Uncles, Aunts and Elephants

by Ruskin Bond

  Jai looked around. There was no sign of the eagle. Quickly he removed his shirt and vest; then he wrapped his vest round the dog’s wound, tying it in position with his belt.

  Motu could not get up, and he was much too heavy for Jai to carry. Jai did not want to leave his dog alone, in case the eagle returned to the attack.

  He stood up, cupped his hands to his mouth, and began calling for his grandfather.

  ‘Dada, Dada!’ Jai shouted, and presently Grandfather heard him and came stumbling down the slope. He was followed by another shepherd, and together they lifted Motu and carried him home.

  *

  Motu had a bad wound, but Grandmother cleaned it and applied a paste made of herbs. Then she laid strips of carrot over the wound — an old mountain remedy — and bandaged the leg. But it would be some time before Motu could run about again. By then it would probably be snowing and time to leave these high-altitude pastures and return to the valley.

  Meanwhile, the sheep had to be taken out to graze, and Grandfather decided to accompany Jai for the remaining period.

  They did not see the golden eagle for two or three days, and, when they did, it was flying over the next range. Perhaps it had found some other source of food, or even another flock of sheep.

  ‘Are you afraid of the eagle?’ asked Grandfather.

  ‘I wasn’t before,’ replied Jai. ‘Not until it hurt Motu. I did not know it could be so dangerous. But Motu wounded it too. He banged straight into it!’

  ‘Perhaps it won’t bother us again,’ said Grandfather thoughtfully. ‘A bird’s wing is easily injured — even an eagle’s.’

  Jai wasn’t so sure. He had seen it strike twice, and he knew that it was not afraid of anyone. Only when it learnt to fear his presence would it keep away from the flock.

  The next day Grandfather did not feel well. He was feverish and kept to his bed. Motu was hobbling about on three legs; the wounded leg was still very sore.

  ‘Don’t go too far with the sheep,’ advised Grandmother. ‘Let them graze near the house.’

  ‘But there’s hardly any grass here,’ argued Jai.

  ‘I don’t want you wandering off while that eagle is still around,’ said Grandmother.

  ‘Give him my stick,’ said Grandfather from his bed.

  It was an old stick, made of wild cherrywood, which Grandfather often carried around. The wood was strong and well seasoned; the stick was stout and long. It reached up to Jai’s shoulders.

  ‘Don’t lose it,’ said Grandfather. ‘It was given to me many years ago by a wandering scholar who came to the Tungnath temple. I was going to give it to you when you got bigger, but perhaps this is the right time for you to have it. If the eagle comes near you, swing the stick around your head. That should frighten it off!’

  *

  Clouds had gathered over the mountains, and a heavy mist hid the Tungnath temple. With the approach of winter, the flow of pilgrims had been reduced to a trickle. The shepherds had started leaving the lush meadows and returning to their villages at lower altitudes. Very soon the bears and the leopards and the golden eagles would have the range all to themselves.

  Jai used the cherrywood stick to prod the sheep along the path until they reached the steep meadows. The stick would have to be a substitute for Motu. And they seemed to respond to it more readily that they did to Motu’s mad charges.

  Because of the sudden cold and the prospect of snow, Grandmother had made Jai wear a rough, woollen jacket and a pair of high boots bought from a Tibetan trader. Jai wasn’t used to the boots — he wore sandals at other times — and had some difficulty in climbing quickly up and down the hillside. It was tiring work trying to keep the flock together. The cawing of some crows warned Jai that the eagle might be around, but the mist prevented him from seeing very far.

  After some time the mist lifted and Jai was able to see the temple and the snow peaks towering behind it. He saw the golden eagle, too. It was circling high overhead. Jai kept close to the flock, one eye on the eagle, one eye on the restless sheep.

  Then the great bird stooped and flew lower. It circled the temple and then pretended to go away. Jai felt sure it would be back. And a few minutes later it reappeared from the other side of the mountain. It was much lower now, wings spread out and back, taloned feet to the fore, piercing eyes fixed on its target, a small lamb that had suddenly gone frisking down the grassy slope, away from Jai and the flock.

