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  As for the cassowary, he continued to grace our veranda for many years, gaped at but not made much of, while entering on a rather friendless old age.

  Owls in the Family

  One winter morning, my grandfather and I found a baby spotted owlet by the veranda steps of our home in Dehradun. When Grandfather picked it up the owlet hissed and clacked its bill but then, after a meal of raw meat and water, settled down under my bed.

  Spotted owlets are small birds. A fully grown one is no larger than a thrush and they have none of the sinister appearance of large owls. I had once found a pair of them in our mango tree and by tapping on the tree trunk had persuaded one to show an enquiring face at the entrance to its hole. The owlet is not normally afraid of man nor is it strictly a night bird. But it prefers to stay at home during the day as it is sometimes attacked by other birds who consider all owls their enemies.

  The little owlet was quite happy under my bed. The following day we found a second baby owlet in almost the same spot on the veranda and only then did we realize that where the rainwater pipe emerged through the roof, there was a rough sort of nest from which the birds had fallen. We took the second young owl to join the first and fed them both.

  When I went to bed, they were on the window ledge just inside the mosquito netting and later in the night, their mother found them there. From outside, she crooned and gurgled for a long time and in the morning, I found she had left a mouse with its tail tucked through the netting. Obviously, she put no great trust in me as a foster parent.

  The young birds thrived and ten days later, Grandfather and I took them into the garden to release them. I had placed one on a branch of the mango tree and was stooping to pick up the other when I received a heavy blow on the back of the head. A second or two later, the mother owl swooped down on Grandfather but he was quite agile and ducked out of the way.

  Quickly, I placed the second owl under the mango tree. Then from a safe distance we watched the mother fly down and lead her offspring into the long grass at the edge of the garden. We thought she would take her family away from our rather strange household but next morning I found the two owlets perched on the hatstand in the veranda.

  I ran to tell Grandfather and when we came back we found the mother sitting on the birdbath a few metres away. She was evidently feeling sorry for her behaviour the previous day because she greeted us with a soft ‘whoo-whoo’.

  ‘Now there’s an unselfish mother for you,’ said Grandfather. ‘It’s obvious she wants us to keep an eye on them. They’re probably getting too big for her to manage.’

  So the owlets became regular members of our household and were among the few pets that Grandmother took a liking to. She objected to all snakes, most monkeys and some crows—we’d had all these pets from time to time—but she took quite a fancy to the owlets and frequently fed them spaghetti!

  They loved to sit and splash in a shallow dish provided by Grandmother. They enjoyed it even more if cold water was poured over them from a jug while they were in the bath. They would get thoroughly wet, jump out and perch on a towel rack, shake themselves and return for a second splash and sometimes a third. During the day they dozed on a hatstand. After dark, they had the freedom of the house and their nightly occupation was catching beetles, the kitchen quarters being a happy hunting ground. With their razor-sharp eyes and powerful beaks, they were excellent pest-destroyers.

  Looking back on those childhood days, I carry in my mind a picture of Grandmother in her rocking chair with a contented owlet sprawled across her aproned lap. Once, on entering a room while she was taking an afternoon nap, I saw one of the owlets had crawled up her pillow till its head was snuggled under her ear.

  Both Grandmother and the owlet were snoring.

  Travelling with Grandfather’s Zoo

  ‘All aboard!’ shrieked Popeye, Grandmother’s pet parrot, as the family climbed aboard the Lucknow Express. We were moving for some months from Dehra to Lucknow, and as Grandmother had insisted on taking her parrot along, Grandfather and I insisted on bringing our pets too—a teenaged tiger (Grandfather’s) and a small squirrel (mine). But we thought it prudent to leave the python behind.

  In those days trains in India were not so crowded and it was possible to travel with a variety of creatures. Grandfather had decided to do things in style by travelling first-class, so we had a four-berth compartment of our own, and Timothy, the tiger, had an entire berth to himself. Later, everyone agreed that Timothy behaved perfectly throughout the journey. Even the guard admitted that he could not have asked for a better passenger: no stealing from vendors, no shouting at coolies, no breaking of railway property, no spitting on the platform.

