Grandfather’s Many Faces

Grandfather had many gifts, but perhaps the most unusual—and at times startling—was his ability to disguise himself and take on the persona of another person, often a street-vendor or carpenter or washerman; someone he had seen around for some time, and whose habits and characteristics he had studied.

His normal attire was that of the average Anglo-Indian or Englishman—bush-shirt, khaki shorts, occasionally a sola-topee or sun-helmet—but if you rummaged through his cupboards you would find a strange assortment of garments: dhotis, lungis, pyjamas, embroidered shirts, colourful turbans … He could be a Maharaja one day, a beggar the next. Yes, he even had a brass begging-bowl, but he used it only once, just to see if he could pass himself off as a bent-double beggar hobbling through the bazaar. He wasn’t recognized but he had to admit that begging was a most difficult art.

‘You have to be on the street all day and in all weather,’ he told me that day. ‘You have to be polite to everyone—no beggar succeeds by being rude! You have to be alert at all times. It’s a hard work, believe me. I wouldn’t advise anyone to take up begging as a profession.’

Grandfather really liked to get the ‘feel’ of someone else’s occupation or lifestyle. And he enjoyed playing tricks on his friends and relatives.

Grandmother loved bargaining with shopkeepers and vendors of all kinds. She would boast that she could get the better of most men when it came to haggling over the price of onions or cloth or baskets or buttons … Until one day the sabzi-wala, a wandering vegetable-seller who carried a basket of fruit and vegetables on his head, spent an hour on the veranda arguing with Granny over the price of various items before finally selling her what she wanted.

Later that day, Grandfather confronted Granny and insisted on knowing why she had paid extra for tomatoes and green chillies. ‘Far more than you’d have paid in the bazaar,’ he said.

‘How do you know what I paid him?’ asked Granny.

‘Because here’s the ten-rupee note you gave me,’ said Grandfather, handing back her money. ‘I changed into something suitable and borrowed the sabzi-wala’s basket for an hour!’

Grandfather never used make-up. He had a healthy tan, and with the help of a false moustache or beard, and a change of hair-style, could become anyone he wanted to be.

For my amusement, he became a tonga-wala; that is, the driver of a pony-drawn buggy, a common form of conveyance in the days of my boyhood.

Grandfather borrowed a tonga from one of his cronies, and took me for a brisk and eventful ride around the town. On our way we picked up the odd customer and earned a few rupees which were dutifully handed over to the tonga-owner at the end of the day. We picked up Dr Bisht, our local doctor, who failed to recognize him. But of course I was the give-away. ‘And what are you doing here?’ asked the good doctor. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘I’m just helping Grandfather,’ I replied. ‘It’s part of my science project.’ Dr Bisht then took a second look at Grandfather and burst out laughing; he also insisted on a free ride.

On one occasion Grandfather drove Granny to the bank without her recognizing him. And that too in a tonga with a white pony. Granny was superstitious about white ponies and avoided them as far as possible. But Grandfather, in his tonga-driver’s disguise, persuaded her that his white pony was the best-behaved little pony in the world; and so it was, under his artful guidance. As a result, Granny lost her fear of white ponies.

One winter the Gemini Circus came to our small north Indian town, and set up its tents on the old parade ground. Grandfather, who liked circuses and circus people, soon made friends with all the show folk—the owner, the ring-master, the lion-tamer, the pony-riders, clowns, trapeze-artistes and acrobats. He told me that as a boy he’d always wanted to join a circus, preferably as an animal trainer or ringmaster, but his parents had persuaded him to become an engine-driver instead.

‘Driving an engine must be fun,’ I said.

‘Yes, but lions are safer,’ said Grandfather.

And he used his friendship with the circus folk to get free passes for me, my cousin Melanie, and my small friend Gautam who lived next door.

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked Grandfather.

‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with my friends. See if you can spot me!’

We were convinced that Grandfather was going to adopt one of his disguises and take part in the evening’s entertainment. So for Melanie, Gautam and me the evening turned out to be a guessing game.

We were enthralled by the show’s highlights—the tigers going through their drill, the beautiful young men and women on the flying trapeze, the daring motor-cyclist bursting through a hoop of fire, the jugglers and clowns—but we kept trying to see if we could recognize Grandfather among the performers. We couldn’t make too much of a noise because in the row behind us sat some of the town’s senior citizens—the mayor, a turbaned Maharaja, a formally dressed Englishman with a military bearing, a couple of nuns, and Gautam’s class teacher!—but we kept up our chatter for most of the show.

‘Is your Grandfather the lion-tamer?’ asked Gautam.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had any practise with lions. He’s better with tigers!’ But there was someone else in charge of the tigers.

‘He could be one of the jugglers,’ said Melanie.

‘He’s taller than the jugglers,’ I said.

Gautam made an inspired guess: ‘Maybe he’s the bearded lady!’

We looked hard and long at the bearded lady when she came to our side of the ring. She waved to us in a friendly manner, and Gautam called out, ‘Excuse me, are you Ruskin’s grandfather?’

‘No, dear,’ she replied with a deep laugh. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ And she skipped away to another part of the ring.

A clown came up to us and made funny faces.

‘Are you Grandfather?’ asked Melanie.

But he just grinned, somersaulted backwards, and went about his funny business.

‘I give up,’ said Melanie. ‘Unless he’s the dancing bear.’

‘It’s a real bear,’ said Gautam. ‘Just look at those claws!’

The bear looked real enough. So did the lion, though a trifle mangy. And the tigers looked tigerish.

We went home convinced that Grandfather hadn’t been there at all.

‘So did you enjoy the circus!’ he asked, when he sat down to dinner late that evening.

‘Yes, but you weren’t there,’ I complained. ‘And we took a close look at everyone—including the bearded lady!’

‘Oh, I was there all right,’ said Grandfather. ‘I was sitting just behind you. But you were too absorbed in the circus and the performers to notice the audience. I was that smart-looking Englishman in the suit and tie, sitting between the Maharaja and the nuns. I thought I’d just be myself for a change!’