The Jungle Omnibus

by Ruskin Bond

  The train was late. Sitting huddled up, almost dozing, he soon forgot his surroundings and began to nod off.

  Back in the hut, the trembling of the ground told of the approach of the train, and a low, distant rumble woke the boy, who sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Father, it’s time to light the lamp,’ he mumbled, and then, realizing that his father had been gone some time, he lay down again; but he was wide awake now, waiting for the train to pass, waiting for his father’s returning footsteps.

  A low grunt resounded from the top of the cutting. In a second Baldeo was awake, all his senses alert. Only a tiger could emit such a sound.

  There was no shelter for Baldeo, but he grasped his axe firmly and tensed his body, trying to make out the direction from which the animal was approaching. For some time there was only silence, even the usual jungle noises seemed to have ceased altogether. Then a thump and the rattle of small stones announced that the tiger had sprung into the cutting.

  Baldeo, listening as he had never listened before, wondered if it was making for the tunnel or the opposite direction—the direction of the hut, in which Tembu would be lying unprotected. He did not have to wonder for long. Before a minute had passed, he made out the huge body of the tiger trotting steadily towards him. Its eyes shone a brilliant green in the light from the signal lamp. Flight was useless, for in the dark, the tiger would be more sure-footed than Baldeo and would soon be upon him from behind. Baldeo stood with his back to the signal post, motionless, staring at the great brute moving rapidly towards him. The tiger, used to the ways of men, for it had been preying on them for years, came on fearlessly, and with a quick run and a snarl struck out with its right paw, expecting to bowl over this puny man who dared stand in the way.

  Baldeo, however, was ready. With a marvellously agile leap he avoided the paw and brought his axe down on the animal’s shoulder. The tiger gave a roar and attempted to close in. Again Baldeo drove his axe with true aim; but, to his horror, the beast swerved, and the axe caught the tiger on the shoulder, almost severing the leg. To make matters worse, the axe remained stuck in the bone, and Baldeo was left without a weapon.

  The tiger, roaring with pain, now sprang upon Baldeo, bringing him down and then tearing at his broken body. It was all over in a few minutes. Baldeo was conscious only of a searing pain down his back, and then there was blackness and the night closed in on him forever.

  The tiger drew off and sat down licking his wounded leg, roaring every now and then with agony. He did not notice the faint rumble that shook the earth, followed by the distant puffing of an engine steadily climbing. The overland mail was approaching. Through the trees beyond the cutting, as the train advanced, the glow of the furnace could be seen; and showers of sparks fell like Diwali lights over the forest.

  As the train entered the cutting, the engine whistled once, loud and piercingly. The tiger raised his head, then slowly got to his feet. He found himself trapped like the man. Flight along the cutting was impossible. He entered the tunnel, running as fast as his wounded leg would carry him. And then, with a roar and a shower of sparks, the train entered the yawning tunnel. The noise in the confined space was deafening; but, when the train came out into the open, on the other side, silence returned once more to the forest and the tunnel.

  At the next station, the driver slowed down and stopped his train to water the engine. He got down to stretch his legs and decided to examine the head-lamps. He received the surprise of his life; for, just above the cowcatcher lay the major portion of the tiger, cut in half by the engine.

  There was considerable excitement and conjecture at the station, but back at the cutting there was no sound except for the sobs of the boy as he sat beside the body of his father. He sat there a long time, unafraid of the darkness, guarding the body from jackals and hyenas, until the first faint light of dawn brought with it the arrival of the relief watchman.

  Tembu and his sister and mother were plunged in grief for two whole days; but life had to go on, and a living had to be made, and all the responsibility now fell on Tembu. Three nights later, he was at the cutting, lighting the signal lamp for the overland mail.

  He sat down in the darkness to wait for the train, and sang softly to himself. There was nothing to be afraid of—his father had killed the tiger, the forest gods were pleased; and besides, he had the axe with him, his father’s axe, and he knew how to use it.

  THE TREES

  At seven, when dusk slips over the mountains,

  The trees start whispering among themselves.

