by Ruskin Bond
To the hillmen it is Pari Tibba, haunted by the spirits of a pair of ill-fated lovers who perished there in a storm; to others it is known as Burnt Hill, because of its scarred and stunted trees.
One day, after crossing the stream, I climbed Pari Tibba—a stiff undertaking, because there was no path to the top and I had to scramble up a precipitous rock face with the help of rocks and roots that were apt to come loose in my groping hand.
But at the top was a plateau with a few pine trees, their upper branches catching the wind and humming softly. There I found the ruins of what must have been the houses of the first settlers—just a few piles of rubble, now overgrown with weeds, sorrel, dandelions and nettles.
As I walked though 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 ringing 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, jamming together to form a low passage like the entrance to a mine; and this dark cavern seemed to lead down into the ground. 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 he was crouching there in the dark, watching me, recognizing me, knowing me as the boy who walked alone in the forest without a weapon.
I liked to think that he was there, 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 humans around him. I did not venture any further; I was too scared to do so. 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 human, 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 drums, were the hunters. They had a long bamboo pole across their shoulders; and slung from the pole, feet up, head down, was the lifeless body of the leopard, shot in the neck and in the head.
‘We told you there was a leopard!’ they shouted, in great 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 that their trust had been violated.
Now, sitting in the train as I remembered all these things, the lines of a poem by D.H. Lawrence sprang to my mind. With each clickety-clack of the train’s wheels, the words beat out their rhythm in my mind: ‘There was room in the world for a mountain lion and me.’
A Note From Sudheer
When the train drew into Hardwar, Sudheer got up and stood near the door.
‘I have to go quickly,’ he said. ‘I will see you again.’
As the engine slowed down and the station lights became brighter, Sudheer opened the carriage door and jumped down to the railway banking.
Alarmed, I ran to the open door and shouted, ‘Are you all right, Sudheer?’
‘Just worry about yourself!’ he called, his voice growing faint and distant. ‘Good luck!’
He was hidden from view by a signal box, and then the train drew into the brightly-lit, crowded station, and pilgrims began climbing into the compartments.
Two policemen came down the platform, looking in at carriage windows and asking questions. They stopped at my window and asked me if I had a companion during the journey, and gave me an unmistakable description of Sudheer.
‘He got off the train long ago,’ I lied. ‘At Doiwala, I think. Why, what do you want him for?’
‘He has stolen one thousand rupees from a seth in Dehra,’ said one of the policemen. ‘If you see him again, please pull the alarm cord.’
It was only after they left that I noticed a small black notebook lying under the seat on which Sudheer had been sitting. I took it and put it into my pocket, intending to return it to the Lafunga the next time we met.
Two days later, I was in Hathi’s house, sitting on a string cot out in the courtyard. There was snow on the tiled roof and in the fields, but the sun was quite warm. The mountains stretched away, disappearing into sky and cloud. I felt as if I belonged there, to the hills and the pine and deodar forests, and the clear mountain streams.
There were about thirty families in the village. There were not many men about, and the few that could be found were either old or inactive. Most young men joined the army or took jobs in the plains, for the village economy was poor. The women remained behind to do the work. They fetched water, kept the houses clean, cooked meals, and would soon be ploughing the fields. The old men just sat around and smoked hookahs and gossiped the morning away.
It had been a long, lonely walk from the bus terminus at Lansdowne to Hathi’s village. I had walked fast, because there had been no one to talk to, and no food to be had on the way. But I had met a farmer coming from the opposite direction, and had shared his meal. All the farmer had were some onions and a few chappatis; but I was hungry so I enjoyed the meal. When I had finished, I said goodbye and we went our different ways.
At first I walked along a smooth slippery carpet of pine needles; then the pine trees gave way to oak and rhododendron. It was cool and shady, but after I had done about fifteen miles, the forest ended, the hills became bare and rocky, and the earth the colour of copper. I was thirsty, but there was nothing to drink. My tongue felt thick and furry and I could barely move my lips. All I could do was walk on mechanically, hardly conscious of my surroundings or even of walking.
When the sun went down, a cool breeze came whispering across the dry grass. And then, as I climbed higher, the grass grew greener, there were trees, water burst from the hillsides in small springs, and birds swooped across the path—bright green parrots, tree-pies and paradise flycatchers. I was walking beside a river, above the turbulent water rushing down a narrow gorge. It was a steep climb to Hathi’s village; and as it grew dark, I had to pick my way carefully along the narrow path.
As I approached Hathi’s house on the outskirts of the village, I was knocked down by a huge Tibetan mastiff. I got up, and Hathi came out of the house and ran to greet me and knocked me over again. Then I was in the house, drinking hot milk. And later I lay on a soft quilt, and a star was winking at me from the skylight.
