by Ruskin Bond
As I walked through the roofless ruins, I was struck by the silence that surrounded me, the absence of birds and animals, the sense of complete desolation. The silence was so absolute that it seemed to be shouting in my ears. But there was something else of which I was becoming increasingly aware—the strong feline odour of one of the cat family. I paused and looked about. I was alone. There was no movement of dry leaf or loose stone. The ruins were, for the most part, open to the sky. Their rotting rafters had collapsed and joined together to form a low passage like the entrance to a mine. This dark cavern seemed to lead down.
The smell was stronger when I approached this spot so I stopped again and waited there wondering if I had discovered the lair of the leopard, wondering if the animal was now at rest after a night’s hunt. Perhaps it was crouched there in the dark, watching me, recognizing me, knowing me as a man who walked alone in the forest without a weapon. I like to think that he was there and that he knew me and that he acknowledged my visit in the friendliest way—by ignoring me altogether.
Perhaps I had made him confident—too confident, too careless, too trusting of the human in his midst. I did not venture any further. I did not seek physical contact or even another glimpse of that beautiful sinewy body, springing from rock to rock . . . It was his trust I wanted and I think he gave it to me. But did the leopard, trusting one man, make the mistake of bestowing his trust on others? Did I, by casting out all fear—my own fear and the leopard’s protective fear—leave him defenceless?
Because, next day, coming up the path from the stream, shouting and beating their drums, were the shikaris. They had a long bamboo pole across their shoulder and slung from the pole, feet up, head down, was the lifeless body of the leopard. It had been shot in the neck and in the head.
‘We told you there was a leopard!’ they shouted, in good humour. ‘Isn’t he a fine specimen?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he was a beautiful leopard.’
I walked home through the silent forest. It was very silent, almost as though the birds and animals knew their trust had been violated.
I remembered the lines of a poem by D.H. Lawrence and as I climbed the steep and lonely path to my home, the words beat out their rhythm in my mind—‘There was no room in the world for a mountain lion and me.’
The Glacier
It was a fine sunny morning—oh so many years ago—when we set out to cover the last seven miles to the glacier, Kamal, Anil, Bisnu and I. We were young, hungry for adventure. We had expected this to be a stiff climb, and it was. The last dak bungalow was situated at well over ten thousand feet above sea level, and the ascent was to be fairly gradual.
And 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 to 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.
x‘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 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 sporting 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?’
We 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 u
s 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. For almost two furlongs 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. We 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.
The Open Road
As the years go by, I do not walk as far or as fast as I used to; but speed and distance were never my forte. Like J. Krishnamurti, I believe that the journey is more important than the destination. But, then, I have never really had a destination. The glory that comes from conquering the Himalayan peaks is not for me. My greatest pleasure lies in taking path—any old path will do—and following it until it leads me to a forest glade or village or stream or windy hilltop.
This sort of tramping (it does not even qualify as trekking) is a compulsive thing with me. You could call it my vice, since it is stronger than the desire for wine, women or song. To get on to the open road fills me with joie de vivre, gives me an exhilaration not found in other, possibly more worthy, pursuits.
Only this afternoon I had one of my more enjoyable tramps. I had been cooped up in my room for several days, while outside it rained and hailed and snowed and the wind blew icily from all directions. It seemed ages since I’d taken a long walk. Fed up with it all, I pulled on my overcoat, banged the door shut and set off up the hillside.
I kept to the main road, but because of the heavy snow there were no vehicles on it. Even as I walked, flurries of snow struck my face, and collected on my coat and head. Up at the top of the hill, the deodars were clothed in a mantle of white. It was fairyland: everything still and silent. The only movement was the circling of an eagle over the trees. I walked for an hour, and passed only one person, the milkman on his way back to his village. His cans were crowned with snow. He looked a little tipsy. He asked me the time, but before I could tell him he shook me by the hand and said I was a good fellow because I never complained about the water in the milk. I told him that as long as he used clean water, I’d contain my wrath.
