by Ruskin Bond
Then Somi made the mistake of mentioning the Abominable Snowman, of whom we had been reading in the papers. The people of Nepal apparently believed 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 it is. In the 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 the 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 the summer,’ said the old man. ‘But I have seen the Lidini sometimes. You have to be careful of her.’
‘What is a Lidini?’ asked Kishen.
‘Ah!’ said the watchman mysteriously. ‘You have heard of the Abominable Snowman, no doubt, but there are few who have heard of the Abominable Snowwoman! And yet she is by far the more dangerous one of the two!’
‘What is she like?’ asked Kishen, and we all craned forward in curiosity and excitement.
‘She is of the same height as the Yeti—about seven feet when her back is straight—but 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 away uphill. She tires quickly because of her feet. But when running downhill she has no trouble at all, and you will have to be extraordinarily fast to escape her!’
‘Well, we’re all good runners,’ said Somi 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 at school, 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 Snowwoman.
‘Well, I don’t believe there’s a Snowman or a Snowwoman!’ declared Kishen.
The watchman was most offended by this stout denial of the existence of these two creatures 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 the Snowman but much smaller. Their favourite pastime was sleeping. So they became very annoyed and ferocious if anyone woke them, and did not give one much time to start running uphill. The Sagpa and Sagpani were also believed to kidnap small children, though they would take the children to their cave, and look after them very carefully, feeding them on fruits, honey, rice and earthworms.
‘When the Sagpa isn’t looking,’ said Bisnu, ‘you can throw the earthworms over your shoulder.’
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 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 snowy peaks were close now, ringing us in on every side. We passed waterfalls, cascading hundreds of feet down precipitious rock faces and thundering into the little river. A great golden eagle hovered over us for some time.
‘I feel different again,’ said Kishen.
‘We’re very high now,’ I said. ‘I hope we won’t get headaches.’
‘I’ve got one already,’ complained Somi. ‘Let’s have some tea.’
We had left our cooking utensils at the last 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 round a bend, came upon the glacier quite unexpectedly.
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. Kishen took my hand and held on to it for reassurance; perhaps he was not sure that what he saw was real. Somi’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 Kishen, 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 though I was post-box red, and so was Bisnu, and the two of us decided to get back into our clothes before the sun scorched the skin off our backs. Somi and Kishen 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, Kishen leaping about like a performing monkey.
Meanwhile, almost imperceptibly, clouds had covered some of the peaks, and white mist had begun to drift 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 streak the sky about the mountain tops. This was followed by roars of thunder.
‘Let’s run!’ shouted Somi. ‘We can take shelter in the cave!’
The clouds could hold themselves in no longer, and suddenly burst, sending down the lashing rain, which stung our faces as it got 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,’ prophesized Somi.
‘No, it will pass soon,’ said Bisnu. ‘These storms are short and fierce.’
Kishen got out his pocket knife, and to pass the time we carved our names into the smooth rock of the cave.
‘We will come here again when we are older,’ said Somi, ‘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 had to tread slowly and carefully. The rain had loosened the earth, and stones kept rolling down the hillside. I was afraid of us starting a landslide.
‘I hope we don’t meet the Lidini now,’ said Kishen fervently.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in her,’ I teased.
‘I don’t,’ he replied. ‘But what if I’m wrong?’
We saw only a mountain goat, the 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 can sleep in the cave,’ I suggested.
‘We’ve nothing to sleep in,’ pointed out Somi. ‘Not a single bl
anket between us and nothing to eat!’
‘We’ll just have to rough it till morning,’ said Bisnu. ‘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 the Abominable Snowman.
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. Kishen 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 thoughtfully, ‘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 Somi.
‘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 two furlongs it consisted of hard, slippery ice.
Somi 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 we took 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 making a grab for it lost my footing, fell full-length and went sliding some twenty feet down the ice slope.
My wrist got sprained and my knee was hurt, and I was to prove a liability for the rest of the trek.
Somi tied his handkerchief round my hand, and Kishen 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 by the time 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 Kishen.
‘I could eat two,’ I said.
‘I could eat a Snowman,’ said Bisnu.
‘And I could eat the chowkidar,’ said Somi, who was determined to outdo the rest of us.
Fortunately for the chowkidar, he had anticipated our hunger so 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 were we, 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. First we fished in the Sarayu river, then we 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.
Kishen 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 of a town; but we were of the opinion that Bisnu could have taught the town boys a few things.
‘Never mind,’ said Somi. ‘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. Soon the hills were left behind and all we could see were the plains that stretched out below.
