I will return to this blog after two weeks...

I am going to Thailand and China on a 17 day trip. I will resume updating this blog on my return.

Ramesh and the night of the storm (Part 1)

A quiet holiday by the seaside? Not with Ramesh around. He sniffs out adventures like a bloodhound – and his friend just has to follow!

Ramesh and I were spending the summer holidays with my uncle at his little cottage on the east coast. My uncle had always loved the sea and, on retirement from government service, had bought and settled down in this cottage facing the Bay of Bengal.

It was a beautiful spot, certain to gladden the heart of any nature lover. However, as far as Ramesh and I were concerned, it did have one drawback: it seemed to be completely cut off from the rest of the world. The only other habitations nearby were a tiny fishing village and a big house surrounded by a tall wall. The village lost its charm after a few days of poking about and the house seemed to be occupied by some kind of a recluse and so was out of bounds. After a month’s stay we were beginning to feel a bit bored.

One evening, as dusk was falling, Ramesh and I were sitting on the beach watching some of the fishermen from the village repairing their nets. We were sitting next to a cluster of large rocks. Suddenly, from the other side of the rock, came a scraping sound and then a firm, educated voice spoke:

“We will need your boat, tonight. See that it is ready.”

There was a pause and then a second, rougher voice, spoke up. “But sir, must it be tonight?”

“Yes,” replied the first voice. “We have no choice in the matter. Why do you ask?”

“Because, sir, I don’t like the weather,” said the second voice. “It is too fine an evening. Too fine. The air is too still, and the breeze – it comes from the east. That is bad. Today the sun was a flame in the sky. That is bad. A little while ago I measured the little waves that were rocking my boat. When the weather is good, the little waves, they slap against the hull every three seconds, maybe every four. This evening? Twelve seconds, maybe even fifteen. For thirty years I have sailed up and down this stretch of coast. I know the waters here. I would be lying if I say any man knows them better. A big storm comes.”

This was followed by a minute’s silence. Then the first voice spoke up: “It is because of the storm that we are in a hurry. Tonight, the conditions will be just right. Now listen: you will meet us at the beach below the big house at midnight. The ship is due at twelve-fifteen. After delivery, you will land us back at the beach. Is that clear?”

There was a long pause. Then the second voice said unhappily: “I still don’t think we ought to risk it…” He broke off and there was the sound of a rustling of paper. When he next spoke, his tone had changed. “For that kind of money, sir, I’m ready to risk ten storms.”

“That’s settled then,” said the first voice. We heard the two men, who must have been sitting on the sand, get to their feet and slowly move away. I made as if to stand up too, but Ramesh quickly grabbed my arm and shook his head.

When Ramesh let go of my arm, I turned to him accusingly. “Why didn’t you let me have a look at those men?”

“And risk them seeing you and coming to know that they had been overheard? Don’t be silly!” said Ramesh.

He was right, of course. “But what does all this mean?” I asked.

“It means,” said Ramesh, his spectacles beginning to glint excitedly, “that we’ve stumbled into what may turn out to be the adventure of a lifetime! These holidays need not be a complete washout, after all!”

A warning bell began to ring loud and clear in my head. “Er… what are you talking about?” I asked slowly, knowing fully well what my excitable, adventure-loving, reckless friend was talking about.

Ramesh looked surprised. “Don’t you see? It’s pretty obvious that these men are planning to do something shady tonight. All we’ve got to do is spy on them when they meet at the beach below the big house at midnight and see what happens!”

My misgivings were justified. “Are you mad?” I exclaimed. “Firstly, as you yourself heard, there’s going to be a bad storm tonight. We’d be crazy to come out of the house while it’s raging. Secondly, if those men are doing anything illegal, it’s best we leave it to the police.”

“The police?” Ramesh assumed the air of a nurse talking to a mentally retarded child. “And what will we tell the police? Simply that we heard a man hiring a boat? Is that illegal? We’d look like complete fools. I think these men are up to no good, but we’d need to have some proof before we go to the police.”

But this time, I was not to be moved. “Look Ramesh,” I said, “this is not like any of our previous adventures. If these men really are doing something illegal then it must be something big – like smuggling, for instance. And you know how dangerous smugglers are! Besides,” I continued, making what I thought was a winning debating point, “what will my uncle think, if he finds us missing from our room?”

Ramesh looked at me for a long time and then seemed to give in. “All right,” he said smilingly. “Forget it.” He got to his feet. “I just got a bit carried away – that’s all. After all, there’s nothing wrong in some men taking a trip in a boat in the middle of the night, is there?”

Ramesh and the night of the storm (Part 2)

THE STORY SO FAR...

Ramesh and his friend are spending their school holidays at an uncle's house by the sea. The boys overhear two men planning a mysterious night out at sea. Ramesh is keen to come down to the beach that night to spy on the men. His friend opposes this potentially dangerous activity - what if the men are smugglers?

NOW READ ON...

For a few seconds I lay on my bed in the darkness of the bedroom, not knowing what had woken me up. Then I felt the strong breeze against my face and, raising my eyes, noticed that the window was half open. It took about half a minute for the full significance of that half-open window to strike me. Then, in one simultaneous movement, I sat up in my bed, switched on the bed-side lamp and stared unblinkingly at Ramesh’s bed a couple of feet away.

It was empty.

I have never been one of the world’s fast thinkers. Ramesh would tell you that I am not even an average thinker. But this time, I had no difficulty in arriving at the truth. Before going to sleep, I remembered having securely fastened the window in anticipation of the storm. Now, the window was open, Ramesh’s bed was empty and, a quick glance at the bed-side clock told me, it was a quarter to twelve. There could be only one explanation: my friend had gone alone to spy on those men we had overheard in the evening. The fool!

For a moment I debated about what to do and then gave up the pretence. I had no alternative but to follow Ramesh – I couldn’t let my friend, no matter how stupid he was, walk into danger alone.

I quickly changed my clothes, scribbled a brief note to my uncle and left it on the bed-side table, grabbed my torch and clambered out of the window.

As I made my way to the beach below the big house I felt the breeze strengthen, displaying all the signs of growing into a gale in the near future. In the distance, sounds of thunder could be heard and in the sky the stars were covered by clouds. I soon reached the beach. The big house itself was some distance away and screened off by a row of trees.

I found Ramesh peering over a larger boulder, his back towards me. “Ramesh!” I called out in a low whisper, not wishing to frighten the chap too much.

At first Ramesh did not hear me. He seemed intent on something happening on the beach.

“Ramesh!” I called out again, this time more loudly.

My bespectacled friend whirled around to face me and the amazement written on his face was clearly visible to me, even in the darkness. He stood rigid, gazing with open mouth. He might have been posing for a statue of Young Boy Startled By Snake In Path.

He finally found voice. “What-what-what are YOU doing here?”

“That,” I told Ramesh, tapping him on the chest with my forefingers, “is what I was intending to ask YOU.”

Ramesh was silent for few seconds. Then: “I just had to find out what was going on.”

I sighed. “Well then, I’ll have to come along with you now – to see that you don’t do anything stupid, if not anything else.” I fancied I saw a look of relief on Ramesh’s face, but it was quite dark and perhaps I was mistaken.

My friend grabbed my arm and pulled me close to the rock. “Look over there – at the far end of the beach,” he whispered into my ear. “They’ve come.”

He was right. In the distance, I could see three dim figures huddled together on the beach. Beyond them, a few yards out in to the sea, was a small fishing boat which, even in the darkness, I recognized as one of the fleet used by the fishermen of the village. A small light was glowing on the boat. As I watched, the three figures, carrying something bulky between them, moved to the edge of the beach and then started wading through the water to the boat. The darkness covered what happened next but they must have boarded the boat since, a few minutes later, it started drawing away from the beach. I watched the light on the boat for a few more minutes as it went further and further out into the sea until the darkness had swallowed both boat and light.

Beside me, Ramesh stirred. “I wonder what they were carrying,” he muttered, half to himself. He turned to me. “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens when they come back.”

I was about to protest but then realized the futility of it all. Ramesh had the eager look of a greyhound pursuing an electric hare in his eyes. Whatever I said would not prevent him from seeing this adventure to its end. Muttering dark things under my breath, I waited with an anxiety that weighed upon my spirits like a mountain.

How long we stood behind that boulder, I do not know. It seemed like a lifetime. The earlier breeze had, by now, definitely grown into a gale, and the distant thunder was not sounding all that distant anymore. Finally, when I had almost given up hope of anything happening, Ramesh nudged me excitedly.

“There they are!” he exclaimed. “They’re heading towards this beach!” He pointed excitedly at the sea. As if Ramesh’s raised arm had been a signal, the mutter of distant thunder stopped abruptly. The whole world was quiet, listening, shivering with anticipation.

Following Ramesh’s pointing finger, I started out to the sea. Yes, I could definitely see a speck of light in the distance – light, moreover, which seemed to growing larger.

“Yes,” I said. “I...”

At that moment, a number of things happened in quick succession – so fast that they created a sort of blur, like telegraph poles seen from an express train. First the sky was lit up by a jagged streak of lightening which seemed to tear the heavens into two for an instant. This was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder that sounded so loud that, for a moment, I thought the cliff had collapsed behind us. Then, the sky started pelting water at us, with such force and intensity that, for a few seconds, I could not breathe with the shock. The storm had arrived. In front of us, the sea erupted into violent motion. The distant light zigzagged crazily, suddenly disappeared, and then reappeared again a split second later. Suddenly, we heard a shout from somewhere immediately to our left. We turned to see the dark figure of a man running towards us. Then, before Ramesh and I knew what was happening, my uncle was standing before us. His face red, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled, my uncle furiously waved the note, which I had left on the bed-side table, in front of us. “What,” he shouted above the roar of the storm, “is the meaning of this?”

Things were happening too fast for me. Helplessly, I turned to Ramesh for support. Ramesh, too, seemed to have been caught off-balance by my uncle’s sudden appearance. But he immediately recovered. Grabbing my uncle’s arm, he pointed to the light in the sea. “There are smugglers out there!” he announced dramatically.

