by Ruskin Bond
COLONEL : I can’t see a thing.
MISS M : I thought not. Can you hear it?
(PAUSE. WOODPECKER KNOCKS FAINTLY)
COLONEL : No. I’m afraid my hearing isn’t so good now, Mary. Wait a minute, though—
(LOUD KNOCKING)
I do hear something now, Mary.
MISS M : That’s Bearer chopping wood. But never mind. Are you coming in, or are you on your way to the bazaar?
COLONEL : Well, I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. But I couldn’t sit at home on a day like this. I’ll come in, I think.
MISS M : Do.
(GATE OPENS—CREAKILY. FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL)
COLONEL : I see your primulas are doing well.
MISS M : Yes, but the hail has ruined all my candytuft.
COLONEL : A pity. [Pause] Hullo—what’s this?
MISS M : That’s a lupin.
COLONEL : No, here in this corner. It’s a little bird, Mary. I think it’s dead. Must have died from exposure.
MISS M : Poor thing. Let me see, Colonel. Are you sure it’s dead? [Pause] I think it’s still breathing.
COLONEL : You’re right. It’s still alive.
MISS M : Well, let’s take it inside and put it near the stove. Perhaps the warmth will revive it. Such a pretty little redstart!
COLONEL : I think it’s a flycatcher.
MISS M : It’s not a flycatcher, it’s a redstart.
COLONEL : I’m sure it’s a red-breasted flycatcher.
MISS M : Nonsense! But we mustn’t stand here arguing. Let’s take it inside.
(PAUSE. DOOR OPENS)
MISS M : Bearer—Bearer!
BEARER : Missy-baba?
MISS M : Oh, you did startle me! Bearer, put the kettle on for tea. And another cup for the Colonel- sahib. Do sit down, Colonel.
COLONEL : I don’t think you have a chair large enough for me, Mary. I must say you go in for rather small-sized furniture.
MISS M : My furniture is perfectly normal. It’s your own circumference that’s abnormal. When you arrived a little while ago, I feared for an eclipse of the sun!
COLONEL : Now, Mary, that’s most unkind. And I wish you’d call me Horace.
MISS M : I never cared for the name. I prefer to call you Colonel. There, I’ve put the redstart near the stove. I do think it’s breathing more easily now.
COLONEL : A redstart should have some white on its head.
MISS M : You’re thinking of the white-capped redstart. This is an ordinary redstart.
COLONEL : I didn’t know a redstart had so much red on its—er—its—er—
MISS M : Bottom.
COLONEL : Exactly. You put these things so well, Mary. Anyway, I think it’s a flycatcher.
MISS M : You are stubborn—always have been.
COLONEL : Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re rather stubborn yourself. It must be the Scot in you.
MISS M : And it must be the Colonel in you.
COLONEL : You should have gone home to England like everyone else, twenty years ago. What made you stay on in India?
MISS M : Because I wanted to. What makes anyone do anything? Because they want to—unless they’re complete morons.
COLONEL : Yes, but don’t you ever feel lonely?
MISS M : Don’t you?
COLONEL : I suppose I do, at times.
MISS M : And what do you do about it?
COLONEL : Oh, I don’t know. If I’m feeling homesick, I can listen to the BBC. But even that isn’t what it used to be—nothing like the good old days of Tommy Handley and Colonel Chinstrap.
MISS M : Those weren’t good old days, Colonel. That was the War.
COLONEL : Yes, I know it was, my dear, and the War years were the best years of my life.
MISS M : Did you kill anyone?
COLONEL : I haven’t the faintest idea. I was in the artillery. But it was never as bloody as the first War. Even wars aren’t what they used to be—
MISS M : Do you think there’ll be another?
COLONEL : Can’t say. I’d be too old for it, anyway, But I must say the years haven’t taken much out of you, Mary. You’re still very spry.
MISS M : It’s living in the mountains.
COLONEL : Yes, it must be the mountains. I wish I’d spent more or my life at this height, then perhaps I wouldn’t have been racked with rheumatism. But haven’t you ever wanted a change?
MISS M : Oh, I’ve been away from time to time. I lived in the plains for a couple of years, when I was younger; and I thought, once, of going to England. But I don’t have anyone in England now—and there’s something about the mountains—something that gets into your blood—that draws you back to them, time and again. Once you have lived with mountains . . . .
