White Clouds, Green Mountains

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Can you give us a ride to Tehri?’ called Prakash.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ said the boy.

  There were no saddles, only gunny sacks strapped on to the mules with rope. They had a rough but jolly ride down to the Tehri bus stop. None of them had ever ridden mules; but they had saved at least an hour on the road.

  Looking around the bus stop for the rest of the party, they could find no one from their school. And Mr Mani, who should have been waiting for them, had vanished.

  6

  Tania Ramola and her group had taken the steep road to the hill above Tehri. Half an hour’s climbing brought them to a little plateau which overlooked the town, the river and the dam site.

  The earthworks for the dam were only just coming up, but a wide tunnel had been bored through the mountain to divert the river into another channel. Down below, the old town was still spread out across the valley and from a distance it looked quite charming and picturesque.

  ‘Will the whole town be swallowed up by the waters of the dam?’ asked Bina.

  ‘Yes, all of it,’ said Miss Ramola. ‘The clock tower and the old palace. The long bazaar, and the temples, the schools and the jail, and hundreds of houses, for many miles up the valley. All those people will have to go—thousands of them! Of course, they’ll be resettled elsewhere.’

  ‘But the town’s been here for hundreds of years,’ said Bina. ‘They were quite happy without the dam, weren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they were. But the dam isn’t just for them—it’s for the millions who live further downstream, across the plains.’

  ‘And it doesn’t matter what happens to this place?’

  ‘The local people will be given new homes, somewhere else.’ Miss Ramola found herself on the defensive and decided to change the subject. ‘Everyone must be hungry. It’s time we had our lunch.’

  Bina kept quiet. She didn’t think the local people would want to go away. And it was a good thing, she mused, that there was only a small stream and not a big river running past her village. To be uprooted like this—a town and hundreds of villages—and put down somewhere on the hot, dusty plains—seemed to her unbearable.

  ‘Well, I’m glad I don’t live in Tehri,’ she said.

  She did not know it, but all the animals and most of the birds had already left the area. The leopard had been among them.

  They walked through the colourful, crowded bazaar, where fruit sellers did business beside silversmiths, and pavement vendors sold everything from umbrellas to glass bangles. Sparrows attacked sacks of grain, monkeys made off with bananas, and stray cows and dogs rummaged in refuse bins, but nobody took any notice. Music blared from radios. Buses blew their horns. Sonu bought a whistle to add to the general din, but Miss Ramola told him to put it away. Bina had kept ten rupees aside, and now she used it to buy a cotton head scarf for her mother.

  As they were about to enter a small restaurant for a meal, they were joined by Prakash and his companions; but of Mr Mani there was still no sign.

  ‘He must have met one of his relatives,’ said Prakash. ‘He has relatives everywhere.’

  After a simple meal of rice and lentils, they walked the length of the bazaar without seeing Mr Mani. At last, when they were about to give up the search, they saw him emerge from a bylane, a large sack slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Sir, where have you been?’ asked Prakash. ‘We have been looking for you everywhere.’

  On Mr Mani’s face was a look of triumph.

  ‘Help me with this bag,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘You’ve bought more potatoes, sir,’ said Prakash.

  ‘Not potatoes, boy. Dahlia bulbs!’

  7

  It was dark by the time they were all back in Nauti. Mr Mani had refused to be separated from his sack of dahlia bulbs, and had been forced to sit in the back of the truck with Prakash and most of the boys.

  Bina did not feel so ill on the return journey. Going uphill was definitely better than going downhill! But by the time the bus reached Nauti it was too late for most of the children to walk back to the more distant villages. The boys were put up in different homes, while the girls were given beds in the school verandah.

  The night was warm and still. Large moths fluttered around the single bulb that lit the verandah. Counting moths, Sonu soon fell asleep. But Bina stayed awake for some time, listening to the sounds of the night. A nightjar went tonk-tonk in the bushes, and somewhere in the forest an owl hooted softly. The sharp call of a barking deer travelled up the valley, from the direction of the stream. Jackals kept howling. It seemed that there were more of them than ever before.

