become used to the people at the tank and had made friends with the ayahs and their charges. He had come to like their bangles and bracelets and ankle-bells. He liked to watch one of them at the tap, squatting on her haunches, scrubbing her feet, and making much music with the bells and bangles; she would roll her sari up to the knees to give her legs greater freedom, and crouch forward so that her jacket revealed a modest expanse of waist.

  It was the day of the picnic, and Rusty had bathed, and now he sat on a disused chimney, drying himself in the sun.

  Summer was coming. The litchis were almost ready to eat, the mangoes ripened under Kishen’s greedy
eye. In the afternoons the sleepy sunlight stole through the branches of the banyan tree, and made a patchwork of arched shadows on the walls of the house. The inhabitants of the trees knew that summer was coming; Somi’s slippers knew it, and slapped lazily against his heels; and Kishen grumbled and became more untidy, and even Suri seemed to be taking a rest from his private investigations. Yes, summer was coming.

  And it was the day of the picnic.

  The car had been inspected, and the two bottles that Kapoor had hidden in the dickey had been found and removed; Kapoor was put into khaki drill trousers and a bush-shirt and pronounced fit to drive; a basket of food and a gramophone were in the dickey. Suri had a camera slung over his shoulders; Kishen was sporting a Gurkha hat; and Rusty had on a thick leather belt reinforced with steel knobs. Meena had dressed in a hurry, and looked the better for it. And for once, Somi had tied his turban to perfection.

  ‘Everyone present?’ said Meena. ‘If so, get into the car.’

  ‘I’m waiting for my dog,’ said Suri, and he had hardly made the announcement when from around the corner came a yapping mongrel.

  ‘He’s called Prickly Heat,’ said Suri. ‘We’ll put him in the back seat.’

  ‘He’ll go in the dickey,’ said Kishen. ‘I can see the lice from here.’

  Prickly Heat wasn’t any particular kind of dog, just a kind of dog; he hadn’t even the stump of a tail. But he had sharp, pointed ears that wagged as well as any tail, and they were working furiously this morning.

  Suri and the dog were both deposited in the dickey; Somi, Kishen and Rusty made themselves comfortable in the back seat, and Meena sat next to her husband in the front. The car belched and lurched forward, and stirred up great clouds of dust; then, accelerating, sped out of the compound and across the narrow wooden bridge that spanned the canal.

  The sun rose over the forest, and a spiral of smoke from a passing train was caught by a slanting ray and spangled with gold. The air was fresh and exciting. It was ten miles to the river and the sulphur springs, ten miles of intermittent grumbling and gaiety, with Prickly Heat yapping in the dickey and Kapoor whistling at the wheel and Kishen letting fly from the window with a catapult.

  Somi said: ‘Rusty, your pimples will leave you if you bathe in the sulphur springs.’

  ‘I would rather have pimples than pneumonia,’ replied Rusty.

  ‘But it’s not cold,’ said Kishen. ‘I would bathe myself, but I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have come,’ said Meena from the front.

  ‘I didn’t want to disappoint you all,’ said Kishen.

  Before reaching the springs, the car had to cross one or two riverbeds, usually dry at this time of the year. But the mountains had tricked the party, for there was a good deal of water to be seen, and the current was strong.

  ‘It’s not very deep,’ said Kapoor at the first riverbed, ‘I think we can drive through easily.’

  The car dipped forward, rolled down the bank, and entered the current with a great splash. In the dickey, Suri got a soaking.

  ‘Got to go fast,’ said Mr Kapoor, ‘or we’ll stick.’

  He accelerated, and a great spray of water rose on both sides of the car. Kishen cried out for sheer joy, but at the back Suri was having a fit of hysterics.

  ‘I think the dog’s fallen out,’ said Meena.

  ‘Good,’ said Somi.

  ‘I think Suri’s fallen out,’ said Rusty.

  ‘Good,’ said Somi.

  Suddenly the engines spluttered and choked, and the car came to a standstill.

  ‘We have stuck,’ said Kapoor.

  ‘That,’ said Meena bitingly, ‘is obvious. Now I suppose you want us all to get out and push?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  Kishen had his shoes off in a flash, and was leaping about in the water with great abandon. The water reached up to his knees and, as he hadn’t been swept off his feet, the others followed his example.

  Meena rolled her sari up to the thighs, and stepped gingerly into the current. Her legs, so seldom exposed, were very fair in contrast to her feet and arms, but they were strong and nimble, and she held herself erect. Rusty stumbled to her side, intending to aid her; but ended by clinging to her dress for support. Suri was not to be seen anywhere.

  ‘Where is Suri?’ asked Meena.

  ‘Here,’ said a muffled voice from the floor of the dickey. ‘I’ve got sick. I can’t push.’

  ‘All right,’ said Meena. ‘But you’ll clean up the mess yourself.’

