DUST ON MOUNTAIN: COLLECTED STORIES (84 page)

Time went by, and I lost track of Kishen.

About a year ago, I was standing in the lobby of the India International Centre, when an attractive young woman in her mid-thirties came up to me and said, ‘Hello, Rusty, don’t you remember me? I’m Manju. I lived next to you and Kishen and Ranbir when we were children.’

I recognized her then, for she had always been a pretty girl, the ‘belle’ of Dehra’s Astley Hall.

We sat down and talked about old times and new times, and I told her that I hadn’t heard from Kishen for a few years.

‘Didn’t you know?’ she asked. ‘He died about two years ago.’

‘What happened?’ I was dismayed, even angry, that I hadn’t heard about it. ‘He couldn’t have been more than thirty-eight.’

‘It was an accident on a beach in Goa. A child had got into difficulties and Kishen swam out to save her. He did rescue the little girl, but when he swam ashore he had a heart attack. He died right there on the beach. It seems he had always had a weak heart. The exertion must have been too much for him.’

I was silent. I knew he’d become a fairly good swimmer, but I did not know about the heart.

‘Was he married?’ I asked.

‘No, he was always the eligible bachelor boy.’

It had been good to see Manju again, even though she had given me bad news. She told me she was happily married, with a small son. We promised to keep in touch.

And that’s the end of this tale, apart from my brief visit to Delhi last November.

I had taken a taxi to Connaught Place and decided to get down at the Regal. I stood there a while, undecided about what to do or where to go. It was almost time for a show to start, and there were a lot of people milling around.

I thought someone called my name. I looked around, and there was Kishen in the crowd.

‘Kishen!’ I called, and started after him.

But a stout lady climbing out of a scooter rickshaw got in my way, and by the time I had a clear view again, my old friend had disappeared.

Had I seen his lookalike, a double? Or had he kept his promise to come back to see me once more?

B
efore Grandfather joined the Indian Railways, he worked for some time on the East African Railways, and it was during that period that he had his famous encounter with the ostrich. My childhood was frequently enlivened by this oft-told tale of my grandfather’s, and I give it here in his own words—or as well as I can remember them:

While engaged in the laying of a new railway line, I had a miraculous escape from an awful death. I lived in a small township, but my work lay some twelve miles away, and although I had a tent on the works I often had to go into town on horseback.

On one occasion, an accident happening to my horse, I got a lift into town, hoping that someone might do me a similar favour on my way back. But this was not to be, and I made up my mind next morning to do the journey on foot, shortening the distance by taking a cut through the hills which would save me about six miles.

To take this short cut it was necessary to cross an ostrich ‘camp’ or farm. To venture across these ‘camps’ in the breeding season, especially on foot, can be dangerous, for during this time the male birds are extremely ferocious.

But being familiar with the ways of ostriches, I knew that my dog would scare away any ostrich which tried to attack me. Strange though it may seem, even the biggest ostrich (and some of them grow to a height of nine feet) will bolt faster than a racehorse at the sight of even a small dog. And so, in company with my dog (a mongrel who had adopted me the previous month), I felt reasonably safe.

On arrival at the ‘camp’ I got through the wire fencing and, keeping a good lookout, dodged across the spaces between the bushes, now and then getting a sight of the birds which were feeding some distance away.

I had gone about half a mile from the fencing when up started a hare, and in an instant my dog gave chase. I tried to call him back although I knew it was useless, since chasing hares was a passion with him.

Whether it was the dog’s bark or my own shouting, I don’t know, but just what I was most anxious to avoid immediately happened: the ostriches became startled and began darting to and fro. Suddenly I saw a big male bird emerge from a thicket about a hundred yards away. He stood still and stared at me for a few moments; then, expanding his wings and with his tail erect, he came bounding towards me.

Believing discretion to be the better part of valour (at least in that particular situation), I turned and ran towards the fence. But it was an unequal race. What were my steps of two or three feet against the creature’s great strides of sixteen to twenty feet? There was only one hope: to wait for the ostrich behind some bush and try to dodge him till he tired. A dodging game was obviously my only chance.

