RUSKIN BOND
I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep there that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover even during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way: only milkmen and charcoal-burners from the surrounding villages. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left in the area.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. In the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of kaleej pheasant, who went gliding down the ravine on open, motionless wings. I saw pine martens and a handsome red fox. I recognized the footprints of a bear.
As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon ‘grew accustomed to my face’, as Mr Higgins would say. More likely, they recognized my footfalls. My approach did not disturb them. A Spotted Forktail, which at first used to fly away, now remained perched on a boulder in the middle of the stream while I got across by means of other boulders only a few yards away. Its mellow call followed me up the hillside.
The langurs in the oak and rhododendron trees, who would at first go leaping through the branches at my approach, now watched me with some curiosity as they munched the tender green shoots of the oak. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering with excitement; and I knew I was not the cause of the disturbance.
As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. I looked up, and saw a great orange-gold leopard, sleek and spotted, poised on a rock about twenty feet away from me. The leopard looked at me once, briefly and with an air of disdain, and then sprang into a dense thicket, making absolutely no sound as it melted into the shadows.
I had disturbed the leopard in his quest for food. But a little later I heard the quickening cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest.
After that encounter I did not see the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence by certain movements.
Sometimes I thought I was being followed; and once, when I was late getting home and darkness closed in on the forest, I saw two bright eyes staring at me from a thicket. I stood still, my heart thudding against my ribs. Then the eyes danced away, and I realized that they were only fireflies.
One evening, near the stream, I found the remains of a barking deer which had only been partly eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of its meal, and decided that it had been disturbed while eating. Climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris resting beneath the pine trees. 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 were selling in Delhi at a thousand rupees each, they told me. I walked on.
But the hunters had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard’s pug marks, and they had kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away.
‘There’s a leopard about,’ they always told me. ‘You should carry a gun.’
I don’t have one,’ I said.
The birds were seldom 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, of course, the inevitable happened.
The men were coming up the hill, shouting and singing. 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. It had been shot in the neck and in the head.
‘We told you there was a leopard!’ they shouted, in great good humour. ‘Isn’t it a fine specimen?’
‘It was a fine leopard,’ I said.
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.
And God gave Man dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth...’
For a leopard-skin coat, value one thousand rupees.
S E V E N
The Tiger in the Tunnel
RUSKIN BOND
Tembu, the boy, opened his eyes in the dark and wondered if his father was ready to leave the hut on his nightly errand.
There was no moon that night, and the deathly stillness of the surrounding jungle was broken only occasionally by the shrill cry of a cicada. Sometimes from far off came the hollow hammering of a woodpecker, carried along on the faint breeze. Or the grunt of a wild boar could be heard as it dug up a favourite root. But these sounds were rare, and the silence of the forest always returned to swallow them up.
Baldeo, the watchman, was awake. He stretched himself, slowly unwinding the heavy shawl that covered him like a shroud. It was close on midnight and the chilly air made him shiver. The station, a small shack backed by heavy jungle, was a station in name only; for trains only stopped there, if at all, for a few seconds before entering the deep cutting that led to the tunnel. Most trains merely slowed down before taking the sharp curve before the cutting.
Baldeo was responsible for signalling whether or not the tunnel was clear of obstruction, and his hand-worked signal stood before the entrance. At night it was his duty to see that the lamp was burning, and that the overland mail passed through safely.
‘Shall I come too, Father?’ asked Tembu sleepily, still lying huddled in a corner of the hut.
‘No, it is cold tonight. Do not get up.’
Tembu, who was twelve, did not always sleep with his father at the station, for he had also to help in the home, where his mother and small sister were usually alone. They lived in a small tribal village on the outskirts of the forest, about three miles from the station. Their small rice fields did not provide them with more than a bare living, and Baldeo considered himself lucky to have got the job of Khalasi at this small wayside signal stop.
Still drowsy, Baldeo groped for his lamp in the darkness, then fumbled about in search of matches. When he had produced a light, he left the hut, closed the door behind him, and set off along the permanent way. Tembu had fallen asleep again.
Baldeo wondered whether the lamp on the signal post was still alight. Gathering his shawl closer about him, he stumbled on, sometimes along the rails, sometimes along the ballast. He longed to get back to his warm corner in the hut.
The eeriness of the place was increased by the neighbouring hills which overhung the main line threateningly. On entering the cutting with its sheer rock walls towering high above the rails, Baldeo could not help thinking about the wild animals he might encounter. He had heard many tales of the famous tunnel tiger, a man-eater, who was supposed to frequent this spot; but he hardly believed these stories for, since his arrival at this place a month ago, he had not seen or even heard a tiger.
There had, of course, been panthers, and only a few days previously the villagers had killed one with their spears and axes. Baldeo had occasionally heard the sawing of a panther calling to its mate, but they had not come near the tunnel or shed.
