Ruskin Bond Children's Omnibus Volume 2

by Ruskin Bond

  The tunnel grew darker as he walked further into it. When he had gone about twenty yards, it became pitch black. Suraj had to turn and look back at the opening to reassure himself that there was still daylight outside. Ahead of him, the tunnel’s other opening was just a small round circle of light.

  The tunnel was still full of smoke from the train, but it would be several hours before another train came through. Till then, it belonged to the jungle again.

  Suraj didn’t stop, because there was nothing to do in the tunnel and nothing to see. He had simply wanted to walk through, so that he would know what the inside of a tunnel was really like. The walls were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scuttled between the lines.

  Coming straight from the darkness into the light, Suraj was dazzled by the sudden glare. He put a hand up to shade his eyes and looked up at the tree-covered hillside. He thought he saw something moving between the trees.

  It was just a flash of orange and gold, and a long swishing tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.

  About fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel stood the watchman’s hut. Marigolds grew in front of the hut, and at the back there was a small vegetable patch. It was the watchman’s duty to inspect the tunnel and keep it clear of obstacles. Every day, before the train came through, he would walk the length of the tunnel. If all was well, he would return to his hut and take a nap. If something was wrong, he would walk back up the line and wave a red flag and the engine-driver would slow down. At night, the watchman lit an oil lamp and made a similar inspection of the tunnel. Of course, he could not stop the train if there was a porcupine on the line. But if there was any danger to the train, he’d go back up the line and wave his lamp to the approaching engine. If all was well, he’d hang his lamp at the door of the hut and go to sleep.

  He was just settling down on his cot for an afternoon nap when he saw the boy emerge from the tunnel. He waited until Suraj was only a few feet away and then said, ‘Welcome, welcome, I don’t often have visitors. Sit down for a while, and tell me why you were inspecting my tunnel.’

  ‘Is it your tunnel?’ asked Suraj.

  ‘It is,’ said the watchman. ‘It is truly my tunnel, since no one else will have anything to do with it. I have only lent it to the government.’

  Suraj sat down on the edge of the cot.

  ‘I wanted to see the train come through,’ he said. ‘And then, when it had gone, I thought I’d walk through the tunnel.’

  ‘And what did you find in it?’

  ‘Nothing. It was very dark. But when I came out, I thought I saw an animal—up on the hill—but I’m not sure, it moved away very quickly.’

  ‘It was a leopard you saw,’ said the watchman. ‘My leopard.’

  ‘Do you own a leopard too?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And do you lend it to the government?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘No, it’s a leopard that minds its own business. It comes to this range for a few days every month.’

  ‘Have you been here a long time?’ asked Suraj.

  ‘Many years. My name is Sunder Singh.’

  ‘My name’s Suraj.’

  ‘There’s one train during the day. And another during the night. Have you seen the night mail come through the tunnel?’

  ‘No. At what time does it come?’

  ‘About nine o’clock, if it isn’t late. You could come and sit here with me, if you like. And after it has gone, I’ll take you home.’

  ‘I shall ask my parents,’ said Suraj. ‘Will it be safe?’

  ‘Of course. It’s safer in the jungle than in the town. Nothing happens to me out here, but last month when I went into the town, I was almost run over by a bus.’

  Sunder Singh yawned and stretched himself out on the cot. ‘And now I’m going to take a nap, my friend. It is too hot to be up and about in the afternoon.’

  ‘Everyone goes to sleep in the afternoon,’ complained Suraj. ‘My father lies down as soon as he’s had his lunch.’

  ‘Well, the animals also rest in the heat of the day. It is only the tribe of boys who cannot, or will not, rest.’

  Sunder Singh placed a large banana leaf over his face to keep away the flies, and was soon snoring gently. Suraj stood up, looking up and down the railway tracks. Then he began walking back to the village.

  The following evening, towards dusk, as the flying foxes swooped silently out of the trees, Suraj made his way to the watchman’s hut.