Altering course a little, I rushed for the nearest clump of bushes where, gasping for breath, I waited for my pursuer. The great bird was almost immediately upon me, and a strange encounter commenced. This way and that I dodged, taking great care that I did not get directly in front of his deadly kick. The ostrich kicks forward, and with such terrific force that his great chisel-like nails, if they strike, would rip one open from head to foot.

Breathless, and really quite helpless, I prayed wildly for help as I circled the bush, which was about twelve feet in diameter and some six feet in height. My strength was rapidly failing, and I realized it would be impossible to keep up the struggle much longer; I was ready to drop from sheer exhaustion. As if aware of my condition, the infuriated bird suddenly doubled on his course and charged straight at me. With a desperate effort I managed to step to one side. How it happened I don’t know, but I found myself holding on to one of the creature’s wings, close to his body.

It was now the bird’s turn to be frightened, and he began to turn, or rather waltz, moving round and round so quickly that my feet were soon swinging out almost horizontally. All the time the ostrich kept opening and shutting his beak with loud snaps.

Imagine my situation as I clung desperately to the wing of the enraged bird, who was whirling me round and round as if I had been a cork! My arms soon began to ache with the strain, and the swift and continuous circling was making me dizzy. But I knew that if I relaxed my hold, a terrible fate awaited me: I would be promptly trampled to death by the spiteful bird.

Round and round we went in a great circle. It seemed as if my enemy would never tire. But I knew I could not hold on much longer.

Suddenly the bird went into reverse! This unexpected movement not only had the effect of making me lose my hold but sent me sprawling to the ground. I landed in a heap at the foot of the thorn bush. In an instant, almost before I had time to realize what had happened, the ostrich was upon me. I thought the end had come. Instinctively I put up my hands to protect my face. But, to my amazement, the great bird did not strike.

I moved my hands from my face, and there stood the ostrich with one foot raised ready to rip me open! I couldn’t move. Was the bird going to play with me like a cat with a mouse, and prolong the agony?

As I watched fascinated, I saw him turn his head sharply to the left. A second later he jumped back, turned, and made off as fast as he could. Dazed, I wondered what had happened.

I soon found out, for, to my great joy, I heard the bark of my truant dog, and the next moment he was jumping around me, licking my face and hands.

Needless to say, I returned his caresses most affectionately! And I took good care to see that he did not leave my side until we were well clear of the ostrich ‘camp’.

G
randfather had many gifts, but perhaps the most unusual—and at times startling—was his ability to disguise himself and take on the persona of another person, often a street vendor or carpenter or washerman; someone he had seen around for some time, and whose habits and characteristics he had studied.

His normal attire was that of the average Anglo-Indian or Englishman—bush shirt, khaki shorts, occasionally a sola topi or sun helmet—but if you rummaged through his cupboards, you would find a strange assortment of garments: dhotis, lungis, pyjamas, embroidered shirts and colourful turbans. He could be a maharaja one day, a beggar the next. Yes, he even had a brass begging bowl, but he used it only once, just to see if he could pass himself off as a bent-double beggar hobbling through the bazaar. He wasn’t recognized, but he had to admit that begging was a most difficult art.

‘You have to be on the street all day and in all weathers,’ he told me that day. ‘You have to be polite to everyone—no beggar succeeds by being rude! You have to be alert at all times. It’s hard work, believe me. I wouldn’t advise anyone to take up begging as a profession.’

Grandfather really liked to get the ‘feel’ of someone else’s occupation or lifestyle. And he enjoyed playing tricks on his friends and relatives.

Grandmother loved bargaining with shopkeepers and vendors of all kinds. She would boast that she could get the better of most men when it came to haggling over the price of onions or cloth or baskets or buttons … Until one day the sabziwalla, a wandering vegetable seller who carried a basket of fruit and vegetables on his head, spent an hour on the veranda arguing with Granny over the price of various items before finally selling her what she wanted.

