Great Stories for Children Page 8

  ‘He must have got out through the ventilator,’ said Grandfather. ‘By now he’ll be in another compartment!’ Emerging from the washroom, he told the assembled passengers ‘It’s gone! Nothing to worry about. Just a harmless young python.’

  When we got back to our compartment, Grandmother was sitting up on her berth.

  ‘I knew you’d do something foolish behind my back,’ she scolded. ‘You told me you’d left that creature behind, and all the time it was with us on the train.’

  Grandfather tried to explain that we had nothing to do with it, that this python had been smuggled onto the train by Major Malik, but Grandmother was unconvinced.

  ‘Anyway, it’s gone,’ said Grandfather. ‘It must have fallen out of the washroom window. We’re over a hundred miles from Dehra, so you’ll never see it again.’

  Even as he spoke, the train slowed down and lurched to a grinding halt.

  ‘No station here,’ said Grandfather, putting his head out of the window.

  Someone came rushing along the embankment, waving his arms and shouting.

  ‘I do believe it’s the stoker,’ said Grandfather. ‘I’d better go and see what’s wrong.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ I said, and together we hurried along the length of the stationary train until we reached the engine.

  ‘What’s up?’ called Grandfather. ‘Anything I can do to help? I know all about engines.’

  But the engine-driver was speechless. And who could blame him? The python had curled itself about his legs, and the driver was too petrified to move.

  ‘Just leave it to us,’ said Grandfather, and, dragging the python off the driver, he dumped the snake in my arms. The engine-driver sank down on the floor, pale and trembling.

  ‘I think I’d better driver the engine,’ said Grandfather. ‘We don’t want to be late getting into Lucknow. Your aunt will be expecting us!’ And before the astonished driver could protest, Grandfather had released the brakes and set the engine in motion.

  ‘We’ve left the stoker behind,’ I said.

  ‘Never mind. You can shovel the coal.’

  Only too glad to help Grandfather drive an engine, I dropped the python in the driver’s lap and started shovelling coal. The engine picked up speed and we were soon rushing through the darkness, sparks flying skywards and the steam-whistle shrieking almost with pause.

  ‘You’re going too fast!’ cried the driver.

  ‘Making up for lost time,’ said Grandfather. ‘Why did the stoker run away?’

  ‘He went for the guard. You’ve left them both behind!’

  5

  Early next morning the train steamed safely into Lucknow. Explanations were in order, but as the Lucknow station-master was an old friend of Grandfather, all was well. We had arrived twenty minutes early, and while Grandfather went off to have a cup of tea with the engine-driver and the station-master, I returned the python to the hamper and helped Grandmother with the luggage. Popeye stayed perched on Grandmother’s shoulder, eyeing the busy platform with deep distrust. He was the first to see Aunt Ruby striding down the platform, and let out a warning whistle.

  Aunt Ruby, a lover of good food, immediately spotted the picnic hamper, picked it up and said, ‘It’s quite heavy. You must have kept something for me! I’ll carry it out to the taxi.’

  ‘We hardly ate anything,’ I said.

  ‘It seems ages since I tasted something cooked by your granny.’ And after that there was no getting the hamper away from Aunt Ruby.

  Glancing at it, I thought I saw the lid bulging, but I had tied it down quite firmly this time and there was little likelihood of its suddenly bursting open.

  Grandfather joined us outside the station and we were soon settled inside the taxi. Aunt Ruby gave instructions to the driver and we shot off in a cloud of dust.

  ‘I’m dying to see what’s in the hamper,’ said Aunt Ruby. ‘Can’t I take just a little peek?’

  ‘Not now,’ said Grandfather. ‘First let’s enjoy the breakfast you’ve got waiting for us.’

  Popeye, perched proudly on Grandmother’s shoulder, kept one suspicious eye on the quivering hamper.

  When we got to Aunt Ruby’s house, we found breakfast laid out on the dining-table.

