Collected Short Stories Read online

  The next day he came again to quench his body in the cool waters of the forest pool. He was there for almost an hour, sliding in and out of the limpid green water, or lying stretched out on the smooth yellow rocks in the shade of broad-leaved sal trees. It was while he lay thus, naked on a rock, that he noticed another boy standing a little distance away, staring at him in a rather hostile manner. The other boy was a little older than Ranji, taller, thick-set, with a broad nose and thick, red lips. He had only just noticed Ranji, and he stood at the edge of the pool, wearing a pair of bathing shorts, waiting for Ranji to explain himself.

  When Ranji did not say anything, the other called out, ‘What are you doing here, Mister?’

  Ranji, who was prepared to be friendly, was taken aback at the hostility of the other’s tone.

  ‘I am swimming,’ he replied. ‘Why don’t you join me?’

  ‘I always swim alone,’ said the other. ‘This is my pool, I did not invite you here. And why are you not wearing any clothes?’

  ‘It is not your business if I do not wear clothes. I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘You skinny fellow, put on your clothes.’

  ‘Fat fool, take yours off.’

  This was too much for the stranger to tolerate. He strode up to Ranji, who still sat on the rock and, planting his broad feet firmly on the sand, said (as though this would settle the matter once and for all), ‘Don’t you know I am a Punjabi? I do not take replies from villagers like you!’

  ‘So you like to fight with villagers?’ said Ranji. ‘Well, I am not a villager. I am a Rajput!’

  ‘I am a Punjabi!’

  ‘I am a Rajput!’

  They had reached an impasse. One had said he was a Punjabi, the other had proclaimed himself a Rajput. There was little else that could be said.

  ‘You understand that I am a Punjabi?’ said the stranger, feeling that perhaps this information had not penetrated Ranji’s head.

  ‘I have heard you say it three times,’ replied Ranji.

  ‘Then why are you not running away?’

  ‘I am waiting for you to run away!’

  ‘I will have to beat you,’ said the stranger, assuming a violent attitude, showing Ranji the palm of his hand.

  ‘I am waiting to see you do it,’ said Ranji. ‘You will see me do it,’ said the other boy.

  Ranji waited. The other boy made a strange, hissing sound. They stared each other in the eye for almost a minute. Then the Punjabi boy slapped Ranji across the face with all the force he could muster. Ranji staggered, feeling quite dizzy. There were thick red finger marks on his cheek.

  ‘There you are!’ exclaimed his assailant. ‘Will you be off now?’ For answer, Ranji swung his arm up and pushed a hard, bony fist into the other’s face.

  And then they were at each other’s throats, swaying on the rock, tumbling on to the sand, rolling over and over, their legs and arms locked in a desperate, violent struggle. Gasping and cursing, clawing and slapping, they rolled right into the shallows of the pool.

  Even in the water the fight continued as, spluttering and covered with mud, they groped for each other’s head and throat. But after five minutes of frenzied, unscientific struggle, neither boy had emerged victorious. Their bodies heaving with exhaustion, they stood back from each other, making tremendous efforts to speak.

  ‘Now—now do you realize—I am a Punjabi?’ gasped the stranger. ‘Do you know I am a Rajput?’ said Ranji with difficulty. They gave a moment’s consideration to each other’s answers, and in that moment of silence there was only their heavy breathing and the rapid beating of their hearts.

  ‘Then you will not leave the pool?’ said the Punjabi boy.

  ‘I will not leave it,’ said Ranji.

  ‘Then we shall have to continue the fight,’ said the other.

  ‘All right,’ said Ranji.

  But neither boy moved, neither took the initiative.

  The Punjabi boy had an inspiration.

  ‘We will continue the fight tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you dare to come here again tomorrow, we will continue this fight, and I will not show you mercy as I have done today.’

  ‘I will come tomorrow,’ said Ranji. ‘I will be ready for you.’ They turned from each other then and, going to their respective rocks, put on their clothes, and left the forest by different routes.