  Now the eagle flew lower still, only a few feet off the ground, paying no attention to the boy. It passed Jai with a great rush of air. As it did so the boy struck out with his stick and gave the bird a glancing blow.

  The eagle missed its prey, and the lamb skipped away.

  To Jai’s amazement, the bird did not fly off. Instead it landed on the hillside and glared at the boy, as a king would glare at a humble subject who had dared to pelt him with a pebble.

  The golden eagle stood almost as tall as Jai. Its wings were still outspread. Its fierce eyes seemed to be looking through and through the boy.

  Jai’s first instinct was to turn and run. But the cherrywood stick was still in his hands, and he felt sure there was power in the stick. He saw that the eagle was about to launch itself again at the lamb. Instead of running away, Jai ran forward, the stick raised above his head.

  The eagle rose a few feet off the ground and struck out with its huge claws.

  Luckily for Jai, his heavy jacket took the force of the blow. A talon ripped through the sleeve, and the sleeve fell away. At the same time the stick caught the eagle across its open wing. The bird gave a shrill cry of pain and fury. Then it turned and flapped heavily away, flying unsteadily because of its injured wing.

  Jai still clutched the stick, because he expected the bird to return; he did not even glance at his torn jacket. But the golden eagle had alighted on a distant rock and seemed in no hurry to return to the attack.

  *

  Jai began driving the sheep home. The clouds had become heavy and black, and presently the first snowflakes began to fall.

  Jai saw a hare go lolloping down the hill. When it was about fifty yards away, there was a rush of air from the eagle’s beating wings, and Jai saw the bird approaching the hare in a sidelong dive.

  So it hasn’t been badly hurt, thought Jai, feeling a little relieved, for he could not really help admiring the great bird. And now it has found something else to chase.

  The hare saw the eagle and dodged about, making for a clump of junipers. Jai did not know if it was caught or not, because the snow and sleet had increased and both bird and hare were lost in the gathering snowstorm.

  The sheep were bleating behind him. One of the lambs looked tired, and Jai stopped to pick it up. As he did so, he heard a thin, whining sound. It grew louder by the second. Before he could look up, a huge wing caught him across the shoulders and sent him sprawling. The lamb tumbled down the slope with him, into a thorny bilberry bush.

  The bush had saved them. Jai saw an eagle coming in again, flying low. It was another eagle! One had been vanquished, and now here was another, just as big and fearless, probably the mate of the first eagle.

  Jai had lost his stick and there was no way in which he could fight the second eagle. So he crept further into the bush, holding the lamb beneath him. At the same time he began shouting at the top of his voice — both to scare the bird away and to summon help. The eagle could not get at them now; but the rest of the flock was exposed on the hillside. Surely the eagle would make for them.

  Even as the bird circled and came back in another dive, Jai heard fierce barking. The eagle immediately swung away and rose skywards.

  The barking came from Motu. Hearing Jai’s shouts and sensing that something was wrong, he had come limping out of the house, ready to do battle. Behind him came another shepherd and — most wonderful of all — Grandmother herself, banging two frying pans together.

  The barking, the banging and the shouting frightened the eagles away. The sheep scattered, too, an
d it was sometime before they could all be rounded up. By then it was snowing heavily.

  ‘Tomorrow we must all go down to Maku,’ said the shepherd.

  ‘Yes, it’s definitely time we went,’ agreed Grandmother. ‘You can read your storybooks again, Jai.’

  ‘I’ll have my own story to tell,’ said Jai.

  When they reached the hut and Jai saw Grandfather, he said, ‘Oh, I’ve forgotten your stick!’

  But Motu had picked it up. Carrying it between his teeth, he brought it home and sat down with it in the open doorway. He had decided the cherrywood was good for his teeth and would’ve chewed it all up if Grandmother hadn’t taken it from him.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Grandfather, sitting up on his cot. ‘It isn’t the stick that matters. It’s the person who holds it.’

  NON-FICTION

  A Knock at the Door

  For Sherlock Holmes, it usually meant an impatient client waiting below in the street. For Nero Wolfe, it was the doorbell that rang, disturbing the great man in his orchid rooms. For Poe or Walter de la Mare, that knocking on a moonlit door could signify a ghostly visitor — no one outside — or, even more mysterious, no one in the house . . .