  ‘It isn’t much,’ said Aunt Ruby. ‘But we’ll supplement it with what you’ve brought in the hamper.’

  Placing the hamper on the table, she lifted the lid and peered inside. And promptly fainted.

  Grandfather picked up the python, took it into the garden, and draped it over a branch of a pomegranate tree.

  When Aunt Ruby recovered, she insisted that she had seen a huge snake in the picnic hamper. We showed her the empty basket.

  ‘You’re seeing things,’ said Grandfather. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’

  ‘Teaching is a very tiring job,’ I said solemnly.

  Grandmother said nothing. But Popeye broke into loud squawks and whistles, and soon everyone, including a slightly hysterical Aunt Ruby, was doubled up with laughter.

  But the snake must have tired of the joke because we never saw it again!

  Those Three Bears

  ost Himalayan villages lie in the valleys, where there are small streams, some farmland, and protection from the biting winds that come through the mountain passes in winter. The houses are usually made of large stones and have sloping slate roofs so the heavy monsoon rain can run off easily. During the sunny autumn months, the roofs are often covered with pumpkins, left there to ripen in the sun.

  One October night, when I was sleeping at a friend’s house in a village in these hills, I was awakened by a rumbling and thumping on the roof. I woke my friend and asked him what was happening.

  ‘It’s only a bear,’ he said.

  ‘Is it trying to get in?’

  ‘No. It’s after the pumpkins.’

  A little later, when we looked out of a window, we saw a black bear making off through a field, leaving a trail of half-eaten pumpkins.

  In winter, when snow covers the higher ranges, the Himalayan bears come to lower altitudes in search of food. Sometimes they forage in fields and because they are shortsighted and suspicious of anything that moves, they can be dangerous. But, like most wild animals, they avoid humans as much as possible.

  Village folk always advice me to run downhill if chased by a bear. They say bears find it easier to run uphill than down. I am yet to be chased by a bear, and will happily skip the experience. But I have seen a few of these mountain bears in India, and they are always fascinating to watch.

  Himalayan bears enjoy pumpkins, corn, plums, and apricots. Once, while I was sitting in an oak tree hoping to see a pair of pine martens that lived nearby, I heard the whining grumble of a bear, and presently a small bear ambled into the clearing beneath the tree.

  He was little more than a cub, and I was not alarmed. I sat very still, waiting to see what he would do.

  He put his nose to the ground and sniffed his way along until he came to a large anthill. Here he began huffing and puffing, blowing rapidly in and out of his nostrils, so that the dust from the anthill flew in all directions. But the anthill had been deserted, and so, grumbling, the bear made his way up a nearby plum tree. Soon he was perched high in the branches. It was then that he saw me.

  The bear at once scrambled several feet higher up the tree and lay flat on a branch. Since it wasn’t a very big branch, there was a lot of bear showing on either side. He tucked his head behind another branch. He could no longer see me, so he apparently was satisfied that he was hidden, although he couldn’t help grumbling.

  Like all bears, this one was full of curiosity. So, slowly, inch by inch, his black snout appeared over the edge of the branch. As soon as he saw me, he drew his head back and hid his face.

  He did this several times. I waited until he wasn’t looking, then moved some way down my tree. When the bear looked over and saw that I was missing, he was so pleased that he stretched right across to another branch and helped himsel
f to a plum. I couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

  The startled young bear tumbled out of the tree, dropped through the branches some fifteen feet, and landed with a thump in a pile of dried leaves. He was unhurt, but fled from the clearing, grunting and squealing all the way.

  Another time, my friend Prem told me, a bear had been active in his cornfield. We took up a post at night in an old cattle shed, which gave a clear view of the moonlit field.

  A little after midnight, a female bear came down to the edge of the field. She seemed to sense that we had been about. She was hungry, however. So, after standing on her hind legs and peering around to make sure the field was empty, she came cautiously out of the forest.