  All the same, the journey was not without incident and before we reached Lucknow, there was excitement enough for everyone.

  To begin with, Popeye objected to vendors and other people poking their hands in through the windows. Before the train had moved out of the Dehra station, he had nipped two fingers and tweaked a ticket inspector’s ear.

  No sooner had the train started moving than Chips, my squirrel, emerged from my pocket to examine his surroundings. Before I could stop him, he was out of the compartment door, scurrying along the corridor.

  Chips discovered that the train was a squirrel’s paradise, almost all the passengers having bought large quantities of roasted peanuts before the train pulled out. He had no difficulty in making friends with both children and grown-ups, and it was an hour before he returned to our compartment, his tummy almost bursting.

  ‘I think I’ll go to sleep,’ said Grandmother, covering herself with a blanket and stretching out on the berth opposite Timothy’s. ‘It’s been a tiring day.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ asked Grandfather.

  ‘I’m not hungry—I had some soup before we left. You two help yourselves from the tiffin basket.’

  Grandmother dozed off, and even Popeye started nodding, lulled to sleep by the clackety-clack of the wheels and the steady puffing of the steam engine.

  ‘Well, I’m hungry,’ I said. ‘What did Granny make for us?’

  ‘Ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, a roast chicken, gooseberry pie. It’s all in the tiffin basket under your berth.’

  I tugged at the large basket and dragged it into the centre of the compartment. The straps were loosely tied. No sooner had I undone them than the lid flew open, and I let out a gasp of surprise.

  In the basket was Grandfather’s pet python, curled up contentedly on the remains of our dinner. Grandmother had insisted that we leave the python behind, and Grandfather had let it loose in the garden. Somehow, it had managed to snuggle itself into the tiffin basket.

  ‘Well, what are you staring at?’ asked Grandfather from his corner.

  ‘It’s the python,’ I said. ‘And it has finished all our dinner.’

  Grandfather joined me, and together we looked down at what remained of the food. Pythons don’t chew, they swallow: outlined along the length of the large snake’s sleek body were the distinctive shapes of a chicken, a pie, and six boiled eggs. We couldn’t make out the ham sandwiches, but presumably these had been eaten too because there was no sign of them in the basket. Only a few apples remained. Evidently, the python did not care for apples.

  Grandfather snapped the basket shut and pushed it back beneath the berth.

  ‘We mustn’t let Grandmother see him,’ he said. ‘She might think we brought him along on purpose.’

  ‘Well, I’m hungry,’ I complained. Just then, Chips returned from one of his forays and presented me with a peanut.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘If you keep bringing me peanuts all night, I might last until morning.’

  But it was not long before I felt sleepy. Grandfather had begun to nod and the only one who was wide awake was the squirrel, still intent on investigating distant compartments.

  A little after midnight there was a great clamour at the end of the corridor. Grandfather and I woke up. Timothy growled in his sleep, a
nd Popeye made complaining noises.

  Suddenly there were cries of ‘Saap, saap!’ (Snake, snake!)

  Grandfather was on his feet in a moment. He looked under the berth. The tiffin basket was empty.

  ‘The python’s out,’ he said, and dashed out of our compartment in his pyjamas. I was close behind.

  About a dozen passengers were bunched together outside the washroom door.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ asked Grandfather casually.

  ‘We can’t get into the toilet,’ said someone. ‘There’s a huge snake inside.’

  ‘Let me take a look,’ said Grandfather. ‘I know all about snakes.’

  The passengers made way for him, and he entered the washroom to find the python curled up in the washbasin. After its heavy meal it had become thirsty and, finding the lid of the tiffin basket easy to pry up, had set out in search of water.

  Grandfather gathered up the sleepy, overfed python and stepped out of the washroom. The passengers hastily made way for them.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Grandfather cheerfully. ‘It’s just a harmless young python. He’s had his dinner already, so no one is in any danger!’ And he marched back to our compartment with the python in his arms. As soon as I was inside, he bolted the door.

