Dunderheads Against Blunderheads

　　If you had been taking a stroll in the fields behind Alibag in late 1965， you would have seen a strange sight. A slight figure with a trim white beard and spectacles marched along the fields， straight as a ramrod， with a small army of children behind him. And he did look as if he were leading an army. Every few minutes， he raised a pair of outsized binoculars to his eyes in a brisk， military way. His rousers， like his binoculars， were far too large for him； and none of this was helped by the fact that his shirt was far too small for him. Tramp， tramp， tramp. And behind him came Anil and Sheela and Ahmed and Harish and Kiran and Ravi， all marching solemnly behind Salim Mamoo as if they were doing the most important thing in the world. Every now and then they darted behind a bush or whirled round mysteriously， their binoculars to their eyes.

　　Then suddenly there was a flutter in the bushes and they all screamed together. “Dumri！” shouted Anil. “Chilchil！” screamed Sheela. “Babbler！” shouted Harish.

　　“Don't be stupid. Haven't you ever seen a babbler？”

　　“Who's being stupid？ You just think that any English name is better than any Hindi name！”

　　“You silly dunderhead！”

　　“You asinine， obnoxiferous， gooperous blunderhead！”

　　A most satisfying scuffle followed. All this time Salim Mamoo and the other children seemed to be sharing a hugely enjoyable secret. They winked at each other， grinned knowingly， and were obviously waiting for a chance to say something.

　　The fight was over at last. Anil picked himself up out of the dust and Harish retrieved his cap from an acacia bush. And Kiran could wait no longer. “And what are you？ Listen， what's the difference between a dumri and a chilchil and a babbler？”

　　“They're the same， they're the same！” shouted little Ahmed. He had raised his hand as if answering in class. “I know they're the same， it's in the book！”

　　“Aaah . . .” said Ravi wickedly. But are dunderheads and blunderheads the same？“

　　“Well， anyway，” said soft-hearted Sheela， seeing that Harish and Anil looked sheepish， “at least it's an argument where everyone is right. The quarrel was only about names.”

　　“My dear child，” said Salim Mamoo， sounding less cheerful， “Most quarrels are just over names.”

　　While the children were puzzling this out， Ravi suddenly shouted again and pointed to a speck in the sky.

　　“Look！ A bird of prey. It looks like an eagle or a vulture.”

　　But at the speck became bigger and bigger， they could see that it was not a bird. They heard a drone and the bird of prey rapidly into a plane. The children craned their necks.

　　“Salim Mamoo，” said Ahmed， and his eyes were big and round， “could it be a bombing-plane？”

　　“It's possible，” said Salim Mamoo. “Yes， it certainly could be a Pakistani war plane. Children， crouch down. This is war-time and there's no point taking risks.”

　　The children crouched quietly under the bushes in single file. After a couple of minutes the droning sound passed. Ravi cautiously raised his head.

　　“Salim Mamoo，” he said in a loud whisper， “is the fight with Pakistan only a fight over names？”

　　All the children burst out laughing， but Salim Mamoo looked as if a new thought had struck him. “As a matter of fact，” he said， “it is. From the beginning it has been nothing but a stupid fight over names.”

　　“Stupid fighters，” said Anil. “Just because of them Papa had to go away.”

　　“Dunderheads and blunderheads，” said Kiran.

　　“Oye！ Stop there all of you！ Who are you？ Who gave you permission to carry these binoculars？ Eh？”

　　With a loud thud a police van had come to a halt some distance away. It contained a police driver and one large， sweaty， paunchy policeman with a lathi. This large figure now marched up to Salim Mamoo. Ahmed moved closer to sheela.

　　“Carrying binoculars， eh？ And teaching children also， eh？ Don't you know this is war-time？”

　　“You we do know . . .” began Salim Mamoo.

　　“Then？ How do I know you are not a spy， eh？ And teaching children to spy also？ What is your name？”

　　“His name is Uncle Silly-Molly，” Ahmed blurted out， staring at the policeman with big， round eyes. He thought the policeman was like a teacher； the sooner you gave him an answer to his question， the sooner you would be out of trouble. Bur Sheela whispered quickly， “Hush， silly！ He wants his real name.”

　　“What？” Ahmed whispered back. “But that is his real name， isn't it？”

　　The Salim Mamoo said to the policeman， “My name is Ali.”

　　“EH？ Clear Pakistani name！ Clear！ See what I told you？ Spying with binoculars！ Teaching children to spy also！ You will have to come with me to the police station.”

　　The children could hardly believe their ears. Ravi， Harish and Anil tried to look brave but turned white. Ahmed began to cry and Sheela put her arm around him. “Don't cry， Ahmed. It's nothing.”

　　“I'll go to jail and get a beating！” he wailed.

　　“Don't make so much noise，” said the policeman sternly. He took out a notebook. “Ali. What Ali？”

　　Salim Mamoo drew himself up to his full height of five feet two. “My name is Dr Salim Ali.”

　　The policeman began writing. “Dr Salim . . . WHAT？ But that is the Bird Man of India！” And Salim Mamoo， looking like a stern little sparrow， said， “Yes. Do you still think I was spying？”

　　“Dr Salim Ali！” The policeman dropped his notebook and clutched him. “Salim Saab. Please. There is a bird I see everywhere. I want to know its name. It is about so big. It has long slender legs and a long bill. I see it all the time and What ever I do I can't find out its name.”

　　“Does it have some red above the beak？”

　　“Oh yes！ That's the one！” said the policeman， looking thrilled. “I tell you， whatever I go I see it and whatever I do I can't find out . . .”

　　“Does it have a cry which sounds like - Oh . . . did you do it？” The policeman nearly began to jump up and down in his excitement.

　　“Did you do it？ Did you do it？ Exactly！” he said. “I am telling you， whatever I go . . .”

　　“This is why，” said Harish， speaking for the first time， “it is called the did-you-do-it bird.”

　　“Or the titehri，” said Kiran.

　　“Or the zardi，” said Anil.

　　“Or the red-wattled lapwing，” said Sheela.

　　“Ah！ But only by dunderheads，” said Ravi.

　　There was a most satisfying scuffle . . .

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