Uncles, Aunts and Elephants

by Ruskin Bond

  We stopped at Barog, a pretty little wayside station, famous for its breakfasts and in winter, for its mistletoe. We got into Simla at lunchtime and dined at Davico’s. Simla was well served by restaurants. Davico’s was famous for its meringues, and I experienced one for the first time. Then we trudged off to a lodging house called Craig Dhu, which was to be another of our temporary homes.

  The Bishop Cotton Prep School was situated in Chotta Simla, at some distance from the Senior School. The boys were at play when I first saw them from the road above the playing field.

  ‘You can see they’re a happy lot,’ said my father.

  They certainly seemed a good deal noisier (and less inhibited) than their counterparts at the Mussoorie convent. Some spun tops; others wrestled with each other; several boys were dashing about with butterfly nets, chasing a large blue butterfly. Three or four sat quietly on the steps, perusing comics. In those days you had story comics or papers, such as Hotspur, Wizard or Champion, and you actually had to read them.

  It was to be a month before I joined the school (admission took time), and in the interim I enjoyed an idyllic holiday with my father. If Davico’s had its meringues, Wenger’s had its pastries and chocolate cakes, while at Kwality the curry puffs and ice creams were superb. The reader will consider me to have been a spoilt brat, and so I was for a time; but there was always the nagging fear that my father would be posted to some inaccessible corner of the country, and I would be left to rot in boarding school for the rest of my days.

  During a rickshaw ride around Elysium Hill, my father told me Kipling’s story of the phantom rickshaw — my first encounter with hill station lore. He also showed me the shop where Kim got his training as a spy from the mysterious Lurgan Sahib. I had not read Kipling at the time, but through my father’s retellings I was already familiar with many of his characters and settings. The same Lurgan Sahib (I learnt later) had inspired another novel, F. Marion Crawford’s Mr Isaacs. A Bishop Cotton’s boy, Richard Blaker, had written a novel called Scabby Dixon, which had depicted life in the school at the turn of the century. And Bishop Cotton, our founder, had himself been a young master at Rugby under the famous Dr Arnold who was to write Tom Brown’s Schooldays. Cotton became the first headmaster at Marlborough before coming out to India.

  All these literary traditions were beginning to crowd upon me. And of course there was the strange fact that my father had named me Ruskin, after the Victorian essayist and guru of art and architecture. Had my father been an admirer of Mr Ruskin? I did not ask him, because at that time I thought I was the only Ruskin. At some point during my schooldays I discovered John Ruskin’s fairy story, The King of the Golden River, and thought it rather good. And years later, my mother was to confirm that my father had indeed named me after the Victorian writer. My other Christian name, Owen, was seldom used, and I have never really bothered with it. An extra Christian name seems quite superfluous. And besides, Owen (in Welsh) means ‘brave’, and I am not a brave person. I have done some foolhardy things, but more out of ignorance than bravery.

  I settled down in the prep school without any fuss. Compared to the Mussoorie convent it was luxury. For lunch there was usually curry and rice (as compared to the spartan meat boiled with pumpkin, the convent speciality); for dinner there would be cutlets or a chop. There was a wartime shortage of eggs, but the school kitchen managed to make some fairly edible omelettes out of egg powder. Occasionally there were sausages, although no one could say with any certainty what was in them. On my questioning our housemaster as to their contents, he smiled mysteriously and sang the first line of a Nelson Eddy favourite — Ah, sweet mystery of life!

  Our sausages came to be known as ‘Sweet Mysteries’. This was 1943, and the end of the War was still two years away.

  Flying heroes were the order of the day. There were the Biggles books, with a daredevil pilot as hero. And Champion comic books featured Rockfist Rogan of the RAF, another flying ace who, whenever he was shot down in enemy territory, took on the Nazis in the boxing ring before escaping in one of their aircraft.

  Having a father in the RAF was very prestigious and I asked my father to wear his uniform whenever he came to see me. This he did, and to good effect.

  ‘Bond’s father is in the RAF,’ word went round, and other boys looked at me with renewed respect. ‘Does he fly bombers or fighter planes?’ they asked me.

