by Ruskin Bond
When the frosts of winter come, the fronds will crumple up into a heap of brown fragments. But their strength has by that time returned into the thick clump of roots to be stored and used for a still finer group of fronds next year.
In the moist parts of any forest there are sure to be several other kinds of ferns such as the Male Fern, with its strong, upright fronds looking like a large green shuttlecock three feet high. One of the commonest of Indian ferns is the Maidenhair which grows along the west coast and in the Himalayan foothills. During the monsoon, it can be found on almost every wall and rock—a delicate, tender fern, easily torn by the wind.
On the stump of a fallen tree grow the Picklytoothed Buckler fern and the Board Buckler fern, whose rootlets penetrate the soft, rotting wood to obtain their moisture. They are hardy, often remaining green all through the winter. The handsome Bracken fern often grows to a height of six or seven feet.
Then there is the lovely Hart’s tongue fern, great clumps of which grow beside the forest paths. It has broad, green crinkled fronds and is quite unlike other ferns. If you look at the back of the fronds you will see from the little heaps of rust-coloured spore cases, that this is indeed a fern; all ferns grow their seeds in this way.
There are several hundred varieties of ferns. They are easily pressed and preserved. They may also be grown indoors in pots. But they are loveliest in the open, in cool, damp places, in the depths of the forest or by the side of a mountain stream.
The history of ferns goes back to the mists of antiquity. There was a time when ferns and plants like them filled the earth. It was a wet and dripping time. Flowers would have been of no use at all but spores could carry on their lives in the prevailing dampness. Some ferns grew as large as trees. The falling stems of these mighty tree ferns were floated together by mighty streams, carried away to the sea and buried under sand and mud. The remains of these plants being thus shut off from the air, could not rot but were slowly changed into coal. The impressions of leaves and stems of these ferns can be distinctively seen on many pieces of coal.
As the earth became drier, ferns retired to the damp, shady spots in which we now find them. They are a declining family but let us hope they will remain with us for some time, for a forest stream without ferns would be like a maiden whose loveliest tresses have been shorn.
Birds on Tap
In spite of several written requests to the municipality, no one came to repair the leaking water-pipe. Gradually the water began seeping through the hillside, collecting in a rocky basin below the cottage. At first I was perturbed; then, when I found that the birds were coming to the pool to bathe and drink, I stopped sending reminders to the municipality.
Before the leak, bird-watching had usually meant a long trudge down to the stream at the bottom of the hill. Now that the birds were coming to me, I could simply sit at my first-floor window and look down at them sporting in the tap-water pool.
The most frequent visitor was the Himalayan whistling-thrush. On summer afternoons I woke from my siesta to hear the splashing of water and flapping of wings, and, looking down, was in time to watch this splendid blue-black bird at his ablutions. Returning to the trees to dry himself, he would burst into song, a song indescribably sweet and melodic, one of the loveliest sounds in the forest.
THE TITS
Later in the afternoon, numbers of small birds visited the tap-water pool: hunting-parties of tits—greytits, red-headed tits, and green-backed tits—and a pair of tiny willow-warblers, their chirping just a fairy tinkle. While the tits were bathing, the warblers would wait in the cherry tree, passing the time by attacking the sour red fruit of the wild cherry.
The various kinds of tits did not fraternise much with each other; nor did they squabble. While the green-backs took their plunge, the red-heads waited patiently on the moss-covered rocks. I thought they showed more discipline than a crowd of people at a city water-tap. But the mynas who are the dacoits of the bird-world, would turn up before long and drive the smaller birds away.
A DUET
Since the pre-monsoon showers began, the tap-water pool has attracted other visitors. It began with one frog croaking dismally in the darker reaches of the night. Next day his loneliness was alleviated by the arrival of a friend or relative. They sang a duet. I thought it was Puccini’s ‘Your tiny hand is frozen…’ On the following night there were several singers, both Indian and Western, and some of them seemed to have brought their tablas along, too. Now, a week later, there is an all-night Pop festival in progress beneath my window.
I could, I suppose, collect the frogs in a bucket and deposit them near the stream; but others would probably take their place. I could even start a frog farm, and make a fortune exporting frogs’ legs to France; but what’s a fortune compared to one’s peace of mind? As much as I like to have the birds by day, having frogs by night is too heavy a price to pay. So once again I sit down to pen a missive to the municipality, urging them to send someone to repair the leaking water-pipe. Bird-song is wonderful; but frog-song is strictly for the birds.
In Defence of Snakes
It is difficult to understand the reasons for people reacting in such a petrified way to the presence of a snake on the road, in the garden, or on the back verandah. After first freezing with fright, and then discovering that the snake has no evil intentions, humans become very brave indeed, shouting ‘Snake, snake!’ until other humans arrive, armed with stout sticks. And if by that time the snake has not made itself scarce, it is beaten to death.
I suppose it all has something to do with the story of the devil taking the form of a serpent in order to tempt Eve. But Eve would have fallen, anyway, regardless of what earthly form the devil took.
