by Ruskin Bond
"Too imaginative for his age," said one of them. "Comes from reading so much, I suppose."
"If you were to get out of the house and into the jungle a little," said Uncle Henry reproachfully, "you might really see a panther."
"Don't know what young fellows are coming to these days..."
"Why didn't you grab it, man, and take it to Grandfather?" And everyone laughed.
I went to bed early and left them to their tales of the "good old days" when rhinos, cheetahs and possibly even the legendary phoenix were still available for slaughter.
I came home with a poor reputation. My uncle's friends thought I was both a sissy and a liar. And Uncle Henry, poor man, seemed to think I was responsible for the failure of the entire expedition. He did not take me with him again. But Grandfather, when I told him all about the hunt, doubled up with laughter and said he wished he had been with us, if only to see the faces of Uncle Henry and his friends. As a measure of his delight, he bought me a copy of David Copperfield, for I had not been able to finish the one in the forest rest-house. I finally got through it in the banyan tree, in the company of several squirrels and a very noisy cicada.
A PHOTOGRAPH
randmother sat in a rocking-chair, under the mango tree. It was late summer and there were sunflowers in the garden and a warm wind in the trees. Grandmother was knitting me a pullover for the winter months. Her hair was white, her eyes were not very strong, but her fingers moved quickly with the needles, and the needles kept clicking all afternoon. Grandmother was old, but there were very few wrinkles on her skin.
In some of my tales I have perhaps been guilty of writing more admiringly of Grandfather than of Grandmother. It's true that Grandfather and I had much in common, and that he gave me more of his time; but then, he had more time to give. He was a retired gentleman. But housewives never retire. And Grandmother always had housework. She saw to our meals, she did the shopping, kept the household accounts, and dealt with a variety of tradesmen including the butcher, the baker, the dhobi, and various egg, fruit, vegetable and charcoal vendors.
And so, if our pets sometimes hindered her in the efficient running of the house, who can blame her for being a little short with us at times?
In the long run, though Grandmother grumbled, she always tolerated most of our pets. She nursed Toto the monkey when he was sick; she was fond of the Hornbill; in fact, she liked all birds. She kept her own bird-bath in the garden, where mynas, thrushes, bulbuls and flower-peckers would come for a dip or a drink, and she never forgot to fill the stone bath with fresh water in the mornings.
When she did find time to relax in her rocking-chair, she liked having me beside her, and she liked talking about her youth.
One afternoon, after lunch (or tiffin, as we called it then), I was rummaging in a box of old books and family heirlooms that I had found in the box room. There was not much to interest me except a book on butterflies, and as I was going through it I found a small photograph in between the pages. It was a faded picture, a little yellow and foggy — a picture of a girl standing against a wall; and from the other side of the wall a pair of hands reached up, as though someone were about to climb over it. There were flowers growing near the girl, but I could not tell what they were; there was a small tree, too, but it was just a tree to me.
I ran out into the garden.
"Granny!" I shouted. "Look at this picture! I found it in that box of old things. Whose picture is it?"
I raised myself on the arm of the rocking-chair, and we nearly toppled over into a bed of nasturtiums.
"Now look what you've gone and done," said Grandmother. "I've lost count of my stitches. The next time you jump up like that, I'll make you finish the pullover yourself."
Grandmother was always threatening to teach me how to knit. She said it would take my mind off unhealthy creatures like frogs and lizards and buffaloes. Once, when Toto tore the drawing room curtains, she put a needle and thread in my hand and made me stitch the curtain together, even though I made long, two-inch stitches which had to be taken out by Grandmother and done all over again.
She took the photograph from my hand, and we both stared at it for quite some time. The girl had long, loose hair, and she wore a long dress that nearly covered her ankles, and sleeves that reached her wrists; but, in spite of all this drapery, the girl appeared to be full of freedom and movement; she stood with her legs apart and her hands on her hips, and she had a wide, almost devilish smile on her face.