  Well, clients I have none, and ghostly visitants don’t have to knock; but as I spend most of the day at home, writing, I have learnt to live with the occasional knock at the front door. I find doorbells even more startling than ghosts, and ornate brass knockers have a tendency to disappear when the price of brassware goes up; so my callers have to use their knuckles or fists on the solid mahogany door. It’s a small price to pay for disturbing me.

  I hear the knocking quite distinctly, as the small front room adjoins my even smaller study-cum-bedroom. But sometimes I keep up a pretence of not hearing anything straight away. Mahogany is good for the knuckles! Eventually, I place a pencil between my teeth and holding a sheet of blank foolscap in one hand, move slowly and thoughtfully toward the front door, so that, when I open it, my caller can see that I have been disturbed in the throes of composition. Not that I have ever succeeded in making anyone feel guilty about it; they stay as long as they like. And after they have gone, I can get back to listening to my tapes of old Hollywood operettas.

  Impervious to both literature and music, my first caller is usually a boy from the village, wanting to sell me his cucumbers or ‘France-beans’. For some reason he won’t call them French beans. He is not impressed by the accoutrements of my trade. He thrusts a cucumber into my arms and empties the beans on a coffee-table book which has been sent to me for review. (There is no coffee table, but the book makes a good one.) He is confident that I cannot resist his ‘France-beans’, even though this sub-Himalayan variety is extremely hard and stringy. Actually, I am a sucker for cucumbers, but I take the beans so I can get the cucumber cheap. In this fashion, authors survive.

  The deal done, and the door closed, I decide it’s time to do some work. I start this little essay. If it’s nice and gets published, I will be able to take care of the electricity bill. There’s a knock at the door. Some knocks I recognize, but this is a new one. Perhaps it’s someone asking for a donation. Cucumber in hand, I stride to the door and open it abruptly only to be confronted by a polite, smart-looking chauffeur who presents me with a large bouquet of flowering gladioli!

  ‘With the compliments of Mr B.P. Singh,’ he announces, before departing smartly with a click of the heels. I start looking for a receptacle for the flowers, as Grandmother’s flower vase was really designed for violets and forget-me-nots.

  B.P. Singh is a kind man who had the original idea of turning his property outside Mussoorie into a gladioli farm. A bare hillside is now a mass of gladioli from May to September. He sells them to flower shops in Delhi, but his heart bleeds at harvesting time.

  Gladioli arranged in an ice bucket, I return to my desk and am just wondering what I should be writing next, when there is a loud banging on the door. No friendly knock this time. Urgent, peremptory, summoning! Could it be the police? And what have I gone and done? Every good citizen has at least one guilty secret, just waiting to be discovered! I move warily to the door and open it an inch or two. It is a policeman!

  Hastily, I drop the cucumber and politely ask him if I can be of help. Try to look casual, I tell myself. He has a small packet in his hands. No, it’s not a warrant. It turns out to be a slim volume of verse, sent over by a visiting DIG of Police, who has authored it. I thank his emissary profusely, and, after he has gone, I place the volume reverently on my bookshelf, beside the works of other poetry-loving policemen. These men of steel, who inspire so much awe and trepidation in the rest of us, they too are humans and some of them are poets!

  Now it’s afternoon, and the knock I hear is a familiar one, and welcome, for it heralds the postman. What would writers do without postmen? They have more power than literary agents. I don’t have an agent (I’ll be honest and say an agent won’t have me), but I do have a postman, and he turns up every day except when there’s a landslide.

  Yes, it’s Prakash the postman who makes my day, showering me with letters, books, acceptances, rejections, and even the occasional cheque. These postmen are fine fellows, they do their utmost to bring the good news from Ghent to Aix.

