GreatStoriesforChildren

BytheSameAuthor

AngryRiverALittleNightMusicALongWalkforBinaHanumantotheRescueGhostStoriesfromtheRajStrangeMen,StrangePlaces

TheIndiaILoveTalesandLegendsfromIndia

TheBlueUmbrellaRuskinBond'sChildren'sOmnibus

RomiandtheWildfireWhentheTigerwasKing

SchoolDaysSchoolTimesFunnySideUp

RoadstoMussoorieAllRoadsLeadtoGanga

TheRupaBookofGreatAnimalStoriesTheRupaBookofTrueTalesofMysteryandAdventureTheRupaBookofRuskinBond'sHimalayanTales

TheRupaBookofGreatSuspenseStoriesTheRupaLaughterOmnibus

TheRupaBookofHauntedHousesTheRupaBookofTravellers'Tales

TheRupaBookofGreatCrimeStoriesTheRupaBookofNightmareTalesTheRupaBookofShikarStoriesTheRupaBookofLoveStoriesTheRupaBookofWickedStories

TheRupaBookofHeartwarmingStoriesTheRupaBookofThrillsandSpills

TheRupaCarnivalofTerrorTheRupaBookofSnappySurprises

ShuddersintheDarkStoriesShortandSweet

Firstpublishedin2011by

RupaPublicationsIndiaPvt.Ltd.7/16,AnsariRoad,Daryaganj

NewDelhi110002

Salescentres:AllahabadBengaluruChennaiHyderabadJaipurKathmandu

KolkataMumbai

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e-ISBN:978-81-291-2321-3

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Contents

ASpecialTreeTheSchoolAmongthePinesTheWindonHauntedHillRomiandtheWildfireTigerMyFriendMonkeyTroubleSnakeTroubleThoseThreeBearsTheCoralTreeTheThief'sStoryWhentheTreesWalkedGoodbye,MissMackenziePretintheHouseTheOvercoatTheTunnelWildFruitTheNighttheRoofBlewOff

ATraveller'sTaleAndNowWeareTwelve

ASpecialTreeneday,whenRakeshwassix,hewalkedhomefromtheMussooriebazaareatingcherries.Theywerealittlesweet,alittlesour;small,brightredcherries,which

hadcomeallthewayfromtheKashmirValley.HereintheHimalayanfoothillswhereRakeshlived,therewerenotmanyfruittrees.

Thesoilwasstony,andthedrycoldwindsstuntedthegrowthofmostplants.Butonthemoreshelteredslopestherewereforestsofoakanddeodar.

Rakesh lived with his grandfather on the outskirts of Mussoorie, just where theforestbegan.Hisfatherandmotherlivedinasmallvillagefiftymilesaway,wheretheygrewmaizeand riceandbarley innarrow terraced fieldson the lower slopesof themountain.Buttherewerenoschoolsinthevillage,andRakesh’sparentswerekeenthatheshouldgotoschool.Assoonashewasofschool-goingage, theysenthimtostaywithhisgrandfatherinMussoorie.

Hehadalittlecottageoutsidethetown.Rakeshwasonhiswayhomefromschoolwhenheboughtthecherries.Hepaidfifty

paise for thebunch. It tookhimabouthalf-an-hour towalkhome,andby the timehereachedthecottagetherewereonlythreecherriesleft.

‘Have a cherry, Grandfather,’ he said, as soon as he saw his grandfather in thegarden.

GrandfathertookonecherryandRakeshpromptlyatetheothertwo.Hekeptthelastseedinhismouthforsometime,rollingitroundandroundonhistongueuntilall thetanghadgone.Thenheplacedtheseedonthepalmofhishandandstudiedit.

‘Arecherryseedslucky?’askedRakesh.‘Ofcourse.’‘ThenI’llkeepit.’‘Nothingisluckyifyouputitaway.Ifyouwantluck,youmustputittosomeuse.’‘WhatcanIdowithaseed?’‘Plantit.’SoRakeshfoundasmallspaceandbegantodigupaflowerbed.‘Hey, not there,’ saidGrandfather, ‘I’ve sownmustard in that bed.Plant it in that

shadycorner,whereitwon’tbedisturbed.’Rakeshwenttoacornerofthegardenwheretheearthwassoftandyielding.Hedid

nothavetodig.Hepressedtheseedintothesoilwithhisthumbanditwentrightin.Thenhehadhis lunch, and ranoff to play cricketwithhis friends, and forgot all

aboutthecherryseed.Whenitwaswinterinthehills,acoldwindblewdownfromthesnowsandwent

whoo-whoo-whoointhedeodartrees,andthegardenwasdryandbare.IntheeveningsGrandfatherandRakeshsatoveracharcoalfire,andGrandfathertoldRakeshstories–storiesaboutpeoplewhoturnedintoanimals,andghostswholivedintrees,andbeansthat jumped and stones that wept – and in turn Rakesh would read to him from thenewspaper, Grandfather’s eyesight being rather weak. Rakesh found the newspaperverydull–especiallyafterthestories–butGrandfatherwantedallthenews…

Theyknewitwasspringwhenthewildduckflewnorthagain,toSiberia.Earlyinthemorning,whenhegotuptochopwoodandlightafire,RakeshsawtheV–shapedformationstreamingnorthward, thecallsof thebirdscarryingclearly throughthe thinmountainair.