  It had been a long hot day, but now the earth was cooling, and a light breeze was moving through the trees. It carried with it a scent of mango blossoms, the promise of rain.

  Sunder Singh was waiting for Suraj. He had watered his small garden, and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on a small oil stove.

  ‘I’m making tea,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like a glass of hot tea while waiting for a train.’

  They drank their tea, listening to the sharp notes of the tailorbird and the noisy chatter of the seven sisters. As the brief twilight faded, most of the birds fell silent. Sunder Singh lit his oil lamp and said it was time for him to inspect the tunnel. He moved off towards the tunnel, while Suraj sat on the cot, sipping his tea. In the dark, the trees seemed to move closer to him. And the night life of the forest was conveyed on the breeze—the sharp call of a barking deer, the cry of a fox, the quaint tonk-tonk of a nightjar. There were some sounds that Suraj couldn’t recognize—sounds that came from the trees, creakings and whisperings, as though the trees were coming alive, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers.

  Sunder Singh stood inside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds were familiar to him and he did not give them much thought; but something else—a padded footfall, a rustle of dry leaves—made him stand alert for a few seconds, peering into the darkness. Then, humming softly to himself, he returned to where Suraj was waiting. Another ten minutes remained for the night mail to arrive.

  As Sunder Singh sat down on the cot beside Suraj, a new sound reached both of them quite distinctly—a rhythmic sawing sound, as if someone was cutting through the branch of a tree.

  ‘What’s that?’ whispered Suraj.

  ‘It’s the leopard,’ said Sunder Singh. ‘I think it’s in the tunnel.’

  ‘The train will soon be here,’ reminded Suraj.

  ‘Yes, my friend. And if we don’t drive the leopard out of the tunnel, it will be run over and killed. I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘But won’t it attack us if we try to drive it out?’ asked Suraj, beginning to share the watchman’s concern.

  ‘Not this leopard. It knows me well. We have seen each other many times. It has a weakness for goats and stray dogs, but it won’t harm us. Even so, I’ll take my axe with me. You stay here, Suraj.’

  ‘No, I’m going with you. It’ll be better than sitting here alone in the dark!’

  ‘All right, but stay close behind me. And remember, there’s nothing to fear.’

  Raising his lamp high, Sunder Singh advanced into the tunnel, shouting at the top of his voice to try and scare away the animal. Suraj followed close behind, but he found he was unable to do any shouting. His throat was quite dry.

  They had gone just about twenty paces into the tunnel when the light from the lamp fell upon the leopard. It was crouching between the tracks, only fifteen feet away from them. It was not a very big leopard, but it looked lithe and sinewy. Baring its teeth and snarling, it went down on its belly, tail twitching.

  Suraj and Sunder Singh both shouted together. Their voices rang through the tunnel. And the leopard, uncertain as to how many terrifying humans were there in the tunnel with him, turned swiftly and disappeared into the darkness.

  To make sure that it had gone, Sunder Singh and Suraj walked the length of the tunnel. When they returned to the entrance, the rails were beginning to hum. They knew the train was
coming.

  Suraj put his hand to the rails and felt its tremor. He heard the distant rumble of the train. And then the engine came round the bend, hissing at them, scattering sparks into the darkness, defying the jungle as it roared through the steep sides of the cutting. It charged straight at the tunnel, and into it, thundering past Suraj like the beautiful dragon of his dreams.

  And when it had gone, the silence returned and the forest seemed to breathe, to live again. Only the rails still trembled with the passing of the train.

  And they trembled to the passing of the same train, almost a week later, when Suraj and his father were both travelling in it.

  Suraj’s father was scribbling in a notebook, doing his accounts. Suraj sat at an open window staring out at the darkness. His father was going to Delhi on a business trip and had decided to take the boy along. (‘I don’t know where he gets to most of the time,’ he’d complained. ‘I think it’s time he learnt something about my business.’)

