Rusty and the Magic Mountain

  RUSKIN BOND

  RUSTY

  and the Magic Mountain

  Illustrations By Archana Sreenivasan

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  By way of an Introduction

  Adventure Is for the Adventurous

  Chaatwali Gali

  The Breakdown of a Bus

  A Bloodthirsty Vampire Cat

  Black Hat in the Cemetery

  Dinner by Moonlight

  A Tiger at the Door

  Pitamber Goes Fishing

  Climbing Witch Mountain

  Princess Reema

  A Concourse of Crows

  The Little People

  Rusty and Reema

  A Musical Stone

  Gone With the Moonlight

  People in a Dream

  Some Things to Think About

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  RUSTY AND THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN

  Born in Kasauli in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Dehradun, New Delhi and Shimla. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, written when he was seventeen, received the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written over five hundred short stories, essays and novellas (some included in the collections Dust on the Mountains and Classic Ruskin Bond) and more than forty books for children.

  He received the Sahitya Akademi Award for English writing in India in 1993, the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Delhi government’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 2012. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi’s Bal Sahitya Puraskar for his ‘total contribution to children’s literature’ in 2013 and was honoured with the Padma Bhushan in 2014. He lives in Landour, Mussoorie, with his extended family.

  Also in Puffin by Ruskin Bond

  Puffin Classics: The Room on the Roof

  The Room of Many Colours: Ruskin Bond’s Treasury of Stories for Children

  Panther’s Moon and Other Stories

  The Hidden Pool

  The Parrot Who Wouldn’t Talk and Other Stories

  Mr Oliver’s Diary

  Escape from Java and Other Tales of Danger

  Crazy Times with Uncle Ken

  Rusty the Boy from the Hills

  Rusty Runs Away

  Rusty and the Leopard

  Rusty Goes to London

  Rusty Comes Home

  The Puffin Book of Classic School Stories

  The Puffin Good Reading Guide for Children

  The Kashmiri Storyteller

  Hip-Hop Nature Boy and Other Poems

  The Adventures of Rusty: Collected Stories

  The Cherry Tree

  Getting Granny’s Glasses

  The Eyes of the Eagle

  Thick as Thieves: Tales of Friendship

  Uncles, Aunts and Elephants: Tales from Your Favourite Storyteller

  Ranji’s Wonderful Bat and Other Stories

  By Way of an Introduction

  This is the book that Rusty wrote,

  Or thought he’d written.

  This is the book that Nimmy edited,

  That Aparajita designed,

  That Archana made beautiful

  With pictures.

  This is the book that Sohini commissioned

  That Hemali published

  That Ananth sold

  In hundreds of thousands!

  This is the book that Krishna read

  When he went to bed in Palakkad

  This is the book that little Turiya

  Read to her Granny in old Bodh Gaya

  This is the book that Puffins slept on,

  That little mice crept on,

  That grown-ups wept on,

  That some found delicious

  (Try eating the pages, but only in stages)

  And others quite vicious!

  So all the young readers

  Got together, and said:

  ‘Let’s turn it into a film instead!’

  Lights, cameras, action!

  ‘But I’ll never write another,’

  Said Rusty, ‘after so much bother.’

  And here he is, at his desk near the door;

  ‘When I’ve sung this song, I’ll sing no more!’

  ‘Who asked you to sing?’ said a passing snail,

  ‘Just turn the page, and tell a new tale!’

  Ruskin Bond

  Landour, Mussoorie

  Summer of 2015

  Adventure Is for the Adventurous

  ‘Don’t go up there,’ said the old man reclining in the shade of a peepal tree. ‘There’s a lot of magic on that mountain.’

  ‘What kind of magic?’ asked Rusty, just out of school and looking for adventure. ‘Black magic or white magic?’

  ‘What do you know of black magic, son?’

  ‘Nothing much. But Bibiji, our neighbour, says there are spirits on the mountain and not all of them are friendly. But if you are pure of heart, they cannot harm you. The Devi protects you.’

  The old peepal tree stood just outside the grounds of the Forest Research Institute and from its vantage point one could see the ranges to the north, with the summit of Witch Mountain towering above the rest. Even in late spring it was covered with a thin mantle of snow.

  Rusty felt a strong urge to climb that mountain and see if it really held any magic, good or bad. He’d been reading a lot, and going to the cinema once a week, but something seemed to be missing from his life. Adventure! That was it! His ‘adventure wind’ was calling to him and he had to respond.

  This ‘adventure wind’ was something he had discovered a year or two ago, when he was at boarding school in Simla. It was a certain kind of breeze that sprang up suddenly, almost from nowhere, and it made his flesh tingle and his mind feel light and free, ready for almost anything. Boarding school had its own restrictions, so he had to be satisfied with dashing about on the playing field, or indulging in a dormitory pillow fight, or singing very loudly and very badly outside the staff common room and getting a flogging for his pains.

  Dehra, being in a valley, was not a very windy place, but on that particular afternoon a soft breeze came down from the Sirmur hills, ruffled his hair and teased his cheeks and he knew he was going to do something just a little crazy, just a little dangerous.

