by Ruskin Bond
Junior sahib shut himself up in his room, and smoked countless cigarettes—a sure sign that his nerves were going to pieces.
Every now and then the memsahib would come out and shoo us off; and because she wasn’t an enemy, we obliged by retreating to the garden wall. After all, Slow and I depended on her for much of our board if not for our lodging. But Junior sahib had only to show his face outside the house, and all the crows in the area would be after him like avenging furies.
‘It doesn’t look as though they are going to forgive you,’ said the memsahib.
‘Elephants never forget, and crows never forgive,’ said the Colonel.
‘Would you like to borrow my catapult, Uncle?’ asked the boy. ‘Just for self-protection, you know.’
‘Shut up,’ said Junior sahib and went to bed.
One day he sneaked out of the back door and dashed across to the garage. A little later the family’s old car, seldom used, came out of the garage with Junior sahib at the wheel. He’d decided that if he couldn’t take a walk in safety he’d go for a drive. All the windows were up.
No sooner had the car turned into the driveway than about a dozen crows dived down on it, crowding the bonnet and flapping in front of the windscreen. Junior sahib couldn’t see a thing. He swung the steering wheel left, right and center, and the car went off the driveway, ripped through a hedge, crushed a bed of sweet peas, and came to a stop against the trunk of a mango tree.
Junior sahib just sat there, afraid to open the door. The family had to come out of the house and rescue him.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the Colonel.
‘I’ve bruised my knees,’ said Junior sahib.
‘Never mind our knees,’ said the memsahib, gazing around at the ruin of her garden. ‘What about my sweet peas?’
‘I think your uncle is going to have a nervous breakdown,’ I heard the Colonel saying.
‘What’s that?’ asked the boy. ‘Is it the same as a car having a breakdown?’
‘Well—not exactly. . . .But you could call it a mind breaking up.’
Junior sahib had been refusing to leave his room or take his meals. The family was worried about him. I was worried, too. Believe it or not, we crows are among the very few who sincerely desire the preservation of the human species.
‘He needs a change,’ said the memsahib.
‘A rest cure,’ said the Colonel sarcastically. ‘A rest from doing nothing.’
‘Send him to Switzerland,’ suggested the boy.
‘We can’t afford that. But we can take him up to a hill-station.’ ‘The nearest hill-station was some fifty miles as the human drives (only ten as the crow flies). Many people went up during the summer months. It wasn’t fancied much by crows.
For one thing, it was a tidy sort of place, and people lived in houses that were set fairly far apart. Opportunities for scavenging were limited. Also it was rather cold and the trees
were inconvenient and uncomfortable. A friend of mine who had spent a night in a pine tree said he hadn’t been able to sleep because of prickly pine needles and the wind howling through the branches.
‘Let’s all go up for a holiday,’ said the memsahib. ‘We can spend a week in a boarding house. All of us need a change.’
A few days later the house was locked up, and the family piled into the old car and drove off to the hills.
I had the grounds to myself.
The dog had gone too, and the gardener spent all day dozing in his hammock. There was no one around to trouble me.
‘We’ve got the whole place to ourselves,’ I told Slow.
‘Yes, but what good is that? With everyone gone, there are no throw-aways, give-aways and take-aways!’
‘We’ll have to try the house next door.’
‘And be driven off by the other crows? That’s not our territory, you know. We can go across to help them, or to ask for their help, but we’re not supposed to take their pickings. It just isn’t cricket, old boy.’
We could have tried the bazaar or the railway station, where there is always a lot of rubbish to be found, but there is also a lot of competition in those places. The station crows are gangsters. The bazaar crows are bullies. Slow and I had grown soft. We’d have been no match for the bad boys.
‘I’ve just realized how much we depend on humans.’ I said. ‘We could go back to living in the jungle,’ said Slow.
‘No, that would be too much like hard work. We’d be living on wild fruit most of the time. Besides, the jungle crows won’t have anything to do with us now. Ever since we took up with humans, we became the outcasts of the bird world.’