COLONEL : Kipling said something like that. He was describing the smell of the Himalayas, and he said—‘once it creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die’ . . . [Pause] That flycatcher looks as though it’s recovering.
MISS M : Yes, it’s stretching its wings. What a pretty little bird a redstart is!
COLONEL : No doubt, but this one’s a flycatcher.
MISS M : Nonsense!
(SOMEONE COMES CRASHING THROUGH THE SHRUBBERY OUTSIDE)
MISS M : Oh, there’s someone in the garden!
COLONEL : Sounds like an entire regiment.
MISS M : Worse still—it’s a schoolboy!
COLONEL : I’ll send him off!
MISS M : No, let me deal with him. You remain here, Colonel. [Pause] Who’s there? What are you up to, boy?
ANIL : Oh! Er—good morning, miss.
MISS M : [Severely] Good morning. Would you mind moving out of my flower-bed?
ANIL : Oh, I’m sorry, miss.
MISS M : You’re trespassing.
ANIL : Er—yes, miss.
MISS M : And you ought to be in school at this time.
ANIL : Yes, miss.
MISS M : Then what are you doing here?
ANIL : Picking flowers, miss.
MISS M : Picking my flowers!
ANIL : Oh no, not yours! I was picking wild flowers.
MISS M : Oh, I see. Well, that’s different [softening].
Do you like flowers?
ANIL : Yes. I’m going to be a botan—a botanitist!
MISS M : You mean a botanist.
ANIL : Yes, miss.
MISS M : Well, that’s unusual. Most boys at your age want to be airmen or soldiers or singing- stars. But you want to be a botanist. Well, well. There’s still some hope left for the world. And do you know the names of the flowers you’ve been gathering?
ANIL : This is a Bukhilo, that’s an Indian name. It means a prayer, and it’s offered to God when you pray to Him. Of course you can offer it without praying, a flower is as good a prayer. But I don’t know what this is . . . .
MISS M : It’s a wild primrose. And that other plant is a larkspur, but it isn’t wild, it’s a plant from my garden.
ANIL : I’m very sorry. I must have taken it by mistake.
MISS M : That’s all right. What’s your name?
ANIL : Anil.
MISS M : And where do you live?
ANIL : In Delhi, when school closes. My father has a business there.
MISS M : Oh, and what’s his business?
ANIL : Bulbs.
MISS M : Flower bulbs?
ANIL : Electric bulbs.
MISS M : Electric bulbs! You might send me a few, after you go home. Mine are always fusing, and they’re so expensive, like everything else these days. Do you have any books on flowers?
ANIL : No, miss.
MISS M : Well, come in and I’ll show you one.
ANIL : Thank you, miss.
(PAUSE. A SOUND OF SNORING)
ANIL : There’s a strange noise inside.
MISS M : It’s only Colonel Wilkie. He’s fallen asleep. Wake up, Colonel.
COLONEL : Eh! Oh—ah—I do apologize. Awfully rude of me,
Mary. Hullo—who’s this?
MISS M : This is Anil. He goes to school up on the hill, and he says he wants to be a botanist. Now let me find that book for you, Anil. [Pause] Here we are—Flora Himaliensis, published in 1892, and probably the only copy still in India. This is a very valuable book, Anil. No other naturalist has recorded so many wild Himalayan plants. And remember, there are still many flowers and plants which are unknown to the fancy botanists who spend all their time at microscopes instead of in the mountains. But perhaps you’ll do something about that, one day.
ANIL : Yes, miss.
COLONEL : Do you have any books on birds, Mary?
MISS M : I don’t think so. Why?
COLONEL : Well, I thought it might help us settle the question as to whether ours is a redstart or flycatcher.
MISS M : There you go again—
ANIL : Oh, look, there’s a dead bird on the stove!
COLONEL : It isn’t dead.
MISS M : Oh, but it is dead, poor thing. It must have died while I was outside, and while you were snoring in that chair, Colonel.
COLONEL : Well, how was I to know—and what could I have done about it, anyway. I’m not a bird doctor!