  And there was the mountain, overshadowing all the others, daring Rusty to come up and be friends with it. And it wasn’t only his desire for adventure that made him want to climb that faraway mountain. After all, there were lots of mountains, range upon range of them, stretching away towards the eternal snow, all offering something exciting by way of birds and animals, waterfalls, streams, forests and rivers. But it was this particular mountain that intrigued him—Witch Mountain, as it was called, even by those who had never been there—with its legends of strange inhabitants, ruined palaces and occasional earth tremors. There was mystery there. And treasure too, from what he had heard. Rusty didn’t just want to write a mystery . . . he wanted to live one.

  *

  ‘Mum,’ he said when he got home, ‘I’m thinking of climbing Witch Mountain. I’ll be away for a few days.’

  ‘Who’s going with you?’ asked his mother. ‘You can’t go on your own. It isn’t safe. There are strange tales about that place.’

  ‘It’s only a mountain!’

  ‘It’s a wild place, full of leopards and bears. There are no roads. No one lives on that mountain. You could have an accident. There’s a curse upon it from what I’ve heard!’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Even the most careful of men can be crushed by a falling boulder.’

  ‘That sounds like a proverb. Did you just make it up? I must use it in one of my stories.’

  ‘Well, stay at home
and write a story. Much safer. Or help me in the hotel.’ Since his Granny’s death, Rusty’s mother had been managing their small hotel in Dehra. They were going through hard times financially, but the job had helped towards paying Rusty’s school fees.

  ‘I want to live one of my stories, Mum.’

  ‘Well, take someone with you . . .’

  ‘I’ll ask Bhim to join me.’

  *

  But Bhim was preparing for his NDA exam and had no time for adventures that were not part of his single-minded pursuit of an army career.

  Everyone seemed to be preparing for exams of one kind or another, but Rusty had had enough of exams; they would keep for another day. He’d been sitting in classrooms for more than ten years of his life and he did not want to see another desk or blackboard anytime soon.

  ‘Don’t you want to go to college?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Not just now, Mum. Let me enjoy a little freedom.’

  Wandering through the Arhat Bazaar, which was full of grain merchants’ shops, Rusty spied little Popat Lal with whom he sometimes played cricket.

  Popat was very small for his fifteen years, almost a midget, but he was a wily leg-spin bowler. Both he and Rusty were members of the same cricket team, the Doon All-Stars, and on weekends they played against other local teams—usually on patches of waste ground on the outskirts of the town.

  ‘No cricket next week,’ said Popat, when he saw Rusty.

  ‘Exams, I suppose?’

  ‘No, I’ve finished with exams this year. But my father wants me to go to Chakrata to collect some money that’s owed to him.’

  ‘Chakrata? But that’s where I’m going! And from there I’m headed towards Deoban and then up the Witch Mountain. Let’s go together!’

  ‘I can’t climb mountains,’ said Popat. ‘And no one goes to that mountain any more—not since the earthquake damaged the temple and most of the buildings. It’s a wilderness now, my father tells me. But you can come with me up to Chakrata.’

  ‘That’s fine. From there I could carry on by myself.’

  ‘No, don’t go alone. There’s a curse on that place. People have disappeared from there!’

  ‘But I have nobody else to come with me.’

  ‘Maybe my cousin Pitamber can accompany you.’

  ‘Is he a student?’

  ‘No, he’s free these days. Looking for a job. Meet me near the Clock Tower this evening. I’ll introduce you to Pitamber. Now I must help my father with his accounts.’ And Popat returned to the interior of the grain shop, while Rusty, hands in his pockets, sauntered home to tell his mother that he’d found someone to accompany him on his trek to the Witch Mountain.

  Chaatwali Gali

  Rusty found Popat waiting for him beneath the banyan tree opposite the Clock Tower. For once, the Clock Tower was showing the correct time—6 p.m.—and the good citizens of Dehra were out on the streets, shopping, eating and gossiping, more or less in that order.

  ‘Where’s your cousin?’ asked Rusty.

  ‘He’s expecting us,’ said Popat, leading Rusty through the evening throng to a shady avenue where a small crowd was watching a wrestling match.

  There were two young men in the wrestling pit, struggling to throw each other down. Their sweat, mingled with the mud from the pit, gave their gleaming bodies a superhuman aspect. All they wore were their tight langotis.

  They were both tall young men and their muscles stood out as they heaved and slithered around in the mud. This is what Superman really looks like, thought Rusty, not dressed up for a fashion parade.

  There was no victor. Both emerged from the akhara the best of friends, promising to meet each other again the following week. The taller one, grinning and beating his chest, approached Popat Lal.

  ‘So, you are giving me a party, little brother? What is it all about?’

  ‘To meet my friend Rusty,’ Popat said.

  ‘And is Rusty a wrestler?’ Pitamber asked, giving the embarrassed boy an appraising look.

  ‘Never wrestled in my life,’ said Rusty.

  ‘Well, I can give you some lessons if you like. But where’s the party? Popat Lal is a nice boy, but he always has a matlab—he doesn’t give a party without a good reason.’

  ‘Well, come along to Chaatwali Gali and we’ll tell you the reason.’

