RuskinBond

THEROOMONTHEROOF

IllustrationsbyArchanaSreenivasan

PUFFINBOOKS

PUFFINBOOKS

THEROOMONTHEROOF

RuskinBond’s firstnovel,TheRoomon theRoof,writtenwhenhewas seventeen,receivedtheJohnLlewellynRhysMemorialPrizein1957.Sincethenhehaswrittenanumberofnovellas(includingVagrantsintheValley,AFlightofPigeonsandMrOliver’s Diary) essays, poems and children’s books, many of which have beenpublished inPuffinBooks.Hehasalsowrittenover500short storiesandarticlesthathaveappearedinmagazinesandanthologies.HereceivedtheSahityaAkademiAwardin1993,thePadmaShriin1999andthePadmaBhushanin2014.

Ruskin Bondwas born in Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh, and grew up in Jamnagar,Dehradun, New Delhi and Simla. As a young man, he spent four years in theChannelIslandsandLondon.HereturnedtoIndiain1955.HenowlivesinLandour,Mussoorie,withhisadoptedfamily.

AlsoinPuffinbyRuskinBond

PuffinClassics:TheRoomontheRoof

TheRoomofManyColours:RuskinBond’sTreasuryofStoriesforChildren

Panther’sMoonandOtherStories

TheHiddenPool

TheParrotWhoWouldn’tTalkandOtherStories

MrOliver’sDiary

EscapefromJavaandOtherTalesofDanger

CrazyTimeswithUncleKen

RustytheBoyfromtheHills

RustyRunsAway

RustyandtheLeopard

RustyGoestoLondon

RustyComesHome

ThePuffinBookofClassicSchoolStories

ThePuffinGoodReadingGuideforChildren

TheKashmiriStoryteller

Hip-HopNatureBoyandOtherPoems

TheAdventuresofRusty:CollectedStories

TheCherryTree

GettingGranny’sGlasses

TheEyesoftheEagle

ThickasThieves:TalesofFriendship

Uncles,AuntsandElephants:TalesfromYourFavouriteStoryteller

Introduction

Dearoldroomontheroof,Ican’tsayImissit(itwashorriblyhotattimes),butIfeelacertainnostalgiaforthatlittlebarsatiwhereIspentanimportantyearofmylife.Ithaslongsincevanished,thebuildinghavingbeenpulleddowntomakewayforsomethingbiggerandmoreimpressive;butIamhappytoreportthattheroomstillexistsinthis,myfirstnovel,whichhasbeenaroundforfiftyyears,muchtomyownsurpriseanddelight.It had its genesis in 1951, the year after I finished school. I waswaiting for a

passage to England, making a little pocket money by writing stories for Indianmagazines, andkeepinga journal inwhich Iwroteaboutmy friends,neighbours,our littlepicnicsandexpeditions,andmyhopesanddreams for the future. Induecourse this littlebarsati in Dehradun was exchanged for a small attic-room in aLondonlodginghouse,anditwasthere,outofalongingforallthatI’dleftbehindinIndia,thatIturnedmyjournalintoanovelandcalleditTheRoomontheRoof.Itwenttheroundsofseveralpublishersbeforeitfoundasympatheticeditorinthe

personofDianaAthill, thena juniorpartner in the firmofAndreDeutsch.Dianawentontobecomeasuccessfulwriterandacelebrityinherownright,butwhenhemet her she was an editor, just a few years older than me. She showed mymanuscript toWalter Allen, thewell-known critic, and to Laurie Lee, the author,bothofwhommadeencouragingsoundsbutadvisedagainstpublishing thebook,sayingitwouldbeagamble.Butinthosedayspublishersoccasionallytookgambles,andAndreDeutschgave

meacontractandanadvanceof£50.Thiswasthestandardadvancein1953.However,itwastwoyearsbeforethebookcameout,andbythattimeIwasback

inIndia!TheRoomontheRoofreceivedfavourablereviews;wentintoaGermanedition;

receivedtheJohnLlewellynRhysPrize(another£50)whichwaswonbyV.S.Naipulayearlater.Butsaleswerepoor,andthepublishersshiedawayfromdoinganother

book of mine. Many years were to pass before another would be published inEngland,andthenitwouldbenotonebutseveralbooksforchildren.TheRoomontheRoofhadn’tdisappearedcompletely,andwhenin1987,Penguin

Indiabroughtoutanewedition, it tookoff almost immediately, andover the lasttwentyyearsitsreadershiphasincreasedtremendously.Itisneveroutofprint,andithasfarmorereaderstodaythanwhenitwasfirstpublished.Whatmakes it ‘different’, I think, is that it is a novel about adolescence by an

adolescent;andforthisreasonIhaveneverchangedawordormadeanyrevisions.Itreflectsthewriterashewaswhenhewroteit—naive,trustful,eagerforloveandfriendship.ItwasbornoutoflonelinessIfeltasayoungmanonhisowninabigcity.Iwouldworkinanofficeallday,thenreturntomylittlebed-sittingroom,slipasheetofpaperintomytypewriter,andtrytorecapturethesightsandsounds,thefaces,thegestures,thespokenwords,theimportantmoments,theatmosphere,ofallthatI’dleftbehind.Yes,itwaswrittenoutofthelonelinessofayoungpersonlongingforloveand

family. Ithas thepassionand intensitywepossessonlywhenweare inour teens,andthat,Ithink,iswhathaskeptitaliveallthisyears.

Landour,MussoorieAugust2014

RuskinBond

ChapterI

Thelightspringrainrodeonthewind,intothetrees,downtheroad;itbroughtanexhilarating freshness to theair, a smellof earth, a scentof flowers; itbroughtasmiletotheeyesoftheboyontheroad.Thelongroadwoundroundthehills,roseandfellandtwisteddowntoDehra;the

roadcamefromthemountainsandpassedthroughthejungleandvalleyand,afterpassingthroughDehra,endedsomewhereinthebazaar.Butjustwhereitendednooneknew,forthebazaarwasabafflingplace,whereroadswereeasilylost.TheboywasthreemilesoutofDehra.ThefurtherhecouldgetfromDehra,the

happierhewas likely tobe.Justnowhewasonly threemilesoutofDehra,sohewasnotveryhappy;and,whatwasworse,hewaswalkinghomewards.Hewas a pale boy, with blue-grey eyes and fair hair; his face was rough and

marked,andthelowerliphunglooseandheavy.Hehadhishandsinhispocketsandhis head down which was the way he always walked, and which gave him adeceptivelytiredappearance.Hewasalazybutnotatiredperson.

Helikedtherainasitfleckedhisface,helikedthesmellandthefreshness;hedidnotlookathissurroundingsornoticethem—hismind,asusual,wasveryfaraway—buthefelttheiratmosphere,andhesmiled.Hismindwas sovery far away that itwas a fewminutesbeforehenoticed the

swishofbicyclewheelsbesidehim.Thecyclistdidnotpasstheboy,butrodebesidehim, studying him, taking in every visible detail, the bare head, the open-neckedshirt, the flannel trousers, the sandals, the thick hide belt round his waist. AEuropeanboywasnolongeracommonsightinDehra,andSomi,thecyclist,wasinterested.‘Hullo,’saidSomi,‘wouldyoulikemetorideyouintotown?Ifyouaregoingto

town?’‘No,I’mallright,’saidtheboy,withoutslackeninghispace,‘Iliketowalk.’‘SodoI,butit’sraining.’

AndtosupportSomi’sargument,therainfellharder.‘Iliketowalkintherain,’saidtheboy.‘AndIdon’tliveinthetown,Iliveoutside

it.’Nicepeopledidn’tliveinthetown...‘Well,Icanpassyourway,’persistedSomi,determinedtohelpthestranger.TheboylookedagainatSomi,whowasdressedlikehimexceptforshortpants

and turban. Somi’s legswere long and athletic, his colourwas an unusually richgold, his features were fine, his mouth broke easily into friendliness. It wasimpossibletoresistthewarmthofhisnature.Theboypulledhimselfuponthecrossbar,infrontofSomiandtheymovedoff.Theyrodeslowly,glidingroundthelowhills,andsoonthejungleoneitherside

oftheroadbegantogivewaytoopenfieldsandteagardensandthentoorchardsandoneortwohouses.‘Tellmewhenyoureachyourplace,’saidSomi.‘Youstaywithyourparents?’Theboyconsideredthequestiontoofamiliarforastrangertoaskandmadeno

reply.‘DoyoulikeDehra?’askedSomi.‘Notmuch,’saidtheboywithpleasure.‘Well,afterEnglanditmustseemdull...’Therewasapauseandthentheboysaid:‘Ihaven’tbeentoEngland.Iwasborn

here.I’veneverbeenanywhereelseexceptDelhi.’‘DoyoulikeDelhi?’‘Notmuch.’Theyrodeoninsilence.Therainstillfell,butthecyclemovedsmoothlyoverthe

wetroad,makingasoft,swishingsound.Presentlyamancameinsight—no,itwasnotaman,itwasayouth,buthehadthe

appearance,thebuildofaman—walkingtowardstown.‘Hey,Ranbir,’shoutedSomi,astheynearedtheburlyfigure,‘wantalift?’Ranbir ran into the road and slipped on to the carrier, behindSomi.The cycle

wobbledabit,butsooncontrolleditselfandmovedon,alittlefasternow.Somispokeintotheboy’sear:‘MeetmyfriendRanbir.Heisthebestwrestlerin

thebazaar.’‘Hullo,mister,’saidRanbir,beforetheboycouldopenhismouth.‘Hullo,mister,’saidtheboy.ThenRanbir and Somi began a swift conversation in Punjabi, and the boy felt

verylost;even,forsomestrangereason,jealousofthenewcomer.

Nowsomeonewasstandinginthemiddleoftheroad,franticallywavinghisarmsandshoutingincomprehensibly.‘ItisSuri,’saidSomi.ItwasSuri.Bespectacled andowlish tobehold,Suri possessed an almost criminal cunning,

andwasbothrespectedanddespisedbyallwhoknewhim.Itwasstrangetofindhimout of town, for his interestswere confined to people and their privacies; whichprivacies,whenknowntoSuri,weresoonmadepublic.Hewasapale,bony,sicklyboy,buthewouldprobablylivelongerthanRanbir.‘Hey,givemealift!’heshouted.‘Toomanyalready,’saidSomi.‘Oh,comeonSomi,I’mnearlydrowned.’‘It’sstoppedraining.’‘Oh,comeon...’SoSuriclimbedon to thehandlebar,whichratherobscuredSomi’sviewof the

roadandcausedthecycletowobbleallovertheplace.Ranbirkeptslippingonandoff the carrier, and the boy found the crossbar exceedingly uncomfortable. ThecyclehadbarelybeencontrolledwhenSuristartedtocomplain.‘Ithurts,’hewhimpered.‘Ihaven’tgotacushion,’saidSomi.‘It is a cycle,’ saidRanbir bitingly, ‘not aRollsRoyce.’ Suddenly the road fell

steeply,andthecyclegatheredspeed.‘Takeiteasy,now,’saidSuri,‘orI’llflyoff!’‘Holdtight,’warnedSomi.‘It’sdownhillnearlyall theway.Wewillhavetogo

fastbecausethebrakesaren’tverygood.’‘Oh,Mummy!’wailedSuri.‘Shutup!’saidRanbir.Thewindhit themwithasuddenforce,and theirclothesblewup likeballoons,

almost tearing them from themachine. The boy forgot his discomfort and clungdesperatelytothecrossbar,toonervoustosayaword.SurihowledandRanbirkepttellinghimtoshutup,butSomiwasenjoyingtheride.Helaughedmerrily,aclear,ringinglaugh,alaughthatborenomaliceandnoderisionbutonlyenjoyment,fun...‘It’sallrightforyoutolaugh,’saidSuri,‘Ifanythinghappens,I’llgethurt!’‘Ifanythinghappens,’saidSomi,‘weallgethurt!’‘That’sright,’shoutedRanbir

frombehind.TheboyclosedhiseyesandputhistrustinGodandSomi—butmainlySomi...

‘Oh,Mummy!’wailedSuri.‘Shutup!’saidRanbir.Theroadtwistedandturnedasmuch as it could, and rose a little only to fall more steeply the other side. Buteventually it began to evenout, for theywerenearing the townand almost in theresidentialarea.‘Therunisover,’saidSomi,alittleregretfully.‘Oh,Mummy!’‘Shutup.’Theboysaid:‘Imustgetoffnow,Iliveverynear.’Somiskiddedthecycletoa

standstill,andSurishotoff thehandlebar intoamuddysidetrack.Theboyslippedoff,butSomiandRanbir remainedon their seats,Ranbirsteadying thecyclewithhisfeetontheground.‘Well,thankyou,’saidtheboy.Somisaid:‘Whydon’tyoucomeandhaveyourmealwithus,thereisnotmuch

furthertogo.’Theboy’sshynesswouldnotfallaway.‘I’vegottogohome,’hesaid.‘I’mexpected.Thanksverymuch.’‘Well,comeandseeussometime,’saidSomi.‘Ifyoucometothechaatshopin

thebazaar,youaresuretofindoneofus.Youknowthebazaar?’‘Well,Ihavepassedthroughit—inacar.’‘Oh.’Theboybeganwalkingaway,hishandsoncemoreinhispockets.‘Hey!’shoutedSomi.‘Youdidn’ttellusyourname!’Theboyturnedandhesitated

andthensaid,‘Rusty...’‘Seeyousoon,Rusty,’saidSomi,andthecyclepushedoff.Theboywatchedthecyclerecedingdowntheroad,andSuri’sshrillvoicecame

tohimonthewind.Ithadstoppedraining,buttheboywasunawareofthis;hewasalmost home, and that was a miserable thought. To his surprise and disgust, hefoundhimselfwishinghehadgoneintoDehrawithSomi.Hestoodinthesidetrackandstareddowntheemptyroad;and,tohissurpriseand

disgust,hefeltimmeasurablylonely.

ChapterII

Whenalargewhitebutterflysettledonthemissionary’swife’spalatialbosom,shefeltflattered,andallowedittoremainthere.Hergardenwasbeginningtoburstintoflower, givingher great pleasure—herhusbandgaveher none—and such fellow-feelingastomakehertreadgingerlyamongthecaterpillars.Mr John Harrison, the boy’s guardian, felt only contempt for the good lady’s

buoyancyofspirit,butneverthelessgaveheraningratiatingsmile.‘Ihopeyou’llputtheboytoworkwhileI’maway,’hesaid.‘Makesomeuseof

him.Hedreamstoomuch.Mostunfortunate thathe’sfinishedwithschool, Idon’tknowwhattodowithhim.’‘Hedoesn’tknowwhat todowithhimself,’said themissionary’swife. ‘But I’ll

keephimoccupied.Hecando someweeding,or read tome in theafternoon. I’llkeepaneyeonhim.’‘Good,’saidtheguardian.And,havingclearedhisconscience,hemadequickhis

escape.Overlunchhetoldtheboy:‘I’mgoingtoDelhitomorrow.Business.’Itwas the only thing he said during themeal.When he had finished eating, he

lightedacigaretteanderectedacurtainofsmokebetweenhimselfandtheboy.Hewasaheavysmoker,hisfingerswerestainedadeepyellow.‘Howlongwillyoubegone,sir?’askedRusty,tryingtosoundcasual.MrHarrisondidnotreply.Heseldomansweredtheboy’squestions,andhisown

were stated, not asked; he probed and suggested, sharply, quickly, without everencouraginglooseconversation.Henevertalkedabouthimself;heneverargued:hewouldtoleratenoargument.Hewas a tallman,neat in appearance; and, thoughover forty, lookedyounger

because he kept his hair short, shaving above the ears. He had a small gingertoothbrushmoustache.Rustywasafraidofhisguardian.

MrHarrison, who was really a cousin of the boy’s father, had done a lot forRusty,andthatwaswhytheboywasafraidofhim.Sincehisparentshaddied,Rustyhadbeenkept,fedandpaidfor,andsenttoanexpensiveschoolinthehillsthatwasrunon‘exclusivelyEuropeanlines’.Hehad,inaway,beenboughtbyMrHarrison.Andnowhewasownedbyhim.Andhemustdoashisguardianwished.Rustywasreadytodoashisguardianwished:hehadalwaysobeyedhim.Buthewasafraidoftheman,afraidofhissilenceandofthegingermoustacheandofthesupplemalaccacanethatlayintheglasscupboardinthedrawing-room.Lunch over, the boy left his guardian giving the cook orders and went to his

room.Thewindow looked out on the garden path, and a sweeper boymoved up and

downthepath,abucketclangingagainsthisnakedthighs.Heworeonlyaloincloth,hisbodywasbareandburntadeepbrown,andhisheadwasshavedclean.Hewenttoand from thewater tank,andevery timehe returned to ithebathed, so thathisbodycontinuallyglistenedwithmoisture.Apart fromRusty, the only boy in the European community ofDehrawas this

sweeper boy, the low-caste untouchable, the cleaner of pots. But the two seldomspoketoeachother,onewasaservantandtheotherasahibandanyway,mutteredRustytohimself,playingwiththesweeperboywouldbeunhygienic...Themissionary’swifehadsaid:‘EvenifyouwereanIndian,mychild,youwould

not be allowed to playwith the sweeper boy.’So thatRustyoftenwondered:withwhom,then,couldthesweeperboyplay?Theuntouchablepassedbythewindowandsmiled,butRustylookedaway.Over the tops of the cherry treesweremountains.Dehra lay in a valley in the

foothills, and the small, diminishing European community had its abode on theoutskirtsofthetown.MrJohnHarrison’shouse,andtheotherhouses,wereallbuiltinanEnglishstyle,

with neat front gardens and name-plates on the gates. The surroundings on thewholeweresoEnglishthatthepeopleoftenfounditdifficulttobelievethattheydidliveatthefootoftheHimalayas,surroundedbyIndia’sthickestjungles.Indiastartedamileaway,wherethebazaarbegan.ToRusty,thebazaarsoundedafascinatingplace,andwhathehadseenofitfrom

thewindowofhisguardian’scarhadbeenenoughtomakehisheartpoundexcitedlyandhisimaginationsoar;butitwasaforbiddenplace—‘fullofthievesandgerms’saidthemissionary’swife—andtheboyneverenteredit,saveinhisdreams.

ForMrHarrison,themissionaries,andtheirneighbours,thiscountrydistrictofblossomingcherrytreeswasIndia.TheyknewtherewasabazaarandarealIndianot far away, but theydidnot speakof suchplaces, they chosenot to think aboutthem.Thecommunityconsistedmostlyofelderlypeople,theothershadleftsoonafter

independence. These few stayed because they were too old to start life again inanother country, where there would be no servants and very little sunlight; and,thoughtheycomplainedoftheirlotandcriticizedthegovernment,theyknewtheirmoneycouldbuythemtheircomforts:servants,goodfood,whisky,almostanything—exceptthedignitytheycherishedmost...But the boy’s guardian, though he enjoyed the same comforts, remained in the

countryfordifferentreasons.Hedidnotcarewhoweretherulerssolongastheydidn’t take awayhis business; he had shares in a number of small tea estates andownedsomeland—forestedland—where,forinstance,hehunteddeerandwildpig.Rusty, being the only young person in the community, was the centre of

everyone’sattention,particularlytheladies’.Hewasalsoverylonely.Everydayhewalkedaimlesslyalongtheroad,overthehillside;broodingonthe

future, or dreaming of sudden and perfect companionship, romance and heroics;hardly ever conscious of the present. When an opportunity for friendship didpresentitself,asithadthepreviousday,heshiedaway,preferringhisowncompany.Hisidlehourswerecrowdedwithmemories,snatchesofchildhood.Hecouldnot

rememberwhathisparentswerelike,butinhismindtherewerepicturesofsandybeaches covered with seashells of every description. They had lived on the westcoast, in theGulf ofKutch; there had been a gramophone that played records ofGracieFieldsandHarryLauder,andacaptainofacargoshipwhogavethechildbarsofchocolateandpilesofcomics—TheDandy,Beano,TigerTim—andspokeofthe wonderful countries he had visited. But the boy’s guardian seldom spoke ofRusty’s childhood, or his parents, and this secrecy lent mystery to the vague,undefinedmemoriesthathoveredintheboy’smindlikehesitantghosts.Rusty spentmuchof his time studyinghimself in the dressing tablemirror; he

wasabletoignorehispimplesandseeagrownman,worldlyandattractive.Thoughonlysixteen,hefeltmucholder.Hewaswhite.Hisguardianwaspink,andthemissionary’swifeabrightred,but

Rusty was white.With his thick lower lip and prominent cheekbones, he looked

slightlyMongolian,especiallyinahalf-light.Heoftenwonderedwhynooneelseinthecommunityhadthesamefeatures.

*

MrJohnHarrisonwasgoingtoDelhi.Rustyintendedmakingthemostofhisguardian’sabsence:hewouldsqueezeall

thefreedomhecouldoutofthenextfewdays;explore,getlost,wanderafar;evenifitwere only to find newplaces to dream in. So he threw himself on the bed andvisualizedthemorrow...whereshouldhego—intothehillsagain,intotheforest?Orshouldhelistentothedevil inhisheartandgointothebazaar?Tomorrowhewouldknow,tomorrow...

ChapterIII

Itwasacoldmorning,sharpandfresh.Itwasquietuntilthesuncameshootingoverthehills, liftingthemistfromthevalleyandclearingtheblood-shotfromthesky.Thegroundwaswetwithdew.Onthemaidan,abroadstretchofgrassland,Ranbirandanotheryouthwrestled

eachother, theirmuscles rippling, theirwell-oiled limbscatching thefirst raysofthesunasitclimbedthehorizon.Somisatonhisverandasteps;hislonghairloose,restingonhisknees,dryinginthemorningsun.Suriwasstilldeadtotheworld,lostinblanket;hecarednotforthemorningorthesun.Rustystoodatthegateuntilhisguardianwascomfortablyseatedbehindthewheel

ofthecar,anddidnotmoveuntilithaddisappearedroundthebendintheroad.Themissionary’swife, that largecauliflower-like lady, roseunexpectedly from

behind a hedge and called: ‘Good morning, dear! If you aren’t very busy thismorning,wouldyouliketogivemeahandpruningthishedge?’The missionary’s wife was fond of putting Rusty to work in her garden: if it

wasn’tcuttingthehedge,itwasweedingtheflowerbedsandwateringtheplants,orclearing thegardenpathof stones,orhuntingbeetlesand ladybirdsanddroppingthemoverthewall.‘Oh,goodmorning,’stammeredRusty.‘Actually,Iwasgoingforawalk.CanI

helpyouwhenIcomeback,Iwon’tbelong...’The missionary’s wife was rather taken aback, for Rusty seldom said no; and

before she couldmake another sally the boywas on his way. He had a dreadfulfeelingshewouldcallhimback;shewasakindwoman,but talkativeandboring,andRusty knewwhatwould follow the gardenwork:weak tea or lemonade, andthenagameofcards,probablybeggar-my-neighbour.But tohis relief shecalledafterhim: ‘All right,dear, comeback soon.Andbe

good!’Hewavedtoherandwalkedrapidlydowntheroad.Andthedirectionhetookwas

differenttotheoneinwhichheusuallywandered.

Far down this road was the bazaar. First Rusty must pass the rows of neatcottages, arriving at a commercial area—Dehra’s westernized shopping centre—whereEuropeans,richIndians,andAmericantouristsenrouteforMussoorie,couldeat at smart restaurants and drink prohibited alcohol. But the boywas afraid anddistrustful of anything smart and sophisticated, and he hurried past the shoppingcentre.HecametotheClockTower,whichwasatowerwithoutaclock.Ithadbeenbuilt

frompublicsubscriptionsbutnotenoughmoneyhadbeengatheredfortheadditionof a clock. It had been lifeless five years but served as a good landmark.On theother side of theClockTower lay the bazaar, and in the bazaar lay India.On theothersideoftheClockTowerbeganlifeitself.Andallthree—thebazaarandIndiaandlifeitself—wereforbidden.Rusty’s heartwas beating fast as he reached theClockTower.Hewas about to

defy the lawofhisguardianandofhiscommunity.Hestoodat theClockTower,nervous,hesitant,bitinghisnails.Hewasafraidofdiscoveryandpunishment,buthungeringcuriosityimpelledhimforward.ThebazaarandIndiaandlifeitselfallbeganwitharushofnoiseandconfusion.Theboyplungedintothethrongofbustlingpeople;theroadwashotandclose,

alivewiththecriesofvendorsandthesmellofcattleandripeningdung.Childrenplayedhopscotchinalleywaysorgambledwithcoins,scufflinginthegutterforalost anna. And the cows moved leisurely through the crowd, nosing around forpaperandstale,discardedvegetables; themoredaringcowshelpingthemselvesatopen stalls. And above the uneven tempo of the noise came the blare of aloudspeakerplayingapopularpieceofmusic.