  When Ranji got home, he found it difficult to explain the cuts and bruises that showed on his face, legs and arms. It was difficult to conceal the fact that he had been in an unusually violent fight, and his mother insisted on his staying at home for the rest of the day. That evening, though, he slipped out of the house and went to the bazaar, where he found comfort and solace in a bottle of vividly coloured lemonade and a banana leaf full of hot, sweet jalebis. He had just finished the lemonade when he saw his adversary coming down the road. His first impulse was to turn away and look elsewhere, his second to throw the lemonade bottle at his enemy. But he did neither of these things. Instead, he stood his ground and scowled at his passing adversary. And the Punjabi boy said nothing either, but scowled back with equal ferocity.

  The next day was as hot as the previous one. Ranji felt weak and lazy and not at all eager for a fight. His body was stiff and sore after the previous day’s encounter. But he could not refuse the challenge. Not to turn up at the pool would be an acknowledgement of defeat. From the way he felt just then, he knew he would be beaten in another fight. But he could not acquiesce in his own defeat. He must defy his enemy to the last, or outwit him, for only then could he gain his respect. If he surrendered now, he would be beaten for all time; but to fight and be beaten today left him free to fight and be beaten again. As long as he fought, he had a right to the pool in the forest.

  He was half hoping that the Punjabi boy would have forgotten the challenge, but these hopes were dashed when he saw his opponent sitting, stripped to the waist, on a rock on the other side of the pool. The Punjabi boy was rubbing oil on his body, massaging it into his broad thighs. He saw Ranji beneath the sal trees, and called a challenge across the waters of the pool.

  ‘Come over on this side and fight!’ he shouted.

  But Ranji was not going to submit to any conditions laid down by his opponent.

  ‘Come this side and fight!’ he shouted back with equal vigour. ‘Swim across and fight me here!’ called the other. ‘Or perhaps you cannot swim the length of this pool?’

  But Ranji could have swum the length of the pool a dozen times without tiring, and here he would show the Punjabi boy his superiority. So, slipping out of his vest and shorts, he dived straight into the water, cutting through it like a knife, and surfaced with hardly a splash. The Punjabi boy’s mouth hung open in amazement.

  ‘You can dive!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘It is easy,’ said Ranji, treading water, waiting for a further challenge. ‘Can’t you dive?’

  ‘No,’ said the other. ‘I jump straight in. But if you will tell me how, I will make a dive.’

  ‘It is easy,’ said Ranji. ‘Stand on the rock, stretch your arms out and allow your head to displace your feet.’

  The Punjabi boy stood up, stiff and straight, stretched out his arms, and threw himself into the water. He landed flat on his belly, with a crash that sent the birds screaming out of the trees.

  Ranji dissolved into laughter.

  ‘Are you trying to empty the pool?’ he asked, as the Punjabi boy came to the surface, spouting water like a small whale.

  ‘Wasn’t it good?’ asked the boy, evidently proud of his feat. ‘Not very good,’ said Ranji. ‘You should have more practice. See, I will do it again.’

  And pulling himself up on a rock, he executed another perfect dive. The other boy waited for him to come up, but, swimming under water, Ranji circled him and came upon him from behind.

  ‘How did you do that?’ asked the astonished youth.

  ‘Can’t you swim under water?’ asked Ranji.

  ‘No, but I will try it.’

 
; The Punjabi boy made a tremendous effort to plunge to the bottom of the pool and indeed he thought he had gone right down, though his bottom, like a duck’s, remained above the surface.

  Ranji, however, did not discourage him.

  ‘It was not bad,’ he said. ‘But you need a lot of practice.’

  ‘Will you teach me?’ asked his enemy.

  ‘If you like, I will teach you.’

  ‘You must teach me. If you do not teach me, I will beat you. Will you come here every day and teach me?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Ranji. They had pulled themselves out of the water, and were sitting side by side on a smooth grey rock.

  ‘My name is Suraj,’ said the Punjabi boy. ‘What is yours?’

  ‘It is Ranji.’

  ‘I am strong, am I not?’ asked Suraj, bending his arm so that a ball of muscle stood up stretching the white of his flesh.

