by Ruskin Bond
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I shall be an exclamation mark!’
And here I must confess that I did not grow up to be an archaeologist or a gardener, or the curator of a museum. But I’ve always found history interesting, and it helps me when I have a story to write!
The Parrot Who Wouldn’t Talk
‘You’re no beauty! Can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’
With these words Aunt Ruby would taunt the unfortunate parakeet, who glared morosely at everyone from his ornamental cage at one end of the long veranda of Granny’s bungalow in north India.
In those distant days, almost everyone—Indian or European—kept a pet parrot or parakeet, or ‘lovebird’ as some of the smaller ones were called. Sometimes these birds became great talkers, or rather mimics, and would learn to recite entire mantras (religious chants) or admonitions to the children of the house, such as ‘Padho, beta, padho!’ (‘Study, child, study!’) or, for the benefit of boys like me, ‘Don’t be greedy, don’t be greedy!’
These expressions were, of course, picked up by the parrot over a period of time, after many repetitions by some member of the household who had taken on the task of teaching the bird to talk.
But our parrot refused to talk.
He’d been bought by Aunt Ruby from a bird-catcher who’d visited all the houses on our road, selling caged birds ranging from colourful budgerigars to chirpy little munnias and even common sparrows that had been dabbed with paint and passed off as some exotic species. Neither Granny nor Grandfather were keen on keeping caged birds as pets, but Aunt Ruby threatened to throw a tantrum if she did not get her way—and Aunt Ruby’s tantrums were dreadful to behold!
Anyway, she insisted on keeping the parrot and teaching it to talk. But the bird took an instant dislike to my aunt and resisted all her blandishments.
‘Kiss, kiss!’ Aunt Ruby would coo, putting her face close to the bars of the cage. But the parrot would back away, its beady little eyes getting even smaller with anger at the prospect of being kissed by Aunt Ruby. And on one occasion it lunged forward without warning and knocked my aunt’s spectacles off her nose.
After that Aunt Ruby gave up her endearments and became quite hostile towards the poor bird, making faces at it and calling out ‘can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’ and other nasty comments.
It fell upon me, then ten years old, to feed the parrot, and it seemed quite happy to receive green chillies and ripe tomatoes from my hands, these delicacies being supplemented by slices of mango, for it was then the mango season. This also gave me an opportunity to consume a couple of mangoes while feeding the parrot!
One afternoon, while everyone was indoors enjoying a siesta, I gave the parrot its lunch and then deliberately left the cage door open. Seconds later, the bird was winging its way to the freedom of the mango orchard.
At the same time Grandfather came to the veranda and remarked, ‘I see your aunt’s parrot has escaped!’
‘The door was quite loose,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Well, I don’t suppose we’ll see it again.’
Aunt Ruby was upset at first, and threatened to buy another bird. We put her off by promising to buy her a bowl of goldfish.
‘But goldfish don’t talk!’ she protested.
‘Well, neither did your bird,’ said Grandfather. ‘So we’ll get you a gramophone. You can listen to Clara Cluck all day. They say she sings like a nightingale.’
I thought we’d never see the parrot again, but it probably missed its green chillies because a few days later I found the bird sitting on the veranda railing, looking expectantly at me with its head cocked to one side. Unselfishly I gave the parrot half of my mango.
While the bird was enjoying the mango, Aunt Ruby emerged from her room and, with a cry of surprise, called out, ‘Look, it’s my parrot come back! He must have missed me!’
With a loud squawk, the parrot flew out of her reach and, perching on the nearest rose bush, glared at her and shrieked in my aunt’s familiar tones: ‘You’re no beauty! Can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’
Aunt Ruby went ruby-red and dashed indoors.
But that wasn’t the end of the affair. The parrot became a frequent visitor to the garden and veranda, and whenever it saw Aunt Ruby it would call out, ‘You’re no beauty, you’re no beauty! Can’t talk, can’t sing, can’t dance!’
The parrot had learnt to talk after all!