  Her attention was soon distracted by some Tibetan prayer flags, which had been strung between two trees. She gave a grunt of disapproval and began to back away, but the fluttering of the flags was a puzzle that she wanted to solve. So she stopped and watched them.

  Soon the bear advanced to within a few feet of the flags, examining them from various angles. Then, seeing that they posed no danger, she went right up to the flags and pulled them down. Grunting with apparent satisfaction, she moved into the field of corn.

  Prem had decided that he didn’t want to lose any more of his crop, so he started shouting. His children woke up and soon came running from the house, banging on empty kerosene tins.

  Deprived of her dinner, the bear made off in a bad temper. She ran downhill at a good speed, and I was glad that I was not in her way.

  Uphill or downhill, an angry bear is best given a very wide path.

  The Coral Tree

  he night had been hot, the rain frequent, and I had been sleeping on the verandah instead of in the house. I was in my twenties, had begun to earn a living and felt I had certain responsibilities.

  In a short time, a tonga would take me to the railway station, and from there a train would take me to Bombay, and then a ship would take me to England. There would be work, interviews, a job, a different kind of life, so many things that this small bungalow of my grandfather would be remembered fitfully, in rare moments of reflection.

  When I awoke on the veranda, I saw a grey morning, smelt the rain on the red earth and remembered that I had to go away. A girl was standing on the veranda porch, looking at me very seriously. When I saw her, I sat up in bed with a start.

  She was a small dark girl, her eyes big and black, her pigtails tied up in a bright red ribbon, and she was fresh and clean like the rain and the red earth.

  She stood looking at me and was very serious.

  ‘Hullo,’ I said, smiling and trying to put her at ease. But the girl was business-like and acknowledged my greeting with a brief nod.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’ I asked, stretching my limbs. ‘Do you stay nearby?’

  With great assurance she said, ‘Yes, but I can stay on my own.’

  ‘You’re like me,’ I said, and for a while, forgot about being an old man of twenty. ‘I like to be on my own but I’m going away today.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, a little breathlessly.

  ‘Would you care to go to England?’

  ‘I want to go everywhere,’ she said. ‘To America and Africa and Japan and Honolulu.’

  ‘Maybe you will,’ I said. ‘I’m going everywhere, and no one can stop me… But what is it you want, what did you come for?’

  ‘I want some flowers but I can’t reach them.’ She waved her hand towards the garden, ‘That tree, see?’

  The coral tree stood in front of the house surrounded by pools of water and broken, fallen blossoms. The branches of the tree were thick with scarlet, pea-shaped flowers.

  ‘All right, just let me get ready.’

  The tree was easy to climb and I made myself comfortable on one of the lower branches, smiling down at the serious upturned face of the girl.

  ‘I’ll throw them down to you,’ I said.

  I bent a branch but the wood was young and green and I had to twist it several times before it snapped.

  ‘I’m not sure I ought to do this,’ I said as I dropped the flowering branch to the girl.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

  I felt a sudden nostalgic longing for childhood and an urge to remain behind in my grandfather’s house with its tangled memories and ghosts of yesteryear. But I was the only one left and what could I do except climb tamarind and jackfruit trees?

  ‘Have you many friends?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And who is the best?’

  ‘The cook. He lets me stay in the kitchen which is more interesting than the house. And I like to watch him cooking. And he gives me things to eat and tells me stories…’

  ‘And who is your second best friend?’

  She inclined her head to one side and thought very hard.

  ‘I’ll make you second best,’ she said.

  I sprinkled coral blossoms on her head. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m happy to be second best.’

  A tonga bell sounded at the gate and I looked out from the tree and said, ‘It’s come for me. I have to go now.’

  I climbed down.

  ‘Will you help me with my suitcases?’ I asked, as we walked together towards the veranda. ‘There’s no one here to help me. I am the last to go. Not because I want to go but because I have to.’

