by Ruskin Bond
Instinctively I stepped back a few paces. Waves of hot steam struck me 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. Nothing moved.
I turned from watching the drifting smoke and began walking along the embankment towards the tunnel. It grew darker the further I walked, and when I had gone about twenty yards it became pitch black. I had to turn and look back at the opening to make sure that there was a speck of daylight in the distance.
Ahead of me, the tunnel’s other opening was also a small round circle of light.
The walls of the tunnel were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scuttled between the lines. Coming straight from the darkness into the light, I was dazzled by the sudden glare. I put a hand up to shade my eyes and looked up at the scrub-covered hillside, and I thought I saw something moving between the trees.
It was just a flash of gold and black, and a long swishing tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.
About fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel stood a hut. Marigolds grew in front of the hut, and I could see a small vegetable patch at the back.
A man was just settling down on his cot in the small yard in front of the house, perhaps for an afternoon nap. He saw me come out of the tunnel and waited until I was only a few feet away and then said, ‘Welcome, welcome. I don’t often get visitors. Sit down for a while, and tell me why you were inspecting my tunnel.’
‘Is it your tunnel?’ I asked.
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘It is truly my tunnel, since no one else will have anything to do with it. I have only lent it to the government. I am the watchman of this tunnel and it is my duty to inspect it and keep it clear of obstacles. Every day, before the train comes through,
I walk the length of the tunnel. If all is well, I return to my hut and take a nap. If something is wrong, I walk back up the line and wave a red flag and the engine driver slows down.
‘At night too, I light an oil lamp and make a similar inspection. If there is any danger to the train, I’d go back up the line and wave my lamp to the approaching engine. If all is well, I’d hang my lamp at the door of my hut and go to sleep.’
I sat down on the edge of the cot.
‘I wanted to see the train come through,’ I said. ‘And then, when it had gone, I decided to 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?’
‘Not if you leave it alone. It comes this way for a few days every month, because there are still deer in this jungle, and the deer is its natural prey. It keeps away from people.’
‘Have you been here a long time?’ I asked. ‘Many years. My name is Raghu Singh.’
‘Mine is Rusty.’
‘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, Rusty?’
‘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, I will take you home.’
‘I’ll ask my father,’ I said. ‘Will it be safe?’
‘It is safer in the jungle than in the town. No rascals out here. Only last week, when I went into the town, I had my pocket picked! Leopards don’t pick pockets.’
Raghu Singh stretched himself out on his 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,’ I complained. ‘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.’
Raghu Singh placed a large banana leaf over his face to keep away the flies, and was soon snoring gently. I stood up, looking up and down the railway tracks. Then I began walking back to the village.
The following evening, towards dusk, as the flying-foxes swooped silently out of the trees, I made my 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 blossom, and the promise of rain.
Raghu Singh was waiting for me. He had watered his small garden and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on an oil stove.
‘I am making tea,’ he said. ‘There is nothing like a glass of hot sweet tea while waiting for a train.’
We drank our 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. Raghu Singh lit his oil lamp and said it was time for him to inspect the tunnel. He moved off towards the dark entrance, while I sat on the cot, sipping tea.
In the dark, the trees seemed to move closer. 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.
And there were some sounds that came from the trees. Creakings, and whisperings, as though the trees were coming alive, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers.
Raghu Singh stood outside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds were obviously familiar to him for he did not pay them any attention; but like me, he too heard a new sound at that moment. It made him stand still for a few seconds, peering into the darkness. Then, humming softly, he returned to where I was waiting. Ten minutes remained for the Night Mail to arrive.
As the watchman sat down on the cot beside me, that sound reached both of us; quite distinctly this time—a rhythmic sawing sound, as of someone cutting through the branch of a tree.
‘What’s that?’ I whispered. I felt a bit uneasy.
‘It’s the leopard,’ said Raghu Singh. ‘I think it’s in the tunnel.’
‘The train will soon be here.’
‘Yes, my friend. And if we don’t drive the leopard out of the tunnel, it will be run over by the engine.’
‘But won’t it attack us if we try to drive it out?’ I asked, beginning to share the watchman’s concern.