  ‘Both,’ I lied. After all, there wasn’t much glamour in codes and ciphers, although they were probably just as important.

  My own comic book hero was Flying O’Flynn, an acrobatic goalkeeper who made some breathtaking saves in every issue, and kept his otherwise humble team at the top of the football league. I was soon emulating him, on our stony football field, and it wasn’t long before I was the prep school goalkeeper.

  Quite a few of the boys read books, the general favourites being the William stories, R.M. Ballantyne’s adventure novels, Capt. W.E. Johns (Biggles), and any sort of spy or murder mystery. There was one boy, about my age, who was actually writing a detective story. As there was a paper shortage, he wrote in a small hand on slips of toilet paper, and stored these away in his locker. I can’t remember his name, so have no idea if he grew up to become a professional writer. He left the following year, when most of the British boys began leaving India. Some had grown up in India; others had been sent out as evacuees during the Blitz.

  I don’t remember any special friend during the first year at the prep school, but I got on quite well with teachers and classmates. As I’d joined in midterm, the rest of the year seemed to pass quickly. And when the Kalka-Delhi Express drew into Delhi, there was my father on the platform, wearing his uniform and looking quite spry and of course happy to see me.

  He had now taken a flat in Scindia House, an apartment building facing Connaught Circus. This suited me perfectly, as it was only a few minutes from cinemas, bookshops and restaurants. Just across the road was the newly opened Milk Bar, and while my father was away at his office, I would occasionally slip out to have a milkshake — strawberry, chocolate or vanilla — and dart back home with a comic paper purchased at one of the newsstands.

  All those splendid new cinemas were within easy reach too, and my father and I soon became regular cinegoers; we must have seen at least three films a week on an average. I again took to making lists of all the films I saw, including the casts as far as I could remember them. Even today, to reiterate, I can rattle off the cast of almost any Hollywood or British production of the 1940s. The films I enjoyed most that winter were Yankee Doodle Dandy (with James Cagney quite electric as George M. Cohan) and This Above All, a drama of wartime London.

  When I asked my father how the film had got its title, he wrote down the lines from Shakespeare that had inspired it:

  This above all, to thine own self be true,

  And it must follow, as the night the day,

  Thou can’st not then be false to any man.

  I kept that piece of paper for many years, losing it only when I went to England.

  Helping my father with his stamp collection, accompanying him to the pictures, dropping in at Wenger’s for tea and muffins, bringing home a book or record — what more could a small boy of eight have asked for?

  And then there were the walks.

  In those days, you had only to walk a short distance to be out of New Delhi and into the surrounding fields or scrub forest. Humayun’s Tomb was surrounded by a wilderness of babul and keekar trees, and so were other old tombs and monuments on the periphery of the new capital. Today they have all been swallowed up by new housing estates and government colonies, and the snarl of traffic is wonderful to behold.

  New Delhi was still a small place in 1943. The big hotels (Maidens, the Swiss) were in Old Delhi. Only a few cars could be seen on the streets. Most people, including service personnel, travelled by pony-drawn tongas. When we went to the station to catch a train, we took a tonga. Otherwise we walked.

  In the deserted Purana Kila m
y father showed me the narrow steps leading down from Humayun’s library. Here the Emperor had slipped and fallen to his death. Not far away was Humayun’s tomb. These places had few visitors then, and we could relax on the grass without being disturbed by hordes of tourists, guides, vagrants and health freaks. New Delhi still has its parks and tree-lined avenues — but oh, the press of people! Who could have imagined then that within forty years’ time, the city would have swallowed huge tracts of land way beyond Ghaziabad, Faridabad, Gurgaon, Najafgarh, Tughlaqabad, small towns, villages, fields, most of the Ridge and all that grew upon it!

  Change and prosperity have come to Delhi, but its citizens are paying a high price for the privilege of living in the capital. Too late to do anything about it now. Spread on, great octopus — your tentacles have yet to be fully extended.