My uncle stared at the light and then at Ramesh. “Is this a joke?”

Ramesh looked at uncle, his face flushed with excitement. “No, sir,” he said, “no joke. It’s like this...” And then, while we stood in the middle of that desolate, windswept beach, the rain pouring down in torrents all around us, the sky set ablaze by frequent flashes of lightening and huge, foam-flecked waves crashing to the ground barely a few yards away from us, Ramesh explained how we came to be there. After he had finished, my uncle once more stared at the light in the sea.

“Well,” he said, “you…” and then he suddenly stiffened. “That light!” he exclaimed. “It’s heading straight for some dangerous rocks! If they don’t change course immediately, they’ll crash!” He stared at the light for a few seconds and then exclaimed. “They seem to have lost their bearings!” He suddenly raised his right hand and there was a torch in it. He pointed it at the distant boat and began to flash it on and off.

Ramesh and the night of the storm (Part 3)

THE STORY SO FAR...

Ramesh and his friend are spending their school holiday's at an uncle's house by the sea. The boys overhear two men planning a mysterious night out at sea. They come down to the beach, ignoring the signs of an impending storm, to spy on the men. The uncle discovers the boys missing from his house and catches them in the beach. He is shocked to learn that the boys think they have stumbled upon a gang of smugglers. Worse, they see that the strange boat carrying the mysterious men is about to crash into some rocks!

NOW READ ON...

I watched the distant light breathlessly. Was it responding to uncle’s signal? For a moment, I wasn’t sure. Then, the light seemed to waver uncertainly, and, a little later, it began to grow larger and larger. Yes, the boat seemed to have changed direction, apparantly in response to uncle's flashing torch, and was now heading straight for the beach!

My uncle turned to Ramesh. “Have you got a torch?” he shouted, barely managing to be heard above the din caused by the rain and the storm-tossed waves.

“Yes!” shouted back Ramesh.

“Then do as I’ve been doing! I will run to the village for help.”

The next fifteen minutes or so on that beach were a nightmare. The rain lashed mercilessly down on us, stinging our unprotected faces and hands. One after the other, huge waves threw themselves onto the beach, with such force and fury that Ramesh and I were compelled to step back a few paces. When Ramesh’s arm grew tired from holding up the torch, I took over. As the boat responded to our guiding signal, the light grew larger and larger as it approached the beach, and soon the dim outlines of the vessel could be made out. And all the time, the question kept going round my head: when would Uncle return?

Uncle returned in the nick of time – and with him were four or five other men, fishermen from the village. When the group of men appeared on the beach the boat was about fifty feet away from land. Suddenly a huge wave appeared behind the boat and literally threw it towards us! Before the boat could recover, another giant wave crashed down on it, engulfing it completely!

I heard uncle give a shout and then, in a flurry of arms and legs, all the men rushed into the foaming water. For a few minutes all was confusion. Then a sudden brilliant flash of lightning in the sky illuminated the whole dramatic scene for an instant with a glare as if from a thousand floodlights. In the glare I saw the fishermen carry out of the seething waves and onto the beach, three limp figures. They were carefully laid down on the sand.

One of the three figures tried to sit up. Uncle shone his torch on the face of this man – and then gave a sudden exclamation. Stepping forward, he said: “Your face looks very familiar! Aren’t you Professor Kedar Kumar Sharma, the famous meteorologist?”

The man looked up. “Yes,” he said weakly and I recognized the voice Ramesh and I had heard talking to the fisherman behind the cluster of rocks that evening. The man managed a smile. “And, but for you, I would now have been the late Prof. Kedar Kumar Sharma…”

The confusion was soon cleared. The house on the cliff was really a special weather station whose primary task was the study of cyclones and other storms which frequently plagued the east coast. Attached to this station was a ship which patrolled the Bay of Bengal to study cyclones at their source. An important instrument in the ship had suddenly broken down and the scientists aboard needed a replacement immediately if they were to study the storm which they knew would hit the coast that night. They had informed the weather station of the problem by radio. It was to deliver the replacement that Prof. Sharma and his companions had set out on their night trip in the tiny fishing boat.

A couple of days later, as a mark of gratitude for our part in the rescue, Ramesh and I were given a conducted tour of the weather station. For a scientifically-minded chap like Ramesh, this was more exciting than catching a thousand smugglers. In due course, both of us received a gift from the Government. I would like to tell you about it, but Ramesh has asked me not to. He prefers to regard it as A Secret Of Great Scientific Importance!

India celebrates 60 years of freedom today...HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

Ramesh and the Age-old Script

Part I: Joining the Pujas

“My dear Sharma moshoi! Welcome, welcome!” The worlds were spoken in Bengali-accented English with which Ramesh and I, though we had been in Kolkata for only four days, had already become familiar.

“Good morning, Mr. Mukherjee,” replied Ramesh’s uncle. “Meet my nephew and his friend.”

We were all standing on the steps leading up to Mr. Mukherjee’s ancestral house on Kolkata’s S.N Banerjee Road. The Mukherjee mansion was fronted by a row of shops but the huge entrance stood out prominently. Mr. Mukherjee, a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a white silk kurta and dhoti (the traditional Bengali dress favoured by men), was an office colleague of Ramesh’s uncle.

“Welcome boys, welcome!” beamed Mr. Mukherjee. “Come, have a darshan of Goddess Durga Ma!”

We followed our host, who had generously invited us to join his family in the annual Durga Puja festival celebrations in the Mukherjee joint family mansion, through the entrance and a narrow corridor and suddenly found ourselves standing in a huge hall. I instinctively looked up and saw that the hall extended right up the entire middle of the building, and its ceiling was three storeys above our heads. The first and second floors were bounded by railings over which people were leaning and gazing down. I lowered my eyes to see what they were gazing at. They were watching a raised marble platform at one end of the hall on which were placed five larger-than-life idols. The hall itself was crowded with people. Everybody was dressed in new clothes, and the women wore lots of jewellery. Mr. Mukherjee gestured in their direction.

“All my relatives are here today!” he declared proudly. “No matter where they are, in this country or even outside, in foreign lands, they always come home in October, during Durga Puja!”

I saw a boy of about my age detach himself from a group of people and come towards us. Mr. Mukherjee introduced him.

“Meet my son, Niranjan,” he said. “Niranjan, I leave these boys in your care.” And, so saying, he led Ramesh’s uncle towards a group of men a little further off.

“We’ve never participated in Durga Puja celebrations before,” I told Niranjan. “This is our first visit to Kolkata. It sure was kind of your father to ask Ramesh’s uncle to bring us over!”

“I am glad you’re here,” said Niranjan, smiling.

Ramesh looked about him. “Who do those idols represent, Niranjan?” he asked.



“In the centre, standing on a lion, her ten arms holding different weapons, is Goddess Durga,” replied Niranjan. “She’s thrusting her spear into the evil king of the demons, who had been terrorizing the earth. To her right is Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth and beyond her, with the elephant-head, is Ganesh, the patron God of businessmen. To Durga’s left is Saraswati, Goddess of learning and beyond her, Kartikey, the handsome God who represents beauty. All four, as Bengali mythology has it, are the children of the mother Goddess Durga.”

“How long has your family been celebrating Durga Puja in this house?” I asked Niranjan.

“Oh, for over a century!” replied Niranjan, a touch of pride in his voice.

Ramesh suddenly looked interested. “You mean this house is actually that old?” he asked.

Niranjan smiled. “Older,” he said. “This house was built around one hundred and seventy years ago!”

Ramesh’s spectacles began to glint excitedly. “Why, then this house is-is historical!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never been inside a house as old as this!” He looked at Niranjan and his eyes were almost pleading. “Could we explore the house a bit?” he asked.

I was shocked. “How can you make such a request, Ramesh!” I exclaimed terribly embarrassed by my friend’s presumptuousness. “You can’t go ferreting around somebody’s house as if it’s a tourist attraction!”

But, Ramesh, as usual, ignored my wet blanket treatment. He continued to look pleadingly at Niranjan.

“I’m flattered you find my house so interesting,” said Niranjan, smiling broadly. “I don’t think we’ll disturb anybody. They’re all down here watching the morning puja (prayer). Come along!”

I hesitated. My eyes wandered to the marble platform on which two priests sat, in front of the idols surrounded by huge plates full of fruits, sweets, gifts and offerings. The air was heavy with incense. Four drummers stood in front of the platform and beat a rapid-fire hypnotic rhythm. They were accompanied by the beating of gongs.

“Er…won’t they be serving Prasad soon?” I asked Niranjan, my eyes lingering longingly on the plates of fruits and sweets, which were being symbolically offered to the gods and would then be distributed amongst the worshippers after the morning puja (prayer) was over. “I think the puja is about to finish…”

Ramesh made a face. “Now, don’t be a greedy hog, yaar!” he exclaimed loudly, making heads turn and me blush with embarrassment. “The Prasad won’t run away!”

“Don’t worry!” grinned Niranjan. “I’ll make it a quick tour.”

We followed Niranjan up a huge marble staircase. On reaching the first floor, he turned into a large doorway.

We found ourselves standing inside a massive, high-ceilinged room. A gigantic chandelier hung from the ceiling in the exact centre of the room. Beautiful furniture, clearly of great antique value, was neatly arranged around the room. The walls were adorned with paintings and family portraits.

“Our drawing room!” announced Niranjan. “This is the room where we receive and entertain guests and family members gather together. Some of the furniture dates back to the last century!”

Ramesh whistled as he gazed around him. “This room was certainly built for a big family!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. We have lots of relatives, and they all made it a point to attend this Durga Puja.” Niranjan’s expression became sad. “It’s probably the last Durga Puja we’re going to celebrate in this house!”

Ramesh looked quickly at Niranjan. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Niranjan smiled wryly. “It’s a pretty expensive affair, you know,” he said. “And the family doesn’t have much money left. High taxes and increasing costs have eaten into the ancestral property. And my father certainly can’t afford to host such a festival on only his salary!”