Rustymovedalongwith thecrowd, fascinatedby thesightofbeggars lyingontheroadside:nakedandemaciatedhalf-humans,someskeletons,somecoveredwithsores; old men dying, children dying, mothers with sucking babies, living anddying.But,strangelyenough,theboycouldfeelnothingforthesepeople;perhapsitwasbecausetheywerenolongerrecognizableashumansorbecausehecouldnotseehimselfinthesamecircumstances.Andnooneelseinthebazaarseemedtofeelforthem.Likethecowsandtheloudspeaker,thebeggarswereanaturalgrowthinthe bazaar, and only the well-to-do—sacrificing a few annas to placate theirconsciences—wereawareofthebeggars’presence.Everylittleshopwasdifferentfromtheonenexttoit.Afterthevegetablestand,

green andwet, came the fruit stall; and after the fruit stall, the tea and betel leafshop; then the astrologer ’s platform (Manmohan Mukuldev, B. Astr., foreign

degree),andaftertheastrologer ’s,thetoyshop,sellingtrinketsofgaycolours.Andthen,afterthetoyshop,anotherfromwhosedoorspouredcloudsofsmoke.OutofcuriosityRustyturnedtotheshopfromwhichthesmokewascoming.But

hewasnottheonlypersonmakingforit.ApproachingfromtheoppositedirectionwasSomionhisbicycle.Somi,whohadnotseenRusty,seemeddeterminedonridingrightintothesmoky

shoponhisbicycle,unfortunatelyhiswaywasblockedbyMaharani, thequeenofthebazaarcows,whomovedasidefornoone.Butthecycledidnotlosespeed.Rusty,seeingthecyclebutnotrecognizingtherider,feltsorryforthecow,itwas

suretobehurt.But,withthedevilinhisheartorinthewheelsofhismachine,SomiswungclearofMaharaniandcollidedwithRustyandknockedhimintothegutter.AccustomedasRustywasto thedelicatescentsof themissionary’swife’ssweet

peas and the occasional smell of bathroom disinfectant, he was neverthelessoverpoweredby theodourofbadvegetablesandkitchenwater that rose fromthegutter.‘Whatthehelldoyouthinkyou’redoing?’hecried,chokingandspluttering.‘Hullo,’saidSomi,grippingRustybythearmandhelpinghimup,‘sosorry,not

myfault.Anyway,wemeetagain!’Rustyfeltforinjuriesand,findingnone,exclaimed:‘LookatthefilthymessI’m

in!’Somicouldnothelp laughingat theother ’sunhappycondition. ‘Oh, that isnot

filth,itisonlycabbagewater!Donotworry,theclotheswilldry...’Hislaughrangoutmerrily,andtherewassomethingaboutthelaugh,somemusic

initperhaps,thattouchedachordofgaietyinRusty’sownheart.Somiwassmiling,andonhismouththesmilewasfriendlyandinhissoftbrowneyesitwasmocking.‘Well,Iamsorry,’saidSomi,extendinghishand.Rustydidnot take thehandbut, looking theotherupanddown, from turban to

slippers,forcedhimselftosay:‘Getoutofmyway,please.’‘Youareasnob,’saidSomiwithoutmoving.‘Youareaveryfunnyonetoo.’‘Iamnotasnob,’saidRustyinvoluntarily.‘Thenwhynotforgetanaccident?’‘Youcouldhavemissedme,butyoudidn’ttry.’‘ButifIhadmissedyou,Iwould

have hit the cow! You don’t knowMaharani, if you hurt her she goes mad andsmasheshalf thebazaar!Also, thebicyclemighthavebeen spoilt . . .Nowpleasecomeandhavechaatwithme.’Rustyhadnoideawhatwasmeantbythewordchaat,butbeforehecouldrefuse

the invitation Somi had bundled him into the shop from which the smoke still

poured.Atfirstnothingcouldbemadeout;thengraduallythesmokeseemedtoclearand

there in frontof theboys, likesomeshininggod,satamanenveloped in rollsofglistening,oily flesh. In frontofhim,onacoal fire,wasamassivepan inwhichsizzledaseaoffat;andwithdeft,practisedfingers,hemouldedandflippedpotatocakesinandoutofthepan.Theshopwascrowded;but so thickwas the screenof smokeandsteam, that it

was only the murmur of conversation which made known the presence of manypeople.AplatemadeofbananaleaveswasthrustintoRusty’shands,andtwofriedcakessuddenlyappearedinit.‘Eat!’ said Somi, pressing the novice down until they were both seated on the

floor,theirbackstothewall.‘Theyaretikkees,’explainedSomi,‘tellmeifyoulikethem.’Rustytastedabit.Itwashot.Hewaitedaminute,thentastedanotherbit.Itwasstill

hotbut inadifferentway;nowitwas lively, interesting; ithadadifferent taste toanythinghehadeatenbefore.Suspiciousbutinquisitive,hefinishedthetikkeeandwaitedtoseeifanythingwouldhappen.‘Haveyouhadbefore?’askedSomi.‘No,’saidRustyanxiously,‘whatwillitdo?’‘Itmightworryyourstomachalittleatfirst,butyouwillgetusedtoitthemore

oftenyoueat.Sofinishtheotheronetoo.’Rustyhadnotrealizedtheextentofhissubmissiontotheother ’swishes.Atone

momenthehadbeenangry,ill-mannered;but,sincethelaugh,hehadobeyedSomiwithoutdemur.Somiworeacottontunicandshorts,andsatcross-legged,hisfeetpressedagainst

his thighs.His skinwasagoldenbrown,darkonhis legsandarmsbut fair,veryfair, where his shirt lay open.His handswere dirty; but eloquent.His eyes, deepbrownanddreamy,haddepthandroundness.Hesaid:‘MynameisSomi,pleasetellmewhatisyours,Ihaveforgotten.’‘Rusty...’‘How do you do,’ said Somi, ‘I am very pleased tomeet you, haven’twemet

before?’Rustymumbledtohimself inaneffort tosulk.‘Thatwasalongtimeago,’said

Somi,‘nowwearefriends,yes,bestfavouritefriends!’Rustycontinuedtomumbleunderhisbreath,buthetookthewarmmuddyhand

thatSomigavehim,andshook it.He finished the tikkeeonhis leaf,andaccepted

another.Thenhesaid:‘Howdoyoudo,Somi,Iamverypleasedtomeetyou.’

ChapterIV

Themissionary’swife’sheadprojecteditselfoverthegardenwallandbrokeintoabeamofwelcome.Rustyhurriedlyreturnedthesmile.‘Where have you been, dear?’ asked his garrulous neighbour. ‘Iwas expecting

youforlunch.You’veneverbeenawaysolong,I’vefinishedallmyworknow,youknow. . .Wasitanicewalk?Iknowyou’rethirsty,comeinandhaveanicecoollemonade, there’s nothing like iced lemonade to refresh one after a longwalk. IrememberwhenIwasagirl,havingtowalkdowntoDehrafromMussoorie,Ifilledmythermoswithlemonade...’ButRustyhadgone.Hedidnotwishtohurt themissionary’swife’sfeelingsby

refusing the lemonade but after experiencing the chaat shop, the very idea of alemonade offended him. But he decided that this Sunday he would contribute anextra four annas to themissionary’s fund forupkeepof church,wifeandgarden;and,withthisgoodthoughtinmind,wenttohisroom.Thesweeperboypassedbythewindow,hisbucketsclanging,hisfeetgoingslip-

slopinthewaterypath.Rustythrewhimselfonhisbed.Andnowhisimaginationbeganbuildingdreams

onanew-foundreality,forhehadagreedtomeetSomiagain.Andso,thenextday,hisstepstookhimtothechaatshopinthebazaar;pastthe

ClockTower,pastthesmartshops,downtheroad,farfromtheguardian’shouse.ThefleshygodofthetikkeessmiledatRustyinamannerthatseemedtosignify

that the boywas now likely to become a regular customer.The banana platewasready,thetikkeesinitflavouredwithspicedsauces.‘Hullo, best favourite friend,’ said Somi, appearing out of the surrounding

vapour,hisslippersloose,chupchup-chup;loose,openslippersthathungontothetoes by a strap and slapped against the heels as hewalked. ‘I am glad you comeagain.Aftertikkeesyoumusthavesomethingelse,chaatorgolguppas,allright?’Somiremovedhisslippersand joinedRusty,whohadsomehowmanagedtosit

cross-leggedonthegroundintheproperfashion.

Somi said, ‘Tellme something about yourself. Bywhatmisfortune are you anEnglishman?How is it that you have been here all your life and never been to achaatshopbefore?’‘Well, my guardian is very strict,’ said Rusty. ‘He wanted to bring me up in

Englishways,andhehassucceeded...’‘Tillnow,’saidSomi,andlaughed,thelaughripplingupinhisthroat,breaking

outandforcingitswaythroughthesmoke.Then a large figure loomed in front of theboys, andRusty recognizedhimas

Ranbir,theyouthhehadmetonthebicycle.‘Anotherbestfavouritefriend,’saidSomi.Ranbirdidnotsmile,butopenedhismouthalittle,gapedatRusty,andnoddedhis

head.Whenhenodded,hairfelluntidilyacrosshisforehead;thickblackbushyhair,wild and uncontrollable.Hewore a longwhite cotton tunic hanging out over hisbaggypyjamas;hisfeetwerebareanddirty;bigfeet,strong.‘Hullo,mister,’saidRanbir,inagruffvoicethatdisguisedhisshyness.Hesaidno

more for awhile, but joined them in theirmeal. They ate chaat, a spicy salad ofpotato,guavaandorange;andthengolguppas,bakedflour-cupsfilledwithburningsyrups.Rustyfeltateaseandbegantotalk,tellinghiscompanionsabouthisschoolinthehills,thehouseofhisguardian,MrHarrisonhimself,andthesupplemalaccacane.The storywas listened towith someamusement: apparentlyRusty’s lifehadbeenverydulltodate,andSomiandRanbirpitiedhimforit.‘Tomorrow isHoli,’ saidRanbir, ‘youmustplaywithme, thenyouwillbemy

friend.’‘WhatisHoli?’askedRusty.Ranbirlookedathiminamazement.‘YoudonotknowaboutHoli!ItistheHindu

festivalofcolour!It is thedayonwhichwecelebrate thecomingofspring,whenwe throwcolouroneachotherandshoutandsingand forgetourmisery, for thecoloursmeantherebirthofspringandanewlifeinourhearts...Youdonotknowofit!’Rusty was somewhat bewildered by Ranbir ’s sudden eloquence, and began to

have doubts about this game; it seemed to him a primitive sort of pastime, thisthrowingofpaintabouttheplace.‘Imightget into trouble,’hesaid. ‘I’mnotsupposed tocomehereanyway,and

myguardianmightreturnanyday...’‘Don’ttellhimaboutit,’saidRanbir.

‘Oh, he has ways of finding out. I’ll get a thrashing.’ ‘Huh!’ said Ranbir, adisappointedandsomewhatdisgustedexpressiononhismobileface.‘Youareafraidtospoilyourclothes,mister,thatisit.Youarejustasnob.’Somilaughed.‘That’swhatItoldhimyesterday,andonlythendidhejoinmein

thechaatshop.Ithinkweshouldcallhimasnobwheneverhemakesexcuses.’Rustywasenjoying thechaat.Heategolguppaaftergolguppa,untilhis throat

wasalmostaflameandhisstomachburning itselfout.HewasnotveryconcernedaboutHoli.Hewascontentwiththepresent,contenttoenjoythenewfoundpleasuresof the chaat shop, and said: ‘Well, I’ll see . . . Ifmyguardian doesn’t comebacktomorrow,I’llplayHoliwithyou,allright?’Ranbirwaspleased.Hesaid,‘Iwillbewaitingin the junglebehindyourhouse.

Whenyouhearthedrum-beatinthejungle,thenitisme.Thencome.’‘Will you be there too, Somi?’ asked Rusty. Somehow, he felt safe in Somi’s

presence.‘IdonotplayHoli,’saidSomi.‘Yousee,IamdifferenttoRanbir.Iwearaturban

andhedoesnot,alsothereisabangleonmywrist,whichmeansthatIamaSikh.Wedon’tplayit.ButIwillseeyouthedayafter,hereinthechaatshop.’Somilefttheshop,andwasswallowedupbysmokeandsteam,butthechup-chup

ofhislooseslipperscouldbeheardforsometime,untiltheirsoundwaslostinthegreatersoundofthebazaaroutside.In the bazaar, people haggled over counters, children played in the spring

sunshine, dogs courted one another, and Ranbir and Rusty continued eating golguppas.

*

Theafternoonwaswarmand lazy,unusually so for spring; veryquiet, as thoughresting in the interval between the spring and the coming summer. Therewas nosign of the missionary’s wife or the sweeper boy when Rusty returned, but MrHarrison’scarstoodinthedrivewayofthehouse.Atsightofthecar,Rustyfeltalittleweakandfrightened;hehadnotexpectedhis

guardiantoreturnsosoonandhad,infact,almostforgottenhisexistence.ButnowheforgotallaboutthechaatshopandSomiandRanbir,andranuptheverandastepsinapanic.MrHarrisonwasatthetopoftheverandasteps,standingbehindthepottedpalms.Theboysaid, ‘Oh,hullo,sir,you’reback!’Heknewofnothingelse tosay,but

triedtomakehislittlepiecesoundenthusiastic.

‘Wherehaveyoubeenallday?’askedMrHarrison,withoutlookingonceatthestartledboy.‘Ourneighbourshaven’tseenmuchofyoulately.’‘I’vebeenforawalk,sir.’‘Youhavebeentothebazaar.’Theboyhesitatedbeforemakingadenial;theman’seyeswereonhimnow,and

tolieRustywouldhavehadtolowerhiseyes—andthishecouldnotdo....‘Yes,sir,Iwenttothebazaar.’‘MayIaskwhy?’‘BecauseIhadnothingtodo.’‘Ifyouhadnothingtodo,youcouldhavevisitedourneighbours.Thebazaaris

nottheplaceforyou.Youknowthat.’‘Butnothinghappenedtome...’‘Thatisnotthepoint,’saidMrHarrison,andnowhisnormallydryvoicetookon

afaintshrillnoteofexcitement,andhespokerapidly.‘Thepointis,Ihavetoldyounever to visit the bazaar. You belong here, to this house, this road, these people.Don’tgowhereyoudon’tbelong.’Rustywanted toargue, longed torebel,but fearofMrHarrisonheldhimback.

Hewantedtoresisttheman’sauthority,buthewasconsciousofthesupplemalaccacaneintheglasscupboard.‘I’msorry,sir...’But his cowardice did him no good. The guardian went over to the glass

cupboard,broughtoutthecane,flexeditinhishands.Hesaid,‘Itisnotenoughtosayyouaresorry,youmustbemadetofeelsorry.Bendoverthesofa.’The boy bent over the sofa, clenched his teeth and dug his fingers into the

cushions. The cane swished through the air, landing on his bottom with a slap,knocking the dust from his pants. Rusty felt no pain. But his guardian waited,allowingthecuttosinkin,thenheadministeredthesecondstroke,andthistimeithurt, it stung into theboy’s buttocks, burningup the flesh, conditioning it for theremainingcuts.Atthesixthstrokeofthesupplemalaccacane,whichwasusuallythelast,Rusty

letoutawildwhoop,leaptoverthesofaandchargedfromtheroom.Helaygroaningonhisbeduntilthepainhadeased.Butthefleshwassosorethat

hecouldnottouchtheplacewherethecanehadfallen.Wrigglingoutofhispants,heexaminedhisbacksideinthemirror.MrHarrisonhadbeenmostaccurate:athickpurpleweltstretchedacrossbothcheeks,andalittlebloodtrickleddowntheboy’s

thigh.Thebloodhadacool,almostsoothingeffect,butthesightofitmadeRustyfeelfaint.Helaydownandmoanedforpleasure.Hepitiedhimselfenoughtowanttocry,

butheknewthefutilityoftears.Butthepainandthesenseofinjusticehefeltwerebothreal.Ashadowfellacrossthebed.Someonewasatthewindow,andRustylookedup.Thesweeperboyshowedhisteeth.‘Whatdoyouwant?’askedRustygruffly.‘Youhurt,ChottaSahib?’Thesweeperboy’ssympathiesprovokedonlysuspicioninRusty.‘YoutoldMrHarrisonwhereIwent!’saidRusty.Butthesweeperboycockedhis

headtooneside,andaskedinnocently,‘Whereyouwent,ChottaSahib?’‘Oh,nevermind.Goaway.’‘Butyouhurt?’‘Getout!’shoutedRusty.Thesmilevanished,leavingonlyasadfrightenedlookinthesweeperboy’seyes.Rustyhatedhurtingpeople’s feelings, but hewasnot accustomed to familiarity

withservants;andyet,onlyafewminutesago,hehadbeenbeatenforvisitingthebazaarwherethereweresomanylikethesweeperboy.Thesweeperboyturnedfromthewindow,leavingwetfinger-marksonthesill;

thenliftedhisbucketsfromthegroundand,withhiskneesbenttotaketheweight,walkedaway.Hisfeetsplashedalittleinthewaterhehadspilt,andthesoftredmudflewupandfleckedhislegs.Angrywithhisguardianandwiththeservantandmostofallwithhimself,Rusty

buried his head in his pillow and tried to shut out reality; he forced a dream, inwhichhewasthrashingMrHarrisonuntiltheguardianbeggedformercy.

ChapterV

Intheearlymorning,whenitwasstilldark,RanbirstoppedinthejunglebehindMrHarrison’shouse, and slappedhisdrum.His thickmassofhairwas coveredwithreddustandhisbody,nakedbutforaclothroundhiswaist,wassmearedgreen;helookedlikeapaintedgod,agreengod.Afteraminuteheslappedthedrumagain,thensatdownonhisheelsandwaited.Rustywoketothesoundoftheseconddrum-beat,andlayinbedandlistened;it

was repeated, travelling over the still air and in through the bedroom window.Dhum!. . .adouble-beatnow,onedeep,onehigh, insistent,questioning. . .Rustyremembered his promise, that he would play Holi with Ranbir, meet him in thejunglewhenhebeatthedrum.Buthehadmadethepromiseontheconditionthathisguardiandidnotreturn;hecouldnotpossiblykeepitnow,notafterthethrashinghehadreceived.Dhum-dhum, spoke the drum in the forest; dhum-dhum, impatient and getting

annoyed...

‘Whycan’theshutup,’mutteredRusty,‘doeshewanttowakeMrHarrison...’Holi,thefestivalofcolours,thearrivalofspring,therebirthofthenewyear,the

awakeningoflove,whatwerethesethingstohim,theydidnotconcernhislife,hecould not start a new life, not for one day . . . and besides, it all sounded veryprimitive,thisthrowingofcolourandbeatingofdrums...Dhum-dhum!Theboysatupinbed.Theskyhadgrownlighter.From the distant bazaar came a newmusic, many drums and voices, faint but

steady,growinginrhythmandexcitement.ThesoundconveyedsomethingtoRusty,somethingwildandemotional,somethingthatbelongedtohisdreamworld,andonasuddenimpulsehesprangoutofbed.

Hewent to the door and listened; the housewas quiet, he bolted the door. ThecoloursofHoli,heknew,wouldstainhisclothes,sohedidnotremovehispyjamas.Inanoldpairofflattenedrubber-soledtennisshoes,heclimbedoutofthewindowandranover thedew-wetgrass,downthepathbehindthehouse,over thehillandintothejungle.WhenRanbir saw the boy approach, he rose from the ground.The long hand-

drum, thedholak,hungat hiswaist.Ashe rose, the sun rose.But the sundidnotlookas fieryasRanbirwho, inRusty’seyes,appearedasapainteddemon, ratherthanasagod.‘Youarelate,mister,’saidRanbir,‘Ithoughtyouwerenotcoming.’Hehadbothhisfistsclosed,butwhenhewalkedtowardsRustyheopenedthem,

smilingwidely,awhitesmileinagreenface.Inhisrighthandwasthereddustandinhis lefthand thegreendust.Andwithhis righthandhe rubbed the reddustonRusty’s leftcheek,and thenwith theotherhandheput thegreenduston theboy’srightcheek;thenhestoodbackandlookedatRustyandlaughed.Then,accordingtothe custom, he embraced the bewildered boy. It was a wrestler ’s hug, and Rustywincedbreathlessly.‘Come,’saidRanbir,‘letusgoandmakethetownarainbow.’

*

Andtruly,thatdaytherewasanoutbreakofspring.Thesuncameup,andthebazaarwokeup.Thewallsofthehousesweresuddenly

patchedwithsplashesofcolour,andjustassuddenlythetreesseemedtohaveburstintoflower;forintheforesttherewerearmiesofrhododendrons,andbytheriverthe poinsettias danced; the cherry and the plumwere in blossom; the snow in themountainshadmelted,andthestreamswererushingtorrents;thenewleavesonthetreeswerefullofsweetness,andtheyounggrassheldbothdewandsun,andmadeanemeraldofeverydewdrop.Theinfectionofspringspreadsimultaneouslythroughtheworldofmanandthe

worldofnature,andmadethemone.RanbirandRustymovedroundthehill,keepinginthefringeofthejungleuntil

they had skirted not only the European community but also the smart shoppingcentre.Theycamedowndirty little side-streetswhere thewallsofhouses, stainedwiththewearandtearofmanyyearsofmeagrehabitation,werenowstainedagainwiththevividcoloursofHoli.TheycametotheClockTower.

At theClockTower, springhad really beendeclaredopen.Cloudsof coloureddustroseintheairandspread,andjetsofwater—greenandorangeandpurple,allrichemotionalcolours—burstouteverywhere.Childrenformedgroups.Theywerearmedmainlywithbicyclepumps,orpumps

fashioned from bamboo stems, from which was squirted liquid colour. And thechildrenparadedthemainroad,chantingshrillyandclappingtheirhands.Themenandwomenpreferredthedusttothewater.They,too,sang,buttheirchantingheldasignificance, their hands and fingers drummed the rhythms of spring, the samerhythms,thesamesongsthatbelongedtothisdayeveryyearoftheirlives.Ranbirwasmetbysomefriendsandgreetedwithgreathilarity.Abicyclepump

wasdirectedatRustyandajetofsootyblackwatersquirtedintohisface.Blinded for a moment, Rusty blundered about in great confusion. A horde of

childrenboredownonhim,andhewassubjectedtoapumpingfromallsides.Hisshirt andpyjamas, drenched through, stuck to his skin; then someonegripped theendofhisshirtandtuggedatituntilittoreandcameaway.Dustwasthrownontheboy, on his face and body, roughly and with full force, and his tender, under-exposedskinsmartedbeneaththeonslaught.Thenhiseyescleared.Heblinkedandlookedwildlyroundatthegroupofboys

and girlswho cheered and danced in front of him.His bodywas runningmostlywith sooty black, streaked with red, and hismouth seemed full of it too, and hebegantospit.Then,onebyone,Ranbir ’sfriendsapproachedRusty.Gently,theyrubbedduston

theboy’scheeks,andembracedhim; theyweresolikemanyflamingdemonsthatRustycouldnotdistinguishonefromtheother.Butthisgentlegreeting,comingsosoonafterthestormybicyclepumpattack,bewilderedRustyevenmore.Ranbir said: ‘Nowyou are one of us, come,’ andRustywentwith him and the

others.‘Suri ishiding,’ cried someone. ‘Hehas lockedhimself inhishouseandwon’t

playHoli!’‘Well,hewillhavetoplay,’saidRanbir,‘evenifwebreakthehousedown.’Suri,whodreadedHoli,haddecidedtospendthedayinastateofsiege;andhad

set up camp in hismother ’s kitchen,where therewere provisions enough for thewhole day. He listened to his playmates calling to him from the courtyard, andignoredtheirinvitations,jeers,andthreats;thedoorwasstrongandwellbarricaded.He settled himself beneath a table, and turned the pages of the English nudists’journal,whichheboughteverymonthchieflyforitsphotographicvalue.

But the youths outside, intoxicated by the drumming and shouting and highspirits,werenotgoingtobedoneoutofthepleasureofdiscomfitingSuri.Sotheyacquiredaladderandmadetheirentryintothekitchenbytheskylight.Surisquealedwithfright.Thedoorwasopenedandhewasbundledout,andhis

spectaclesweretrampled.‘My glasses!’ he screamed. ‘You’ve broken them!’ ‘You can afford a dozen

pairs!’jeeredoneofhisantagonists.‘ButIcan’tsee,youfools,Ican’tsee!’‘Hecan’tsee!’criedsomeoneinscorn.‘Foronceinhislife,Surican’tseewhat’s

goingon!Now,wheneverhespies,we’llsmashhisglasses!’NotknowingSuriverywell,Rustycouldnothelppityingthefranticboy.‘Whydon’tyoulethimgo,’heaskedRanbir.‘Don’tforcehimifhedoesn’twant

toplay.’‘Butthisistheonlychancewehaveofrepayinghimforallhisdirtytricks.Itis

theonlydayonwhichnooneisafraidofhim!’Rusty could not imagine how anyone could possibly be afraid of the pale,

struggling,spindly-leggedboywhowasalmostbeingtornapart,andwasgladwhentheothershadfinishedtheirsportwithhim.AlldayRustyroamedthetownandcountrysidewithRanbirandhisfriends,and

Suriwassoonforgotten.Foroneday,Ranbirandhisfriendsforgottheirhomesandtheirworkandtheproblemofthenextmeal,anddanceddowntheroads,outofthetown and into the forest. And, for one day, Rusty forgot his guardian and themissionary’swifeandthesupplemalaccacane,andranwiththeothersthroughthetownandintotheforest.Thecrisp,sunnymorningripenedintoafternoon.In the forest, in the cool dark silence of the jungle, they stopped singing and

shouting, suddenly exhausted. They lay down in the shade ofmany trees, and thegrass was soft and comfortable, and very soon everyone except Rusty was fastasleep.Rustywas tired.Hewas hungry.He had lost his shirt and shoes, his feetwere

bruised,hisbodysore.Itwasonlynow,resting,thathenoticedthesethings,forhehad been caught up in the excitement of the colour game, overcome by anexhilarationhehadneverknown.Hisfairhairwastousledandstreakedwithcolour,andhiseyeswerewidewithwonder.Hewasexhaustednow,buthewashappy.

Hewantedthistogoonforever,thisdayoffeverishemotion,thislifeinanotherworld. He did not want to leave the forest; it was safe, its earth soothed him,gatheredhimin,sothatthepainofhisbodybecameapleasure...Hedidnotwanttogohome.

ChapterVI

MrHarrisonstoodatthetopoftheverandasteps.Thehousewasindarkness,buthiscigaretteglowedmorebrightlyforit.Aroadlamptrappedthereturningboyasheopenedthegate,andRustyknewhehadbeenseen,buthedidn’tcaremuch;ifhehadknownthatMrHarrisonhadnotrecognizedhim,hewouldhaveturnedbackinsteadofwalkingresignedlyupthegardenpath.MrHarrisondidnotmove,nordidheappeartonoticetheboy’sapproach.Itwas

only when Rusty climbed the veranda steps that his guardian moved and said:‘Who’sthat?’Stillhehadnotrecognizedtheboy;andinthatinstantRustybecomeawareofhis

owncondition,forhisbodywasapatchworkofpaint.Wearingonlytornpyjamashe could, in the half-light, have easily been mistaken for the sweeper boy orsomeoneelse’sservant.Itmusthavebeenanewlyacquiredbazaarinstinctthatmadetheboythinkofescape.Heturnedabout.ButMrHarrisonshouted,‘Comehere,you!’andthetoneofhisvoice—thetone

reservedforthesweeperboy—madeRustystop.‘Comeuphere!’repeatedMrHarrison.Rustyreturnedtotheveranda,andhisguardianswitchedonalight;butevennow

therewasnorecognition.‘Goodevening,sir,’saidRusty.MrHarrisonreceivedashock.Hefeltawaveofanger,andthenawaveofpain:

wasthistheboyhehadtrainedandeducated—thiswild,ragged,ungratefulwretch,whodidnotknowthedifferencebetweenwhatwasproperandwhatwasimproper,whatwascivilizedandwhatwasbarbaric,whatwasdecentandwhatwasshameful—and had the years of training come to nothing? Mr Harrison came out of theshadows and cursed. He brought his hand down on the back of Rusty’s neck,propelledhimintothedrawing-room,andpushedhimacrosstheroomsoviolentlythattheboylosthisbalance,collidedwithatableandrolledoverontotheground.

