Classic Ruskin Bond Read Online Free PDF Page A

cherry and the plum were in blossom; the snow in the mountains had melted, and the streams were rushing torrents; the new leaves on the trees were full of sweetness, the young grass held both dew and sun, and made an emerald of every dewdrop.
    The infection of spring spread simultaneously through the world of man and the world of nature, and made them one.
    Ranbir and Rusty moved round the hill, keeping in the fringe of the jungle until they had skirted not only the European community but also the smart shopping centre. They came down dirty little side-streets where the walls of houses, stained with the wear and tear of many years of meagre habitation, were now stained again with the vivid colours of Holi. They came to the Clock Tower.
    At the Clock Tower, spring had really been declared open. Clouds of coloured dust rose in the air and spread, and jets of water—green and orange and purple, all rich emotional colours—burst out everywhere.
    Children formed groups. They were armed mainly with bicycle pumps, or pumps fashioned from bamboo stems, from which was squirted liquid colour. The children paraded the main road, chanting shrilly and clapping their hands. The men and women preferred the dust to the water. They too sang, but their chanting held a significance, their hands and fingers drummed the rhythms of spring, the same rhythms, the same songs that belonged to this day every year of their lives.
    Ranbir was met by some friends and greeted with great hilarity. A bicycle pump was directed at Rusty and a jet of sooty black water squirted into his face.
    Blinded for a moment, Rusty blundered about in great confusion. A horde of children bore down on him, and he wassubjected to a pumping from all sides. His shirt and pyjamas, drenched through, stuck to his skin; then someone gripped the end of his shirt and tugged at it until it tore and came away. Dust was thrown on the boy, on his face and body, roughly and with full force, and his tender, underexposed skin smarted beneath the onslaught.
    Then his eyes cleared. He blinked and looked wildly round at the group of boys and girls who cheered and danced in front of him. His body was running mostly with sooty black, streaked with red, and his mouth seemed full of it too, and he began to spit.
    Then, one by one, Ranbir’s friends approached Rusty.
    Gently, they rubbed dust on the boy’s cheeks, and embraced him; they were like so many flaming demons that Rusty could not distinguish one from the other. But this gentle greeting, coming so soon after the stormy bicycle pump attack, bewildered Rusty even more.
    Ranbir said, ‘Now you are one of us, come,’ and Rusty went with him and the others.
    ‘Suri is hiding,’ cried someone. ‘He has locked himself in his house and won’t play Holi!’
    ‘Well, he will have to play,’ said Ranbir, ‘even if we break the house down.’
    Suri, who dreaded Holi, had decided to spend the day in a state of siege; and had set up camp in his mother’s kitchen, where there were provisions enough for the whole day. He listened to his playmates calling to him from the courtyard, and ignored their invitations, jeers, and threats; the door was strong and well-barricaded. He settled himself beneath a table, and turned the pages of the English nudists’ journal, which he bought every month chiefly for its photographic value.
    But the youths outside, intoxicated by the drumming and shouting and high spirits, were not going to be done out of the pleasure of discomfiting Suri. So they acquired a ladder and made their entry into the kitchen by the skylight.
    Suri squealed with fright. The door was opened and he was bundled out, and his spectacles were trampled.
    ‘My glasses!’ he screamed. ‘You’ve broken them!’
    ‘You can afford a dozen pairs!’ jeered one of his antagonists.
    ‘But I can’t see, you fools, I can’t see!’
    ‘He can’t see!’ cried someone in scorn. ‘For once in his life, Suri can’t see what’s going on!