  Bina was not the only one to hear the barking deer. The leopard, stretched full length on a rocky ledge, heard it too. The leopard raised its head and then got up slowly. The deer was its natural prey. But there weren’t many left, and that was why the leopard, robbed of its forest by the dam, had taken to attacking dogs and cattle near the villages.

  As the cry of the barking deer sounded nearer, the leopard left its lookout point and moved swiftly through the shadows towards the stream.

  8

  In early June the hills were dry and dusty, and forest fires broke out, destroying shrubs and trees, killing birds and small animals. The resin in the pines made these trees burn more fiercely, and the wind would take sparks from the trees and carry them into the dry grass and leaves, so that new fires would spring up before the old ones had died out. Fortunately, Bina’s village was not in the pine belt; the fires did not reach it. But Nauti was surrounded by a fire that raged for three days, and the children had to stay away from school.

  And then, towards the end of June, the monsoon rains arrived and there was an end to forest fires. The monsoon lasts three months and the lower Himalayas would be drenched in rain, mist and cloud for the next three months.

  The first rain arrived while Bina, Prakash and Sonu were returning home from school. Those first few drops on the dusty path made them cry out with excitement. Then the rain grew heavier and a wonderful aroma rose from the earth.

  ‘The best smell in the world!’ exclaimed Bina.

  Everything suddenly came to life. The grass, the crops, the trees, the birds. Even the leaves of the trees glistened and looked new.

  That first wet weekend, Bina and Sonu helped their mother plant beans, maize and cucumbers. Sometimes, when the rain was very heavy, they had to run indoors. Otherwise they worked in the rain, the soft mud clinging to their bare legs.

  Prakash now owned a black dog with one ear up and one ear down. The dog ran around getting in everyone’s way, barking at cows, goats, hens and humans, without frightening any of them. Prakash said it was a very clever dog, but no one else seemed to think so. Prakash also said it would protect the village from the leopard, but others said the dog would be the first to be taken—he’d run straight into the jaws of Mr Spots!

  In Nauti, Tania Ramola was trying to find a dry spot in the quarters she’d been given. It was an old building and the roof was leaking in several places. Mugs and buckets were scattered about the floor in order to catch the drip.

  Mr Mani had dug up all his potatoes and presented them to the friends and neighbours who had given him lunches and dinners. He was having the time of his life, planting dahlia bulbs all over his garden.

  ‘I’ll have a field of many-coloured dahlias!’ he announced. ‘Just wait till the end of August!’

  ‘Watch out for those porcupines,’ warned his sister. ‘They eat dahlia bulbs too!’

  Mr Mani made an inspection tour of his moat, no longer in flood, and found everything in good order. Prakash had done his job well.

  Now, when the children crossed the stream, they found that the water level had risen by about a foot. Small cascades had turned into waterfalls. Ferns had sprung up on the banks. Frogs chanted.

  Prakash and his dog dashed across the stream. Bina and Sonu followed more cautiously. The current was much stronger now and the water was almost up
to their knees. Once they had crossed the stream, they hurried along the path, anxious not to be caught in a sudden downpour.

  By the time they reached school, each of them had two or three leeches clinging to their legs. They had to use salt to remove them. The leeches were the most troublesome part of the rainy season. Even the leopard did not like them. It could not lie in the long grass without getting leeches on its paws and face.

  One day, when Bina, Prakash and Sonu were about to cross the stream they heard a low rumble, which grew louder every second. Looking up at the opposite hill, they saw several trees shudder, tilt outwards and begin to fall. Earth and rocks bulged out from the mountain, then came crashing down into the ravine.

  ‘Landslide!’ shouted Sonu.

  ‘It’s carried away the path,’ said Bina. ‘Don’t go any further.’

  There was a tremendous roar as more rocks, trees and bushes fell away and crashed down the hillside.