Baldeo walked confidently for, being a tribal himself, he was used to the jungle and its ways. Like his forefathers, he carried a small axe, fragile to look at, but deadly when in use. With it, in three or four swift strokes, he could cut down a tree as neatly as if it had been sawn; and he prided himself on his skill in wielding it against wild animals. He had killed a young boar with it once, and the family had feasted on the flesh for three days. The axe head of pure steel, thin but ringing true like a bell, had been made by his father over a charcoal fire. This axe was part of himself, and wherever he went, be it to the local market seven miles away, or to a tribal dance, the axe was always in his hand. Occasionally an official who had come to the station had offered
him good money for the weapon; but Baldeo had no intention of parting with it.
The cutting curved sharply, and in the darkness the black entrance to the tunnel loomed up menacingly. The signal light was out. Baldeo set to work to haul the lamp down by its chain. If the oil had finished, he would have to return to the hut for more. The mail train was due in five minutes.
Once more he fumbled for his matches. Then suddenly he stood still and listened. The frightened cry of a barking deer, followed by a crashing sound in the undergrowth, made Baldeo hurry. There was still a little oil in the lamp, and after an instant’s hesitation he lit the lamp again and hoisted it back into position. Having done this, he walked quickly down the tunnel, swinging his own lamp, so that the shadows leapt up and down the soot-stained walls, and having made sure that the line was clear, he returned to the entrance and sat down to wait for the mail train.
The train was late. Sitting huddled up, almost dozing, he soon forgot his surroundings and began to nod.
Back in the hut, the trembling of the ground told of the approach of the train, and a low, distant rumble woke the boy, who sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘Father, it’s time to light the lamp,’ he mumbled, and then, realizing that his father had been gone some time, he lay down again; but he was wide awake now, waiting for the train to pass, waiting for his father’s returning footsteps.
A low grunt resounded from the top of the cutting. In a second Baldeo was awake, all his senses alert. Only a tiger could emit such a sound.
There was no shelter for Baldeo, but he grasped his axe firmly and tensed his body, trying to make out the direction from which the animal was approaching. For some time there was only silence, even the usual jungle noises seemed to have ceased altogether. Then a thump and the rattle of small stones announced that the tiger had sprung into the cutting.
Baldeo, listening as he had never listened before, wondered if it was making for the tunnel or the opposite direction – the direction of the hut, in which Tembu would be lying unprotected. He did not have to wonder for long. Before a minute had passed he made out the huge body of the tiger trotting steadily towards him. Its eyes shone a brilliant green in the light from the signal lamp. Flight was useless, for in the dark the tiger would be more sure-footed than Baldeo and would soon be upon him from behind. Baldeo stood with his back to the signal post, motionless, staring at the great brute moving rapidly towards him. The tiger, used to the ways of men, for it had been preying on them for years, came on fearlessly, and with a quick run and a snarl struck out with its right paw, expecting to bowl over this puny man who dared stand in the way.
Baldeo, however, was ready. With a marvellously agile leap he avoided the paw and brought his axe down on the animal’s shoulder. The tiger gave a roar and attempted to close in. Again Baldeo drove his axe with true aim; but, to his horror, the beast swerved, and the axe caught the tiger on the shoulder, almost severing the leg. To make matters worse, the axe remained stuck in the bone, and Baldeo was left without a weapon.
The tiger, roaring with pain, now sprang upon Baldeo, bringing him down and then tearing at his broken body. It was all over in a few minutes. Baldeo was conscious only of a searing pain down his back, and then there was blackness and the night closed in on him for ever.
The tiger drew off and sat down licking its wounded leg, roaring every now and then with agony. It did not notice the faint rumble that shook the earth, followed by the distant puffing of an engine steadily climbing. The overland mail was approaching. Through the trees beyond the cutting, as the train advanced, the glow of the furnace could be seen; and showers of sparks fell like Diwali lights over the forest.
As the train entered the cutting, the engine whistled once, loud and piercingly. The tiger raised its head, then slowly got to its feet. It found itself trapped like the man. Flight along the cutting was impossible. It entered the tunnel, running as fast as its wounded leg would carry it. And then, with a roar and a shower of sparks, the train entered the yawning tunnel. The noise in the confined space was deafening; but, when the train came out into the open, on the other side, silence returned once more to the forest and the tunnel.
At the next station the driver slowed down and stopped his train to water the engine. He got down to stretch his legs and decided to examine the headlamps. He received the surprise of his life; for, just above the cowcatcher lay the major portion of the tiger, cut in half by the engine.
There was considerable excitement and conjecture at the station, but back at the cutting there was no sound except for the sobs of the boy as he sat beside the body of his father. He sat there a long time, unafraid of the darkness, guarding the body from jackals and hyenas, until the first faint light of dawn brought with it the arrival of the relief watchman.