Later that day, Grandfather confronted Granny and insisted on knowing why she had paid extra for tomatoes and green chillies. ‘Far more than you’d have paid in the bazaar,’ he said.

‘How do you know what I paid him?’ asked Granny.

‘Because here’s the ten-rupee note you gave me,’ said Grandfather, handing back her money. ‘I changed into something suitable and borrowed the sabziwalla’s basket for an hour!’

Grandfather never used make-up. He had a healthy tan and with the help of a false moustache or beard, and a change of hairstyle, he could become anyone he wanted to be.

For my amusement, he became a tongawalla; that is, the driver of a pony-drawn buggy, a common form of conveyance in the days of my boyhood.

Grandfather borrowed a tonga from one of his cronies and took me for a brisk and eventful ride around the town. On our way we picked up the odd customer and earned a few rupees which were dutifully handed over to the tonga owner at the end of the day. We picked up Dr Bisht, our local doctor, who failed to recognize Grandfather. But, of course, I was the giveaway. ‘And what are you doing here?’ asked the good doctor. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘I’m just helping Grandfather,’ I replied. ‘It’s part of my science project.’ Dr Bisht then took a second look at Grandfather and burst out laughing; he also insisted on a free ride.

On one occasion Grandfather drove Granny to the bank without her recognizing him, and that too in a tonga with a white pony. Granny was superstitious about white ponies and avoided them as far as possible. But Grandfather, in his tonga driver’s disguise, persuaded her that his white pony was the best behaved little pony in the world. And so it was, under his artful guidance. As a result, Granny lost her fear of white ponies.

One winter the Gemini Circus came to our small north Indian town and set up its tents on the old Parade Ground. Grandfather, who liked circuses and circus people, soon made friends with all the show folk—the owner, the ringmaster, the lion tamer, the pony riders, clowns, trapeze artistes and acrobats. He told me that as a boy he had always wanted to join a circus, preferably as an animal trainer or ringmaster, but his parents had persuaded him to become an engine driver instead.

‘Driving an engine must be fun,’ I said.

‘Yes, but lions are safer,’ said Grandfather.

And he used his friendship with the circus folk to get free passes for me, my cousin Melanie, and my small friend Gautam, who lived next door.

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked Grandfather.

‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with my friends. See if you can spot me!’

We were convinced that Grandfather was going to adopt one of his disguises and take part in the evening’s entertainment. So for Melanie, Gautam and me the evening turned out to be a guessing game.

We were enthralled by the show’s highlights—the tigers going through their drill, the beautiful young men and women on the flying trapeze, the daring motorcyclist bursting through a hoop of fire, the jugglers and clowns—but we kept trying to see if we could recognize Grandfather among the performers. We couldn’t make too much of noise because in the row behind us sat some of the town’s senior citizens—the mayor, a turbaned maharaja, a formally dressed Englishman with a military bearing, a couple of nuns and Gautam’s class teacher! But we kept up our chatter for most of the show.

‘Is your Grandfather the lion tamer?’ asked Gautam.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had any practice with lions. He’s better with tigers!’ But there was someone else in charge of the tigers.

‘He could be one of the jugglers,’ said Melanie.

‘He’s taller than the jugglers,’ I said.

Gautam made an inspired guess: ‘Maybe he’s the bearded lady!’

We looked hard and long at the bearded lady when she came to our side of the ring. She waved to us in a friendly manner, and Gautam called out, ‘Excuse me, are you Ruskin’s grandfather?’

‘No, dear,’ she replied with a deep laugh. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ And she skipped away to another part of the ring.

A clown came up to us and made funny faces.

‘Are
you
Grandfather?’ asked Melanie.

But he just grinned, somersaulted backwards, and went about his funny business.

‘I give up,’ said Melanie. ‘Unless he’s the dancing bear …’

‘It’s a
real
bear,’ said Gautam. ‘Just look at those claws!’

The bear looked real enough. So did the lion, though a trifle mangy. And the tigers looked tigerish.

We went home convinced that Grandfather hadn’t been there at all.

‘So, did you enjoy the circus?’ he asked, when we sat down to dinner later that evening.