  ‘You are strong,’ said Ranji. ‘You are a real pahelwan.’

  ‘One day I will be the world’s champion wrestler,’ said Suraj, slapping his thighs, which shook with the impact of his hand. He looked critically at Ranji’s hard thin body. ‘You are quite strong yourself,’ he conceded. ‘But you are too bony. I know, you people do not eat enough. You must come and have your food with me.

  I drink one seer of milk every day. We have got our own cow! Be my friend, and I will make you a pahelwan like me! I know—if you teach me to dive and swim underwater, I will make you a pahelwan! That is fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘That is fair!’ said Ranji, though he doubted if he was getting the better of the exchange.

  Suraj put his arm around the younger boy and said, ‘We are friends now, yes?’

  They looked at each other with honest, unflinching eyes, and in that moment love and understanding were born.

  ‘We are friends,’ said Ranji.

  The birds had settled again in their branches, and the pool was quiet and limpid in the shade of the sal trees.

  ‘It is our pool,’ said Suraj. ‘Nobody else can come here without our permission. Who would dare?’

  ‘Who would dare?’ said Ranji, smiling with the knowledge that he had won the day.

  A Rupee Goes a Long Way

  Ranji had a one-rupee coin. He’d had it since morning, and now it was afternoon—and that was far too long to keep a rupee. It was time he spent the money, or some of it, or most of it.

  Ranji had made a list in his head of all the things he wanted to buy and all the things he wanted to eat. But he knew that with only one rupee in his pocket the list wouldn’t get much shorter. His tummy, he decided, should be given first choice. So he made his way to the Jumna Sweet Shop, tossed the coin on the counter, and asked for a rupee’s worth of jalebis—those spangled, golden sweets made of flour and sugar that are so popular in India.

  The shopkeeper picked up the coin, looked at it carefully, and set it back on the counter. ‘That coin’s no good,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ranji asked.

  ‘Look,’ said the shopkeeper, holding up the coin. ‘It’s got England’s King George on one side. These coins went out of use long ago. If it was one of the older ones—like Queen Victoria’s, made of silver—it would be worth something for the silver, much more than a rupee. But this isn’t a silver rupee. So, you see, it isn’t old enough to be valuable, and it isn’t new enough to buy anything.’

  Ranji looked from the coin to the shopkeeper to the chains of hot jalebis sizzling in a pan. He shrugged, took the coin back and turned on to the road. There was no one to blame for the coin.

  Ranji wandered through the bazaar. He gazed after the passing balloon man, whose long pole was hung with balloons of many colours. They were only twenty paise each—he could have had five for a rupee—but he didn’t have any more change.

  He was watching some boys playing marbles and wondering whether he should join them, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. ‘Where are you going, Ranji?’

  It was Mohinder Singh, Ranji’s friend. Mohinder’s turban was too big for him and was almost falling over his eyes. In one hand he held a home-made fishing rod, complete with hook and line.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Ranji. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m not going, I’ve been,’ Mohinder said. ‘I was fishing in the canal all morning.’

  Ranji stared at the fishing rod. ‘Will you lend it to me?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll only lose it or break it,’ Mohinder said. ‘But I don’t mind selling it to you. Two rupees. Is that too much?’

  ‘I’ve got one rupee,’ said Ranji, showing his coin. ‘But it’s an old one. The sweet-seller would not take it.’

  ‘Please let me see it,’ said Mohinder.

  He took the coin and looked it over as though he knew all about coins. ‘Hmmm . . . I don’t suppose it’s worth much, but my uncle collects old coins. Give it to me and I’ll give you the rod.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ranji, only too happy to make the exchange. He took the fishing rod, waved goodbye to Mohinder and set off. Soon he was on the main road leading out of town.

  After some time a truck came along. It was on its way to the quarries near the riverbed, where it would be loaded with limestone. Ranji knew the driver and waved and shouted to him until he stopped.

  ‘Will you take me to the river?’ Ranji asked. ‘I’m going fishing.’ There was already someone sitting up in the front with the driver. ‘Climb up in the back,’ he said. ‘And don’t lean over the side.’