Rustylookedupfromthefloortofindhisguardianstandingoverhim,andintheman’srighthandwasthesupplemalaccacane,andthecanewastwitching.MrHarrison’s facewas twitching too, itwas full of fire.His lipswere stitched

together, sealed up with the ginger moustache, and he looked at the boy withnarrowed,unblinkingeyes.‘Filth!’hesaid,almostspittingthewordsintheboy’sface.‘MyGod,whatfilth!’Rusty stared fascinated at the deep yellow nicotine stains on the fingers of his

guardian’sraisedhand.Thenthewristmovedsuddenlyandthecanecutacrosstheboy’sfacelikeaknife,stabbingandburningintohischeek.Rusty cried out and cowered back against the wall; he could feel the blood

tricklingacrosshismouth.Helookedrounddesperatelyforameansofescape,butthemanwasinfrontofhim,overhim,andthewallwasbehind.Mr Harrison broke into a torrent of words. ‘How can you call yourself an

Englishman, how can you come back to this house in such a condition? In whatgutter,inwhatbrothelhaveyoubeen!Haveyouseenyourself?Doyouknowwhatyoulooklike?’‘No,’saidRusty,andforthefirsttimehedidnotaddresshisguardianas‘sir ’.‘I

don’tcarewhatIlooklike.’‘Youdon’t . . .well,I’ll tellyouwhatyoulooklike!Youlooklikethemongrel

thatyouare!’‘That’salie!’exclaimedRusty.‘It’sthetruth.I’vetriedtobringyouupasanEnglishman,asyourfatherwould

havewished.But,asyouwon’thaveitourway,I’mtellingyouthathewasabouttheonlythingEnglishaboutyou.You’renobetterthanthesweeperboy!’Rustyflaredintoatemper,showingsomespiritforthefirsttimeinhislife.‘I’m

nobetterthanthesweeperboy,butI’masgoodashim!I’masgoodasyou!I’masgoodasanyone!’And, insteadofcringing to take thecut from thecane,he flunghimselfathisguardian’slegs.Thecaneswishedthroughtheair,grazingtheboy’sback.Rustywrappedhisarmsroundhisguardian’slegsandpulledonthemwithallhisstrength.MrHarrisonwentover,fallingflatonhisbackThesuddennessofthefallmusthaveknockedthebreathfromhisbody,because

foramomenthedidnotmove.Rustysprangtohisfeet.Thecutacrosshisfacehadstunghimtomadness,toan

unreasoninghate,andhedidwhatpreviouslyhewouldonlyhavedreamtofdoing.Liftingavaseofthemissionary’swife’sbestsweetpeasofftheglasscupboard,he

flung it at his guardian’s face. It hit him on the chest, but the water and flowersfloppedoutoverhisface.Hetriedtogetup;buthewasspeechless.ThelookofalarmonMrHarrison’sfacegaveRustygreatercourage.Beforethe

man could recover his feet and his balance,Rusty gripped him by the collar andpushedhimbackwards,untiltheybothfelloverontothefloor.Withonehandstilltwistingthecollar,theboyslappedhisguardian’sface.Madwiththepaininhisownface,Rustyhit themanagainandagain,wildlyandawkwardly,butwith thegiddythrillofknowinghecoulddoit:hewasachildnolonger,hewasnearlyseventeen,hewas aman.He could inflict pain, thatwas awonderful discovery; therewas apowerinhisbody—adeviloragod—andhegainedconfidenceinhispower;andhewasaman!‘Stopthat,stopit!’The shout of a hystericalwoman broughtRusty to his senses.He still held his

guardianbythethroat,buthestoppedhittinghim.MrHarrison’sfacewasveryred.Themissionary’swife stood in the doorway, her facewhitewith fear. Shewas

under the impression thatMrHarrisonwas being attacked by a servant or somebazaarhooligan.Rustydidnotwaituntilshefoundhertonguebut,withanewfoundspeedandagility,dartedoutofthedrawing-room.Hemadehisescape fromthebedroomwindow.Fromthegatehecouldsee the

missionary’swifesilhouettedagainstthedrawing-roomlight.Helaughedoutloud.The woman swivelled round and came forward a few steps. And Rusty laughedagainandbeganrunningdowntheroadtothebazaar.

*

Itwas late.The smart shops and restaurantswere closed. In the bazaar, oil lampshung outside each doorway; people were asleep on the steps and platforms ofshopfronts,somehuddledinblankets,othersrolledtightintothemselves.Theroad,whichduringthedaywasabusy,noisycrushofpeopleandanimals,wasquietanddeserted.Onlyaleandogstillsniffedinthegutter.Awomansanginaroomhighabovethestreet—aplaintive,tremuloussong—andinthefardistanceajackalcriedto themoon. But the empty, lifeless streetwas very deceptive; if the roofs couldhavebeenremovedfrombutahandfulofbuildings, itwouldbeseenthat lifehadnotreallystoppedbut,beautifulandugly,persistedthroughthenight.Itwaspastmidnight,thoughtheClockTowerhadnowayofsayingit.Rustywas

intheemptystreet,andthechaatshopwasclosed,asheetoftarpaulindrapedacrossthefront.Helookedupanddowntheroad,hopingtomeetsomeoneheknew; the

chaat-wallah, he felt sure, would give him a blanket for the night and a place tosleep;andthenextdaywhenSomicametomeethim,hewouldtellhisfriendofhispredicament, that he had run away from his guardian’s house and did not intendreturning. But he would have to wait till morning: the chaat shop was shuttered,barredandbolted.He sat down on the steps; but the stone was cold and his thin cotton pyjamas

offerednoprotection.He foldedhisarmsandhuddledup inacorner,but stillheshivered.Hisfeetwerebecomingnumb,lifeless.Rusty had not fully realized the hazards of the situation.Hewas stillmadwith

angerandrebellionand,thoughthebloodonhischeekhaddried,hisfacewasstillsmarting.Hecouldnot thinkclearly: thepresentwasconfusingandunrealandhecouldnotseebeyondit;whatworriedhimwasthecoldandthediscomfortandthepain.Thesingingstopped in thehighwindow.Rusty lookedupandsawabeckoning

hand.Asnooneelseinthestreetshowedanysignsoflife,Rustygotupandwalkedacross the roaduntilhewasunder thewindow.Thewomanpointed toa stairway,andhemountedit,gladofthehospitalityhewasbeingoffered.The stairway seemed to go to the stars, but it turned suddenly to lead into the

woman’sroom.Thedoorwasslightlyajar,andheknockedandavoicesaid,‘Come...’Theroomwasfilledwithperfumeandburningincense.Amusicalinstrumentlay

inonecorner.Thewomanreclinedonabed,herhairscatteredaboutthepillow;shehadaround,prettyface,butshewaslosingheryouth,andthefatshowedinrollsatherexposedwaist.Shesmiledattheboy,andbeckonedagain.‘Thankyou,’saidRusty,closingthedoor.‘CanIsleephere?’‘Whereelse?’saidthewoman.‘Justfortonight.’Shesmiled,andwaited.Rustystoodinfrontofher,hishandsbehindhisback.‘Sit down,’ she said, and patted the bedclothes beside her. Reverently, and as

respectfullyashecould,Rustysatdown.Thewomanranlittlefairfingersoverhisbody,anddrewhisheadtohers;their

lipswereveryclose,almosttouching,andtheirbreathingsoundedterriblyloudtoRusty,butheonlysaid:‘Iamhungry.’Apoet,thoughtthewoman,andkissedhimfullonthelips;buttheboydrewaway

inembarrassment,unsureofhimself,likingthewomanonthebedandyetafraidofher...

‘Whatiswrong?’sheasked.‘I’mtired,’hesaid.Thewoman’s friendly smile turned toa lookof scorn;but she saw thathewas

onlyaboywhoseeyeswerefullofunhappiness,andshecouldnothelppityinghim.‘Youcansleephere,’shesaid,‘untilyouhavelostyourtiredness.’Butheshookhishead.‘Iwillcomesomeothertime,’hesaid,notwishingtohurt

thewoman’sfeelings.Theywerebothpityingeachother,likingeachother,butnotenoughtomakethemunderstandeachother.Rustylefttheroom.Mechanically,hedescendedthestaircase,andwalkedupthe

bazaarroad,pastthesilentsleepingforms,untilhereachedtheClockTower.Totherightof theClockTowerwasabroadstretchofgrasslandwhere, during theday,cattlegrazedandchildrenplayedandyoungmen likeRanbirwrestledandkickedfootballs.Butnow,atnight,itwasavastemptyspace.Butthegrasswassoft,likethegrassintheforest,andRustywalkedthelengthof

themaidan.Hefoundabenchandsatdown,warmerforthewalk.Alightbreezewasblowingacross themaidan,pleasantandrefreshing,playingwithhishair.Aroundhimeverythingwasdarkand silent and lonely.Hehadgot away from thebazaar,which held themisery of beggars and homeless children and starving dogs, andcouldnowconcentrateonhisownmisery;fortherewasnothinglikelonelinessformakingRusty consciousof his unhappy state.Madness and freedomandviolencewerenewtohim:lonelinesswasfamiliar,somethingheunderstood.Rustywasalone.Untiltomorrow,hewasalonefortherestofhislife.IftomorrowtherewasnoSomiatthechaatshop,noRanbir,thenwhatwouldhe

do? This question badgered him persistently, making him an unwilling slave toreality.Hedidnotknowwherehisfriendslived,hehadnomoney,hecouldnotaskthechaatwallahforcreditonthestrengthoftwovisits.Perhapsheshouldreturntotheamorousladyinthebazaar;perhaps...butno,onethingwascertain,hewouldneverreturntohisguardian...Themoonhadbeenhiddenbyclouds,andpresentlytherewasadrizzle.Rustydid

notmind the rain, it refreshed him andmade the colour run from his body; but,when it began to fall harder, he started shivering again. He felt sick. He got up,rolledhisraggedpyjamasuptothethighsandcrawledunderthebench.Therewasahollowunderthebench,andatfirstRustyfounditquitecomfortable.

Buttherewasnograssandgraduallytheearthbegantosoften:soonhewasonhishands and knees in a pool ofmuddywater,with the slush oozing up through hisfingersandtoes.Crouchingthere,wetandcoldandmuddy,hewasovercomebyafeeling of helplessness and self-pity: everyone and everything seemed to have

turnedagainsthim;notonlyhispeoplebutalsothebazaarandthechaatshopandeven the elements. He admitted to himself that he had been too impulsive inrebellingandrunningawayfromhome;perhaps therewasstill timetoreturnandbegMrHarrison’sforgiveness.Butcouldhisbehaviourbeforgiven?Mighthenotbe clapped into irons for attempted murder? Most certainly he would be givenanotherbeating:notsixstrokesthistime,butnine.HisonlyhopewasSomi.IfnotSomi,thenRanbir.IfnotRanbir...well,itwasno

usethinkingfurther,therewasnooneelsetothinkof.Therainhadceased.Rustycrawledout fromunder thebench,andstretchedhis

cramped limbs. The moon came out from a cloud, and played with his wet,glisteningbody, and showedhim thevast,naked lonelinessof themaidanandhisowninsignificance.Helongednowforthepresenceofpeople,betheybeggarsorwomen,andhebrokeintoatrot,andthetrotbecamearun,afrightenedrun,andhedidnotstopuntilhereachedtheClockTower.

ChapterVII

They who sleep last, wake first. Hunger and pain lengthen the night, and so thebeggarsanddogsarethelasttoseethestars;hungerandpainhastentheawakening,andbeggarsanddogsarethefirsttoseethesun.Rustyknewhungerandpain,buthiswearinesswas even greater, and hewas asleep on the steps of the chaat shoplongafterthesunhadcomestridingdowntheroad,knockingonnearlyeverydoorandwindow.Somibathedat the commonwater tank.He stoodunder the tapand slappedhis

bodyintolifeandsplutteredwiththeshockofmountainwater.Atthetankweremanypeople:childrenshriekingwithdelight—ordiscomfort—

astheirayahsslappedthemaboutroughlyandaffectionately;theayahsthemselves,strong, healthy hill-women, with heavy bracelets on their ankles; the bhisti—thewater-carrier—withhisskinbag;andthecookwithhispotsandpans.Theayahssatontheirhaunches,bathingthechildren,theirsarisrolleduptothethighs;everytimethey moved their feet, the bells on their ankles jingled; so that there was acontinuousshriekingandjinglingandslappingofbuttocks.Thecooksmearedhisutensilswithashandwashedthem,andfilledanearthenchattywithwater;thebhistihoistedthewaterbagoverhisshoulderandleft,dripping;apiedoglappedatwaterrollingoffthestoneplatform;andabaleful-lookingcownibbledatwetgrass.ItwaswiththesepeoplethatSomispenthismornings,laughingandtalkingand

bathingwith them.When he had finished his ablutions, dried his hair in the sun,dressedandtiedhisturban,hemountedhisbicycleandrodeoutofthecompound.At thisadvancedhourof themorningMrHarrisonstill slept. In thehalf-empty

church,hisabsencewasnoted:heseldommissedSundaymorningservices;andthemissionary’swifewasimpatientlywaitingfortheendofthesermon,forshehadsomuchtotalkabout.OutsidethechaatshopSomisaid,‘Hey,Rusty,getup,whathashappened?Where

isRanbir?Holifinishedyesterday,youknow!’

HeshookRustybytheshoulders,shoutingintohisear;andthepaleboylyingonthe stone steps opened his eyes and blinked in the morning sunshine; his eyesroamedaboutinbewilderment,hecouldnotrememberhowhecametobelyinginthesunshineinthebazaar.‘Hey,’saidSomi,‘yourguardianwillbeveryangry!’Rusty sat up with a start. He was wide awake now, sweeping up his scattered

thoughtsandsortingthemout.Itwasdifficultforhimtobestraightforward;butheforced himself to look Somi straight in the eyes and, very simply and withoutpreamble,say:‘I’verunawayfromhome.’Somi showed no surprise. He did not take his eyes off Rusty’s; nor did his

expressionalter.Ahalf-smileonhis lips,hesaid: ‘Good.Nowyoucancomeandstaywithme.’Somi tookRustyhomeon thebicycle.Rusty feltweak in the legs,buthismind

wasrelievedandheno longerfeltalone:onceagain,Somigavehimafeelingofconfidence.‘DoyouthinkIcangetajob?’askedRusty.‘Don’tworryaboutthatyet,youhave

onlyjustrunaway.’‘DoyouthinkIcangeta job,’persistedRusty.‘Whynot?Butdon’tworry,you

aregoingtostaywithme.’‘I’ll stay with you only until I find a job. Any kind of job, there must be

something.’‘Ofcourse,don’tworry,’saidSomi,andpressedharderonthepedals.Theycametoacanal;itwasnoisywiththerushofmountainwater,forthesnow

hadbeguntomelt.Theroad,whichranparalleltothecanal,wasfloodedinsomeparts,butSomisteeredasteadycourse.Thenthecanalturnedleftandtheroadkeptstraight,andpresentlythesoundofwaterwasbutamurmur,andtheroadquietandshady; therewere trees at the roadsides covered in pink andwhite blossoms, andbehindthemmoretrees,thickerandgreener;andinamongstthetreeswerehouses.Aboyswungonacreakingwoodengate.Hewhistledout,andSomiwavedback;

thatwasall.‘Who’sthat?’askedRusty.‘Sonofhisparents.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘Hisfatherisrich.SoKishenissomebody.Hehasmoney,anditisaspowerfulas

Suri’stongue.’‘IsheSuri’sfriendoryours?’

‘Whenitsuitshim,heisourfriend.Whenitsuitshim,heisSuri’sfriend.’‘Thenhe’scleveraswellasrich,’deducedRusty.‘Thebrainsarehismother ’s.’‘Andthemoneyhisfather ’s?’‘Yes,but thereisn’tmuchleftnow.MrKapoorisfinished. . .Helookslikehis

fathertoo,hismotherisbeautiful.Well,hereweare!’Somi rode thebicycle inamongst the treesandalonga snakypath thatdodged

thiswayandthat,andthentheyreachedthehouse.It was a small flat house, covered completely by a crimson bougainvillaea

creeper. The gardenwas amass ofmarigolds,which had sprung up everywhere,even in the cracks at the sides of the veranda steps.No onewas at home. Somi’sfather was inDelhi, and hismother was out for themorning, buying theweek’svegetables.‘Haveyouanybrothers?’askedRusty,asheenteredthefrontroom.‘No.ButI’vegottwosisters.Butthey’remarried.Comeon,let’sseeifmyclothes

willfityou.’Rustylaughed,forhewasolderandbiggerthanhisfriend;buthewasthinkingin

termsof shirts and trousers, thekindofgarmentshewasused towearing.He satdownonasofainthefrontroom,whilstSomiwentfortheclothes.Theroomwascoolandspacious,andhadverylittlefurniture.Butonthewalls

weremanypictures,andinthecentrealargeoneofGuruNanak,thefounderoftheSikhreligion:hisbodybare,thesaintsatwithhislegscrossedandthepalmsofhishandstouchinginprayer,andonhisfacetherewasasereneexpression:theserenityof Nanak’s countenance seemed to communicate itself to the room. There was aserenityaboutSomitoo;maybebecauseofthesmilethatalwayshoverednearhismouth.RustyconcludedthatSomi’sfamilyweremiddleclasspeople; that is, theywere

neitherrichnorbeggars,butmanagedtoliveallthesame.

Somicamebackwiththeclothes.‘Theyaremine,’hesaid,‘somaybetheywillbealittlesmallforyou.Anyway,

thewarmweatheriscominganditwillnotmatterwhatyouwear—betternothingatall!’Rustyputonalongwhiteshirtwhich, tohissurprise,hungloose; ithadahigh

collarandbroadsleeves.‘Itisloose,’hesaid,‘howcanitbeyours?’‘Itismadeloose,’saidSomi.Rustypulledonapairofwhitepyjamas,andtheyweredefinitelysmallforhim,

endinga few inchesabove theankle.Thesandalswouldnotbuckle;and,whenhewalked,theybehavedlikeSomi’sandslappedagainsthisheels.‘There!’exclaimedSomiinsatisfaction.‘Noweverythingissettled,chaatinyour

stomach,cleanclothesonyourbody,andinafewdayswefindajob!Now,isthere

anythingelse?’RustyknewSomiwellenoughnowtoknowthatitwasn’tnecessarytothankhim

for anything; gratitude was taken for granted; in true friendship there are noformalities and no obligations. Rusty did not even ask if Somi had consulted hismotherabouttakinginguests;perhapsshewasusedtothissortofthing.‘Isthereanythingelse?’repeatedSomi.Rustyyawned.‘CanIgotosleepnow,please?’

ChapterVIII

Rustyhadneversleptwellinhisguardian’shouse,becausehehadneverbeentiredenough;alsohis imaginationwoulddisturbhim.And,sincerunningaway,hehadsleptbadly,becausehehadbeencoldandhungry.ButinSomi’shousehefeltsafeandalittlehappy,andslept;heslepttheremainderofthedayandthroughthenight.InthemorningSomitippedRustyoutofbedanddraggedhimtothewatertank.

RustywatchedSomistripandstandunderthejetoftapwater,andshudderedattheprospectofhavingtothesame.Beforeremovinghisshirt,Rustylookedaroundinembarrassment;noonepaid

muchattentiontohim,thoughoneoftheayahs,thegirlwiththebangles,gavehimaslysmile;helookedawayfromthewomen,threwhisshirtonabushandadvancedcautiouslytothebathingplace.Somipulledhimunderthetap.Thewaterwasicy-coldandRustygaspedwiththe

shock.Assoonashewaswet,hesprangofftheplatform,muchtotheamusementofSomiandtheayahs.Therewasnotowelwithwhichtodryhimself;hestoodonthegrass,shivering

withcold,wonderingwhetherheshoulddashbacktothehouseorshiverintheopenuntilthesundriedhim.Butthegirlwiththebangleswasbesidehimholdingatowel;hereyeswerefullofmockery,buthersmilewasfriendly.Atthemiddaymeal,whichconsistedofcurryandcurdandchapattis,Rustymet

Somi’smother,andlikedher.Shewasawomanofaboutthirty-five;shehadafewgreyhairsatthetemples,and

herskin—unlikeSomi’s—wasroughanddry.Shedressedsimply,inaplainwhitesari.Herlifehadbeendifficult.After thepartitionof thecountry,whenhatemadereligion its own, Somi’s family had to leave their home in the Punjab and treksouthwards; theyhadwalkedhundredsofmilesand themotherhadcarriedSomi,whowasthensix,onherback.LifeinIndiahadtobestartedagain,rightfromthebeginning,fortheyhadlostmostoftheirproperty:thefatherfoundworkinDelhi,

thesistersweremarriedoff,andSomiandhismothersettleddowninDehra,wheretheboyattendedschool.Themothersaid:‘MisterRusty,youmustgiveSomiafewlessonsinspellingand

arithmetic.Always,hecomeslastinclass.’‘Oh,that’sgood!’exclaimedSomi.‘We’llhavefun,Rusty!’Thenhethumpedthe

table. ‘Ihavean idea! Iknow,I thinkIhavea jobforyou!RememberKishen, theboy we passed yesterday? Well, his father wants someone to give him privatelessonsinEnglish.’‘TeachKishen?’‘Yes, it will be easy. I’ll go and see Mr Kapoor and tell him I’ve found a

professorofEnglishor something like that, and thenyoucancomeand seehim.Brother,itisafirst-classidea,youaregoingtobeateacher!’Rusty felt very dubious about the proposal; he was not sure he could teach

Englishoranythingelsetothewilfulsonofarichman;buthewasnotinapositionto pick and choose. Somimounted his bicycle and rode off to seeMrKapoor tosecure for Rusty the post of Professor of English.When he returned he seemedpleasedwithhimself,andRusty’sheart sankwith theknowledge thathehadgotajob.‘Youaretocomeandseehimthisevening,’announcedSomi,‘hewilltellyouall

aboutit.TheywantateacherforKishen,especiallyiftheydon’thavetopay.’‘Whatkindofajobwithoutpay?’complainedRusty.‘Nopay,’ saidSomi, ‘but everythingelse.Food—andnocooking isbetter than

Punjabicooking;water—’‘Ishouldhopeso,’saidRusty.‘Andaroom,sir!’‘Oh,evenaroom,’saidRustyungratefully,‘thatwillbenice.’‘Anyway,’saidSomi,‘comeandseehim,youdon’thavetoaccept.’

*

ThehousetheKapoorslivedinwasverynearthecanal;itwasasquat,comfortable-lookingbungalow,surroundedbyuncuthedges,andshadedbybananaandpapayatrees.ItwaslateeveningwhenSomiandRustyarrived,andthemoonwasup,andthe shaggy branches of the banana trees shook their heavy shadows out over thegravelpath.In an open space in front of the house a log fire was burning; the Kapoors

appearedtobegivingaparty.SomiandRustyjoinedthepeoplewhoweregroupedroundthefire,andRustywonderedifhehadbeeninvitedtotheparty.Thefirelenta

friendly warmth to the chilly night, and the flames leapt up, casting the glow ofrosesonpeople’sfaces.Somipointedoutdifferentpeople:variousshopkeepers,oneortwoBigMen,the

sickly-lookingSuri(whowasneverabsentfromasocialoccasionsuchasthis)andafewtotalstrangerswhohadinvitedthemselvestothepartyjustforthefunofthethingandafreemeal.Kishen,theKapoors’son,wasnotpresent;hehatedparties,preferringthecompanyofcertainwildfriendsinthebazaar.Mr Kapoor was once a BigMan himself, and everyone knew this; but he had

fallenfromtheheights;and,untilhegaveupthebottle,wasnotlikelytoreachthemagain.Everyonefeltsorryforhiswife,includingherself.Presently Kapoor tottered out of the front door armin-armwith a glass and a

bottleofwhisky.Heworeagreendressinggownandaweek’sbeard;hishair,orwhatwas leftof it,stooduponend;andhedribbledslightly.Anawkwardsilencefell on the company; but Kapoor, who was a friendly, gentle sort of drunkard,lookedroundbenevolently,andsaid:‘Everybodyhere?Fine,fine,theyareallhere,allofthem...Throwsomemorewoodonthefire!’Thefirewasdoingverywellindeed,butnotwellenoughforKapoor;everynow

and then hewould throw a log on the flames until itwas feared the blazewouldreach thehouse.Meena,Kapoor ’swife, didnot look flustered, only irritated; shewasacapableperson,stillyoung,acharminghostess;andinherredsariandwhitesilk jacket, her hair plaited and scentedwith jasmine, she looked beautiful. Rustygazedadmiringlyather;hewantedtocomplimenther,tosay,‘MrsKapoor,youarebeautiful’;buthehadnoneedtotellher,shewasfullyconsciousofthefact.MeenamadeherwayovertooneoftheBigMen,andwhisperedsomethinginhis

ear,and thenshewent toaLittleShopkeeperandwhisperedsomething inhisear,andthenboththeBigManandtheLittleShopkeeperadvancedstealthilytowardsthespotwhereMrKapoorwasholdingforth,andmadeagentleattempttoconveyhimindoors.ButKapoorwashavingnoneofit.Hepushedthemenasideandroared:‘Keepthe

fireburning!Keepitburning,don’tletitgoout,throwsomemorewoodonit!’And before he could be restrained, he had thrown a pot of themost delicious

sweetmeatsontotheflames.ToRusty thiswassacrilege. ‘Oh,MrKapoor . . .’hecried,but therewassome

confusionintherear,andhiswordsweredrownedinaseriesofexplosions.Suri andoneor twoothers hadbegun lettingoff fireworks: fountains, rockets,

andexplosives.Thefountainsgushedforth ingreenandredandsilver lights,and

therocketsstruckthroughthenightwithcrimsontails;butitwastheexplosivesthatcaused the confusion.The guests did not knowwhether to press forward into thefires, or retreat amongst the fireworks; neither prospect was pleasing, and thewomen began to show signs of hysterics. Then Suri burnt his finger and beganscreaming, and this was all the women had been waiting for; headed by Suri’smother,theyrushedtheboyandsmotheredhimwithattention;whilstthemen,whowere in aminority, looked on sheepishly and wished the accident had been of amoreseriousnature.SomethingroughbrushedagainstRusty’scheek.ItwasKapoor ’sbeard.SomihadbroughthishosttoRusty,andthebemusedman

puthisfaceclosetoRusty’sandplacedhishandsontheboy’sshouldersinordertosteadyhimself.Kapoornoddedhishead,hiseyesredandwatery.‘Rusty . . . so you are Mister Rusty . . . I hear you are going to be my

schoolteacher.’‘Yourson’ssir,’saidRusty,‘butthatisforyoutodecide.’‘Donotcallme“Sir”,’hesaid,wagginghis finger inRusty’sface, ‘callmeby

myname.SoyouaregoingtoEngland,eh?’‘No, I’m going to be your schoolteacher.’ Rusty had to put his arm round

Kapoor ’swaisttoavoidbeingdraggedtotheground;Kapoorleantheavilyontheboy’sshoulders.‘Good,good.Tellmeafteryouhavegone,Iwanttogiveyousomeaddressesof

peopleIknow.YoumustgotoMonteCarlo,you’veseennothinguntilyou’veseenMonteCarlo, it’s theonlyplacewitha future . . .WhobuiltMonteCarlo,doyouknow?’ItwasimpossibleforRustytomakeanysenseoftheconversationordiscusshis

appointmentasProfessorofEnglishtoKishenKapoor.Kapoorbegantoslipfromhisarms,andtheboytooktheopportunityofchanginghisownpositionforamorecomfortable one, before levering his host up again. The amused smiles of thecompanyrestedonthislittlescene.Rustysaid:‘No,MrKapoor,whobuiltMonteCarlo?’‘Idid.IbuiltMonteCarlo!’‘Ohyes,ofcourse.’‘Yes,Ibuiltthishouse,I’magenius,there’snodoubtofit!Ihaveahighopinion

ofmyownopinion,whatisyours?’‘Oh,Idon’tknow,butI’msureyou’reright.’

