Panther's Moon and Other Stories Page 2

  There were no dogs to molest them—and no dahlias to tempt them into the garden.

  But that night, I heard the dogs again. They were barking more furiously than ever.

  ‘Well, I’m not getting up for them this time’ I mumbled, and pulled the blankets over my ears.

  But the barking grew louder, and was joined by other sounds, a squealing and a scuffling.

  Then suddenly the piercing shriek of a woman rang through the forest. It was an unearthly sound, and it made my hair stand up.

  I leapt out of bed and dashed to the window.

  A woman was lying on the ground, and three or four huge monkeys were on top of her, biting her arms and pulling at her throat. The dogs were yelping and trying to drag the monkeys off, but they were being harried from behind by others. The woman gave another blood-curdling shriek, and I dashed back into the room, grabbed hold of a small axe, and ran into the garden.

  But everyone—dogs, monkeys and shrieking woman—had disappeared, and I stood alone on the hillside in my pyjamas, clutching an axe and feeling very foolish.

  The Colonel greeted me effusively the following day.

  ‘Still seeing those dogs?’ he asked in a bantering tone.

  ‘I’ve seen the monkeys too,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, they’ve come around again. But they’re real enough, and quite harmless.’

  ‘I know—but I saw them last night with the dogs.’

  ‘Oh, did you really? That’s strange, very strange.’

  The Colonel tried to avoid my eye, but I hadn’t quite finished with him.

  ‘Colonel,’ I said. ‘You never did get around to telling me how Miss Fairchild died.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I? Must have slipped my memory. I’m getting old, don’t remember people as well as I used to. But of course I remember about Miss Fairchild, poor lady. The monkeys killed her. Didn’t you know? They simply tore her to pieces…’

  His voice trailed off, and he looked thoughtfully at a caterpillar that was making its way up his walking stick.

  ‘She shouldn’t have shot one of them,’ he said. ‘Never shoot a monkey—they’re human, you know…’

  Grandpa Fights an Ostrich

  Before Grandfather joined the Indian Railways, he worked for some time on the East African Railways, and it was during that period that he had his famous encounter with the ostrich. My childhood was frequently enlivened by this oft-told tale of my grandfather’s, and I give it here in his own words—or as well as I can remember them:

  While engaged in the laying of a new railway line, I had a miraculous escape from an awful death. I lived in a small township, but my work lay some twelve miles away, and although I had a tent on the works I often had to go into town on horseback.

  On one occasion, an accident happening to my horse, I got a lift into town, hoping that someone might do me a similar favour on my way back. But this was not to be, and I made up my mind next morning to do the journey on foot, shortening the distance by taking a cut through the hills which would save me about six miles.

  To take this short cut it was necessary to cross an ostrich ‘camp’ or farm. To venture across these ‘camps’ in the breeding season, especially on foot, can be dangerous, for during this time the male birds are extremely ferocious.

  But being familiar with the ways of ostriches, I knew that my dog would scare away any ostrich which tried to attack me. Strange though it may seem, even the biggest ostrich (and some of them grow to a height of nine feet) will bolt faster than a racehorse at the sight of even a small dog. And so, in company with my dog (a mongrel who had adopted me the previous month), I felt reasonably safe.

  On arrival at the ‘camp’ I got through the wire fencing and, keeping a good lookout, dodged across the spaces between the thorn bushes, now and then getting a sight of the birds which were feeding some distance away.

  I had gone about half a mile from the fencing when up started a hare, and in an instant my dog gave chase. I tried to call him back although I knew it was useless, since chasing hares was a passion with him.

  Whether it was the dog’s bark or my own shouting, I don’t know, but just what I was most anxious to avoid immediately happened: the ostriches became startled and began darting to and fro. Suddenly I saw a big male bird emerge from a thicket about a hundred yards away. He stood still and stared at me for a few moments; then, expanding his wings and with his tail erect, he came bounding towards me.

