by Ruskin Bond
Suddenly, from the side of the road, several pheasants rose in the air, and with a whoosh, flew low across the path, just in front of the oncoming bicycle. Taken by surprise, Romi fell off. When he picked himself up and began brushing his clothes, he saw that his knee was bleeding. It wasn’t a deep cut, but he allowed it to bleed a little, took out his handkerchief and bandaged his knee. Then he mounted the bicycle again.
He rode a bit slower now, because birds and animals kept coming out of the bushes.
Not only pheasants but smaller birds, too, were streaming across the road—parrots, jungle crows, owls, magpies—and the air was filled with their cries.
‘Everyone’s on the move,’ thought Romi. It must be a really big fire.
He could see the flames now, reaching out from behind the trees on his right, and he could hear the crackling as the dry leaves caught fire. The air was hot on his face. Leaves, still alight or turning to cinders, floated past.
A herd of deer crossed the road, and Romi had to stop until they had passed. Then he mounted again and rode on; but now, for the first time, he was feeling afraid.
3
From ahead came a faint clanging sound. It wasn’t an animal sound, Romi was sure of that. A fire engine? There were no fire engines within fifty miles.
The clanging came nearer, and Romi discovered that the noise came from a small boy who was running along the forest path, two milk cans clattering at his side
‘Teju!’ called Romi, recognizing the boy from a neighbouring village. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Trying to get home, of course,’ said Teju, panting along beside the bicycle.
‘Jump on,’ said Romi, stopping for him.
Teju was only eight or nine—a couple of years younger than Romi. He had come to deliver milk to some road workers, but the workers had left at the first signs of the fire, and Teju was hurrying home with his cans still full of milk.
He got up on the crossbar of the bicycle, and Romi moved on again. He was quite used to carrying friends on the crossbar.
‘Keep beating your milk cans,’ said Romi. ‘Like that, the animals will know we are coming. My bell doesn’t make enough noise. I’m going to get a horn for my cycle!’
I never knew there were so many animals in the jungle,’ said Teju. ‘I saw a python in the middle of the road. It stretched right across!’
‘What did you do?’
‘Just kept running and jumped right over it!’
Teju continued to chatter but Romi’s thoughts were on the fire, which was much closer now. Flames shot up from the dry grass and ran up the trunks of trees and along the branches. Smoke billowed out above the forest.
Romi’s eyes were smarting and his hair and eyebrows felt scorched. He was feeling tired but he couldn’t stop now, he had to get beyond the range of the fire. Another ten or fifteen minutes of steady riding would get them to the small wooden bridge that spanned the little river separating the forest from the sugarcane fields.
Once across the river, they would be safe. The fire could not touch them on the other side, because the forest ended at the river’s edge. But could they get to the river in time?
4
Clang, clang, clang, went Teju’s milk cans. But the sound of the fire grew louder too.
A tall silk-cotton tree, its branches leaning across the road, had caught fire. They were almost beneath it when there was a crash and a burning branch fell to the ground a few yards in front of them.
The boys had to get off the bicycle and leave the road, forcing their way through a tangle of thorny bushes on the left, dragging and pushing at the bicycle and only returning to the road some distance ahead of the burning tree.
‘We won’t get out in time,’ said Teju, back on the crossbar but feeling disheartened.
‘Yes, we will,’ said Romi, pedalling with all his might. ‘The fire hasn’t crossed the road as yet.’
Even as he spoke, he saw a small flame leap up from the grass on the left. It wouldn’t be long before more sparks and burning leaves were blown across the road to kindle the grass on the other side.
‘Oh, look!’ exclaimed Romi, bringing the bicycle to a sudden stop.
‘What’s wrong now?’ asked Teju, rubbing his sore eyes. And then, through the smoke, he saw what was stopping them.
An elephant was standing in the middle of the road.
Teju slipped off the crossbar, his cans rolling on the ground, bursting open and spilling their contents.