  Grandmother was sitting up on her berth.

  ‘I knew you’d do something foolish behind my back,’ she scolded. ‘You told me you’d got rid of that creature, and all the time you’ve been hiding it from me.’

  Grandfather tried to explain that we had nothing to do with it, that the python had smuggled itself into the tiffin basket, but Grandmother was unconvinced. ‘What will Mabel do when she sees it!’ she cried despairingly.

  My Aunt Mabel was a schoolteacher in Lucknow. She was going to share our new house, and she was terrified of all reptiles, particularly snakes.

  ‘We won’t let her see it,’ said Grandfather. ‘Back it goes into the tiffin basket.’

  Early next morning, the train steamed into Lucknow. Aunt Mabel was on the platform to receive us.

  Grandfather let all the other passengers get off before he emerged from the compartment with Timothy on a chain. I had Chips in my pocket, suitcase in both hands. Popeye stayed perched on Grandmother’s shoulder, eyeing the busy platform with considerable distrust.

  Aunt Mabel, a lover of good food, immediately spotted the tiffin basket, picked it up and said, ‘It’s not very heavy. I’ll carry it out to the taxi. I hope you’ve kept something for me.’

  ‘A whole chicken,’ I said.

  ‘We hardly ate anything,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘It’s all yours, Aunty!’ I added.

  ‘Oh, good!’ exclaimed Aunt Mabel. ‘Its been ages since I tasted something cooked by your grandmother.’ And after that there was no getting the basket away from her.

  Glancing at it, I thought I saw the lid bulging, but Grandfather had tied it down quite firmly this time and there was little likelihood of its suddenly bursting open.

  An enormous 1950 Chevrolet taxi was waiting outside the station, and the family tumbled into it. Timothy got onto the back seat, leaving enough room for Grandfather and me. Aunt Mabel sat in front with Grandmother, the tiffin basket on her lap.

  ‘Tell the taxi driver where to take us, dear,’ said Grandmother. He’s looking rather nervous.’

  Aunt Mabel gave instructions to the driver and the taxi shot off in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Well, here we go!’ said Grandfather. ‘I’m looking forward to settling into the new house.’

  Popeye, perched proudly on Grandmother’s shoulder, kept one suspicious eye on the quivering tiffin basket.

  ‘All aboard!’ he squawked. ‘All aboard!’

  When we got to our new house, we found a light breakfast waiting for us on the dining table.

  ‘It isn’t much,’ said Aunt Mabel. ‘But we’ll supplement it with the contents of your hamper.’ And placing the basket on the table, she removed the lid.

  The python was half-asleep, with an apple in its mouth. Aunt Mabel was no Eve, to be tempted. She fainted away.

  Grandfather promptly picked up the python, took it into the garden, and draped it over a branch of a guava tree.

  When Aunt Mabel recovered, she insisted that there was a huge snake in the tiffin basket. We showed her the empty basket.

  ‘You’re seeing things,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘It must be the heat,’ I said.

  Grandmother said nothing. But Popeye broke into shrieks of maniacal laughter, and soon everyone, including a slightly hysterical Aunt Mabel, was doubled up with laughter.

  Timothy

  Timothy, the tiger cub, was discovered by Grandfather on a hunting expedition in the Terai jungle near Dehra.

  Grandfather was no shikari, but as he knew the forests of the Siwalik hills better than most people, he was persuaded to accompany the party—it consisted of several Very Important Persons from Delhi—to advise on the terrain and the direction the beaters should take once a tiger had been spotted.

  The camp itself was sumptuous—seven large tents (one for each shikari), a dining-tent, and a number of servants’ tents. The dinner was very good, as Grandfather admitted afterwards; it was not often that one saw hot-water plates, finger-glasses, and seven or eight courses, in a tent in the jungle! But that was how things were done in the days of the Viceroys . . . There were also some fifteen elephants, four of them with howdahs for the shikaris, and the others specially trained for taking part in the beat.