“It’ll be a great pity if this family custom ends now!” I observed.

“I don’t think we’ve much choice in the matter,” murmured Niranjan softly. He quickly shook himself. “Anyway, we’re certainly celebrating this Durga Puja in style! Come on, let me show you the next room, now! If we don’t hurry through this tour, our friend here will miss his Prasad!”

The room Niranjan next took us to was clearly a library. It was a vast room with shelves filled with books lining all walls. Most of the shelves were dusty and the books looked old and little used.

Ramesh darted forward eagerly. He had the air of an archeologist who had just discovered another Mohen-jo-daro, India’s oldest excavation site. As he paused before a bookcase whose contents were coated with a layer of dust an inch thick, he uttered a noise that sounded like glue pouring out of a jug.

I recognized the symptoms. Sure enough, an excited Ramesh turned a pleading face to Niranjan. “Could I have a look at some of these old books?” he asked. “They don’t seem to have been touched for years and years! Maybe there’s a very valuable book lying forgotten in one of these shelves!”

Niranjan hesitated for only a moment. “Go ahead!” he replied. “It won’t harm the books to get a little dusting!”

The sound of the drums and gongs, which had been following us wherever we went, ceased abruptly. I looked at Niranjan. “Er…has the morning puja come to an end?” I asked meaningfully.

Niranjan smiled. “Yes,” he replied. “Should we go down?”

I nearly licked my lips. “Yes let’s do that!” I said, happy that Niranjan was so understanding.

We left Ramesh in the library and hurried down to the hall. When we returned, armed with packets of prasad, we found Ramesh sitting in front of a table piled high with books. He was holding a small wooden box. He looked up when we entered, his face flushed with excitement.

“Look what I’ve found in one corner of a bookcase!” exclaimed Ramesh, holding up the box.

“What’s inside?” asked Niranjan, interested.

“This!” announced Ramesh, and, in the manner of a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he opened the box and carefully drew out a rolled up paper. Putting the box on his lap, he slowly unrolled the piece of yellowing paper then handed it to Niranjan. I craned my neck to look.

There were only four lines of thin, spidery writing, very faint. I couldn’t understand it, but knew the script was Bengali.

“It looks like a small poem,” said Niranjan slowly. “I’ve absolutely no idea who could have written it!”

“What does it say?” asked Ramesh quickly.

“Well, I’m not good at translating poems from Bengali to English,” replied Niranjan apologetically. “But I’ll try to give you the meaning of each line.” He raised the piece of paper closer to his face and peered intently at the words. “This is how it goes: ‘Neither summer nor winter…Mother has come home…beneath the peacock…number the petals…”

There was a brief silence.

“Sounds Greek to me,” I said, trying to be witty.

Ramesh ignored me. His brow had ceased into a puzzled frown. “Why has this poem been preserved like this in this box?” he asked Niranjan.

“I’ve no idea,” replied our host. “This is the first time I’ve seen this paper or the box. I don’t think my father knows about them, either!”

“You mean, there’s no way we can find out who wrote this poem and why it’s been preserved?” asked Ramesh, sounding very disappointed.

Niranjan scratched his head. “Well, perhaps my dadu – my grandfather - knows something about it,” he said hesitatingly. “Since the puja is over, he must have come upstairs and gone to his room. We can go and ask him.”

Ramesh jumped to his feet as if a spring had just been released beneath him. “That’s a good idea!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

“Hey, hold it, yaar!” I cried agitatedly. “When are we going to eat the prasad?”

“Later, later,” said Ramesh impatiently.

“All right, let’s go” agreed Niranjan, handing the yellow paper back to Ramesh to roll up and replace inside the box.

We hurried out of the library. Niranjan led us down a long corridor and stopped before a small door. He knocked.

“Who is it?” We heard a soft voice from behind the door.

“Dadu, it’s me,” replied Niranjan. “My friends would like to meet you.”

“Come in,” invited the soft voice.

We obeyed and found ourselves standing in a small room sparingly furnished with a bed, a desk and some chairs. On one of the chairs, by the window, sat an old man. He smiled at us.

“Welcome, boys,” said Niranjan’s grandfather. “I hope you are enjoying Durga Puja.”

“Yes, sir, we are,” replied Ramesh. He opened the box in his hands and took out the piece of paper. “We just discovered this in the library,” he said, handing the paper to Niranjan’s grandfather.

Niranjan’s grandfather unrolled the paper and ran his eyes over the words written on it. And, as he did so, his face brightened.

“I’d almost forgotten about this poem,” he murmered softly.

“Do you know who wrote it, Dadu?” asked Niranjan.

Nirnjan’s grandfather looked up. “Yes,” he replied. “My grandfather – your great-great-grandfather – wrote it. As far as I know, it’s the only poem he ever wrote. It was found amongst his possessions after he had died. The handwriting is his. It was preserved, as were all his other possessions, because, as you know, your great-great-grandfather is a family hero!”

Ramesh’s head jerked up. He looked like an infant who’s suddenly spotted an ice cream parlour. “Was your great-great-grandfather a freedom fighter or something?” he asked Niranjan.

Niranjan smiled proudly. “Well, he was one of the few who stood up to Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of that time!” He looked at his grandfather. “Dadu, isn’t there a story about hidden treasure connected with my great-great-grandfather?” he asked.

Niranjan’s grandfather looked thoughtful. “Well, yes there is a story,” he replied slowly.

Ramesh could hardly control his excitement. “Please tell us the story,” he implored.

Niranjan’s grandfather smiled. “All right!” he said. “I’ll tell you.” He shifted slightly in his seat and then began: “As you must have studied in your history books, in 1905 the then British Viceroy, Lord Curzon, virtually the British ruler of India, initiated a move to partition the state of Bengal, which was the seat of Indian Nationalism and anti British agitation in those days. Well, this sparked off a big agitation against the move in which my family played an active part. Word spread that the British were planning to arrest the male members of our family. So it was decided that the whole family should leave the city for a time and lie low in a house they had near Siliguri in North Bengal. The story goes that, before leaving, my grandfather – Niranjan’s great-great-grandfather – who was the head of the family then, hid some of the family wealth in order to safeguard it from possible looters. Unfortunately, he died before the family could return to Kolkata after things had quietened down and so nobody knows where he had hidden the treasure – if, at all, he did hide any such treasure in the first place!”

All through the narrative Ramesh had been sitting on the edge of his chair, tensely clasping and unclasping his hands. Now he exclaimed: “You mean that, at this very moment, there’s a treasure trove hidden somewhere in this house?”

Niranjan’s grandfather smiled. “I didn’t say that,” he replied. “Nobody knows whether the story is true or not!”

At that moment, the sound of a gong reached our ears.

“Ah!” exclaimed Niranjan. “The mid-day bhog (festival lunch) will be served now.” He looked at me and grinned. “I think you’ll find it delicious!”

I hastily got to my feet. “…Then, shouldn’t we go and…participate?” I indicated the packets of Prasad I was still holding in my hands. “We haven’t eaten anything since morning.”

Yes, you boys go downstairs and have your bhog,” agreed Niranjan’s grandfather.

The bhog (the special festival lunch which is served to all worshippers and guests during all the five days of the Durga Puja celebrations) was indeed, delicious. It was a mixture of rice, dal (lentils) and vegetables. Niranjan kept referring to it as khichri. It was followed by paish, a very sweet rice pudding. I ate heartily.

Ramesh, however, barely touched his food. He lingered over the khichri in an absent-minded sort of way and looked too preoccupied to pay much attention to the paish. Suddenly, towards the end of the meal, his head shot up with a jerk. He grabbed my arm, nearly causing me to drop my spoonful of sweet rice over my shirt.

“Hey! Watch it!” I exclaimed.

“Listen!” cried Ramesh breathlessly, his spectacles beginning to glint. “I’ve just got an idea about that treasure!” He turned to Niranjan. "I think your great-great-grandfather may have left a clue to the treasure!"

End of Part I

Next Part: The Clue

Ramesh and the Age-old Script

Part II: The Clue

The story so far:

Ramesh and his friend are in Kolkata, the capital of the Indian province of Bengal, for the October holidays. They have been invited to celebrate Durga Puja in the old mansion of a friend of Ramesh’s uncle. All the members of this Bengali family have come home for the Pujas, as they always do, but Niranjan, the 15-year-old son of the house, explains sadly that it will probably be the last get-together since his father can no longer afford it. Ramesh excitedly explores the old house, and finds in the library a casket with a yellowing piece of paper inside. On it is written a poem in Bengali. Niranjan’s grandfather informs the boys that the poem was written by his own grandfather, during the colonial British rulers’ attempt to partition the province of Bengal. Niranjan remembers that there was a story about the family treasure being hidden in the house at that time. Later at lunch, Ramesh suddenly puts two and two together. He is sure that Niranjan’s great-great-grandfather has left behind a clue to that treasure!

Niranjan looked astounded. “What clue?” he exclaimed.

Ramesh put on his best Sherlock Holmes manner. “Didn’t your grandfather say,” he continued mysteriously, “that the lines written on the paper found in the library constitute the only poem your great-great-grandfather ever wrote in his life? Well, maybe he wrote it as a clue to where the treasure is hidden!”

My mouth fell upon. “Impossible!” I exclaimed.

“Why?” asked Ramesh quickly. “It’s certainly very possible and I think we should have a go at deciphering the poem.”

Niranjan nodded his head slowly. “How wonderful it’ll be if there really is a hidden treasure and we manage to discover it!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go up to the library!”

I made as if to protest, but seeing the determined look on the faces of the other two, decided to play along with them. Reluctantly discarding all thoughts of having a third helping of rice pudding, I followed Ramesh and Niranjan.

Once again we were in the library, Niranjan reading out the meaning of each line of the poem on the yellowing paper. “This is how it goes,” said Niranjan. “‘Neither summer nor winter…Mother has come home...beneath the peacock…number the petals…’”

There was a brief silence.

“Well,” I said, after a pause, “that sounds like a most unlikely clue to a hidden treasure.”