  They have been standing still all day,

  But now they stretch their limbs in the dark,

  Shifting a little, flexing their fingers,

  Remembering the time when

  They, too, walked the earth with men.

  They know me well, these trees:

  Oak and walnut, spruce and pine,

  They know my face in the window,

  They know me for a dreamer of dreams,

  A world-loser, one of them.

  They watch me while I watch them grow.

  I listen to their whisperings,

  Their own mysterious diction;

  And bow my head before their arms

  And ask for benediction.

  EXCITING ENCOUNTERS

  ehmoud, our cook, was making lamb chops. I liked lamb chops. Mehmoud knew I liked them, and he had an extra chop ready for me, just in case I felt like a pre-lunch snack.

  ‘What was Jim Corbett’s favourite dish?’ I asked, while dealing with the succulent chop, for Mehmoud had once been the famous shikari’s cook.

  Oh, he liked roast duck. Used to shoot them as they flew up from the jheel.’

  ‘What’s a jheel, Mehmoud?’

  ‘A shallow sort of lake. In places you could walk about in the water. Different types of birds would come there in the winter—ducks and geese and all kinds of baglas—herons, you call them. The baglas are not good to eat, but the ducks make a fine roast. So we camped beside the jheel and lived on roast duck for a week until everyone was sick of it.’

  ‘Did you go swimming in the jheel?’

  ‘No, it was full of muggers—those long-nosed crocodiles—they’ll snap you up if you come within their range! Nasty creatures, those muggermuch. One of them nearly got me.’

  ‘How did that happen, Mehmoud-bhai?’

  ‘Oh, baba, just the memory of it makes me shudder! I’d given everyone their dinner and retired to my tent. It was a hot night and we couldn’t sleep. Swarms of mosquitoes rose from the jheel, invaded the tent, and attacked me on the face and arms and feet. I dragged my camp cot outside the tent, hoping the breeze would keep the mosquitoes away. After some time they moved on, and I fell asleep, wrapped up in my bedsheet. Towards dawn, I felt my cot quivering, shaking. Was it an earthquake? But no one else was awake. And then the cot started moving! I sat up, looked about me. The cot was moving steadily forward in the direction of the water. And beneath it, holding us up, was a beastly crocodile!

  ‘It gave me the fright of my life, baba. A muggermuch beneath my bed, and I upon it! I cried out for help. Carpet-sahib woke up, rushed out of his tent, his gun in his hands. But it was still dark, and all he could see was my moving rapidly towards the jheel.

  ‘Just before we struck the water, I leapt from the cot, and ran up the bank, calling for help. Carpet-sahib saw me then. He ran down the slope, firing at the moving cot. I don’t know if he hit the horrible creature, but there was a big splash, and it disappeared into the jheel.’

  ‘And did you recover the cot?’

  ‘No, it floated away and then sank. We did not go after it.’

  ‘And what did Corbett say afterwards?’

  ‘He said I had shown great presence of mind. He said he’d never seen anyone make such a leap for safety!’

  ‘You were a hero, Mehmoud!’

  ‘Thank you, baba. There’s time for another lamb chop, if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’m
hungry,’ I said. ‘There’s still an hour left to lunchtime. But tell me more about your time with Jim Corbett. Did he like your cooking?’

  ‘Oh, he liked it well enough, but his sister was very fussy.’

  ‘He had his sister with him?’

  ‘That’s right. He never married, so his sister looked after the household and the shopping and everything connected to the kitchen—except when we were in camp. Then I had a free hand. Carpet-sahib wasn’t too fussy about his food, especially when he was out hunting. A sandwich or paratha would keep him going. But if he had guests, he felt he had to give them the best, and then it was hard work for me.