The elephant was about forty feet away. It moved about restlessly, its big ears flapping as it turned its head from side to side, wondering which way to go.
From far to the left, where the forest was still untouched, a herd of elephants moved towards the river. The leader of the herd raised his trunk and trumpeted a call. Hearing it, the elephant in the road raised its own trunk and trumpeted a reply. Then it shambled off into the forest, in the direction of the herd, leaving the way clear.
‘Come, Teju, jump on!’ urged Romi. ‘We can’t stay here much longer!’
Teju forgot about his milk cans and pulled himself up on the crossbar. Romi ran forward with the bicycle, to gain speed, and mounted swiftly. He kept as far as possible to the left of the road, trying to ignore the flames, the crackling, the smoke and the scorching heat.
It seemed that all the animals who could get away had done so. The exodus across the road had stopped.
‘We won’t stop again,’ said Romi, gritting his teeth. ‘Not even for an elephant!’
‘We’re nearly there!’ said Teju. He was perking up again.
A jackal, overcome by the heat and smoke, lay in the middle of the path, either dead or unconscious. Romi did not stop. He swerved round the animal. Then he put all his strength into one final effort.
He covered the last hundred yards at top speed, and then they were out of the forest, free-wheeling down the sloping road to the river.
‘Look!’ shouted Teju. ‘The bridge is on fire!’
Burning embers had floated down on to the small wooden bridge, and the dry, ancient timber had quickly caught fire. It was now burning fiercely.
Romi did not hesitate. He left the road, riding the bicycle over sand and pebbles. Then, with a rush, they went down the river bank and into the water.
The next thing they knew they were splashing around, trying to find each other in the darkness. ‘Help!’ cried Teju. ‘I’m drowning!’
5
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Romi. ‘The water isn’t deep—it’s only up to the knees. Come here and grab hold of me.’
Teju splashed across and grabbed Romi by the belt.
‘The water’s so cold,’ he said, his teeth chattering.
‘Do you want to go back and warm yourself?’ asked Romi. ‘Some people are never satisfied. Come on, help me get the bicycle up. It’s down here, just where we are standing.’
Together they managed to heave the bicycle out of the water and stand it upright.
‘Now sit on it,’ said Romi. ‘I’ll push you across.’
‘We’ll be swept away,’ said Teju.
‘No, we won’t. There’s not much water in the river at this time of the year. But the current is quite strong in the middle, so sit still. All right?’
‘All right,’ said Teju nervously.
Romi began guiding the bicycle across the river, one hand on the seat and one hand on the handlebar. The river was shallow and sluggish in midsummer; even so, it was quite swift in the middle. But having got safely out of the burning forest, Romi was in no mood to let a little river defeat him.
He kicked off his shoes, knowing they would be lost; and then gripping the smooth stones of the river-bed with his toes, he concentrated on keeping his balance and getting the bicycle and Teju through the middle of the stream. The water here came up to his waist, and the current would have been too strong for Teju. But when they reached the shallows, Teju got down and helped Romi push the bicycle.
They reached the oppo
site bank, and sank down on the grass.
‘We can rest now,’ said Romi. ‘But not all night—I’ve got some medicine to give to my father.’ He felt in his pockets and found that the tablets in their envelope, had turned into a soggy mess. ‘Oh well, he had to take them with water anyway,’ he said.
They watched the fire as it continued to spread through the forest. It had crossed the road down which they had come. The sky was a bright red, and the river reflected the colour of the sky.
Several elephants had found their way down to the river. They were cooling off by spraying water on each other with their trunks. Further downstream, there were deer and other animals.
Romi and Teju looked at each other in the glow from the fire. They hadn’t known each other very well before. But now they felt they had been friends for years.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Teju.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Romi, ‘that even if the fire is out in a day or two, it will be a long time before the bridge is repaired. So it will be a nice long holiday from school!’
‘But you can walk across the river,’ said Teju. ‘You just did it.’
‘Impossible,’ said Romi. ‘It’s much too swift.’