‘OfcourseIam.Butspeakup,don’tbeafraidtosaywhatyouthink.Standupforyour rights, even if you’re wrong! Throw somemore wood on the fire, keep itburning.’KapoorleaptfromRusty’sarmsandstumbledtowardsthefire.Theboycrieda

warningand,catchingholdoftheendofthegreendressinggown,draggedhishostbacktosafety.Meenaranto themand,withoutsomuchasaglanceatRusty, tookherhusbandbythearmandpropelledhimindoors.Rusty stared after Meena Kapoor, and continued to stare even when she had

disappeared. The guests chattered pleasantly, pretending nothing had happened,keeping the gossip for the next morning; but the children giggled amongstthemselves,andthedevilSurishouted:‘Throwsomemorewoodonthefire,keepitburning!’Somireturnedtohisfriend’sside.‘WhatdidMrKapoorhavetosay?’‘HesaidhebuiltMonteCarlo.’Somi slapped his forehead. ‘Toba! Now we’ll have to come again tomorrow

evening.Andthen,ifhe’sdrunk,we’llhavetodiscusswithhiswife,she’stheonlyonewithanysense.’Theywalkedawayfromtheparty,outofthecircleoffirelight,intotheshadows

ofthebananatrees.Thevoicesoftheguestsbecameadistantmurmur:Suri’shigh-pitchedshoutcametothemontheclear,stillair.Somisaid: ‘Wemustgo to thechaatshoptomorrowmorning,Ranbir isasking

foryou.’Rustyhadalmost forgottenRanbir:he felt ashamed fornothavingaskedabout

him before this. Ranbir was an important person, he had changed the course ofRusty’slifewithnothingbutalittlecolour,redandgreen,andthetouchofhishand.

ChapterIX

Againsthisparents’wishes,KishenKapoorspentmostofhistimeinthebazaar;heloved itbecause itwas forbidden,because itwasunhealthy,dangerousandfullofgermstocarryhome.Ranbirlovedthebazaarbecausehewasborninit;hehadknownfewotherplaces.

Sincetheageoftenhehadlookedafterhisuncle’sbuffaloesgrazingthemonthemaidanandtakingthemdowntotheriver towallowinmudandwater;andintheeveninghetookthemhome,ridingonthebackofthestrongestandfastestanimal.Whenhegrewolder,hewasallowedtohelpinhisfather ’sclothshop,buthewasalwaysgladtogetbacktothebuffaloes.Kishendidnotlikeanimals,particularlycowsandbuffaloes.Hisgreatestenemy

wasMaharani,theQueenoftheBazaar;who,likeKishenwasspoiltandpamperedandfondofhavingherownway.Unlikeothercows,shedidnotfeedatdustbinsandrubbishheaps,butlivedonthebenevolenceofthebazaarpeople.ButKishenhadnotimeforreligion;tohimacowwasjustacow,nothingsacred;

andhesawnoreasonwhyheshouldgetoffthepavementinordertomakewayforone,oroffernoprotestwhenitstolefromunderhisnose.Oneday,hetiedanemptytintoMaharani’s tailandlookedoningreatenjoymentas thecowprancedmadlyand dangerously about the road, the tin clattering behind her. Lacking in dignity,Kishen found somepleasure in observing others lose theirs.But a fewdays laterKishenreceivedMaharani’snoseinhispants,andhadtopickhimselfupfromthegutter.KishenandRanbiratemostlyatthechaatshop;iftheyhadnomoneytheywentto

work in Ranbir ’s uncle’s sugar cane fields and earned a rupee for the day; butKishendidnot likework, andRanbir had enoughofhis own todo, so therewasnevermuchmoneyforchaat;whichmeantlivingontheirwits—or,rather,Kishen’swits,foritwashisdutytopocketanysparemoneythatmightbelyingaboutinhisfather ’shouse—andsometimeshelping themselvesat thefruitandvegetablestallswhennoonewaslooking.

Ranbirwrestled.Thatwaswhyhewas sogood at ridingbuffaloes.Hewas thebestwrestlerinthebazaar;notveryclever,butpowerful;hewaslikeagreattree,andnoamountofshakingcouldmovehimfromwhateverspothechosetoplanthisbigfeet.Buthewasgentlebynature.Thewomenalwaysgavehimtheirbabies tolookafterwhentheywerebusy,andhewouldcradlethebabiesinhisopenhands,andsingtothem,andbehappyforhours.Ranbirhada certain innocencewhichwasnot likely to leavehim.Hehad seen

andexperiencedlifetothefull,andlifehadbruisedandscarredhimbutithadnotcrippledhim.Onenighthestrayedunwittinglyintotheintoxicatingarmsofalocaltempledancinggirl;butheactedwithinstinct,hispleasurewasunpremeditated,andtheadventurewassoonforgotten—byRanbir.ButSuri, thescourgeof thebazaar,uncoveredafewfactsandthreatenedtoinformRanbir ’sfamilyoftheincident;andsoRanbirfoundhimselfinthepowerofthecunningSuri,andwasforcedtopleasehim from time to time; though, at times such as theHoli festival, that powerwasscorned.OnthemorningaftertheKapoors’party,Ranbir,Somi,andRustywereseatedin

thechaatshop,discussingRusty’ssituation.Ranbir lookedmiserable;hishair fellsadlyoverhisforehead,andhewouldnotlookatRusty.‘Ihavegotyouintotrouble,’heapologizedgruffly,‘Iamtooashamed.’Rusty laughed, licking sauce fromhis fingers andcrumplinguphis empty leaf

bowl.‘Silly fellow,’ he said, ‘for what are you sorry? For making me happy? For

takingmeawayfrommyguardian?Well,Iamnotsorry,youcanbesureofthat.’‘Youarenotangry?’askedRanbirinwonder.‘No,butyouwillmakemeangryinthisway.’Ranbir ’s face lit up, and he slapped Somi and Rusty on their backs with such

suddenenthusiasmthatSomidroppedhisbowlofalluchole.‘Comeon,misters,’hesaid,‘Iamgoingtomakeyousickwithgolguppassothat

youwillnotbeabletoeatanymoreuntilIreturnfromMussoorie!’‘Mussoorie?’Somilookedpuzzled.‘YouaregoingtoMussoorie?’‘Toschool!’‘That’sright,’saidavoicefromthedoor,avoicehiddeninsmoke.‘Nowwe’ve

hadit...’Somi said, ‘It’s that monkey-millionaire Kishen come to make a nuisance of

himself.’Then,louder:‘Comeoverhere,Kishen,comeandjoinusforgolgappas!’

Kishenappearedfromthemistofvapour,walkingwithanaffectedswagger,hishandsinhispockets;hewastheonlyonepresentwearingpantsinsteadofpyjamas.‘Hey!’exclaimedSomi,‘whohasgivenyouablackeye?’Kishendidnotanswerimmediately,butsatdownoppositeRusty.Hisshirthung

overhispants,andhispantshungoverhisknees;hehadbushyeyebrowsandhair,andadrooping,disagreeablemouth;thesulkyexpressiononhisfacehadbecomeapermanentone,notamoodof themoment.Kishen’sswagger,money,unattractivefaceandqualitiesmadehim—forRusty,anyway—curiouslyattractive...Heproddedhisnosewithhisforefinger,ashealwaysdidwhena trifleexcited.

‘Thosedamnwrestlers,theypiledontome.’‘Why?’saidRanbir,sittingupinstantly.‘Iwasmakingabadmintoncourton themaidan, and these fellowscamealong

andsaidtheyhadreservedtheplaceforawrestlingground.’‘Sothen?’Kishen’saffectedAmericantwangbecamemorepronounced.‘I toldthemtogo

tohell!’Ranbirlaughed.‘Sotheyallstartedwrestlingyou?’‘Yeah,but Ididn’tknowtheywouldhitme too. Ibet ifyoufellowswere there,

theywouldn’thavetriedanything.Isn’tthatso,Ranbir?’Ranbir smiled; he knew it was so, but did not care to speak of his physical

prowess.Kishentooknoticeofthenewcomer.‘AreyouMisterRusty?’heasked.‘Yes,Iam,’saidtheboy.‘AreyouMisterKishen?’‘IamMisterKishen.Youknowhowtobox,Rusty?’‘Well,’ said the boy, unwilling to become involved in a local feud, ‘I’ve never

boxedwrestlers.’Somichanged thesubject. ‘Rusty’scoming toseeyour father thisevening.You

musttryandpersuadeyourpoptogivehimthejobofteachingyouEnglish.’Kishenproddedhisnose,andgaveRustyaslywink.‘Yes, Daddy told me about you, he says you are a professor. You can be my

teacherontheconditionthatwedon’tworktoohard,andyousupportmewhenItellthemlies,and thatyou tell themIamworkinghard.Sure,youcanbemyteacher,sure...betteryouthanarealone.’‘I’lltrytopleaseeveryone,’saidRusty.‘You’re a clever person if you can. But I think you are clever.’ ‘Yes,’ agreed

Rusty,andwasinwardlyamazedatthewayhespoke.

*

As Rusty had now met Kishen, Somi suggested that the two should go to theKapoors’ house together; so that evening, Rusty met Kishen in the bazaar andwalkedhomewithhim.Therewasacrowdinfrontofthebazaar ’sonlycinema,anditwasgettingrestive

anddemonstrative.One had to fight to get into this particular cinema, as there was no organized

queuingorbooking.‘Isanythingwrong?’askedRusty.‘Oh,no,’ saidKishen, ‘it is justLaurelandHardy today, theyareverypopular.

Wheneverapopularfilmisshown, thereisusuallyariot.ButIknowofawayinthroughtheroof,I’llshowyousometime.’‘Soundscrazy.’‘Yeah, the roof leaks, sopeopleusuallybring their umbrellas.Also their food,

becausewhen theprojectorbreaksdownor theelectricity fails,wehave towaitalong time.Sometimes,when it is a longwait, thechaat-wallahcomes inanddoessomebusiness.’‘Soundscrazy,’repeatedRusty.‘You’llgetusedtoit.Haveachewinggum.’Kishen’s jaws had been working incessantly on a lump of gum that had been

increasinginsizeoverthelastthreedays;hestartedonafreshstickeveryhourorso,withoutthrowingawaytheoldones.RustywasusedtoseeingIndianschewpaan,thebetelleafpreparationwhichstainedthemouthwithredjuices,butKishenwasn’tlikeanyoftheIndiansRustyhadmetsofar.Heacceptedastickofgum,andthepairwalkedhomeinsilentconcentration,theirjawsmovingrhythmically,andKishen’stonguemakingsuddensuckingsounds.Astheyenteredthefrontroom,MeenaKapoorpouncedonKishen.‘Ah!Soyouhavedecidedtocomehomeatlast!Andwhatdoyoumeanbyasking

Daddy formoneywithout lettingme know?What have you donewith it, Kishenbhaiya?Whereisit?’Kishensaunteredacrosstheroomanddepositedhimselfonthecouch.‘I’vespent

it.’Meena’shandswenttoherhips.‘Whatdoyoumean,you’vespentit!’‘ImeanI’veeatenit.’

Hegottworesoundingslapsacrosshisface,andhisfleshwentwhitewherehismother ’s fingers left their mark. Rusty backed towards the door; it wasembarrassingtobepresentatthisintimatefamilyscene.‘Don’tgo,Rusty,’shoutedKishen,‘orshewon’tstopslappingme!’Kapoor, still wearing his green dressing gown and beard, came in from the

adjoiningroom,andhiswifeturnedonhim.‘Why do you give the child so much money?’ she demanded. ‘You know he

spendsitonnothingbutbazaarfoodandmakeshimselfsick.’Rusty seized at the opportunity of pleasing the whole family; of saving Mr

Kapoor ’sskin,pacifyinghiswife,andgainingtheaffectionandregardofKishen.‘Itisallmyfault,’hesaid,‘ItookKishentothechaatshop.I’mverysorry.’MeenaKapoorbecamequietandhereyessoftened;butRustyresentedherkindly

expressionbecauseheknewitwaspromptedbypity—pityforhim—andasatisfiedpride.Meenawasproudbecauseshethoughthersonhadsharedhismoneywithonewhoapparentlyhadn’tany.‘Ididnotseeyoucomein,’shesaid.‘Ionlywantedtoexplainaboutthemoney.’‘Comein,don’tbeshy.’Meena’ssmilewasfullofkindness,butRustywasnotlookingforkindness;for

noapparent reason,hefelt lonely;hemissedSomi, felt lostwithouthim,helplessandclumsy.‘Thereisanotherthing,’hesaid,rememberingthepostofProfessorinEnglish.‘Butcomein,MisterRusty...’Itwas the first time shehadusedhisname,and thegesture immediatelyplaced

themonequal terms.Shewasagracefulwoman,muchyounger thanKapoor;herfeatureshadaclear,classicbeauty,andhervoicewasgentlebutfirm.Herhairwastiedinaneatbunandlacedwithastringofjasmineflowers.‘Comein...’‘AboutteachingKishen,’mumbledRusty.‘Come and play carom,’ said Kishen from the couch. ‘We are none of us any

good.Comeandsitdown,pardner.’‘He fancies himself as an American,’ saidMeena. ‘If ever you see him in the

cinema,draghimout.’Thecaromboardwasbrought in from thenext room,and itwasarranged that

RustypartnerMrKapoor.Theybeganplay,butthegamedidn’tprogressveryfastbecauseKapoorkeptleavingthetableinordertodisappearbehindascreen,from

the direction of which came a tinkle of bottles and glasses. Rusty was afraid ofKapoor getting drunk before he could be approached about the job of teachingKishen.‘My wife,’ said Kapoor in a loud whisper to Rusty, ‘does not let me drink in

publicanymore,soIhavetodoitinacupboard.’Helookedsad;thereweretearstainsonhischeeks;thetearswerecausednotby

Meena’s scolding,which he ignored, but by his own self-pity; he often cried forhimself,usuallyinhissleep.WheneverRustypocketedoneof the carommen,Kapoor exclaimed: ‘Ah, nice

shot, nice shot!’ as though it were a cricket match they were playing. ‘But hit itslowly, slowly . . .’ Andwhen it was his turn, he gave the striker a feeble push,movingitabareinchfromhisfinger.‘Play properly,’ murmured Meena, who was intent on winning the game; but

Kapoorwouldbeupfromhisseatagain,andthecompanywouldsitbackandwaitforthetuneofclinkingglass.Itwasaveryirritatinggame.KapoorinsistedonshowingRustyhowtostrikethe

men;andwheneverRustymadeamistake,Meenasaid‘thankyou’inanamusedandconceitedmannerthatangeredtheboy.WhensheandKishenhadclearedtheboardofwhites,KapoorandRustywereleftwitheightblacks.‘Thankyou,’saidMeenasweetly.‘We are too good for you,’ scoffed Kishen, busily arranging the board for

anothergame.Kapoortooksuddeninterestintheproceedings:‘Whowon,Isay,whowon?’Much toRusty’sdisgust, theybegananothergame, andwith the samepartners;

but they had just started when Kapoor flopped forward and knocked the caromboardoffthetable.Hehadfallenasleep.Rustytookhimbytheshoulders,easedhimbackintothechair.Kapoor ’sbreathingwasheavy;salivahadcollectedatthesidesofhismouth,andhesnortedalittle.Rustythoughtitwastimeheleft.Risingfromthetable,hesaid,‘Iwillhavetoask

anothertimeaboutthejob...’‘Hasn’thetoldyouasyet?’saidMeena.‘What?’‘Thatyoucanhavethejob.’‘CanI!’exclaimedRusty.Meena gave a little laugh. ‘But of course! Certainly there is no one else who

wouldtakeiton,Kishenisnoteasytoteach.Thereisnofixedpay,butwewillgive

youanythingyouneed.Youarenotourservant.Youwillbedoingusafavourbygiving Kishen some of your knowledge and conversation and company, and inreturnwewillbegivingyouourhospitality.Youwillhavearoomofyourown,andyourfoodyouwillhavewithus.Whatdoyouthink?’‘Oh,itiswonderful!’saidRusty.Anditwaswonderful,andhefeltgayandlight-headed,andallthetroublesinthe

world scurried away: he even felt successful: he had a profession. And MeenaKapoorwas smiling at him, and lookingmore beautiful than she reallywas, andKishenwassaying:‘Tomorrow youmust stay till twelve o’clock, all right, even ifDaddy goes to

sleep.Promiseme?’Rustypromised.AnunaffectedenthusiasmwasbubblingupinKishen;itwasquitedifferenttothe

sulkiness of his usualmanner.Rusty had liked him in spite of the younger boy’sunattractivequalities,andnowlikedhimmore;forKishenhadtakenRustyintohishome and confidence without knowing him very well and without asking anyquestions.Kishenwasascoundrel,amonkey—crudeandwell-spoilt—but,forhimto have taken a liking toRusty (andRusty held himself in high esteem), hemusthavesomevirtues...orsoRustyreasoned.Hismind,whilehewalkedbacktoSomi’shouse,dweltonhisrelationshipwith

Kishen; but his tongue,when he loosened it in Somi’s presence, dwelt onMeenaKapoor.Andwhenhelaydowntosleep,hesawherinhismind’seye,andforthefirsttimetookconsciousnoteofherbeauty,ofherwarmthandsoftness;andmadeuphismindthathewouldfallinlovewithher.

ChapterX

MrHarrisonwas back to normal in a few days, and telling everyone of Rusty’sbarbaricbehaviour.‘Ifhewantstolivelikeananimal,hecan.Heleftmyhouseofhisownfreewill,

andIfeelnoresponsibilityforhim.It’shisownfaultifhestarvestodeath.’Themissionary’swifesaid:‘ButIdohopeyouwillforgivehimifhereturns.’‘Iwill,madam.Ihaveto.I’mhislegalguardian.AndIhopehedoesn’treturn.’‘Oh,MrHarrison,he’sonlyaboy...’‘That’swhatyouthink.’‘I’msurehe’llcomeback.’MrHarrisonshruggedindifferently.

*

Rusty’sthoughtswerefarfromhisguardian.HewaslisteningtoMeenaKapoortellhimabouthisroom,andhegazedintohereyesallthetimeshetalked.‘Itisaveryniceroom,’shesaid,‘butofcoursethereisnowaterorelectricityor

lavatory.’Rustywasbathinginthebrownpoolsofhereyes.Shesaid:‘Youwillhavetocollectyourwateratthebigtank,andfortherest,you

willhavetodoitinthejungle...’Rustythoughthesawhisowngazereflectedinhereyes.‘Yes?’hesaid.‘YoucangiveKishenhis lessons in themorninguntil twelveo’clock.Thenno

more,thenyouhaveyourfood.’‘Then?’Hewatchedthemovementofherlips.‘Thennothing,youdowhatyoulike,gooutwithKishenorSomioranyofyour

friends.’‘WheredoIteachKishen?’‘Ontheroof,ofcourse.’

Rustyretrievedhisgaze,andscratchedhishead.Theroofseemedastrangeplaceforsettingupschool.‘Whytheroof?’‘Becauseyourroomisontheroof.’

*

Meenaledtheboyroundthehouseuntiltheycametoaflightofsteps,unsheltered,thatwentuptotheroof.Theyhadtohopoveranarrowdrainbeforeclimbingthesteps.‘This drain,’ warnedMeena, ‘is very easy to cross. But when you are coming

downstairsbesurenottotaketoobigastepbecausethenyoumightbumpthewallontheothersideorfalloverthestovewhichisusuallythere...’‘I’llbecareful,’saidRusty.They began climbing,Meena in the lead. RustywatchedMeena’s long, slender

feet. The slippers she wore consisted only of two straps that passed between hertoes, and thebacksof the slippers slappedagainst herheels likeSomi’s, only themusic—likethefeet—wasdifferent...‘Another thing about these steps,’ continued Meena, ‘there are twenty-two of

them.No,don’tcount,Ihavealreadydoneso...Butremember,ifyouarecominghome in the dark, be sure you take only twenty-two steps, because if you don’t,then’—andshesnappedherfingersintheair—‘youwillbefinished!Aftertwenty-twostepsyouturnrightandyoufindthedoor,hereitis.Ifyoudonotturnrightandyoutaketwenty-threesteps,youwillgoovertheedgeoftheroof!’Theyboth laughed,andsuddenlyMeena tookRusty’shandandledhiminto the

room.Itwasasmallroom,butthisdidnotmattermuchastherewasverylittleinit:only

a stringbed,a table, a shelf anda fewnails in thewall. Incomparison toRusty’sroominhisguardian’shouse,itwasn’tevenaroom:itwasfourwalls,adoorandawindow.Thedoorlookedoutontheroof,andMeenapointedthroughit,atthebiground

watertank.‘Thatiswhereyoubatheandgetyourwater,’shesaid.‘Iknow,IwentwithSomi.’There was a big mango tree behind the tank, and Kishen was sitting in its

branches,watchingthem.Surroundingthehousewereanumberoflitcheetrees,andinthesummertheyandthemangowouldbearfruit.

Meena and Rusty stood by the window in silence, hand in hand. Rusty wasprepared tostand there,holdinghandsforever.Meenafeltasisterlyaffectionforhim;buthewasstumblingintolove.Fromthewindowtheycouldseemanythings.Inthedistance,toweringoverthe

othertrees,wastheFlameoftheForest,itsflowersglowingred-hotagainsttheblueofthesky.Throughthewindowcameashootofpinkbougainvillaeacreeper;andRustyknewhewouldnevercutit;andsoheknewhewouldneverbeabletoshutthewindow.Meenasaid, ‘Ifyoudonot like it,wewill findanother . . .’Rustysqueezedher

hand,andsmiledintohereyes,andsaid:‘ButI likeit.ThisistheroomIwanttolivein.Anddoyouknowwhy,Meena?

Becauseitisn’tarealroom,that’swhy!’

*

Theafternoonwaswarm,andRustysatbeneaththebigbanyantreethatgrewbehindthehouse,atreethatwasalmostahouseinitself;itsspreadingbranchesdroopedtothe ground and took new root, forming a maze of pillared passages. The treeshelteredscoresofbirdsandsquirrels.AsquirrelstoodinfrontofRusty.Itlookedathimfrombetweenitslegs,itstail

intheair,backarchedgracefullyandnosequiveringexcitedly.‘Hullo,’saidRusty.Thesquirrelbrusheditsnosewithitsforepaw,winkedattheboy,hoppedoverhis

leg,andranupapillarofthebanyantree.Rusty leant back against thebroad trunkof thebanyan, and listened to the lazy

droneofthebees,thesqueakingofthesquirrelsandtheincessantbirdtalk.He thought of Meena and of Kishen, and felt miserably happy; and then he

remembered Somi and the chaat shop. The chaat-wallah, that god of the tikkees,handedRustya leafbowl,andpreparedalluchole:firstslicedpotatoes, thenpeas,thenredandgoldchillipowders,thenasprinklingofjuices,thenheshookitallupanddownintheleafbowland,inasimplicity,theallucholewasready.Somiremovedhisslippers,crossedhislegs,andlookedaquestion.‘It’sfine,’saidRusty.‘Youaresure?’TherewasconcerninSomi’svoice,andhiseyesseemedtohesitatealittlebefore

smilingwiththemouth.

‘It’sfine,’saidRusty.‘I’llsoongetusedtotheroom.’Therewasasilence.Rustyconcentratedonthealluchole,feelingguiltyandungrateful.‘Ranbirhasgone,’saidSomi.‘Oh,hedidn’tevensaygoodbye!’‘Hehasnotgoneforever.Andanyway,whatwouldbetheuseofsayinggoodbye.

..’Hesoundeddepressed.Hefinishedhisallucholeandsaid:‘Rusty,bestfavourite

friend,ifyoudon’twantthisjobI’llfindyouanother.’‘ButIlikeit,Somi,Iwantit,reallyIdo.Youaretryingtodotoomuchforme.

MrsKapoor iswonderful,andMrKapoor isgood fun,andKishen isnot sobad,youknow...Comeontothehouseandseetheroom.It’sthekindofroominwhichyouwritepoetryorcreatemusic.’Theywalkedhomeintheevening.Theeveningwasfullofsounds.Rustynoticed

thesounds,becausehewashappy,andahappypersonnoticesthings.Carriages passed them on the road, creaking and rattling, wheels squeaking,

hoofsresoundingontheground;andthewhip-cracksabovethehorse’sear,andthedrivershouts,androundgothewheels,squeakingandcreaking,andthehoofsgoclippety-clippety,clip-clop-clop...Abicyclecameswishingthroughthepuddles, thewheelspurringandhumming

smoothly, thebell tinkling . . . In thebushes therewas thechatterofsparrowsandseven-sisters,butRustycouldnotseethemnomatterhowhardhelooked.Andtherewerefootsteps...Theirownfootsteps,quietandthoughtful;andaheadofthemanoldman,witha

dhotiroundhislegsandablackumbrellainhishand,walkingataclockworkpace.Ateachalternatestephetappedwithhisumbrellaonthepavement;heworenoisyshoes,andhisfootstepsechoedoffthepavementtothebeatoftheumbrella.RustyandSomiquickenedtheirownsteps,passedhimby,andlettheendlesstappingdieonthewind.Theysatontheroofforanhour,watchingthesunsetandSomisang.Somihadabeautifulvoice,clearandmellow,matchingtheserenityofhisface.

Andwhenhesang,hiseyeswandered into thenight,andhewas lost to theworldandtoRusty;forwhenhesangofthestars,hewasofthestars,andwhenhesangofariver,hewasariver.HecommunicatedhismoodtoRusty,ashecouldnothavedoneinplain language;and,whenthesongended, thesilencereturnedandall theworldfellasleep.

ChapterXI

Rustywatchedthedawnblossomintolight.Atfirsteverythingwasdark,thengraduallyobjectsbegantotakeshape—thedesk

andchair,thewallsoftheroom—andthedarknessliftedliketheraisingofaveil,andover the treetops theskywasstreakedwithcrimson. Itwas like this forsometime, while everything became clearer andmore distinguishable; and then, whennaturewasready,thesunreachedupoverthetreesandhills,andsentonetentativebeamofwarmlightthroughthewindow.Alongthewallcreptthesun,acrosstothebed,anduptheboy’sbarelegs,untilitwascaressinghisentirebodyandwhisperingtohimtogetup,getup,itistimetogetup...Rustyblinked.Hesatupandrubbedhiseyesandlookedaround.Itwashisfirst

morningintheroom,andperchedonthewindowsillwasasmallbrownandyellowbird, amaina, looking at himwith its head cocked to one side.Themainawas acommon sight, but this one was unusual: it was bald: all the feathers had beenknockedoffitsheadinaseriesoffights.Rustywonderedifheshouldgetupandbathe,orwaitforsomeonetoarrive.But

hedidn’twaitlong.Somethingbumpedhimfromunderthebed.Hestiffenedwithapprehension.Somethingwasmovingbeneathhim,themattress

rose gently and fell.Could it be a jackal or awolf that had stolen in through theopen door during the night? Rusty trembled, but did not move . . . It might besomethingevenmoredangerous,thehousewasclosetothejungle...oritmightbeathief...butwhatwastheretosteal?Unabletobearthesuspense,Rustybroughthisfistsdownontheunevenlumpin

thequilt,andKishensprangoutwithacryofpainandastonishment.HesatonhisbottomandcursedRusty.‘Sorry,’saidRusty,‘butyoufrightenedme.’‘I’mglad,becauseyouhurtme,mister.’‘Yourfault.What’sthetime?’