  The sportsmen never saw a tiger, nor did they shoot anything else, though they saw a number of deer, peacocks, and wild boars. They were giving up all hope of finding a tiger, and were beginning to shoot at jackals, when Grandfather, strolling down the forest path at some distance from the rest of the party, discovered a little tiger about eighteen inches long, hiding among the intricate roots of a banyan tree. Grandfather picked him up, and brought him home after the camp had broken up. He had the distinction of being the only member of the party to have bagged any game, dead or alive.

  At first the tiger cub, who was named Timothy by Grandmother, was brought up entirely on milk given to him in a feeding bottle by our cook, Mahmoud. But the milk proved too rich for him, and he was put on a diet of raw mutton and cod liver oil, to be followed later by a more tempting diet of pigeons and rabbits.

  Timothy was provided with two companions—Toto the monkey, who was bold enough to pull the young tiger by the tail, and then climb up the curtains if Timothy lost his temper; and a small mongrel puppy, found on the road by Grandfather.

  At first Timothy appeared to be quite afraid of the puppy, and darted back with a spring if it came too near. He would make absurd dashes at it with his large forepaws, and then retreat to a ridiculously safe distance. Finally, he allowed the puppy to crawl on his back and rest there!

  One of Timothy’s favourite amusements was to stalk anyone who would play with him, and so, when I came to live with Grandfather, I became one of the favourites of the tiger. With a crafty look in his glittering eyes, and his body crouching, he would creep closer and closer to me, suddenly making a dash for my feet, rolling over on his back and kicking me in delight, and pretending to bite my ankles.

  He was by this time the size of a full-grown retriever, and when I took him out for walks, people on the road would give us a wide berth. When he pulled hard on his chain, I had difficulty in keeping up with him. His favourite place in the house was the drawing room, and he would make himself comfortable on the long sofa, reclining there with great dignity, and snarling at anybody who tried to get him off.

  Timothy had clean habits, and would scrub his face with his paws exactly like a cat. He slept at night in the cook’s quarters, and was always delighted at being let out by him in the morning.

  ‘One of these days,’ declared Grandmother in her prophetic manner, ‘we are going to find Timothy sitting on Mahmoud’s bed, and no sign of the cook except his clothes and shoes!’

  Of cours
e, it never came to that, but when Timothy was about six months old a change came over him; he grew steadily less friendly. When out for a walk with me, he would try to steal away to stalk a cat or someone’s pet Pekinese. Sometimes at night we would hear frenzied cackling from the poultry house, and in the morning there would be feathers lying all over the veranda. Timothy had to be chained up more often. And finally, when he began to stalk Mahmoud about the house with what looked like villainous intent, Grandfather decided it was time to transfer him to a zoo.

  The nearest zoo was at Lucknow, two hundred miles away. Reserving a first-class compartment for himself and Timothy—no one would share a compartment with them—Grandfather took him to Lucknow where the zoo authorities were only too glad to receive as a gift a well-fed and fairly civilized tiger.

  About six months later, when my grandparents were visiting their relatives in Lucknow, Grandfather took the opportunity of calling at the zoo to see how Timothy was getting on. I was not there to accompany him, but I heard all about it when he returned to Dehra.

  Arriving at the zoo, Grandfather made straight for the particular cage in which Timothy had been interned. The tiger was there, crouched in a corner, full-grown and with a magnificent striped coat.

  ‘Hello Timothy!’ said Grandfather, and, climbing the railing with ease, he put his arm through the bars of the cage.

  The tiger approached the bars, and allowed Grandfather to put both hands around his head. Grandfather stroked the tiger’s forehead and tickled his ear, and whenever he growled, smacked him across the mouth, which was his old way of keeping him quiet.

  He licked Grandfather’s hands and only sprang away when a leopard in the next cage snarled at him. Grandfather ‘shooed’ the leopard away, and the tiger returned to lick his hands; but every now and then the leopard would rush at the bars, and the tiger would slink back to his corner.

  A number of people had gathered to watch the reunion when a keeper pushed his way through the crowd and asked Grandfather what he was doing.