Poor dead snake! All that it ever intended was to bask in the sun for a few minutes between showers, and, if possible, snap up a dallying frog. Instead it finds itself surrounded by a group of terrified and terrifying humans, all determined to put an end to its existence.
Most of the snakes that are killed in this way are perfectly harmless specimens. Of the 300 different species in India, there are only 40 which may be considered dangerous, and of these there are just five which can kill a healthy, grown man. All snakes are poisonous, but some snakes are more poisonous than others. Most of them carry just enough venom to paralyse their natural prey, which consists of frogs, rats, birds, earthworms and smaller snakes. Pythons don’t need any venom. Once they have taken a firm grip on you, they simply squeeze away until all your bones are crushed; and then they start swallowing—preferably starting with the head. But pythons don’t need more than two or three good meals in a year, so you are quite safe with a pet python provided you don’t starve it.
But even a dangerous snake won’t attack you unless it is trodden upon, or in some way provoked. One hears of thousands of people dying from snakebite every year. If this is true, then it is due more to human carelessness than to reptilian aggressiveness. I have yet to come across a victim of snake-bite; and I have yet to come across a snake who showed the least inclination to bite me. (As compared to scorpions and centipedes, who can be quite vicious.) After all, snakes kill mainly in order to eat; and no snake that I know of (except, of course, the amiable python) is greedy enough, or large enough, to want to swallow me in my entirety.
My tolerance towards snakes has not gone unrewarded. I have noticed a significant reduction in the frog population. The operatic warbling that kept me awake at night has ceased, and I sleep in peace. I am even thinking of allowing the green snake into the house occasionally, to see if it will rid me of the field-rats who have taken up residence for the duration of the monsoon. I have nothing to lose. My friends have already stopped coming to see me; but so have my creditors.
A Marriage of the Waters
In summer the grass on the hills is still a pale yellowish green, tinged with brown, and that is how it remains until the monsoon rains bring new life to everything that subsists on the stony Himalayan soil. And then, for four months, the hi
lls are deep and dark and emerald bright
But the other day, taking a narrow path that left the dry Mussoorie ridge to link up with Pari Tibba (Fairy Hill), I ran across a path of lush green grass, and I knew there had to be water there.
The grass was soft and springy, spotted with the crimson of small, wild strawberries. Delicate Maidenhair, my favourite fern, grew from a cluster of moist, glistening rocks. Moving the ferns a little, I discovered the spring, a freshet of clear sparkling water.
I never cease to wonder at the tenacity of water—its ability to make its way through various strata of rock, zigzagging, back tracking, finding space, cunningly discovering faults and fissures in the mountain, and sometimes travelling underground for great distance before emerging into the open. Of course, there’s no stopping water. For no matter how tiny that little trickle, it has to go somewhere!
Like this little spring. At first I thought it was too small to go anywhere, that it would dry up at the edge of the path. Then I discovered that the grass remained soft and green for some distance along the verge, and that there was moisture beneath the grass. This wet stretch ended abruptly; but, on looking further, I saw it continued on the other side of the path, after briefly going underground again.
I decided to follow its fortunes as it disappeared beneath a tunnel of tall grass and bracken fern. Slithering down a stony slope, I found myself in a small ravine, and there I discovered that my little spring had grown, having been joined by the waters of another spring bubbling up from beneath a path of primroses.
A short distance away, a spotted forktail stood on a rock, surveying this marriage of the waters. His long, forked tail moved slowly up and down. He paid no attention to me, being totally absorbed in the movements of a water spider. A swift peck, and the spider vanished, completing the bird’s breakfast. Thirsty, I cupped my hands and drank a little water. So did the forktail. We had a perennial supply of pure pure water all to ourselves!
There was now a rivulet to follow, and I continued down the ravine until I came to a small pool that was fed not only by my brook (I was already thinking of it as my very own!) but also by a little cascade of water coming down from a rocky ledge. I climbed a little way up the rocks and entered a small cave, in which there was just enough space for crouching down. Water dripped and trickled off its roof and sides. And most wonderful of all, some of these drops created tiny rainbows, for a ray of sunlight had struck through a crevice in the cave roof making the droplets of moisture radiant with all the colours of the spectrum.
When I emerged from the cave, I saw a pair of pine martens drinking at the pool. As soon as they saw me, they were up and away, bounding across the ravine and into the trees.
The brook was now a small stream, but I could not follow it much farther, because the hill went into a steep decline and the water tumbled over large, slippery boulders, becoming a waterfall and then a noisy little torrent as it sped toward the valley.
Climbing up the sides of the ravine to the spur of Pari Tibba, I could see the distant silver of a meandering river and I knew my little stream was destined to become part of it; and that the river would be joined by another that could be seen slipping over the far horizon, and that their combined waters would enter the great Ganga, or Ganges, farther downstream.
This mighty river would, in turn, wander over the rich alluvial plains of northern India, finally flowing into the ocean near the Bay of Bengal.
And the ocean, what was it but another droplet in the universe, in the greater scheme of things? No greater than the glistening drop of water that helped start it all, where the grass grows greener around my little spring on the mountain.