‘Timetogetup.I’vebroughtyousomemilk,andyoucanhaveminetoo.Ihateit,itspoilstheflavourofmychewinggum.’KishenaccompaniedRustytothewatertank,wheretheymetSomi.Aftertheyhad

bathedandfilledtheirsohraiswithdrinkingwater,theywentbacktotheroomforthefirstlesson.KishenandRustysatcross-leggedonthebed,facingeachother.Rustyfingeredhischin,andKishenplayedwithhistoes.‘Whatdoyouwanttolearntoday?’askedRusty.‘HowshouldIknow?That’syourproblem,pardner.’‘Asit’sthefirstday,youcanmakeachoice.’‘Let’splaynoughtsandcrosses.’‘Beserious.Tellme,bhaiya,whatbookshaveyouread?’Kishenturnedhiseyesuptotheceiling.‘I’vereadsomanyIcan’trememberthe

names.’‘Well,youcantellmewhattheywereabout.’Kishenlookeddisconcerted.‘Oh,sure...sure...letmeseenow...whatabout

theoneinwhicheveryonewentdownarabbithole?’‘Whataboutit?’‘CalledTreasureIsland.’‘Hell!’saidRusty.‘Whichoneshaveyouread?’askedKishen,warmingtothediscussion.‘TreasureIsland and theone about the rabbit hole, andyouhaven’t read either.

Whatdoyouwanttobewhenyougrowup,Kishen?Abusinessman,anofficer,anengineer?’‘Don’twanttobeanything.Whataboutyou?’‘You’renotsupposedtobeaskingme.Butifyouwanttoknow,I’mgoingtobea

writer.I’llwritebooks.You’llreadthem.’‘You’llbeagreatwriter,Rusty,you’llbegreat...’‘Maybe,whoknows.’‘Iknow,’saidKishen,quitesincerely,‘you’llbeaterrificwriter.You’llbefamous.You’llbeaking.’‘Shutup...’

*

TheKapoorslikedRusty.Theydidn’tadmirehim,buttheylikedhim.Kishenlikedhimforhiscompany,Kapoorlikedhimforhisflatteringconversation,andMeenalikedhimbecause—well,becausehelikedher...

TheKapoorsweregladtohavehimintheirhouse.MeenahadbeenbetrothedtoKapoorsincechildhood,beforetheykneweachother,anddespitethefactthattherewasadifferenceofnearlytwentyyearsbetweentheirages.Kapoorwasapromisingyoung man, intelligent and beginning to make money; and Meena, at thirteen,possessedthefreshnessandpromiseofspring.Aftertheyweremarried,theyfellinlove.They toured Europe, and Kapoor returned a connoisseur of wine. Kishen was

born, looking just like his father. Kapoor never stopped loving his wife, but hispassionforherwasneversogreataswhenthewarmthofoldwinefilledhimwithpoetry.Meenahadanoblenoseandforehead(‘Aristocratic,’saidKapoor;‘shehasblue blood’) and long raven-black hair (‘Like seaweed,’ saidKapoor, dizzywithpossessive glory). She was tall, strong, perfectly formed, and she had grace andcharmandaquickwit.Kapoorlivedinhisbeardandgreendressinggown,somethingofanoutcast.The

self-made man likes to boast of humble origins and initial poverty, and his risefromragscanbe turned toeffectivepublicity; themanwhohas lostmuchrecallspast exploits and the good name of his family, and the failure at least publicizesthese things.ButKapoorhadgonefullcycle:hecouldno longerharpon therisefromrags,becausehewasfastbecomingragged;andhehadnobackgroundexceptthe onewhich he himself created and destroyed; he had nothing but a dwindlingbankbalance,awifeandason.Andthewifewashisbestasset.But on the evening of Rusty’s second day in the room, no one would have

guessedat the family’splight.Rusty satwith them in the front room,andKapoorextolledthevirtuesofchewinggum,muchtoKishen’sdelightandMeena’sdisgust.‘Chewing gum,’ declared Kapoor, waving a finger in the air, ‘is the secret of

youth.Have youobserved theAmericans, howyoung they look, and theEnglish,how haggard? It has nothing to do with responsibilities, it is chewing gum. Bychewing,youexerciseyourjawsandthemusclesofyourface.Thisimprovesyourcomplexionandstrengthensthetissuesofyourskin.’‘You’reveryclever,Daddy,’saidKishen.‘I’magenius,’saidKapoor,‘I’magenius.’‘Thefool!’whisperedMeena,sothatonlyRustycouldhear.Rustysaid,‘Ihaveanidea,let’sformaclub.’‘Goodidea!’exclaimedKishen.‘Whatdowecallit?’‘Beforewe call it anything,wemust decidewhat sort of club it should be.We

musthaverules,wemusthaveapresident,asecretary...’

‘All right, all right,’ interruptedKishen,whowas sprawling on the floor, ‘youcanbeall thosethingsifyoulike.ButwhatIsayis, themost important thinginaclubisname.Withoutagoodname,what’stheuseofaclub?’‘TheFools’Club,’suggestedMeena.‘Inappropriate,’saidKapoor,‘inappropriate...’‘Everyoneshutup,’orderedKishen,proddingathisnose,‘I’mtryingtothink.’Theyallshutupandtriedtothink.This thinkingwasaverycomplicatedprocess,and it soonbecameobvious that

noonehadbeenthinkingoftheclub;forRustywaslookingatMeenathinking,andMeenawaswonderingifKishenknewhowtothink,andKishenwasreallythinkingabout the benefits of chewing gum, andKapoor was smelling the whisky bottlesbehindthescreenandthinkingofthem.AtlastKapoorobserved:‘Mywifeisadevil,abeautiful,beautifuldevil!’Thisseemedaninterestinglineofconversation,andRustywasabouttofollowit

upwithacomplimentofhisown,whenKishenburstoutbrilliantly: ‘Iknow!TheDevil’sClub?How’sthat?’‘Ah,ha!’exclaimedKapoor,‘TheDevil’sClub,we’vegotit!I’magenius.’Theygotdowntothebusinessofplanningtheclub’sactivities.Kishenproposed

caromandMeenaseconded,andRustylookeddismayed.KapoorproposedliteraryandpoliticaldiscussionsandRusty, just tospite theothers,secondedtheproposal.Then theyelectedofficersof theclub.Meenawasgiven the titleofOurLadyandPatroness,KapoorwaselectedPresident,RustytheSecretary,andKishentheChiefWhip.Somi,RanbirandSuri,thoughabsent,wereacceptedasHonoraryMembers.‘Carom and discussions are not enough,’ complained Kishen, ‘we must have

adventures.’‘Whatkind?’askedRusty.‘Climbmountainsorsomething.’‘Apicnic,’proposedMeena.‘Apicnic!’secondedKishen,‘andSomiandtheotherscancometoo.’‘Let’sdrinktoit,’saidKapoor,risingfromhischair,‘let’scelebrate.’‘Goodidea,’saidKishen,foilinghisfather ’splanofaction,‘we’llgotothechaat

shop!’AsfarasMeenawasconcerned,thechaatshopwasthelesserofthetwoevils,so

Kapoorwasbundledintotheoldcarandtakentothebazaar.‘Tothechaatshop!’hecried,fallingacrossthesteeringwheel.‘Wewillbringit

home!’

Thechaat shopwas so tightly crowded thatpeoplewerebreathingeachother ’sbreath.The chaat-wallah was very pleased with Rusty for bringing in so many new

customers—a whole family— and beamed on the party, rubbing his hands andgreasingthefryingpanwithenthusiasm.‘Everything!’orderedKapoor.‘Wewillhavesomethingofeverything.’Sothechaat-wallahpattedhiscakesintoshapeandflippedthemintothesizzling

grease;andfashionedhisgolguppasoverthefire,fillingthemwiththejuiceofthedevil.Meenasatcurleduponachair, facingRusty.Theboystaredather:she looked

quaint, sitting in this unfamiliar posture. Her eyes encountered Rusty’s stare,mockingit. Inhotconfusion,Rustymovedhiseyesupward,upthewall,ontotheceiling,untiltheycouldgonofurther.‘Whatareyoulookingat?’askedKishen.Rustybroughthiseyestotheground,andpretendednottohaveheard.Heturned

toKapoorandsaid,‘Whataboutpolitics?’Thechaat-wallahhandedoutfourbigbananaleaves.ButKapoorwouldn’teat.Instead,hecried:‘Takethechaatshoptothehouse.Put

itinthecar,wemusthaveit!Wemusthaveit,wemusthaveit!’The chaat-wallah, who was used to displays of drunkenness in one form or

another,humouredKapoor.‘Itisallyours,Lallaji,buttakemewithyoutoo,orwhowillruntheshop?’‘Wewill!’ shouted Kishen, infected by his father ’s enthusiasm. ‘Buy it, Daddy.

MummycanmakethetikkeesandI’llsellthemandRustycandotheaccounts!’Kapoor threwhisbanana leafof the floorandwrappedhisarmsroundKishen.

‘Yes,wewillrunit!Takeittothehouse!’And,makingalungeatabowlofchaat,felltohisknees.Rusty helped Kapoor get up, then looked to Meena for guidance. She said

nothing,butgavehimanod,andtheboyfoundheunderstoodthenod.Hesaid,‘It’sawonderfulidea,MrKapoor,justputmeinchargeofeverything.

YouandMeenagohomeandgetaspareroomreadyforthesupplies,andKishenandIwillmakeallthearrangementswiththechaat-wallah.’Kapoorclung toRusty, the spittledribblingdownhischeeks. ‘Goodboy,good

boy...wewillmakelotsofmoneytogether,youandI...’Heturnedtohiswifeandwavedhisarmgrandiloquently:‘Wewillberichagain,Meena,whatdoyousay?’

Meena,asusual,saidnothing;buttookKapoorbythearmandbundledhimoutoftheshopandintothecar.‘Bequickwiththechaatshop!’criedKapoor.‘Iwillhaveitinthehouseinfiveminutes,’calledRusty.‘Geteverythingready!’He returned to Kishen, who was stuffing himself with chaat; his father ’s

behaviourdidnotappeartohaveaffectedhim,hewasunconsciousofitsridiculousaspectandfeltnoshame;hewasunconscioustoooftheconsideratemannerofthechaat-wallah,whofeltsorryfortheneglectedchild.Thechaat-wallahdidnotknowthatKishenenjoyedbeingneglected.Rustysaid,‘Come,let’sgo...’‘What’s the hurry,Rusty?Sit down and eat, there’s plenty of dough tonight.At

leastgiveMummytimetoputthesleepingtabletsinthewhisky.’So they sat andate their fill, and listened tootherpeople’sgossip; thenKishen

suggestedthattheyexplorethebazaar.The oil lampswere lit, and themain road bright and crowded; butKishen and

Rusty went down an alleyway, where the smells were more complicated and thenoise intermittent; twowomen spoke to each other from theirwindows on eithersideof the road, ababycriedmonotonously, acheapgramophoneblared.KishenandRustywalkedaimlesslythroughthemazeofalleyways.‘WhyareyouwhitelikeSuri?’askedKishen.‘WhyisSuriwhite?’‘HeisKashmiri;theyarefair.’‘Well,IamEnglish...’‘English?’saidKishendisbelievingly.‘You?Butyoudonotlooklikeone.’Rustyhesitated:hedidnotfeeltherewasanypointinrakingupapastthatwasas

muchamysterytohimasitwastoKishen.‘Idon’tknow,’hesaid.‘Ineversawmyparents.AndIdon’tcarewhattheywere

andIdon’tcarewhatIam,andI’mnotveryinterested...’But he couldn’t help wondering, and Kishen couldn’t help wondering, so they

walkedoninsilence,wondering...Theyreachedtherailwaystation,whichwastheendofthebazaar;thegateswereclosed,buttheypeeredthroughtherailingsatthegoodswagons.Apleasurehousedidbusinessnearthestation.‘Ifyouwant tohave fun,’ saidKishen, ‘let’s climb that roof.From the skylight

youcanseeeverything.’‘Nofuninjustwatching,’saidRusty.‘Haveyoueverwatched?’‘Ofcourse,’liedRusty,turninghomewards;hewalkedwithadistractedair.‘Whatareyouthinkingof?’askedKishen.

‘Nothing.’‘Youmustbeinlove.’‘That’sright.’‘Whoisit,eh?’‘IfItoldyou,’saidRusty,‘you’dbejealous.’‘ButI’mnotinlovewithanybody.Comeon,tellme,I’myourfriend.’‘WouldyoubeangryifIsaidIlovedyourmother?’‘Mummy!’ exclaimed Kishen. ‘But she’s old! She’s married. Hell, who would

thinkoffallinginlovewithMummy?Don’tjoke,mister.’‘I’msorry,’saidRusty.Theywalkedoninsilenceandcrossedthemaidan, leavingthebazaarbehind.It

was dark on themaidan, they could hardly see eachother ’s faces;Kishenput hishandonRusty’sshoulder.‘Ifyouloveher,’hesaid,‘I’mnotjealous.Butitsoundsfunny...’

ChapterXII

Inhisroom,Rustywasaking.Hisdomainwastheskyandeverythinghecouldsee.His subjects were the people who passed below, but they were his subjects onlywhile theywerebelowandhewason the roof;andhespiedon them through thebranchesofthebanyantree.Hiscloseconfidantsweretheinhabitantsofthebanyantree;which,ofcourse,includedKishen.Itwasthedayofthepicnic,andRustyhadjustfinishedbathingatthewatertank.

Hehadbecomeusedtothepeopleatthetankandhadmadefriendswiththeayahsandtheircharges.Hehadcometoliketheirbanglesandbraceletsandankle-bells.Helikedtowatchoneofthematthetap,squattingonherhaunches,scrubbingherfeet,andmakingmuchmusicwiththebellsandbangles;shewouldrollhersariuptothekneestogiveherlegsgreaterfreedom,andcrouchforwardsothatherjacketrevealedamodestexpanseofwaist.Itwas thedayof thepicnic,andRustyhadbathed,andnowhesatonadisused

chimney,dryinghimselfinthesun.Summerwascoming.Thelitcheeswerealmostreadytoeat,themangoesripened

underKishen’sgreedyeye.In theafternoons, thesleepysunlightstole throughthebranchesofthebanyantreeandmadeapatchworkofarchedshadowsonthewallsof the house.The inhabitants of the trees knew that summerwas coming; Somi’sslippers knew it, and slapped lazily against his heels; and Kishen grumbled andbecame more untidy, and even Suri seemed to be taking a rest from his privateinvestigations.Yes,summerwascoming.Anditwasthedayofthepicnic.The car had been inspected, and the two bottles thatKapoor had hidden in the

dickyhadbeenfoundandremoved;Kapoorwasputintokhakidrilltrousersandabush-shirtandpronouncedfittodrive;abasketoffoodandagramophonewereinthe dicky. Suri had a camera slung over his shoulders; Kishen was sporting aGurkhahat;andRustyhadonathickleatherbeltreinforcedwithsteelknobs.Meena

haddressedinahurry,andlookedthebetterforit.Andforonce,Somihadtiedhisturbantoperfection.‘Everyonepresent?’saidMeena.‘Ifso,getintothecar.’‘I’mwaitingformydog,’saidSuri,andhehadhardlymade theannouncement

whenfromaroundthecornercameayappingmongrel.‘He’scalledPricklyHeat,’saidSuri.‘We’llputhiminthebackseat.’‘He’llgo in thedicky,’saidKishen. ‘Icansee the lice fromhere.’PricklyHeat

wasn’tanyparticularkindofdog,justakindofdog;hehadn’teventhestumpofatail.Buthehad sharp,pointedears thatwaggedaswell asany tail, and theywereworkingfuriouslythismorning.Suriandthedogwerebothdepositedinthedicky;Somi,KishenandRustymade

themselvescomfortable in thebackseat,andMeenasatnext toherhusband in thefront. The car belched and lurched forward, and stirred up great clouds of dust;then,accelerating,spedoutofthecompoundandacrossthenarrowwoodenbridgethatspannedthecanal.The sun rose over the forest, and a spiral of smoke from a panting train was

caughtbyaslantingrayandspangledwithgold.Theairwasfreshandexciting.Itwas ten miles to the river and the sulphur springs, ten miles of intermittentgrumblingandgaiety,withPricklyHeatyappinginthedickeyandKapoorwhistlingatthewheelandKishenlettingflyfromthewindowwithacatapult.Somi said: ‘Rusty, your pimples will leave you if you bathe in the sulphur

springs.’‘Iwouldratherhavepimplesthanpneumonia,’repliedRusty.‘Butit’snotcold,’andKishen.‘Iwouldbathemyself,butIdon’tfeelverywell.’‘Thenyoushouldn’thavecome,’saidMeenafromthefront.‘Ididn’twanttodisappointyouall,’saidKishen.Before reaching thesprings, thecarhad tocrossoneor two riverbeds,usually

dryatthistimeoftheyear.Butthemountainshadtrickedtheparty,fortherewasagooddealofwatertobeseen,andthecurrentwasstrong.‘It’s not very deep,’ said Kapoor, at the first riverbed, ‘I think we can drive

througheasily.’The car dipped forward, rolled down the bank, and entered the current with a

greatsplash.Inthedicky,Surigotasoaking.‘Gottogofast,’saidMrKapoor,‘orwe’llstick.’Heaccelerated,andagreatsprayofwaterroseonbothsidesof thecar.Kishen

criedoutforsheerjoy,butattheback,Suriwashavingafitofhysterics.

‘Ithinkthedog’sfallenout,’saidMeena.‘Good,’saidSomi.‘IthinkSuri’sfallenout,’saidRusty.‘Good,’saidSomi.Suddenlytheenginessplutteredandchoked,andthecarcametoastandstill.‘Wehavestuck,’saidKapoor.‘That,’saidMeenabitingly,‘isobvious.NowIsupposeyouwantusalltogetout

andpush?’‘Yes,that’sagoodidea.’‘You’reagenius.’Kishenhadhisshoesoffinaflash,andwasleapingaboutinthewaterwithgreat

abandon.Thewaterreacheduptohiskneesand,ashehadn’tbeensweptoffhisfeet,theothersfollowedhisexample.Meenarolledhersariuptothethighs,andsteppedgingerlyintothecurrent.Her

legs, soseldomexposed,werevery fair incontrast toher feetandarms,but theywere strong and nimble, and she held herself erect. Rusty stumbled to her side,intendingtoaidher;butendedbyclingingtoherdressforsupport.Suriwasnottobeseenanywhere.‘WhereisSuri?’saidMeena.‘Here,’ said amuffled voice from the floor of the dicky. ‘I’ve got sick. I can’t

push.’‘Allright,’saidMeena.‘Butyou’llcleanupthemessyourself.’SomiandKishenwerelookingforfish.Kapoortootledthehorn.‘Areyouallgoingtopush?’hesaid,‘orarewegoingtohavethepicnicinthe

middleoftheriver?’RustywassurprisedatKapoor ’sunusualdisplayofcommonsense;whensober,

MrKapoordidsometimeshavemomentsofsanity.Everyoneputtheirweightagainstthecar,andpushedwithalltheirstrength;and,

as the car moved slowly forward, Rusty felt a thrill of health and pleasure runthroughhisbody.Infrontofhim,Meenapushedsilently,themusclesofherthighstremblingwiththestrain.Theyallpushedsilently,withdetermination;thesweatrandownSomi’sfaceandneck,andKishen’sjawsworkeddesperatelyonhischewinggum.ButKapoorsatincomfortbehindthewheel,pressingandpullingknobs,andsaying ‘harder, push harder ’, and Suri began to be sick again. Prickly Heat wasstrangelyquiet,anditwasassumedthatthedogwassicktoo.

Withonelastfinalheave,thecarwasmoveduptheoppositebankandontothestraight. Everyone groaned and flopped to the ground. Meena’s hands weretrembling.‘Youshouldn’thavepushed,’saidRusty.‘Ienjoyedit,’shesaid,smilingathim.‘Helpmetogetup.’Heroseand,takingherhand,pulledhertoherfeet.Theystoodtogether,holding

hands.Kapoorfiddledaroundwithstartersandchokesandthings.‘Itwon’tgo,’hesaid.‘I’llhavetolookattheengine.Wemightaswellhavethe

picnichere.’Sooutcamethefoodandlemonadebottlesand,miraculouslyenough,outcame

SuriandPricklyHeat,lookingasfitasever.‘Hey,’ saidKishen, ‘we thoughtyouweresick. I supposeyouwere justmaking

roomforlunch.’‘Beforeheeatsanything,’saidSomi,‘he’sgoingtogetwet.Let’stakehimfora

swim.’Somi, Kishen and Rusty caught hold of Suri and dragged him along the river

bank to a spot downstreamwhere the current was mild and the water warm andwaist-high.TheyunrobedSuri,tookofftheirownclothes,andrandownthesandyslope to thewater ’s edge; feet splashed ankle-deep, calves thrust into the current,andthenthegroundsuddenlydisappearedbeneaththeirfeet.Somiwasafineswimmer;hissupple limbscut throughthewaterand,whenhe

wentunder,hewasalmostaspowerful;thechequeredcoloursofhisbodycouldbeseenfirsthereandthenthere,twistingandturning,divinganddisappearingforwhatseemedlikeseveralminutes,andthencomingupundersomeone’sfeet.Rusty andKishenwere amateurs.When they tried swimming underwater, their

bottomsremainedonthesurface,havingalltheappearanceoffloatingbuoys.Suricouldn’tswimatallbut,thoughhewasoftenoutofhisdepthandfrequentlyducked,managedtoavoidhisdeathbydrowning.They heardMeena calling them for food, and scrambled up the bank, the dog

yappingat their heels.Theyate in the shadeof apoinsettia tree,whose red long-fingeredflowersdroppedsensuallytotherunningwater;andwhentheyhadeaten,laydowntosleepordrowsetheafternoonaway.WhenRustyawoke,itwasevening,andKapoorwastinkeringaboutwiththecar,

mutteringtohimself,alittlecrossbecausehehadn’thadadrinksincethepreviousnight.SomiandKishenwereback in the river, splashingaway,and this time they

hadPricklyHeatforcompany.Suriwasn’tinsight.Meenastoodinaclearingattheedgeoftheforest.Rustywent toMeena, but shewandered into the thicket.Theboy followed.She

musthaveexpectedhim,forsheshowednosurpriseathisappearance.‘Listentothejungle,’shesaid.‘Ican’thearanything.’‘That’swhatImean.Listentonothing.’Theywere surrounded by silence; a dark, pensive silence, heavy, scented with

magnoliaandjasmine.Itwasshatteredbyapiercingshriek,acrythatroseonallsides,echoingagainst

the vibrating air; and, instinctively, Rusty put his arm roundMeena—whether toprotectherortoprotecthimself,hedidnotreallyknow—andheldhertight.‘Itisonlyabird,’shesaid,‘ofwhatareyouafraid?’Buthewasunabletoreleasehishold,andshemadenoefforttofreeherself.She

laughedintohisface,andhereyesdancedintheshadows.Buthestifledherlaughwithhislips.

It was a clumsy, awkward kiss, but fiercely passionate, andMeena responded,tighteningtheembrace,returningthefervourofthekiss.Theystoodtogetherintheshadows,Rustyintoxicatedwithbeautyandsweetness,Meenawithfreedomandthecomfortofbeingloved.Amonkeychatteredshrillyinabranchabovethem,andthespellwasbroken.‘Oh,Meena...’‘Shh...youspoilthesethingsbysayingthem.’‘Oh,Meena...’Theykissedagain,butthemonkeysetupsucharacketthattheyfeareditwould

bringKapoorandtheotherstothespot.Sotheywalkedthroughthetrees,holdinghands.They were barefooted, but they did not notice the thorns and brambles that

prickedtheirfeet; theywalkedthroughheavyfoliage,nettlesandlonggrass,until

theycametoaclearingandastream.Rusty was conscious of a wild urge, a desire to escape from the town and its

people,andliveintheforestwithMeena,withnoonebutMeena...As though conscious of his thoughts, she said: ‘This iswherewe drink. In the

treesweeatandsleep,andherewedrink.’She laughed,butRustyhadadream inhisheart.Thepebbleson thebedof the

streamwere round and smooth, taking the flowofwaterwithout resistance.Onlyweedandrockcouldresistwater:onlyweedorrockcouldresistlife.‘Itwouldbenicetostayinthejungle,’saidMeena.‘Letusstay...’‘Wewillbefound.Wecannotescape—from—others...’‘Eventheworldistoo

small.Maybethereismorefreedominyourlittleroomthaninallthejungleandalltheworld.’Rustypointedtothestreamandwhispered,‘Look!’Meenalooked,andatthesametime,adeerlookedup.Theylookedateachother

withstartled, fascinatedeyes, thedeerandMeena. Itwasaspottedcheetal,asmallanimalwithdelicate,quiveringlimbsandmuscles,andyounggreenantlers.RustyandMeenadidnotmove;nordidthedeer;theymighthavegoneonstaring

ateachotherallnightifsomewhereatwighadn’tsnappedsharply.At the snapof the twig, the deer jerked its head upwith a start, lifted one foot

pensively,sniffedtheair;thenleaptthestreamand,inasinglebound,disappearedintotheforest.Thespellwasbroken,themagiclost.Onlythewaterranonandliferanon.‘Let’sgoback,’saidMeena.Theywalkedbackthroughthedappledsunlight,swingingtheirclaspedhandslike

twochildrenwhohadonlyjustdiscoveredlove.Theirhandspartedastheyreachedtheriverbed.Miraculouslyenough,Kapoorhadstartedthecar,andwaswavinghisarmsand

shouting toeveryone tocomehome.Everyonewas ready to startbackexcept forSuri and Prickly Heat, who were nowhere to be seen. Nothing, thought Meena,wouldhavebeenbetterthanforSuritodisappearforever,butunfortunatelyshehadtakenfullresponsibilityforhiswell-being,anddidnotrelishthethoughtoffacinghisstrangelyaffectionatemother.SosheaskedRustytoshoutforhim.Rustyshouted,andMeenashouted,andSomishouted,and then theyall shouted

together,onlySurididn’tshout.‘He’suptohistricks,’saidKishen.‘Weshouldn’thavebroughthim.Let’spretend

we’releaving,thenhe’llbescared.’