"Whose picture is it?" I asked.
"A little girl's, of course," said Grandmother. "Can't you tell?"
'Yes, but did you know her?"
"Oh yes, I knew her," said Grandmother. "But she was a wicked little girl, and I shouldn't tell you about her. I'll tell you about the photograph. It was taken in our home, oh many many years ago, and that's the garden wall, and over the wall there was a road leading to town. That girl used to sneak over the wall sometimes, and visit the bazar. She couldn't resist jilebis. Do you like jilebis?"
'Yes, very much! But whose hands are they?" I asked. "Coming up from the other side?"
Grandmother squinted and looked closely at the picture, shaking her head. "It's the first time I've noticed," she said. "They must have been a child's, another child's."
"Were they Grandfather's? Didn't he climb over the wall, afterwards?"
"No, nobody climbed up. At least, I don't remember."
"And you remember well, Granny."
'Yes, I remember ... I remember what is not in the photograph. It was a spring day, and there was a cool breeze blowing. Those flowers at the girl's feet, they were marigolds, and the bougainvillaea creeper was a mass of purple. You can't see those colours in the photo, and even if you could, you wouldn't be able to smell the flowers or feel the breeze."
"And what about the girl?" I asked. "Tell me about the girl."
"Well, she was a wicked girl," said Grandmother. 'You don't know the trouble her mother had getting her into those fine clothes she's wearing."
"They're terrible clothes," I said.
"She thought so, too. Most of the time she hardly wore a thing. Dehra Dun summers were as hot then as they are now. She used to go swimming in the canal. The neighbours were shocked. Boys never teased her, because she didn't hesitate to fight them!"
"She looks tough," I said." "You can tell by the way she's smiling. At any moment something's going to happen."
"Something did happen," said Grandmother. "Her mother wouldn't let her get out of those awful clothes, so she jumped into the canal fully clothed!"
I burst into laughter, and Grandmother joined in.
"Who was the girl?" I asked. 'You must tell me who she was."
"No, that wouldn't do," said Grandmother. "I won't tell you."
I knew the girl in the photograph was really Grandmother, but I pretended not to know. I knew, because Grandmother still smiled in the same way.
"Come on, Granny," I said. "Tell me, tell me."
But Grandmother shook her head and carried on with her knitting; and I held the photograph in my hands, looking from it to my grandmother and back again, trying to find points in common between the old lady and the little pigtailed girl. A lemon-coloured butterfly settled on the end of Grandmother's knitting-needle, and stayed there while the needle clicked away. I made a grab at the butterfly, and it flew off in a dipping flight and settled on a sunflower.
"I wonder whose hands they were," whispered Grandmother to herself, with her head bowed in memory, and her needles clicking away in the soft, warm silence of that summer afternoon.
All this was many years ago.
When my parents returned to India, I left my grandparents' house and went to live in Saurashtra. Grandfather and I corresponded regularly, and he kept me informed of his pets and any new additions to his zoo.
I often think about his birds and animals, the inhabitants of the banyan tree, and the residents of the pond behind the old house. And I remember Ramu the village boy, and the
fun we had with the buffaloes. And I wish that I might see them again.
And perhaps one day when I have made some money I will go back to Dehra Dun and buy back Grandfather's old house and start another zoo of my own.
The Road to the Bazaar
THE TUNNEL
t was almost noon, and the jungle was very still, very silent. Heat waves shimmered along the railway embankment where it cut a path through the tall evergreen trees. The railway lines were two straight black serpents disappearing into the tunnel in the hillside.
Suraj stood near the cutting, waiting for the midday train. It wasn't a station, and he wasn't catching a train. He was waiting so that he could watch the steam-engine come roaring out of the tunnel.
He had cycled out of Dehra and taken the jungle path until he had come to a small village. He had left the cycle there, and walked over a low, scrub-covered hill and down to the tunnel exit.