Best of All Windows
Those who advertise rooms or flats to let often describe them as ‘Room with bath’ or ‘Room with tea and coffee-making facilities’. A more attractive proposition would be ‘Room with window’, for without a view a room is hardly a living place—merely a place of transit.
As an itinerant young writer, I lived in many single room apartments, or bedsitters as they were called, and I have to admit that the quality of my life was certainly enhanced if my window looked out on something a little more inspiring than a factory wall or someone’s backyard. We cherish a romantic image of a starving young poet living in a garret and writing odes to skylarks, but, believe me, garrets don’t help. For six months in London I lived in a small attic room which had no view at all, except for the roofs of other houses—an endless vista of grey tiles and blackened chimneys, without so much as a proverbial cat to relieve the monotony. I did not write a single ode, for no self-respecting nightingale or lark ever found its way up there.
My next room, somewhere near Clapham Junction, had a view of the railway, but you couldn’t actually see the railway lines because of the rows of washing that were hung out to dry behind the building. It was a working class area and there were no laundries round the corner. But if you couldn’t see the railway, you could certainly hear it. Every time a train thundered past, the building shuddered, and ornaments, crockery and dishes rattled and rocked as though an earthquake was in progress. It was impossible to hang a picture on the wall, the nail (and with it the picture) fell out after a couple of days. But it reminded me a bit of my Uncle Fred’s railway quarters just near Delhi-main railway station, and I managed to write a couple of train stories while living in this particular room.
Train windows, naturally, have no equal when it comes to views, especially in India, where there’s an ever-changing panorama of mountain, forest and desert, village, town and city, along with the colourful crowds at every railway station.
But good, personal windows—windows to live with—these were to prove elusive for several years. Even after returning to India, I had some difficulty in finding the ideal window.
Moving briefly to a small town in north India, I was directed to the Park View lodging-house. There did happen to be a park in the vicinity, but no view of it could be had from my room or, indeed, from any room in the house. But I found, to my surprise, that the bathroom window actually looked out on the park. It provided a fine view! However, there is a limit to the length of time one can spend in the bath, gazing out at palm fronds waving in the distance. So I moved on again.
After a couple of claustrophobic years in New Delhi, I escaped to the hills, fully expecting that I would immediately find rooms or a cottage with widows facing the eternal snows. But it was not to be! To see the snows I had to walk four miles from my lodgings to the highest point in the hill-station. My window looked out on a high stone rampart, built to prevent the steep hillside from collapsing. True, a number of wild things grew in the wall—bunches of red sorrel, dandelions, tough weeds of various kinds, and, at the base, a large clump of nettles. Now I am sure there are people who can grow ecstatic over nettles, but I am not one of them. I find that nettles sting me at the first opportunity. So I gave my nettles a wide berth.
And then, at last, fortune smiled, or rather, persistence was rewarded. I found my present abode, a windswept, rather shaky old house on the edge of a spur. My bedroom window opened on to blue skies, mountains striding away into the far distance, winding rivers in the valley below, and, just to bring me down to earth, the local television tower. Like The Red Shadow in The Desert Song, I could stand at my window and sing ‘Blue heaven, and you and I’, even if the only listener was a startled policeman.
The window was so positioned that I could lie on my bed and look at the sky, or sit at my desk and look at the hills, or stand at the window and look at the road below.
Which is the best of these views?
Some would say the hills, but the hills never change. Some would say the road, because the road is full of change and movement—tinkers, tailors, tourists, salesmen, cars, trucks and motor-cycles, mules, ponies and even, on one occasion, an elephant. The elephant had no business being up here, but I suppose if Hannibal could take them over Alps, an attempt could also be made on the Himalayan passes. (It returned to the plain
s the next day.)
The road is never dull, but, given a choice, I’d opt for the sky. The sky is never the same. Even when it’s cloudless, the sky colours are different. The morning sky, the daytime sky, the evening sky, the moonlit sky, the starry sky, there are all different skies. And there are almost always birds in the sky—eagles flying high, mountain swifts doing acrobatics, cheeky myna birds nesting under the eaves of the roof, sparrows flitting in and out of the room at will. Sometimes a butterfly floats in on the breeze. And on summer nights, great moths enter at the open window, dazzled by my reading-light. I have to catch them and put them out again, lest they injure themselves.
When the monsoon rains arrive, the window has to be closed, otherwise cloud and mist fill the room, and that isn’t good for my books. But the sky is even more fascinating at this time of the year. From my desk I can, at this very moment, see the clouds advancing across the valley, rolling over the hills, ascending the next range. Raindrops patter against the window-panes, drum on the corrugated iron roof. The mynas line up on the window-ledge, waiting for the rain to stop.
And when the shower passes and the clouds open up, the heavens are a deeper, darker blue. Truly magic casements these… For every time I see the sky I am aware of belonging to the universe rather than to just one corner of the earth.
The Gentle Nights Befriend Me
Here in Landour, India, on the first range of the Himalayas, I have grown accustomed to the night’s brightness—moonlight, starlight, lamplight, firelight! Even fireflies and glow-worms light up the darkness.