  Ranji climbed into the back of the open truck. Soon he was watching the road slide away from him. They quickly passed bullock carts, cyclists and a long line of camels. Motorists honked their horns as dust from the truck whirled up in front of them.

  Soon the truck stopped near the riverbed. Ranji got down, thanked the driver, and began walking along the bank. It was the dry season and the river was just a shallow, muddy stream. Ranji walked up and down without finding water deep enough for the smallest of fish.

  ‘No wonder Mohinder let me have his rod,’ he muttered. And with a shrug he turned back towards the town.

  It was a long, hot walk back to the bazaar. Ranji walked slowly along the dusty road, swiping at bushes with his fishing rod. There were ripe mangoes on the trees, and Ranji tried to get at a few of them with the tip of the rod, but they were well out of reach. The sight of all those mangoes made his mouth water, and he thought again of the jalebis that he hadn’t been able to buy.

  He had reached a few scattered houses when he saw a barefoot boy playing a flute. In the stillness of the hot afternoon the cheap flute made a cheerful sound.

  Ranji stopped walking. The boy stopped playing. They stood there, sizing each other up. The boy had his eye on Ranji’s fishing rod; Ranji had his eye on the flute.

  ‘Been fishing?’ asked the flute player.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ranji.

  ‘Did you catch anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Ranji. ‘I didn’t stay very long.’

  ‘Did you see any fish?’

  ‘The water was very muddy.’

  There was a long silence. Then Ranji said, ‘It’s a good rod.’

  ‘This is a good flute,’ said the boy.

  Ranji took the flute and examined it. He put it to his lips and blew hard. There was a shrill, squeaky noise, and a startled magpie flew out of a mango tree.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Ranji.

  The boy had taken the rod from Ranji and was looking it over. ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  Ranji hesitated no longer. ‘Let’s exchange.’

  A trade was made, and the barefoot boy rested the fishing rod on his shoulder and went on his way, leaving Ranji with the flute.

  Ranji began playing the flute, running up and down the scale. The notes sounded lovely to him, but they startled people who were passing on the road.

  After a while Ranji felt thirsty and drank water from a roadside tap. When he came to the clock tower, where the bazaar began, he sat on the low wall
and blew vigorously on the flute. Several children gathered around, thinking he might be a snake charmer. When no snake appeared, they went away.

  ‘I can play better than that,’ said a boy who was carrying several empty milk cans.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Ranji said.

  The boy took the flute and put it to his lips and played a lovely little tune.

  ‘You can have it for a rupee,’ said Ranji.

  ‘I don’t have any money to spare,’ said the boy. ‘What I get for my milk, I have to take home. But you can have this necklace.’

  He showed Ranji a pretty necklace of brightly coloured stones. ‘I’m not a girl,’ said Ranji.

  ‘I didn’t say you have to wear it. You can give it to your sister.’

  ‘I don’t have a sister.’

  ‘Then you can give it to your mother,’ said the boy. ‘Or your grandmother. The stones are very precious. They were found in the mountains near Tibet.’

  Ranji was tempted. He knew the stones had little value, but they were pretty. And he was tired of the flute.

  They made the exchange, and the boy went off playing the flute. Ranji was about to thrust the necklace into his pocket when he noticed a girl staring at him. Her name was Koki and she lived close to his house.

  ‘Hello, Koki,’ he said, feeling rather silly with the necklace still in his hands.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got, Ranji?’

  ‘A necklace. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Would you like to have it?’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Koki, clapping her hands with pleasure. ‘One rupee,’ said Ranji.

  ‘Oh,’ said Koki.

  She made a face, but Ranji was looking the other way and humming. Koki kept staring at the necklace. Slowly she opened a little purse, took out a shining new rupee, and held it out to Ranji.

  Ranji handed her the necklace. The coin felt hot in his hand. It wasn’t going to stay there for long. Ranji’s stomach was rumbling. He ran across the street to the Jumna Sweet Shop and tossed the coin on the counter.