Rain In the Mountains

by Ruskin Bond

  Nightjars are birds that lie concealed during the day in shady woods, coming out at dusk on silent wings to hunt for insects. The nightjar has a huge, froglike mouth, but is best recognized by its unusual call—‘tonk-tonk, tonk-tonk‘— a noise like that produced by striking a plank with a hammer.

  When I first came to live in the hills, it was the song of the Himalayan whistling-thrush that first caught my attention. I was sitting at my window, gazing out at the new leaves on the walnut tree. All was still; the wind was at peace with itself, the mountains brooded massively under a darkening sky. Then, emerging like a sweet secret from the depths of a deep ravine, came this indescribably beautiful call.

  It is a song that never fails to enchant me. The bird starts with a hesitant whistle, as though trying out the tune; then, confident of the melody, it bursts into full song, a crescendo of sweet notes and variations ringing clearly across the hillside. Suddenly the song breaks off, right in the middle of a cadenza, and I am left wondering what happened to make the bird stop. Nothing really, because the song is taken up again a few moments later.

  One day I saw the whistling-thrush perched on the broken garden fence. He was a deep, glistening purple, his shoulders flecked with white. He had sturdy black legs and a strong yellow beak; a dapper fellow who would have looked just right in a top hat. As time passed, he ‘grew accustomed to my face’ and became a regular visitor to the garden. On sultry summer afternoons I would find him flapping about in the water-tank. Later, refreshed and sunning himself on the roof, he would treat me to a little concert before flying off to his shady ravine.

  It was a boy from the next village who acquainted me with the legend of the whistling-thrush.

  According to the story, the young god, Krishna fell asleep near a stream, and while he slept a small boy made off with Krishna’s famous flute. Upon waking and finding his flute gone, Krishna was so angry that he changed the culprit into a bird. But having once played on the flute, the boy had learnt bits and pieces of the god’s enchanting music. And so he continued, in his disrespectful way, to play the music of the gods, only stopping now and then (as the whistling-thrush does), when he couldn’t remember the tune.

  It wasn’t long before my whistling-thrush was joined by a female. Were they Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy reincarnated? Sometimes they gave solo performances, sometimes they sang duets; and these latter, no doubt, were love-calls, because it wasn’t long before the pair were making forays into the rocky ledges of the ravine, looking for a suitable nesting site.

  The birds were liveliest in midsummer; but even in the depths of winter, with snow lying on the ground, they would suddenly start singing, as they flitted from pine to oak to naked chestnut.

  The wild cherry tree, which grows just outside my bedroom window, attracts a great many small birds, both when it is in flower and when it is in fruit.

  When it is covered with small pink blossoms, the most common visitor is a little yellow-backed sunbird, who emits a squeaky little song as she flits from branch to branch. She extracts the nectar from the blossoms with her long tubular tongue.

  Amongst other visitors are the flycatchers, gorgeous birds, especially the paradise flycatcher with its long white tail and ghost-like flight. Basically an insect-eater, it likes fruit for dessert, and will visit the tree when the cherries are ripening. While moving along the boughs of the tree, they utter twittering notes, with occasional louder calls, and now and then the male breaks into a sweet little song, thus justifying the name of shah bulbul (king of the nightingales), by which he is known in northern India.

  Boy in a Blue Pullover

  Boy in a faded blue pullover,

  Poor boy, thin, smiling boy,

  Ran down the road shouting,

  Singing, flinging his arms wide.

  I stood in the way and stopped him.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Why are you happy?’

  He showed me the nickel rupee-coin.

  ‘I found it on the road,’ he said.

  And he held it to the light

  That he might see it shining bright.

  ‘And how will you spend it,

  Small boy in blue pullover?’

  ‘I’ll buy—

  I’ll buy a buckle for my belt !

  Slim boy, smart boy,

  Would buy a buckle for his belt

  Coin clutched in his hot hand,

  He ran off laughing, bright.

  The coin I’d lost an hour ago;

  But better his that night.

