Free The Very Best of Ruskin Bond, the Writer on the Hill: Selected Fiction and Non-Fiction by Ruskin Bond Page B

appreciate that... It isn’t fair to hold a boy back in life simply because he can’t get through some puny exam... Mind you, I don’t give my certificates to
anyone
. They come to me only after they have failed two or three times.’
    ‘And I suppose you charge something?’
    ‘Only if they can pay. There’s no fixed sum. Whatever they like to give me. I’ve never been greedy in these matters, and you know I am not unkind...’
    Which is true enough, I thought, looking out of the carriage window at the green fields of Moga and remembering the half-yearly Hindi exam when I had stared blankly at the question paper, knowing that I was totally incapable of answering any of it. Mr Khushal had come walking down the line of desks and stopped at mine, breathing cloves all over me. ‘Come on, boy, why haven’t you started?’
    ‘Can’t do it, sir,’ I’d said. ‘It’s too difficult.’
    ‘Never mind,’ he’d urged in a whisper. ‘Do
something
. Copy it out, copy it out!’
    And so, to pass the time, I’d copied out the entire paper, word for word. And a fortnight later, when the results were out, I found I had passed!
    ‘But, sir,’ I had stammered, approaching Mr Khushal when I found him alone. ‘I never answered the paper. I couldn’t translate the passage. All I did was copy it out!’
    ‘That’s why I gave you pass marks,’ he’d answered imperturbably. ‘You have such neat handwriting. If ever you do learn Hindi, my boy, you’ll write a beautiful script!’
    And remembering that moment, I was now filled with compassion for my old teacher; and leaning across, I placed my hand on his knee and said: ‘Sir, if they convict you, I hope it won’t be for long. And when you come out, if you happen to be in Delhi or Ferozepur, please look me up. You see, I’m still rather hopeless at Hindi, and perhaps you could give me tuition. I’d be glad to pay...’
    Mr Khushal threw back his head and laughed, and the entire compartment shook with his laughter.
    ‘Teach you Hindi!’ he cried. ‘My dear boy, what gave you the idea that I ever knew any Hindi?’
    ‘But, sir—if not Hindi what were you teaching us all the time at school?’
    ‘Punjabi!’ he shouted, and everyone jumped in their seats. ‘Pure Punjabi! But how were
you
to know the difference?’

A Face in the Dark
    M R O LIVER, AN Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to his school late one night, on the outskirts of the hill station of Simla. From before Kipling’s time, the school had been run on English public school lines and the boys, most of them from wealthy Indian families, wore blazers, caps and ties.
Life
magazine, in a feature on India, had once called it the ‘Eton of the East’. Mr Oliver had been teaching in the school for several years.
    The Simla bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about three miles from the school and Mr Oliver, a bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening, returning after dark, when he would take a short cut through the pine forest.
    When there was a strong wind the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the main road. But Mr Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch and its gleam—the batteries were running down—moved fitfully down the narrow forest path. When its flickering light fell on the figure of a boy, who was sitting alone on a rock, Mr Oliver stopped. Boys were not supposed to be out after dark.
    ‘What are you doing out here, boy?’ asked Mr Oliver sharply, moving closer so that he could recognize the miscreant. But even as he approached the boy, Mr Oliver sensed that something was wrong. The boy appeared to be crying. His head hung down, he held his face in his hands and his body shook convulsively. It was a strange, soundless weeping and Mr Oliver felt distinctly uneasy.
    ‘Well, what’s the matter?’ he asked, his anger giving way to concern. ‘What are you crying for?’ The boy would not answer or look up. His body