SHORT STORIES FOR CHILDREN

A DAY TO REMEMBER

, chug, chug, chug went our tourer, merrily down the road from Agra to Jhansi. Chug, chug, chug, chug! The hood was down to keep out the chill December wind. The blinds were drawn. Within--sat our family: father, mother and we three sisters. At the wheel was Diler Singh, our old and trusted driver. He had been with us for years and we all liked him. It was early in the morning and a thin mist hung in the air. The roads were deserted. "We're in good time," said my father. "If all goes well, we should be in Jhansi by six in the evening." Perhaps I was the only one to notice it, but at these words Diler Singh bowed his head and his lips seemed to move in prayer. Soon we had left the town far behind and moved into a world of wheat fields and clear blue skies. Villages rolled past. So did the bunches of children who stood by to watch us go. Chug, chug, chug, chug said the tourer as it raced the birds overhead. Chug, chug, chug, chug as the wind whistled through the trees. We clapped our hands in glee. It was a beautiful day and we were off" to Jhansi to spend a glorious week with one of our uncles. What could be better? At midday, we pulled up by a mustard field, dotted with yellow. Here we unpacked our lunch and feasted on puri-alu. Mother and father had some tea. They gave a cup to Diler Singh too. He sipped it thoughtfully as he sat under a clump of babul trees. Presently he stood up. "Sahib," he said to my father, "I think we should be on our way. This road is not safe after dark." His words rang like a warning bell. All of us piled into the car quickly and this time Diler Singh drove a bit faster. We caught a glimpse of the giant fortress of Gwalior as we raced through the streets. Two o'clock, said my father's wrist watch. Soon we were out of Gwalior and on our way to Shivpuri. The houses thinned out and on both sides of the road, the jungle took over. The ground was covered with a kind of red clay that blew in great clouds under the wheels of the tourer. The same dust had coated the trees and they looked strange--half green, half red. I think we weie passing through a particularly dense bit of jungle when the first tyre got punctured. Diler Singh worked at lightning speed to fix it. But the second punctuie took longer because it was more like a burst tyre and we had to wait at a wayside shop for the tube to be repaired. Once again the tourer was on its way, though we had lost valuable time. The sun no longei shone bright on the roads and the chilly wind told us that evening was approaching. The landscape changed too. The plains gave way to hillocks covered with boulders. The lush green trees were replaced by thorny bushes and clumps of grass. Very often we looked into the mouth of a ravine that dipped and rose, dipped and rose again. There were no villages in sight and for miles and miles, we did not see a soul. We turned a bend and suddenly found the road blocked by a huge pile of boulders. Before we had time to think, there was a wild shout from somewhere to the left of the car. A man came running and leapt on to the footboard. "Not that way," he ordered, "the road is under repair." On his instructions Diler Singh turned the tourer sharply to the left and began to drive down a mud-track leading away from the main road. The man on the footboard was about six feet tall and very dark, with gold ear-rings and a harelip. His hands were like claws. I saw Diler Singh draw a deep breath. At the same time my father slipped his pistol out of his pocket. It was wrapped in a white napkin, but the triangular shape was unmistakable. A five-minute drive brought us to a wide stretch of sand and pebbles, at the far end of which we could just about make out a thin stream of water. "A dried-up river-bed," said my father. "I only hope the sand isn't deep." But it was. All of us got out of the car to lighten the burden, but still the wheels kept churning the sand. And finally we fell to pushing the car. There were two men grazing a herd of goats, who helped us. But the man with the harelip stood aside. Soon some fierce-looking men joined him. They stood talking in groups and, young as I was, I felt a chill run down my spine just looking at them. When we reached the stream, the sun had already dipped below the trees. Diler Singh whispered to my father, "Sahib, all of you must get in quickly. I shall race the car through the stream. It's now or never!" "What do you mean?" "I'll explain later. Just get in." Diler Singh leapt into the driver's seat and pressed the accelerator. The car shot like a bullet through the water, sprays flying. We reached the other bank and climbed up to safety. "Ah," said Diler Singh slowing down, "now you can turn round and look." We did so, but the scene behind us had changed completely. We saw a sheet of water where there had been a shallow stream. "What on earth... ?" began my father. "Ah, it's a long story," said Diler Singh. "This area is full of dacoits. From time to time they erect roadblocks and force vehicles on to this river-bed. While the vehicles struggle with the sand and boulders, the dacoits simply look on. They always wait till evening before mounting an attack." "But why?" we all asked together. "There is a barrage upstream," said Diler Singh. "Every evening, at about six, it releases a vast quantity of water for irrigation, making this stream impossible to cross. The vehicles are trapped and that's when the dacoits get down to work." There was a shocked silence before my father found his voice. "How did you know about it?" "I have seen it happen," said Diler Singh. "I was brought up in a village not far from this place."