  Believing discretion to be the better part of valour (at least in that particular situation), I turned and ran towards the fence. But it was an unequal race. What were my steps of two or three feet against the creature’s great strides of sixteen to twenty feet? There was only one hope: to wait for the ostrich behind some bush and try to dodge him till he tired. A dodging game was obviously my only chance.

  Altering course a little, I rushed for the nearest clump of bushes where, gasping for breath, I waited for my pursuer. The great bird was almost immediately upon me, and a strange encounter commenced. This way and that I dodged, taking great care that I did not get directly in front of his deadly kick. The ostrich kicks forward, and with such terrific force that his great chisel-like nails, if they struck, would rip one open from head to foot.

  Breathless, and really quite helpless, I prayed wildly for help as I circled the bush, which was about twelve feet in diameter and some six feet in height. My strength was rapidly failing, and I realized it would be impossible to keep up the struggle much longer; I was ready to drop from sheer exhaustion. As if aware of my condition, the infuriated bird suddenly doubled on his course and charged straight at me. With a desperate effort I managed to step to one side. How it happened I don’t know, but I found myself holding on to one of the creature’s wings, close to its body.

  It was now the bird’s turn to be frightened, and he began to turn, or rather waltz, moving round and round so quickly that my feet were soon swinging out almost horizontally. All the time the ostrich kept opening and shutting his beak with loud snaps.

  Imagine my situation as I clung desperately to the wing of the enraged bird, who was whirling me round and round as if I had been a cork! My arms soon began to ache with the strain, and the swift and continuous circling was making me dizzy. But I knew that if I relaxed my hold, a terrible fate awaited me: I should be promptly trampled to death by the spiteful bird.

  Round and round we went in a great circle. It seemed as if my enemy would never tire. But I knew I could not hold on much longer.

  Suddenly the bird went into reverse! This unexpected movement not only had the effect of making me lose my hold but sent me sprawling to the ground. I landed in a heap at the foot of the thorn bush. In an instant, almost before I had time to realize what had happened, the ostrich was upon me. I thought the end had come. Instinctively I put up my hands to protect my face. But, to my amazement, the great bird did not strike.

  I moved my hands from my face, and there stood the ostrich with one foot raised, ready to rip me open! I couldn’t move. Was the bird going to play with me like a cat with a mouse, and prolong the agony?

  As I watched fascinated, I saw him turn his head sharply to the left. A second later he jumped back, turned, and made off as fast as he could go. Dazed, I wondered what had happened.

  I soon found out, for, to my great joy, I heard the bark of my truant dog, and the next moment he was jumping around me, licking my face and hands.

  Needless to say, I returned his caresses most affectionately! And I took good care to see that he did not leave my side until we were well clear of the ostrich ‘camp’.

  Panther’s Moon

  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 t
he 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 Ganesh, the god of learning, who had an elephant’s head and fat boy’s body.

  Bringing his face close to the clock, Bisnu could just make out the dial 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 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 was over the hill, on his way to the distant 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 beneath 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 smooth 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 chapatties. 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 chapatties, after spreading butter-oil on them. He drank a glass of hot, sweet tea. His mother gave two thick chapatties to Sheroo, and the dog wolfed them down in a few minutes. Then she wrapped two chapatties and a 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 Ganesh. Ganesh 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 Ganesh. And as Bisnu made a journey everyday, he never left without the goodwill of the elephant-headed god.

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

  When born, he was a beautiful child. Parvathi, 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 Ganesh’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 he 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 Ganesh’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, brother,’ 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 dress. There is some ploughing to be done today. The rains wall 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 mountain-side. Sheroo bounded ahead; for he, too, always went with Bisnu to school.

  Five miles to school. Everyday, 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 of 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 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 hillman 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 langoor monkeys.

  A colony of langoors 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 g
round only to bask or play 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 langoors 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 Mrs 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; then, occasionally, a panther would take to haunting the outskirts of a village, seizing a careless dog or a stray goat.