Ramesh looked pityingly at me. “Naturally, yaar!” he exclaimed. “If the message was obvious to one and all, then the hidden treasure wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?”

Niranjan looked at Ramesh anxiously. “Can you decipher it?” he asked.

Ramesh put on his Sherlock Holmes manner again. “Well, let’s consider each line separately. What does the first line say? ‘Neither summer nor winter!’. The reference is clearly to the seasons. An in-between season, perhaps? There are two alternatives: spring and autumn. Maybe, the next line will make the picture clearer!”

“The next line says: ‘Mother has come home,” Niranjan repeated.

“Mother…” murmured Ramesh thoughtfully. “Whose mother?” His brow creased into a frown. “Reading the first two lines together, the poem is clearly referring to somebody’s mother who has come home either in the spring or in the autumn.”

My head was beginning to spin a little.

Niranjan broke in, his eyes sparkling. “Ramesh, what would you call the current season?” he asked.

“You mean now, in the month of October?” queried Ramesh. “Why, autumn, I suppose!”

Niranjan jumped to his feet. “Then the mother this poem is referring to must be Goddess Durga Ma!” he exclaimed excitedly. “She’s the mother Goddess who’s come to Earth. Every autumn, she descends from the Himalayas, where she lives with Lord Shiva, her husband, and comes to her father’s house for a visit. That’s what Durga Puja is all about!”

Ramesh stared at Niranjan and then his face broke into a wide smile. “That’s it, then!” he declared. “The message of the poem is clear! The treasure is hidden in the idol of the Goddess Durga!”

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. I stared at Ramesh in amazement. Niranjan broke the silence. “No” he said firmly. “The treasure is not hidden in the idol of Durga Ma.”

Ramesh looked puzzled. “How are you so sure?” he asked.

Niranjan smiled. “You jumped to the conclusion you did because you don’t know our customs,” he replied. “All the idols downstairs are only a few months old! Every year, on Bijoya Dashami – the fifth and last day of Durga Puja – all the idols, which have been worshipped during the previous four days, are taken to the banks of the river Ganges and immersed in the waters! This symbolizes Durga Ma’s return to her husband’s home after her short visit to her father’s house. So, you see, the idols used in my great-great-grandfather’s time have, long ago, sunk in the Ganges!”

Ramesh’s face fell. He looked like a cricketer who, having strode out jauntily to the wicket, suddenly discovers that he has forgotten to bring his bat. It was not often that Ramesh made a bloomer and the experience was clearly very painful to him.

“Anyway,” continued Niranjan, “from all accounts, my ancestors fled to Siliguri some time in the winter months. There would have been no idols then – either of Goddess Durga of her children – to hide treasures in!”

Ramesh looked apologetic. “I-uh-I didn’t know all this,” he said shamefacedly. “I was in too much of a hurry to jump to conclusions!”

“What does the next line say?” I asked. “Something to do with peacocks, I think?”

“Yes,” replied Niranjan. He looked at the yellowing paper in his hands. “It says: ‘Beneath the peacock’.” Niranjan looked puzzled. “What peacock?” he asked.

Ramesh’s brow creased into a frown. Then he snapped his fingers. “Do you have any pictures or engravings of peacocks in this house?” he asked.

Niranjan looked doubtful. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “If there was any such picture or engraving, I’m sure I would have noticed!”

“There must be!” insisted Ramesh. “And this peacock is, somehow, connected with Durga Puja!”

A sudden flash of light seemed to blaze upon Niranjan. He sat up with a jerk. “Of course!” he exclaimed.

Ramesh had the air of a policeman who knows that he is just a few minutes away from nabbing a gang of cat-burglars. “Where?” he asked quickly. “Where is this peacock?”

Niranjan composed himself. “I don’t know whether you noticed,” he began, “but each of the Gods and Goddesses downstairs is sitting is standing on some kind of a carrier. Durga Ma is on a lion. Lakshmi is on an owl. Saraswati is sitting on a swan. Ganesh is reclining on a rat. And Kartikeya, the God of Beauty, is sitting on a peacock!”

By now, even I had begun to feel the excitement of a hunter hot on a scent. “Wow!” I exclaimed. I looked at Niranjan excitedly. “What does the last line of the poem say?”

Niranjan once again raised the hundred-year-old scroll of paper. His hands, I saw, were trembling slightly. “The last line reads: ‘Count the petals’.”

Ramesh murmured to himself: “Beneath the peacock…count the petals…” He looked at Niranjan. “Tell me, what’s beneath the peacock downstairs?”

Niranjan slowly rolled up the scroll of paper in his hands. “The floor, of course!” he said finally. “What else?”

“No flowers?” asked Ramesh.

“Not that I know of.”

Ramesh got to his feet. “Well, I think we’ll have to take a close look at the idol of Lord Kartikeya,” he observed. “Let’s go down.

Niranjan quickly put the scroll back into its box and returned it to the bookshelf. We hurried down.

The afternoon puja (prayer service) had ended. Prasad (portions of sweets and fruits that had been offered to the gods) was being distributed to the worshippers by one of the priests. As we moved towards the marble platform on which the idols stood, the priest beckoned us to take some prasad.

Niranjan remembered his duties as a host. “Yes, take some prasad,” he said, and piloted us towards the priest.

I cupped my hands and received a packet of sweets and fruits. Ramesh also cupped his hands and the priest handed him a packet of prasad, too.

Ramesh did not move.

I stared in amazement at my bespectacled friend, who seemed to have suddenly frozen into a statue, his arms still upraised, the packet of prasad in his cupped hands.

“Ramesh!” I hissed. “What’s up?”

Ramesh was staring at the marble platform behind the priest. There was a glazed look in his eyes.

I nudged Ramesh. “What’s wrong?” I exclaimed.

Ramesh came to life. He pointed to the marble platform in front of us. I looked at the surface of the marble platform.

And then I understood.

Carved out of the surface of the marble platform was an intricate design of loops and circles and, at frequent intervals, beautifully engraved flowers. I grabbed Niranjan’s arm. “Look at the designs!” I exclaimed. “Don’t they cover the entire platform?”

“They sure do!” replied Niranjan, equally excited.

Ramesh quickly grabbed both Niranjan and me by the arms and motioned us to follow him. We quickly moved to a quiet corner of the hall. “Listen,” said Ramesh quickly, looking at Niranjan. “Are those idols always arranged the way they are now? I mean, every year – year after year?”

“Yes,” replied Niranjan, catching the drift. “Kartikeya is always placed to the left of Saraswati who is always left of Durga. And, the idols are always placed in the slight semi-circle that you see now.”

“That means,” concluded Ramesh triumphantly, “that earlier idols of Kartikeya must have covered the same flower which the present idol has been placed over!”

“Yes,” agreed Niranjan, nodding his head vigorously.

“Then that engraved floor is the one the poem is referring to!” cried Ramesh with a victorious smile.

“You must be right,” I agreed. “But the poem talks of counting the petals of the flowers. What’ll we achieve by doing that?”

“I don’t know,” said Ramesh impatiently. “Not yet, anyway. We must do things one step at a time.” He looked at Niranjan. “First, we must uncover the flower.”

Niranjan looked doubtful. “That will mean moving the idol of Lord Kartikeya. I’m not sure we’ll be allowed to do that.”

I broke in hastily. “There’s really no hurry, you know.” I said quickly. “The idols will be here for only four more days. Then, they’ll be taken to the river and immersed. After that we can spend all the time we want inspecting the engraved flower.”

Niranjan looked at Ramesh. “That makes sense,” he said.

Ramesh looked uncertain for a moment and then gave in. “Well, if there is a hundred-year-old hidden treasure,” he said, with a half-hearted smile,” I guess it can wait another four days to be discovered!”

The next four days must have been the longest Ramesh had ever lived through. Impatient by nature, he could barely control his excitement at the thought of being on the threshold of a major discovery. The delay irritated him and he wore the air of a wild beast straining at a leash.

I, on the other hand, enjoyed the Durga Puja festivities thoroughly – the morning and evening pujas (prayers), the drumming, the gongs, the chanting, the incense, the Prasad, the meals, the variety and cultural programmes, the people, the comings and goings and the visiting of other centres of worship in other parts of the city, all kept me preoccupied and in a sort of happy trance. I did not, of course, forget about our search for the hidden treasure, but I did not give it much thought during those four hectic days.

Finally, Bijoya Dashami, the last day of Durga Puja, arrived. Ramesh’s uncle, Ramesh and I accompanied the Mukherjee household, in procession, to the banks of the river Ganges. There we saw the five idols, along with hundreds of other idols from all over Kolkata, being immersed in the waters of the holy river.

We returned to the Mukherjee house, everybody a little sadthat the festivities were finally over. Ramesh, Niranjan and I immediately made a bee-line for the marble platform in the hall. We mounted the steps and rushed over to the spot where the idol of Kartikeya had stood. Sure enough, on the exact spot where the idol of the God of Beauty and his peacock had stood, was an engraved flower!

I stared at the flower and did a quick count. “The flower has nine petals,” I said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

You could almost hear the machinery of Ramesh’s brain working overtime.

“The poem tells us to count the petals,” he observed. “But the number of petals – nine—doesn’t seem to carry any message. My guess is that we’re supposed to do something while counting the petals!”

Nirnanjan looked thoughtful. “Maybe we’re expected to touch the petals?” he suggested.

Ramesh’s face lit up. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “That’s how hidden safes and trapdoors are opened in detective stories! We must press each petal! That’ll release the concerned springs!”

With Ramesh, thought is always quickly followed by action. He crouched over the engraved flower petals and pressed them one after the other.

Nothing happened. What an anti-climax!

“Try again,” urged Niranjan. “You might not have got the right petal to start with. Maybe there’s a certain sequence!”

It was on the third round that our patience was rewarded. Ramesh had pressed all the petals, one by one, in a different sequence than his earlier tries, when, suddenly, with a tiny whirring sound, a small portion of the marble floor a little above the engraved flower slid to one side revealing a gaping hole!

