The Big Book of Animal Stories Read online

  THE BIG BOOK OF ANIMAL STORIES

  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and has now over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys Award in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from the Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award.

  Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.

  A shy person, Ruskin says he likes being a writer because ‘When I’m writing there’s nobody watching me. Today, it’s hard to find a profession where you’re not being watched!’

  THE BIG BOOK OF ANIMAL STORIES

  RUSKIN BOND

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2015

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-81-291-3714-2

  First impression 2015

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Contents

  Introduction

  SECTION-I: TO SEE A TIGER

  Panther’s Moon

  The Tiger in the Tunnel

  No Room for a Leopard

  A Tiger in the House

  To See a Tiger

  Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

  SECTION-II: EXCITING ENCOUNTERS

  A Crow for All Seasons

  Harold: Our Hornbill

  Henry: A Chameleon

  Monkey Trouble

  Snake Trouble

  The Eyes of the Eagle

  The Parrot Who Wouldn’t Talk

  Grandpa Fights an Ostrich

  The Elephant and the Cassowary Bird

  Exciting Encounters

  Uncle Ken’s Rumble in the Jungle

  Owls in the Family

  Those Three Bears

  SECTION-III: VISITORS FROM THE FOREST

  Visitors from the Forest

  Birdsong in the Hills

  Copperfield in the Jungle

  The Hare in the Moon

  The White Elephant

  The Boy Who Could See Footsteps

  The Tiger King’s Gift

  Eyes of the Cat

  SECTION-IV: POEMS

  The Bat

  The Snake

  The Owl

  Butterfly Time

  Firefly in My Room

  Make Room for Elephants

  God Save the Beetle

  To the Indian Foresters

  Tigers Forever

  Listen!

  Introduction

  I like animals and get on well with most of them (barring crocodiles and big cats), but I would be dishonest if I called myself a great animal lover. I do not enjoy being licked by dogs, scratched by kittens or having my nose tweaked by a parrot. House pets are not my cup of tea. Let birds and animals roam the wilds, and I will help to protect the wilds for them.

  Why, then, have I written so many animals stories?

  Well, I’ll tell you a professional secret.

  In the good old, bad old days, when I was in my twenties and thirties, I wasn’t making much money from my writing. And I felt I had to do something different, even if only for a certain period of time. So I looked at all the magazines and Sunday papers and popular books, and discovered that many of them carried animal stories, either of cute, cuddly animals or of wild creatures, ready to tear you to pieces. So, I thought, why not write a few myself? India was full of birds and animals, reptiles and insects, so why not put them into my stories?

  And so I began writing animal stories—some true, some invented—and sending them out to magazines all over the world. And lo and behold, they were published!

  My tiger cubs, pythons, panthers, hornbills, chameleons, baby elephants, monkeys, white mice, frogs, crows and crocodiles, all turned up in Australia (The School Magazine), the USA (Highlights for Children and Cricket), Scotland (Blackwoods), England (The Lady) and in most of our own Sunday supplements. Many got into anthologies and school readers, with the result that young readers often ask me, ‘Sir did you really meet a leopard?’ or ‘Do you keep a python in the house?’ or ‘Sir, if you were chased by a bear you must be a fast runner.’ And I have to scratch my head and make up a new story to justify the old one.

  But my animals are real animals, and they behave as animals usually do. It’s really the humans who do strange things. Animals are predictable. Humans, never.

  Ruskin Bond

  SECTION-I

  To See a Tiger

  Panther’s Moon

  1

  IN THE entire village, he was the first to get up. Even the dog, a big hill mastiff called Sheroo, was asleep in a corner of the dark room, curled up near the cold embers of the previous night’s fire. Bisnu’s tousled head emerged from his blanket. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up on his haunches. Then, gathering his wits, he crawled in the direction of the loud ticking that came from the battered little clock which occupied the second-most honoured place in a niche in the wall. The most honoured place belonged to a picture of Ganesha, the god of learning, who had an elephant’s head and a fat boy’s body.

  Bringing his face close to the clock, Bisnu could just make out the hands. It was five o’clock. He had half an hour in which to get ready and leave.

  He got up, in vest and underpants, and moved quietly towards the door. The soft tread of his bare feet woke Sheroo, and the big black dog rose silently and padded behind the boy. The door opened and closed, and then the boy and the dog were outside in the early dawn. The month was June, and the nights were warm, even in the Himalayan valleys, but there was fresh dew on the grass. Bisnu felt the dew beneath his feet. He took a deep breath and began walking down to the stream.

  The sound of the stream filled the small valley. At that early hour of the morning, it was the only sound, but Bisnu was hardly conscious of it. It was a sound he lived with and took for granted. It was only when he had crossed the hill, on his way to the town—and the sound of the stream grew distant—that he really began to notice it. And it was only when the stream was too far away to be heard that he really missed its sound.