The house was solid—built of yellow granite—and it had a black-tiled roof. There was an orange tree in the courtyard, and though there were no oranges on it at this time of the year, the young leaves smelt sweet. When I looked around, I saw mountains, blue and white-capped, with dark clouds drifting down the valleys. Pale blue woodsmoke climbed the hill from the houses below, and people drifted about in the warm winter sunshine.
When Hathi and I walked in the hills, we sometimes went barefoot. Once we walked a few miles upstream, and found a waterfall dashing itself down on to smooth rocks fifty feet below. Here the forest was dark and damp, and at night bears and leopards roamed the hillsides. Apparently, when the leopards were hungry, they did not hesitate to enter villages and carry off stray dogs.
Leopards had been on my mind, and I was to encounter one here too. One day I heard the unmistakable hunting cry of a leopard on the prowl. It was evening, and I was close to the village when I heard the harsh, saw-like cry, something between a grunt and a cough. Then the leopard appeared to my right, slinking through the trees, crouching low, a swift black shadow . . .
There was only one shop in the village, a
nd it also served as the post office—it sold soap and shoes and the barest necessities. When I passed by it, I was hailed by the shopkeeper who was brandishing a postcard. I was surprised to see it addressed to me.
I was even more surprised when I discovered that the card was from Sudheer, the Lafunga.
It said: ‘Join me at Lansdowne. I have news of your aunt. We will travel together. I have money for both of us, as I consider you a good investment.’
Rum and Curry
Sudheer and I left Lansdowne early one morning, and by the time we reached the oak and deodar forests of Kotli we were shivering with the cold.
‘I am not used to this sort of travel,’ complained Sudheer. ‘If this is a wild goose chase, I will curse you, Rusty. At least we should have had mules to sit on.’
‘We are sure to find a village soon,’ I said. ‘We can spend a night there. As for it being a wild goose chase, it was you who told me that my aunt lived somewhere here. If she is not in this direction, it is all your fault, Lafunga.’
There was little light in the Kotli forest, for the tall, crowded deodars and oaks kept out the moonlight. The road was damp and covered with snails.
It was a relief to find a few small huts clustered together in an open clearing. Light showed from only one of the houses. I rapped on the hard oak door and called out: ‘Is anyone there? We want a place to spend the night.’
‘Who is it?’ asked a nervous, irritable voice.
‘Travellers,’ said Sudheer. ‘Tired, hungry and poor.’
‘This is not a dharamsala,’ grumbled the man inside. ‘This is no place for pilgrims.’
‘We are not pilgrims,’ said Sudheer, trying a different approach. ‘We are road inspectors, servants of the government—so open up, my friend!’
Much ill-natured muttering could be heard before the door opened, revealing an old and dirty man who had stubble on his chin, warts on his feet, and grease on his old clothes.
‘Where do you come from?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Lansdowne,’ I replied. ‘We have walked twenty miles since morning. Can we sleep in your house?’
‘How do I know you are not thieves?’ asked the old man, who did not look very honest himself.
‘If we were thieves,’ said Sudheer impatiently, ‘we would not stand here talking to you. We would have cut your throat and thrown you to the vultures, and carried off your beautiful daughter.’
‘I have no daughter here.’
‘What a pity! Never mind. My friend and I will sleep in your house tonight. We are not going to sleep in the forest.’
Sudheer strode into the lighted room, but backed out almost immediately, holding his fingers to his nose.
‘What dead animal are you keeping here?’ he cried.
‘They are sheepskins, for curing,’ said the old man. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Sudheer, not wishing to hurt our host’s feelings so soon; but later he whispered to me, ‘There is such a stink, I doubt if we will wake up in the morning.’
We stumbled into the room, and I dumped my bundle on the ground. The room was bare except for dilapidated sheep and deer skins hanging on the walls. There was a small fire in a corner of the room. Sudheer and I got as close to it as we could, stamping our feet and chafing our hands. The old man sat down on his haunches and glared suspiciously at us. Sudheer looked at him, and then at me, and shrugged eloquently.
‘May we know your name?’ I asked.
‘It is Ram Singh,’ said the old man grudgingly.
‘Well, Ram Singh, my host,’ said Sudheer solicitously, ‘have you had your meal as yet?’
‘I take it in the morning,’ said Ram Singh.
‘And in the evening?’ Sudheer’s voice held a note of hope.
‘It is not necessary to eat more than once a day.’
‘For a rusty old fellow like you, perhaps,’ said Sudheer, ‘but we have got blood in our veins. Is there nothing here to eat? Surely you have some bread, some vegetables?’
‘I have nothing,’ said the old man.
‘Well, we will have to wait till morning,’ said Sudheer. ‘Rusty, take out the blanket and the bottle of rum.’
I took the blanket which Hathi had given me out from my bag, and a flask of rum slipped out from the folds. Ram Singh showed unmistakable signs of coming to life.
‘Is that medicine you have?’ asked the old man. ‘I have been suffering from headaches for the last month.’
