Small Towns, Big Stories Page 2

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And is there a party, too?’

  ‘No party.’

  ‘What’s the use of a birthday without a party? What’s the use of a party without presents?’

  ‘This person doesn’t like presents—just flowers.’

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked, full of curiosity.

  ‘If you want to find out, you can take these flowers to her. She lives right at the top of the far side of the palace. There are twenty-two steps to climb. Remember that, chota sahib. If you take twenty-three steps, you will go over the edge into the lake!’

  I started climbing the stairs.

  It was a spiral staircase of wrought iron, and it went round and round and up and up, and it made me quite dizzy and tired.

  At the top I found myself on a small balcony, which looked out over the lake and another palace, at the crowded town and the distant harbour. I heard a voice, a rather high, musical voice saying (in English), ‘Are you a ghost?’ I turned to see who had spoken but found the balcony empty. The voice had come from a dark room.

  I turned to the stairway, ready to flee, but the voice said, ‘Oh, don’t go, there’s nothing to be frightened of!’

  And so I stood still, peering cautiously into the darkness of the room.

  ‘First tell me—are you a ghost?’

  ‘I’m a boy,’ I said.

  ‘And I’m a girl. We can be friends. I can’t come out there, so you had better come in. Come along, I’m not a ghost either—not yet, anyway!’

  As there was nothing very frightening about the voice, I stepped into the room. It was dark inside, and, coming in from the glare, it took me some time to make out the tiny, elderly lady seated on a cushioned, gilt chair. She wore a red sari, lots of coloured bangles on her wrists, and golden earrings. Her hair was streaked with white, but her skin was still quite smooth and unlined, and she had large and very beautiful eyes.

  ‘You must be Master Bond!’ she said. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘You’re a lady with a birthday,’ I said, ‘but that’s all I know. Dukhi didn’t tell me anymore.’

  ‘If you promise to keep it a secret, I’ll tell you who I am. You see, everyone thinks I am mad. Do you think so, too?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you must tell me if you think so,’ she said with a chuckle. Her laugh was the sort of sound made by the gecko, coming from deep in the throat. ‘I have a feeling you are a truthful boy. Do you find it very difficult to tell the truth?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Sometimes. Of course, there are times when I tell lies—lots of little lies—because they’re such fun! But would you call me a liar? I wouldn’t, if I were you, but would you?’

  ‘Are you a liar?’

  ‘I’m asking you! If I were to tell you that I was a queen—that I am a queen—would you believe me?’

  I thought deeply about this, and then said, ‘I’ll try to believe you.’

  ‘Oh, but you must believe me. I am a real queen, I’m a rani. Look I’ve got diamonds to prove it.’ And she held out her hands, and there was a ring on each finger, the stones glowing and glittering in the dim light. ‘Diamonds, rubies, pearls and emeralds! Only a queen can have these!’ She was most anxious that I should believe her.

  ‘You must be a queen,’ I said.

  ‘Right!’ she snapped. ‘In that case, would you mind calling me “Your Highness”?’

  ‘Your Highness,’ I said.

  She smiled. It was a slow, beautiful smile. All her face lit up.

  ‘I could love you,’ she said. ‘But better still, I’ll give you something to eat. Do you like chocolates?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, taking a box from the table beside her, ‘these have come all the way from England. Take two. Only two, mind you, otherwise the box will finish before Saturday, and I don’t want that to happen because I won’t get any more till Saturday. That’s when Captain MacWhirr’s ship sets in, the SS Lucy loaded with boxes and boxes of chocolates!’

  ‘All for you?’ I asked in considerable awe.

  ‘Yes, of course. They have to last at least three months. I get them from England. I get only the best chocolates. I like them with pink, crunchy fillings, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ I exclaimed, full of envy.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I may give you one now and then—if you’re very nice to me. Here you are, help yourself…’ She pushed the chocolate box towards me.

  I took a silver-wrapped chocolate, and then just as I was thinking of taking a second one, she quickly took the box away.