We could see three bags inside the hole!

Niranjan lowered his arms into the hole and lifted out of one of the three bags. The cloth bag, rotten with age, came to pieces in his hands and a glittering mass of gold and silver ornaments fell to the floor!

We stared at this dazzling spectacle for a few seconds, our breathing suspended. Then, Ramesh quickly lifted out another bag. This, too burst and a pile of gold and silver coins poured out!

Niranjan was lifting out the third bag when I heard footsteps and, raising my head, saw Mr. Mukherjee and Ramesh’s uncle hurrying towards us.

“Aren’t you boys coming up to have dinner?” asked Mr. Mukherjee. Then his eyes fell on the dazzling array of glittering wealth around us and both he and Ramesh’s uncle stopped in their tracks in amazement.

“What – what is all this?” stammered Mr. Mukherjee, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

Niranjan slowly got to his feet. He smiled broadly. “Father, we can celebrate Durga Puja again next year,” he said quietly but with a note of triumph in his voice, “and for many, many more years to come! The gods have shown us the way...”

DIGGING UP

SCENE 1

Wife: “Why are you sitting in front of the TV?”

Husband: “Why not?”

Wife: “Have you forgotten that you are supposed to dig up the garden so that I can plant seeds?”

Husband: “Why don’t you hire a gardener?”

Wife: “And waste money! What are you there for?”

Husband: “OK! OK! I’ll do it!”

Wife: “You’d better! Or you can forget about dinner! Now get going with your work – I’ll do some shopping, in the meantime!”

SCENE 2

Phone rings: “Tring Tring!”

Policeman: “Hello!”

Strange voice: “Is this the police station?”

Policeman: “Yes, what can I do for you?”

Strange voice: “I have some important news for you.”

Policeman: “Who’s speaking?”

Strange voice: “That is not important. What is important is my news!”

Policeman: “What is the news?”

Strange voice: “This is about the burglary in the jeweller’s shop that took place two days ago.”

Policeman: “What about it?”

Strange voice: “I know where the burgled jewellery is hidden!”

SCENE 3

Wife: “Wow! That was fast! Well done! The whole garden is dug up beautifully.”

Husband: “My pleasure! Always happy to be of service to my dear wife.”

SCENE 4

Wife (putting down the phone receiver and looking puzzled): “That was our neighbour on the phone! She was asking why the police had visited our house this afternoon. Do you know anything about it?”

Husband (innocently): “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Yes, a bunch of policemen did visit our house this afternoon, while you were out shopping. It was they who dug up the whole garden! They seemed to be looking for something. I wonder what it was!”

THE DILEMMA OF MR. SHARMA

The sun blazed down mercilessly from a burning sky. Sweat glistened on Mr. Sharma’s balding head and ran down his red face in never-ending rivulets. Mr. Sharma mopped his face with his now soaking wet handkerchief, more out of habit than from any conscious effort to stem the tide.

The bus-stop did not even possess a shelter to protect the waiting commuters from the scorching summer sun.

For the past quarter of an hour or so, the large crowd had been waiting impatiently for a bus to appear on the horizon. Now, all of a sudden, a solitary bus appeared at the end of the road. The crowd seemed to wake up. Bags were gripped firmly, shoulders were squared – and men and women alike readied themselves for the mad rush to enter the bus.

With the tortured scream of burning tyres on asphalt, the bus braked to a halt a few paces away from the bus-stop. Mr. Sharma had but a brief instant to notice that the interior of the bus seemed to be crowded with passengers before he, too, joined in the mad scramble to get in, holding on tightly to his briefcase. Grabbing the handrail at the entrance with his free hand, Mr. Sharma pushed past the straining bodies and, unmindful of the danger to his clothes, dragged himself up the steps. As the bus jerked into motion, Mr. Sharma, propelled by the mass of humanity still trying to get in, was pushed through the entrance. He was in!

As the bus resumed its journey, Mr. Sharma found himself standing crushed in the midst of a mass of swearing bodies. He could barely breathe, much less move. In this packed atmosphere, he felt the heat more intensely than ever. In this crowded bus, a seat seemed as unattainable as youthful ambition. Mr. Sharma realized that he would, in all probability, have to stand all the way home! A tiring day in the office had left him drained of all energy. A few minutes later, Mr. Sharma was ready to collapse. And his bus-stop was still another thirty minutes away…

Mr. Sharma was standing at the back of the bus, leaning against those lucky few who were sitting in the back seat. He had no strength left to push his way to the front. Then, just as Mr. Sharma’s legs were beginning to give way under him, the man sitting nearest to him stood up – and Mr. Sharma, with a look on his face of a person who has just found himself at the receiving end of a miracle, thankfully collapsed on the vacant seat.

With the unexpected gift of a seat, Mr. Sharma revived like a watered flower. Within a few minutes, Mr. Sharma had recovered sufficiently to open his briefcase and take out from it the evening newspaper he had bought from the vendor near the bus-stop. Opening the newspaper to the centre page, he began to read.

Slowly, as the bus progressed down its route, it became more and more crowded. Soon, Mr. Sharma became conscious of a body pressing against him from the outer side of the newspaper he was holding. As the crush increased, the person was forced to lean more heavily against him. A quick glimpse of saree - and Mr. Sharma realized that the person leaning against him was a woman. He buried his head more deeply in the newspaper.

A woman! Did she expect him to give up his precious seat for her? Why the hell couldn’t she go and occupy one of those seats specially reserved for ladies? But, then, perhaps they were all occupied by ladies already. Well, that was her bad luck then…why should he give up his seat for her?

Mr. Sharma tried to bring his mind back to the contents of the newspaper. But in vain. He had lost his concentration. The woman seemed to be leaning against him more heavily than was necessary. Perhaps she was very tired, the poor thing. But then, nobody gave his wife a seat in a bus when she was tired. Why, it was only a couple of days ago when she had returned home, completely exhausted, because she had had to stand all the way in a bus!

Mr. Sharma felt his resolve strengthen with these thoughts. After all, he too was very tired. He needed to sit and rest. Moreover, if he returned home completely exhausted, it would only increase his irritation. He owed it to his wife to return home in a better frame of mind.

Having satisfied his conscience, Mr. Sharma tried to bring his thoughts back to the contents of the newspaper, but he remained uneasily aware of the woman pressing against him. She did seem rather tired. As the pressure of the crowd increased with every stop, the woman began sag against Mr. Sharma like a dummy without any support. Mr. Sharma, his face still covered by the newspaper, began to feel renewed pangs of guilt.

Suddenly, the bus took a sharp turn, and the woman was thrown violently against him, the newspaper tearing with the impact! As the bus straightened, Mr. Sharma heard the woman give a long sigh. Then, before his horror-stricken eyes, Mr. Sharma saw the woman slowly collapse, like a punctured balloon, at his feet…

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

“Hey, did you see that man? The slightly bald man who carried out that woman who fainted at his feet?”

“Yes, I saw him. He looked as pale as the woman he was carrying!”

“Yes. But did you hear what he said?”

“What?”

“He said the woman was his wife!”

The Treasure

I walk quickly through the dense crowd, almost running, my hands held close to my chest, clutching the treasure that I have discovered only a short while ago. I am anxious to reach my home as soon as possible. I know that I have, in my hands, a treasure so rare that any museum or antique dealer will pay a huge sum to obtain it. If anybody gets the least suspicion that I have in my possession such a treasure, I know I will not be safe.

The sun assaults me, burning deep into my gritty scalp, and raising a quick sweat in my rumpled shirt; it strikes blinding glints off the chrome work of parked cars and motorcycles and makes sickly blue vapours of exhaust rise up against the pink buildings; it plays garishly among the swarms of tourists and locals who jostle me, showing me all their pores, all the tension of the store-new sports clothes, their clutched bags and slung cameras, all the anxiety of their smiling, shouting mouths.

As I hurry through this grey city which is my home, this busy metropolis which grandmother sometimes calls a monstrous, metallic anthill, I glance nervously at everybody I pass. They all seem to be giving me suspicious stares, their glances penetrating through my hands to see the secret they clutch, exposing my treasure. I hold my hands closer to my chest and increase my speed.

It was by pure accident that I had stumbled upon my treasure. I had been returning home from a friend’s house when I had come across it, in a small – very small – piece of land between two apartment blocks, looking very incongruous in its stark, grey surroundings. In spite of its rarity, I had no difficulty in recognizing it – grandmother had seen to that. Grandmother has often shown me old photographs of treasures like this, though they were not as valuable – or rare – in her time as they are now, and has talked to me a lot about them. It seems to me that grandmother lives a lot in the past – too much, my father says – and I sometimes do not understand the look of pain that comes into her eyes when she talks to me of the present. Anyway, I know that she will be very pleased when she sees the treasure that I am bringing her.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, I enter the familiar side street that leads to my home. Almost falling in my haste, I stumble through the front door and, ignoring my mother’s surprised look, rush to my grandmother’s room.

Grandmother is sitting at the other end of her room, in her favourite rocking- chair, going through one of her many photograph albums – her only remaining link with the past. She looks up, surprised, when I rush in, but seeing who it is, gives me a smile of welcome. Before she can say anything, I am by her side. I open my hands – and the treasure falls into her lap.

For a few minutes, the world seems to stand still. Grandmother stares disbelievingly at the treasure on her lap, too moved to speak. Slowly, hesitantly, her old wrinkled hands reach out to touch it. For a few seconds, they hover over it, and then, slowly, lovingly, they pick it up, and grandmother raises the “flower” – for that is what she calls it – to her eyes.

RAMESH AND THE LOST TENT

I lifted an offensive-looking spider from the back of my neck, deposited it none too gently on a nearby rock, glared forbiddingly at a group of ants engaged apparently in a heated discussion on whether to climb up my trouser leg or not - and then looked pleadingly in Ramesh’s direction.

“Don’t you think we should return to the tent now?” I asked my bespectacled friend.

“Shut up!” replied Ramesh.

I sighed helplessly and shifted my cramped position very slightly, causing the camera that was slung around my neck to bump against my chest.

