Time Stops At Shamli & Other Stories Page 9

  ‘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 heads and throats. 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.

  Then 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 his 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 surfacing 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?’ said 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 d
ay 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 under water, 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.

  The Tunnel

  It was almost noon, and the jungle was very still, very silent. Heat waves shimmered along the railway embankment where it cut a path through the tall evergreen trees. The railway lines were two straight black serpents disappearing into the tunnel in the hillside.

  Ranji stood near the cutting, waiting for the mid-day train. It wasn’t a station and he wasn’t catching a train. He was waiting so he could watch the steam-engine come roaring out of the tunnel.

  He had cycled out of town and taken the jungle path until he had come to a small village. He had left the cycle there, and walked over a low, scrub covered hill and down to the tunnel exit.

  Now he looked up. He had heard, in the distance, the shrill whistle of the engine. He couldn’t see anything, because the train was approaching from the other side of the hill; but presently a sound like distant thunder came from the tunnel, and he knew the train was coming through.

  A second or two later the steam-engine shot out of the tunnel, snorting and puffing like some green, black and gold dragon, some beautiful monster out of Ranji’s dreams. Showering sparks right and left, it roared a challenge to the jungle.

  Instinctively Ranji stepped back a few paces. Waves of hot steam struck him in the face. Even the trees seemed to flinch from the noise and heat. And then the train had gone, leaving only a plume of smoke to drift lazily over the tall shisham trees.

  The jungle was still again. No one moved.

  Ranji turned from watching the drifting smoke and began walking along the embankment towards the tunnel. It grew darker the further he walked, and when he had gone about twenty yards it became pitch black. He had to turn and look back at the opening to make sure that there was a speck of daylight in the distance.

  Ahead of him, the tunnel’s other opening was also a small round circle of light.

  The walls of the tunnel were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scuttled between the lines. Coming straight from the darkness into the light, Ranji was dazzled by the sudden glare. He put a hand up to shade his eyes and looked up at the scrub- covered hillside, and he thought he saw something moving between the trees.

  It was just a flash of gold and black, and a long swishing tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.

  *

  About fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel stood the watchman’s hut. Marigolds grew in front of the hut, and at the back there was a small vegetable patch. It was the watchman’s duty to inspect the tunnel and keep it clear of obstacles.

  Every day, before the train came through, he would walk the length of the tunnel. If all was well,’ he would return to his hut and take a nap. If something was wrong, he would walk back up the line and wave a red flag and the engine-driver would slow down.

  At night, the watchman lit an oil-lamp and made a similar inspection. If there was any danger to the train, he’d go back up the line and wave his lamp to the approaching engine. If all was well, he’d hang his lamp at the door of his hut and go to sleep.

  He was just settling down on his cot for an afternoon nap when he saw the boy come out of the tunnel. He waited until the boy was only a few feet away and then said, ‘Welcome, welcome. I don’t often get visitors. Sit down for a while, and tell me why you were inspecting my tunnel,

  ‘Is it your tunnel?’ asked Ranji.

  ‘It is,’ said the watchman. ‘It is truly my tunnel, since no one else will have anything to do with it. I have only lent it to the Government.’

  Ranji sat down on the edge of the cot.

  ‘I wanted to see the train come through,’ he said. ‘And then, when it had gone, I decided to walk through the tunnel.’

  ‘And what did you find in it?’

  ‘Nothing. It was very dark. But when I came out, I thought I saw an animal—up on the hill—but I’m not sure, it moved off very quickly.’

  ‘It was a leopard you saw,’ said the watchman. ‘My leopard.’ ‘Do you own a leopard too?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And do you lend it to the Government?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Not if you leave it alone. It comes this way for a few days every month, because there are still deer in this jungle, and the deer is its natural prey. It keeps away from people.’

  ‘Have you been here a long time?’ asked Ranji.

  ‘Many years. My name is Kishan Singh.’

  ‘Mine is Ranji.’

  ‘There is one train during the day. And there is one train during the night. Have you seen the Night Mail come through the tunnel?’