  I sat down on the cot and packed a few last things in my suitcase. All the doors of the house were locked. On my way to the station, I would leave the keys with the caretaker. I had already given instructions to the agent to try and sell the house. There was nothing more to be done. We walked in silence to the waiting tonga, thinking and wondering about each other. The girl stood at the side of the path, on the damp earth, looking at me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I hope I shall see you again.’

  ‘I’ll see you in London,’ she said. ‘Or America or Japan, I want to go everywhere.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ I said. ‘And perhaps, I’ll come back and we’ll meet again in this garden. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

  She nodded and smiled. We knew it was an important moment. The tonga driver spoke to his pony and the carriage set off down the gravel path, rattling a little. The girl and I waved to each other. In the girl’s hand was a spring of coral blossom. As she waved, the blossoms fell apart and danced lightly in the breeze.

  ‘Goodbye!’ I called.

  ‘Goodbye!’ called the girl.

  The ribbon had come loose from her pigtail and lay on the ground with the coral blossoms.

  And she was fresh and clean like the rain and the red earth.

  The Thief’s Story

  was still a thief when I met Romi. And though I was only fifteen years old, I was an experienced and fairly successful hand. Romi was watching a wrestling match when I approached him. He was about twenty-five and he looked easygoing, kind, and simple enough for my purpose. I was sure I would be able to win the young man’s confidence.

  ‘You look a bit of a wrestler yourself,’ I said. There’s nothing like flattery to break the ice!

  ‘So do you,’ he replied, which put me off for a moment because at that time I was rather thin and bony.

  ‘Well,’ I said modestly, ‘I do wrestle a bit.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Hari Singh,’ I lied. I took a new name every month, which kept me ahead of the police and former employers.

  After these formalities Romi confined himself to commenting on the wrestlers, who were grunting, gasping, and heaving each other about. When he walked away, I followed him casually.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said.

  I gave him my most appealing smile. ‘I want to work for you,’ I said.

  ‘But I can’t pay you anything – not for some time, anyway.’

  I thought that over for a minute. Perhaps I had misjudged my man. ‘Can you feed me?’ I asked.

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘I can cook,’ I lied again.

  �
�If you can cook, then maybe I can feed you.’

  He took me to his room over the Delhi Sweet Shop and told me I could sleep on the balcony. But the meal I cooked that night must have been terrible because Romi gave it to a stray dog and told me to be off.

  But I just hung around, smiling in my most appealing way, and he couldn’t help laughing.

  Later, he said never mind, he’d teach me to cook. He also taught me to write my name and said he would soon teach me to write whole sentences and to add figures. I was grateful. I knew that once I could write like an educated person, there would be no limit to what I could achieve.

  It was quite pleasant working for Romi. I made tea in the morning and then took my time buying the day’s supplies, usually making a profit of two or three rupees. I think he knew I made a little money this way, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Romi made money by fits and starts. He would borrow one week, lend the next. He kept worrying about his next cheque, but as soon as it arrived he would go out and celebrate. He wrote for the Delhi and Bombay magazines: a strange way to make a living.

  One evening he came home with a small bundle of notes, saying he had just sold a book to a publisher. That night I saw him put the money in an envelope and tuck it under the mattress.

  I had been working for Romi for almost a month and, apart from cheating on the shopping, had not done anything big in my real line of work. I had every opportunity for doing so. I could come and go as I pleased, and Romi was the most trusting person I had ever met.

  That was why it was so difficult to rob him. It was easy for me to rob a greedy man. But robbing a nice man could be a problem. And if he doesn’t notice he’s being robbed, then all the spice goes out of the undertaking!

  Well, it’s time I got down to some real work, I told myself. If I don’t take the money, he’ll only waste it on his so-called friends. After all, he doesn’t even give me a salary.

  Romi was sleeping peacefully. A beam of moonlight reached over the balcony and fell on his bed. I sat on the floor, considering the situation. If I took the money, I could catch the 10:30 express to Lucknow. Slipping out of my blanket, I crept over to the bed.