  Somi and Kishen were looking for fish. Kapoor tooted the horn.

  ‘Are you all going to push?’ he said, ‘or are we going to have the picnic in the middle of the river?’

  Rusty was surprised at Kapoor’s unusual display of common sense; when sober, Mr Kapoor did sometimes have moments of sanity.

  Everyone put their weight against the car and pushed with all their strength; and as the car moved slowly forward, Rusty felt a thrill of health and pleasure run through his body. In front of him, Meena pushed silently, the muscles of her thighs trembling with the strain. They all pushed silently, with determination; the sweat ran down Somi’s face and neck, and Kishen’s jaws worked desperately on his chewing gum. But Kapoor sat in comfort behind the wheel, pressing and pulling knobs, and saying ‘harder, push harder’, and Suri began to be sick again. Prickly Heat was strangely quiet, and it was assumed that the dog was sick too.

  With one last, final heave, the car was moved up the opposite bank and on to the road. Everyone groaned and flopped to the ground. Meena’s hands were trembling.

  ‘You shouldn’t have pushed,’ said Rusty.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Help me to get up.’

  He rose, and taking her hand, pulled her to her feet. They stood together, holding hands. Kapoor fiddled around with starters and chokes and things.

  ‘It won’t go,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to look at the engine. We might as well have the picnic here.’

  So out came the food and lemonade bottles and, miraculously enough, out came Suri and Prickly Heat, looking as fit as ever.

  ‘Hey,’ said Kishen, ‘we thought you were sick. I suppose you were just making room for lunch.’

  ‘Before he eats anything,’ said Somi, ‘he’s going to get wet. Let’s take him for a swim.’

  Somi, Kishen and Rusty caught hold of Suri and dragged him along the riverbank to a spot downstream where the current was mild and the water warm and waist-high. They disrobed Suri, took off their own clothes, and ran down the sandy slope to the water’s edge. Feet splashed ankle-deep, calves thrust into the current, and then the ground suddenly disappeared beneath their feet.

  Somi was a fine swimmer; his supple limbs cut through the water, and when he went under, he was almost as powerful; the chequered colours of his body could be seen first here and then there, twisting and turning, diving and disappearing for what seemed like several minutes, and then coming up under someone’s feet.

  Rusty and Kishen were amateurs. When they tried swimming underwater, their bottoms remained on the surface, having all the appearance of floating buoys. Suri couldn’t swim at all, but though he was often out of his depth and frequently ducked, managed to avoid his death by drowning.

  They heard Meena calling them for food and scrambled up the bank, the dog yapping at their heels. They ate in the shade of a poinsettia tree, whose red long-fingered flowers dropped sensually to the running water; and when they had eaten, lay down to sleep or drowse the afternoon away.

  When Rusty awoke, it was evening and Kapoor was tinkering about with the car, muttering to himself, a little cross because he hadn’t had a drink since the previous night. Somi and Kishen were back in the river, splashing away, and this time they had Prickly Heat for company. Suri wasn’t in sight. Meena stood in a clearing at the edge of the forest.

  Rusty went up to Meena, but she wandered into the thicket. The
boy followed. She must have expected him, for she showed no surprise at his appearance.

  ‘Listen to the jungle,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Listen to nothing.’

  They were surrounded by silence; a dark, pensive silence, heavy, scented with magnolia and jasmine.

  It was shattered by a piercing shriek, a cry that rose on all sides, echoing against the vibrating air; and, instinctively, Rusty put his arm around Meena—whether to protect her or to protect himself, he did not really know—and held her tight.

  ‘It is only a bird,’ she said, ‘what are you afraid of?’

  But he was unable to release his hold, and she made no effort to free herself. She laughed into his face, and her eyes danced in the shadows. But he stifled her laugh with his lips.

  It was a clumsy, awkward kiss, but fiercely passionate, and Meena responded, tightening the embrace, returning the fervour of the kiss. They stood together in the shadows, Rusty intoxicated with beauty and sweetness, Meena with freedom and the comfort of being loved.

  A monkey chattered shrilly in a branch above them, and the spell was broken.

  ‘Oh, Meena. . .’

  ‘Shh. . .you spoil these things by saying them.’

  ‘Oh, Meena. . .’

  They kissed again, but the monkey set up such a racket that they feared it would bring Kapoor and the others to the spot. So they walked through the trees, holding hands.

  They were barefoot, but they did not notice the thorns and brambles that pricked their feet; they walked through heavy foliage, nettles and long grass, until they came to a clearing and a stream.

  Rusty was conscious of a wild urge, a desire to escape from the town and its people, and live in the forest with Meena, with no one but Meena. . .

  As though conscious of his thoughts, she said: ‘This is where we drink. In the trees we eat and sleep, and here we drink.’