The Jungle Omnibus Read online

  THE JUNGLE OMNIBUS

  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!’

  First published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2014

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Sales Centres:

  Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

  Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

  Kolkata Mumbai

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2014

  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 persons, 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.

  eISBN: 9788129132055

  First impression 2014

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Printed at XXXXXX

  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.

  For Dilip Guha, always giving my books to friends of all ages; long may he continue to be a familiar presence at Mussoorie's friendly neighbourhood bookshop.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  No Room for a Leopard

  Romi and the Wildfire

  Butterfly Time

  Uncle Ken’s Rumble in the Jungle

  Panther’s Moon

  The Owl

  A Crow for All Seasons

  Copperfield in the Jungle

  An Island of Trees

  ‘Good Shot, Mehmoud!’

  The Snake

  The Elephant and the Cassowary Bird

  Tigers Forever

  The Tiger in the Tunnel

  The Trees

  Exciting Encounters

  Angry River

  A Tiger in the House

  Listen!

  The Glacier

  To See a Tiger

  Guests Who Come in from the Forest

  Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

  Raindrop

  INTRODUCTION

  The other day a young reader asked me: ‘Sir, why do you write so many stores about leopards?’

  I had to admit that leopards (or panthers, which are the same thing) often turn up in my stories, and for the simple reason that they keep turning up in my life. Tigers, on the other hand, are inclined to keep their distance, which is just as well, as I am no Jim Corbett.

  Even as a boy, when every adult who possessed a gun seemed determined to boast of having shot a tiger or a leopard, or even a harmless elephant, the hunting of animals was distasteful to me. Live and let live was always my creed. My favourite shikari was the inebriated governor whose gun went off accidentally, the small shot penetrating a viceregal bottom, thus resulting in the postponement of a frontier war.

  Tigers are shy, but not so leopards, who frequently prowl around hill stations, preying on pet dogs, goats, monkeys, and even poultry.

  Up here in Landour, my friend and neighbour Rajvir Handa had a leopard over for dinner—the said dinner being his sturdy Bhutia Mastiff. Rajvir and the dog saw the leopard off. Mr Solomon wasn’t so lucky. Out for an early morning walk with his Cocker Spaniel, he had not time to react when a hungry leopard sprang out from the bushes and carried off the dog, along with its collar and lead. This leopard preferred breakfast to dinner.

  Over the years I have lost two dogs to leopards, so now I keep a cat. They say the cat is the aunt of the tiger and taught it everything—except how to climb a tree.

  Tigers are heavy animals, more at home on the ground. But leopards are lithe, sinewy creatures, who have no difficulty climbing trees, rocky ledges, even rooftops. Late at night, I have often heard a leopard prowling on my old tin roof, probably in search of a sleeping monkey.

  Very rarely do leopards or tigers attack humans. But with our towns and cities growing so rapidly, and eating into forest lands, there is bound to be some conflict between humans and the creatures of the wild. We must allow them their own space. They kill only for food. Humans kill for a large number of reasons—land, money, power, racial superiority, religion, all kinds of greed, passion and desire.

  Animals have simple needs, and all they want is to be left alone. We are the interlopers.

  Ruskin Bond

  26 January 2014

  NO ROOM FOR A LEOPARD

  first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way; only milkmen and charcoal burners from the surrounding villages. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven for wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.

  Below my cottage was a forest of oak and maple and Himalayan rhododendron. A narrow path twisted its way down through the trees, over an open ridge where red sorrel grew wild, and then down steeply through a tangle of wild raspberries, creeping vines and slender rangal bamboo. At the bottom of the hill a path led onto a grassy verge surrounded by wild dogroses. The streams ran close by the verge, tumbling over smooth pebbles, over rock worn yellow with age, on its way to the plains and to the little Song River and finally to the sacred Ganga.

  Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of kalij pheasants. The birds went gliding into the ravines on open, motionless wings. I saw pine martins and a handsome red fox. I recognized the footprints of a bear.

  As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my face. Or possibly they recognized my footsteps. After some time, my approach did not disturb them. A spotted forktail, which at first used to fly away, now remained perched on a boulder in the middle of the stream while I got across by means of other boulders only a few yards away.