Now he looked up. He had heard, in the distance, the shrill whistle of the engine. He couldn't see anything, because the train was approaching from the other side of the hill; but presently a sound like distant thunder issued from the tunnel, and he knew the train was coming through.
A second or two later, the steam-engine shot out of the tunnel, snorting and puffing like some green, black and gold dragon, some beautiful monster out of Suraj's dreams. Showering sparks left and right, it roared a challenge to the jungle.
Instinctively, Suraj stepped back a few paces. Waves of hot steam struck him in the face. Even the trees seemed to flinch from the noise and heat. And then the train had gone, leaving only a plume of smoke to drift lazily over the tall Shisham trees.
The jungle was still again. No one moved.
Suraj turned from his contemplation of the drifting smoke and began walking along the embankment towards the tunnel.
The tunnel grew darker as he walked further into it. When he had gone about twenty yards it became pitch black. Suraj had to turn and look back at the opening to reassure himself that there was still daylight outside. Ahead of him, the tunnel's other opening was just a small round circle of light.
The tunnel was still full of smoke from the train, but it would be several hours before another train came through. Till then, the cutting belonged to the jungle again.
Suraj didn't stop, because there was nothing to do in the tunnel and nothing to see. He had simply wanted to walk through, so that he would know what the inside of a tunnel was really like. The walls were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scuttled between the lines.
Coming straight from the darkness into the light, Suraj was dazzled by the sudden glare and put a hand up to shade his eyes. He looked up at the tree-covered hillside and thought he saw something moving between the trees.
It was just a flash of orange and gold, and a long swishing tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.
About fifteen metres from the entrance to the tunnel stood the watchman's hut. Marigolds grew in front of the hut, and at the back there was a small vegetable patch. It was the watchman's duty to inspect the tunnel and keep it clear of obstacles. Every day, before the train came through, he would walk the length of the tunnel. If all was well, he would return to his hut and take a nap. If something was wrong, he would walk back up the line and wave a red flag and the engine-driver would slow down. At night, the watchman lit an oil-lamp and made a similar inspection of the tunnel. Of course, he would not stop the train if there was a porcupine on the line. But if there was any danger to the train, he'd go back up the line and wave his lamp to the approaching engine. If all was well, he'd hang his lamp at the door of his hut and go to sleep.
He was just settling down on his cot for an afternoon nap when he saw the boy emerge from the tunnel. He waited until Suraj was only a metre or so away and then said: "Welcome, welcome. I don't often have visitors. Sit down for a while, and tell me why you were inspecting my tunnel."
"Is it your tunnel?" asked Suraj.
"It is," said the watchman. "It is truly my tunnel, since no one else will have anything to do with it. I have only lent it to the Government."
Suraj sat down on the edge of the cot.
"I wanted to see the train come through," he said. "And then, when it had gone, I thought I'd walk through the tunnel."
"And what did you find in it?"
"Nothing. It was very dark. But when I came out, I thought I saw an animal — up on the hill — but I'm not sure, it moved off very quickly."
"It was a leopard you saw," said the watchman. "My leopard."
"Do you own a leopard too?"
"I do."
"And do you lend it to the Government?"
"I do not."
"Is it dangerous?"
"No, it's a leopard that minds its own business. It comes to this range for a few days every month."
"Have you been here a long time?" asked Suraj.
"Many years. My name is Sunder Singh."
"My name's Suraj."
"There is one train during the day. And there is one train during the night. Have you seen the night-mail come through the tunnel?"
"No. At what time does it come?"
"About nine o'clock, if it isn't late. You could come and sit here with me, if you like. And after it has gone, instead of going to sleep I will take you home."
"I'll ask my parents," said Suraj. "Will it be safe?"
"Of course. It is safer in the jungle than in the town. Nothing happens to me out here. But last month, when I went into town, I was almost run over by a bus."