  *

  If, in writing this memoir, I appear to be taking my father’s side, I suppose it is only human nature for a boy to be loyal to the parent who stands by him, no matter how difficult the circumstances. An eight-year-old is bound to resent his mother’s liaison with another man. Looking back on my boyhood, I feel sure that my mother must have had her own compulsions, her own views on life and how it should be lived. After all, she had only been eighteen when she had married my father, who was about fifteen years her senior. She and her sisters had been a fun-loving set; they enjoyed going to dances, picnics, parties. She must have found my father too serious, too much of a stay-at-home, happy making the morning butter or sorting through his stamps in the evening. My mother told me later that he was very jealous, keeping her away from other men. And who wouldn’t have been jealous? She was young, pretty, vivacious — everyone looked twice at her! They were obviously incompatible. They should never have married, I suppose. In which case, of course, I would not be here, penning these memoirs.

  Hill of the Fairies

  Fairy hill, or Pari Tibba as the paharis call it, is a lonely, uninhabited mountain lying to the east of Mussoorie, at a height of about 6000 feet. I have visited it occasionally, scrambling up its rocky slopes where the only paths are the narrow tracks made by goats and the small hill cattle. Rhododendrons and a few stunted oaks are the only trees on the hillsides, but at the summit is a small, grassy plateau ringed by pine trees.

  It may have been on this plateau that the early settlers tried building their houses. All their attempts met with failure. The area seemed to attract the worst of any thunderstorm, and several dwellings were struck by lightning and burnt to the ground. People then confined themselves to the adjacent Landour hill, where a flourishing hill station soon grew up.

  Why Pari Tibba should be struck so often by lightning has always been something of a mystery to me. Its soil and rock seem no different from the soil or rock of any other mountain in the vicinity. Perhaps a geologist can explain the phenomenon, or perhaps it has something to do with the fairies.

  ‘Why do they call it the Hill of the Fairies?’ I asked an old resident, a retired schoolteacher. ‘Is the place haunted?’

  ‘So they say,’ he said.

  ‘Who say?’

  ‘Oh, people who have heard it’s haunted. Some years after the site was abandoned by the settlers, two young runaway lovers took shelter for the night in one of the ruins. There was a bad storm and they were struck by lightning. Their charred bodies were found a few days later. They came from different communities and were buried far from each other, but their spirits hold a tryst every night under the pine trees. You might see them if you’re on Pari Tibba after sunset.’

  There are no ruins on Pari Tibba, and I can only presume that the building materials were taken away for use elsewhere. And I did not stay on the hill till after sunset. Had I tried climbing downhill in the dark, I would probably have ended up as the third ghost on the mountain. The lovers might have resented my intrusion, or, who knows, they might have welcomed a change. After a hundred years together on a windswept mountaintop, even the most ardent of lovers must tire of each other.

  Who could have been seeing ghosts on Pari Tibba after sunset? The nearest resident is a woodcutter who makes charcoal at the bottom of the hill. Terraced fields and a small village straddle the next hill. But the only inhabitants of Pari Tibba are the langurs. They feed on oak leaves and rhododendron buds. The rhododendrons contain an intoxicating nectar, and after dining — or wining — to excess, the young monkeys tumble about on the grass in high spirits.

  The black bulbuls also feed on the nectar of the rhododendron flower, and perhaps this accounts for the cheekiness of these birds. They are aggressive, disreputable little creatures, who go about in rowdy gangs. The song of most bulbuls consists of several pleasant tinkling notes; but that of the Himalayan black bulbul is as musical as the bray of an ass. Men of science, in their wisdom, have given this bird the sibilant name of Hypsipetes psaroides. But the hillmen, in their greater wisdom, call the species the ban bakra, which means the ‘jungle goat’.

  Perhaps the flowers have something to do with the fairy legend. In April and May, Pari Tibba is covered with the dazzling yellow flowers of St John’s Wort (wort meaning herb). The paharis call the flower a wild rose, and it does resemble one. In Ireland it is called the Rose of Sharon.