On my way back, I passed a small group. It consisted of a person in some sort of uniform (because of the snow I couldn’t really make it out), who was hurling epithets at several small children who were busy throwing snowballs at him. He kept shouting: ‘Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?’ The children did not want to know. They were only interested in hitting their target, and succeeded once in every five or six attempts.
I came home exhilarated and immediately sat down beside the stove to write this piece. I found some lines of Stevenson’s which seemed appropriate:
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches, and the roadside fire.
He speaks directly to me, across the mists of time: R.L. Stevenson, prince of essayists. There is none like him today. We hurry, hurry in a heat of hope—and who has time for roadside fires, except, perhaps, those who must work on the roads in all weathers?
Whenever I walk into the hills, I come across gangs of road-workers breaking stones, cutting into the rocky hillsides, building retaining walls. I am not against more roads—especially in the hills, where the people have remained impoverished largely because of the inaccessibility of their villages. Besides, a new road is one more road for me to explore, and in the interests of progress I am prepared to put up with the dust raised by the occasional bus. And if if becomes too dusty, one can always leave the main road. There is no dearth of paths leading off into the valleys.
On one such diversionary walk, I reached a village where I was given a drink of curds and a meal of rice and beans. That is another of the attractions of tramping to nowhere in particular—the finding of somewhere in particular, the striking up of friendships, the discovery of new springs and waterfalls, unusual plants, rare flowers, strange birds. In the hills, a new vista opens up at every bend in the road.
That is what makes me a compulsive walker—new vistas, and the charm of the unexpected.
IV
Foothill to Treeline
As you ascend the foothills, and then the temperate zones, and then even higher, the flora changes dramatically. At every thousand fee
t you will find a difference in the trees, shrubs and wild flowers that clothe the hills. And with them a difference in the kind of birds, animals, insects and other creatures that depend on the flora. Here I take you on a brief journey into the mountains, to give you some idea of the variety and richness of our forest wealth.
Trekking Up the Himalayas
India, still rich in flora, is nowhere so prolific as in the eastern and western Himalayas. The mountain slopes and valleys present remarkable contrasts in elevation, humidity and temperature.
All the year round, the hills are steeped in a tangle of blossom and verdure. The valleys, winding down from snowy heights, and carrying streams from the snows to the scorching foothills, are full of vegetation which seldom loses its vivid green. To give a complete account of plant life between, say Siliguri and Darjeeling, or Kangra and Kulu, or Almora and the Pindari Glacier, or Nandprayag and Tungnath, would be well-nigh impossible. One might as well attempt,
To count the leaves of all the trees
To count the waves of all the seas.
One can only touch upon a few representative species and try to convey to the reader an impression of the floral delights that await the trekker, the lover of mountains, and the amateur botanist.
In the lower foothills, the greater number of trees are deciduous. They acclaim the spring with an outburst of blossom. Looking down from the higher land, they appear as a mosaic of colours, each tone denoting a particular species in early flower before heavy leafage is put out.
This variety is very characteristic of tropical vegetation, where propagation depends almost entirely upon the agency of bird, beast or insect, to carry the seed far and wide. Quite different are the tracts of gregarious oak, pine and fir which flourish higher up, fanning out like armies on the move but preferring the company of their own kith and kin.
Amongst the brilliantly coloured giants of the foothills, few trees excel the red silk cotton (Bombax malabaficum). Straight as a temple shaft, and clothed in clustering crimson chalices, these trees welcome every creature who, by sipping of the abundant and intoxicating nectar, carries the pollen from flower to flower—thus assisting in the great scheme of species salvation. To add to the beauty and attractiveness of the tree, many bright birds frequent it in search of nectar from the flowers. Mynas, rosy pastors and other small birds keep up a constant chatter. Occasionally the flowers are yellow or white, and the yellow-flowered tree is credited with miraculous powers, human and divine, according to popular belief. For this reason, the tree often suffers at the hands of devotees who wish to possess some of the bark or wood of the tree.