Trapped by a Tiger
At the outset, let me make it clear to the reader that I am no hero, either in fiction or in reality. I have never used a gun in my life, except on the shooting range at school, where I usually missed the target by several feet. Although I grew up in an age when hunting wild animals was a pastime that was supposed to prove one’s manhood, I developed an early aversion to the so-called ‘sport of kings’. If my cousins and their friends called me a coward, I wasn’t really bothered. The extent of their bravery seemed to depend largely on the size of guns they held.
All the same, at age twelve I was persuaded by one of my uncles to accompany him and his friends on a weekend’s shikar in the forests near Dehra, a small north Indian town where my grandparents had settled. These forests were then fairly well populated by tigers, other big cats, wild elephants and various species of deer. They set up their headquarters at a small forest rest house in the heart of the jungle, and from here the hunters set out early every morning, often on elephants, returning late in the afternoon, well in time for the evening’s whisky soda. To avoid boredom, I had brought a couple of books along. The hunters did not press me to join them on their forays into the jungle, and I was grateful to them for that. I was left with sandwiches and a thermos of tea, and told not to stray from the rest house. The caretaker, a retired forest guard, lived in a hut at the other end of the clearing, and I was to call out to him if I needed anything.
‘It’s perfectly safe here,’ said Uncle Jim. ‘Just don’t venture into the forest on your own.’
I was quite happy to see the hunting party march off into the jungle. They would be met by the elephants at another halt.
I settled into an armchair on the veranda, read a little, ate a sandwich—kept one for later—and then, feeling drowsy in the hot April sunshine, dozed off.
I must have slept for ten or fifteen minutes. When I woke up, there was a strong smell of animal in the air. I did not have to look far to see where it came from. Standing in the middle of the clearing, some thirty to forty metres away, and looking directly at me was a massive tiger. A monstrous tiger, I should say, because that was how it appeared to a twelve year old.
I knew I wasn’t dreaming because I could hear my heart thumping very loudly.
The tiger was silent. It was watching me. Speculatively, perhaps. Certainly with interest, but not out of any feelings of friendliness. It had just been driven out of the forest by a bunch of noisy shikaris, and it did not like the look of me. Or perhaps it did like the look of me. Brunch, if not lunch. Hadn’t there been rumours of a maneater terrorizing the villagers in the next district?
I got out of my chair very quietly, dashed into the living room, shut the front door and bolted it. I then went to the nearest window and peered out.
The tiger had advanced a few paces. Raising its head, it sniffed at the air. It was obviously in charge of the situation. Where was that forest guard? Where were Uncle Jim and his great hunters? Never before had I felt so alone and so abandoned.
When I realized that I was staring out of an open window, I shut it quickly. It wasn’t a very large window, not big enough for a tiger to get through, but I remembered that there were other larger windows in the building; and the tiger had turned away from the veranda and was beginning to circle the house.
Although confused and panic-stricken, I remembered that the back door of the bathroom had been left open. I left the living room and dashed into one of the bedrooms (there were two), tumbled into the bathroom and shut the door with a bang.
The noise must have startled the
tiger, because he let out an angry ‘Aa . . . oo . . . nh!’—you know the kind of sound a hungry tiger makes; you hear it often enough when you visit the zoo.
Was the other bathroom door shut? I raced across to the second bedroom (there was a communicating door) and into the bathroom. The back door was shut, bolted. I was trembling, almost crying with relief. But how many doors and windows did that crazy bungalow have?
Back in the bedroom, I sat down on a bed and tried to pull myself together. When I looked around, I noticed that the bedroom window was half open! And it was a fairly large window, without bars. I crept up to it and peeped over the sill. The tiger was in the backyard, much closer to the house. I could smell it. Its odour came to me on the breeze in horrid, foul gusts—a sickening odour, and one that I shall never forget.
Softly, I closed the window and bolted it. This window had four panes of glass, supported by wooden frames. I was sure the tiger could smash through it. But when I looked out, I couldn’t see the beast. Perhaps it had moved on—seen something else—or returned to the forest.
