Collected Short Stories Read online

  Suddenly the boy’s mother, who had been engrossed in conversation with another woman, turned and saw what was happening. She walloped the boy over the head and the suddenness of the blow (it was more of a thump than a slap) made him fall back against the window, and the cloth bag fell from his hand on to the railway embankment outside.

  Now Daya Ram’s first impulse was to leap out of the moving train. But when someone shouted, ‘Pull the alarm cord!’ he decided on this course of action. He plunged for the alarm cord, but just at the moment someone else shouted, ‘Don’t pull the cord!’ and Daya Ram who usually listened to others, stood in suspended animation, waiting for further directions.

  ‘Too many people are stopping trains every day all over India,’ said one of the card players, who wore large thick-rimmed spectacles over a pair of tiny humourless eyes, and was obviously a post office counter-clerk. ‘You people are becoming a menace to the railways.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the other card player. ‘You stop the train on the most trifling excuses. What is your trouble?’

  ‘My money has fallen out,’ said Daya Ram.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so!’ exclaimed the clerk, jumping up. ‘Stop the train!’

  ‘Sit down,’ said his companion, ‘it’s too late now. The train cannot wait here until he walks half a mile back down the line. How much did you lose?’ he asked Daya Ram.

  ‘Ten rupees.’

  ‘And you have no more?’

  Daya Ram shook his head.

  ‘Then you had better leave the train at the next station and go back for it.’

  The next station, Harrawala, was about ten miles from the spot where the money had fallen. Daya Ram got down from the train and started back along the railway track. He was a well-built man, with strong legs and a dark, burnished skin. He wore a vest and dhoti, and had a red cloth tied round his head. He walked with long, easy steps, but the ground had been scorched by the burning sun, and it was not long before his feet were smarting. His eyes too were unaccustomed to the glare of the plains, and he held a hand up over them, or looked at the ground. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on his bare arms and legs. Soon his body was running with sweat, his vest was soaked through and sticking to his skin.

  There were no trees anywhere near the lines, which ran straight to the hazy blue horizon. There were fields in the distance, and cows grazed on short grass, but there were no humans in sight. After an hour’s walk, Daya Ram felt thirsty; his tongue was furred, his gums dry, his lips like parchment. When he saw a buffalo wallowing in a muddy pool, he hurried to the spot and drank thirstily of the stagnant water.

  Still, his pace did not slacken. He knew of only one way to walk, and that was at this steady long pace. At the end of another hour he felt sure he had passed the place where the bag had fallen. He had been inspecting the embankment very closely, and now he felt discouraged and dispirited. But still he walked on. He was worried more by the thought of his wife’s attitude than by the loss of the money or the problem of the next meal.

  Rather than turn back, he continued walking until he reached the next station. He kept following the lines, and after half an hour dragged his aching feet on to Raiwala platform. To his surprise and joy, he saw a note in Hindi on the notice board: ‘Anyone having lost a bag containing some notes and coins may inquire at the stationmaster’s office.’ Some honest man or woman or child had found the bag and handed it in. Daya Ram felt, that his faith in the goodness of human nature had been justified.

  He rushed into the office and, pushing aside an indignant clerk, exclaimed: ‘You have found my money!’

  ‘What money?’ snapped the harassed-looking official. ‘And don’t just charge in here shouting at the top of your voice, this is not a hotel!’

  ‘The money I lost on the train,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Ten rupees.’

  ‘In notes or in coins?’ asked the stationmaster, who was not slow in assessing a situation.

  ‘Six one-rupee notes,’ said Daya Ram. ‘The rest in coins.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . and what was the purse like?’

  ‘White cloth,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Dirty white cloth,’ he added for clarification.

  The official put his hand in a drawer, took out the bag and flung it across the desk. Without further parley, Daya Ram scooped up the bag and burst through the swing doors, completely revived after his fatiguing march.

  Now he had only one idea: to celebrate, in his small way, the recovery of his money.

  So, he left the station and made his way through a sleepy little bazaar to the nearest tea shop. He sat down at a table and asked for tea and a hookah. The shopkeeper placed a record on a gramophone, and the shrill music shattered the afternoon silence of the bazaar.

  A young man sitting idly at the next table smiled at Daya Ram and said, ‘You are looking happy, brother.’

  Daya Ram beamed. ‘I lost my money and found it,’ he said simply.

  ‘Then you should celebrate with something stronger than tea,’ said the friendly stranger with a wink. ‘Come on into the next room.’ He took Daya Ram by the arm and was so comradely that the older man felt pleased and flattered. They went behind a screen, and the shopkeeper brought them two glasses and a bottle of country-made rum.

  Before long, Daya Ram had told his companion the story of his life. He had also paid for the rum and was prepared to pay for more. But two of the young man’s friends came in and suggested a card game and Daya Ram, who remembered having once played a game of cards in his youth, showed enthusiasm. He lost sportingly, to the tune of five rupees; the rum had such a benevolent effect on his already genial nature that he was quite ready to go on playing until he had lost everything, but the shopkeeper came in hurriedly with the information that a policeman was hanging about outside. Daya Ram’s table companions promptly disappeared.

