Tales of Fosterganj by Ruskin Bond

Author:Ruskin Bond [Bond, Ruskin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9789383064632
Publisher: Aleph
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Dr Robert Hutchinson

Physician to His Highness

Died July 13, 1933

of Typhus Fever

May his soul rest in peace.

Typhus fever! I had read all about it in an old medical dictionary published half a century ago by The Statesman of Calcutta and passed on to me by a fond aunt. Not to be confused with typhoid, typhus fever is rare today but sometimes occurs in overcrowded, unsanitary conditions and is definitely spread by lice, ticks, fleas, mites and other micro-organisms thriving in filthy conditions—such as old sheepskin rugs which have remained unwashed for years.

I began to scratch at the very thought of it.

I remembered more: ‘Attacks of melancholia and mania sometimes complicate the condition, which is often fatal.’

Needless to say, I now found myself overcome by a profound feeling of melancholy. No doubt the mania would follow.

I examined the other graves, and found one more victim of typhus fever. There must have been an epidemic. Fortunately for my peace of mind, the only other decipherable epitaph told of the missionary lady who had fallen victim to an earthquake in 1905. Somehow, an earthquake seemed less sinister than a disease brought on by bloodthirsty bugs.

While I was standing there, ruminating on matters of life and death, my companions turned up, and Sunil exclaimed: ‘Well done, Uncle, you’ve already found one!’

I hadn’t found anything, being somewhat short-sighted, but Sunil was pointing across to the far wall, where a great fat lizard sat basking in the sun.

Its tail was as long as my arm. Its legs were spread sideways, like a goalkeeper’s. Its head moved from side to side, and suddenly its tongue shot out and seized a passing dragonfly. In seconds the beautiful insect was imprisoned in a pair of strong jaws.

The giant lizard consumed his lunch, then glanced at us standing a few feet away.

‘Plenty of fat around that fellow,’ observed Sunil. ‘Full of that precious oil!’

The lizard let out a croak, as though it had something to say on the matter. But Sunil wasn’t listening. He lunged forward and grabbed the lizard by its tail. Miraculously, the tail came away in his hands.

Away went lizard, minus its tail.

Buddhoo was doubled up with laughter. ‘The tail’s no use,’ he said. ‘Nothing in the tail!’

Sunil flung the tail away in disgust.

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Catch a lizard by its tail—make a wish, it cannot fail!’

‘Is that true?’ asked Sunil, who had a superstitious streak.

‘Nursery rhyme from Brazil,’ I said.

The lizard had disappeared, but a white-bearded patriarch was looking at us from over the wall.

‘You need a net,’ he said. ‘Catching them by hand isn’t easy. Too slippery.’

We thanked him for his advice; said we’d go looking for a net.

‘Maybe a bedsheet will do,’ Sunil said.

The patriarch smiled, stroked his flowing white beard, and asked: ‘But what will you do with these lizards? Put them in a zoo?’

‘It’s their oil we want,’ said Sunil, and made a sales pitch for the miraculous properties of saande-ka-tel.

‘Oh, that,’ said the patriarch, looking amused. ‘It will irritate the membranes and cause some inflammation.

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