  In Europe this flower is reputed to possess certain magical and curative properties. It is believed to drive away all evil and protect you from witches. But do not tread on St John’s Wort after sunset, a fairy horseman will come and carry you off, landing you almost anywhere.

  By day, St John’s Wort is kindly. Are you insane? Then drink the sap from the leaves of the plant, and you will be cured. Are you hurt? Take the juice and apply it to your wound — and if at first this doesn’t help, just keep applying juice until you stop bleeding, or breathing. Are you bald? Then rise early and bathe your head with the dew from St John’s Wort, and your hair will grow again — if you don’t catch pneumonia.

  Can St John’s Wort be connected with the fairy legend of Pari Tibba? It is said that most flowers, when they die, become fairies. This might be especially true of St John’s Wort.

  There is yet another legend connected with the mountain. A shepherd boy, playing on his flute, discovered a beautiful silver snake basking on a rock. The snake spoke to the boy, saying, ‘I was a princess once, but a jealous witch cast a spell over me and turned me into a snake. This spell can only be broken if someone who is pure in heart kisses me thrice. Many years have passed, and I have not been able to find one who is pure in heart.’ Then the shepherd boy took the snake in his arms, and he put his lips to its mouth, and at the third kiss he discovered that he was holding a beautiful princess in his arms. What happened afterwards is anybody’s guess.

  There are snakes on Pari Tibba, and though they are probably harmless, I have never tried taking one of them in my arms. Once, near a spring, I came upon a checkered water snake. Its body was a series of bulges. I used a stick to exert pressure along the snake’s length, and it disgorged five frogs. They came out one after the other, and, to my astonishment, hopped off, little the worse for their harrowing experience. Perhaps they, too, were enchanted. Perhaps shepherd boys, when they kiss the snake-princess, are turned into frogs and remain inside the snake’s belly until a writer comes along with a magic stick and releases them from bondage.

  Biologists probably have their own explanation for the frogs, but I’m all for perpetuating the fairy legends of Pari Tibba.

  The Elephant and the Cassowary Bird

  The baby elephant, another of Grandfather’s unusual pets, wasn’t out of place in our home in north India because India is where elephants belong, and in any case our house was full of pets brought home by Grandfather, who was in the Forest Service. But the cassowary bird was different. No one had ever seen such a bird before — not in India, that is. Grandfather had picked it up on a voyage to Singapore, where he’d been given the bird by a rubber planter who’d got it from a Dutch trader who’d got it from a man in Indonesia.

  Anyway, it ended up at our home in D
ehra, and seemed to do quite well in the sub-tropical climate. It looked like a cross between a turkey and an ostrich, but bigger than the former and smaller than the latter — about five feet in height. It was not a beautiful bird, nor even a friendly one, but it had come to stay, and everyone was curious about it, especially the baby elephant.

  Right from the start the baby elephant took a great interest in the cassowary. He would circle round the odd creature, and diffidently examine with his trunk the texture of its stumpy wings; of course, he suspected no evil, and his childlike curiosity encouraged him to take liberties which resulted in an unpleasant experience.

  Noticing the baby elephant’s attempts to make friends with the rather morose cassowary, we felt a bit apprehensive. Self-contained and sullen, the big bird responded only by slowly and slyly raising one of its powerful legs, all the while gazing into space with an innocent air. We knew what the gesture meant: we had seen that treacherous leg raised on many an occasion, and suddenly shooting out with a force that would have done credit to a vicious camel. In fact, camel and cassowary kicks are delivered on the same plan, except that the camel kicks backward like a horse and the bird forward.

  We wished to spare our baby elephant a painful experience, and led him away from the bird. But he persisted in his friendly overtures, and one morning he received an ugly reward. Rapid as lightning, the cassowary hit straight from the hip and knee joints, and the elephant ran squealing to Grandfather.

  For several days he avoided the cassowary, and we thought he had learnt his lesson. He crossed and recrossed the compound and the garden, swinging his trunk, thinking furiously. Then, a week later, he appeared on the veranda at breakfast time in his usual cheery, childlike fashion, sidling up to the cassowary as if nothing had happened.