‘Well, this will give you a worse headache,’ said Sudheer, gulping down a mouthful of rum and licking his lips. ‘Besides, for people who eat only once a day it is dangerous stuff.’
‘We could get something to eat,’ said the old man eagerly.
‘You said you had nothing,’ I said teasingly, taking the bottle from Sudheer and putting it to my lips.
‘There are some pumpkins on the roof,’ said the old man. ‘And I have a few potatoes and some spices. Shall I make a curry?’
And an hour later, warmed by rum and curry, we sat round the fire in a most convivial fashion. Sudheer and I had gathered our only blanket about our shoulders, and Ram Singh had covered himself in sheepskins. He had been asking us questions about life in the cities—a life that was utterly foreign to him.
‘You are men of the world,’ he said. ‘You have been in most of the cities of India, you have known all kinds of men and women. I have never travelled beyond Lansdowne, nor have I seen the trains and ships which I hear so much about. I am seventy and I have not seen these things, though I have sons who have been away many years, and one who has even been out of India with his regiment. I would like to ask your advice. It is lonely living alone, and though I have had three wives, they are all dead.’
‘If you have had three wives,’ said Sudheer, ‘you are a man of the world!’
He had his back to the wall, his feet stuck out towards the fire. I was half-asleep, my head resting on Sudheer’s shoulder.
‘My daughters are all married,’ continued Ram Singh. ‘I would like to get married again, but tell me, how should I go about it?’
Sudheer laughed out loud. I thought to myself that the old man in his youth must have been as crafty a devil as the Lafunga himself.
‘Well, you would have to pay for her, of course,’ said Sudheer.
‘Tell me of a suitable woman. She should be young, of course. Her nose—what kind of nose should she have?’
‘A flat nose,’ said Sudheer, without the ghost of a smile. ‘The nostrils should not be turned up.’
‘Ah! And the shape of her body?’
‘Not too manly. She should not be crooked. Do not expect too much, old man!’
‘Her head?’ asked the old man eagerly. ‘What should her head be like?’
Sudheer gave this a moment’s consideration. ‘The head should not be bald,’ he said.
Ram Singh nodded his approval; it looked as if his opinion of Sudheer was going up by leaps and bounds.
‘And her colour, should it be white?’
‘No, not very white.’
‘Black?’
‘Not too black. But she would have to be evil-smelling, otherwise she would not stay with you.’
A bear kept us awake during the early part of the night. It clambered up on the roof and made a meal of the old man’s store of pumpkins.
‘Can it get in?’ I asked.
‘It comes every night,’ said Ram Singh. ‘But it is a vegetarian and eats only the pumpkins.’
There was a thud as a pumpkin rolled off the roof and landed on the ground. Then the bear climbed down from the roof and shambled off into the forest.
The fire was glowing feebly, but Sudheer and I were warm beneath our blanket and, being very tired, were soon asleep, despite the efforts of an army of bugs to keep us awake. But at about midnight we were woken by a loud cry and starting up, found the lantern lit, and the old man throwing a fit.
Ram Singh was leaping about the room, waving his arms, going into
contortions, and bringing up gurgling sounds from the back of his throat.
‘What is the matter?’ I shouted. ‘Have you gone mad?’
For reply, the old man gurgled and shrieked, and continued his frenzied dance.
‘A demon!’ he shouted. ‘A demon has entered me!’
Sudheer and I exchanged glances, trying hard to not laugh.
‘It’s the medicine you gave me!’ cried Ram Singh. ‘The medicine was evil, it is all your doing!’ And he continued dancing about the room.
‘Should I throw the medicine away?’ asked Sudheer.
‘No, don’t do that!’ shouted Ram Singh, appearing normal for a moment. ‘Throw yourself on the ground!’
Sudheer obliged and threw himself on the ground.
‘On your back!’ gasped the old man.
Sudheer turned over on to his back. I simply watched, fascinated.
‘Raise your left foot,’ ordered the old man. ‘Take it in your mouth. That will charm the demon away.’
‘I will not put my foot in my mouth,’ said Sudheer getting to his feet, having lost faith in the genuineness of the old man’s fit. ‘I don’t think there is any demon in you. It is probably your curry. Have something more to drink, and you will be all right.’
He produced the all but empty flask of rum, made the old man open his mouth, and poured the rest of the spirit down his throat.
Ram Singh choked, shook his head violently, and grinned at Sudheer. ‘The demon has gone now,’ he said.
‘I am glad to know it,’ said Sudheer. ‘But you have emptied the bottle. Now let us try to sleep again.’
But the cold had come in through the blanket by then, and I found sleep difficult. Instead, I began to think of the purpose of my journey, and wondered if it would not have been wiser to stay in Dehra. Outside, the air was still; the wind had stopped whistling through the pines. Only a jackal howled in the distance. The old man was tossing and turning on his sheepskins.
‘Ram Singh,’ I whispered. ‘Are you awake?’