Ramesh and I were crouched uncomfortably behind some bushes at the edge of a small lake, somewhere in the middle of the Ratnapur Bird Sanctuary. Ramesh, with binoculars glued to his eyes, was watching the reeds some sixty feet away along the curving edge of the lake. Dusk, like a soft, velvet blanket, was slowly draping itself over the surrounding landscape, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before Ramesh himself decided to call it a day. No bird-watcher, however dedicated, can operate in the dark.

Ratnapur Bird Sanctuary lies some ten kilometers south of Ratnapur town – which is situated some sixty kilometers west of the town where Ramesh and I live. Both Ramesh and I are student members of the Indian Ornithological Society, and it was the rumour that someone had seen a bird resembling the Eastern Grey Wagtail at the Ratnapur Bird Sanctuary a few days ago that had brought us here, to camp for a weekend in early July and confirm the rumour. I had brought along my camera, since a photograph was essential to prove our identification – because an Eastern Grey Wagtail had never before been positively identified in this area. If we succeeded we would have added one more bit to the knowledge of birds and their movements. “Almost like making history!” Ramesh had exclaimed, when we set out on this expedition.

At that moment, however, my thoughts were as far away from history-making as could be. A slight breeze had sprung up and the darkness had begun to litter the sky in a most ominous way. I glanced at the intent Ramesh, but still said nothing. A keen bird-watcher doesn’t like chatter when he’s hoping for an identification. And Ramesh, I knew from experience, was apt to be snappy when disturbed.

There was a slight movement in the reeds some twenty feet away. Ramesh stiffened, motionless, the binoculars steady in his hands. A small brown-grey bird waded perkily out into the shallow water at the edge of the lake, made a quaint bobbing bow, and then waded back out of sight – exactly as though it had come out to receive applause.

It got no applause from Ramesh. “An ordinary Common Sandpiper!” exclaimed Ramesh wrathfully, not bothering to whisper. “Is this what I’ve been watching out for the whole day?” He gave a snort of disgust and lowered his binoculars with a jerk. “Come on! Let’s go back to the tent!”

I was only too glad to agree.

We got stiffly to our feet and dusted our clothes. I looked at the darkening landscape around us and then glanced uneasily at Ramesh. “We must’ve come some three or four kilometers from the tent,” I said nervously. “Can you find it?”

Ramesh snorted. “Of course! That first lake we tried was due east from the tent. This lake was south from the other, with a bit of west in it. We’ve only got to reverse the bearings.”

As he spoke, Ramesh was putting the binoculars into his rucksack and getting out a compass. He held the compass for a moment for the needle to stop swinging, got his direction – a little east of north – and then started off confidently.

As I always do, I followed.

The breeze had, by now, strengthened into quite a rough wind, and I was glad I had brought along my jacket. The sky had become completely overcast and it wasn’t long before Ramesh took out his torch. The beam from the torch cast eerie shadows around us and, in spite of myself, I began to recollect the stories of strange spirits which were reputed to haunt the forests and marshes of Ratnapur.

Suddenly, something grabbed my foot and I crashed to the ground, screaming. “Ramesh!” I yelled. “Help me!”

Hands grabbed me and hauled me to my feet. “Idiot!” exclaimed Ramesh angrily. “What are you screaming about? You tripped over a fallen branch! Why can’t you watch where you’re going?”

While I recovered my breath, Ramesh peered at his compass. “We’re still on course!” he announced. “Come on, let’s go!”

We moved on again, with a slight downhill slope beneath our feet. How long we plodded, I cannot say, but it was not very long before Ramesh began to walk more and more slowly until, suddenly, he halted. I almost bumped into him.

“Wha-what’s up?” I asked.

“We ought to have struck that other lake by now,” said Ramesh quietly, a note of worry creeping into his voice, “but the ground’s starting to rise again.”

An icy hand began to clutch at my heart. “Maybe we’ve got a bit too high,” I suggested quickly. “If we head downhill to the left…”

“All right.”

Ramesh spoke casually, but I could hear the apprehension in his voice. Downwards we plodded, on and on. I peered ahead, hoping to sight water – and then, suddenly, froze in my tracks. I grabbed Ramesh’s arm with shaking hands.

“A-a m-man!” I chattered, my hair standing on end. “Over there – t-to the l-left!”

Ramesh stared at the tall shape that had loomed up a few paces away, and then gave a shout. “We’re all right!” he cried joyfully. “It’s that rock spike – remember? Only two or three minutes from the tent.”

As a strong swimmer shoots to the surface after a high dive, my soul rose suddenly from the depths to which it had descended. I stared at the shape in front of us, and quickly recovered myself. “You’re right!” I exclaimed. “The little stream’s on the other side of this low rise!”

Going as fast as we could, Ramesh and I passed the rock pinnacle, went uphill for a few paces, and then trotted more steeply down. I thought fondly of our little green shelter with its sewn-in ground-sheet and the two sleeping-bags. The wind had become distinctly chilly and I thought how glad I would be to see the tent.

We came to the little stream gurgling in its narrow bed and turned down it. A pool, glittering in the darkness, showed just ahead. “There’s our washing place!” I exclaimed – then came to a dead halt. I stared at the empty flat place above the pool unbelievingly. Beside me, Ramesh, too, stood frozen. To match the dramatic moment, a clap of thunder pealed right above our heads and then a drop of water splashed onto the tip of my nose. I ignored this warning of the storm that was about to break loose. At that moment, I was totally preoccupied with the nightmare vision that confronted Ramesh and me.

Our tent had disappeared!

Ramesh, as usual, was the first to recover. “The tent blew down,” he said suddenly. “That’s what must have happened – we’ll find it a few yards downstream.”

He started off along the bank of the stream. I followed without a word. I knew how strongly those pegs had been put in; and the wind, fierce though it now was, wasn’t violent enough to carry the tent away. A little below the camp-site the stream curved sharply between its low banks. There were rocks here. If the tent had indeed broken from its moorings, it would have been caught up on these rocks.

We came to a halt. Ramesh shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “All this is beyond me,” he said.

I looked fearfully back at the camp-site. “C-could it h-have been gh-ghosts?”

"Nonsense!” snorted Ramesh. He looked at the overcast sky. “First things first! We must find us a shelter of some sort – and quickly! It’s going to start pouring any minute now!”

As if to back up his statement, another burst of thunder followed. As a couple of drops of rain-water spattered on my head, I looked helplessly at Ramesh. “But where will we find a shelter? The town’s too far away!”

Ramesh thought quickly, and his face lit up. “Of course!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Remember the cave we passed while looking for a camp-site yesterday? It’s not too far from here! A cave will be good enough shelter, won’t it?”

“You’re right!” I exclaimed. “That cave will suit us just fine!” Then a doubt crossed my mind! “But will we be able to find it?”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” replied Ramesh confidently. “If I remember right, the cave is almost due south from here. And just about half a kilometer away.” Ramesh suddenly became grim. “Anyway, we’d better find it – it’s our only chance!”

As I shivered at these ominous words, Ramesh took out the compass from his pocket and shone his torch on it. He got his direction and set off quickly. Wearily, I plodded on behind him.

The drops of rain were beginning to fall faster now and showed signs of soon strengthening into a drizzle. A streak of lightning zig-zagged drunkenly across the face of the sky, followed quickly by a dull clap of thunder. The wind howled about me, slapping leaves and twigs against my face. I hoped fervently that we were going in the right direction. Numbed and leg-weary, I forced myself to stagger on behind Ramesh’s dark figure. I began to feel as if I was dreaming, and somehow The Eastern Grey Wagtail kept coming into my dream. ‘Size: Bulbul…forehead and round eyes white; crown, nape, ear coverts, all round neck, entire back and rump black…summer breeding visitor…’ – phrases from the Bird Recognition book repeated themselves in my mind.

From just in front came a splash and a startled exclamation. Next moment, I too, had stumbled into the shallow water at the edge of a reedy lake!

“Are you all right?” I heard Ramesh shout.

I peered about me until I located Ramesh’s figure a few feet away. He was standing knee-deep in water. “Y-yes, I’m all right,” I replied.

“Follow me!” I followed Ramesh to drier ground. Ramesh’s torch shone on the pebbles at the lake’s edge and on the level ground a pace or two above. “The cave should be around here, some place,” began Ramesh – and then his voice died away with a sort of sound not unlike the last utterance of one of those toy ducks you inflate and then let the air out of. I followed the beam of Ramesh’s torch to see what had so startled him – and then my jaw dropped.

Nature, with the perfect sense of timing it had shown the whole evening, chipped in with its own dramatic contribution. First, the sky was lit up by a jagged streak of lightning which seemed to tear the heavens into two parts. This was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Then the sky began to pelt water at us. The storm had arrived. But I barely noticed all these upheavals. My eyes, as well as those of Ramesh, were riveted to a spot a few paces away from the edge of the lake we had just waded out of. The sudden, brilliant flash of lightning had revealed – our tent!

I turned and stared at Ramesh. “How – how did our tent get here?” I shouted above the roar of the wind and the rain.

“I don’t know and I don’t care!” he shouted back. “Let’s get out of this rain!”

Good old Ramesh! Forever practical. Whether the tent had got there by witchcraft, or whether it was actually the ghost of our vanished shelter, didn’t matter to a pair of half-frozen bird-watchers. We staggered up to the tent in quick time, like a couple of avid movie watchers making a beeline for the ticket counter just seconds before the start of the show, managed to undo the door-lacings with nerve-less fingers, and fairly fell inside. I had a dim recollection of fumbling at boot-laces and stripping off wet socks and shirt. The sleeping-bag I struggled into didn’t feel like mine; probably it was Ramesh’s, but it wasn’t important. My friend was fastening the tent door and muttering something or the other. Good old Ramesh! I felt warmth creeping back into my body. Outside, the rain lashed on and the wind pushed at the tent fabric. Inside, it was snug – and safe. A wave of weariness and relief swept over me, and before Ramesh had crawled into the sleeping bag beside me I was asleep.

