DUST ON MOUNTAIN: COLLECTED STORIES Read Free Page B

still had his ticket, and that was what mattered most.
    The train was at the station, and Daya Ram got into a half-empty compartment. It was only when the train began to move that he came to his senses and realized what had befallen him. As the engine gathered speed, his thoughts came faster. He was not worried (except by the thought of his wife) and he was not unhappy, but he was puzzled. He was not angry or resentful, but he was a little hurt. He knew he had been tricked, but he couldn’t understand why. He had really liked those people he had met in the tea shop of Raiwala, and he still could not bring himself to believe that the man in rags had been putting on an act.
    ‘Have you got a beedi?’ asked a man beside him, who looked like another farmer.
    Daya Ram had a beedi. He gave it to the other man and lit it for him. Soon they were talking about crops and rainfall and their respective families, and although a faint uneasiness still hovered at the back of his mind, Daya Ram had almost forgotten the day’s misfortunes. He had his ticket to Dehra and from there he had to walk only three miles, and then he would be home, and there would be hot milk and cooked vegetables waiting for him. He and the other farmer chattered away, as the train went panting across the wide brown plain.

The Daffodil Case
     
    I t was a foggy day in March that found me idling along Baker Street, with my hands in my raincoat pockets, a threadbare scarf wound round my neck, and two pairs of socks on my feet. The BBC had commissioned me to give a talk on village life in northern India, and, ambling along Baker Street in the fog, thinking about the talk, I realized that I didn’t really know very much about village life in India or anywhere else.
    True, I could recall the smell of cowdung smoke and the scent of jasmine and the flood waters lapping at the walls of mud houses, but I didn’t know much about village electorates or crop rotation or sugarcane prices. I was on the point of turning back and making my way to India House to get a few facts and figures when I realized I wasn’t on Baker Street any more.
    Wrapped in thought, I had wandered into Regent’s Park. And now I wasn’t sure of the way out.
    A tall gentleman wearing a long grey cloak was stooping over a flower bed. Going up to him, I asked, ‘Excuse me, sir—can you tell me how I get out of here?’
    ‘How did you get in?’ he asked in an impatient tone, and when he turned and faced me, I received quite a shock. He wore a peaked hunting cap, and in one hand he held a large magnifying glass. A long curved pipe hung from his sensuous lips. He possessed a strong, steely jaw and his eyes had a fierce expression—they were bright with the intoxication of some drug.
    ‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re Sherlock Holmes!’
    ‘And you, sir,’ he replied, with a flourish of his cloak, ‘are just out of India, unemployed, and due to give a lecture on the radio.’
    ‘How did you know all that?’ I stammered. ‘You’ve never seen me before. I suppose you know my name, too?’
    ‘Elementary, my dear Bond. The BBC notepaper in your hand, on which you have been scribbling, reveals your intentions. You are unsure of yourself, so you are not a TV personality. But you have a considered and considerate tone of voice. Definitely radio. Your name is on the envelope which you are holding upside down. It’s Bond, but you’re definitely not James—you’re not the type! You have to be unemployed, otherwise what would you be doing in the Park when the rest of mankind is hard at work in office, field, or factory?’
    ‘And how do you know I’m from India?’ I asked, a little resentfully.
    ‘Your accent betrays you,’ said Holmes with a knowing smile.
    I was about to turn away and leave him when he laid a restraining hand on my shoulder.
    ‘Stay a moment,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can be of assistance. I’m surprised at Watson. He promised to be here fifteen minutes ago but