SoKapoorstartedtheengine,andeveryonegotin,anditwasonlythenthatSuricame running from the forest, the dog at his heels, his shirt tails flapping in thebreeze,hishairwedgedbetweenhiseyesandhisspectacles.‘Hey,waitforus!’hecried.‘Doyouwantmetodie?’Kishenmumbledintheaffirmative,andsworequietly.‘Wethoughtyouwereinthedickey,’saidRusty.SuriandPricklyHeatclimbedintothedicky,andatthesametimethecarentered

theriverwithadeterminedsplashingandchurningofwheels,toemergethevictor.Everyonecheered,andSomigaveKapoorsuchanenthusiasticslapontheback

thatthepleasedrecipientnearlycaughthisheadinthesteeringwheel.It was dark now, and all that could be seen of the countryside was what the

headlightsshowed.Rustyhadhopesofseeingapantherortiger,forthiswastheirterritory,butonlya fewgoatsblocked the road.However, for thebenefitofSuri,Somitoldastoryofapartythathadgoneforanoutinginacarand,onreturninghome,hadfoundapantherinthedicky.KishenfellasleepjustbeforetheyreachedtheoutskirtsofDehra,hisfuzzyhead

restingonRusty’sshoulder.Rustyfeltprotectively towards theboy, forabondofgenuineaffectionhadgrownbetweenthetwo.SomiwasRusty’sbestfriend,inthesameway thatRanbirwas a friend, and their friendshipwason a high emotionalplane. ButKishenwas a brothermore than a friend.He lovedRusty, butwithoutknowingorthinkingorsayingit,andthatistheloveofabrother.Somi began singing. Then the town came in sight, the bazaar lights twinkling

defianceatthestarrynight.

ChapterXIII

RustyandMrHarrisonmetinfrontofthetown’smaingrocerystore,the‘wineandgeneralmerchant’s’;itwaspartofthesmartshoppingcentre,alientothebazaarbutfar from the European community—and thus neutral ground for Rusty and MrHarrison.‘Hullo,MrHarrison,’saidRusty,confidentofhimselfanddeliberatelyomitting

thecustomary‘sir ’.MrHarrisontriedtoignoretheboy,butfoundhimblockingthewaytothecar.

Notwishingtolosehisdignity,hedecidedtobepleasant.‘Thisisasurprise,’hesaid,‘IneverthoughtI’dseeyouagain.’‘Ifoundajob,’saidRusty,takingtheopportunityofshowinghisindependence.‘I

meanttocomeandseeyou,butdidn’tgetthetime.’‘You’re alwayswelcome. Themissionary’swife often speaks of you, she’d be

gladtoseeyou.Bytheway,what’syourjob?’Rustyhesitated;hedidnotknowhowhisguardianwouldtakethetruth—probably

witha laughor a sneer (‘you’re teaching!’)—anddecided tobemysterious abouthisactivities.‘Babysitting,’hereplied,withadisarmingsmile.‘Anyway,I’mnotstarving.And

I’vegotmanyfriends.’Mr Harrison’s face darkened, and the corners of his mouth twitched; but he

rememberedthattimeshadchanged,andthatRustywasolderandalsofree,andthathewasn’tinhisownhouse;andhecontrolledhistemper.‘Icangetyouajob,’hesaid.‘Onateaestate.Or,ifyouliketogoabroad,Ihave

friendsinGuiana...’‘Ilikebabysitting,’saidRusty.MrHarrisonsmiled,gotintothecar,andlitacigarettebeforestartingtheengine.

‘Well,asIsaid,you’realwayswelcomeinthehouse.’‘Thanks,’saidRusty.‘Givemyregardstothesweeperboy.’Theatmospherewasgettingtense.

‘Whydon’tyoucomeandseehimsometime?’saidMrHarrison,assoftlyandasmalevolentlyashecould.Itwasjustaswelltheenginehadstarted.‘Iwill,’saidRusty.’‘Ikickedhimout,’saidMrHarrison,puttinghisfootdownontheacceleratorand

leavingRustyinacloudofdust.ButRusty’srageturnedtopleasurewhenthecaralmostcollidedwithastationary

bullockcart,andauniformedpolicemanbroughtittoahalt.Withthefeelingthathehadbeenthemasterofthesituation,Rustywalkedhomewards.The litchee trees were covered with their pink-skinned fruit and the mangoes

werealmostripe.Themangoisapassionatefruit,itsinnergoldsensuoustothelipsandtongue.Thegrasshadnotyetmadeupitsmindtoremainyelloworturngreen,andwouldprobablykeepitsdirtycolouruntilthemonsoonrainsarrived.MeenametRustyunderthebananatrees.‘Iambored,’shesaid,‘soIamgoingtogiveyouahaircut.Doyoumind?’‘Iwilldoanythingtopleaseyou.Butdon’ttakeitalloff.’‘Don’tyoutrustme?’‘Iloveyou.’Rustywaswrappedupinasheetandplacedonachair.HelookedupatMeena,

andtheireyesmet,laughing,blueandbrown.Meena cut silently, and the fair hair fell quickly, softly, lightly to the ground.

Rusty enjoyed the snip of the scissors and the sensation of lightness; it was asthoughhismindwasbeinggivenmoreroominwhichtoexplore.Kishencame loafingaround thecornerof thehouse,stillwearinghispyjamas,

whichwererolleduptotheknees.Whenhesawwhatwasgoingon,heburst intolaughter.‘Andwhatissofunny?’saidRusty.‘You!’ splutteredKishen. ‘Where is your hair, your beautiful golden hair?Has

Mummymadeyoubecomeamonk?Orhaveyougotringworm?Orfleas?Lookattheground,allthatbeautifulhair!’‘Don’tbefunny,Kishenbhaiya,’saidMeena,‘oryouwillgetthesametreatment.’‘Isitsobad?’askedRustyanxiously.‘Don’tyoutrustme?’saidMeena.‘Iloveyou.’MeenaglancedswiftlyatKishentoseeifhehadheardthelastremark,buthewas

stilllaughingatRusty’shaircutandproddinghisnoseforallhewasworth.

‘Rusty,Ihaveafavourtoaskyou,’saidMeena.‘MrKapoorandImaybegoingtoDelhiforafewweeks,asthereisachanceofhimgettingagoodjob.WearenottakingKishenbhaiya,asheisonlynuisancevalue,sowillyoulookafterhimandkeephimoutofmischief?Iwillleavesomemoneywithyou.Abouthowmuchwillyouneedfortwoweeks?’‘Whenareyougoing?’askedRusty,alreadyinthedepthsofdespair.‘Howmuchwillyouneed?’‘Oh,fiftyrupees...butwhen—’‘Ahundredrupees!’interruptedKishen.‘Ohboy,Rusty,we’llhavefun!’‘Seventy-five,’saidMeena,asthoughdrivingabargain,‘andI’llsendmoreafter

twoweeks.Butweshouldbebackbythen.There,Rusty,yourhaircutiscomplete.’But Rustywasn’t interested in the result of the haircut; he felt like sulking; he

wantedtohavesomesayinMeena’splans,hefelthehadarighttoalittlepower.Thatevening,inthefrontroom,hedidn’ttalkmuch.Nobodyspoke.Kishenlay

ontheground,strokinghisstomach,histoestracingimaginarypatternsonthewall.Meenalookedtired;wispsofhairhadfallenacrossherface,andshedidnotbothertobrushthemback.ShetookKishen’sfootandgaveitapull.‘Gotobed,’shesaid.‘Nottired.’‘Gotobed,oryou’llgetaslap.’Kishenlaugheddefiantly,butgotupfromthefloorandambledoutoftheroom.‘Anddon’twakeDaddy,’shesaid.Kapoorhadbeenputtobedearly,asMeenawantedhimtobefreshandsoberfor

hisjourneytoDelhiandhisinterviewsthere.Buteverynowandthenhewouldwakeupandcalloutforsomething—somethingunnecessary,sothatafterawhilenoonepaidanyattentiontohisrequests.Hewaslikeanirritableinvalid, tobehumouredandtolerated.‘Areyounotfeelingwell,Meena?’askedRusty.‘Ifyoulike,I’llalsogo.’‘Iamonlytired,don’tgo...’Shewenttothewindowanddrewthecurtainsandputoutthelight.Onlythetable

lampburned.Thelampshadewasdecoratedwithdragonsandbutterflies—itwasaChinese lampshade—and, as Rusty sat gazing at the light, the dragons began tomoveandthebutterfliesflutter.Hecouldn’tseeMeena,butfeltherpresenceacrosstheroom.She turned from the window; and silently, with hardly a rustle, slipped to the

ground.Herbackagainstthecouch,herheadrestingagainstthecushion,shelookedupattheceiling.Neitherofthemspoke.

FromthenextroomcamesoundsofKishenpreparingforthenight,oneortwothumpsandamutteredimprecation.Kapoorsnoredquietlytohimself,andtherestwassilence.Rusty’s gaze left the revolving dragons and prancing butterflies to settle on

Meena,who sat still and tired, her feet lifeless against the table legs, her slippersfallentotheground.Inthelamplight,herfeetwerelikejade.Amothbegantoflyroundthelamp,anditwentroundandroundandcloser,till

—with a sudden plop—it hit the lampshade and fell to the ground.ButRusty andMeenawerestillsilent,theirbreathingtheonlyconversation.

ChapterXIV

During the day, flies circled the room with feverish buzzing, and at night themosquitoescamesinginginone’sears;summerdayswerehotandsticky,thenightsbreathless.Rusty covered his body in citronella oil,which had been given himbySomi’s

mother;itssmell,whilepleasanttohisownsenses,wasrepugnanttomosquitoes.WhenRustyrubbedtheoilonhislimbshenoticedthechangeinhisphysique.He

hadlosthispuppyfat,andtherewasmoremuscletohisbody;hiscomplexionwasahealthier colour, and his pimples had almost disappeared. Nearly everyone hadadvised him about his pimples: drinkdahi, said Somi’smother, don’t eat fat; eatcarrots,saidSomi;plentyoffruit;mangoes!saidKishen;notatall,oranges;seeadoctor, said Meena; have a whisky, said Kapoor: but the pimples disappearedwithoutanyoftheseremedies,andRustyputitdowntohisfallinginlove.Thebougainvillaeacreeperhadadvancedfurtherintotheroom,andwasnowin

flower;andwatchingRustyoilhimself,wasthebaldmainabird;ithadbeeninsomanyfightsthatthefeathersonitsheadnevergotachancetogrow.Suri entered the room without warning and, wiping his spectacles on the bed

sheet, said: ‘I have written an essay, Mister Rusty, for which I am going to bemarkedinschool.Correctit,ifyouplease.’‘Letmefinishwiththisoil...Itwouldbecheating,youknow.’‘No,itwon’t.Ithastobecorrectedsometime,soyouwillsavethemastersome

trouble.Anyway,I’mleavingthisrottenschoolsoon.I’mgoingtoMussoorie.’‘TothesameplaceasRanbir?He’llbegladtoseeyou.’SurihandedRusty the copy-book.On the coverwasapencil sketchof a rather

over-developednude.‘Don’ttellmethisisyourschoolbook!’exclaimedRusty.‘No,onlyroughwork.’‘Youdrewthepicture?’‘Ofcourse,don’tyoulikeit?’‘Didyoucopyit,orimagineit,ordidsomeoneposeforyou?’

Suriwinked.‘Someoneposed.’‘You’realiar.Andapig.’‘Oh,lookwho’stalking!You’renotsuchasaintyourself,MisterRusty.’‘Justwhatdoyoumean,’saidRusty,gettingbetweenSuriandthedoor.‘Imean,howisMrsKapoor,eh?’‘Sheisfine.’‘Yougetonwellwithher,eh?’‘Wegetonfine.’‘Likeatthepicnic?’Suri rubbedhis hands together, and smiledbeatifically.Rustywasmomentarily

alarmed.‘Whatdoyoumean,thepicnic?’‘Whatdidyoudotogether,MisterRusty,youandMrsKapoor?Whathappenedin

thebushes?’Rustyleantagainstthewall,andreturnedSuri’ssmile,andsaid:‘I’lltellyouwhat

we did, my friend. There’s nothing to hide between friends, is there?Well, MrsKapoorandIspentallour timemaking love.Wedidnothingbut loveeachother.Allthetime.AndMrKapooronlyahundredyardsaway,andyouinthenextbush...Nowwhatelsedoyouwanttoknow?’Suri’ssmilewasfixed.‘WhatifItellMrKapoor?’‘Youwon’ttellhim,’saidRusty.‘Whynot?’‘Becauseyouarethelastpersonhe’llbelieve.Andyou’llprobablygetakickin

thepantsforthetrouble.’Suri’ssmilehadgone.‘Cheerup,’saidRusty.‘Whatabouttheessay,doyouwantmetocorrectit?’

*

Thatafternoontheoldcarstoodbeneath thebanana treeswithan impatientdrivertooting on the horn. The dicky and bumpers were piled highwith tin trunks andbeddingrolls,asthoughtheKapoorsweregoingawayforalifetime.Meenawasn’tgoingtoletKapoordriveherallthewaytoDelhi,andhadtakenonaprofessionalinstead.Kapoor sat on the steps of the house, wearing his green dressing gown, and

makingathroatynoisesimilartothatofthemotorhorn.

‘Thedevil!’heexclaimed,gesticulatingtowardsMeena,whowasbustlingaboutindoors. ‘The devil of a wife is takingme to Delhi! Ha! The car will never getthere.’‘Ohyes,itwill,’saidMeena,thrustingherheadoutofthewindow,‘anditwillget

therewithyouinit,whetherornotyoushaveanddress.Soyoumightaswelltakeaseatfromnow.’Rustywentintothehouse,andfoundMeenalockingrooms.Shewaslookingalittletiredandirritable.‘You’regoingsoonerthanIexpected,’saidRusty.‘HasKishengotthemoney?’‘No,youmustkeep it. I’ll give it toyou in five rupeenotes,wait aminute . . .

He’llhavetosleepwithyou,I’mlockingthehouse...’Sheopenedadrawerand,takingoutanenvelope,gaveittoRusty.‘The money,’ she said. Rusty picked up a small suitcase and followed Meena

outside to thecar.Hewaiteduntilshewasseatedbeforehandingher thecaseand,whenhe did, their hands touched. She laced her fingerswith his, and gave him aquicksmile,andsqueezedhisfingers.From the front seat Kapoor beckoned Rusty. He grasped the boy’s hand, and

slippedakeyintoit.‘Myfriend,’hewhispered,‘thesearethekeysofthebackdoor.Inthekitchenyou

willfindsixbottlesofwhisky.Keepthemsafe,untilourreturn.’Rusty shook Kapoor ’s hand, the hand of theman he laughed at, but whom he

couldnothelplovingaswell.IntheconfusionKishenhadgonealmostunnoticed,buthewasthereallthetime,

andnowhesufferedalightkissfromhismotherandaheavyonefromhisfather.The car belched and, after narrowly missing a banana tree, rattled down the

gravelpath,bouncedoveraditch,anddisappearedinacloudofdust.Kishen and Rusty were flapping their handkerchiefs for all they were worth.

Kishenwasnotabitsorrythathisparentshadgoneaway,butRustyfeltlikecrying.Hewasconsciousnowofasenseofresponsibility,whichwasathinghedidnotlikehaving,andofasenseofloss.Butthedepressionwasonlymomentary.‘Hey!’saidKishen.‘DoyouseewhatIsee?’‘Icanseealotofthingsthatyoucansee,sowhatdoyoumean?’‘The clothes!Mummy’s washing, it is all on the rose bushes!’Meena had left

without collectingherwashingwhich, as always,hadbeen left todryon the rosebushes.MrKapoor ’sunderwearspreaditselfoveranentirebush,andanothertreewasdecoratedwithbodicesandblousesofallcolours.

Rustysaid:‘Perhapsshemeansthemtodrybythetimeshecomesback.’HebegantolaughwithKishen,soitwasagoodthing,Meena’sforgetfulness;it

softenedthepainofparting.‘Whatifwehadn’tnoticed?’chuckledKishen.‘Theywouldhavebeenstolen.’‘Thenwemustrewardourselves.Whataboutthechaatshop,bhai?’At the risk of making himself unpopular, Rusty faced Kishen and, with a

determination,said:‘Nochaatshop.Wehavegotseventyrupeestolastamonth,andIamnotgoingtowriteformoreoncethisfinishes.WearehavingourmealswithSomi.So,bhai,nochaatshop!’‘Youareaswine,Rusty.’‘Andthesametoyou.’In this endearing mood they collected the clothes from the rose bushes, and

marchedupstairstotheroomontheroof.

*

Therewasonlyonebed, andKishenwasa selfish sleeper; twiceduring thenightRustyfoundhimselfonthefloor.Eventuallyhesatinthechair,withhisfeetonthetable, and stared out of the window at the black night. Even if he had beencomfortable,hewouldnothaveslept;hefeltterriblylovesick.Hewantedtowriteapoem,but itwastoodarktowrite;hewantedtowritea letter,butshehadn’tbeenawayaday;hewantedtorunawaywithMeena,intothehills,intotheforests,wherenoonecouldfindthem,andhewantedtobewithherforeverandnevergrowold...neitherofthemmustevergrowold...

ChapterXV

InthemorningtherewasanotefromSuri.RustywonderedhowSurihadmanagedtoleaveitonthedoor-stepwithoutbeingseen.Itwent:

Tomorrow I’m going up toMussoorie. This is to request the pleasure ofMistersRustyandKishen tomygoodbyeparty, fiveo’clock sharp this sameevening.

AssoonasitbecameknownthatSuriwasleaving,everyonebegantolovehim.Andeveryonebroughthimpresents,justsohewouldn’tchangehismindandstay.Kishenboughthimapairofcheapbinocularsso thathecould lookat thegirls

moreclosely,andtheguestssatdownatatableandSurientertainedthemingrandstyle;andtheytoleratedeverythinghesaidandwereparticularlyfriendlyandgavehimthreecheers,hooray,hooray,hooray,theyweresogladhewasgoing.They drank lemonade and ate cream cakes (especially obtained from the smart

restaurant amongst the smart shops) and Kishen said, ‘We are so sorry you areleaving,Suri,’andtheyhadmorecreamcakesandlemonade,andKishensaid,‘Youarelikeabrothertous,Suridear ’;andwhenthecreamcakeshadallbeenfinished,KishenfellonSuri’sneckandkissedhim.Itwasallverymoving,thosecreamcakesandlemonadeandSurigoingaway.Kishenmadehimselfsick,andRustyhad tohelphimback to the room.Kishen

layprostrateonthebed,whilstRustysatinfrontofthewindow,gazingblanklyintothebranchesofthebanyantree.Presentlyhe said: ‘It’sdrizzling. I think there’llbea storm, I’venever seen the

skysoblack.’Asthoughtoconfirmthisobservation,therewasaflashoflightninginthesky.

Rusty’s eyes lit up with excitement; he liked storms; sometimes they were anexpressionofhisinnermostfeelings.‘Shutthewindow,’saidKishen.‘IfIshutthewindow,Iwillkilltheflowersonthecreeper.’

Kishensnorted,‘You’reapoet,that’swhatyouare!’‘OnedayI’llwritepoems.’‘Whynottoday?’‘Toomuchishappeningtoday.’‘Idon’t thinkso.Nothingeverhappens inDehra.Theplace isdead.Whydon’t

youstartwritingnow?You’reagreatwriter,Itoldyousobefore.’‘Iknow.’‘Oneday...onedayyou’llbeaking...butonlyinyourdreams...Meanwhile,

shutthewindow!’ButRustylikedthewindowopen,helikedtherainfleckinghisface,andheliked

towatchitpatteringontheleavesofthebanyantree.‘TheymusthavereachedDelhinow,’hesaid,halftohimself.‘Daddy’sdrunk,’saidKishen.‘There’snothingforhimtodrink’‘Oh,he’llfindsomething.Youknow,onedayhedrankupallthehairoilinthe

house.Hey, didn’t he give you the keys of the back door?Let’s drink one of thebottlesourselves...’Rustydidn’treply.Thetenseskyshuddered.Theblanketofblackcloudgroaned

aloudandtheair,whichhadbeenstillandsultry,trembledwithelectricity.Thenthethundergaveagreatclap,andallatoncethehailstonescameclatteringdownonthecorrugatedironroof.‘Whatanoise!’exclaimedKishen.‘You’dthinkalotofskeletonswerehavinga

fightontheroof!’Thehailstones,asbigasmarbles,bouncedinfromthedoorway,andontheroof

theywereformingalayerofwhiteice.ThroughthewindowRustycouldseeoneoftheayahs tearingdownthegravelpath, theprambouncingmadlyover thestones,theendofherheadclothflappingwildly.‘Willyoushutthewindow!’screamedKishen.‘Whyareyousocruel,bhai?’‘I’mnotcruel,I’msick!Doyouwantmetogetsickallovertheplace?’As gently as he could, Rusty pushed the creeper out of thewindow and laid it

againsttheoutsidewall.Thenheclosedthewindow.Thisshutouttheview,becausethewindowwasmadeofplywoodandhadnoglasspanes.‘Andthedoor,’moanedKishen.With the door closed, the room was plunged into darkness. ‘What a room,’

complained Kishen, ‘not even a light. You’ll have to live downstairs when they

comeback.’‘ButIlikeithere.’Thestormcontinuedallnight;itmadeKishensonervousthat,insteadofpushing

Rustyoffthebed,heputhisarmsroundhimforprotection.

*

The rain had stopped bymorning, but the skywas still overcast and threatening.RustyandKishenlayinbed,tooboredtobestirthemselves.Therewassomedriedfruit in a tin, and they ate the nuts continuously. They could hear the postmanmaking his rounds below, and Rusty suddenly remembered that the postmanwouldn’tknowtheKapoorshadleft.Heleaptoutofbed,openedthedoor,andrantotheedgeoftheroof.‘Heypostman!’hecalled.‘AnythingforMrandMrsKapoor?’‘Nothing,’saidthepostman,‘butthereissomethingforyou,shallIcomeup?’ButRustywasalreadyonhiswaydown,certainthatitwasaletterfromMeena.Itwasatelegram.Rusty’sfingerstrembledashetoreitopen,andhehadreadit

beforehereachedtheroom.Hisfacewaswhitewhenheenteredtheroom.‘What’s wrong,’ said Kishen, ‘you look sick. Doesn’t Mummy love you any

more?’Rustysatdownontheedgeofthebed,hiseyesstaringemptilyatthefloor.‘You’retogotoHardwar,’hesaidatlast,‘tostaywithyouraunty.’‘Well,youcantellMummyI’mstayinghere.’‘It’sfromyouraunty.’‘Whycouldn’tMummysaysoherself?’‘Idon’twanttotellyou.’‘But you have to tell me!’ cried Kishen, making an ineffectual grab at the

telegram.‘Youhavetotellme,Rusty,youhaveto!’TherewaspanicinKishen’svoice,hewasalmosthysterical.‘Allright,’saidRusty,andhisownvoicewasstrainedandhollow.‘Thecarhad

anaccident.’‘AndsomethinghappenedtoDaddy?’‘No.’Therewasa terrible silence.Kishen lookedhelplesslyatRusty,hiseyes fullof

tearsandbewilderment; andRustycould stand the strainno longer, and threwhisarmsroundKishen,andweptuncontrollably.‘Oh,Mummy,Mummy,’criedKishen,‘Oh,Mummy...’

ChapterXVI

Itwaslateeveningthesameday,andthecloudshadpassedandthewholeskywassprinkledwith stars.Rusty saton thebed, lookingoutat the starsandwaiting forKishen.Presently bare feet sounded on the stone floor, and Rusty could make out the

sharplinesofKishen’sbodyagainstthefaintmooninthedoorway.‘Whydoyoucreepinlikeaghost?’whisperedRusty.‘So’snottowakeyou.’‘It’sstillearly.Wherehaveyoubeen,Iwaslookingforyou.’‘Oh,justwalking...’KishensatdownbesideRusty,facingthesameway,thestars.Themoonlightran

overtheirfeet,buttheirfaceswereindarkness.‘Rusty,’saidKishen.‘Yes.’‘Idon’twanttogotoHardwar.’‘Iknowyoudon’t,bhaiya.Butyouwillnotbeallowedtostayhere.Youmustgo

toyourrelatives.AndHardwarisabeautifulplace,andpeoplearekind...’‘I’llstaywithyou.’‘Ican’tlookafteryou,Kishen,Ihaven’tgotanymoney,anywork...youmust

staywithyouraunt.I’llcometoseeyou.’‘You’llnevercome.’‘I’lltry.’Everynightthejackalscouldbeheardhowlinginthenearbyjungle,buttonight

theircriessoundednearer,muchnearerthehouse.Kishenslept.Hewasexhausted;he had beenwalking all evening, crying his heart out. Rusty lay awake; his eyeswerewideopen,brimmingwithtears;hedidnotknowifthetearswereforhimselforforMeenaorforKishen,buttheywereforsomeone.Meenaisdead,hetoldhimself,Meenaisdead; if thereisagod, thenGodlook

afterher;ifGodisLove,thenmylovewillbewithher;shelovedme;Icanseeher

soclearly,herfacespeckledwithsunandshadowwhenwekissedintheforest,theblackwaterfallofhair,hertiredeyes,herfeetlikejadeinthelamplight,shelovedme,shewasmine...Rusty was overcome by a feeling of impotence and futility, and of the

unimportance of life. Everymoment, he told himself, everymoment someone isbornandsomeonedies,youcancountthemone,two,three,abirthandadeathforeverymoment...whatisthisonelifeinthewholepatternoflife,whatisthisonedeathbutapassingoftime...AndifIweretodienow,suddenlyandwithoutcause,whatwouldhappen,would itmatter . . .we livewithout knowingwhyor towhatpurpose.Themoonbathedtheroominasoft,clearlight.Thehowlofthejackalsseemed

tobecomingfromthefieldbelow,andRustythought,‘Ajackalislikedeath,uglyandcowardlyandmad. . .’Heheardafaintsnifffromthedoorwayandliftedhishead.In thedoorway,adarksilhouetteagainst themoonlight, stood the lean,craving

formofajackal,itseyesglitteringbalefully.Rusty wanted to scream. He wanted to throw everything in the room at the

snivelling,cold-bloodedbeast,orthrowhimselfoutofthewindowinstead.Buthecoulddononeofthesethings.Thejackallifteditsheadtotheskyandemittedalong,blood-curdlinghowlthat

ranlikeanelectriccurrentthroughRusty’sbody.KishensprangupwithagaspandthrewhisarmsroundRusty.AndthenRustyscreamed.Itwashalf-shout,half-scream,anditbeganinthepitofhisstomach,wascaught

byhislungs,andcatapultedintotheemptynight.Everythingaroundhimseemedtobeshaking,vibratingtothepitchofthescream.The jackal fled. Kishen whimpered and sprang back from Rusty and dived

beneaththebedclothes.Andasthescreamanditsechodiedaway,thenightclosedinagain,withaheavy,

petrifying stillness; and all that could be heard was Kishen sobbing under theblankets, terrified not so much by the jackal’s howl as by Rusty’s own terriblescream.‘Oh,Kishenbhai,’criedRusty,puttinghisarmsaroundtheboy,‘don’tcry,please

don’tcry.Youaremakingmeafraidofmyself.Don’tbeafraid,Kishen.Don’tmakemeafraidofmyself...’

