The Jungle Omnibus

by Ruskin Bond

  A TIGER IN THE HOUSE

  imothy, 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, peacock and wild boar. 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, Mehmoud. 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 tiger’s favourites. 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 with 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 Mehmoud’s bed, and no sign of the cook except his clothes and shoes!’

  Of course, 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 Mehmoud 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 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.

  ‘I’m talking to Timothy,’ said Grandfather. ‘Weren’t you here when I gave him to the zoo six months ago?’

  ‘I haven’t been here very long,’ said the surprised keeper. ‘Please continue your conversation. But I have never been able to touch him myself, he is always very bad tempered.’

  ‘Why don’t you put him somewhere else?’ suggested Grandfather. ‘That leopard keeps frightening him. I’ll go and see the superintendent about it.’

  Grandfather went in search of the superintendent of the zoo, but found that he had gone home early; and so, after wandering about the zoo for a little while, he returned to Timothy’s cage to say goodbye. It was beginning to get dark.

  He had been stroking and slapping Timothy for about five minutes when he found another keeper observing him with some alarm. Grandfather recognized him as the keeper who had been there when Timothy had first come to the zoo.

  ‘You remember me,’ said Grandfather. ‘Now why don’t you transfer Timothy to another cage, away from this stupid leopard?’

  ‘But—sir—’ stammered the keeper, ‘it is not your tiger.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Grandfather testily. ‘I realize he is no longer mine. But you might at least take a suggestion or two from me.’

  ‘I remember your tiger very well,’ said the keeper. ‘He died two months ago.’

  ‘Died!’ exclaimed Grandfather.

  ‘Yes, sir, of pneumonia. This tiger was trapped in the hills only last month, and he is very dangerous!’

  Grandfather could think of nothing to say. The tiger was still licking his arm, with increasing relish. Grandfather took what seemed to him an age to withdraw his hand from the cage.

  With his face near the tiger’s he mumbled, ‘Goodnight, Timothy,’ and giving the keeper a scornful look, walked briskly out of the zoo.

  LISTEN!

  Listen to the night wind in the trees,

  Listen to the summer grass singing;

  Listen to the time that’s tripping by,

  And the dawn dew falling.

  Listen to the moon as it climbs the sky,

  Listen to the pebbles humming;

  Listen to the mist in the trembling leaves,

  And the silence calling.

  THE GLACIER

  t was a fine sunny morning when we set out to cover the last seven miles to the glacier. We had expected this to be a stiff climb, but the last dak bungalow was situated at well over 10,000 feet above sea level, and the ascent was to be fairly gradual.

  And then suddenly, abruptly, there were no mor
e trees. As the bungalow dropped out of sight, the trees and bushes gave way to short grass and little blue and pink alpine flowers. The snow peaks were close now, ringing us in on every side. We passed waterfalls, cascading hundreds of feet down precipitous rock faces, thundering into the little river. A great golden eagle hovered over us for some time.

  ‘I feel different again,’ said Kamal.

  ‘We’re very high now,’ I said. ‘I hope we won’t get headaches.’

  ‘I’ve got one already,’complained Anil. ‘Let’s have some tea.’

  We had left our cooking utensils at the bungalow, expecting to return there for the night, and had brought with us only a few biscuits, chocolate, and a thermos of tea. We finished the tea, and Bisnu scrambled about on the grassy slopes, collecting wild strawberries. They were tiny strawberries, very sweet, and they did nothing to satisfy our appetites. There was no sign of habitation or human life. The only creatures to be found at that height were the gurals—sure-footed mountain goats—and an occasional snow leopard, or a bear.

  We found and explored a small cave and then, turning a bend, came unexpectedly upon the glacier.

  The hill fell away and there, confronting us, was a great white field of snow and ice, cradled between two peaks that could only have been the abode of the gods. We were speechless for several minutes. Kamal took my hand and held on to it for reassurance; perhaps he was not sure that what he saw was real. Anil’s mouth hung open. Bisnu’s eyes glittered with excitement.

  We proceeded cautiously on the snow, supporting each other on the slippery surface, but we could not go far, because we were quite unequipped for any high-altitude climbing. It was pleasant to feel that we were the only boys in our town who had climbed so high. A few black rocks jutted out from the snow, and we sat down on them to feast our eyes on the view. The sun reflected sharply from the snow and we felt surprisingly warm.

  ‘Let’s sunbathe!’ said Anil, on a sudden impulse.

  ‘Yes, let’s do that!’ I said.

  In a few minutes we had taken off our clothes and, sitting on the rocks, were exposing ourselves to the elements. It was delicious to feel the sun crawling over my skin. Within half an hour I was a post-box red, and so was Bisnu, and the two of us decided to get into our clothes before the sun scorched the skin off our backs. Kamal and Anil appeared to be more resilient to sunlight and laughed at our discomfiture. Bisnu and I avenged ourselves by gathering up handfuls of snow and rubbing it on their backs. They dressed quickly enough after that, Anil leaping about like a performing monkey.

  Meanwhile, almost imperceptibly, clouds had covered some of the peaks, and a white mist drifted down the mountain slopes. It was time to get back to the bungalow; we would barely make it before dark.

  We had not gone far when lightning began to sizzle above the mountain tops, followed by waves of thunder.

  ‘Let’s run!’ shouted Anil. ‘We can take shelter in the cave!’

  The clouds could hold themselves in no longer, and the rain came down suddenly, stinging our faces as it was whipped up by an icy wind. Half-blinded, we ran as fast as we could along the slippery path and stumbled, drenched and exhausted, into the little cave.

  The cave was mercifully dry and not very dark We remained at the entrance, watching the rain sweep past us, listening to the wind whistling down the long gorge.

  ‘It will take some time to stop,’ said Kamal.