Tembu and his sister and mother were plunged in grief for two whole days; but life had to go on, and a living had to be made, and all the responsibility now fell on Tembu. Three nights later, he was at the cutting, lighting the signal lamp for the overland mail.
He sat down in the darkness to wait for the train, and sang softly to himself. There was nothing to be afraid of – his father had killed the tiger, the forest gods were pleased; and besides, he had the axe with him, his father’s axe, and he knew how to use it.
E I G H T
Those Thirty Minutes
KRISHAN CHANDER
Two men were in hot pursuit of him. From a height, as they cut across the flat, level fields, they looked no bigger than toy soldiers and the rifles slung across their shoulders, the size of matchsticks. They were out to kill him. But a long distance separated them from him. He looked below, measuring the distance with his eyes. ‘It’ll take them four hours before they reach this spot,’ he muttered. ‘And by then...’
Turning round, he looked hopefully towards the lofty Sardu mountain, whose 12,000 ft summit was only an hour’s climb. Once he gained the summit, he would be beyond the reach of his pursuers. On the other side of the Sardu mountain stretched the forest of Gadiali. He knew it like the palm of his hand. Not even the wild animals that lived in it knew the lay of the land better than him. Its secret paths, its animal haunts and the places where he could find water – every bit of the forest was familiar to him. If only he could reach the top!
From the top he would be able to look down the green mountain slope and command a good view of the Gadiali forest, and beyond it, the boundary line where the bridge had been blown up with dynamite. The bridge, now lying in ruins, marked off the boundary of his own territory. The important thing was to gain the top. From there he could rush down the slope and enter the forest which it would not take him long to cross. That there was now no bridge did not matter. An excellent swimmer, he could get across the Gadiali river without much strain. And then to his own land and safety.
His pursuers were still a long way away from him. Oh no, they would never be able to catch him. He was young and strong and had taken a four-hour start over them. He could even rest for a few minutes and watch his pursuers as they painfully worked their way up through the fields down in the valley – the pursuers who were after his life. Why, he could even afford to laugh at them. They would never be able to catch him.
He knew they had spotted him. The mountainside, as it swept upwards, was bare except for shrubs too low to hide him from their gaze. The sparse patches of grass drenched in overnight rain and the treacherous moss underneath, which smelled of stagnant water, had made the black rocks slippery. He must be careful and watch his steps. That was why he had decided to cover the last lap of the climb in one hour although he could have done it in half the time.
His only regret was that he had no rifle. While running away from the village below, he had forgotten the rifle in a hurry. An unpardonable lapse, but it was now too late to make amends for it. Had he had the rifle his pursuers would not have dared follow him with such brazen confidence. He would have hid behind a rock and waited for them. As they came within his rifle’s range he
would have picked them off one by one. But now he could do nothing about it. He was unarmed. But come what may, he must keep out of their rifle’s range.
As he watched his pursuers, his gaze swept over the fields and beyond them to Mogri’s village lying hidden behind trees laden with apples, plums and apricots. A deep line of sadness etched across his heart, sharp like the dagger’s blade which now lay stuck in Mogri’s heart -Mogri, who was beautiful like apple blossoms.
It had become necessary for Kashar to kill the nineteen-year-old Mogri, the girl with dark sparkling eyes and lips red as ambers, whose laughter cascaded like blossoms from the apple trees. He had never seen any girl laugh like her. When half open, her lips blazed like red-hot coals. When he put his lips on hers, he felt his blood was aflame, letting off sparks. And then it would congeal into a kiss.
‘You are a brute, Kashar!’ she would say, panting, slapping his face with her small hands and pushing him away from her.
‘And you are like the fire!’ he would reply stepping back, amazed at the impetuosity of his passion.
‘No one in my village knows that I love the son of our enemy.’
‘Nor do my soldiers know that I go out to the Gadiali forest to meet our enemy’s daughter.’
Their rendezvous was the Gadiali forest by the jeep track where they would sit together on the broken trunk of a deodar tree. While Kashar’s jeep stood behind them they would silently watch the fountain rising along the mountain slope, its sprouting drops falling asleep on the petals of wild flowers. They sat drenched in the green light filtering through pillar-like deodar trees whose leafy tops bent over them like chandeliers. Kashar felt as if he had trespassed into the sanctum of a Moghul king. For sometime they would sit lost in the stillness of the forest and then they would whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears. The forest slept and murmured by turn.
Mogri came from a village across the enemy territory, carrying a basket of fruits. She would stop near the Gadiali bridge, guarded by Kashar and his soldiers. Sometimes she brought apples, pears, bananas, peaches and bunches of grapes, and at others, corncobs, walnuts and apricots the size of gold coins. Charmed by her beauty the soldiers would cluster round her and buy up all the fruits, emptying her basket in no time. Then Kashar would appear on the scene. The soldiers knew. They would tactfully disappear into the forest.
Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 1 Page 6