‘That means we’re almost human.’
‘You might say we have all their vices and none of their virtues.’
‘Just a different set of values, old boy.’
‘Like eating hens’ eggs instead of crows’ eggs. That’s something in their favour. And while you’re hanging around here waiting for the mangoes to fall, I’m off to locate our humans.’
Slow’s beak fell open. He looked like—well, a hungry crow.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow them up to the hill- station? You don’t even know where they are staying.’
‘I’ll soon find out,’ I said, and took off for the hills.
You’d be surprised at how simple it is to be a good detective, if only you put your mind to it. Of course, if Ellery Queen had been able to fly, he wouldn’t have required fifteen chapters and his father’s assistance to crack a case.
Swooping low over the hill-station, it wasn’t long before I spotted my humans’ old car. It was parked outside a boarding house called the Climber’s Rest. I hadn’t seen anyone climbing, but dozing in an armchair in the garden was my favourite human.
I perched on top of a colourful umbrella and waited for Junior sahib to wake up. I decided it would be rather inconsiderate of me to disturb his sleep, so I waited patiently on the brolly , looking at him with one eye and keeping one eye on the house. He stirred uneasily, as though he’d suddenly had a bad dream; then he opened his eyes. I must have been the first thing he saw.
‘Good morning,’ I cawed, in a friendly tone—always ready to forgive and forget, that’s Speedy!
He leapt out of the armchair and ran into the house, hollering at the top of his voice.
I supposed he hadn’t been able to contain his delight at seeing me again. Humans can be funny that way. They’ll hate you one day and love you the next.
Well Junior sahib ran all over the boarding house, screaming: ‘It’s that crow, it’s that crow! He’s following me everywhere!’
Various people, including the family, ran outside to see what the commotion was about, and I thought it would be better to make myself scarce. So I flew to the top of a spruce tree and stayed very still and quiet.
‘Crow! What crow?’ said the Colonel.
‘Our crow!’ cried Junior sahib. ‘The one that persecutes me. I was dreaming of it just now, and when I opened my eyes, there it was, on the garden umbrella!’
‘There’s nothing there now,’ said the memsahib. ‘You probably hadn’t woken up completely.’
‘He is having illusions again,’ said the boy. ‘Delusions,’ corrected the Colonel.
‘Now look here,’ said the memsahib. ‘You’ll have to pull yourself together. You’ll take leave of your senses if you don’t.’
‘I tell you, it’s here!’ sobbed Junior sahib. ‘It’s following me everywhere.’
‘It’s grown fond of Uncle,’ said the boy. ‘And it seems Uncle can’t live without crows.’
Junior sahib looked up with a wild glint in his eye.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘I can’t live without them. That’s the answer to my problem. I don’t hate crows—I love them!’
Everyone just stood around goggling at Junior sahib.
‘I’m feeling fine now,’ he carried on. ‘What a difference it makes if you can just do the opposite to what you’ve been doing before! I thought
I hated crows. But all the time I really loved them!’ And flapping his arms, and trying to caw like a crow, he went prancing about the garden.
‘Now he thinks he’s a crow,’ said the boy. ‘Is he still having delusions?’
‘That’s right,’ said the memsahib. ‘Delusions of grandeur.’
After that, the family decided that there was no point in staying on in the hill-station any longer. Junior sahib had completed his rest cure. And even if he was the only one who believed himself cured, that was all right, because after all he was the one who mattered. . . .If you’re feeling fine, can there be anything wrong with you?
No sooner was everyone back in the bungalow than Junior sahib took to hopping barefoot on the grass early every morning, all the time scattering food about for the crows. Bread, chappatties, cooked rice, curried eggplants, the memsahib’s homemade toffee—you name it, we got it!
Slow and I were the first to help ourselves to these dawn offerings, and soon the other crows had joined us on the lawn. We didn’t mind. Junior sahib brought enough for everyone.
‘We ought to honour him in some way,’ said Slow.
