by Ruskin Bond
The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India, and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably the deforestation that had been taking place in the surrounding hills had driven the deer into this green valley; and the leopard, naturally, had followed.
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 porcu- pines 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.
In May and June, when the hills were brown and dry, it was always cool and green near the stream, where ferns and maidenhair and long grasses continued to thrive.
Downstream I found a small pool where I could bathe, and a cave with water dripping from the roof, the water spangled gold and silver in the shafts of sunlight that pushed through the slits in the cave roof.
‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’ Perhaps David had discovered a similar paradise when he wrote those words; perhaps I, too, would write good words. The hill station’s summer visitors had not discovered this haven of wild and green things. I was beginning to feel that the place belonged to me, that dominion was mine.
The stream had at least one other regular visitor, a spotted fork- tail, 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 carry- ing 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 sides 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 decided against this possibility. Only man-eaters follow humans, and, as far as I knew, there had never been a maneater in the vicinity of Mussoorie.
During the monsoon the stream became a rushing torrent, bushes and small trees were swept away, and the friendly murmur of the water became a threatening boom. I did not visit the place too often, as there were leeches in the long grass.
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 1,000 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 had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard’s pug-marks, and 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 should carry a gun.’
‘I don’t have one,’ I said.
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.
And then the rains were over and it was October; 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 praise God for 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, unpre- dictable, 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.
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 ubble, now overgrown with weeds, sorrel, dandelions and nettles.
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 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, recog- nizing me, knowing me as the man who walked alone in the forest without a weapon.
I like 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 human in his midst. I did not venture any further; I was not out of my mind. 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 bes- towing his trust on others? Did I, by casting out all fear — my own fear, and the leopard’s protective fear — leave him defensel
ess?
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.
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 room in the world for a moun- tain lion and me.’
Sita and the River
The Island in the River
In the middle of the river, the river that began in the mountains of the Himalayas and ended in the Bay of Bengal, there was a small island. The river swept round the island, sometimes clawing at its banks but never going right over it. The river was still deep and swift at this point, because the foothills were only forty miles distant. More than twenty years had passed since the river had flooded the island, and at that time no one had lived there. But ten years ago a small family had came to live on the island, and now a small hut stood on it, mud-walled hut with a sloping thatched roof. The hut had been built into a huge rock. Only three of its walls were mud, the fourth was rock.
A few goats grazed on the short grass and the prickly leaves of the thistle. Some hens followed them about. There was a melon patch and a vegetable patch and a small field of marigolds. The marigolds were sometimes made into garlands, and the garlands were sold during weddings or festivals in the nearby town.
In the middle of the islands stood a peepul tree. It was the only tree on this tongue of land. But peepul trees will grow anywhere — through the walls of old temples, through gravestones, even from rooftops. It is usually the buildings, and not the trees, that give way!
Even during the great flood, which had occurred twenty years back, the peepul tree had stood firm.
It was an old tree, much older than the old man on the island, who was only seventy. The peepul was about three hundred. It also provided shelter for the birds who sometimes visited it from the mainland.
Three hundred years ago, the land on which the peepul tree stood had been part of the mainland; but the river had changed its course, and that bit of land with the tree on it had become an island. The tree had lived alone for many years. Now it gave shade and shelter to a small family, who were grateful for its presence.
The people of India love peepul trees, especially during the hot summer months when the heart-shaped leaves catch the least breath of air and flutter eagerly, fanning those who sit beneath.
A sacred tree, the peepul, the abode of spirits, good and bad. ‘Do not yawn when you are sitting beneath the tree,’ Grand- mother would warn Sita, her ten-year old granddaughter. ‘And if you must yawn always snap your fingers in front of your mouth. If you forget to do that, a demon might jump down your throat!’
‘And then what will happen?’ asked Sita.
‘He will probably ruin your digestion,’ said Grandfather, who didn’t take demons very seriously.
The peepul had beautiful leaf, and Grandmother likened it to the body of the mighty god Krishna — broad at the shoulders, then tapering down to a very slim waist.
The tree attracted birds and insects from across the river. On some nights it was full of fireflies.
Whenever Grandmother saw the fireflies, she told her favourite story.
‘When we first came here,’ she said, ‘we were greatly troubled by mosquitoes. One night your grandfather rolled himself up in his sheet so that they couldn’t get at him. After a while he peeped out of his bedsheet to make sure they were gone. He saw a firefly and said, You clever mosquito! You could not see in the dark, so you got a lantern!’