‘It knows me well. We have seen each other many times. I don’t think it will attack. Even so, I will take my axe along. You had better stay here, Rusty.’
‘No, I’ll come too. 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, Raghu Singh walked into the tunnel, shouting at the top of his voice to try and scare away the animal. I followed close behind, but I found myself unable to do any shouting; my throat had gone quite dry.
We 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 fifteen feet away from us. Baring its teeth and snarling, it went down on its belly, tail twitching. I felt sure it was going to spring at us.
Raghu Singh and I both shouted together. Our voices rang through the tunnel. And the leopard, uncertain as to how many terrifying humans were there in front of him, turned swiftly and disappeared into the darkness.
To make sure it had gone, the watchman and I walked the length of the tunnel. When we returned to the entrance, the rails were beginning to hum. The train was coming.
I put my hand to one of the rails and felt its tremor. I heard the distant rumble of the train. And then the engine came round the bend, hissing
at us, scattering sparks into the darkness, defying the jungle as it roared through the steep sides of the cutting. It charged straight into the tunnel, thundering past me like the beautiful dragon of my dreams.
And when it had gone, the silence returned and the forest seemed to breathe, to live again. Only the rails still trembled with the passing of the train.
They trembled again to the passing of the same train, almost a week later, when Father and I were both travelling in it.
Father was scribbling in a notebook, doing some accounts. How boring of him, I thought, as I sat near an open window staring out at the darkness. Father was going to Delhi on a trip and had decided to take me along.
The Night Mail rushed through the forest with its hundreds of passengers. The carriage wheels beat out a steady rhythm on the rails. Tiny flickering lights came and went as we passed small villages on the fringe of the jungle.
I heard the rumble as the train passed over a small bridge. It was too dark to see the hut near the cutting, but I knew that we were approaching the tunnel. I strained my eyes, looking out into the night; and then, just as the engine let out a shrill whistle, I saw the lamp.
I couldn’t see Raghu Singh, but saw the lamp, and I knew that my friend was out there.
The train went into the tunnel and out again, it left the jungle behind and thundered across the endless plains. And I stared out at the darkness, thinking of the lonely cutting in the forest, and the watchman with the lamp who would always remain a firefly for those travelling thousands, as he lit up the darkness for steam engines and leopards.
However, that was not my first encounter with leopards. When I was around ten years old, my father had taken me to Mussoorie, where he had an assignment. We spent a couple of months there. While Father and his friend discussed books and politics, I spent most of my time exploring Mussoorie.
I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill.
The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the daylight hours. Few people ever passed that way: only milkmen and charcoal-burners from the surrounding villages. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.
Our host Mr Thatcher lived all by himself. He had been my father’s friend since their schooldays, and had recently written to Father, expressing his wish to meet him. Father had felt that this would be a good break for the two of us, as he was just preparing to leave Kathiawar (where he worked as a teacher) to go to Delhi where he was to join the RAF.
Below Mr Thatcher’s cottage was a forest of oak and maple and Himalayan rhododendron. A narrow path twisted its way down through the trees, over an open ridge where red sorrel grew wild, and then steeply down through a tangle of wild raspberries, creeping vines and slender bamboo. At the bottom of the hill the path led on to a grassy verge, surrounded by wild dog roses.
The stream ran close by the verge, tumbling over smooth pebbles, over rocks worn yellow with age, on its way to the plains and to the little Sone River and finally to the sacred Ganges.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of pheasant. The birds went gliding down the ravine on open, motionless wings. I saw pine martens and a handsome red fox, and I recognized the footprints of a bear.
As I had not come to take anything from the forest, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my presence; or possibly they recognized my footsteps. After some time, my approach did not disturb them.
The langurs in the oak and rhododendron trees, who would at first go leaping through the branches at my approach, now watched me with some curiosity as they munched the tender green shoots of the oak. The young ones scuffled and wrestled with each other while their parents groomed each other’s coats, stretching themselves out on the sunlit hillside.
But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees, and I wondered about the cause of their excitement. As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy, orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about twenty feet above me.
It was not looking towards me but had its head thrust attentively forward, in the direction of the ravine. But it must have sensed my presence because it slowly turned its head and looked down at me.