  Meetings on the Tehri Road

  THE HUMAN PERSONALITY can impose its own nature on its surroundings. At a dark, windy corner in the bazaar, one always found an old man hunched up over his charcoal fire, roasting peanuts. He died last summer.

  Then, a few weeks ago, there was a new occupant of the corner, a new seller of peanuts. No relative of the old man; but a boy of thirteen or fourteen, cheerful, involved, exchanging good-natured banter with his customers. In the old man’s time it seemed a dark, gloomy corner. Now it’s lit up by sunshine; a sunny personality, smiling, chattering. Old age gives way to youth; and I’m glad I won’t be alive when the new peanut- vendor grows old. One shouldn’t see too many people grow old.

  Leaving the main bazaar behind, I walk some way down the Mussoorie-Tehri road, a fine road to walk on, in spite of the dust from an occasional bus or jeep. From Mussoorie to Chamba, a distance of some thirty-five miles, the road seldom descends below 7,000 feet, and there is a continual vista of the snow ranges to the north and the valleys and rivers to the south. Dhanolti is one of the lovelier spots, and the Garhwal Mandal has a rest-house here, where one can spend an idyllic weekend. Some years ago I walked all the way to Chamba, spending the night at Kaddu-khal, from where a short climb takes one to the Sirkhanda Devi temple.

  Leaving the Tehri road, one can also trek down to the little Aglar river and then up to Nag Tibba, 9,000 feet, which has a good oak forest and animals ranging from barking-deer to Himalayan bear; but this is an arduous trek and you must be prepared to spend the night in the open or seek the hospitality of a village.

  Having wandered some way down the Tehri road, it is quite late by the time I return to the Landour bazaar. Lights still twinkle on the hills, but shop fronts are shuttered and the little bazaar is silent. The people living on either side of the narrow street can hear my footsteps, and I can hear their casual remarks, music, a burst of laughter.

  Through a gap in the rows of buildings I can see Pari Tibba outlined in the moonlight. A greenish phosphorescent glow appears to move here and there about the hillside. This is the ‘fairy light’ that gives the hill its name—Pari Tibba, Fairy Hill. I have no explanation for it, and I don’t know anyone else who has been able to explain it satisfactorily; but often from my window I see this greenish light zigzagging about the hill.

  A three-quarter moon is up, and the tin roofs of the bazaar, drenched with dew, glisten in the moonlight. Although the street is unlit, I need no torch. I can see every step of the way. I can even read the headlines on the discarded newspaper lying in the gutter.

  Although I am alone on the road, I am aware of the life pulsating around me. It is a cold night, doors and windows are shut; but through the many chinks, narrow fingers of light reach out into the night. Who could still be up? A shopkeeper going through his accounts, a college student preparing for his exams, someone coughing and groaning in the dark.

  Three stray dogs are romping in the middle of the road. It is their road now, and they abandon themselves to a wild chase, almost knocking me down.

  The rickshaw stand is deserted. One rickshaw catches the eye because it is decorated with dahlias and marigolds, most of them still fresh.

  A jackal slinks across the road, looking right then left—he knows his road-drill—to make sure the dogs have gone. A field rat wriggles through a hole in a rotting plank on its nightly foray among sacks of grain and pulses.

  Yes, this is an old bazaar. The bakers, tailors, si
lversmiths and wholesale merchants are the grandsons of those who followed the mad sahibs to this hill-top in the Thirties and Forties of the last century. Most of them are plainsmen, quite prosperous even though many of their houses are crooked and shaky.

  Although the shopkeepers and tradesmen are fairly prosperous, the hill people—those who come from the surrounding Tehri and Jaunpur villages—are usually poor. Their small holdings and rocky fields do not provide them with much of a living, and men and boys have often to come into the hill-station or go down to the cities in search of a livelihood. They pull rickshaws, or work in hotels and restaurants. Most of them have somewhere to stay.

  But as I pass along the deserted street, under the shadow of the clock tower, I find a boy huddled in a recess, a thin shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He is wide awake and shivering.