MISS M : Well, you claim to know a lot about them. [Pause] It’s a redstart, Anil. We found it lying in the garden, and tried to revive it, but I suppose we were too late . . . .
COLONEL : Poor little flycatcher. Shall I throw it out, Mary?
MISS M : Throw it out? Don’t be so callous.
COLONEL : Well, then, what do you want to do with the bird—stuff it?
MISS M : Don’t be childish. We’ll bury it. You’ll help me to bury the little bird, won’t you, Anil?
ANIL : Yes, miss.
MISS M : Good. Come with me into the garden, we’ll bury it behind the hollyhocks. Are you coming, Colonel?
COLONEL : Oh, by all means. Anything to oblige.
(PAUSE. FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL)
MISS M : Bearer! Oh, here he is. Bearer, have you got a spade? He’s forgotten what a spade is. There’s one over by the kitchen door. Will you fetch it, Anil?
ANIL : Yes, miss. [Pause. Footsteps running on gravel] Here you are, miss. Shall I dig a hole?
MISS M : Do please. But be careful of the plants.
(SOUND OF DIGGING)
MISS M : I think that should be enough. [Pause] Now place the bird in gently. Poor little redstart.
COLONEL : [Under his breath] Flycatcher.
MISS M : Now cover it with earth and place a couple of big stones on top, so that the jackals can’t dig it up. Good.
COLONEL : Do you want me to read a service?
MISS M : Don’t be so facetious!
COLONEL : Well, if it’s all over, I’d better be going or I won’t get any lunch. I’m afraid boarding- houses aren’t what they used to be . . . . I wish I could be as independent as you are, Mary. I don’t know how you manage it, on your small pension.
MISS M : Well, as long as I’m alive and kicking—I’ll kick!
COLONEL : Oh, I’m sure you will.
MISS M : But you’ve got nothing to grumble about, Colonel. You do quite well at the Lodge.
COLONEL : So you think. You should try getting your teeth into the meat they serve up.
MISS M : At least you get meat. I can’t afford it more than once a week.
COLONEL : Yes, Well—I must be off. And thank you for the tea.
MISS M : The tea? Good heavens! But you haven’t had any tea!
COLONEL : Oh, well, don’t bother now. I suppose your Bearer forgot all about it, or fell asleep over the kettle.
MISS M : Oh, I am sorry, Colonel.
COLONEL : Quite all right, my dear, quite all right, Well, goodbye—and I’m sorry about the— er—redstart . . . .
MISS M : Goodbye, Colonel. Perhaps it was a flycatcher . . . .
(PAUSE. FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL, RECEDING)
MISS M : Poor old Colonel Wilkie. I’m afraid he’s getting on. He needs a little humouring, now and then. [Pause] It does seem a pity to stay indoors on a day like this, but the sun makes me giddy if I stand out in the garden for too long. If I was just a little younger, Anil, I could join you in your rambles. And then you wouldn’t have any trouble over the names of flowers. Do you know what I’d like to do, if I could be your age again?
ANIL : What Miss?
MISS M : Climb that mountain—that one, standing high above the others, still covered with snow.
ANIL : How high is it?
MISS M : It must be over 12,000 feet. About thirty miles from here, as the crow flies—and I wouldn’t mind being a crow, just to get there. Would you?
ANIL : Not a crow, miss, an eagle.
MISS M : I’d settle for a crow—or perhaps a redstart . . . .
ANIL : Was it really a redstart, or a flycatcher?
MISS M : I’m not sure, but I like to tease the Colonel. He hates being contradicted. But we were talking about getting to the mountain. I’ve always wanted to go there, but there’s no proper road. On the slopes there’ll be flowers that you don’t get here—the blue gentian and the purple columbine, the anemone and the edelweiss. Gentians are even bluer than the sky on a summer’s day.
ANIL : I’ll go up there one day.
MISS M : I’m sure you will, if you really want to.
ANIL : I want to go everywhere.
MISS M : Perhaps you will. A boy who stands like that with his hands on his hips usually goes where he wants to.
ANIL : May I come to see you again?
MISS M : Yes, of course.
ANIL : Thank you. I had better go now.
MISS M : Aren’t you taking the book?
(PAUSE)
ANIL : Oh. I didn’t know that you were—giving it to me, miss.