*

Andinthemorningtheirrelationshipwasalittlestrained.Kishen’sauntarrived.ShehadatongareadytotakeKishenaway.ShegiveRusty

ahundredrupees,whichshesaidwasfromMrKapoor;Rustydidn’twanttotakeit,butKishensworeathimandforcedhimtoacceptit.Thetongaponywasrestless,pawingthegroundandchampingatthebit,snorting

alittle.ThedrivergotdownfromthecarriageandheldthereinswhilstKishenandhisauntclimbedontotheirseats.Kishenmadenoefforttoconcealhismisery.‘Iwishyouwouldcome,Rusty,’he

said.‘Iwillcomeandseeyouoneday,besureofthat.’It was very seldom that Kishen expressed any great depth of feeling; he was

always so absorbed with comforts of the flesh that he never had any profoundthoughts;buthedidhaveprofound feelings, though theywere seldom thoughtorspoken.Hegrimacedandproddedhisnose.‘Insideofme,’hesaid,‘Iamalllonely...’Thedrivercrackedhiswhip,thehorsesnorted,thewheelscreaked,andthetonga

moved forward. The carriage bumped up in the ditch, and it looked as thougheveryonewouldbethrownout;butitbumpeddownagainwithoutfallingapart,andKishenandhisauntwerestillintheirseats.Thedriverjingledhisbell,andthetongaturnedontothemainroadthatledtothestation;thehorse’shoofsclip-clopped,andthecarriagewheelssqueakedandrattled.Rustywaved.Kishensatstiffandupright,clenchingtheendsofhisshirt.RustyfeltafraidforKishen,whoseemedtobesittingonhisown,apartfromhis

aunt,asthoughhedisownedordidnotknowher:itseemedasthoughhewerebeingborneaway tosomestrange, friendlessworld,wherenoonewouldknoworcareforhim;and,thoughRustyknewKishentobewildandindependent,hefeltafraidforhim.Thedrivercalledtothehorse,andthetongawentroundthebendintheroadand

waslosttosight.Rustystoodatthegate,staringdowntheemptyroad.Hethought:‘I’llgobackto

myroomandtimewillrunonandthingswillhappenbutthiswillnothappenagain...therewillstillbesunandlitchees,andtherewillbeotherfriends,buttherewillbenoMeenaandnoKishen,forourliveshavedriftedapart...KishenandIhavebeengoingdowntherivertogether,butIhavebeencaughtinthereedsandhehasbeen

sweptonwards;andifIdocatchupwithhim,itwillnotbethesame,itmightbesad...Kishenhasgone,andpartofmylifehasgonewithhim,andinsideofme,Iamalllonely.’

ChapterXVII

Itwasasticky,restlessafternoon.Thewater-carrierpassedbelowtheroomwithhisskin bag, sprayingwater on the dusty path. The toy-seller entered the compound,calling his wares in a high-pitched sing-song voice, and presently there was thechatterofchildren.Thetoy-sellerhadalongbamboopole,crossedbytwoorthreeshorterbamboos,

fromwhichhungallmanneroftoys—littlecelluloiddrums,tinwatches,tinyflutesand whistles, and multi-coloured rag dolls—and when these ran out, they werereplacedbyothersfromalargebag,amostmysteriousandfascinatingbag,oneinwhichnoonebutthetoy-sellerwasallowedtolook.Hewasapopularpersonwithrichandpooralike,forhistoysnevercostmorethanfourannasandneverlastedlongerthanaday.Rusty liked thecheap toys,andwas fondofdecorating the roomwith them.He

boughtatwo-annaflute;andwalkedupstairs,blowingonit.Heremovedhisshirtandsandalsandlayflatonthebed,staringupattheceiling.

The lizards scuttled along the rafters, the bald maina hopped along the windowledge.HewasabouttofallasleepwhenSomicameintotheroom.Somilookedlistless.‘Ifeelsticky,’hesaid,‘Idon’twanttowearanyclothes.’He too pulled off his shirt and deposited it on the table, then stood before the

mirror,studyinghisphysique.ThenheturnedtoRusty.‘Youdon’tlookwell,’hesaid,‘therearecobwebsinyourhair.’‘Idon’tcare.’‘YoumusthavebeenveryfondofMrsKapoor.Shewasverykind.’‘Ilovedher,didn’tyouknow?’‘No. My own love is the only thing I know. Rusty, best favourite friend, you

cannot stay here in this room, you must come back to my house. Besides, thisbuildingwillsoonhavenewtenants.’‘I’llgetoutwhentheycome,orwhenthelandlorddiscoversI’mlivinghere.’

Somi’susuallybrightfacewassomewhatmorose,andtherewasafaintagitationshowinginhiseyes.‘Iwillgoandgetacucumbertoeat,’hesaid,‘thenthereissomethingtotellyou.’‘Idon’twantacucumber,’saidRusty,‘Iwantacoconut.’‘Iwantacucumber.’Rusty felt irritable. The room was hot, the bed was hot, his blood was hot.

Impatiently,hesaid:‘Goandeatyourcucumber,Idon’twantany...’Somi lookedathimwithapainedsurprise; then,withoutaword,pickeduphis

shirtandmarchedoutoftheroom.Rustycouldheartheslapofhisslippersonthestairs,andthenthebicycletyresonthegravelpath.‘Hey,Somi!’shoutedRusty, leapingoff thebedandrunningouton to theroof.

‘Comeback!’But the bicycle jumped over the ditch, and Somi’s shirt flapped, and therewas

nothingRustycoulddobutreturntobed.Hewasalarmedathisliverishill-temper.Helaydownagainandstaredattheceiling,atthelizardschasingeachotheracrosstherafters.Ontherooftwocrowswerefighting,knockingeachother ’sfeathersout.Everyonewasinatemper.What’swrong?wonderedRusty. I spoke toSomi in fever,not inanger,butmy

wordswereangry.NowIammiserable,fedup.Oh,hell...Heclosedhiseyesandshutouteverything.Heopenedhiseyestolaughter.Somi’sfacewasclose,laughingintoRusty’s.‘Ofwhatwereyoudreaming,Rusty,Ihaveneverseenyousmilesosweetly!’‘Oh,Iwasn’tdreaming,’saidRusty,sittingup,andfeelingbetternowthatSomi

hadreturned.‘Iamsorryforbeingsogrumpy,butI’mnotfeeling...’‘Quiet!’ admonished Somi, putting his finger to the other ’s lips. ‘See I have

settledthematter.Hereisacoconutforyou,andhereisacucumberforme!’Theysatcross-leggedonthebed,facingeachother;Somiwithhiscucumber,and

Rustywithhiscoconut.ThecoconutmilktrickleddownRusty’schinandontohischest,givinghimacool,pleasantsensation.Rustysaid:‘IamafraidforKishen.Iamsurehewillgivetroubletohisrelatives,

andtheyarenotlikehisparents.MrKapoorwillhavenosay,withoutMeena.’Somi was silent. The only sound was the munching of the cucumber and the

coconut.HelookedatRusty,anuncertainsmileonhislipsbutnoneinhiseyes;and,inaforcedconversationalmanner,said:‘I’mgoingtoAmritsarforafewmonths.ButIwillbebackinthespring,Rusty,youwillbeallrighthere...’

Thisnewswassounexpected that forsometimeRustycouldnot take it in.Thethought had never occurred to him that one day Somimight leaveDehra, just asRanbir andSuri andKishenhaddone.He couldnot speak.A sickeningheavinesscloggedhisheartandbrain.‘Hey, Rusty!’ laughed Somi. ‘Don’t look as though there is poison in the

coconut!’The poison lay in Somi’s words. And the poison worked, running through

Rusty’sveinsandbeatingagainsthisheartandhammeringonhisbrain.Thepoisonworked,woundinghim.Hesaid,‘Somi...’butcouldgonofurther.‘Finishthecoconut!’‘Somi,’saidRustyagain,‘ifyouareleavingDehra,Somi,thenIamleavingtoo.’‘Eatthecoco...whatdidyousay?’‘Iamgoingtoo.’‘Areyoumad?’‘Notatall.’Seriousnow,andtroubled,Somiputhishandonhisfriend’swrist;heshookhis

head,hecouldnotunderstand.‘Why,Rusty?Where?’‘England.’‘Butyouhaven’tmoney,yousillyfool!’‘Icangetanassistedpassage.TheBritishGovernmentwillpay.’‘YouareaBritishsubject?’‘Idon’tknow...’‘Toba!’Somislappedhisthighsandlookedupwardsindespair.‘You are neither Indian subject nor British subject, and you think someone is

goingtopayforyourpassage!Andhowareyoutogetapassport?‘How?’askedRusty,anxioustofindout.‘Toba!Haveyouabirthcertificate?’‘Oh,no.’‘Then you are not born,’ decreed Somi, with a certain amount of satisfaction.

‘Youarenotalive!Youdonothappentobeinthisworld!’Hepausedforbreath,thenwavedhisfingerintheair.‘Rusty,youcannotgo!’he

said.Rustylaydowndespondently.

‘IneverreallythoughtIwould,’hesaid,‘IonlysaidIwouldbecauseIfeltlikeit.NotbecauseIamunhappy—Ihaveneverbeenhappierelsewhere—butbecauseIamrestlessasIhavealwaysbeen.Idon’tsupposeI’llbeanywhereforlong...’Hespokethetruth.Rustyalwaysspokethetruth.Hedefinedtruthasfeeling,and

whenhesaidwhathefelt,hesaidtruth.(Onlyhedidn’talwaysspeakhisfeelings.)Heneverlied.Youdon’thavetolieifyouknowhowtowithholdthetruth.‘Youbelonghere,’saidSomi,tryingtoreconcileRustywithcircumstance.‘You

willgetlostinbigcities,Rusty,youwillbreakyourheart.Andwhenyoucomeback—ifyoucomeback—Iwillbegrown-upandyouwillbegrown-up—Imeanmorethanwearenow—andwewillbelikestrangerstoeachother...Andbesides,therearenochaatshopsinEngland!’‘ButIdon’tbelonghere,Somi.Idon’tbelonganywhere.EvenifIhavepapers,I

don’t belong. I’m a half-caste, I know it, and that is as good as not belonginganywhere.’WhatamIsaying,thoughtRusty,whydoImakemyinheritanceajustificationfor

mypresentbitterness?Noonehascastmeout.. .ofmyownfreewillIrunawayfromIndia...whydoIblameinheritance?‘Itcanalsomeanthatyoubelongeverywhere,’saidSomi.‘Butyounevertoldme.

YouarefairlikeaEuropean.’‘Ihadnotthoughtmuchaboutit.’‘Areyouashamed?’‘No.Myguardianwas.Hekeptittohimself,heonlytoldmewhenIcamehome

afterplayingHoli.Iwashappythen.So,whenhetoldme,Iwasnotashamed,Iwasproud.’‘Andnow?’‘Now?Oh,Ican’treallybelieveit.SomehowIdonotreallyfeelmixed.’‘Thendon’tblameitfornothing.’Rustyfeltalittleashamed,andtheywerebothsilentawhile,thenSomishrugged

andsaid:‘Soyouaregoing.YouarerunningawayfromIndia.’‘No,notfromIndia.’‘Thenyouarerunningawayfromyourfriends,fromme!’Rustyfelttheironyofthisremark,andallowedatoneofsarcasmintohisvoice.‘You,MasterSomi,you are theonewho isgoingaway. I amstill here.You are

goingtoAmritsar.Ionlywanttogo.AndI’mherealone;everyonehasgone.SoifIdoeventuallyleave,theonlypersonI’llberunningawayfromwillbemyself!’

‘Ah!’saidSomi,noddinghisheadwisely.‘Andbyrunningawayfromyourself,youwillberunningawayfrommeandfromIndia!Nowcomeon,let’sgoandhavechaat.’HepulledRustyoffthebed,andpushedhimoutoftheroom.Then,atthetopof

thesteps,he leapt lightlyonRusty’sback,kickedhimwithhisheels,andshouted:‘Downthesteps,mytuttoo,mypony!Fastdownthesteps!’SoRustycarriedhimdownstairsanddroppedhimonthegrass.Theylaughed:but

therewasnogreatjoyintheirlaughter,theylaughedforthesakeoffriendship.‘Bestfavouritefriend,’saidSomi,throwingahandfulofmudinRusty’sface.

ChapterXVIII

Now everyone had gone from Dehra. Meena would never return; and it seemedunlikelythatKapoorcouldcomeback.Kishen’s departure was final. Ranbir would be in Mussoorie until the winter

months, and this was still summer and it would be even longer before Somireturned.EveryoneRustyknewwellhad left, and there remainednooneheknewwellenoughtoloveorhate.Therewere,ofcourse,thepeopleatthewatertank—theservants, the ayahs, the babies—but they were busy all day. And when Rusty leftthem,hehadnoonebuthimselfandmemoryforcompany.He wanted to forgetMeena. If Kishen had been with him, it would have been

possible; the two boys would have found comfort in their companionship. Butalone,Rustyrealizedhewasnotthemasterofhimself.And Kapoor. For Kapoor, Meena had died perfect. He suspected her of no

infidelity.And,inaway,shehaddiedperfect;forshehadfoundasecretfreedom.Rusty knew he had judged Kapoor correctly when scorning Suri’s threat ofblackmail; he knew Kapoor couldn’t believe a single disparaging word aboutMeena.AndRusty returned to his dreams, thatwonderland of his,where hewalked in

perfection.Hespoketohimselfquiteoften,andsometimeshespoketothelizards.Hewas afraidof the lizards, afraid and at the same time fascinated.When they

changedtheircolours,frombrowntoredtogreen,inkeepingwiththeirimmediatesurroundings,theyfascinatedhim.Butwhentheylosttheirgripontheceilingandfelltothegroundwithasoft,wet,bonelesssmack,theyrepelledhim.Onenight,hereasoned,oneofthemwouldmostcertainlyfallonhisface...Anideaheconceivedoneafternoonnearlysparkedhimintosuddenandfeverish

activity.Hethoughtofmakingagardenontheroof,besidehisroom.Theideatookhisfancytosuchanextentthathespentseveralhoursplanningthe

set-out of the flowerbeds, andvisualizing the completedpicture,withmarigolds,zinniasandcosmosbloomingeverywhere.Buttherewerenotoolstobehad,mud

andbrickswouldhavetobecarriedupstairs,seedswouldhavetobeobtained;and,whoknows,thoughtRusty,afterallthattroubletheroofmightcavein,ortherainsmightspoileverything...andanyway,hewasgoingaway...His thoughts turned inwards.Gradually,he returned to the same frameofmind

thathadmadelifewithhisguardiansoemptyandmeaningless;hebegantofret,todream,tolosehisgriponreality.Thefulllifeofthepastfewmonthshadsuddenlyended, and the present was lonely and depressing; the future became a distortedimage,createdoutofhisownbroodingfancies.Oneevening,sittingonthesteps,hefoundhimselffingeringakey.Itwasthekey

Kapoor had asked him to keep, the key to the back door. Rusty remembered thewhisky bottles—‘let’s drink themourselves’Kishen had said—andRusty thought,‘whynot,whynot...afewbottlescan’tdoanyharm...’andbeforehecouldhaveanargumentwithhimself,thebackdoorwasopen.Inhisroomthatnighthedrankthewhiskyneat.Itwasthefirsttimehehadtasted

alcohol,andhedidn’tfinditpleasant;buthewasn’tdrinkingforpleasure,hewasdrinking with the sole purpose of shutting himself off from the world andforgetting.He hadn’t drunk much when he observed that the roof had a definite slant; it

seemedtoslideawayfromhisdoortothefieldbelow,likeachute.Thebanyantreewassuddenlyswarmingwithbees.Thelizardswereturningallcoloursatonce,likepiecesofrainbow.Whenhehaddrunkalittlemore,hebegantotalk;nottohimselfanymore,butto

Meena,whowaspressinghisheadandtryingtoforcehimdownonthepillows.HestruggledagainstMeena,butshewastoopowerful,andhebegantocry.Thenhedrankalittlemore.Andnowthefloorbegantowobble,andRustyhada

hardtimekeepingthetablefromtopplingover.Thewallsoftheroomwerecavingin.Heswallowedanothermouthfulofwhisky,andheldthewallupwithhishands.Hecoulddealwithanythingnow.Thebedwasrocking,thechairwasslidingabout,the table was slipping, the walls were swaying, but Rusty had everything undercontrol he was everywhere at once, supporting the entire building with his barehands.Andthenheslipped,andeverythingcamedownontopofhim,anditwasblack.Inthemorningwhenheawoke,hethrewtheremainingbottlesoutofthewindow,

andcursedhimselfforafool,andwentdowntothewatertanktobathe.

*

Dayspassed,dryanddusty,everydaythesame.Regularly,Rustyfilledhisearthensohrai at the water-tank, and soaked the reed mat that hung from the doorway.Sometimes,inthefield,thechildrenplayedcricket,buthecouldn’tsummonuptheenergy to join them.Fromhis roomhe could hear the soundof ball andbat, theshouting,thelonevoiceraisedinshrilldisagreementwithsomeunfortunateumpire.. .orthethudofafootball,ortheclashofhockey-sticks. . .butbetterthanthesesoundswasthejingleofthebellsandbanglesonthefeetoftheayahs,astheybusiedthemselvesatthewatertank.Timepassed,butRustydidnotknowitwaspassing.Itwas like living inahouseneara river, and the riverwasalways runningpast thehouse,onandaway;but toRusty, living in thehouse, therewasnopassingof theriver;thewaterranon,theriverremained.

Helongedforsomethingtohappen.

ChapterXIX

Dust.Itblewupingreatclouds,swirlingdowntheroad,clutchingandclingingtoeverythingittouched;burning,choking,stingingdust.Thenthunder.Thewinddroppedsuddenly, therewasahushedexpectancyintheair.Andthen,

outofthedust,camebig,blackrumblingclouds.Somethingwashappening.Atfirsttherewasalonelydropofwateronthewindowsill;thenapatteronthe

roof.Rustyfeltathrillofanticipation,andamountainofexcitement.Therainshadcometobreakthemonotonyofthesummermonths;themonsoonhadarrived!Theskyshuddered,thecloudsgroaned,aforkoflightningstruckacrossthesky,

andthentheskyitselfexploded.The rain poured down, drumming on the corrugated roof. Rusty’s vision was

reducedtoabouttwentyyards;itwasasthoughtheroomhadbeencutofffromtherestoftheworldbyanimpenetrablewallofwater.Therainshadarrived,andRustywantedtoexperienceto thefull thenoveltyof

thatfirstshower.Hethrewoffhisclothes,andrannakedontotheroof,andthewindsprangupandwhippedthewateracrosshisbodysothathewrithedinecstasy.Therain was more intoxicating than the alcohol, and it was with difficulty that herestrained himself from shouting and dancing in mad abandon. The force andfreshnessoftherainbroughttremendousrelief,washedawaythestagnationthathadbeensettlingonhim,poisoningmindandbody.Therainsweptoverthetown,cleansingtheskyandearth.Thetreesbentbeneath

theforceofwindandwater.Thefieldwasabog,flowersflattenedtotheground.Rustyreturnedtotheroom,exhilarated,hisbodyweeping.Hewasconfrontedby

aflood.Thewaterhadcomeinthroughthedoorandthewindowandtheskylight,andthefloorwasfloodedankle-deep.Hetooktohisbed.Thebedtookontheglamourofadesertedislandinthemiddleoftheocean.He

driedhimselfonthesheets,consciousofawarm,sensuousglow.Thenhesatonhis

haunchesandgazedoutthroughthewindow.The rain thickened, the tempoquickened.Therewas thebangingof adoor, the

swellingofagutter, thestaccatosplutterof therainrhythmicallypersistenton theroof.Thedrain-pipecoughedandchoked,thecurtainflewtoitslimit;theleantreesswayed, swayed, bowed with the burden of wind and weather. The road was arushing torrent, the gravel path inundated with little rivers. The monsoon hadarrived!Buttherainstoppedasunexpectedlyasithadbegun.Suddenlyitslackened,dwindledtoashower,peteredout.Stillness.Thedripping

ofwaterfromthedrain-pipedrilledintothedrain.Frogscroaked,hoppingaroundintheslush.Thesuncameoutwithavengeance.Onleavesandpetals,dropsofwatersparkled

like silver and gold. A cat emerged from a dry corner of the building, blinkingsleepily,unperturbedandunenthusiastic.Thechildrencamerunningoutoftheirhouses.‘Barsaat,barsaat!’theyshouted.‘Therainshavecome!’Therainshadcome.Andtheroofbecameageneralbathing-place.Thechildren,

the night-watchmen, the dogs, all trouped up the steps to sample the novelty of afresh-watershowerontheroof.Themaidanbecamealivewithfootballs.Thegamewascalledmonsoonfootball,itwasplayedinslush,inmudthatwasankle-deep;andthefootballwasheavyandslipperyanddifficulttokickwithbarefeet.Thebazaaryouthsplayedbarefootedbecause,inthefirstplace,bootsweretoocumbersomeformonsoonfootball,andinthesecondplacetheycouldn’tbeafforded.ButtherainsbroughtRustyonlyamomentaryelation,justasthefirstshowerhad

seemedfiercerandfresherthanthosewhichfollowed;fornowitrainedeveryday...Nothingcouldbemoredepressingthanthedampness,themildew,andthesunless

heat that wrapped itself round the steaming land. Had Somi or Kishen beenwithRusty, hemight have derived some pleasure from the elements; hadRanbir beenwithhim,hemighthavefoundadventure;butalone,hefoundonlyboredom.Hespentanidlehourwatchingtheslowdrippingfromthepipeoutsidethedoor:

wheredoIbelong,hewondered,whatamIdoing,whatisgoingtohappentome.... . .Hewasdetermined tobreakaway from theatmosphereof timelessnessand

resignationthatsurroundedhim,anddecidedtoleaveDehra.‘Imustgo,’hetoldhimself.‘Idonotwanttorotlikethemangoesattheendof

the season, or burn out like the sun at the end of the day. I cannot live like the

gardener,thecookandthewater-carrier,doingthesametaskeverydayofmylife.Iamnotinterestedintoday,Iwanttomorrow.Icannotliveinthissamesmallroomall my life, with a family of lizards, living in other people’s homes and neverhaving one of my own. I have to break away. I want to be either somebody ornobody.Idon’twanttobeanybody.’He decided to go to Delhi and see the High Commissioner for the United

Kingdom,whowassuretogivehimanassistedpassagetoEngland;andhewrotetoSomi,tellinghimofthisplan.OnhiswayhewouldhavetopassthroughHardwar,andtherehewouldseeKishen,hehadtheaunt’saddress.At night he slept brokenly, thinking and worrying about the future. He would

listentothevibrantsongofthefrogwhowallowedinthedrainatthebottomofthesteps, and to the unearthly cry of the jackal, and questions would come to him,disturbingquestionsabout lovingand leavingand livinganddying,questions thatcrowdedouthissleep.ButonthenightbeforeheleftDehra,itwasnotthecroakingofthefrogorthe

cry of the jackal that kept him awake, or the persistent questioning; but apremonitionofcrisisandofanendtosomething.

ChapterXX

ThepostmanbroughtaletterfromSomi.DearRusty,bestfavouritefriend,Donotevertravelinathird-classcompartment.AllthewaytoAmritsarIhadto

sleepstandingup,thecarriagewassocrowded.IshallbecomingbacktoDehrainthespring,intimetowatchyouplayHoliwith

Ranbir.IknowyoufeellikeleavingIndiaandrunningofftoEngland,butwaituntilyouseemeagain,allright?Youareafraidtodiewithouthavingdonesomething.Youareafraidtodie,Rusty,butyouhavehardlybeguntolive.IknowyouarenothappyinDehra,andyoumustbelonely.Butwaitalittle,be

patient,andthebaddayswillpass.Wedon’tknowwhywelive.Itisnousetryingtoknow.Butwehavetolive,Rusty,becausewereallywantto.Andaslongaswewantto,wehavegottofindsomethingtolivefor,andevendieforit.Motheriskeepingwellandsendsyouhergreetings.Tellmewhateveryouneed.SomiRustyfoldedthelettercarefully,andputitinhisshirtpocket;hemeanttokeepit

for ever. He could not wait for Somi’s return; but he knew that their friendshipwouldlastalifetime,andthatthebeautyofitwouldalwaysbewithhim.InandoutofRusty’slife,histurbanatanangle,Somiwouldgo,hisslippersslappingagainsthisheelsforever...Rustyhadnocaseorbedding-rolltopack,nobelongingsatall;onlytheclothes

he wore, which were Somi’s, and about fifty rupees, for which he had to thankKishen.Hehadmadenopreparationsforthejourney;hewouldslipawaywithoutfussorbother;insignificant,unnoticed...Anhourbefore leaving for the station,he laydown to rest.Hegazedupat the

ceiling, where the lizards scuttled about: callous creatures, unconcerned with hisdeparture:onehumanwasjustthesameasanyother.Andthebaldmaina,hoppingonandoffthewindowsill,wouldcontinuetofightandlosemorefeathers;andthecrowsandthesquirrelsinthemangotree,theywouldbemissedbyRusty,butthey

wouldnotmisshim.Itwastrue,onehumanwasnodifferenttoanyother—excepttoadogorahuman...WhenRustylefttheroom,therewasactivityatthewatertank;clotheswerebeing

beatenonthestone,andtheayah’strinketswerejinglingaway.Rustycouldn’tbeartosaygoodbyetothepeopleatthewatertank,sohedidn’tclosehisdoor,lesttheysuspecthimofleaving.Hedescendedthesteps—twenty-twoofthem,hecountedforthelasttime—andcrossedthedrain,andwalkedslowlydownthegravelpathuntilhewasoutofthecompound.He crossed themaidan,where a group of studentswere playing cricket,whilst

another group wrestled; prams were wheeled in and out of the sporting youths;younggirlsgossipedawaythemorning.AndRustyrememberedhisfirstnightonthemaidan,whenhehadbeenfrightenedandwetandlonely;andnow, thoughthemaidanwascrowded,hefeltthesameloneliness,thesameisolation.Inthebazaar,hewalkedwithaheavyheart.Fromthechaatshopcamethefamiliarsmellofspicesandthecrackleoffryingfat.Andthechildrenbumpedhim,andthecowsblockedtheroad;and,thoughheknewtheyalwaysdidthesethings,itwasonlynowthathenoticedthem.Theyallseemedtobeholdinghim,pullinghimback.Buthecouldnotreturn;hewasafraidofwhatlayahead,hedreadedtheunknown,

butitwaseasiertowalkforwardsthanbackwards.The toy-sellermadehisway through thecrowd,childrenclustering roundhim,

tearingathispole.Rustyfingeredatwo-annapiece,andhiseyepickedoutalittleplume of red feathers, that seemed to have no useful purpose, and he wasdeterminedtobuyit.Butbeforehecouldmakethepurchase,someonepluckedathisshirtsleeve.‘ChottaSahib,ChottaSahib,’saidthesweeperboy,MrHarrison’sservant.Rusty could not mistake the shaved head and the sparkle of white teeth, and

wantedtoturnaway;ignorethesweeperboy,whowaslinkedupwithapastthatwasdistantandyetuncomfortablyclose.But thehandpluckedathis sleeve,andRustyfelt ashamed, angry with himself for trying to ignore someone who had neverharmedhimandwhocouldn’thavebeenfriendlier.Rustywasasahibnolonger,noonewashis servant; andhewasnot an Indian, hehadno caste, he couldnot callanotheruntouchable......‘Youarenotatwork?’askedRusty.‘Nowork.’Thesweeperboysmiled,aflashofwhiteinthedarknessofhisface.‘WhatofMrHarrison,thesahib?’‘Gone.’