  Prakash’s dog, who had gone ahead, came running back, tail between his legs.

  They remained rooted to the spot until the rocks had stopped falling and the dust had settled. Birds circled the area, calling wildly. A frightened barking deer ran past them.

  ‘We can’t go to school now,’ said Prakash. ‘There’s no way around.’

  They turned and trudged home through the gathering mist.

  In Koli, Prakash’s parents had heard the roar of the landslide. They were setting out in search of the children when they saw them emerge from the mist, waving cheerfully.

  9

  They had to miss school for another three days, and Bina was afraid they might not be able to take their final exams. Although Prakash was not really troubled at the thought of missing exams, he did not like feeling helpless just because their path had been swept away. So he explored the hillside until he found a goat track going around the mountain. It joined up with another path near Nauti. This made their walk longer by a mile, but Bina did not mind. It was much cooler now that the rains were in full swing.

  The only trouble with the new route was that it passed close to the leopard’s lair. The animal had made this area its own since being forced to leave the dam area.

  One day Prakash’s dog ran ahead of them, barking furiously. Then he ran back, whimpering.

  ‘He’s always running away from something,’ observed Sonu. But a minute later he understood the reason for the dog’s fear.

  They rounded a bend and Sonu saw the leopard standing in their way. They were struck dumb—too terrified to run. It was a strong, sinewy creature. A low growl rose from its throat. It seemed ready to spring.

  They stood perfectly still, afraid to move or say a word. And the leopard must have been equally surprised. It stared at them for a few seconds, then bounded across the path and into the oak forest.

  Sonu was shaking. Bina could hear her heart hammering. Prakash could only stammer: ‘Did you see the way he sprang? Wasn’t he beautiful?’

  He forgot to look at his watch for the rest of the day.

  A few days later Sonu stopped and pointed to a large outcrop of rock on the next hill.

  The leopard stood far above them, outlined against the sky. It looked strong, majestic. Standing beside it were two young cubs.

  ‘Look at those little ones!’ exclaimed Sonu.

  ‘So it’s a female, not a male,’ said Prakash.

  ‘That’s why she was killing so often,’ said Bina. ‘She had to feed her cubs too.’

  They remained still for several minutes, gazing up at the leopard and her cubs. The leopard family took no notice of them.

  ‘She knows we are here,’ said Prakash, ‘but she doesn’t care. She knows we won’t harm them.’

  ‘We are cubs too!’ said Sonu.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bina. ‘And there’s still plenty of space for all of us. Even when the dam is ready there will still be room for leopards and humans.’

  10

  The school exams were over. The rains were nearly over too. The landslide had been cleared, and Bina, Prakash and Sonu were once again crossing the stream.

  There was a chill in the air, for it was the end of September.

  Prakash had learnt to play the flute quite well, and he played on the way to school and then again on the way home. As a result he did not look at his watch so often.

  One morning they found a small crowd in front of Mr Mani’s house.

  ‘What could have happened?’ wondered Bina. ‘I hope he hasn’t got lost again.’

  ‘Maybe he’s sick,’ said Sonu.

  ‘Maybe it’s the porcupines,’ said Prakash.

  But it was none of these things.

  Mr Mani’s first dahlia was in bloom, and half the village had turned out to look at it! It was a huge red double dahlia, so heavy that it had to be supported with sticks. No one had ever seen such a magnificent flower!

  Mr Mani was a happy man. And his mood only improved over the coming week, as more and more dahlias flowered—crimson, yellow, purple, mauve, white—button dahlias, pompom dahlias, spotted dahlias, striped dahlias … Mr Mani had them all! A dahlia even turned up on Tania Romola’s desk—he got on quite well with her now—and another brightened up the headmaster’s study.

  A week later, on their way home—it was almost the last day of the school term—Bina, Prakash and Sonu talked about what they might do when they grew up.