Grandfather was mending a fishing-net. He had fished in the river for ten years, and he was a good fisherman. He knew where to find to slim silver chilwa and the big, beautiful masheer and the singhara with its long whiskers; he knew where the river was deep and where it was shallow; he knew which baits to use — when to use worms and when to use gram. He had taught his son to fish, but his son had gone to work in a factory in a city, nearly a hundred miles away. He had no grandson; but he had a granddaughter, Sita, and she could do all the things a boy could do, and sometimes she could do them better. She had lost her mother when she was two or three. Grandmother had taught her all that a girl should know —
cooking, sewing, grinding spices, cleaning the house, feeding the birds — and Grandfather had taught her other things, like taking a small boat across the river, cleaning a fish, repairing a net, or catch- ing a snake by the tail! And some things she had learnt by herself— like climbing the peepul tree, or leaping from rock to rock in shallow water, or swimming in an inlet where the water was calm.
Neither grandparent could read or write, and as a result Sita couldn’t read or write.
There was a school in one of the villages across the river, but Sita had never seen it. She had never been further than Shahganj, the small market town near the river. She had never seen a city. She had never been in a train. The river cut her off from many things; but she could not miss what she had never known, and besides, she was much too busy.
While Grandfather mended his net, Sita was inside the hut, press- ing her grandmother’s forehead which was hot with fever. Grand- mother had been ill for three days and could not eat. She had been ill before, but she had never been so bad. Grandfather had brought her some sweet oranges from Shahganj, and she could suck the juice from the oranges, but she couldn’t take anything else.
She was younger than Grandfather, but, because she was sick, she looked much older. She had never been very strong. She coughed a lot, and sometimes she had difficulty in breathing.
When Sita noticed that Grandmother was sleeping, she left the bedside and tip-toed out of the room on her bare feet.
Outside, she found the sky dark with monsoon clouds. It had rained all night, and, in a few hours, it would rain again. The mon- soon rains had come early, at the end of June. Now it was the end of July, and already the river was swollen. Its rushing sound seemed nearer and more menacing than usual.
Sita went to her grandfather and sat down beside him.
‘When you are hungry, tell me,’ she said, ‘and I will make the bread.’
‘Is your Grandmother asleep?’
‘Yes. But she will wake soon. The pain is deep.’
The old man stared out across the river, at the dark green of the forest, at the leaden sky, and said, ‘If she is not better by morning, I will take her to the hospital in Shahganj. They will know how to make her well. You may be on your own for two or three days. You have been on your own before.’
Sita nodded gravely — she had been alone before; but not in the middle of the rains, with the river so high. But she knew that some- one must stay behind. She wanted Grandmother to get well, and she knew that only Grandfather could take the small boat across the river when the current was so strong.
Sita was not afraid of being left alone, but she did not like the look of the river. That morning, when she had been fetching water, she had noticed that the lever suddenly disappeared.
‘Grandfather, if the river rises higher, what will I do?’
‘You must keep to the high ground.’
‘And if the water reaches the high ground?’
‘Then go into the hut, and take the hens with you.’
‘And if the water comes into the hut?’
‘Then climb into the peepul tree. It is a strong tree. It will not fall. And the water cannot rise higher than the tree.’
‘And the goats, Grandfather?’
‘I will be taking them with me. I may have to sell them, to pay for good food and medicine for
your Grandmother. As for the hens, you can put them on the roof if the water enters the hut. But do not worry too much’ — and he patted Sita’s head — ‘the water will not rise so high. Has it ever done so? I will be back soon, remember that.’
‘And won’t Grandmother come back?’
‘Yes — but they may keep her in the hospital for some time.’
The Sound of the River
That evening it began to rain again. Big pellets of rain, scarring the surface of the river. But it was warm rain, and Sita could move about in it. She was not afraid of getting wet, she rather liked it. In the previous month, when the first monsoon shower had arrived, wash- ing the dusty leaves of the tree and bringing up the good smell of the earth, she had exulted in it, had run about shouting for joy. She was used to it now, even a little tired of the rain, but she did not mind getting wet. It was steamy indoors, and her thin dress would soon dry in the heat from the kitchen fire.
She walked about barefooted, barelegged. She was very sure on her feet; her toes had grown accustomed to gripping all kinds of rocks, slippery of sharp. And though thin, she was surprisingly strong.
Black hair, streaming across her face. Black eyes. Slim brown arms. A scar on her thigh: when she was small, visiting her mother’s village, a hyaena had entered the house where she was sleeping, fastened on to her leg and tried to drag her away; but her screams had roused the villagers, and the hyaena had run off.
She moved about in the pouring rain, chasing the hens into a shelter behind the hut. A harmless brown snake, flooded out of its hole, was moving across the open ground. Sita took a stick, picked the snake up with it, and dropped it behind a cluster of rocks. She had no quarrel with snakes. They kept down the rats and the frogs. She wondered how the rats had first come to the island — probably in someone’s boat or in a sack of grain.
She disliked the huge black scorpions who left their waterlogged dwellings and tried to take shelter in the hut. It was so easy to step on one, and the sting could be very painful. She had been bitten by a scorpion the previous monsoon, and for a day and a night she had known fever and great pain. Sita had never killed living creatures, but now, whenever she found a scorpion, she crushed it with a rock!