It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; so I felt a little bold and clapped my hands sharply. Immediately the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making absolutely no sound as it melted into the shadows.
I felt as if I had done some wrong. Perhaps I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later I heard the quickening cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest. The hunt was still on.
When I returned home I told my father about the leopard and its hunt for the deer. ‘Probably the deforestation that’s been taking place in the surrounding hills has driven the deer into this green valley; the leopard, naturally, followed,’ said Father.
It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry, rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times I felt almost certain that I was being followed.
Once, when I was late getting home, and the brief twilight gave way to a dark moonless night, I was startled by a family of porcupines running about in a clearing. I looked around nervously and saw two bright eyes staring at me from a thicket. I stood still, my heart banging away against my ribs. Then the eyes danced away and I realized that they were only fireflies.
Soon, I realized that the stream had at least one other regular visitor, a spotted forktail, and though it did not fly away at my approach it became restless if I stayed too long, and then it would move from boulder to boulder uttering a long complaining cry.
I spent an afternoon trying to discover the bird’s nest, which I was certain contained young ones, because I had seen the forktail carrying grubs in her bill. The problem was that when the bird flew upstream I had difficulty in following her rapidly enough as the rocks were sharp and slippery.
Eventually I decorated myself with bracken fronds and, after slowly making my way upstream, hid myself in the hollow stump of a tree at a spot where the forktail often disappeared. I had no intention of robbing the bird. I was simply curious to see its home.
By crouching down, I was able to command a view of a small stretch of the stream and the side of the ravine; but I had done little to deceive the forktail, who continued to object strongly to my presence so near her home.
I summoned up my reserves of patience and sat perfectly still for about ten minutes. The forktail quietened down. Out of sight, out of mind. But where had she gone? Probably into the walls of the ravine where, I felt sure, she was guarding her nest.
I decided to take her by surprise and stood up suddenly, in time to see not the forktail on her doorstep but the leopard bounding away with a grunt of surprise! Two urgent springs, and it had crossed the stream and plunged into the forest.
I was as astonished as the leopard, and forgot all about the forktail and her nest. Had the leopard been following me again? I got a little scared and headed back home, trying not to rush back because of fear. ‘Do you think the leopard is after me, Father?’ I asked my father as soon as I got him alone.
‘No Rusty,’ said Father. ‘Only man-eaters follow humans and, as far as I know, there has never been a man-eater in the vicinity of Mussoorie.’
One day I found the remains of a barking deer which had only been partly eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the rest of his meal, and decided that it must have been disturbed while eating.
Then, climbing the hill, I met a party of hunters resting beneath the oaks. They asked me if
I had seen a leopard. I said I had not. They said they knew there was a leopard in the forest.
Leopard skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over 1000 rupees each. Of course there was a ban on the export of skins, but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means . . . I thanked them for their information and walked on, feeling uneasy and disturbed.
The hunters too had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard’s pugmarks, so they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away; for they were ready to fire at almost anything.
‘There’s a leopard about,’ they always told me. ‘You shouldn’t be walking alone in these parts. You are a small boy, you can’t even protect yourself with a gun. Go home now.’
The presence of the hunters caused a few disturbances in a short span of time. There were fewer birds to be seen, and even the langurs had moved on. The red fox did not show itself; and the pine martens, who had become quite bold, now dashed into hiding at my approach. The smell of one human is like the smell of any other, I guess, and how were these innocent creatures supposed to know the difference between the hunters and me?
Then the rains were over and I could lie in the sun, on sweet-smelling grass, and gaze up through a pattern of oak leaves into a blinding blue heaven. And I would delight in the leaves and grass and the smell of things—the smell of mint and bruised clover—and the touch of things—the touch of grass and air and sky, the touch of the sky’s blueness.
I thought no more of the men. My attitude towards them was similar to that of the denizens of the forest. These were men, unpredictable, and to be avoided if possible.
On the other side of the ravine rose Pari Tibba, Hill of the Fairies; a bleak, scrub-covered hill where no one lived.
It was said that in the previous century Englishmen had tried building their houses on the hill, but the area had always attracted lightning, due to either the hill’s location or due to its mineral deposits; after several houses had been struck by lightning, the settlers had moved on to the next hill, where the town now stands.