V
In my room, I was a king. My domain was the sky and everything that I could see. My subjects were the people who passed below, but they were my subjects only while they were below and I was on the roof; and I spied on them through the branches of the banyan tree. My close confidants were the inhabitants of the banyan tree; which, of course, included Kishen.
I had only just recovered from our adventure on the glacier when Meena told Kishen and me that we’d be setting off for that long-promised picnic the next week. I was thrilled. Never before did I experience so much fun, freedom and happiness, that too in the company of those whom I liked and who liked me too.
Soon, the day of the picnic dawned. Hurriedly I finished bathing at the water tank . I had become used to the people at the tank and had made friends with the ayahs and their charges. I had come to like their bangles and bracelets and ankle bells. I liked to watch one of them at the tap, squatting on her haunches, scrubbing her feet, and making much music with the bells and bangles; she would roll her sari up to the knees to give her legs greater freedom, and crouch forward so that her jacket revealed a modest expanse of waist.
After my bath, I sat on a disused chimney, drying myself in the sun.
Summer was coming. The litchees were almost ready to eat, the mangoes ripened under Kishen’s greedy eye. In the afternoons the sleepy sunlight stole through the branches of the banyan tree, and made a patchwork of arched shadows on the walls of the house. The inhabitants of the trees knew that summer was coming; Somi’s slippers knew it, and slapped lazily against his heels; and Kishen grumbled and became more untidy, and even Suri seemed to be taking a rest from his private investigations. Yes, summer was coming.
And it was the day of the picnic.
The car had been inspected, and the two bottles that Kapoor had hidden in the dicky had been found and removed. Kapoor was put into khaki drill trousers and a bush shirt and pronounced fit to drive. A basket of food and a gramophone were in the dicky. Suri had a camera slung over his shoulders, Kishen was sporting a Gurkha hat, and I had on a thick leather belt reinforced with steel knobs. After making sure that everything was in order, Meena went in and dressed in a hurry, and looked the better for it. And for once, Somi had tied his turban to perfection.
‘Everyone present?’ said Meena. ‘If so, get into the car.’
‘I’m waiting for my dog,’ said Suri, and he had hardly made the announcement when from around the corner came a yapping mongrel.
‘He’s called Prickly Heat,’ said Suri. ‘We’ll put him in the back seat.’
‘He’ll go in the dicky,’ said Kishen. ‘I can see the fleas from here.’
Prickly Heat wasn’t any particular kind of dog, just some kind of a dog; he hadn’t even the stump of a tail. But he had sharp, pointed ears that wagged as well as any tail, and they were working furiously this morning.
Suri and the dog were both deposited in the dicky; Somi, Kishen and I made ourselves comfortable in the back seat, and Meena sat next to her husband in the front. The car belched and lurched forward, and stirred up great clouds of dust; then, accelerating, sped out of the compound and across the narrow wooden bridge that spanned the canal.
The sun rose over the forest, and a spiral of smoke from a panting train was caught by a slanting ray and spangled with gold. The air was fresh and ex
citing. It was ten miles to the river and the sulphur springs, ten miles of intermittent grumbling and gaiety, with Prickly Heat yapping in the dicky and Kapoor whistling at the wheel and Kishen letting fly from the window with a catapult.
Somi said: ‘Rusty, your pimples will disappear if you bathe in the sulphur springs.’
‘I would rather have pimples than pneumonia,’ I replied.
‘But it’s not cold,’ said Kishen. ‘I would have liked to bathe in the sulphur springs myself, but I don’t feel very well.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have come,’ said Meena from the front.
‘I didn’t want to disappoint you all,’ said Kishen. Before reaching the springs, the car had to cross one or two riverbeds, usually dry at this time of the year. But the mountains had tricked us, for there was a good deal of water to be seen, and the current was strong.
‘It’s not very deep,’ said Kapoor, at the first riverbed, ‘I think we can drive through easily.’
The car dipped forward, rolled down the bank, and entered the current with a great splash. In the dicky, Suri got a soaking.
‘Got to go fast,’ said Mr Kapoor, ‘or we’ll stick.’
He accelerated, and a great spray of water rose on both sides of the car. Kishen cried out in sheer joy, but at the back Suri was having a fit of hysterics.
‘I think the dog’s fallen out,’ said Meena.
‘Good,’ said Somi.
‘I think Suri’s fallen out,’ I said.
‘Good,’ repeated Somi.
Suddenly the engines spluttered and choked, and the car came to a standstill.
‘We have stuck,’ said Kapoor.
‘That,’ said Meena bitingly, ‘is obvious. Now I suppose you want us all to get out and push?’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’
‘You’re a genius.’
Kishen had his shoes off in a flash, and was leaping about in the water with great abandon. The water reached up to his knees and, as he hadn’t been swept off his feet, the others followed his example.