When I woke and stretched stiff and aching limbs the sun had come over the low horizon and the tent was glowing with morning light. Ramesh had just woken up and was talking excitedly. “Wh—what?” I mumbled sleepily.

“I said the mystery’s partly explained,” Ramesh repeated forcibly. “Look at these!” He pointed to some objects in a corner of the tent. “Tinned sausage – we didn’t bring any. And these sleeping bags. Blue covers, and ours are brown. This isn’t our tent!”

I sat up with a jerk and stared around me. “You’re right!” I exclaimed. “It isn’t our tent! But whose is it? And where’s ours?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Ramesh. He unfastened the tent door and pulled the fabric aside.

The opened door revealed a morning sky from which the sun was already clearing the slight haze, and a small lake. The pebbly beach was a stride or two from the tent doorway, with brown rushes fringing the shining blue water. Flicking its tail on a boulder in a tiny stream that fed the lake was a black and white bird.

Ramesh froze motionless with his hand holding the tent curtain.

“Camera! Exposure-meter! Quick!” He spoke under his breath and out of one corner of his mouth. I groped for the camera, hardly daring to breathe. The light meter was in my jacket pocket. It’d have to be a hundredth of a second – F.1.9 would just do it. As I raised the little camera I noticed the black wings, the black tail with white outer rectrices. It was the Eastern Grey Wagtail! The camera clicked. A swift wind-on and a second exposure to make sure. The colour film would clinch this miraculous identification. A moment later Ramesh, who had been screwing his face into horrible contortions, let out a resounding sneeze and the Wagtail instantly took wing. “Chi-cheep…chi-cheep” it piped as it vanished.

Four hours later, Ramesh and I were striding down the road that led to Ratnapur town. The mysterious tent was strapped tight on Ramesh’s rucksack and I was carrying the sleeping bags and stores. A young man, who was coming from the opposite direction, halted and stared at us as we approached him.

“Good morning,” he said hesitantly. “I—er—I suppose you don’t happen to have my tent?”

Ramesh glanced quickly at me and then grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised!” he replied. “I suppose you don’t happen to have ours?”

After that, it took only a moment for our new acquaintance to clear up the mystery. “I’m a keen bird-watcher myself,” he told us, “and I got hold of that chap who thought he’d seen the Eastern Grey Wagtail here a few days ago. He agreed to go up and camp with me, by the pool where he’d seen it. However, yesterday morning, this chap woke up feeling ill. I could see he was really bad – malaria, it turned out to be – and I had to get him to a doctor. The doctor took him over and I went to the Youth Hostel, where I’m staying. Some of the chaps there volunteered to go and bring my tent – I was just about all in, you see – and I gave them pretty vague directions…”

“And they brought back the wrong tent!” broke in Ramesh.

We began walking towards the town. “Bad luck for you,” I said thoughtfully as we walked, “but—in a way – good luck for us. Because we’ve not only eaten your tinned sausages, but also bagged your Wagtail!”

“Yes,” agreed Ramesh. “If this mix-up hadn’t happened – and our tent had not been picked up by mistake – we would have been in the wrong place at the wrong time this morning and would not have been able to photograph the Wagtail! You, anyway, were not there to see the Wagtail – you were in town!”

Ramesh and I looked at each other – both of us thinking the same thought.

“Tell you what,” said Ramesh, finally, giving voice to our joint thought, “we’ll share credit for the sighting and the photographs with you. After all, that’s the least we can do in return for your sausages – and unintentional help in sending us to the right location for the sighting!”

Our new friend grinned happily – and I thought I heard, in the distance, a faint “chi-cheep…chi-cheep” echoing the Wagtail’s agreement…

THE ALIENS

I can still, clearly, recall the day when, not so very long ago, the aliens first landed.

Dawn was crawling red-eyed over the horizon when they first came down from the sky, in a big machine. With a loud, whirring sound, hurtful to hear, and emitting a dense cloud of smoke, the machine had landed and the aliens had emerged from its interior.

Although each of the aliens was encased in some kind of bulky suit, their faces were clearly visible through their transparent helmets. Their faces were very different from ours. Where we have our eyes, they had their nose. Where we have our nose, they had their mouth - and so on. Also, they were about twice as tall as us and much stouter.

One of the bulky figures had approached those of us who had gathered, wonderstruck, to see this amazing spectacle. Then, raising a small box to its face, it had said: “Er…..take us to your leader.”

That was how it all began. The aliens met our leaders and told them that they had come from a distant planet. They had been observing our planet closely for many years and now wanted to trade with us. They showed our leaders some wonderful machines which, they said, they were ready to exchange for our goods. Our leaders gave them permission to open a trading outpost. About a month later, two more strange machines landed near our city and many more aliens came out of them. They had brought with them many wonderful things which they traded with my people. Slowly, they set up more trading outposts in other cities. Finally, the aliens asked our leaders for permission to build a city of their own on our planet, as a good many of their people were now living here. The trade with the aliens had given a boost to our economy and our leaders readily agreed. The aliens built their city very quickly, indeed.

But now, things seemed to change. Alien spaceships began to land on our planet with increasing frequency, and not all of them contained merchandise for trade. Some even carried weapons of many kinds. And then, without taking permission from our leaders, the aliens began to build another city of their own. Our leaders now became alarmed and ordered the aliens to stop construction of the new city.

The aliens refused.

For a short - very short - time, it looked as if war might break out between the aliens and us. But, in the end, counsels of prudence prevailed. The aliens were obviously, much stronger than us, and were equipped with highly sophisticated weapons whose capabilities we could not match. The aliens would clearly win any war with us, and might even annihilate us completely! Our leaders did not press the point – the aliens built their second city.

They built another city. And another. And another.

Now, our leaders are very worried. They say that the aliens have taken control of the economic and political life of our planet. They say that we are slowly becoming slaves in our own planet…

I wish that these humans - which is what the aliens call themselves - had never come to our planet. I wish that they had never left their own planet – the planet they call Earth.

RAMESH AND THE SECRET OF THE JUNK SHOP

It all started innocently enough. Ramesh and I were walking home from school one sunny afternoon. It was a pleasant day, so we’d decided to walk back rather than travel in a stuffy, over-crowded bus. The next day was a school holiday and we were in no hurry. The streets we were now walking through were almost unknown to us - only part of swiftly changing scenery usually viewed through bus windows. Today Ramesh, a born explorer, was eager as ever to investigate this new and unvisited terrain.

Which perhaps explains what happened next.

We were walking through a small market when, suddenly, Ramesh halted and pointed to a shop in front of us. “Look!” he exclaimed, his spectacles glinting excitedly. “A junk shop!”

It was a small, nondescript shop, rather shabby to look at, with one dirty front window behind which were cluttered all sorts of second-hand articles.

“So what?” I asked, a little irritably, for I knew what was coming next. “You’ll find one such shop tucked away in every small market.”

But I was wasting my breath, of course. Ramesh’s unbridled curiosity would never let him pass by a junk shop without exploring its contents. Even as I was speaking, Ramesh had started moving towards the shop like a blood-hound hot on a scent. I could only follow.

The dim light inside of the shop did nothing to raise my spirits. In addition to being very dirty, it was literally overflowing with junk of all kinds. Ramesh, of course, was in his element. Without bothering even to glance at the man standing behind a small counter at the back of the shop, he began pottering here and there with a questing look on his face, like an income-tax officer assessing the value of a film-star’s property.

There was enough junk in the shop to keep Ramesh busy for hours. Having nothing better to do, I began to look closely at some of the stuff lying around. Slowly my interest began to mount. There were oil lamps, a bronze dancing girl, pots and caskets, an old magnifying glass, ornamental swords and lots of mouldy old coins.

Some of Ramesh’s excitement was beginning to rub off on me when I suddenly heard a shout and, turning my head, I saw my friend, his spectacles slightly askew, staring down at something in his hands. Looking up, he excitedly signaled me to come over to him.

The object in Ramesh’s hands was a large, slightly chipped, but nonetheless exquisitely carved, wooden box. Or so it seemed to me at first sight. But, on closer examination, it actually turned out to be miniature chest-of-drawers. Slowly, very carefully, Ramesh pulled out one drawer after the other. There were six of them.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” whispered Ramesh, staring down lovingly at the chest-of-drawers.

“Yes,” I replied. “Even though the wood is slightly chipped and rough-looking.”

“Oh, the roughness is no problem,” said Ramesh airily. “A bit of polish will smoothen that out.”

“Perhaps,” I said, rather doubtfully. And then the full significance of his statement struck me. I stared at Ramesh. “Are you planning to buy this box?” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” he replied. “Why not?”

“But-but it might be very expensive!”

Ramesh shook his head knowledgeably, “No it won’t,” he said confidently “This chest-of-drawers is apparently not very valuable and even if it is, the shopkeeper evidently doesn’t know it. Otherwise, the box would never have been kept so carelessly among all this junk.” Which was all very true, of course.

Before I could reply to this piece of logic, Ramesh had approached the man behind the counter. The shopkeeper turned out to be a wizened old man, as small and shabby as the shop. As Ramesh had predicted, the price of the chest-of-drawers was low. In fact, the shopkeeper had some difficulty in recognizing the box at first. But Ramesh was a skillful bargainer and he managed to bring the price down to almost half the original amount. Even then he did not have enough money and I had to pool in.

As we wandered homewards, Ramesh continued to fiddle with miniature chest-of-drawers, though, for the life of me, I failed to see what there was in our recent purchase to be so curious about.

I was soon to find out.

Barely a few minutes after we had left the junk shop Ramesh suddenly turned to face me, evidently excited at something.
“Look!” he said breathlessly. “I’ve been going over this box carefully and I think there’s more to this chest-of-drawers than we we’ve been able to see so far!”

This was Greek to me. “What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously.

“Here, look!” Ramesh came to a halt in the middle of the pavement, forcing me to do the same. He raised the chest-of-drawers until it was level with my face. “See this carved section between the lowest drawer and the base? Doesn’t it sound slightly hollow?” I nodded. Ramesh lowered the miniature chest-of-drawers. His face was flushed. “Perhaps there’s a hidden compartment at the base!” he exclaimed.