  ‘For instance, there was the Raja of Janakpur, a big fat man who was very fond of eating—between meals, during meals and after meals. I don’t know why he bothered to come on these shikar trips when he could have stayed at home in his palace and feasted day and night. But he needed trophies to hang on the walls of his palace. You were not considered a great king unless your walls were decorated with the stuffed heads of tigers, lions, antelopes, bears—anything that looked dangerous. The Raja could eat and drink all day, but he couldn’t go home without a trophy. So he would be hoisted on to an elephant, and sit there in state, firing away at anything that moved in the jungle. He seldom shot anything, but Carpet-sahib would help him out by bringing down a stag or a leopard, and congratulating the Raja on his skill and accuracy.

  ‘They weren’t all like that, but some of the rajas were stupid or even mad. And the Angrej-sahibs—the English—were no better. They, too, had to prove their manliness by shooting a tiger or a leopard. Carpet-sahib was always in demand, because he lived at the edge of the jungle and knew where to look for different animals.

  ‘The Raja of Janakpur was safe on an elephant, but one day he made the mistake of walking into the jungle on foot. He hadn’t gone far when he met a wild boar running at him. A wild boar may not look very dangerous, but it has deadly tusks and is quick to use them. Before the Raja could raise the gun to his shoulder, the pig charged at him. The Raja dropped his gun, turned and ran for his life. But he couldn’t run very fast or very far. He tripped and fell, and the boar was almost upon him when I happened along, looking for twigs to make a fire. Luckily, I had a small axe in my hand. I struck the boar over the head. It turned and rammed one of its tusks into my thigh. I struck at it again and again, till it fell dead at my feet. The Raja was nowhere in sight.

  ‘As soon as he got into camp, he sent for his servants and made a hurried departure. Didn’t even thank me for saving his life.’

  ‘Were you hurt badly, Mehmoud?’

  ‘I was out of action for a few days. The wound took time to heal. My new masalchi did all the cooking, and the food was so bad that most of the guests left in a hurry. I still have the scar. See, baba!’

  Mehmoud drew up his pyjamas and showed me a deep scar on his right thigh.

  ‘You were a hero, Mehmoud,’ I said. ‘You deserved a reward.’

  ‘My reward is here, baba, preparing these lamb chops for you. Come on, have another. Your parents won’t notice if they run short at lunch.’

  ANGRY RIVER

  n the middle of the big river, the river that began in the mountains and ended in the sea, was a small island. The river swept round the island, sometimes clawing at its banks, but never going right over it. It was over twenty years since the river had flooded the island, and at that time no one had lived there. But for the last ten years a small hut had stood there, a mud-walled hut with a sloping thatched roof. The hut had been built into a huge rock, so only three of the walls were mud, and the fourth was rock.

  Goats grazed on the short grass which grew on the island, and on the prickly leaves of thorn bushes. A few hens followed them about. There was a melon patch and a vegetable patch.

  In the middle of the island stood a peepul tree. It was the only tree there.

  Even during the Great Flood, when the island had been under water, the tree had stood firm.

  It was an old tree. A seed had been carried to the island by a strong wind some fifty years back, had found shelter between two rocks, had taken root there, and had sprung up to give shade and shelter to a small family; and Indians love peepul trees, especially during the hot summer months when the heart-shaped leaves catch the least breath of air and flutter eagerly, fanning those who sit beneath.

  A sacred tree, the peepul: the abode of spirits, good and bad.

  ‘Don’t yawn when you are sitting beneath the tree,’ Grandmother used to warn Sita. ‘And if you must yawn, always snap your fingers in front of your mouth. If you forget to do that, a spirit might jump down your throat!’

  ‘And then what will happen?’ asked Sita.

  ‘It will probably ruin your digestion,’ said Grandfather, who wasn’t much of a believer in spirits.

  The peepul had a beautiful leaf, and Grandmother likened it to the body of the mighty god Krishna—broad at the shoulders, then tapering down to a very slim waist.

  It was an old tree, and an old man sat beneath it.

