The Very Best of Ruskin Bond, the Writer on the Hill: Selected Fiction and Non-Fiction by Ruskin Bond

‘Don’t you know I am a Punjabi? I do not take replies from villagers like you!’
    ‘So you like to fight with villagers?’ said Ranji. ‘Well, I am not a villager. I am a Rajput!’
    ‘I am a Punjabi!’
    ‘I am a Rajput!’
    They had reached an impasse. One had said he was a Punjabi, the other had proclaimed himself a Rajput. There was little else that could be said.
    ‘You understand that I am a Punjabi?’ said the stranger, feeling that perhaps this information had not penetrated Ranji’s head.
    ‘I have heard you say it three times,’ replied Ranji.
    ‘Then why are you not running away?’
    ‘I am waiting for
you
to run away!’
    ‘I will have to beat you,’ said the stranger, assuming a violent attitude, showing Ranji the palm of his hand.
    ‘I am waiting to see you do it,’ said Ranji.
    ‘You will see me do it,’ said the other boy.
    Ranji waited. The other boy made a strange, hissing sound. They stared each other in the eye for almost a minute. Then the Punjabi boy slapped Ranji across the face with all the force he could muster. Ranji staggered, feeling quite dizzy. There were thick red finger marks on his cheek.
    ‘There you are!’ exclaimed his assailant. ‘Will you be off now?’
    For answer, Ranji swung his arm up and pushed a hard, bony fist into the other’s face.
    And then they were at each other’s throats, swaying on the rock, tumbling on to the sand, rolling over and over, their legs and arms locked in a desperate, violent struggle. Gasping and cursing, clawing and slapping, they rolled right into the shallows of the pool.
    Even in the water the fight continued as, spluttering and covered with mud, they groped for each other’s head and throat. But after five minutes of frenzied, unscientific struggle, neither boy had emerged victorious. Their bodies heaving with exhaustion, they stood back from each other, making tremendous efforts to speak.
    ‘Now—now do you realize—I am a Punjabi?’ gasped the stranger.
    ‘Do you know I am a Rajput?’ said Ranji with difficulty.
    They gave a moment’s consideration to each other’s answers, and in that moment of silence there was only their heavy breathing and the rapid beating of their hearts.
    ‘Then you will not leave the pool?’ said the Punjabi boy.
    ‘I will not leave it,’ said Ranji.
    ‘Then we shall have to continue the fight,’ said the other.
    ‘All right,’ said Ranji.
    But neither boy moved, neither took the initiative.
    The Punjabi boy had an inspiration.
    ‘We will continue the fight tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If you dare to come here again tomorrow, we will continue this fight, and I will not show you mercy as I have done today.’
    ‘I will come tomorrow,’ said Ranji. ‘I will be ready for you.’
    They turned from each other then and, going to their respective rocks, put on their clothes, and left the forest by different routes.
    When Ranji got home, he found it difficult to explain the cuts and bruises that showed on his face, legs and arms. It was difficult to conceal the fact that he had been in an unusually violent fight, and his mother insisted on his staying at home for the rest of the day. That evening, though, he slipped out of the house and went to the bazaar, where he found comfort and solace in a bottle of vividly coloured lemonade and a banana leaf full of hot, sweet jalebis. He had just finished the lemonade when he saw his adversary coming down the road. His first impulse was to turn away and look elsewhere, his second to throw the lemonade bottle at his enemy. But he did neither of these things. Instead, he stood his ground and scowled at his passing adversary. And the Punjabi boy said nothing either, but scowled back with equal ferocity.
    The next day was as hot as the previous one. Ranji felt weak and lazy and not at all eager for a fight. His body was stiff and sore after the previous day’s encounter. But he could not refuse the challenge. Not to turn up at the pool would be an