by Ruskin Bond
The bungalow stood on a ledge just above the river, and the sound of the water rushing down the mountain defile could be heard at all times. The sound of the birds, which we had grown used to, was drowned by the sound of the water, but the birds themselves could be seen, many-coloured, standing out splendidly against the dark green forest foliage: the red-crowned jay, the paradise flycatcher, the purple whistling-thrush and others that we could not recognize.
Higher up the mountain, above some terraced land where oats and barley were grown, stood a small cluster of huts. This, we were told by the watchman, was the last village on the way to the glacier. It was, in fact, one of the last villages in India, because if we crossed the difficult passes beyond the glacier, we would find ourselves in Tibet. We told the watchman we would be quite satisfied if we reached the glacier.
Then Anil made the mistake of mentioning the Abominable Snowman, of whom we had been reading in the papers. The people of Nepal believe in the existence of the Snowman, and our watchman was a Nepali.
‘Yes, I have seen the Yeti,’ he told us. ‘A great shaggy flat-footed creature. In winter, when it snows heavily, he passes by the bungalow at night. I have seen his tracks the next morning.’
‘Does he come this way in summer?’ I asked anxiously. We were sitting before another of Bisnu’s fires, drinking tea with condensed milk, and trying to get through a black, sticky sweet which the watchman had produced from his tin trunk.
‘The Yeti doesn’t come here in summer,’ said the old man. ‘But I have seen the Lidini sometimes. You have to be careful of her.’
‘What is a Lidini?’ asked Kamal.
‘Ah!’ said the watchman mysteriously. ‘You have heard of the Abominable Snowman, no doubt, but there are few who have heard of the Abominable Snow-woman! And yet, she is far more dangerous of the two!’
‘What is she like?’ asked Anil, and we all craned forward.
‘She is of the same height as the Yeti—about seven feet when her back is straight—and her hair is much longer. She has very long teeth and nails. Her feet face inwards, but she can run very fast, especially downhill. If you see a Lidini and she chases you, always run uphill. She tires quickly because of her feet. But when running downhill she has no trouble at all, and you have to be very fast to escape her!’
‘Well, we’re all good runners,’ said Anil with a nervous laugh. ‘But it’s just a fairy story, I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘But you must believe fairy stories,’ I said, remembering a performance of Peter Pan in London, when those in the audience who believed in fairies were asked to clap their hands in order to save Tinker Bell’s life. ‘Even if they aren’t true,’ I added, deciding there was a world of difference between Tinker Bell and the Abominable Snow-woman.
‘Well, I don’t believe there’s a Snowman or a Snow-woman!’ declared Anil.
The watchman was most offended and refused to tell us anything about the Sagpa and Sagpani; but Bisnu knew about them, and later, when we were in bed, he told us that they were similar to Snowmen but much smaller. Their favourite pastime was to sleep, and they became very annoyed if anyone woke them up, and became ferocious, and did not give one much time to start running uphill. The Sagpa and Sagpani sometimes kidnapped small children and, taking them to their cave, would look after the children very carefully, feeding them on fruit, honey, rice, and earthworms.
‘When the Sagpa isn’t looking,’ he said, ‘you can throw the earthworms over your shoulder.’
The Glacier
It 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 more 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?’
W
e 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 shoulders 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 would 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.
Fortunately 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.
Going Away
‘Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your hike,’ said my father. ‘It will give you something pleasant to look back upon. We’ll be returning to England in a week or two, Laurie.’
‘Already!’ I exclaimed. ‘But we’ve been here only two years.’
‘That’s a long time,’ said my father. ‘My work is over and I have to go back to a job in England. We’ll find a good school for you back home.’
‘It’s a fine school here,’ I said. But it wasn’t the school I was going to miss, it was Anil and Kamal and the pool and the bazaar. Could my father understand these things?
‘Will we come back again?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It would interrupt your schooling. But there is nothing to prevent you from coming back when you’ve finished your studies.’
‘But that will be years from now …’ And feeling disconsolate, I went up to my room, where I stared at the wall for fifteen minutes until I heard Kamal coming up the steps.
I did not tell him the news immediately. We got on my bicycle, riding double, and rode out of town until we reached the fringe of the jungle. Leaving the cycle in a lantana thicket, we scrambled down the hillside to the pool.
Anil was there already, floating on his back in the green translucent water, while a frog sat on the broad leaf of a water lily and croaked at him. It was only when we were all in the water that I said: ‘I’ll be going away in a few days.’
‘Lucky fellow!’ said Anil. ‘Is your father taking you to Delhi?’
‘No, back to England,’ I said.
Anil’s mouth fell open, and he swallowed a lot of water and couldn’t speak for a while.
Kamal had pulled himself up on a rock. ‘I knew it couldn’t last,’ he said quietly, turning his face to the hills.
We joined him on the rock and considered the situation in silence. The only sounds were the splash of the stream and the warbling of the frogs. It was a drowsy afternoon; even the birds were quiet.
‘Will you come back?’ asked Anil.
‘Some day,’ I said. ‘When I’m making a living of my own. I’ll come back—here,’ I said, looking at the pool.
‘This will be our meeting place,’ said Kamal. ‘We’ll keep it a secret pool, always …’
‘Don’t look so downcast you two,’ said Anil. ‘It won’t be for ever. Laurie’s sure to come back. Be happy, I say, be happy!’
He jumped into the pool and I jumped after him, determined to shake off the depression, but Kamal remained on the rock, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands, his dreamy eyes gazing into the depths of the pool.
Anil’s mother gave a small party for me two days before I left. Apart from Anil and Kamal there were other boys from the school.
For a while we were too interested in consuming the sweets which Anil’s mother had made to p
erfection and we did not talk much about my departure. But after the plates had been emptied, there was much exchanging of addresses, promises of postage stamps and postcards from abroad, and injunctions from Anil’s mother to look after my health and to work hard and become a ‘big man’ one day. She presented me with a goodluck charm, a tiger’s claw, which was supposed to ward off evil spirits. (I still have it with me.) Then, the party over, I walked home with Kamal, through the brightly lit bazaar, past the clock tower, down the dark avenue of mango trees and up the twenty-one steps to my room.
Anil and Kamal were both at the station to see me off. After I had helped my parents to settle into our compartment, I joined my friends on the platform. Ten minutes remained for the train to leave.
‘We have brought you presents,’ said Anil, and he gave me a beautiful Kashmiri scarf, which had been embroidered by his mother.
Kamal said, ‘I have got a very simple present for you. It is a comb to remind you of the day we first met, when you bought one from me.’
‘I’ll keep it carefully,’ I said, putting it away in my shirt pocket. ‘I won’t use it, in case it breaks!’
We stood apart from the bright platform, where sweet vendors, coolies, people late for the train, and people seeing their friends and relatives off, stray dogs and stray stationmasters, all pushed each other about. It was a happy confusion I had grown used to during my stay in India. These railway stations were always exciting places. The people, so different from one another, always fascinated me, but for once I was not interested in the crowds, only in the two faces before me.