  The langurs in the oak and rhododendron trees who would at first go leaping through the branches at my approach, now watched me with some curiosity as they munched on the tender green shoots of the oak. The young ones scuffled and wrestled like boys while their parents groomed each other’s coats, stretching themselves out on the sunlit hillside—beautiful animals with slim waists and long sinewy legs and tails full of character. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees and I was not the cause of their excitement.

  As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs
were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard, poised on a rock about twenty feet above me.

  It was not looking towards me but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence because it slowly turned its head and looked down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there, and when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making absolutely no sound as it melted into the shadows. I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later, I heard the quickening cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest—the hunt was still on.

  The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably the deforestation that had been taking place in the surrounding hills had driven the deer into this green valley and the leopard, naturally, had followed.

  It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times I felt certain that I was being followed. And once, when I was late getting home, I was startled by a family of porcupines running about in a clearing. I looked around nervously and saw two bright eyes staring at me from a thicket. I stood still, my heart banging away against my ribs. Then the eyes danced away and I realized they were only fireflies.

  In May and June, when the hills were brown and dry, it was always cool and green near the stream where ferns, maidenhair and long grasses continued to thrive.

  One day I found the remains of a barking deer that had been partially eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of his meal and decided that he had been disturbed while eating. Then climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris resting beneath the oaks. They asked me if I had seen a leopard. I said I had not. They said they knew there was a leopard in the forest. Leopard skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over a thousand rupees each! Of course there was a ban on the export of its skins but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means… I thanked them for their information and moved on, feeling uneasy and disturbed.

  The shikaris had seen the carcass of the deer and the leopard’s pug marks and they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away, for they were ready to fire at almost everything.

  ‘There’s a leopard about,’ they told me. ‘You should carry a gun.’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ I said.

  There were fewer birds to be seen and even the langurs had moved on. The red fox did not show itself and the pine martins who had earlier become bold, now dashed into hiding at my approach. The smell of one human is like the smell of any other.

  I thought no more of the men. My attitude towards them was similar to the attitude of the denizens of the forest—they were men, unpredictable and to be avoided if possible.

  One day after crossing the stream, I climbed Pari Tibba, a bleak, scrub-covered hill where no one lived. This was a stiff undertaking, because there was no path to the top and I had to scramble up a precipitous rock-face with the help of rocks and roots which were apt to come away in my groping hand. But at the top was a plateau with a few pine trees, their upper branches catching the wind and humming softly. There I found the ruins of what must have been the first settlers—just a few piles of rubble now overgrown with weeds, sorrel, dandelion and nettles.

  As I walked through the roofless ruins, I was struck by the silence that surrounded me, the absence of birds and animals, the sense of complete desolation. The silence was so absolute that it seemed to be shouting in my ears. But there was something else of which I was becoming increasingly aware—the strong feline odour of one of the cat family. I paused and looked about. I was alone. There was no movement of dry leaf or loose stone. The ruins were, for the most part, open to the sky. Their rotting rafters had collapsed and joined together to form a low passage, like the entrance to a mine. This dark cavern seemed to lead down.

  The smell was stronger when I approached this spot so I stopped again and waited there, wondering if I had discovered the lair of the leopard, wondering if the animal was now at rest after a night’s hunt. Perhaps it was crouched there in the dark, watching me, recognizing me, knowing me as a man who walked alone in the forest without a weapon. I like to think that he was there and that he knew me and that he acknowledged my visit in the friendliest way—by ignoring me altogether.

  Perhaps I had made him confident—too confident, too careless, too trusting of the human in his midst. I did not venture any further. I did not seek physical contact or even another glimpse of that beautiful sinewy body, springing from rock to rock… It was his trust I wanted and I think he gave it to me. But did the leopard, trusting one man, make the mistake of bestowing his trust on others? Did I, by casting out all fear—my own fear and the leopard’s protective fear—leave him defenceless?