  ‘I think I’ll become a teacher,’ said Bina. ‘I’ll teach children about animals and birds, and trees and flowers.’

  ‘Better than maths!’ said Prakash.

  ‘I’ll be a pilot,’ said Sonu. ‘I want to fly a plane like Miss Ramola’s brother.’

  ‘And what about you, Prakash?’ asked Bina.

  Prakash just smiled and said, ‘Maybe I’ll be a flute player,’ and he put the flute to he lips and played a sweet melody.

  ‘Well, the world needs flute players too,’ said Bina, as they fell into step beside him.

  The leopard had been stalking a barking deer. She paused when she heard the flute and the voices of the children. Her own young ones were growing quickly, but the girl and the two boys did not look much older.

  They had started singing their favourite song again.

  Five more miles to go!

  We climb through rain and snow.

  A river to cross …

  A mountain to pass …

  Now we’ve four more miles to go!

  The leopard waited until they had passed, before returning to the trail of the barking deer.

  White Clouds, Green Mountains

  Towards the end of September, those few monsoon clouds that still linger over the Himalayas are no longer burdened with rain and are able to assume unusual shapes and patterns, chasing each other across the sky and disappearing in spectacular sunset formations.

  I have always found this to be the best time of the year in the hills. The sun-drenched hillsides are still an emerald green; the air is crisp, but winter’s bite is still a month or two away; and for those who still like to take to the open road on foot, there are springs, streams and waterfalls tumbling over rocks that remain dry for most of the year. The lizard that basked on a sun-baked slab of granite last May is missing, but in his place the spotted forktail trips daintily among the boulders in a stream; and the strident sound of the cicadas is gradually replaced by the gentler trilling of the crickets and grasshoppers.

  Cicadas, as you probably know, make their music with their legs, which are moved like the bows of violins against their bodies. It’s rather like an orchestra tuning up but never quite getting on with the overture or symphony. Aunt Ruby, who is a little deaf, can nevertheless hear the cicadas when they are at their loudest. She lives not far from a large boarding-school, and one day when I remarked that I could hear the school choir or choral group singing, she nodded and remarked: ‘Yes, dear. They do it with their legs, don’t they?’

  Come to think of it, that school choir does sound a bit squeaky.

  Now, more than at any
other time of the year, the wildflowers come into their own.

  The hillside is covered with a sward of flowers and ferns. Sprays of wild ginger, tangles of clematis, flat clusters of yarrow and lady’s mantle. The datura grows everywhere with its graceful white balls and prickly fruits. And the wild woodbine provides the stems from which the village boys make their flutes.

  Aroids are plentiful and attract attention by their resemblance to snakes with protruding tongues—hence the popular name, cobra lily. This serpent’s tongue is a perfect landing-stage for flies etc., who, crawling over the male flowers in their eager search for the liquor that lies at the base of the spike (a liquor that is most appealing to their depraved appetites), succeed in fertilising the female flowers as they proceed. We see that it is not only humans who become addicted to alcohol. Bears have been known to get drunk on the juice of rhododendron flowers, while bumble bees can be out-and-out dipsomaniacs.

  One of the more spectacular cobra lilies, which rejoices in the name Sauromotum Guttatum—ask your nearest botanist what that means!—bears a solitary leaf and purple spathe. When the seeds form, it withdraws the spike underground; and when the rains are over and the soil is not too damp, it sends it up again covered with scarlet berries. In the opinion of the hill folk, the appearance of the red spike is more to be relied on as a forecast of the end of the monsoon than any meteorological expertise. Up here on the ranges that fall between the Jumna and the Bhagirathi (known as the Rawain), we can be perfectly sure of fine weather a fortnight after the fiery spike appears.

  But it is the commelina, more than any other Himalayan flower, that takes my breath away. The secret is in its colour—a pure pristine blue that seems to reflect the deepest blue of the sky. Towards the end of the rains it appears as if from nowhere, graces the hillside for the space of about two weeks, and disappears again until the following monsoon.