  Pitamber was a chaat-lover and he lost no time taking a bath and getting into his kurta and pyjamas. The three of them set off for the famous Gali, a popular destination for young people with large appetites.

  ‘What do you prefer—tikkees or golgappas?’ asked Popat.

  ‘I’ll start with tikkees,’ said Pitamber.

  An admiring crowd watched as the six-foot three-inch wrestler put away a dozen potato tikkees and then started on the golgappas—fried wheat cups filled with spicy tamarind water. There was no limit to the number of golgappas that Pitamber could consume.

  ‘We’ll have another party when we get back from our expedition,’ said Popat and proceeded to tell his cousin about Rusty’s plans.

  ‘I’m with you!’ said Pitamber enthusiastically. ‘But what will we eat once we’re up on the mountains?’

  ‘We’ll find out when we get there,’ said Popat. ‘But I can see you’re still hungry. Let’s try the pakoras next door.’

  Rusty liked pakoras too—especially the ones made with onions—and soon the three of them were stuffing themselves with hot fried pakoras. Popat paid for the tikkees and golgappas and Rusty paid for the pakoras. Pitamber gave a satisfied belch and suggested a visit to Bengali Sweet Shop.

  ‘When we come back. . .’ assured Popat, who’d finished his pocket money.

  ‘I’m saving for the journey,’ said Rusty.

  So Pitamber had to be content with the evening’s party and the promise of more to come. They agreed to meet at the bus stand early the next morning.

  *

  ‘There are three of us,’ Rusty told his mother that night. ‘One of them is a pahelwan. So you have nothing to worry about. We’ll be back in a week.’

  ‘And what are you going to live on? Fresh air, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I’ve saved two months’ pocket money. You can advance me next month’s. And I’ve sold that old radio to the kabari. He gave me two hundred rupees for it!’

  Two hundred rupees went a long way when Rusty was a boy, so he wasn’t worried about running short of money; and he knew Popat was clever with money and always kept something in reserve. Pitamber did not seem to care at all about money, and Rusty had taken a liking to him and looked forward to his company. Pitamber was like a young lion—always playful and in a good mood, except when he was hungry.

  Rusty did not sleep much that night. He kept thinking of the morrow and what it would bring; and he was sure he could persuade Popat to come all the way with them, not just up to Chakrata. Outside the window, a nightjar kept up a monotonous call in the mango tree. Was it a good omen or a bad omen, wondered Rusty. And just before he fell asleep he remembered something his Granny had once said: ‘Always expect something good to happen. Good thoughts and feelings usually lead to good results . . .’

  The Breakdown of a Bus

  Rusty was up and about at first light. He put a few essentials into his haversack, shouted a hurried goodbye to his mother who was only half-awake and set off for the inter-city bus stand.

  Popat was waiting for him.

  ‘Where’s Pitamber?’ asked Rusty.

  ‘He should be here soon.’

  ‘Perhaps he changed his mind.’

  ‘If so, we’ll go without him.’

  The Chakrata bus was filling up and the driver and ticket collector were finishing their tea in a nearby dhaba. The sun rose over the distant hills, promising a fine spring morning. The driver entered his cabin and blew his horn. There was no sign of Pitamber.

  The boys got into the bus and took their seats. The horn blew again.

  ‘Looks like he isn’t coming,’ said Rusty.

  Just then there wa
s a commotion outside. Stray dogs, hens and a cow all ran for safety as a bicycle came flying down the road, crashing into a vegetable stall and depositing its rider into a heap of cabbages and cauliflowers. Pitamber emerged from the surrounding greenery, asked the owner of the stall to look after his bicycle, and jumped on to the bus which was now moving slowly out of the depot.

  ‘Sorry to be late, bhai,’ he said, settling down in an empty seat. ‘But I thought it better to have my breakfast before leaving.’

  ‘You did well,’ said Popat, ‘because it may be some time before we stop anywhere.’

  *

  They were soon in the countryside, driving through fields of yellow mustard and young sugar cane. The mango trees were just coming into blossom and their heady fragrance was everywhere. Soon they were passing through the Yamuna valley towards Kalsi, the last hamlet before the mountain road began. Here, an Ashoka rock inscription marked the extent of the emperor Ashoka’s rule in the third century. Early rulers always seemed to stop short of sending their armies into the mountains. ‘Thus far and no farther,’ the great ranges seemed to say.

  It was an old bus, and it groaned and rattled as it took the steep, winding road above Kalsi. It must have covered that route hundreds of times. On this particular day it decided to take a break from the endless business of carrying people up and down the mountain. And taking a break meant a breakdown.

  The overloaded bus just gave up and refused to go any further.

  ‘So sorry,’ said the driver. ‘There’s nothing I can do. It will be hours before another bus gets here and it will probably be full. So why not walk to the next village stop? It’s only five miles away. You’ll get refreshments there.’

  Five miles! Most of the passengers grumbled and sat down at the side of the road. Others took the opportunity to go and relieve themselves among the wild lantana bushes.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ asked Popat.

  ‘Better than sitting here,’ said Rusty.

  ‘If there are refreshments ahead, we must walk,’ said Pitamber, with a logic of his own.