‘Yes, why not?’ said I. ‘There was someone else, hundreds of years ago, who fed the birds. They followed him wherever he went.’
‘That’s right. They made him a saint. But as far as I know, he didn’t feed any crows. At least, you don’t see any crows in the pictures—just sparrows and robins and wagtails.’
‘Small fry. Our human is dedicated exclusively to crows. Do you realise that, Slow?’
‘Sure. We ought to make him the patron saint of crows. What do you say, fellows?’
‘Caw, caw, caw!’ All the crows were in agreement.
‘St Corvus!’ said Slow, as Junior sahib emerged from the house, laden with good things to eat.
‘Corvus, corvus, corvus!’ we cried.
And what a pretty picture he made—a crow eating from his hand, another perched on his shoulder, and about a dozen of us on the grass, forming a respectful ring around him.
From persecutor to protector; from beastliness to saintliness. And sometimes it can be the other way round: you never know with humans!
A Tiger in the House
Timothy, the tiger-cub, was discovered by Grandfather on a hunting expedition in the Terai jungle near Dehra.
Grandfather was no shikari, but as he knew the forests of the Siwalik hills better than most people, he was persuaded to accompany the party—it consisted of several Very Important Persons from Delhi—to advise on the terrain and the direction the beaters should take once a tiger had been spotted.
The camp itself was sumptuous—seven large tents (one for each shikari), a dining-tent, and a number of servants’ tents. The dinner was very good, as Grandfather admitted afterwards; it was not often that one saw hot-water plates, finger-glasses, and seven or eight courses, in a tent in the jungle! But that was how things were done in the days of the Viceroys. . . . There were also some fifteen elephants, four of them with howdahs for the shikaris, and the others especially trained for taking part in the beat.
The sportsmen never saw a tiger, nor did they shoot anything else, though they saw a number of deer, peacock, and wild boar. They were giving up all hope of finding a tiger, and were beginning to shoot at jackals, when Grandfather, strolling down the forest path at some distance from the rest of the party, discovered a little tiger about eighteen inches long, hiding among the intricate roots of a banyan tree. Grandfather picked him up, and brought him home after the camp had broken up. He had the distinction of being the only member of the party to have bagged any game, dead or alive.
At first the tiger cub, who was named Timothy by Grandmother, was brought up entirely on milk given to him in a feeding-bottle by our cook, Mahmoud. But the milk proved too rich for him, and he was put on a diet of raw mutton and cod liver oil, to be followed later by a more tempting diet of pigeons and rabbits.
Timothy was provided with two companions—Toto the monkey, who was bold enough to pull the young tiger by the tail, and then climb up the curtains if Timothy lost his temper; and a small mongrel puppy, found on the road by Grandfather.
At first Timothy appeared to be quite afraid of the puppy, and darted back with a spring if it came too near. He would make absurd dashes at it with his large forepaws, and then retreat to a ridiculously safe distance. Finally, he allowed the puppy to crawl on his back and rest there!
One of Timothy’s favourite amusements was to stalk anyone who would play with him, and so, when I came to live with Grandfather, I became one of the tiger’s favourites. With a crafty look in his glittering eyes, and his body crouching, he would creep closer and closer to me, suddenly making a dash for my feet, rolling over on his back and kicking with delight, and pretending to bite my ankles.
He was by this time the size of a full-grown retriever, and when I took him out for walks, people on the road would give us a wide berth. When he pulled hard on his chain, I had difficulty in keeping up with him. His favourite place in the house was the drawing-room, and he would make himself comfortable on the long sofa, reclining there with great dignity, and snarling at anybody who tried to get him off.
Timothy had clean habits, and would scrub his face with his paws exactly like a cat. He slept at night in the cook’s quarters, and was always delighted at being let out by him in the morning.
‘One of these days,’ declared Grandmother in her prophetic manner, ‘We are going to find Timothy sitting on Mahmoud’s bed, and no sign of the cook except his clothes and shoes!’
