DUST ON MOUNTAIN: COLLECTED STORIES Read Free Page A

not a hotel!’
    ‘The money I lost on the train,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Ten rupees.’
    ‘In notes or in coins?’ asked the stationmaster, who was not slow in assessing a situation.
    ‘Six one-rupee notes,’ said Daya Ram. ‘The rest in coins.’
    ‘Hmmm … and what was the purse like?’
    ‘White cloth,’ said Daya Ram. ‘Dirty white cloth,’ he added for clarification.
    The official put his hand in a drawer, took out the bag and flung it across the desk. Without further parley, Daya Ram scooped up the bag and burst through the swing doors, completely revived after his fatiguing march.
    Now he had only one idea: to celebrate, in his small way, the recovery of his money.
    So, he left the station and made his way through a sleepy little bazaar to the nearest tea shop. He sat down at a table and asked for tea and a hookah. The shopkeeper placed a record on a gramophone, and the shrill music shattered the afternoon silence of the bazaar.
    A young man sitting idly at the next table smiled at Daya Ram and said, ‘You are looking happy, brother.’
    Daya Ram beamed. ‘I lost my money and found it,’ he said simply.
    ‘Then you should celebrate with something stronger than tea,’ said the friendly stranger with a wink. ‘Come on into the next room.’ He took Daya Ram by the arm and was so comradely that the older man felt pleased and flattered. They went behind a screen, and the shopkeeper brought them two glasses and a bottle of country-made rum.
    Before long, Daya Ram had told his companion the story of his life. He had also paid for the rum and was prepared to pay for more. But two of the young man’s friends came in and suggested a card game and Daya Ram, who remembered having once played a game of cards in his youth, showed enthusiasm. He lost sportingly, to the tune of five rupees; the rum had such a benevolent effect on his already genial nature that he was quite ready to go on playing until he had lost everything, but the shopkeeper came in hurriedly with the information that a policeman was hanging about outside. Daya Ram’s table companions promptly disappeared.
    Daya Ram was still happy. He paid for the hookah and the cup of tea he hadn’t had, and went lurching into the street. He had some vague intention of returning to the station to catch a train, and had his ticket in his hand; by now his sense of direction was so confused that he turned down a side alley and was soon lost in a labyrinth of tiny alleyways. Just when he thought he saw trees ahead, his attention was drawn to a man leaning against a wall and groaning wretchedly. The man was in rags, his hair was tousled, and his face looked bruised.
    Daya Ram heard his groans and stumbled over to him.
    ‘What is wrong?’ he asked with concern. ‘What is the matter with you?’
    ‘I have been robbed,’ said the man, speaking with difficulty. ‘Two thugs beat me and took my money. Don’t go any further this way.’
    ‘Can I do anything for you?’ said Daya Ram. ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘No, I will be all right,’ said the man, leaning heavily on Daya Ram. ‘Just help me to the corner of the road, and then I can find my way.’
    ‘Do you need anything?’ said Daya Ram. ‘Do you need any money?’
    ‘No, no just help me to those steps.’
    Daya Ram put an arm around the man and helped him across the road, seating him on a step.
    ‘Are you sure I can do nothing for you?’ persisted Daya Ram.
    The man shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Daya Ram hesitated a little, and then left. But as soon as Daya Ram turned the corner, the man opened his eyes. He transferred the bag of money from the fold of his shirt to the string of his pyjamas. Then, completely recovered, he was up and away.
    Daya Ram discovered his loss when he had gone about fifty yards, and then it was too late. He was puzzled, but was not upset. So many things had happened to him today, and he was confused and unaware of his real situation. He