Flute Player – Short Story By Ruskin Bond

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Romi put the flute in her hands and said, You kept it. I can get another one.’

‘But I don’t know how to play it,’ said Kamla.

‘It will play by itself,’ said Romi.

She took the flute and put it to her lips and blew on it, producing a squeaky little note that started a lone parrot out of the mango tree. Romi laughed, and while he was laughing, Kamla turned and ran down the path through the fields. And when she had gone some distance she turned and waved to Romi with the flute. he stood near the well and waved back to her.

Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted across the fields: ‘Don’t forget to come next year!’

And Kamla called back, ‘I won’t forget.’ But her voice was faint, and the breeze blew the words away and Romi did not hear them.

‘Was England home?’ wondered Kamla. Or was this Indian city home? Or was her true home in that other India, across the busy trunk road? Perhaps she would find out one day.

Romi watched her until she was just a speck in the distance, and then he turned and shouted at the camel, telling it to move faster. But the camel did not even glance at him, it just carried on as before, as India had carried on for thousands of years, round and round and round the well, while the water gurgled and splashed over the smooth stones.