‘I think I’m safe now.’ I remember saying this to myself as I returned to the living room.
Just then there was a heavy thump on the front door, followed by an angry snarl. I could hear the beast’s claws rasping against the wooden door. I leapt to the barred window and put my face to the glass, and was just able to see a portion of the terrible creature as it examined and tested the door of the bungalow.
I was at my wits’ end, shaking all over. But I had to do something. High up on the living room wall was a small skylight, opening on to the roof. If I could get to it, I could climb on to the roof. I’d be safe up there.
I pulled the dining table across the room. Then I placed a smaller table on top of it. I heaved a cane chair up on to the edifice, and climbed up on the wobbling chair.
Meanwhile, the tiger was making an awful din, thrusting against the door with all its weight and tearing at the wood with its powerful claws.
I got the skylight open and climbed through. I was out on the flat roof of the bungalow, a good thirty feet above ground level.
At the same time there was a tremendous crash as the door gave way. The tiger was in the living room! I looked down through the open skylight as it circled the small room, lashing its tail and knocking over tables and chairs. It stood up with its paws against the wall and stared up at the skylight. Its upper lip was raised, exposing enormous fangs. Its eyes appeared to be glaring into mine. But in that confined space it did not, could not, manoeuvre itself into a position to make a big enough leap for the skylight. In its rage and frustration it turned its attention to my thermos flask, and bit right through it!
And then, in disgust, it charged out of the living room and emerged once more into the clearing. I watched it from the roof as it let out a roar—such a roar of rage that all the birds flew out of the trees, crying out in alarm. At the same time there was the sound of a gun being fired, and the forest guard emerged from behind his hutment, reloading as he advanced. The tiger, who knew all about guns, turned away from the bungalow and went bounding away towards the shelter of the jungle. The guard fired again, but the tiger was well out of range by then.
‘Are you all right, baba?’ asked the guard, as he helped me down from the roof.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘But that tiger was really after me!’
‘It’s new to our range,’ he said. ‘It could be the maneater we’ve heard about. I’ll sit here on the veranda until the others are back.’
An hour or two later the hunters returned, a weary bunch. They hadn’t shot anything except for a few pheasants. They looked rather foolish when they heard about the tiger’s visit and saw the damage it had done. I didn’t say much, because I was still in shock. Uncle Jim was glad to find me alive, but worried at what my grandparents would say when they heard about the incident.
‘You won’t tell them, will you?’ he begged. ‘Your Granny will never forgive me if she learns that I left you here on your own.’
‘Next time you should keep a gun with you,’ advised one of his companions.
But I’ve managed quite well without a gun all these years.
It was some time before I could mention this incident to anyone—partly because of my promise to Uncle Jim, and partly because it took me some time to get over it!
White Mice
Granny should never have entrusted my Uncle Ken with the job of taking me to the station and putting me on the train for Delhi. He got me to the station all right, but then proceeded to put me on the wrong train!
I was nine or ten at the time, and I’d been spending part of my winter holidays with my grandparents in Dehra. Now it was time to go back to my parents in Delhi, before joining school again.
‘Just make sure that Ruskin gets into the right compartment,’ said Granny to her only son Kenneth, then thirty, unmarried and unemployed. ‘And make sure he has a berth to himself and a thermos of drinking water.’
Uncle Ken carried out the instructions. He even bought me a bar of chocolate, consuming most of it himself while telling me how to pass my exams without too much study. (I’ll tell you the secret some day.) The train pulled out of the station and we waved fond goodbyes to each other.
An hour and two small stations later, I discovered to my horror that I was not on the train to Delhi but on the night express to Lucknow, over 300 miles in the opposite direction. Someone in the compartment suggested that I get down at the next station; another said it would not be wise for a small boy to get off the train at a strange place in the middle of the night. ‘Wait till we get to Lucknow,’ advised another passenger, ‘then send a telegram to your parents.’