  ‘No more!’ she said, ‘They have to last till Saturday.’

  ‘But I took only one,’ I said with some indignation.

  ‘Did you?’ She gave me a sharp look, decided I was telling the truth, and said graciously, ‘Well, in that case you can have another.’

  Watching the rani carefully, in case she snatched the box away again, I selected a second chocolate, this one with a green wrapper. I don’t remember what kind of a day it was outside, but I remember the bright green of the chocolate wrapper.

  I thought it would be rude to eat the chocolates in front of a queen, so I put them in my pocket and said, ‘I’d better go now. Ayah will be looking for me.’

  ‘And when will you be coming to see me again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘There’s something I want you to do for me,’ she said, placing one little finger on my shoulder and giving me a conspiratorial look. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘What is it, Your Highness?’

  ‘What is it? Why do you ask? A real prince never asks where or why or whatever, he simply does what the princess asks of him. When I was a princess—before I became a queen, that is—I asked a prince to swim across the lake and fetch me a lily growing on the other bank.’

  ‘And did he get it for you?’

  ‘He drowned halfway across. Let that be a lesson to you. Never agree to do something without knowing what it is.’

  ‘But I thought you said…’

  ‘Never mind what I said. It’s what I say that matters!’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said, fidgeting to be gone. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her tiny rosebud lips pouted and she stared sullenly at a picture on the wall. Now that my eyes had grown used to the dim light in the room, I noticed that the walls were filled with portraits of stout rajas and ranis, turbaned and bedecked in fine clothes. There were also portraits of Queen Victoria and King George V of England. And, in the centre of all this distinguished company, a large picture of Mickey Mouse.

  ‘I’ll do it if it isn’t too dangerous,’ I said.

  ‘Then listen.’ She took my hand and drew me towards her—what a tiny hand she had!—and whispered, ‘I want a red rose. From the palace garden. But be careful! Don’t let Dukhi the gardener catch you. He’ll know it’s for me. He knows I love roses. And he hates me! I’ll tell you why, one day. But if he catches you, he’ll do something terrible.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘No, to himself. That’s much worse, isn’t it? He’ll tie himself into knots, or lie naked on a bed of thorns, or go on a long fast with nothing to eat but fruit, sweets and chicken! So you will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, but he doesn’t hate you,’ I cried in protest, remembering the flowers he’d sent for her, and looking around, I found that I’d been sitting on them. ‘Look, he sent these flowers for your birthday!’

  ‘Well, if he sent them for my birthday, you can take them back,’ she snapped. ‘But if he sent them for me…’ and she suddenly softened and looked coy, ‘then I might keep them. Thank you, my dear, it was a very sweet thought.’ And she leant forwards as though to kiss me.

  ‘It’s late, I must go!’ I said in alarm, and turning on my heels, ran out of the room and down the spiral staircase.


  A LONG WALK FOR BINA

  I

  A leopard, lithe and sinewy, drank at the mountain stream, and then lay down on the grass to bask in the late February sunshine. Its tail twitched occasionally and the animal appeared to be sleeping. At the sound of distant voices it raised its head to listen, then stood up and leapt lightly over the boulders in the stream, disappearing among the trees on the opposite bank.

  A minute or two later, three children came walking down the forest path. They were a girl and two boys, and they were singing in their local dialect an old song they had learnt from their grandparents.

  Five more miles to go!

  We climb through rain and snow.

  A river to cross…

  A mountain to pass…

  Now we’ve four more miles to go!

  Their school satchels looked new, their clothes had been washed and pressed. Their loud and cheerful singing startled a spotted forktail. The bird left its favourite rock in the stream and flew down the dark ravine.

  ‘Well, we have only three more miles to go,’ said the bigger boy, Prakash, who had been this way hundreds of times. ‘But first we have to cross the stream.’

  He was a sturdy twelve-year-old with eyes like black currants and a mop of bushy hair that refused to settle down on his head. The girl and her small brother were taking this path for the first time.