  He was mending a fishing net. He had fished in the river for ten years, and he was a good fisherman. He knew where to find the slim silver chilwa fish and the big beautiful mahseer and the long-moustached singhara; he knew where the river was deep and where it was shallow; he knew which baits to use—which fish liked worms and which liked gram. He had taught his son to fish, but his son had gone to work in a factory in a city, nearly a hundred miles away. He had no grandson; but he had a granddaughter, Sita, and she could do all the things a boy could do, and sometimes she could do them better. She had lost her mother when she was very small. Grandmother had taught her all the things a girl should know, and she could do these as well as most girls. But neither of her grandparents could read or write, and as a result Sita couldn’t read or write either.

  There was a school in one of the villages across the river, but Sita had never seen it. There was too much to do on the island.

  While Grandfather mended his net, Sita was inside the hut, pressing her Grandmother’s forehead, which was hot with fever. Grandmother had been ill for three days and could not eat. She had been ill before, but she had never been so bad. Grandfather had brought her some sweet oranges from the market in the nearest town, and she could suck the juice from the oranges, but she couldn’t eat anything else.

  She was younger than Grandfather, but because she was sick, she looked much older. She had never been very strong.

  When Sita noticed that Grandmother had fallen asleep, she tiptoed out of the room on her bare feet and stood outside.

  The sky was dark with monsoon clouds. It had rained all night, and in a few hours it would rain again. The monsoon rains had come early, at the end of June. Now it was the middle of July, and already the river was swollen. Its rushing sound seemed nearer and more menacing than usual.

  Sita went to Grandfather and sat down beside him beneath the peepul tree.

  ‘When you are hungry, tell me,’ she said, ‘and I will make the bread.’

  ‘Is your grandmother asleep?’

  ‘She sleeps. But she will wake soon, for she has a deep pain.’

  The old man stared out across the river, at the dark green of the forest, at the grey sky, and said, ‘Tomorrow, if she is not better, I will take her to the hospital at Shahganj. There they will know how to make her well. You may be on your own for a few days—but you have been on your own before…’

  Sita nodded gravely; she had been alone before, even during the rainy season. Now she wanted Grandmother to get well, and she knew that only Grandfather had the skill to take the small dugout boat across the river when the current was so strong. Someone would have to stay behind to look after their few possessions.

  Sita was not afraid of being alone, but she did not like the look of the river. That morning, when she had gone down to fetch water, she had noticed that the level had risen. Those rocks which were normally spattered with the droppings of snipe and curlew and other waterbird
s had suddenly disappeared.

  They disappeared every year—but not so soon, surely?

  ‘Grandfather, if the river rises, what will I do?’

  ‘You will keep to the high ground.’

  ‘And if the water reaches the high ground?’

  ‘Then take the hens into the hut, and stay there.’

  ‘And if the water comes into the hut?’

  ‘Then climb the peepul tree. It is a strong tree. It will not fall. And the water cannot rise higher than the tree!’

  ‘And the goats, Grandfather?’

  Ί will be taking them with me, Sita. I may have to sell them to pay for good food and medicines for your grandmother. As for the hens, if it becomes necessary, put them on the roof. But do not worry too much’—and he patted Sita’s head—’the water will not rise as high. I will be back soon, remember that.’

  And won’t Grandmother come back?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but they may keep her in the hospital for some time.’

  Towards evening, it began to rain again—big pellets of rain, scarring the surface of the river. But it was warm rain, and Sita could move about in it. She was not afraid of getting wet, she rather liked it. In the previous month, when the first monsoon shower had arrived, washing the dusty leaves of the tree and bringing up the good smell of the earth, she had exulted in it, had run about shouting for joy. She was used to it now, and indeed a little tired of the rain, but she did not mind getting wet. It was steamy indoors, and her thin dress would soon dry in the heat from the kitchen fire.

  She walked about barefooted, barelegged. She was very sure on her feet; her toes had grown accustomed to gripping all kinds of rocks, slippery or sharp. And though thin, she was surprisingly strong.

  Black hair, streaming across her face. Black eyes. Slim brown arms. A scar on her thigh—when she was small, visiting her mother’s village, a hyena had entered the house where she was sleeping, fastened on to her leg and tried to drag her away, but her screams had roused the villagers and the hyena had run off.