by Ruskin Bond
We wished to spare our baby elephant a painful experience, and led him away from the bird. But he persisted in his friendly overtures, and one morning, he received an ugly reward. Rapid as lightning, the cassowary hit straight from the hip and knee joints, and the elephant ran squealing to Grandfather.
For several days he avoided the cassowary, and we thought he had learnt his lesson. He crossed and recrossed the compound and the garden, swinging his trunk, thinking furiously. Then, a week later, he appeared on the veranda at breakfast time in his usual cheery, childlike fashion, sidling up to the cassowary as if nothing had happened.
We were struck with amazement at this and so, it seemed, was the bird. Had the painful lesson already been forgotten, and by a member of the elephant tribe noted for its ability to never forget? Another dose of the same medicine would serve the booby right.
The cassowary once more began to draw up its fighting leg with sinister determination. It was nearing the true position for the master kick, kung fu style, when all of a sudden the baby elephant seized with his trunk the cassowary’s other leg and pulled it down. There was a clumsy flapping of wings, a tremendous swelling of the bird’s wattle, and an undignified getting up, as if it were a floored boxer doing his best to beat the count of ten. The bird then marched off with an attempt to look stately and unconcerned, while we at the breakfast table were convulsed with laughter.
After this, the cassowary bird gave the baby elephant as wide a berth as possible. But they were not forced to coexist for very long. The baby elephant, getting bulky and cumbersome, was sold and now lives in a zoo where he is a favourite with young visitors who love to take rides on his back.
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.
Exciting Encounters
THE FOLLOWING day, Mehmoud 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.
‘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 bed 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 onto 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.’
Uncle Ken’s Rumble in the Jungle
UNCLE KEN drove Grandfather’s old Fiat along the forest road at an incredible 30 mph, scattering pheasants, partridges and jungle fowl as he went 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.
‘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 off 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, drowning 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 fowl.’
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 le
g, giving the other leg to Grandfather.
‘I rather fancy the breast myself,’ she said, and this left Uncle Ken with a long and scrawny neck—which was more than he deserved.
Owls in the Family
ONE MORNING we found a full-fledged baby spotted owlet on the ground by the veranda steps. When Grandfather picked it up, it hissed and clacked its bill, but, after a meal of raw meat and water, settled down for the day under my bed.
The spotted owlet, even when full grown, is only the size of a myna, and has none of the sinister appearance of the larger owls. A pair of them may often be found in an old mango or tamarind tree, and by tapping on the tree trunk you may be able to persuade the bird to show an enquiring face at the entrance to its hole. The bird 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 as their enemies.
The little owlet was quite happy under my bed. The following day a second owlet was found in almost the same place 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 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 that she had left a mouse with its tail tucked through the mosquito net! Obviously, she placed no reliance on me as a foster-parent.
The young birds throve and, ten days later at dawn, 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 quite a heavy blow on the back of my head. A second or two later, the mother owl swooped down at Grandfather, but he was agile enough to duck out of its 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.