BUTTERFLY TIME
April showers
Bring swarms of butterflies
Streaming across the valley
Seeking sweet nectar.
Yellow, gold, and burning bright,
Red and blue and banded white.
To my eyes they bring delight!
Theirs a long and arduous flight,
Here today and off tomorrow,
Floating on, bright butterflies,
To distant bowers.
For Nature does things in good order:
And birds and butterflies recognize
No man-made border.
UNCLE KEN’S RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE
ncle Ken drove Grandfather’s old Fiat along the forest road at an incredible 30 mph. scattering pheasants, partridges and jungle fowl as he scattered along. He had come in search of the disappearing Red Jungle Fowl, and I could see why the bird had disappeared. Too many noisy human beings had invaded its habitat.
By the time we reached the forest rest house, one of the car doors had fallen off its hinges, and a large lantana bush had got entwined in the bumper.
‘Never mind,’said Uncle Ken. ‘It’s all part of the adventure.’
The rest house had been reserved for Uncle Ken, thanks to Grandfather’s good relations with the forest department. But I was the only other person in the car. No one else would trust himself or herself to Uncle Ken’s driving. He treated a car as though it were a low-flying aircraft having some difficulty in getting of the runway.
As we arrived at the rest house, a number of hens made a dash for safety.
‘Look, jungle fowl!’ exclaimed Uncle Ken.
‘Domestic fowl,’ I said. ‘They must belong to the forest guards.’
I was right, of course. One of the hens was destined to be served up as chicken curry later that day. The jungle birds avoided the neighbourhood of the rest house, just in case they were mistaken for poultry and went into the cooking pot.
Uncle Ken was all for starting his search right away, and after a brief interval during which we were served tea and pakoras (prepared by the forest guard, who it turned out was also a good cook), we set off on foot into the jungle in search of the elusive Red Jungle Fowl.
‘No tigers around here, are there?’ asked Uncle Ken, just to be on the safe side.
‘No tigers on this range,’ said the guard. ‘Just elephants.’
Uncle Ken wasn’t afraid of elephants. He’d been on numerous elephants rides at the Lucknow zoo. He’d also seen Sabu in Elephant Boy.
A small wooden bridge took us across a little river, and then we were in the jungle, following the forest guard who led us along a path that was frequently blocked by broken tree branches and pieces of bamboo.
‘Why all these broken branches?’ asked Uncle Ken.
‘The elephants, sir,’ replied our guard. ‘They passed through last night. They like certain leaves, as well as young bamboo shoots.’
We saw a number of spotted deer and several pheasants, but no Red Jungle Fowl.
That evening, we sat out on the veranda of the rest house. All was silent except for the distant trumpeting of elephants. Then, from the stream, came the chanting of hundreds of frogs.
There were tenors and baritones, sopranos and contraltos, and occasionally a bass deep enough to have pleased the great Chaliapin. They sang duets and quartets from La Bohème and other Italian operas, drowsing out all other jungle sounds except for the occasional cry of a jackal doing his best to join in.
‘We might as well sing too,’ said Uncle Ken, and began singing ‘Indian Love Call’ in his best Nelson Eddy manner.
The frogs fell silent, obviously awestruck; but instead of receiving an answering love call, Uncle Ken was answered by even more strident jackal calls—not one, but several—with the result that all self-respecting denizens of the forest fled from the vicinity, and we saw no wildlife that night apart from a frightened rabbit that sped across the clearing and vanished into the darkness.
Early next morning, we renewed our efforts to track down the Red Jungle Fowl, but it remained elusive. Returning to the rest house dusty and weary, Uncle Ken exclaimed: ‘There it is—a Red Jungle Fowll.’
But it turned out to be the caretaker’s cock bird, a handsome fellow all red and gold, but not the jungle variety.
Disappointed, Uncle Ken decided to return to civilization. Another night in the rest house did not appeal to him. He had run out of songs to sing.