MISS M : Yes, here you are, it’s a present for you.
ANIL : But—I’ll be coming to see you again, and I can look at it then. It’s so valuable!
MISS M : I know it’s valuable, and that’s why I’m giving it to you. Otherwise it might only fall into the hands of one of the junk-dealers one day . . . . And don’t tell your headmaster about it. He wants the book himself. Only I don’t believe he’ll read it. And books are meant to be read and used, aren’t they?
ANIL : Yes, but—
MISS M : Don’t argue. Besides, I may not be here when you come again.
ANIL : Are you going away?
MISS M : I’m not sure.
ANIL : Are you going back to England?
MISS M : No, I couldn’t that. I’m too old to start life all over again. England has changed—and besides, I’ve no one there—no brothers or sisters. My home is here, Anil—in these hills, among these trees.
ANIL : Don’t you feel lonely?
MISS M : Yes, I do, sometimes—but at my age it would be lonely anywhere. [Pause] There are lots of trees around this cottage, Anil, and trees take away some of the loneliness.
MISS M : Goodbye! And mind the nasturtiums!
ANIL : Goodbye!
(FOOTSTEPS AND THE GATE CREAKS. PAUSE)
MISS M : I suppose I’d better go in and see what’s happened to Bearer. Oh, I feel quite exhausted. It’s been a busy morning—two visitors, and the death of a redstart.
(PAUSE)
MISS M : Bearer!
(RATTLE OF TEACUPS)
BEARER : The tea, missy-baba.
MISS M : The tea! Oh, Bearer, you are a funny old thing. They’ve all gone, Bearer. The Colonel-sahib has gone, and so has the boy. And I’m not going to sit down and drink it all by myself. Do take it away.
BEARER : Yes, missy-baba,
(DOOR CLOSES)
MISS M : If the Colonel hadn’t gone, or if the boy had still been here, I might have had some tea. [Pause] Oh, I do wish there was someone to talk to . . . . But I mustn’t be thinking on those lines, or the loneliness will start closing in again . . . . I know—I’ll do some gardening. What was it the boy said? A flower is as good as a prayer . . . . Well, then—never mind the sun—I’ll be gardeni
ng.
Mountains in my Blood
There is no Escape
How Far is the River?
BETWEEN THE BOY and the river was a mountain. I was a small boy, and it was a small river, but the mountain was big.
The thickly forested mountain hid the river, but I knew it was there and what it looked like; I had never seen the river with my own eyes, but from the villagers I had heard of it, of the fish in its waters, of its rocks and currents and waterfalls, and it only remained for me to touch the water and know it personally.
I stood in front of our house on the hill opposite the mountain, and gazed across the valley, dreaming of the river. I was barefooted; not because I couldn’t afford shoes, but because I felt free with my feet bare, because I liked the feel of warm stones and cool grass, because not wearing shoes saved me the trouble of taking them off.
It was eleven o’clock and I knew my parents wouldn’t be home till evening. There was a loaf of bread I could take with me, and on the way I might find some fruit. Here was the chance I had been waiting for: it would not come again for a long time, because it was seldom that my father and mother visited friends for the entire day. If I came back before dark, they wouldn’t know where I had been.
I went into the house and wrapped the loaf of bread in a newspaper. Then I closed all the doors and windows.
The path to the river dropped steeply into the valley, then rose and went round the big mountain. It was frequently used by the villagers, woodcutters, milkmen, shepherds, mule- drivers—but there were no villages beyond the mountain or near the river.
I passed a woodcutter and asked him how far it was to the river. He was a short, powerful man, with a creased and weathered face, and muscles that stood out in hard lumps.
‘Seven miles,’ he said. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I am going there,’ I said.
‘Alone?’
‘Of course.’
‘It will take you three hours to reach it, and then you have to come back. It will be getting dark, and it is not an easy road.’
‘But I’m a good walker,’ I said, though I had never walked further than the two miles between our house and my school. I left the woodcutter on the path, and continued down the hill.
It was a dizzy, winding path, and I slipped once or twice and slid into a bush or down a slope of slippery pine-needles. The hill was covered with lush green ferns, the trees were entangled in creepers, and a great wild dahlia would suddenly rear its golden head from the leaves and ferns.