‘Gone,’ said Rusty, and was surprised at not being surprised. ‘Where has hegone?’‘Don’tknow,buthegoneforgood.Beforehego,Igetsack.Idropthebathroom

wateronveranda,andthesahib,hehitmeontheheadwithhishand,put!...Isay,Sahibyouarecruel,andhesaycrueltytoanimals,no?ThenhetellmeIgetsack,heleavinganyway.Ilosetwodayspay.’Rustywas filledwithboth reliefanduncertainty, and for the same reason;now

therecouldneverbeareturn;whetherhewantedtoornot,hecouldnevergobacktohisoldhome.‘Whatabouttheothers?’askedRusty.‘Theystillthere.Missionary’swifeafinelady,shegivemefiverupeesbeforeI

go.’‘Andyou?Youareworkingnow?’Againthesweeperboyflashedhissmile.‘Nowork...’Rustydidn’tdareoffertheboyanymoney,thoughitwouldprobablyhavebeen

accepted;inthesweeperboyhesawnobility,andhecouldnotbelittlenobility.‘I will try to get you work,’ he said, forgetting that he was on his way to the

stationtobuyaone-wayticket,andtellingthesweeperboywherehelived.Instinctively, the sweeper boy did not believe him; he nodded his head

automatically,buthiseyessignifieddisbelief;andwhenRustylefthim,hewasstillnodding;andtonobodyinparticular.

*

On the station platform the coolies pushed and struggled, shoutedincomprehensibly, lifted heavy trunks with apparent ease. Merchants cried theirwares,trundlingbarrowsupanddowntheplatform:soda-water,oranges,betel-nut,halwai sweets . . . The flies swarmed around the open stalls, clustered on glass-covered sweetboxes; themongreldogs,ownerlessandunfed, roved theplatformandrailwaylines,huntingforscrapsoffoodandstealingateveryopportunity.Ignoring Somi’s advice, Rusty bought a third class ticket and found an empty

compartment. The guard blew his whistle, but nobody took any notice. Peoplecontinuedabout theirbusiness, certain that the trainwouldn’t start for another tenminutes:theHardwarMailneverdidstartontime.Rusty was the only person in the compartment until a fat lady, complaining

volubly, oozed in through the door and spreadherself across an entire bunk; herplan,itseemed,wastodiscourageotherpassengersfromcomingin.Shehadbeady

little eyes, set in a bigmoon face; and they looked at Rusty in curiosity, dartingawaywhenevertheymetwithhis.Otherscamein, inquicksuccessionnow,for theguardhadblownhiswhistlea

second time: a young woman with a baby, a soldier in uniform, a boy of abouttwelve . . . theywere all poor people; except for the fat lady,who travelled thirdclassinordertosavemoney.The guard’s whistle blew again, but the train still refused to start. Being the

HardwarMail,thiswasbutnatural;nooneeverexpectedtheHardwarMailtostarton time, for in all its history, it hadn’t done so (not even during the time of theBritish), and for it to do so nowwouldbe a blow to tradition.Everyonewas fortradition, and so the HardwarMail was not permitted to arrive and depart at theappointedhour; thoughitwasfearedthatonedaysomeyoungfoolwouldchangetheappointedhours.Andimaginewhatwouldhappenifthetraindidleaveontime—the entire railway systemwould be thrown into confusion for, needless to say,everyothertraintookitstimefromtheHardwarMail...So theguardkeptblowinghiswhistle,and thevendorsput theirheads inat the

windows,sellingorangesandnewspapersandsodawater...‘Sodawater!’ exclaimed the fat lady. ‘Whowants sodawater!Why,our farmer

herehaswithhimasohraiofpurecoolwater,andhewillshareitwithus,willhenot?Paan-wallah!Calltheman,quick,heisnotevenstoppingatthewindow!Theguardblewhiswhistleagain.Andtheywereoff.TheHardwarMail,trueto

tradition,pulledoutofDehrastationhalfanhourlate.

*

Perhaps itwasbecauseRustywas leavingDehra for ever that he took anunusualinterestineverythinghesawandheard.Thingsthatwouldnotnormallyhavebeennoticedbyhim,nowmadevividimpressionsonhismind:thegesticulationsofthecoolies as the train drew out of the station, a dog licking a banana skin, a nakedchildaloneamongstapileofbundles,cryingitsheartout......Theplatform,fruitstalls,advertisementboards,allslippedaway.Thetraingatheredspeed,thecarriagesgroanedandcreakedandrockedcrazily.

But, as they left the town and the station behind, the wheels found their rhythm,beatingtimewiththerailsandsingingasong.Itwasasadsong,persistentandfatalistic.Anotherlifewasfinishing.Onemorning,monthsago,Rustyhadheardadrumintheforest,asingledrum-

beat,dhum-tap;andinthestillnessofthemorningithadbeenacall,amessage,an

irresistibleforce.Hehadcutawayfromhisroots:hehadbeenreplanted,hadsprungtolife,newlife.Butitwastooquickagrowth,rootless,andhehadwithered.Andnowhehadrunawayagain.Nodrumnow;instead,thepulsatingthrobandtremorof the train rushinghimaway;away fromIndia, fromSomi, from thechaat shopandthebazaar;andhedidnotknowwhy,exceptthathewaslostandlonelyandtiredandold:nearlyseventeen,butold...Thelittleboybesidehimkneltinfrontofthewindow,andcountedthetelegraph

posts as they flashedby; they seemed, after awhile, tobehurtlingpastwhilst thetrainstoodstationary.Onlytherockingofthecarriagecouldbefelt.The train sang through the forests, and sometimes the child waved his hand

excitedly and pointed out a deer, the sturdy sambar or delicate cheetal.Monkeysscreamed from treetops, or loped beside the train, mothers with their youngclingingtotheirbreasts.Thejunglewasheavy,shuttingoffthesky,anditwaslikethisforhalfanhour;thenthetraincameintotheopen,andthesunstruckthroughthe carriagewindows.They swung through cultivated land,maize and sugar canefields; past squat,mud-hut villages, and teams of bullocks ploughing up the soil;leavingbehindonlyatrailofcurlingsmoke.Children ran out from the villages—brown, naked children—andwaved to the

train,cryingwordsofgreeting;and the littleboy in thecompartmentwavedbackandshoutedmerrily,andthenturnedtolookathistravellingcompanions,hiseyesshiningwithpleasure.Thechildbegantochatteraboutthisandthat,andtheotherslistenedtohimgood-humouredly;thefarmerwithsimplicityandagenuineinterest,thefatladywithatolerantsmile,andthesoldierwithanairofcondescension.Theyoungwoman and the babywere both asleep. Rusty felt sleepy himself, andwasunable to listen to the small boy; vaguely, he thought of Kishen, and of howsurprisedandpleasedKishenwouldbetoseehim.Presentlyhefellasleep.

*

Whenheawoke,thetrainwasnearingHardwar;hehadsleptforalmostanhour,buttohimitseemedlikefiveminutes.Histhroatwasdryandthoughhisshirtwassoakedwithperspiration,heshivered

alittle.Hishandstrembled,andhehadtoclosehisfiststostopthetrembling.AtmiddaythetrainsteamedintoHardwarstation,anddisgorgeditspassengers.Thefatlady,whowasdeterminedtobethefirstoutofthecompartment,jammed

thedoorway;butRustyandthesoldieroutwittedherbyclimbingoutofthewindow.

Rustyfeltbetteroncehewasoutsidethestation,butheknewhehadafever.Therockingofthetraincontinued,andthesongofthewheelsandtherailskeptbeatinginhishead.Hewalkedslowlyawayfromthestation,comfortedbythethoughtthatatKishen’saunt’shousetherewouldbefoodandrest.Atnight,hewouldcatchtheDelhitrain.

ChapterXXI

Thehousewasontopofahill,andfromtheroadRustycouldseetheriverbelow,and the temples,andhundredsofpeoplemovingabouton the longgraceful stepsthatslopeddowntothewater:fortheriverwasholy,andHardwarsacred,aplaceofpilgrimage.Heknockedonthedoor,andpresentlytherewasthesoundofbarefeetonastone

floor. The doorwas opened by a lady, but shewas a stranger toRusty, and theylookedateachotherwithpuzzled,questioningeyes.‘Oh . . . namaste ji,’ faltered Rusty. ‘Does—doesMrKapoor or his sister live

here?’Theladyofthehousedidnotanswerimmediately.Shelookedattheboywitha

detached interest, trying to guess at his business and intentions. She was dressedsimply and well, she had a look of refinement, and Rusty felt sure that herexaminationofhimwasnomorethannaturalcuriosity.‘Whoareyou,please?’sheasked.‘IamafriendfromDehra.IamleavingIndiaandIwanttoseeMrKapoorandhis

sonbeforeIgo.Aretheyhere?’‘OnlyMrKapoorishere,’shesaid.‘Youcancomein.’RustywonderedwhereKishenandhisauntcouldbe,buthedidnotwant toask

this strange lady; he felt ill at ease in her presence; the house seemed to be hers.Comingstraightintothefrontroomfrombrightsunshine,hiseyestookalittletimeto get used to the dark; but after amoment or two hemade out the form ofMrKapoor,sittinginacushionedarmchair.‘Hullo,MisterRusty,’saidKapoor.‘Itisnicetoseeyou.’There was a glass of whisky on the table, but Kapoor was not drunk; he was

shavedanddressed,andlookedagooddealyoungerthanwhenRustyhadlastseenhim.But something elsewasmissing.His jovial friendliness, his enthusiasm, hadgone. This Kapoor was a different man to the Kapoor of the beard and greendressinggown.

‘Hullo,MisterKapoor,’saidRusty.‘Howareyou?’‘Iamfine,justfine.Sitdown,please.Willyouhaveadrink?’‘Nothanks.IcametoseeyouandKishenbeforeleavingforEngland.Iwantedto

seeyouagain,youwereverykindtome...’‘That’sallright,quiteallright.I’mverygladtoseeyou,but I’mafraidKishen

isn’there.By theway, the ladywho justmetyouat thedoor, Ihaven’t introducedyouyet—thisismywife,MisterRusty...I—ImarriedagainshortlyafterMeena’sdeath.’

RustylookedatthenewMrsKapoorinconsiderablebewilderment,andgreetedherquietly.Itwasnotunusualforamantomarryagainsoonafterhiswife’sdeath,andheknewit,buthisheartwasbreakingwithafierceanger.Hewasrevoltedbytherapidityofitall;hardlyamonthhadpassed,andherewasKapoorwithanother

wife. Rusty remembered that it was for this man Kapoor—this weakling, thisdrunkard,thisself-opinionated,selfishdrunkard—thatMeenahadgivenherlife,allofit,devotedlyshehadremainedbyhissidewhenshecouldhaveleft,whentherewasnomorefightinhimandnomoreloveinhimandnomoreprideinhim;and,hadsheleftthen,shewouldbealive,andhe—hewouldbedead...Rusty was not interested in the new Mrs Kapoor. For Kapoor, he had only

contempt.‘MisterRusty isagood friendof the family,’Kapoorwassaying. ‘InDehrahe

wasagreathelptoKishen.’‘HowdidMeenadie?’askedRusty,determinedtohurtKapoor—ifKapoorcould

behurt...‘Ithoughtyouknew.Wehadanaccident.Letusnottalkofit,MisterRusty...’‘Thedriverwasdriving,ofcourse?’Kapoordidnotanswerimmediately,butraisedhisglassandsippedfromit.‘Ofcourse,’hesaid.‘Howdiditallhappen?’‘Please,MisterRusty,Idonotwanttodescribeit.Weweregoingtoofast,andthe

carlefttheroadandhitatree.Ican’tdescribeit,MisterRusty.’‘No,ofcoursenot,’saidRusty.‘Anyway,Iamgladnothinghappenedtoyou.Itis

also good that youhavemasteredyour natural grief, and started a new life. I amafraidIamnotasstrongasyou.Meenawaswonderful,andIstillcan’tbelievesheisdead.’‘Wehavetocarryon...’‘Ofcourse.HowisKishen,Iwouldliketoseehim.’‘HeisinLucknowwithhisaunt,’saidKapoor.‘Hewishedtostaywithher.’MrsKapoorhadbeenquiettillnow.‘Tellhimthetruth,’shesaid.‘Thereisnothingtohide.’‘Youtellhimthen.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘Heranawayfromus.Assoonashisauntleft,heranaway.Wetriedtomakehim

comeback,but itwasuseless, sonowwedon’t try.Buthe is inHardwar.Wearealwayshearingabouthim.Theysayheisthemostcunningthiefonbothsidesoftheriver.’‘WherecanIfindhim?’‘Idon’tknow.Heiswantedbythepolice.Herobsforothers,andtheypayhim.It

iseasierforayoungboytostealthanitisforaman,andasheisquiteageniusatit,

hisservicesareindemand.AndIamsurehewouldnothesitatetorobustoo...’‘ButyoumustknowwhereIcanfindhim,’persistedRusty.‘Youmusthavesome

idea.’‘Hehasbeenseenalongtheriverandinthebazaar.Idon’tknowwherehelives.

Inatree,perhaps,orinatemple,orinabrothel.HeissomewhereinHardwar,butexactlywhereIdonotknow...nooneknows.Hespeakstonooneandrunsfromeveryone.Whatcanyouwantwithhim?’‘Heismyfriend,’saidRusty.‘Hewillrobyoutoo.’‘ThemoneyIhaveiswhathegaveme.’He rose to leave; hewas tired, but he did notwant to staymuch longer in this

alienhouse.‘Youaretired,’saidMrsKapoor,‘Willyourest,andhaveyourmealwithus?’‘No,’saidRusty,‘thereisn’ttime.’

ChapterXXII

AllhopeleftRustyashestaggereddownthehill,weakandexhausted.Hecouldnotthink clearly; he knewhehadn’t eaten sincemorning, and cursedhimself for notacceptingMrsKapoor ’shospitality.Hewashungry,hewasthirsty;hewastormentedbythoughtsofwhatmighthave

happenedtoKishen,ofwhatmighthappen...He stumbled down the long steps that led to the water. The sun was strong,

striking up from the stone and shimmering against the great white temple thatoverlookedtheriver.Hecrossedthecourtyardandcametothewater ’sedge.Lyingonhisbellyontheriverbank,hedrankoftheholywaters.Thenhepulled

offhisshirtandsandals,andslippedintothewater.Thereweremenandwomenonallsides,prayingwiththeirfacestothesun.Greatfishswamroundthem,unafraidandunmolested,safeinthesacredwatersoftheGanges.Whenhehadbathedand refreshedhimself,Rustyclimbedbackon to the stone

bank.Hissandalsandshirthaddisappeared.Noonewasnearexceptabeggarleaningonastick,ayoungmanmassaginghis

bodywithoils,andacowexamininganempty,discardedbasket;and,ofthethree,thecowwasthemostlikelysuspect;ithadprobablyeatenthesandals.But Rusty no longer caredwhat happened to his things. Hismoneywas in the

leatherpurseattachedtohisbelt;and,aslongashehadthebelt,hehadbothmoneyandpyjamas.Herolledthewetpyjamasuptohisthighs;then,staringaheadwithunseeingeyes,

ignoringthebowlsthatwerethrustbeforehimbythebeggars,hewalkedthelengthofthecourtyardthatranparalleltotherisingsteps.Childrenwereshoutingateachother,priestschantingtheirprayers;vendors,with

basketsontheirheads—basketsoffruitandchaat—gaveharshcries;andthecowspushedtheirwayaroundatwill.Stepsdescendedfromallpartsof thehill;broad,clean steps from the temple, and narrow, winding steps from the bazaars; and a

mazeofalleywayszigzaggedaboutthehill,throughthebazaar,roundthetemples,alongtheriver,andwerelostamongstthemselvesandfoundagainandlost...Kishen,barefootedandraggedandthin,butwiththesamesupremeconfidencein

himself,leantagainstthewallofanalleyway,andwatchedRusty’sprogressalongtheriverbank.HewantedtoshouttoRusty, togotohim,toembracehim,buthecouldnotdo

thesethings.Hedidnotunderstandthereasonforhisfriend’spresence,hecouldnotrevealhimselfforfearofatrap.HewassureitwasRustyhewatched,forwhoelsewas there with the same coloured hair and skin who would walk half-naked inHardwar.ItwasRusty,butwhy...washeintrouble,washesick?Why,why...RustysawKisheninthealleyway.Hewastooweaktoshout.Hestoodinthesun,

andlookedupthestepsatKishenstandinginthealleyway.KishendidnotknowwhethertoruntoRusty,orrunaway.He,too,stoodstill,at

theentranceofthealley.‘Hullo,Rusty,’hecalled.AndRustybegantowalkupthesteps,slowlyandpainfully,hisfeetburning,his

headreeling,hisheartthunderingwithconflictingemotions.‘Areyoualone?’calledKishen.‘Don’tcomeifyouarenotalone.’Rustyadvancedupthesteps,untilhewasinthealleywayfacingKishen.Despite

thehazebeforehis eyes, henoticedKishen’swild condition; thebonesprotrudedfromtheboy’sskin,hishairwasknottedandstraggly,hiseyesdanced,searchingthestepsforothers.‘Whyareyouhere,Rusty?’‘Toseeyou...’‘Why?’‘Iamgoingaway.’‘Howcanyougoanywhere?Youlooksickenoughtodie.’‘Icametoseeyou,anyway.’‘Why?’Rusty sat down on a step; his wrists hung loose on his knees, and his head

droopedforward.‘I’mhungry,’hesaid.Kishenwalkedintotheopen,andapproachedafruitvendor.Hecamebackwithtwolargewatermelons.‘Youhavemoney?’askedRusty.‘No.Justcredit.Ibringthemprofits,theygivemecredit.’

HesatdownbesideRusty,produceda smallbutwicked-lookingknife from thefoldsofhisshirt,andproceededtoslicethemelonsinhalf.‘Youcan’tgoaway,’hesaid.‘Ican’tgoback.’‘Whynot?’‘Nomoney,nojob,nofriends.’Theyputtheirteethintothewatermelon,andateatterrificspeed.Rustyfeltmuch

refreshed;heputhisweaknessandfeverdowntoanemptystomach.‘I’llbenogoodasabandit,’saidRusty.‘Icanberecognizedatsight,Ican’tgo

roundrobbingpeople,Idon’tthinkit’sveryniceanyway.’‘Idon’trobpoorpeople,’objectedKishen,proddinghisnose.‘Ionlyrobthose

who’vegot something to be robbed.And I don’t do it formyself, that’swhy I’mnevercaught.Peoplepaymetodotheirdirtywork.Likethat,theyaresafebecausethey are somewhere elsewhen everythinghappens, and I am safe because I don’thavewhatIrob,andhaven’tgotareasonfortakingitanyway...soitisquitesafe.But don’t worry, bhai, we will not do it in Dehra, we are too well-known there.Besides,Iamtiredofrunningfromthepolice.’‘Thenwhatwillwedo?’‘Oh,wewill findsomeoneforyou togiveEnglish lessons.Notone,butmany.

AndIwillstartachaatshop.’‘When do we go?’ said Rusty and England and fame and riches were all

forgotten,andwouldsoonbedreamsagain.‘Tomorrowmorning,early,’saidKishen.‘Thereisaboatcrossingtheriver.We

mustcrosstheriver,onthissideIamknown,andtherearemanypeoplewhowouldnotlikemetoleave.Ifwewentbytrain,Iwouldbecaughtatthestation,forsure.Ontheothersidenooneknowsme,thereisonlyjungle.’RustywasamazedofhowcompetentandpracticalKishenhadbecome;Kishen’s

mindhaddevelopedfarquickerthanhisbody,andhewasafunnycrossbetweenanexperiencedadventurerandaraggedurchin.AmonthagohehadclungtoRustyforprotection;nowRustylookedtoKishenforguidance.Iwonder, thoughtRusty,will theynoticemyabsenceinDehra?Afterall,Ihave

onlybeenawayaday,thoughitseemsanage...theroomontheroofwillstillbevacantwhenIreturn,noonebutmecouldbecrazyenoughtoliveinsucharoom...Iwillgobacktotheroomasthoughnothinghadhappened,andnoonewillnoticethatanythinghas.

*

Theafternoonripenedintoevening.As the sun sank, the temple changed fromwhite to gold, fromgold to orange,

fromorangetopink,andfrompinktocrimson,andallthesecolourswereinturnreflectedinthesurroundingwaters.Thenoise subsidedgradually, the night cameon.Kishen andRusty slept in the

open,onthe templesteps. Itwasawarmnight, theairwascloseandheavy.In theshadows lay small bundles of humanity, the roofless and the homeless, sleepingonly to pass the time of night. Rusty slept in spasms, waking frequently with anaggingpaininhisstomach;poorstomach,itcouldn’tstandtheunfamiliarstrainofemptiness.

ChapterXXIII

Beforethestepsandtherivertankcametolife,KishenandRustyclimbedintotheferryboat.Itwouldbecrossingtheriverallday,carryingpilgrimsfromtempletotemple,chargingnothing.Andthoughitwasveryearly,andthisthefirstcrossing,afreepassageacrosstherivermadeforacrowdedboat.ThepeoplewhoclimbedinwereevenmorediversethanthoseRustyhadmeton

thetrain:womenandchildren,beardedoldmenandwrinkledwomen,strongyoungpeasants—not the prosperous or mercantile class, but the poor—who had comemiles,mostlyonfoot,tobatheinthesacredwatersoftheGanges.Onshore, thestepsbegantocometo life.Thepreviousday’scriesandprayers

andriteswereresumedwiththesamemonotonousdevotion,atthesamepitch,inthesame spirit of timelessness; and the steps sounded to the tread of many feet,sandalled,slipperedandbare.Theboatfloatedlowinthewater,itwassoheavy,andthe oarsmen had to strain upstream in order to avoid being swept down by thecurrent. Their muscles shone and rippled under the grey-iron of their weather-beatenskins.Thebladesoftheoarscutthroughthewater,inandout;andbetweengrunts,theoarsmenshoutedthetimeofthestroke.Kishen andRusty sat crushed together in themiddle of the boat.Therewas no

likelihoodoftheirbeingseparatednow,buttheyheldhands.Thepeopleintheboatbegantosing.Itwas a lowhumat first, but someone broke inwith a song, and the voice—a

youngvoice,clearandpure—remindedRustyofSomi;andhecomfortedhimselfwiththethoughtthatSomiwouldbebackinDehrainthespring.Theysangintimetothestrokeoftheoars,inandout,andthegruntsandshouts

oftheoarsmenthrobbedtheirwayintothesong,becomingpartofit.An oldwoman,who hadwhite hair and a face linedwith deep ruts, said: ‘It is

beautifultohearthechildrensing.’‘Thenyoutooshouldsing,’saidRusty.

Shesmiledathim,asweet,toothlesssmile.‘Whatareyou,myson,areyouoneofus?Ihavenever,onthisriver,seenblueeyesandgoldenhair.’‘Iamnothing,’saidRusty.‘Iameverything.’Hestateditbluntly,proudly.‘Whereisyourhome,then?’‘Ihavenohome,’he said, and feltproudof that too. ‘Andwho is theboywith

you?’askedtheoldwoman,agenuinebusybody.‘Whatishetoyou?’Rustydidnotanswer;hewasaskinghimselfthesamequestion:whatwasKishen

to him? He was sure of one thing, they were both refugees—refugees from theworld . . . Theywere each other ’s shelter, each other ’s refuge, each other ’s help.Kishenwasajungli,divorcedfromtherestofmankind,andRustywastheonlyonewhounderstoodhim—becauseRusty toowasdivorced frommankind.And theirswasatiethatwouldhold,becausetheyweretheonlypeoplewhokneweachotherandlovedeachother.Becauseofthistie,Rustyhadtogoback.Anditwaswithreliefthathewentback.

Hisreturnwasjustified.Helethishandtrailoverthesideoftheboat:hewantedtorememberthetouchof

thewater as itmovedpast them,downandaway: itwouldcome to theocean, theoceanthatwaslife.Hecouldnotrunaway.Hecouldnotescapethelifehehadmade,theoceaninto

whichhehadflounderedthenighthelefthisguardian’shouse.Hehadtoreturntotheroom,hisroom;hehadtogoback.Thesongdiedawayastheboatcameashore.Theydisembarked,walkingoverthe

smoothpebbles;andtheforestrosefromtheedgeoftheriver,andbeckonedthem.Rustyrememberedtheforestonthedayofthepicnic,whenhehadkissedMeena

andheldherhands, andhe remembered themagicof the forest and themagicofMeena.‘Oneday,’hesaid,‘wemustliveinthejungle.’‘Oneday,’saidKishen,andhelaughed.‘Butnowwewalkback.Wewalkbackto

theroomontheroof!Itisourroom,wehavetogoback!’Theyhadtogoback:tobatheatthewatertankandlistentothemorninggossip,

tosit inthefruit treesandeatinthechaatshopandperhapsmakeagardenontheroof;toeatandsleep;towork;tolive;todie.Kishenlaughed.‘One day you’ll be great, Rusty. A writer or an actor or a prime minister or

something.Maybeapoet!Whynotapoet,Rusty?’Rustysmiled.Heknewhewassmiling,becausehewassmilingathimself.

‘Yes,’hesaid,‘whynotapoet?’SotheybegantowalkAheadofthemlayforestandsilence—andwhatwasleftoftime...

ReadMoreinPuffinThickasThieves:TalesofFriendship

RuskinBondSomewhereinlifeTheremustbesomeoneTotakeyourhandAndsharethetorridday.WithoutthetouchoffriendshipThereisnolifeandwemustfadeaway.

Discover a hidden pool with three young boys, laugh out loud as a little mousemakesdemandsona lonelywriter, follow themischievous ‘four feathers’as theydiscoverababylostinthehillsandwitnessthebondbetweenatigerandhismaster.Somestorieswillmakeyousmile,somewillbring tears toyoureyes,somemaymakeyourheart skipabeatbutallof themwill renewyour faith in thepoweroffriendship.

ReadMoreinPuffinUncles,AuntsandElephants:TalesfromyourFavouriteStoryteller

RuskinBond

Iknowtheworld’sacrowdedplace,Andelephantsdotakeupspace,Butifitmakesadifference,Lord,I’dgladlysharemyroomandboard.Ababyelephantwoulddo…But,ifhebringshismothertoo,There’sDad’sgarage.Hewouldn’tmind.Toelephants,he’smorethankind.ButIwonderwhatmyMumwouldsayIftheirauntsandunclescametostay!

Ruskin Bond has entertained generations of readers for many decades. Thisdelightful collectionofpoetry,prose andnon-fictionbrings together someofhisbestworkinasinglevolume.Sumptuouslyillustrated,Uncles,AuntsandElephantsisabooktotreasureforalltimes.

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PublishedbyPenguinBooksIndia1987PublishedinPuffinbyPenguinBooksIndia2008Thisillustratededitionpublished2014

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Copyright©RuskinBond1987,2008,2014

CoverillustrationsbyArchanaSreenivasan

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Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareeithertheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareused fictitiouslyandany resemblance toanyactualperson, livingordead,eventsor locales, isentirelycoincidental.

ISBN:978-0-143-33338-8

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