I slowly scratched my head. Ramesh certainly knew how to be convincing. “So what do we do now?” I asked.

Ramesh gave a quick look around him. “See that restaurant over there?” he asked. “Let’s go in and have a soft drink each while we examine this box more carefully. Perhaps we might find a hidden lever or something!”

As usual, Ramesh was already on his way to the restaurant before I could reply. Meekly, I followed.

At the restaurant, we examined the miniature chest-of-drawers closely. The box itself was about eight inches in height with six small drawers spaced at one inch intervals. At the base of the chest-of-drawers was a one-and-a-half inch wide carved portion which surrounded the box like a belt. The carvings were of flowers. As Ramesh had pointed out, the carved portion did sound slightly hollow when he tapped it.

Ramesh ran his hand over the carved portion. “If there is a secret compartment,” he said excitedly, “then the catch must be hidden in the carvings!” He looked wistfully at the chest-of-drawers. “If only I can find it!”

Of course, he found it. With his patience and determination, it was only a matter of time. While I sipped my soft drink, Ramesh carefully probed each section of the carvings with his fingers. It was when he was half-way round the base that he found it. He had pressed the centre of a large carved flower and was about to pass on when, suddenly, with a small click, a seventh drawer slid out from the base of the box!

Time sometimes does seem to stand still. It did then. Ramesh and I stared at the open drawer for a long while, scarcely conscious of our surroundings. It wasn’t just the fact that we had discovered a secret compartment that held us speechless - though that was exciting enough. What made our eyes shoot out of their sockets and a tingle run up our spines was a small, yellow envelope which lay exposed in the bottom of the secret drawer.

Ramesh was the first to move. Slowly, like a rheumatic patient, he raised a shaking hand and carefully lifted the envelope out of the drawer. Then, even more slowly, he raised the flap of the envelope - it was not gummed - and peered inside. When he raised his eyes again, there was a puzzled look on his face. “It’s empty,” he whispered “There’s nothing in it!”

It was not immediately that I replied. Ramesh had merely been looking inside the envelope. I had seen something on the envelope that had affected me like a thunderbolt. If my eyes were to be believed, Ramesh and I had just made a very valuable discovery. A discovery worth, perhaps, many many thousands of rupees!

Ramesh was looking at me in a puzzled manner. “What’s up?” he asked. “Why are you looking like a stuffed pig?”

My voice, when I was able to speak, was husky. If a throat specialist had been present, he would have given me a sharp look, expecting a new patient.

"The stamp!” I breathed hoarsely. “Look at the stamp!”

Ramesh stared at me in amazement. Then he glanced down at the envelope in his hand – and stiffened. When he raised his eyes again this time, they were shining. “A Sirijpur ‘Royal Head!’” he whispered unbelievingly. “Yes,” I said, “a Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’.”

Ramesh and I, both avid stamp collectors, had had no difficulty in recognizing the stamp on the yellow envelope. It was a green and white stamp issued by the Princely State of Sirijpur in the last decade of the nineteenth century. It was one of the earliest Indian stamps ever printed and,therefore, very valuable.

Our soft drinks forgotten, Ramesh and I excitedly examined the envelope. It was obviously very old. The paper was hard and yellowish. We could not make out the address on the front of the envelope because the ink had become faded and illegible. The same was true of the postmark. But there could be no mistaking the stamp. It was, without doubt, a Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’!

We could hardly control our excitement. “It must be worth lots and lots of money,” I said. “How much, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” replied Ramesh thoughtfully. “But my father will know. Come, let’s go and ask him.”

We quickly paid for out soft drinks and, having first carefully placed the envelope back in the secret compartment, left the restaurant. This time we did not dawdle on the way.

Neither did we dawdle after reaching Ramesh’s house. We found Ramesh’s father in the drawing-room and immediately placed the miniature chest-of-drawers on a table in front of him. Ramesh, collapsing on a stool, pressed the centre of the carved flower and the secret drawer slid out. Picking up the envelope from the drawer, Ramesh presented it to his father. “Look at the stamp,” he said briefly. “Isn’t it a Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’?”

Ramesh’s father had not been Ramesh’s father for so many years without having learnt to take surprises in his stride. Another man might have been confused by this sudden bombardment of secret compartments, old envelopes and rare stamps. Ramesh’s father merely adjusted his spectacles and stared at the envelope. “You’re right,” he said. “It is a Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’.”

Ramesh jumped up excitedly. “How much is it worth?” he asked.

His father extended his hand for the stamp. “Let me see it,” he said.

Ramesh’s father looked at the stamp carefully for sometime. Then he told us the verdict. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid this stamp isn’t really worth very much.”

“But why, sir?” I asked, surprised. “I thought a Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’ was valuable – it being an old and rare stamp.”

“It all depends on the condition of the stamp,” Ramesh’s father told us. “A good specimen would be worth several thousand rupees, but I’m afraid this one is not a particularly good one. You see, being imperforate, that is, having no perforations on the margin, the stamp had to be cut from the original sheet with a pair of scissors. Good specimens need a nice margin all round, but if you examine this stamp, you’ll notice that a tiny corner of the design has been snipped off. This reduces the value quite a lot.” He handed the envelope back to a stunned Ramesh. “But don’t look so disappointed. Even a really good specimen might not be worth a fortune, so you haven’t lost all that much. Anyway, it really is a Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’, which is more than what most schoolboys are able to own.”

He was right, of course. Nevertheless, our disappointment was great.

We know not what awaits us round the corner, runs the well-known proverb, and the hand that counteth its chickens before they be hatched oft-times doth but step on the banana skin. Sitting in Ramesh’s room five minutes later, and thinking over the day’s events, I realized the truth of this.

“We shouldn’t have counted our chickens before they were hatched, like the proverb says,” I told my friend, shaking my head wisely.

“Shut up,” said Ramesh.

I was about to give a heated reply to this, when I noticed that Ramesh’s thoughts were elsewhere. He had taken out the envelope from the secret drawer and was staring at it in a peculiar manner.

“What’s up?” I asked curiously. Ramesh looked at me. The glint in his spectacles told me that my friend’s curiosity was once again working overtime. “Have you ever stopped to wonder,” he asked me slowly, “why the envelope was hidden in the secret drawer in the first place?”

I was ready for this. “Well, it’s obvious that the person who hid the envelope must have thought the stamp was valuable, the same as we did.”

But Ramesh was not to be put off so easily. “I’m not so sure…,” he said thoughtfully. He looked down at the envelope in his hand. “Even if that person thought the stamp was valuable, then why hide it? Why not sell it, or stick it in a stamp album? Why hide it?”

He had me there. I had no ready answer.

Ramesh, whose suspicions were growing like flowers in spring, carefully put down the envelope and, from a nearby drawer, took out a magnifying glass. “There must be something special about the envelope that makes it valuable enough to hide,” he explained to me. “I’m going to find out what it is,” he continued determinedly.

I walked over to where Ramesh was sitting and stood behind him. Ramesh picked up the envelope again and, as I stared over his shoulder, he began to go over it once more, inch by inch. “I’m convinced,” he told me, “that somehow we’ve been missing something that’s been staring us in the face all the time.” The fiasco of the Sirijpur ‘Royal Head’ had evidently not dampened Ramesh’s habitual curiosity.

Together, we attempted – unsuccessfully – to decipher the illegible address on the envelope… Ramesh examined the address under the magnifying glass… he put his magnifying glass over the postmark and the stamp.

Then Ramesh suddenly snapped his fingers.

He sprang up from his chair, with the alacrity of a leopard that had sat down on an anthill by mistake, clutching the envelope in his hand, his head nearly crashing into my jaw. “We’re going to the kitchen,” he told me briefly, and was out of the room before I could react to this startling announcement.

By the time I had made my way to the kitchen, considerably puzzled by Ramesh’s strange behaviour, my friend had already put a kettle of water on to boil. The strain had evidently been too much for him. “I – I don’t think I’ll have any tea, thank you,” I told him politely, having read somewhere that the best way to deal with lunatics is to humour them.

Ramesh gave no reply. He waited impatiently, his face flushed, until the kettle began to boil. Then slowly lifting his hand, he held the envelope in the steam and very carefully peeled off the stamp.

He uttered a shout of triumph.

With one bound, I was at Ramesh’s side. My friend was staring down at the back of the stamp he had just peeled off. I too stared at the back of the stamp. And as I did so, my head began to swim. A message, in closely-packed, microscopic handwriting, had been hidden under the stamp!

I blinked, half expecting the words to disappear. They didn’t. Ramesh sat down on a nearby stool and studied the message under his magnifying glass. Then he gave a low whistle. “I wonder what my father will have to say about this…,” he said slowly.

Ramesh’s father had a lot to say about the discovery. In fact, after only one glance at the message through Ramesh’s magnifying glass, he became so excited that he immediately called over some scholar friends of his to have a look at the find. They confirmed the great value of the discovery. What Ramesh had discovered at the back of the stamp was a secret message sent by the British Political Resident of Sirijpur State to his colleague in the neighbouring Princely State at the end of the nineteenth century. The message shed new light on involvement of the then colonial British rulers of India in the affair of the then Raja (King) of Sirijpur, who gave up his throne in favour of his nephew in 1899. Although the British were suspected of having put pressure on the Raja (who they felt had ties with Indian feedom fighters) to abdicate, no proof of this was ever found. The secret message Ramesh had discovered was the first concrete evidence of their involvement. It thus had great historical and antique value.

Not long after, a museum bought the envelope and stamp, paying a lot of money for it. Ramesh insisted on sharing the money with me, since I had contributed towards buying the miniature chest-of-drawers which started it all. Nevertheless, it was only due to Ramesh’s great curiosity that the discovery was made. And Ramesh, true to form, is still not content. He now wants to find out how the envelope came to be hidden in the miniature chest-of-drawers in the first place.

We are planning to re-visit the junk shop!