  ‘I’m feeling tired, Bina,’ said the little boy.

  Bina smiled at him, and Prakash said, ‘Don’t worry, Sonu, you’ll get used to the walk. There’s plenty of time.’ He glanced at the old watch he’d been given by his grandfather. It needed constant winding. ‘We can rest here for five or six minutes.’

  They sat down on a smooth boulder and watched the clear water of the shallow stream tumbling downhill. Bina examined the old watch on Prakash’s wrist. The glass was badly scratched and she could barely make out the figures on the dial. ‘Are you sure it still gives the right time?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it loses five minutes every day, so I put it ten minutes ahead at night. That means by morning it’s quite accurate! Even our teacher, Mr Mani, asks me for the time. If he doesn’t ask, I tell him! The clock in our classroom keeps stopping.’

  They removed their shoes and let the cold mountain water run over their feet. Bina was the same age as Prakash. She had pink cheeks, soft brown eyes, and hair that was just beginning to lose its natural curls. Hers was a gentle face, but a determined little chin showed that she could be a strong person. Sonu, her younger brother, was ten. He was a thin boy who had been sickly as a child but was now beginning to fill out. Although he did not look very athletic, he could run like the wind.

  Bina had been going to school in her own village of Koli, on the other side of the mountain. But it had been a primary school, finishing at Class 5. Now, in order to study in Class 6, she would have to walk several miles every day to Nauti, where there was a high school going up to Class 8. It had been decided that Sonu would also shift to the new school, to give Bina company. Prakash, their neighbour in Koli, was already a pupil at the Nauti school. His mischievous nature, which sometimes got him into trouble, had resulted in his having to repeat a year.

  But this didn’t seem to bother him. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he had told his indignant parents. ‘You’re not sending me to a foreign land when I finish school. And our cows aren’t running away, are they?’

  ‘You would prefer to look after the cows, wouldn’t you?’ asked Bina, as they got up to continue their walk.

  ‘Oh, school’s all right. Wait till you see old Mr Mani. He always gets our names mixed up, as well as the subjects he’s supposed to be teaching. At our last lesson, instead of maths, he gave us a geography lesson!’

  ‘More fun than maths,’ said Bina.

  ‘Yes, but there’s a new teacher this year. She’s very young they say, just out of college. I wonder what she’ll be like.’

  Bina walked faster and Sonu had some trouble keeping up with them. She was excited about the new school and the prospect of different surroundings. She had seldom been outside her own village, with its small school and single ration shop. The day’s routine never varied—helping her mother in the fields or with household tasks like fetching water from the spring or cutting grass and fodder for the cattle. Her father, who was a soldier, was away for nine months in the year and Sonu was still too small for the heavier tasks.

  As they neared Nauti Village, they were joined by other children coming from different directions. Even where there were no major roads, the mountains were full of little lanes and shortcuts. Like a game of snakes and ladders, these narrow paths zigzagged around the hills and villages, cutting through fields and crossing narrow ravines until they came together to form a fairly busy road along which mules, cattle and goats joined the throng.

  Nauti was a fairly large village, and from here a broader but dustier road started for Tehri. There was a small bus, several trucks and (for part of the way) a road roller. The road hadn’t been completed because the heavy diesel roller couldn’t take the steep climb to Nauti. It stood on the roadside halfway up the road from Tehri.

  Prakash knew almost everyone in the area, and exchanged greetings and gossip with other children as well as with muleteers, bus drivers, milkmen and labourers working on the road. He loved telling everyone the time, even if they weren’t interested.

  ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ he would announce, glancing at his wrist. ‘Isn’t your bus leaving today?’

  ‘Off with you!’ the bus driver would respond, ‘I’ll leave when I’m ready.’