Sunder Singh yawned and stretched himself out on the cot. "And now I am going to take a nap, my friend. It is too hot to be up and about in the afternoon."
"Everyone goes to sleep in the afternoon," complained Suraj. "My father lies down as soon as he's had his lunch."
"Well, the animals also rest in the heat of the day. It is only the tribe of boys who cannot, or will not, rest."
Sunder Singh placed a large banana-leaf over his face to keep away the flies, and was soon snoring gently. Suraj stood up, looking up and down the railway tracks. Then he began walking back to the village.
The following evening, towards dusk, as the flying foxes swooped silently out of the trees, Suraj made his way to the watchman's hut.
It had been a long hot day, but now the earth was cooling, and a light breeze was moving through the trees. It carried with it the scent of mango blossoms, the promise of rain.
Sunder Singh was waiting for Suraj. He had watered his small garden, and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on a small oil-stove.
"I am making tea," he said. "There is nothing like a glass of hot tea while waiting for a train."
They drank their tea, listening to the sharp notes of the tailor-bird and the noisy chatter of the seven-sisters. As the brief twilight faded, most of the birds fell silent. Sunder Singh lit his oil-lamp and said it was time for him to inspect the tunnel. He moved off towards the tunnel, while Suraj sat on the cot, sipping his tea. In the dark, the trees seemed to move closer to him. And the night-life of the forest was conveyed on the breeze — the sharp call of a barking deer, the cry of a fox, the quaint tonk-tonk of a nightjar. There were some sounds that Suraj didn't recognise — sounds that came from the trees, creakings and whisperings, as though the trees were coming to life, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers.
Sunder Singh stood inside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds were familiar to him and he did not give them much thought; but something else — a padded footfall, a rustle of dry leaves — made him stand still for a few seconds, peering into the darkness. Then, humming softly to himself, he returned to where Suraj was waiting. Ten minutes remained for the night-mail to arrive.
As Sunder Singh sat down on the cot beside Suraj, a new sound reached both of them quite distinctly — a rhythmic sawing sound, as of someone cutting through the branch of a tree.
"What's that?" whisper
ed Suraj.
"It's the leopard," said Sunder Singh. "I think it's in the tunnel."
"The train will soon be here," said Suraj.
'Yes, my friend. And if we don't drive the leopard out of the tunnel, it will be run over and killed. I can't let that happen."
"But won't it attack us if we try to drive it out?" asked Suraj, beginning to share the watchman's concern.
"Not this leopard. It knows me well. We have seen each other many times. It has a weakness for goats and stray dogs, but it will not harm us. Even so, I'll take my axe with me. You stay here, Suraj."
"No, I'm coming with you. It will be better than sitting here alone in the dark!"
"All right, but stay close behind me. And remember, there is nothing to fear."
Raising his lamp, Sunder Singh advanced into the tunnel, shouting at the top of his voice to try and scare away the animal. Suraj followed close behind; but he found he was unable to do any shouting. His throat was quite dry.
They had gone about twenty paces into the tunnel when the light from the lamp fell upon the leopard. It was crouching between the tracks, only five metres away from them. It was not a very big leopard, but it looked lithe and sinewy. Baring its teeth and snarling, it went down on its belly, tail twitching.
Suraj and Sunder Singh both shouted together. Their voices rang through the tunnel. And the leopard, uncertain as to how many terrifying humans were there in the tunnel with him, turned swiftly and disappeared into the darkness.
To make sure that it had gone, Sunder Singh and Suraj walked the length of the tunnel. When they returned to the entrance, the rails were beginning to hum. They knew the train was coming.
Suraj put his hand to one of the rails and felt its tremor. He heard the distant rumble of the train. And then the engine came round the bend, hissing at them, scattering sparks into the darkness, defying the jungle as it roared through the steep sides of the cutting. It charged straight at the tunnel, and into it, thundering past Suraj like the beautiful dragon of his dreams.