Free Classic Ruskin Bond by Ruskin Bond

 
The Room on the Roof
 
Chapter One
    T HE LIGHT SPRING RAIN rode on the wind, into the trees, down the road; it brought an exhilarating freshness to the air, a smell of earth, a scent of flowers; it brought a smile to the eyes of the boy on the road.
    The long road wound round the hills, rose and fell and twisted down to Dehra; the road came from the mountains and passed through the jungle and valley and, after passing through Dehra, ended somewhere in the bazaar. But just where it ended no one knew, for the bazaar was a baffling place, where roads were easily lost.
    The boy was three miles out of Dehra. The further he could get from Dehra, the happier he was likely to be. Just now he was only three miles out of Dehra, so he was not very happy; and, what was worse, he was walking homewards.
    He was a pale boy, with blue-grey eyes and fair hair; his face was rough and marked, and the lower lip hung loose and heavy. He had his hands in his pockets and his head down, which was the way he always walked, and which gave him a deceptively tired appearance. He was a lazy but not a tired person.
    He liked the rain as it flecked his face, he liked the smell and the freshness; he did not look at his surroundings or notice them—his mind, as usual, was very far away—but he felt their atmosphere, and he smiled.
    His mind was so very far away that it was a few minutes before he noticed the swish of bicycle wheels beside him. The cyclist did not pass the boy, but rode beside him, studying him,taking in every visible detail, the bare head, the open-necked shirt, the flannel trousers, the sandals, the thick hide belt round his waist. A European boy was no longer a common sight in Dehra, and Somi, the cyclist, was interested.
    ‘Hullo,’ said Somi, giving his bell a tinkle. The boy looked up and saw a young, friendly face wrapped untidily in a turban.
    ‘Hullo,’ said Somi, ‘would you like me to ride you into town? If you are going to town?’
    ‘No, I’m all right,’ said the boy, without slackening his pace, ‘I like to walk.’
    ‘So do I, but it’s raining.’
    And to support Somi’s argument, the rain fell harder.
    ‘I like to walk in the rain,’ said the boy. ‘And I don’t live in the town, I live outside it.’
    Nice people didn’t live
in
the town . . .
    ‘Well, I can pass your way,’ persisted Somi, determined to help the stranger.
    The boy looked again at Somi, who was dressed like him except for short pants and a turban. Somi’s legs were long and athletic, his colour was an unusually rich gold, his features were fine, his mouth broke easily into friendliness. It was impossible to resist the warmth of his nature.
    The boy pulled himself up on the cross-bar, in front of Somi, and they moved off.
    They rode slowly, gliding round the low hills, and soon the jungle on either side of the road began to give way to open fields and tea-gardens and then to orchards and one or two houses.
    ‘Tell me when you reach your place,’ said Somi. ‘You stay with your parents?’
    The boy considered the question too familiar for a stranger to ask, and made no reply.
    ‘Do you like Dehra?’ asked Somi.
    ‘Not much,’ said the boy with pleasure.
    ‘Well, after England it must seem dull . . .’
    There was a pause and then the boy said, ‘I haven’t been to England. I was born here. I’ve never been anywhere else except Delhi.’
    ‘Do you like Delhi?’
    ‘Not much.’
    They rode on in silence. The rain still fell, but the cycle moved smoothly over the wet road, making a soft, swishing sound.
    Presently a man came in sight—no, it was not a man, it was a youth, but he had the appearance, the build of a man—walking towards town.
    ‘Hey, Ranbir,’ shouted Somi, as they neared the burly figure, ‘want a lift?’
    Ranbir ran into the road and slipped on to the carrier, behind Somi. The cycle wobbled a bit, but soon controlled itself and moved on, a little faster now.
    Somi spoke into the boy’s ear,