  As the children approached Nauti, the small flat school buildings came into view on the outskirts of the village, fringed by a line of long-leaved pines. A small crowd had assembled on the one playing field. Something unusual seemed to have happened. Prakash ran forward to see what it was all about. Bina and Sonu stood aside, waiting in a patch of sunlight near the boundary wall.

  Prakash soon came running back to them. He was bubbling over with excitement.

  ‘It’s Mr Mani!’ he gasped. ‘He’s disappeared! People are saying a leopard must have carried him off!’

  II

  Mr Mani wasn’t really old. He was about fifty-five and was expected to retire soon. But for the children, most adults over forty seemed ancient! And Mr Mani had always been a bit absentminded, even as a young man.

  He had gone out for his early morning walk, saying he’d be back by eight o’clock, in time to have his breakfast and be ready for class. He wasn’t married, but his sister and her husband stayed with him. When it was past nine o’clock his sister presumed he’d stopped at a neighbour’s house for breakfast (he loved tucking into other people’s breakfast) and that he had gone on to school from there. But when the school bell rang at ten o’clock, and everyone but Mr Mani was present, questions were asked and guesses were made.

  No one had seen him return from his walk and enquiries made in the village showed that he had not stopped at anyone’s house. For Mr Mani to disappear was puzzling; for him to disappear without his breakfast was extraordinary.

  Then a milkman returning from the next village said he had seen a leopard sitting on a rock on the outskirts of the pine forest. There had been talk of a cattle-killer in the valley, of leopards and other animals being displaced by the construction of a dam. But as yet no one had heard of a leopard attacking a man. Could Mr Mani have been its first victim? Someone found a strip of red cloth entangled in a blackberry bush and went running through the village showing it to everyone. Mr Mani had been known to wear red pyjamas. Surely he had been seized and eaten! But where were his remains? And why had he been in his pyjamas?

  Meanwhile Bina and Sonu and the rest of the children had followed their teachers into the school playground. Feeling a little lost, Bina looked around for Prakash. She found herself facing a dark, slender young woman wearing spectacles, who must have been in her early twenties—just a little too old to be another student. She had a kind, expressive face and she
seemed a little concerned by all that had been happening.

  Bina noticed that she had lovely hands; it was obvious that the new teacher hadn’t milked cows or worked in the fields!

  ‘You must be new here,’ said the teacher, smiling at Bina. ‘And is this your little brother?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve come from Koli Village. We were at school there.’

  ‘It’s a long walk from Koli. You didn’t see any leopards, did you? Well, I’m new too. Are you in the sixth class?’

  ‘Sonu is in the third. I’m in the sixth.’

  ‘Then I’m your new teacher. My name is Tania Ramola. Come along, let’s see if we can settle down in our classroom.’

  Mr Mani turned up at twelve o’clock, wondering what all the fuss was about. No, he snapped, he had not been attacked by a leopard; and yes, he had lost his pyjamas and would someone kindly return them to him?

  ‘How did you lose your pyjamas, sir?’ asked Prakash.

  ‘They were blown off the washing line!’ snapped Mr Mani.

  After much questioning, Mr Mani admitted that he had gone further than he had intended, and that he had lost his way coming back. He had been a bit upset because the new teacher, a slip of a girl, had been given charge of the sixth, while he was still with the fifth, along with that troublesome boy Prakash, who kept on reminding him of the time! The Headmaster had explained that as Mr Mani was due to retire at the end of the year, the school did not wish to burden him with a senior class. But Mr Mani looked upon the whole thing as a plot to get rid of him. He glowered at Miss Ramola whenever he passed her. And when she smiled back at him, he looked the other way!

  Mr Mani had been getting even more absent-minded of late—putting on his shoes without his socks, wearing his homespun waistcoat inside out, mixing up people’s names and, of course, eating other people’s lunches and dinners. His sister had made a mutton broth for the postmaster, who was down with ‘flu’, and had asked Mr Mani to take it over in a thermos. When the postmaster opened the thermos, he found only a few drops of broth at the bottom—Mr Mani had drunk the rest somewhere along the way.