Of course, it never came to that, but when Timothy was about six months old a change came over him; he grew steadily less friendly. When out for a walk with me, he would try to steal away to stalk a cat or someone’s pet Pekinese. Sometimes at night we would hear frenzied cackling from the poultry house, and in the morning there would be feathers lying all over the verandah. Timothy had to be chained up more often. And finally, when he began to stalk Mahmoud about the house with what looked like villainous intent, Grandfather decided it was time to transfer him to a zoo.
The nearest zoo was at Lucknow, two hundred miles away.
Reserving a first class compartment for himself and Timothy— no one would share a compartment with them—Grandfather took him to Lucknow where the zoo authorities were only too glad to receive as a gift a well-fed and fairly civilized tiger.
*
About six months later, when my grandparents were visiting relatives in Lucknow, Grandfather took the opportunity of calling at the zoo to see how Timothy was getting on. I was not there to accompany him, but I heard all about it when he returned to Dehra.
Arriving at the zoo, Grandfather made straight for the particular cage in which Timothy had been interned. The tiger was there, crouched in a corner, full-grown and with a magnificent striped coat.
‘Hello Timothy!’ said Grandfather and, climbing the railing with ease, he put his arm through the bars of the cage.
The tiger approached the bars, and allowed Grandfather to put both hands around his head. Grandfather stroked the tiger’s forehead and tickled his ears, and, whenever he growled, smacked him across the mouth, which was his old way of keeping him quiet.
It licked Grandfather’s hands and only sprang away when a leopard in the next cage snarled at him. Grandfather ‘shooed’ the leopard away, and the tiger returned to lick his hands; but every now and then the leopard would rush at the bars, and he would slink back to his corner.
A number of people had gathered to watch the reunion when a keeper pushed his way through the crowd and asked Grandfather what he was doing.
‘I’m talking to Timothy,’ said Grandfather. ‘Weren’t you here when I gave him to the zoo six months ago?’
‘I haven’t been here very long,’ said the surprised keeper. ‘Please continue your conversation. But I have never been able to touch him myself, he is always very bad tempered.’
‘Why don’t you put him somewhere else?’ suggested Grandfather.
‘That leopard keeps frightening him. I’ll go and see the Superintendent about it.’
Grandfather went in search of the Superintendent of the zoo,
but found that he had gone home early; and so, after wandering about the zoo for a little while, he returned to Timothy’s cage to say goodbye. It was beginning to get dark.
He had been stroking and slapping Timothy for about five minutes when he found another keeper observing him with some alarm. Grandfather recognized him as the keeper who had been there when Timothy had first come to the zoo.
‘You remember me,’ said Grandfather. ‘Now why don’t you transfer Timothy to another cage, away from this stupid leopard?’
‘But—sir—’ stammered the keeper. ‘It is not your tiger.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Grandfather testily. ‘I realize he is no longer mine. But you might at least take a suggestion or two from me.’
‘I remember your tiger very well,’ said the keeper. ‘He died two months ago.’
‘Died!’ exclaimed Grandfather.
‘Yes, sir, of pneumonia. This tiger was trapped in the hills only last month, and he is very dangerous!’
Grandfather could think of nothing to say. The tiger was still licking his arm, with increasing relish. Grandfather took what seemed to him an age to withdraw his hand from the cage.
With his face near the tiger’s he mumbled, ‘Goodnight, Timothy,’ and giving the keeper a scornful look, walked briskly out of the zoo.
Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright
On the left bank of the Ganga, where it emerges from the Himalayan foothills, there is a long stretch of heavy forest. These are villages on the fringe of the forest, inhabited by bamboo-cutters and farmers, but there are few signs of commerce or pilgrimage. Hunters, however, have found the area an ideal hunting-ground during the last seventy years, and as a result the animals are not as numerous as they used to be. The trees, too, have been disappearing slowly; and, as the forest recedes, the animals lose their food and shelter and move on further into the foothills. Slowly, they are being denied the right to live.
