Classic Ruskin Bond Read Online Free Page A

in the interval between the spring and the coming summer. There was no sign of the missionary’s wifeor the sweeper boy when Rusty returned, but Mr Harrison’s car stood in the driveway of the house.
    At sight of the car, Rusty felt a little weak and frightened; he had not expected his guardian to return so soon and had, in fact, almost forgotten his existence. But now he forgot all about the chaat shop and Somi and Ranbir, and ran up the veranda steps in a panic.
    Mr Harrison was at the top of the veranda steps, standing behind the potted palms.
    The boy said, ‘Oh, hullo, sir, you’re back!’ He knew of nothing else to say, but tried to make his little piece sound enthusiastic.
    ‘Where have you been all day?’ asked Mr Harrison, without looking once at the startled boy. ‘Our neighbours haven’t seen much of you lately.’
    ‘I’ve been for a walk, sir.’
    ‘You have been to the bazaar.’
    The boy hesitated before making a denial; the man’s eyes were on him now, and to lie Rusty would have had to lower his eyes—and this he could not do . . .
    ‘Yes, sir, I went to the bazaar.’
    ‘May I ask why?’
    ‘Because I had nothing to do.’
    ‘If you had nothing to do, you could have visited our neighbours. The bazaar is not the place for you. You know that.’
    ‘But nothing happened to me . . .’
    ‘That is not the point,’ said Mr Harrison, and now his normally dry voice took on a faint shrill note of excitement, and he spoke rapidly. ‘The point is, I have told you never to visit the bazaar. You belong here, to this house, this road, these people. Don’t go where you don’t belong.’
    Rusty wanted to argue, longed to rebel, but fear of Mr Harrison held him back. He wanted to resist the man’s authority, but he was conscious of the supple malacca cane in the glass cupboard.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir . . .’
    But his cowardice did him no good. The guardian went over to the glass cupboard, brought out the cane, flexed it in his hands. He said,‘It is not enough to say you are sorry, you must be made to feel sorry. Bend over the sofa.’
    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, allowing the cut to sink in, then he administered the second stroke, and this time it hurt, it stung into the boy’s buttocks, burning up the flesh, conditioning it for the remaining cuts.
    At the sixth stroke of the supple malacca cane, which was usually the last, Rusty let out a wild whoop, leapt over the sofa and charged from the room.
    He lay groaning on his bed until the pain had eased.
    But the flesh was so sore that he could not touch the place where the cane had fallen. Wriggling out of his pants, he examined his backside in the mirror. Mr Harrison had been most accurate: a thick purple welt stretched across both cheeks, and a little blood trickled down the boy’s thigh. The blood had a cool, almost soothing effect, but the sight of it made Rusty feel faint.
    He lay down and moaned for pleasure. He pitied himself enough to want to cry, but he knew the futility of tears. But the pain and the sense of injustice he felt were both real.
    A shadow fell across the bed. Someone was at the window, and Rusty looked up.
    The sweeper boy showed his teeth.
    ‘What do you want?’ asked Rusty gruffly.
    ‘You hurt, chotta sahib?’
    The sweeper boy’s sympathies provoked only suspicion in Rusty.
    ‘You told Mr Harrison where I went!’ said Rusty.
    But the sweeper boy cocked his head to one side, and asked innocently, ‘Where you went, chotta sahib?’
    ‘Oh, never mind. Go away.’
    ‘But you hurt?’
    ‘Get out!’ shouted Rusty.
    The smile vanished, leaving only a sad frightened look in the sweeper boy’s eyes.
    Rusty hated hurting people’s feelings, but he was notaccustomed to familiarity with servants; and yet, only a