In any case, the weather had changed overnight and a light drizzle was falling as we started out. This had turned to a steady downpour by the time we reached the bridge across the Suseva river. And standing in the middle of the bridge was an elephant.
He was a long tusker and he didn’t look too friendly.
Uncle Ken blew his horn, and that was a mistake.
It was a strident, penetrating horn, highly effective on city roads but out of place in the forest.
The elephant took it as a challenge, and returned the blast of the horn with a shrill trumpeting of its own. It took a few steps forward. Uncle Ken put the car into reverse.
‘Is there another way out of here?’ he asked.
‘There’s a side road,’ I said, recalling an earlier trip with Grandfather. ‘It will take us to the Kansrao railway station.’
‘What, ho!’ cried Uncle Ken. ‘To the station we go!’
And he turned the car and drove back until we came to the turning.
The narrow road was now a rushing torrent of rain water and all Uncle Ken’s driving skills were put to the test. He had on one occasion driven through a brick wall, so he knew all about obstacles; but they were usually stationary ones.
‘More elephants,’ I said, as two large pachyderms loomed out of the rain-drenched forest.
‘Elephants to the right of us, elephants to the left of us!’ chanted Uncle Ken, misquoting Tennyson’s ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’. ‘Into the valley of death rode the six hundred!’
‘There are now three of them,’ I observed.
‘Not my lucky number,’ said Uncle Ken and pressed hard on the accelerator. We lurched forward, almost running over a terrified barking deer.
‘Is four your lucky number, Uncle Ken?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, there are now four of them behind us. And they are catching up quite fast!’
‘I see the station ahead,’ cried Uncle Ken, as we drove into a clearing where a tiny railway station stood like a beacon of safety in the wilderness.
The car came to a grinding halt. We abandoned it and ran for the building.
The stationmaster saw our predicament, and beckoned to us to enter the station building, which was little more than a two-room shed and platform. He took us inside his tiny control
room and shut the steel gate behind us.
‘The elephants won’t bother you here,’ he said. ‘But say goodbye to your car.’
We looked out of the window and were horrified to see Grandfather’s Fiat overturned by one of the elephants, while another proceeded to trample it underfoot. The other elephants joined in the mayhem and soon the car was a flattened piece of junk.
‘I’m stationmaster Abdul Ranf,’ the stationmaster introduced himself. ‘I know a good scrap dealer in Doiwala. I’ll give you his address.’
‘But how do we get out of here?’ asked Uncle Ken. ‘
Well, it’s only an hour’s walk to Doiwala, but not with those elephants around. Stay and have a cup of tea. The Dehra Express will pass through shortly. It stops for a few minutes. And it’s only half-an-hour to Dehra from here.’ He punched out a couple of rail tickets. ‘Here you are, my friends. Just two rupees each. The cheapest rail journey in India. And these tickets carry an insurance value of two lakh rupees each, should an accident befall you between here and Dehradun.’
Uncle Ken’s eyes lit up.
‘You mean, if one of us falls out of the train?’ he asked.
‘Out of the moving train,’ clarified the stationmaster. ‘There will be an enquiry, of course, some people try to fake an accident.’
But Uncle Ken decided against falling out of the train and making a fortune. He’d had enough excitement for the day. We got home safely enough, taking a pony cart from Dehradun station to our house.
‘Where’s my car?’ asked Grandfather, as we staggered up the veranda steps.
‘It had a small accident,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘We left it outside the Kansrao railway station. I’ll collect it later.’
‘I’m starving,’ I said. ‘Haven’t eaten since morning.’
‘Well, come and have your dinner,’ said Granny. ‘I’ve made something special for you. One of your grandfather’s hunting friends sent us a jungle fowl. I’ve made a nice roast. Try it with apple sauce.’
Uncle Ken did not ask if the jungle fowl was red, grey, or technicoloured. He was the first to the dining table.
Granny had anticipated this, and served me with a chicken leg, giving the other leg to Grandfather.