Early next morning the train steamed into Lucknow. One of the passengers kindly took me to the stationmaster’s office. ‘Mr P.K. Ghosh, Stationmaster,’ said the sign over his door. When my predicament had been explained to him, Mr Ghosh looked down at me through his bifocals and said, ‘Yes, yes, we must send a telegram to your parents.’
‘I don’t have their address as yet,’ I said. ‘They were to meet me in Delhi. You’d better send a telegram to my grandfather in Dehra.’
‘Done, done,’ said Mr Ghosh, who was in the habit of repeating certain words. ‘And meanwhile, I’ll take you home and introduce you to my family.’
Mr Ghosh’s house was just behind the station. He had his cook bring me a cup of sweet, milky tea and two large rasgullas, syrupy Indian sweetmeats.
‘You like rasgullas, I hope, I hope?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Now let me show you my family.’
And he took me by the hand and led me to a boarded-up veranda at the back of the house. Here I was amazed to find a miniature railway, complete with a station, railway bungalows, signal boxes, and next to it a miniature fairground complete with swings, roundabout and a Ferris wheel. Cavorting on the roundabout and Ferris wheel were some fifteen to twenty white mice! Another dozen or so ran in and out of tunnels, and climbed up on a toy train. Mr Ghosh pressed a button and the little train, crowded with white mice, left the station and went rattling off to the far corner of the veranda.
‘My hobby for many years,’ said Mr Ghosh. ‘What do you think of it, think of it?’
‘I like the train, sir.’
‘But not the mice?’
‘There are an awful lot of them, sir. They must consume a great many rasgullas!’
‘No, no, I don’t give them rasgullas,’ snapped Mr Ghosh, a little annoyed. ‘Just railway biscuits, broken up. These old station biscuits are just the thing for them. Some of our biscuits haven’t been touched for years. Too hard for our teeth. Rasgullas are for you and me! Now I’ll leave you here while I return to office and send a telegram to your grandfather. These new-fangled telephones never work properly!’
*
Grandfather arrived that evening, and in the meantime I helped feed the white mice with railways biscuits, then watched Mr Ghosh ope
rate the toy train. Some of the mice took the train, some played on the swings and roundabouts, while some climbed in and out of Mr Ghosh’s pockets and ran up and down his uniform. By the time Grandfather arrived, I had consumed about a dozen rasgullas and fallen asleep in a huge railway armchair in Mr Ghosh’s living room. I woke up to find the stationmaster busy showing Grandfather his little railway colony of white mice. Grandfather, being a retired railwayman, was more interested in the toy train, but he said polite things about the mice, commending their pink eyes and pretty little feet. Mr Ghosh beamed with pleasure and sent out for more rasgullas.
When Grandfather and I had settled into the compartment of the correct train late that night, Mr Ghosh came to the window to say goodbye.
As the train began moving, he thrust a cardboard box into my hands and said, ‘A present for you and your grandfather!’
‘More rasgullas,’ I thought. But when the train was moving and I had lifted the lid of the box, I found two white mice asleep on a bed of cotton wool. Back in Dehra, I kept the white mice in their box; I had plans for them. Uncle Ken had spent most of the day skulking in the guava orchard, too embarrassed to face me. Granny had given him a good lecture on how to be a responsible adult. But I was thirsty for revenge!
After dinner I slipped into my uncle’s room and released the mice under his bed sheet.
An hour later we all had to leap out of our beds when Uncle Ken dashed out of his room, screaming that something soft and furry was running about inside his pyjamas.
‘Well, off with the pyjamas!’ said Grandfather, giving me a wink; he had a good idea of what had happened.
After Uncle Ken had done a tap dance, one white mouse finally emerged from the pyjamas; but the other had run up the sleeve of his pyjama-coat and suddenly popped out beneath my uncle’s chin. Uncle Ken grew hysterical. Convinced that his room was full of mice—pink, white and brown—he locked himself into the storeroom and slept on an old sofa.