Free The Kitemaker: Stories by Ruskin Bond Page A

if I didn’t listen, the sound was there. I had grown used to it. But whenever I went away, I was conscious of something missing and I was lonely without the sound of running water.
    I remained alone for two months and then I had to see you again, Sushila. I could not bear the long-drawn-out uncertainty of the situation. I wanted to do something that would bring everything nearer to a conclusion. Merely to stand by and wait was intolerable. Nor could I bear the secrecy to which Dinesh had sworn me. Someone else would have to know about my intentions—someone would have to help. I needed another ally to sustain my hopes; only then would I find the waiting easier.
    You had not been keeping well and looked thin, but you were as cheerful, as serene as ever.
    When I took you to the pictures with Sunil, you wore a sleeveless kameez made of purple silk. It set off your dark beauty very well. Your face was soft and shy and your smile hadn’t changed. I could not keep my eyes off you.
    Returning home in the taxi, I held your hand all the way.
    Sunil (in Punjabi): ‘Will you give your children English or Hindi names?’
    Me: ‘Hindustani names.’
    Sunil (in Punjabi): ‘Ah, that is the right answer, Uncle!’
    And first I went to your mother.
    She was a tiny woman and looked very delicate. But she’d had six children—a seventh was on the way—and they had all come into the world without much difficulty and were the healthiest in the entire joint family.
    She was on her way to see relatives in another part of the city and I accompanied her part of the way. As she was pregnant, she was offered a seat in the crowded bus. I managed to squeeze in beside her. She had always shown a liking for me and I did not find it difficult to come to the point.
    ‘At what age would you like Sushila to get married?’ I asked casually, with almost paternal interest.
    ‘We’ll worry about that when the time comes. She has still to finish school. And if she keeps failing her exams, she will never finish school.’
    I took a deep breath and made the plunge.
    ‘When the time comes,’ I said, ‘when the time comes, I would like to marry her.’ And without waiting to see what her reaction would be, I continued: ‘I know I must wait, a year or two, even longer. But I am telling you this, so that it will be in your mind. You are her mother and so I want you to be the first to know.’ (Liar that I was! She was about the fifth to know. But what I really wanted to say was, ‘Please don’t be looking for any other husband for her just yet.’)
    She didn’t show much surprise. She was a placid woman. But she said, rather sadly, ‘It’s all right but I don’t have much say in the family. I do not have any money, you see. It depends on the others, especially her grandmother.’
    ‘I’ll speak to them when the time comes. Don’t worry about that. And you don’t have to worry about money or anything—what I mean is, I don’t believe in dowries—I mean, you don’t have to give me a Godrej cupboard and a sofa set and that sort of thing. All I want is Sushila . . .’
    ‘She is still very young.’
    But she was pleased—pleased that her flesh and blood, her own daughter, could mean so much to a man.
    ‘Don’t tell anyone else just now,’ I said.
    ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she said with a smile.
    So now the secret—if it could be called that—was shared by at least five people.
    The bus crawled on through the busy streets and we sat in silence, surrounded by a press of people but isolated in the intimacy of our conversation.
    I warmed towards her—towards that simple, straightforward, uneducated woman (she had never been to school, could not read or write), who might still have been young and pretty had her circumstances been different. I asked her when the baby was due.
    ‘In two months,’ she said. She laughed. Evidently she found it unusual and rather amusing for a young man to ask her such a question.
    ‘I’m sure it will