  Daya Ram was still happy. He paid for the hookah and the cup of tea he hadn’t had, and went lurching into the street. He had some vague intention of returning to the station to catch a train, and had his ticket in his hand; by now his sense of direction was so confused that he turned down a side alley and was soon lost in a labyrinth of tiny alleyways. Just when he thought he saw trees ahead, his attention was drawn to a man leaning against a wall and groaning wretchedly. The man was in rags, his hair was tousled, and his face looked bruised.

  Daya Ram heard his groans and stumbled over to him. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked with concern. ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘I have been robbed,’ said the man, speaking with difficulty. ‘Two thugs beat me and took my money. Don’t go any further this way.’

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’ said Daya Ram. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘No, I will be all right,’ said the man, leaning heavily on Daya Ram. ‘Just help me to the corner of the road, and then I can find my way.’

  ‘Do you need anything?’ said Daya Ram. ‘Do you need any money?’

  ‘No, no just help me to those steps.’

  Daya Ram put an arm around the man and helped him across the road, seating him on a step.

  ‘Are you sure I can do nothing for you?’ persisted Daya Ram. The man shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Daya Ram hesitated a little, and then left. But as soon as Daya Ram turned the corner, the man opened his eyes. He transferred the bag of money from the fold of his shirt to the string of his pyjamas. Then, completely recovered, he was up and away.

  Daya Ram discovered his loss when he had gone about fifty yards, and then it was too late. He was puzzled, but was not upset. So many things had happened to him today, and he was confused and unaware of his real situation. He still had his ticket, and that was what mattered most.

  The train was at the station, and Daya Ram got into a half-empty compartment. It was only when the train began to move that he came to his senses and realized what had befallen him. As the engine gathered speed, his thoughts came faster. He was not worried (except by the thought of his wife) and he was not unhappy
, but he was puzzled. He was not angry or resentful, but he was a little hurt. He knew he had been tricked, but he couldn’t understand why. He had really liked those people he had met in the tea shop of Raiwala, and he still could not bring himself to believe that the man in rags had been putting on an act.

  ‘Have you got a beedi?’ asked a man beside him, who looked like another farmer.

  Daya Ram had a beedi. He gave it to the other man and lit it for him. Soon they were talking about crops and rainfall and their respective families, and although a faint uneasiness still hovered at the back of his mind, Daya Ram had almost forgotten the day’s misfortunes. He had his ticket to Dehra and from there he had to walk only three miles, and then he would be home, and there would be hot milk and cooked vegetables waiting for him. He and the other farmer chattered away, as the train went panting across the wide brown plain.

  The Daffodil Case

  It was a foggy day in March that found me idling along Baker Street, with my hands in my raincoat pockets, a threadbare scarf wound round my neck, and two pairs of socks on my feet. The BBC had commissioned me to give a talk on village life in northern India, and, ambling along Baker Street in the fog, thinking about the talk, I realized that I didn’t really know very much about village life in India or anywhere else.

  True, I could recall the smell of cowdung smoke and the scent of jasmine and the flood waters lapping at the walls of mud houses, but I didn’t know much about village electorates or crop rotation or sugarcane prices. I was on the point of turning back and making my way to India House to get a few facts and figures when I realized I wasn’t on Baker Street any more.

  Wrapped in thought, I had wandered into Regent’s Park. And now I wasn’t sure of the way out.

  A tall gentleman wearing a long grey cloak was stooping over a flower bed. Going up to him, I asked, ‘Excuse me, sir—can you tell me how I get out of here?’

  ‘How did you get in?’ he asked in an impatient tone, and when he turned and faced me, I received quite a shock. He wore a peaked hunting cap, and in one hand he held a large magnifying glass. A long curved pipe hung from his sensuous lips. He possessed a strong, steely jaw and his eyes had a fierce expression— they were bright with the intoxication of some drug.

  ‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re Sherlock Holmes!’

  ‘And you, sir,’ he replied, with a flourish of his cloak, ‘are just out of India, unemployed, and due to give a lecture on the radio.’

  ‘How did you know all that?’ I stammered. ‘You’ve never seen me before. I suppose you know my name, too?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Bond. The BBC notepaper in your hand, on which you have been scribbling, reveals your intentions. You are unsure of yourself, so you are not a TV personality. But you have a considered and considerate tone of voice. Definitely radio. Your name is on the envelope which you are holding upside down. It’s Bond, but you’re definitely not James—you’re not the type! You have to be unemployed, otherwise what would you be doing in the Park when the rest of mankind is hard at work in office, field, or factory?’

  ‘And how do you know I’m from India?’ I asked, a little resentfully.

  ‘Your accent betrays you,’ said Holmes with a knowing smile. I was about to turn away and leave him when he laid a restraining hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Stay a moment,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can be of assistance. I’m surprised at Watson. He promised to be here fifteen minutes ago but his wife must have kept him at home. Never marry, Bond. Women sap the intellect.’

  ‘In what way can I help you?’ I asked, feeling flattered now that the great man had condescended to take me into his confidence.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ said Holmes, going down on his knees near a flower-bed. ‘Do you notice anything unusual?’

