Delhi by R V Smith

Author:R V Smith [Smith, R V]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789351940968
Publisher: Roli Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

36

New year’s Eve Reverie

illie Wilson, half blind and old, used to sit by the fireside on those winter evenings we spent together in Rajpur Road before he passed away in 1972. Wilson could talk thirteen to the dozen, and this reverie of his took quite an effort to convert into a written narrative after all these years when even his tombstone has disappeared from Nicholson Cemetery. One can almost hear in the inward ear, that vibrant voice rambling away to this effect.

As the mist lifted up and the moon shone again, I turned my steps onto those old familiar ways and byways, where the hedges ran helter-skelter under the branches of the gnarled tree on which many seasons had set like the sun. It stood silhouetted now, having shed its leaves in the wintry blasts that sometimes lash Delhi after snow in the hills. I looked around me and time seemed to stand still, the ever rolling ever galloping, ever changing time, and I was a boy again, hurrying to school past the church a station priest had built for his Archbishop.

I turned around as bygone times beckoned and it was New Year’s Eve and school was long over. There stood the X’mas tree in the mind’s eye as Miss Hayes bent to present the prizes, so young, so graceful, a case of beauty lost on a young herd, which did not know the difference between a comely and an ugly face. I was the last in the row, no fancy prizes for a dunce like me. Beresford and Beardsley, Wadley, Heatherley and Gardner, Aratoon, Shaw, Graham and Sutherland, Wilson, Bellety, Gallard and Cress – nearly everyone had won something worthwhile. There was a packet for the fat boy too who slept through the periods and even one for Phunsee, the chap with sores all over. The last present went to the Turkish boy who fell into the tank while catching tadpoles with me and while I was too scared to report the matter, he nearly drowned until Sukhia, the sweeper, dived to save him and ‘Header’ (the Headmaster) caned me black and blue.

For poor little me there was just a nondescript packet at the X’mas Tree party held for boarders and day-scholars on December 31, when the holidays were halfway through. And I hated in my heart that beauteous woman.

They all left one by one and me last of all, sulking and very cross with world. As I put one leaden foot forward a dainty hand held me by the ear and I felt that the shapely fingers itched to strike my face. But the hand stayed suspended where it was and I, looking up, saw Miss Hayes, her face all smiles and dimples, her skirt tight, her bosom heaving with some strange emotion. Her hair booked, her British nose a trifle pink, despite the pug, her legs with just the right amount of flesh on them, so erect and regal on those high-heeled shoes. She pulled me by the hand and led me into the hedge way we called Love Lane.

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