  He slipped out of his underclothes, gazed for a few moments at the goose pimples rising on his flesh, and then dashed into the shallow stream. As he went further in, the cold mountain water reached his loins and navel, and he gasped with shock and pleasure. He drifted slowly with the current, swam across to a small inlet which formed a fairly deep pool, and plunged into the water. Sheroo hated cold water at this early hour. Had the sun been up, he would not have hesitated to join Bisnu. Now he contented himself with sitting on a smo
oth rock and gazing placidly at the slim brown boy splashing about in the clear water in the widening light of dawn.

  Bisnu did not stay long in the water. There wasn’t time. When he returned to the house, he found his mother up, making tea and chapattis. His sister, Puja, was still asleep. She was a little older than Bisnu, a pretty girl with large black eyes, good teeth and strong arms and legs. During the day, she helped her mother in the house and in the fields. She did not go to the school with Bisnu. But when he came home in the evenings, he would try teaching her some of the things he had learnt. Their father was dead. Bisnu, at twelve, considered himself the head of the family.

  He ate two chapattis, after spreading butter-oil on them. He drank a glass of hot sweet tea. His mother gave two thick chapattis to Sheroo, and the dog wolfed them down in a few minutes. Then she wrapped two chapattis and some gourd curry in some big green leaves, and handed these to Bisnu. This was his lunch packet. His mother and Puja would take their meal afterwards.

  When Bisnu was dressed, he stood with folded hands before the picture of Ganesha. Ganesha is the god who blesses all beginnings. The author who begins to write a new book, the banker who opens a new ledger, the traveller who starts on a journey, all invoke the kindly help of Ganesha. And as Bisnu made a journey every day, he never left without the goodwill of the elephant-headed god.

  How, one might ask, did Ganesha get his elephant’s head?

  When born, he was a beautiful child. Parvati, his mother, was so proud of him that she went about showing him to everyone. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of showing the child to that envious planet, Saturn, who promptly burnt off poor Ganesha’s head. Parvati, in despair, went to Brahma, the Creator, for a new head for her son. He had no head to give her, but advised her to search for some man or animal caught in a sinful or wrong act. Parvati wandered about until she came upon an elephant sleeping with its head the wrong way, that is, to the south. She promptly removed the elephant’s head and planted it on Ganesha’s shoulders, where it took root.

  Bisnu knew this story. He had heard it from his mother.

  Wearing a white shirt and black shorts, and a pair of worn white keds, he was ready for his long walk to school, five miles up the mountain.

  His sister woke up just as he was about to leave. She pushed the hair away from her face and gave Bisnu one of her rare smiles.

  ‘I hope you have not forgotten,’ she said.

  ‘Forgotten?’ said Bisnu, pretending innocence. ‘Is there anything I am supposed to remember?’

  ‘Don’t tease me. You promised to buy me a pair of bangles, remember? I hope you won’t spend the money on sweets, as you did last time.’

  ‘Oh, yes, your bangles,’ said Bisnu. ‘Girls have nothing better to do than waste money on trinkets. Now, don’t lose your temper! I’ll get them for you. Red and gold are the colours you want?’

  ‘Yes, Bhaiya,’ said Puja gently, pleased that Bisnu had remembered the colours. ‘And for your dinner tonight, we’ll make you something special. Won’t we, Mother?’

  ‘Yes. But hurry up and get dressed. There is some ploughing to be done today. The rains will soon be here, if the gods are kind.’

  ‘The monsoon will be late this year,’ said Bisnu. ‘Mr Nautiyal, our teacher, told us so. He said it had nothing to do with the gods.’

  ‘Be off, you are getting late,’ said Puja, before Bisnu could begin an argument with his mother. She was diligently winding the old clock. It was quite light in the room. The sun would be up any minute.

  Bisnu shouldered his school bag, kissed his mother, pinched his sister’s cheeks and left the house. He started climbing the steep path up the mountainside. Sheroo bounded ahead; for he, too, always went with Bisnu to school.

  Five miles to school. Every day, except Sunday, Bisnu walked five miles to school; and in the evening, he walked home again. There was no school in his own small village of Manjari, for the village consisted of only five families. The nearest school was at Kemptee, a small township on the bus route through the district of Garhwal. A number of boys walked to school, from distances of two or three miles; their villages were not quite as remote as Manjari. But Bisnu’s village lay right at the bottom of the mountain, a drop of over two thousand feet from Kemptee. There was no proper road between the village and the town.

  In Kemptee there was a school, a small mission hospital, a post office and several shops. In Manjari village there were none of these amenities. If you were sick, you stayed at home until you got well; if you were very sick, you walked or were carried to the hospital, up the five-mile path. If you wanted to buy something, you went without it; but if you wanted it very badly, you could walk the five miles to Kemptee.