  I pass by, head down, my thoughts already on the warmth of my small cottage only a mile away. And then I stop. It is almost as though the bright moonlight has stopped me, holding my shadow in thrall.

  If I am not for myself,

  Who will be for me?

  And if I am not for others,

  What am I

  And if not now, when?

  The words of an ancient sage beat upon my mind. I walk back to the shadows where the boy crouches. He does not say anything, but he looks up at me, puzzled and apprehensive. All the warnings of well-wishers crowd in upon me—stories of crime by night, of assault and robbery, ‘ill met by moonlight . . . .’

  But this is not Northern Ireland or the Lebanon or the streets of New York. This is Landour in the Garhwal Himalayas. And the boy is no criminal. I can tell from his features that he comes from the hills beyond Tehri. He has come here looking for work and he has yet to find any.

  ‘Have you somewhere to stay?’ I ask. He shakes his head; but something about my tone of voice has given him confidence, because now there is a glimmer of hope, a friendly appeal in his eyes.

  I have committed myself. I cannot pass on. A shelter for the night—that’s the very least one human should be able to expect from another.

  ‘If you can walk some way,’ I offer, ‘I can give you a bed and blanket.’

  He gets up immediately—a thin boy, wearing only a shirt and part of an old track-suit. He follows me without any hesitation. I cannot now betray his trust. Nor can I fail to trust him.

  So now there are two in the sleeping moonlit bazaar. I glance up at the tall, packed houses. They seem to lean towards each other for warmth and companionship.

  The boy walks silently besides me. Soon we are out of the bazaar and on the footpath. The mountains loom over us. A fox dances in the moonlight and a night-bird calls. And although no creature of the forest has ever harmed me, I am glad to have a companion as I walk towards another Himalayan dawn.

  The Bat

  Most bats fly high,

  Swooping only

  To take some insect on the wing;

  But there’s a bat I know

  Who flies so low

  He skims the floor;

  He does not enter at the window

  But flies in at the door,

  Does stunts beneath the furniture.

  Is his radar wrong,

  Or does he just prefer

  Being different from other bats?

  I’ve grown quite used to him:

  He appeals to the paradox in me.

  And when sometimes

  He settles upside down

  At the foot of my bed,

  I let him be.

  On lonely nights, even a crazy bat

  Is company.

  Guests who Fly in from the Forest

  WHEN MIST FILLS the Himalayan valleys, and heavy monsoon rain sweeps across the hills, it is natural for wild creatures to seek shelter. Any shelter is welcome in a storm—and sometimes my cottage in the forest is the most convenient refuge.

  There is no doubt that I make things easier for all concerned by leaving most of my windows open—I am one of those peculiar people who like to have plenty of fresh air indoors— and if a few birds, beasts and insects come in too, they’re welcome, provided they don’t make too much of a nuisance of themselves.

  I must confess that I did lose patience with a bamboo beetle who blundered in the other night and fell into the water jug. I rescued him and pushed him out of the window. A few seconds later he came whirring in again, and with unerring accuracy landed with a plop in the same jug. I fished him out once more and offered him the freedom of the night. But attracted no doubt by the light and warmth of my small sitting- room, he came buzzing back, circling the room like a helicopter looking for a good place to land. Quickly I covered the water jug. He landed in a bowl of wild dahlias, and I allowed him to remain there, comfortably curled up in the hollow of a flower.

  Sometimes, during the day, a bird visits me—a deep purple whistling-thrush, hopping about on long dainty legs, peering to right and left, too nervous to sing. She perches on the windowsill, looking out at the rain. She does not permit any familiarity. But if I sit quietly in my chair, she will sit quietly on her windowsill, glancing quickly at me now and then just to make sure that I’m keeping my distance. When the rain stops, she glides away, and it is only then, confident in her freedom, that she bursts into full-throated song, her broken but haunting melody echoing down the ravine.