  ‘No, it will pass soon,’ said Bisnu. ‘These storms are short and fierce.’

  Anil produced his pocket knife and, to pass the time, we carved our names in the smooth rock of the cave.

  ‘We will come here again, when we are older,’ said Kamal, ‘and perhaps our names will still be here.’

  It had grown dark by the time the rain stopped. A full moon helped us find our way. We went slowly and carefully. The rain had loosened the earth and stones kept rolling down the hillside. I was afraid of starting a landslide.

  ‘I hope we don’t meet the Lidini now,’ said Anil fervently.

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in her,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t,’ replied Anil. ‘But what if I’m wrong?’

  We saw only a gural, poised on the brow of a precipice, silhouetted against the sky.

  And then the path vanished.

  Had it not been for the bright moonlight, we might have walked straight into an empty void. The rain had caused a landslide and where there had been a narrow path there was now only a precipice of loose, slippery shale.

  ‘We’ll have to go back,’ said Bisnu. ‘It will be too dangerous to try and cross in the dark.’

  ‘We’ll sleep in the cave,’ I suggested.

  ‘We’ve nothing to sleep in,’ said Anil. ‘Not a single blanket between us—and nothing to eat!’

  ‘We’ll just have to rough it till morning,’ said Kamal. ‘It will be better than breaking our necks here.’

  We returned to the cave, which did, at least, have the virtue of being dry. Bisnu had matches and he made a fire with some dry sticks which had been left in the cave by a previous party. We ate what was left of a loaf of bread.

  There was no sleep for any of us that night. We lay close to each other for comfort, but the ground was hard and uneven. And every noise we heard outside the cave made us think of leopards and bears and even Abominable Snowmen.

  We got up as soon as there was a faint glow in the sky. The snow peaks were bright pink, but we were too tired and hungry and worried to care for the beauty of the sunrise. We took the path to the landslide and once again looked for a way across. Kamal ventured to take a few steps on the loose pebbles, but the ground gave way immediately and we had to grab him by the arms and shoulder to prevent him from sliding a hundred feet down the gorge.

  ‘Now what are we going to do?’ I asked,

  ‘Look for another way,’ said Bisnu.

  ‘But do you know of any?’

  And we all turned to look at Bisnu, expecting him to provide the solution to our problem.

  ‘I have heard of a way,’ said Bisnu, ‘but I have never used it. It will be a little dangerous, I think. The path has not been used for several years—not since the traders stopped coming in from Tibet.’

  ‘Never mind, we’ll try it,’ said Anil.

  ‘We will have to cross the glacier first,’ said Bisnu. ‘That’s the main problem.’

  We looked at each other in silence. The glacier didn’t look difficult to cross, but we knew that it would not be easy for novices like us. For almost a quarter of a mile it consisted of hard, slippery ice.

  Anil was the first to arrive at a decision.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s no time to waste.’

  We were soon on the glacier. And we remained on it for a long time. For every two steps forward, we slid one step backward. Our progress was slow and awkward. Sometimes, after advancing several yards across the ice at a steep incline, one of us should slip back and the others would have to slither down to help him up. At one particularly difficult spot, I dropped our water bottle and, grabbing at it, lost my footing, fell full-length and went sliding some twenty feet down the ice slope.

  I had sprained my wrist and hurt my knee, and was to prove a liability for the rest of the trek.

  Kamal tied his handkerchief round my hand, and Anil took charge of the water bottle, which we had filled with ice. Using my good hand to grab Bisnu’s legs whenever I slipped, I struggled on behind the others.

  It was almost noon, and we were quite famished, when we put our feet on grass again. And then we had another steep climb, clutching at roots and grasses, before we reached the path that Bisnu had spoken about. It was little more than a goat track, but it took us round the mountain and brought us within sight of the dak bungalow.

  ‘I could eat a whole chicken,’ said Kamal.

  ‘I could eat two,’ I said.

  ‘I could eat a Snowman,’ said Bisnu.

  ‘And I could eat the chowkidar,’ said Anil.

  Fortu
nately for the chowkidar, he had anticipated our hunger, and when we staggered into the bungalow late in the afternoon, we found a meal waiting for us. True, there was no chicken but so ravenous did we feel, that even the lowly onion tasted delicious!

  We had Bisnu to thank for getting us back successfully. He had brought us over mountain and glacier with all the skill and confidence of a boy who had the Himalayas in his blood.

  We took our time getting back to Kapkote, fished in the Sarayu river, bathed with the village boys we had seen on our way up, collected strawberries and ferns and wild flowers, and finally said goodbye to Bisnu.

  Anil wanted to take Bisnu along with us, but the boy’s parents refused to let him go, saying that he was too young for the life in a city; but we were of the opinion that Bisnu could have taught the city boys a few things.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Kamal. ‘We’ll go on another trip next year and we’ll take you with us, Bisnu. We’ll write and let you know our plans.’

  This promise made Bisnu happy and he saw us off at the bus stop, shouldering our bedding to the end. Then he skimmed up the trunk of a fir tree to have a better view of us leaving and we saw him waving to us from the tree as our bus went round the bend from Kapkote, and the hills were left behind and the plains stretched out below.

  TO SEE A TIGER

  r Kishore drove me out to the forest rest house in his jeep, told me he’d be back in two days, and left me in the jungle. The caretaker of the rest house, a retired Indian Army corporal, made me a cup of tea.

  ‘You have come to see the animals, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, looking around the clearing in front of the house, where a few domestic fowls scrabbled in the dust. ‘Will I have to go far?’

  ‘This is the best place, sir,’ said the caretaker. ‘See, the river is just below.’

  A stream of clear mountain water ran through a shady glade of sal and sheesham trees about fifty yards from the house.