  Manjari was known as the Five-Mile Village.

  Twice a week, if there were any letters, a postman came to the village. Bisnu usually passed the postman on his way to and from school.

  There were other boys in Manjari village, but Bisnu was the only one who went to school. His mother would not have fussed if he had stayed at home and worked in the fields. That was what the other boys did; all except lazy Chittru, who preferred fishing in the stream or helping himself to the fruit off other people’s trees. But Bisnu went to school. He went because he wanted to. No one could force him to go; and no one could stop him from going. He had set his heart on receiving a good schooling. He wanted to read and write as well as anyone in the big world, the world that seemed to begin only where the mountains ended. He felt cut off from the world in his small valley. He would rather live at the top of a mountain than at the bottom of one. That was why he liked climbing to Kemptee, it took him to the top of the mountain; and from its ridge he could look down on his own valley to the north, and on the wide endless plains stretching towards the south.

  The plainsman looks to the hills for the needs of his spirit but the hill man looks to the plains for a living.

  Leaving the village and the fields below him, Bisnu climbed steadily up the bare hillside, now dry and brown. By the time the sun was up, he had entered the welcome shade of an oak and rhododendron forest. Sheroo went bounding ahead, chasing squirrels and barking at langurs.

  A colony of langurs lived in the oak forest. They fed on oak leaves, acorns and other green things, and usually remained in the trees, coming down to the ground only to play or bask in the sun. They were beautiful, supple-limbed animals, with black faces and silver-grey coats and long, sensitive tails. They leapt from tree to tree with great agility. The young ones wrestled on the grass like boys.

  A dignified community, the langurs did not have the cheekiness or dishonest habits of the red monkeys of the plains; they did not approach dogs or humans. But they had grown used to Bisnu’s comings and goings, and did not fear him. Some of the older ones would watch him quietly, a little puzzled. They did not go near the town, because the Kemptee boys threw stones at them. And anyway, the oak forest gave them all the food they required.

  Emerging from the trees, Bisnu crossed a small brook. Here he stopped to drink the fresh clean water of a spring. The brook tumbled down the mountain and joined the river a little below Bisnu’s village. Coming from another direction was a second path, and at the junction of the two paths, Sarru was waiting for him.

  Sarru came from a small village about three miles from Bisnu’s and closer to the town. He had two large milk cans slung over his shoulders. Every morning he carried this milk to town, selling one can to the school and the other to Dr Taylor, the lady doctor at the small mission hospital. He was a little older than Bisnu but not as well-built.

  They hailed each other, and Sarru fell into step beside Bisnu. They often met at this spot, keeping each other company for the remaining two miles to Kemptee.

  ‘There was a panther in our village last night,’ said Sarru.

  This information interested but did not excite Bisnu. Panthers were common enough in the hills and did not usually present a problem except during the winter months, when their natural prey was scarce. Th
en, occasionally, a panther would take to haunting the outskirts of a village, seizing a careless dog or a stray goat.

  ‘Did you lose any animals?’ asked Bisnu.

  ‘No. It tried to get into the cowshed but the dogs set up an alarm. We drove it off.’

  ‘It must be the same one which came around last winter. We lost a calf and two dogs in our village.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the one the shikaris wounded? I hope it hasn’t become a cattle lifter.’

  ‘It could be the same. It has a bullet in its leg. These hunters are the people who cause all the trouble. They think it’s easy to shoot a panther. It would be better if they missed altogether, but they usually wound it.’

  ‘And then the panther’s too slow to catch the barking deer, and starts on our own animals.’

  ‘We’re lucky it didn’t become a man-eater. Do you remember the man-eater six years ago? I was very small then. My father told me all about it. Ten people were killed in our valley alone. What happened to it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some say it poisoned itself when it ate the headman of another village.’

  Bisnu laughed. ‘No one liked that old villain. He must have been a man-eater himself in some previous existence!’ They linked arms and scrambled up the stony path. Sheroo began barking and ran ahead. Someone was coming down the path.

  It was Mela Ram, the postman.

  2

  ‘Any letters for us?’ asked Bisnu and Sarru together.

  They never received any letters but that did not stop them from asking. It was one way of finding out who had received letters.

  ‘You’re welcome to all of them,’ said Mela Ram. ‘If you’ll carry my bag for me.’

  ‘Not today,’ said Sarru. ‘We’re busy today. Is there a letter from Corporal Ghanshyam for his family?’

  ‘Yes, there is a postcard for his people. He is posted on the Ladakh border now and finds it very cold there.’

  Postcards, unlike sealed letters, were considered public property and were read by everyone. The senders knew that too,  and so Corporal Ghanshyam Singh was careful to mention that he expected a promotion very soon. He wanted everyone in his village to know it.