  The night mail rushed through the forest with its hundreds of passengers. Tiny flickering lights came and went, as they passed small villages on the fringe of the jungle.

  Suraj heard the rumble as the train passed over a small bridge. It was too dark to see the hut near the cutting, but he knew they must be approaching the tunnel. He strained his eyes looking out into the night; and then, just as the engine let out a shrill whistle, Suraj saw the lamp.

  He couldn’t see Sunder Singh, but he saw the lamp, and he knew that his friend was out there.

  The train went into the tunnel and out again; it left the jungle behind and thundered across the endless plains; and Suraj stared out at the darkness, thinking of the lonely cutting in the forest, and the watchman with the lamp who would always remain a firefly for those travelling thousands, as he lit up the darkness for steam engines and leopards.

  HE NIGHT had been hot, the rain frequent, and I had been sleeping on the verandah instead of in the house. I was in my twenties, had begun to earn a living and felt I had certain responsibilities.

  In a short time, a tonga would take me to the railway station, and from there a train would take me to Bombay, and then a ship would take me to England. There would be work, interviews, a job, a different kind of life, so many things that this small bungalow of my grandfather would be remembered fitfully, in rare moments of reflection.

  When I awoke on the veranda, I saw a grey morning, smelt the rain on the red earth and remembered that I had to go away. A girl was standing on the veranda porch, looking at me very seriously. When I saw her, I sat up in bed with a start.

  She was a small dark girl, her eyes big and black, her pigtails tied up in a bright red ribbon, and she was fresh and clean like the rain and the red earth.

  She stood looking at me and was very serious.

  ‘Hullo,’ I said, smiling and trying to put her at ease. But the girl was business-like and acknowledged my greeting with a brief nod.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’ I asked, stretching my limbs. ‘Do you stay nearby?’

  With great assurance she said, ‘Yes, but I can stay on my own.’

  ‘You’re like me,’ I said, and for a while, forgot about being an old man of twenty. ‘I like to be on my own but I’m going away today.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, a little breathlessly.

  ‘Would you care to go to England?’

  ‘I want to go everywhere,’ she said. ‘To America and Africa and Japan and Honolulu.’

  ‘Maybe you will,’ I said. ‘I’m going everywhere, and no one can stop me… But what is it you want, what did you come for?’

  ‘I want some flowers but I can’t reach them.’ She waved her hand towards the garden, ‘That tree, see?’

  The coral tree stood in front of the house surrounded by pools of water and broken, fallen blossoms. The branches of the tree were thick with scarlet, pea-shaped flowers.

  ‘All right, just let me get ready.’

  The tree was easy to climb and I made myself comfortable on one of the lower branches, smiling down at the serious upturned face of the girl.

  ‘I’ll throw them down to you,’ I said.

  I bent a branch but the wood was young and green and I had to twist it several times before it snapped.

  ‘I’m not sure I ought to do this,’ I said as I dropped the flowering branch to the girl.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

  I felt a sudden nostalgic longing for childhood and an urge to remain behind in my grandfather’s house with its tangled memories and ghosts of yesteryear. But I was the only one left and what could I do except climb tamarind and jackfruit trees?

  ‘Have you many friends?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And who is the best?’

  ‘The cook. He lets me stay in the kitchen which is more interesting than the house. And I like to watch him cooking. And he gives me things to eat and tells me stories…’

  ‘And who is your second best friend?’

  She inclined her head to one side and thought very hard.

  ‘I’ll make you second best,’ she said.

  I sprinkled coral blossoms on her head. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m happy to be second best.’

  A tonga bell sounded at the gate and I looked out from the tree and said, ‘It’s come for me. I have to go now.’

  I climbed down.

  ‘Will you help me with my suitcases?’ I asked, as we walked together towards the veranda. ‘There’s no one here to help me. I am the last to go. Not because I want to go but because I have to.’