  Because next day, coming up the path from the stream, shouting and beating their drums, were the shikaris. They had a long bamboo pole across their shoulder and slung from the pole, feet up, head down, was the lifeless body of the leopard. It had been shot in the neck and in the head.

  ‘We told you there was a leopard!’ they shouted, in great good humour. ‘Isn’t he a fine specimen?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He was a beautiful leopard.’

  I walked home through the silent forest. It was very silent, almost as though the birds and animals knew their trust had been violated.

  I remembered the lines of a poem by D.H. Lawrence and as I climbed the steep and lonely path to my home, the words beat out their rhythm in my mind—‘There was room in the world for a mountain lion and me.’

  ROMI AND THE WILDFIRE

  1

  s Romi was about to mount his bicycle, he saw smoke rising from behind the distant line of trees.

  ‘It looks like a forest fire,’ said Prem, his friend and classmate.

  ‘It’s well to the east,’ said Romi. ‘Nowhere near the road.’

  ‘There’s a strong wind,’ said Prem, looking at the dry leaves swirling across the road.

  It was the middle of May, and it hadn’t rained in the Terai for several weeks. The grass was brown, the leaves of the trees covered with dust. Even though it was getting on to six o’clock in the evening, the boys’ shirts were damp with sweat.

  ‘It will be getting dark soon,’ said Prem. ‘You’d better spend the night at my house.’

  ‘No, I said I’d be home tonight. My father isn’t keeping well. The doctor has given me some tablets for him.’

  ‘You’d better hurry, then. That fire seems to be spreading.’

  ‘Oh, it’s far off. It will take me only forty minutes to ride through the forest. Bye, Prem. See you tomorrow!’

  Romi mounted his bicycle and pedalled off down the main road of the village, scattering stray hens, stray dogs and stray villagers.

  ‘Hey, look where you’re going!’ shouted an angry villager, leaping out of the way of the oncoming bicycle. ‘Do you think you own the road?’

  ‘Of course I own it,’ called Romi cheerfully, and cycled on.

  His own village lay about seven miles distant, on the other side of the forest; but there was only a primary school in his village, and Romi was now in high school. His father, who was a fairly wealthy sugarcane farmer, had only recently bought him the bicycle. Romi didn’t care too much for school and felt there weren’t enough holidays; but he enjoyed the long rides, and he got on well with his classmates.

  He might have stayed the night with Prem had it not been for the tablets which the vaid—the village doctor—had given him for his father.

  Romi’s father was having back trouble, and the medicine had been specially prepared from local herbs.

  Having been given such a fine bicycle, Romi felt that the least he could do in return was to get those tablets to his father as early
as possible.

  He put his head down and rode swiftly out of the village. Ahead of him, the smoke rose from the burning forest and the sky glowed red.

  2

  He had soon left the village far behind. There was a slight climb, and Romi had to push harder on the pedals to get over the rise. Once over the top, the road went winding down to the edge of the subtropical forest.

  This was the part Romi enjoyed most. He relaxed, stopped pedalling, and allowed the bicycle to glide gently down the slope. Soon the wind was rushing past him, blowing his hair about his face and making his shirt billow out behind. He burst into song.

  A dog from the village ran beside him, barking furiously. Romi shouted to the dog, encouraging him in the race.

  Then the road straightened out, and Romi began pedalling again.

  The dog, seeing the forest ahead, turned back to the village. It was afraid of the forest.

  The smoke was thicker now, and Romi caught the smell of burning timber. But ahead of him the road was clear. He rode on.

  It was a rough, dusty road, cut straight through the forest. Tall trees grew on either side, cutting off the last of the daylight. But the spreading glow of the fire on the right lit up the road, and giant tree-shadows danced before the boy on the bicycle.

  Usually the road was deserted. This evening it was alive with wild creatures fleeing from the forest fire.

  The first animal that Romi saw was a hare, leaping across the road in front of him. It was followed by several more hares. Then a band of monkeys streamed across, chattering excitedly.

  They’ll be safe on the other side, thought Romi. The fire won’t cross the road.

  But it was coming closer. And realizing this, Romi pedalled harder. In half-an-hour he should be out of the forest.