  ‘Someone’s been pulling out daffodils,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent, Bond! Your power of observation is as good as Watson’s. Now tell me, what else do you see?’

  ‘The ground is a little trampled, that’s all.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘A human foot. In high heels. And . . . a dog has been here too, it’s been helping to dig up the bulbs!’

  ‘You astonish me, Bond. You are quicker than I thought you’d be. Now shall I explain what, this is all about? You see, for the past week someone has been stealing daffodils from the park, and the authorities have now asked me to deal with the matter. I think we shall catch our culprit today.’

  I was rather disappointed. ‘It isn’t dangerous work, then?’

  ‘Ah, my dear Bond, the days are past when Ruritanian princes lost their diamonds and maharanis their rubies. There are no longer any Ruritanian princes and maharanis cannot afford rubies— unless they’ve gone into the fast-food business. The more successful criminals now work on the stock exchange, and the East End has been cleaned up. Dr Fu Manchu has a country house in Dorset. And those cretins at Scotland Yard don’t even believe in my existence!’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘But who do you think is stealing the daffodils?’

  ‘Obviously it’s someone who owns a dog. Someone who takes a dog out regularly for a morning walk. That points to a woman. A woman in London is likely to keep a small dog—and, judging from the animal’s footprints, it was a little Pekinese or a very young Pomeranian. If you observe the damp patch on that lamp-post, you will realize that it could not have been very tall. So what I propose, Bond, is that we conceal ourselves behind this herbaceous border and wait for the culprit to return to the scene of the crime. She is sure to come again this morning. She has been stealing daffodils for the past week. And stealing daffodils, like smoking opium, soon becomes a habit.’

  Holmes and I concealed ourselves behind the hedge and settled down to a long wait. After half an hour, our patience was rewarded. An elderly but upright woman in a smart green hat, resembling Margaret Thatcher, came walking towards us across the grass, followed by a small white Pom on a lead. Holmes had been right! More than ever did I admire his brilliance. We waited until the woman began pulling daffodil bulbs out of the loose soil, then Holmes leapt from the bushes.

  ‘Ah, we have you, madam!’ he cried springing upon her so swiftly that she shrieked and dropped the daffodils. I bent over to gather the evidence, but my efforts were rewarded by a nip on the posterior from the outraged Pomeranian.

  Holmes was restraining the woman simply by peering at her heaving bosom through his magnifying glass. I don’t know what frightened her more—being caught, or being confronted by that grim-visaged countenance, with its pipe, cloak and hunting-cap.

  ‘Now, madam,’ he said firmly, ‘why were you stealing Her Majesty’s daffodils?’

  She had begun to weep—always a woman’s best defence—and I thought Holmes would soften. He always did when confronted by weeping women. And this wasn’t Mrs Thatcher; she would have gone on the offensive.

  ‘I would be obliged, Bond, if you would call the park attendant,’ he said.

  I hurried off to a distant greenhouse and after a brief search found a gardener. ‘Stealing daffodils, is she?’ he said, running up at the double, a wicked-looking rake in one hand.

  But when he got to the daffodil bed, we couldn’t find the thief anywhere. Nor was Holmes to be seen. Apparently they’d gone off together, leaving me in the lurch. I was overcome by doubt and embarrassment. But then I looked at the ground and saw daffodil bulbs scattered about on the grass.

  ‘Holmes must have taken her to the police,’ I said.

  ‘Holmes,’ repeated the gardener. ‘And who’s Holmes?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes, of course. The celebrated detective. Haven’t you heard of him?’

  The gardener gave me a suspicious look.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes, eh? And you’ll be Dr Watson, I presume?’

  ‘Well, no,’ I said apologetically. ‘The name is Bond.’

  That was enough for the gardener. He’d seen madmen in the park before. He turned and disappeared in the dire
ction of the greenhouse.

  Eventually I found my way out of the park, feeling that Holmes had let me down a little. Then, just as I was crossing Baker Street, I thought I saw him on the opposite curb. He was alone, looking up at a lighted room, and his arm was raised as though he was waving to someone. I thought I heard him shout ‘Watson!’, but I couldn’t be sure. I started to cross the road, but a big red bus came out of the fog in front of me and I had to wait for it to pass. When the road was clear, I dashed across. By that time, Mr Holmes had gone, and the rooms above were dark.

  The Eyes Have It

  I had the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off was probably her parents. They seemed very anxious about her comfort and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows and how to avoid speaking to strangers.

  They called their goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station. As I was totally blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like. But I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels.

  It would take me some time to discover something about her looks and perhaps I never would. But I liked the sound of her voice and even the sound of her slippers.

  ‘Are you going all the way to Dehra?’ I asked.

  I must have been sitting in a dark corner because my voice startled her. She gave a little exclamation and said, ‘I didn’t know anyone else was here.’

  Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers tellingly on their remaining senses.

  ‘I didn’t see you either,’ I said. ‘But I heard you come in.’

  I wondered if I would be able to prevent her from discovering that I was blind. Provided I keep to my seat, I thought, it shouldn’t be too difficult.