  A squirrel comes sometimes, when his home in the oak tree gets waterlogged. Apparently he is a bachelor; anyway, he lives alone. He knows me well, this squirrel, and is bold enough to climb on to the dining-table looking for tidbits which he always finds, because I leave them there deliberately. Had I met him when he was a youngster, he would have learned to eat from my hand; but I have only been here a few months. I like it this way. I am not looking for pets: these are simply guests.

  Last week, as I was sitting down at my desk to write a long- deferred article, I was startled to see an emerald-green praying mantis sitting on my writing pad. He peered up at me with his protruberant glass bead eyes, and I stared down at him through my reading glasses. When I gave him a prod, he moved off in a leisurely way. Later I found him examining the binding of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass; perhaps he had found a succulent bookworm. He disappeared for a couple of days, and then I found him on the dressing-table, preening himself before the mirror. Perhaps I am doing him an injustice in assuming that he was preening. Maybe he thought he’d met another mantis and was simply trying to make contact. Anyway, he seemed fascinated by his reflection.

  Out in the garden, I spotted another mantis, perched on the jasmine bush. Its arms were raised like a boxer’s. Perhaps they’re a pair, I thought, and went indoors and fetched my mantis and placed him on the jasmine bush, opposite his fellow insect. He did not like what he saw—no comparison with his own image!—and made off in a huff.

  My most interesting visitor comes at night, when the lights are still burning—a tiny bat who prefers to fly in at the door, should it be open, and will use the window only if there’s no alternative. His object in entering the house is to snap up the moths that cluster around the lamps.

  All the bats I’ve seen fly fairly high, keeping near the ceiling as far as possible, and only descending to ear level (my ear level) when they must; but this particular bat flies in low, like a dive bomber, and does acrobatics amongst the furniture, zooming in and out of chair legs and under tables. Once, while careening about the room in this fashion, he passed straight between my legs.

  Has his radar gone wrong, I wondered, or is he just plain crazy?

  I went to my shelves of Natural History and looked up Bats, but could find no explanation for this erratic behaviour. As a last resort, I turned to an ancient volume, Sterndale’s Indian Mammalia (Calcutta, 1884), and in it, to my delight, I found what I was looking for—

  a bat found near Mussoorie by Captain Hutton, on the southern range of hills at 5,500 feet; head and body, 1.4 inch; skims close to the ground, instead of flying high as bats generally do, Habitat, Jharipani, N.W. Himalaya
s.

  Apparently the bat was rare even in 1884.

  Perhaps I’ve come across one of the few surviving members of the species: Jharipani is only two miles from where I live. And I feel rather offended that modern authorities should have ignored this tiny bat; possibly they feel that it is already extinct. If so, I’m pleased to have rediscovered it. I am happy that it survives in my small corner of the woods, and I undertake to celebrate it in prose and verse.

  A Bedbug Gives Thanks

  I’m a child of the Universe

  Claimed the bug

  As he crawled out of the woodwork.

  I’ve every right

  To be a blight.

  To Infinite Intelligence I owe

  My place—

  Chief pest

  Upon the human race!

  I’m here to stay—

  To feast upon their delicate display,

  Those luscious thighs,

  Those nooks and crannies

  Where the blood runs sweet.

  No, no, I don’t despise

  These creatures made for my delight.

  A kind Creator had my needs in mind . . . .

  I thank you, Lord, for human-kind.

  Up at Sisters Bazaar

  A FEW YEARS ago I spent a couple of summers up at Sisters Bazaar, at the farthest extremity of Mussoorie’s Landour cantonment—an area as yet untouched by the tentacles of a bulging, disoriented octopus of a hill-station.

  There were a number of residences up at Sisters, most of them old houses, but they were at some distance from each other, separated by clumps of oak or stands of deodar. After sundown, flying-foxes swooped across the roads, and the nightjar set up its nocturnal chant. Here, I thought, I would live like Thoreau at Walden Pond—alone, aloof, far from the strife and cacophony of the vast amusement park that was now Mussoorie. How wrong I was proved to be!