  I sat down on the cot and packed a few last things in my suitcase. All the doors of the house were locked. On my way to the station, I would leave the keys with the caretaker. I had already given instructions to the agent to try and sell the house. There was nothing more to be done. We walked in silence to the waiting tonga, thinking and wondering about each other. The girl stood at the side of the path, on the damp earth, looking at me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I hope I shall see you again.’

  ‘I’ll see you in London,’ she said. ‘Or America or Japan, I want to go everywhere.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ I said. ‘And perhaps I’ll come back and we’ll meet again in this garden. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

  She nodded and smiled. We knew it was an important moment. The tonga driver spoke to his pony and the carriage set off down the gravel path, rattling a little. The girl and I waved to each other. In the girl’s hand was a spring of coral blossom. As she waved, the blossoms fell apart and danced lightly in the breeze.

  ‘Goodbye!’ I called.

  ‘Goodbye!’ called the girl.

  The ribbon had come loose from her pigtail and lay on the ground with the coral blossoms.

  And she was fresh and clean like the rain and the red earth.

  E ARE used to sudden storms up here on the first range of the Himalayas. The old building in which we live has, for more than a hundred years, received the full force of the wind as it sweeps across the hills from the east.

  We’d lived in the building for more than ten years without a disaster. It had even taken the shock of a severe earthquake. As my granddaughter Dolly said, ‘It’s difficult to tell the new cracks from the old!’

  It’s a two-storey building, and I live on the upper floor with my family: my three grandchildren and their parents. The roof is made of corrugated tin sheets, the ceiling of wooden boards. That’s the traditional Mussoorie roof.

  Looking back at the experience, it was the sort of thing that should have happened in a James Thurber story, like the dam that burst or the ghost who got in. But I wasn’t thinking of Thurber at the time, although a few of his books were among the many I was trying to save from the icy rain pouring into my bedroom.

  Our roof had held fast in many a storm, but the wind that night was really fierce. It came rushing at us with a high-pitched, eerie wail. The old roof groaned and protested. It took a battering for several hours while
the rain lashed against the windows and the lights kept coming and going.

  There was no question of sleeping, but we remained in bed for warmth and comfort. The fire had long since gone out as the chimney had collapsed, bringing down a shower of sooty rainwater.

  After about four hours of buffeting, the roof could take it no longer. My bedroom faces east, so my portion of the roof was the first to go.

  The wind got under it and kept pushing until, with a ripping, groaning sound, the metal sheets shifted and slid off the rafters, some of them dropping with claps like thunder on to the road below.

  So that’s it, I thought. Nothing worse can happen. As long as the ceiling stays on, I’m not getting out of bed. We’ll collect our roof in the morning.

  Icy water splashing down on my face made me change my mind in a hurry. Leaping from the bed, I found that much of the ceiling had gone, too. Water was pouring on my open typewriter as well as on the bedside radio and bed cover.

  Picking up my precious typewriter (my companion for forty years) I stumbled into the front sitting room (and library), only to find a similar situation there. Water was pouring through the slats of the wooden ceiling, raining down on the open bookshelves.

  By now I had been joined by the children, who had come to my rescue. Their section of the roof hadn’t gone as yet. Their parents were struggling to close a window against the driving rain.

  ‘Save the books!’ shouted Dolly, the youngest, and that became our rallying cry for the next hour or two.

  Dolly and her brother Mukesh picked up armfuls of books and carried them into their room. But the floor was awash, so the books had to be piled on their beds. Dolly was helping me gather some of my papers when a large field rat jumped on to the desk in front of her. Dolly squealed and ran for the door.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Mukesh, whose love of animals extends even to field rats. ‘It’s only sheltering from the storm.’

  Big brother Rakesh whistled for our dog, Tony, but Tony wasn’t interested in rats just then. He had taken shelter in the kitchen, the only dry spot in the house.

  Two rooms were now practically roofless, and we could see the sky lit up by flashes of lightning.