  And what has Prakash brought me today? A reminder: I haven’t paid my subscription to the Author’s Guild. I’d better send it off, or I shall be a derecognized author. A letter from a reader: would I like to go through her 800-page dissertation on the Gita? Some day, my love . . . A cheque, a cheque! From Sunflower Books, for nineteen rupees only, representing the sale of six copies of one of my books during the previous year. Never mind. Six wise persons put their money down for my book. No fresh acceptances, but no rejections either. A postcard from Goa, where one of my publishers is taking a holiday. So the post is something of an anticlimax. But I mustn’t complain. Not every knock on the door brings gladioli fresh from the fields. Tomorrow’s another day, and the postman comes six days a week.

  Bird Life in the City

  Having divided the last ten years of my life between Delhi and Mussoorie, I have come to the heretical conclusion that there is more bird life in the cities than there is in the hills and forests around our hill stations.

  For birds to survive, they must learn to live with and off humans; and those birds, like crows, sparrows and mynas, who do this to perfection, continue to thrive as our cities grow; whereas the purely wild birds, those who depend upon the forests for life, are rapidly disappearing, simply because the forests are disappearing.

  Recently, I saw more birds in one week in a New Delhi colony than I had seen during a month in the hills. Here, one must be patient and alert if one is to spot just a few of the birds so beautifully described in Salim Ali’s Indian Hill Birds. The babblers and thrushes are still around, but the flycatchers and warblers are seldom seen or heard.

  *

  In Delhi, if you have just a bit of garden and perhaps a guava tree, you will be visited by innumerable bulbuls, tailorbirds, mynas, hoopoes, parrots and tree pies. Or, if you own an old house, you will have to share it with pigeons and sparrows, perhaps swallows or swifts. And if you have neither garden nor rooftop, you will still be visited by the crows.

  Where the man goes, the crow follows. He has learnt to perfection the art of living off humans. He will, I am sure, be the first bird on the moon, scavenging among the paper bags and cartons left behind by untidy astronauts.

  Crows favour the densest areas of human population, and there must be at least one for every human. Many crows seem to have been humans in their previous lives; they possess all the cunning and sense of self-preservation of man. At the same time, there are many humans who have obviously been crows; we haven’t lost our thieving instincts.

  Watch a crow sidling along the garden wall with a shabby, genteel air, cocking a speculative eye at the kitchen door and any attendant humans. He reminds one of a newspaper reporter, hovering in the background until his chance comes — and then pouncing! I h
ave even known a crow to make off with an egg from the breakfast table. No other bird, except perhaps the sparrow, has been so successful in exploiting human beings.

  The myna, although he too is quite at home in the city, is more of a gentleman. He prefers fruit on the tree to scraps from the kitchen, and visits the garden as much out of a sense of sociability as in expectation of handouts. He is quite handsome, too, with his bright orange bill and the mask around his eyes. He is equally at home on a railway platform as on the ear of a grazing buffalo, and, being omnivorous, has no trouble in coexisting with man.

  The sparrow, on the other hand, is not a gentleman. Uninvited, he enters your home, followed by his friends, relatives and political hangers-on, and proceeds to quarrel, make love and leave his droppings on the sofa-cushions, with a complete disregard for the presence of humans. The party will then proceed into the garden and destroy all the flower-buds. No birds have succeeded so well in making fools of humans.

  Although the bluejay, or roller, is quite capable of making his living in the forest, he seems to show a preference for the haunts of men, and would rather perch on a telegraph wire than in a tree. Probably he finds the wire a better launching pad for his sudden rocket-flights and aerial acrobatics.

  In repose he is rather shabby; but in flight, when his outspread wings reveal his brilliant blues, he takes one’s breath away. As his food consists of beetles and other insect pests, he can be considered man’s friend and ally.

  Parrots make little or no distinction between town and country life. They are the freelancers of the bird world — sturdy, independent and noisy. With flashes of blue and green, they swoop across the road, settle for a while in a mango tree, and then, with shrill, delighted cries, move on to some other field or orchard.

  They will sample all the fruit they can, without finishing any. They are destructive birds but, because of their bright plumage, graceful flight and charming ways, they are popular favourites and can get away with anything. No one who has enjoyed watching a flock of parrots in swift and carefree flight could want to cage one of these virile birds. Yet so many people do cage them.