  ‘No. At what time does it come?’

  ‘About nine o’clock, if it isn’t late. You could come and sit here with me, if you like. And after it has gone, I will take you home.’

  ‘I’ll ask my parents.’ said Ranji. ‘Will it be safe?’

  ‘It is safer in the jungle than in the town. No rascals out here. Only last week, when I went into the town, I had my pocket picked! Leopards don’t pick pockets.’

  Kishan Singh stretched himself out on his cot. ‘And now I am going to take a nap, my friend. It is too hot to be up and about in the afternoon.’

  ‘Everyone goes to sleep in the afternoon,’ complained Ranji. ‘My father lies down as soon as he’s had his lunch.’

  ‘Well, the animals also rest in the heat of the day. It is only the tribe of boys who cannot, or will not, rest.’

  Kishan Singh placed a large banana-leaf over his face to keep away the flies, and was soon snoring gently. Ranji stood up, looking up and down the railway tracks. Then he began walking back to the village.

  *

  The following evening, towards dusk, as the flying-foxes swooped silently out of the trees, Ranji made his way to the watchman’s hut.

  It had been a long hot day, but now the earth was cooling and a light breeze was moving through the trees. It carried with it the scent of mango blossom, the promise of rain.

  Kishan Singh was waiting for Ranji. He had watered his small garden and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on an oil-stove.

  ‘I am making tea,’ he said. ‘There is nothing like a glass of hot sweet tea while waiting for a train.’

  They drank their tea, listening to the sharp notes of the tailor- bird and the noisy chatter of the seven-sisters. As the brief twilight faded, most of the birds fell silent. Kishan lit his oil-lamp and said it was time for him to inspect the tunnel. He moved off towards the dark entrance, while Ranji sat on the cot, sipping tea.

  In the dark, the trees seemed to move closer. And the night life of the forest was conveyed on the breeze—the sharp call of a barking-deer, the cry of a fox, the quaint tonk-tonk of a nightjar.

  There were some sounds that Ranji would not recognize— sounds that came f
rom the trees, creakings, and whisperings, as though the trees were coming alive, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers.

  Kishan Singh stood outside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds were familiar to him and he did not give them much thought; but something else—a padded footfall, a rustle of dry leaves—made him stand still for a few seconds, peering into the darkness. Then, humming softly, he returned to where Ranji was waiting. Then minutes remained for the Night Mail to arrive.

  As the watchman sat down on the cot beside Ranji, a new sound reached both of them quite distinctly—a rhythmic sawing sound, as of someone cutting through the branch of a tree.

  ‘What’s that?’ whispered Ranji.

  ‘It’s the leopard,’ said Kishan Singh. ‘I think it’s in the tunnel.’

  ‘The train will soon be here.’

  ‘Yes, my friend. And if we don’t drive the leopard out of the tunnel, it will be run over by the engine.’

  ‘But won’t it attack us if we try to drive it out?’ asked Ranji, beginning to share the watchman’s concern.

  ‘It knows me well. We have seen each other many times. I don’t think it will attack. Even so, I will take my axe along. You had better stay here, Ranji.’

  ‘No, I’ll come too. It will be better than sitting here alone in the dark.’

  ‘All right, but stay close behind me. And remember, there is nothing to fear.’

  Raising his lamp, Kishan Singh walked into the tunnel, shouting at the top of his voice to try and scare away the animal. Ranji followed close behind. But he found he was unable to do any shouting; his throat had gone quite dry.

  They had gone about twenty paces into the tunnel when the light from the lamp fell upon the leopard. It was crouching between the tracks, only fifteen feet away from them. Baring its teeth and snarling, it went down on its belly, tail twitching. Ranji felt sure it was going to spring at them.

  Kishan Singh and Ranji both shouted together. Their voices rang through the tunnel. And the leopard, uncertain as to how many terrifying humans were there in front of him, turned swiftly and disappeared into the darkness.

  To make sure it had gone, Ranji and the watchman walked the length of the tunnel. When they returned to the entrance, the rails were beginning to hum. They knew the train was coming.