Onemorninginthegardenhebenttopickupwhathethoughtwasasmalltwigandfoundtohissurprisethatitwaswellrooted.Hestaredatitforamoment,thenrantofetchGrandfather,calling,‘Dada,comeandlook,thecherrytreehascomeup!’

‘What cherry tree?’ askedGrandfather,who had forgotten about it. ‘The seedweplantedlastyear–look,it’scomeup!’

Rakesh went down on his haunches, while Grandfather bent almost double andpeereddownatthetinytree.Itwasaboutfourincheshigh.

‘Yes,it’sacherrytree,’saidGrandfather.‘Youshouldwateritnowandthen.’Rakeshranindoorsandcamebackwithabucketofwater.‘Don’tdrownit!’saidGrandfather.Rakeshgaveitasprinklingandcircleditwithpebbles.‘Whatarethepebblesfor?’askedGrandfather.‘Forprivacy,’saidRakesh.Helookedatthetreeeverymorningbutitdidnotseemtobegrowingveryfast,so

hestoppedlookingatitexceptquickly,outofthecornerofhiseye.And,afteraweekortwo,whenheallowedhimselftolookatitproperly,hefoundthatithadgrown–atleastaninch!

ThatyearthemonsoonrainscameearlyandRakeshploddedtoandfromschoolinraincoat and chappals. Ferns sprang from the trunks of trees, strange-looking liliescameupinthelonggrass,andevenwhenitwasn’trainingthetreesdrippedandmistcamecurlingupthevalley.Thecherrytreegrewquicklyinthisseason.

Itwas about two feet highwhen a goat entered thegarden and ate all the leaves.Onlythemainstemandtwothinbranchesremained.

‘Nevermind,’saidGrandfather,seeingthatRakeshwasupset.‘Itwillgrowagain,cherrytreesaretough.’

Towardstheendoftherainyseasonnewleavesappearedonthetree.Thenawomancutting grass scrambled down the hillside, her scythe swishing through the heavymonsoonfoliage.Shedidnottrytoavoidthetree:onesweep,andthecherrytreewascutintwo.

WhenGrandfather sawwhathadhappened,hewent after thewomanand scolded

her;butthedamagecouldnotberepaired.‘Maybeitwilldienow,’saidRakesh.‘Maybe,’saidGrandfather.Butthecherrytreehadnointentionofdying.Bythetimesummercameroundagain,ithadsentoutseveralnewshootswithtender

greenleaves.Rakeshhadgrowntallertoo.Hewaseightnow,asturdyboywithcurlyblackhairanddeepblackeyes.‘Blackberryeyes,’Grandfathercalledthem.

ThatmonsoonRakeshwenthometohisvillage,tohelphisfatherandmotherwiththeplantingandploughingandsowing.HewasthinnerbutstrongerwhenhecamebacktoGrandfather’s house at the end of the rains to find that the cherry tree had grownanotherfoot.Itwasnowuptohischest.

Evenwhentherewasrain,Rakeshwouldsometimeswaterthetree.Hewantedittoknowthathewasthere.

Onedayhefoundabrightgreenpraying-mantisperchedonabranch,peeringathimwithbulgingeyes.Rakeshletitremainthere;itwasthecherrytree’sfirstvisitor.

Thenextvisitorwasahairycaterpillar,whostartedmakingamealof the leaves.Rakeshremoveditquicklyanddroppeditonaheapofdryleaves.

Comebackwhenyou’reabutterfly,’hesaid.Winter cameearly.Thecherry treebent lowwith theweightof snow.Field-mice

soughtshelterintheroofofthecottage.Theroadfromthevalleywasblocked,andforseveral days therewas no newspaper, and thismadeGrandfather quite grumpy.Hisstoriesbegantohaveunhappyendings.

In February it was Rakesh’s birthday. He was nine – and the tree was four, butalmostastallasRakesh.

Onemorning,whenthesuncameout,Grandfathercameintothegardento‘letsomewarmthgetintomybones,’asheputit.Hestoppedinfrontofthecherrytree,staredatit for a fewmoments, and then called out, ‘Rakesh! Come and look! Come quicklybeforeitfalls!’

Rakesh and Grandfather gazed at the tree as though it had performed a miracle.Therewasapalepinkblossomattheendofabranch.

Thefollowingyearthereweremoreblossoms.AndsuddenlythetreewastallerthanRakesh, even though it was less than half his age. And then it was taller thanGrandfather,whowasolderthansomeoftheoaktrees.

ButRakeshhadgrowntoo.Hecouldrunandjumpandclimbtreesaswellasmostboys,andhereadalotofbooks,althoughhestilllikedlisteningtoGrandfather’stales.

In thecherry tree,beescame to feedon thenectar in theblossoms,and tinybirdspeckedattheblossomsandbrokethemoff.Butthetreekeptblossomingrightthroughthespring,andtherewerealwaysmoreblossomsthanbirds.

Thatsummerthereweresmallcherriesonthetree.Rakeshtastedoneandspatitout.‘It’stoosour,’hesaid.

‘They’llbebetternextyear,’saidGrandfather.Butthebirdslikedthem–especiallythebiggerbirds,suchasthebulbulsandscarlet

minivets–andtheyflittedinandoutofthefoliage,feastingonthecherries.Onawarmsunnyafternoon,wheneventhebeeslookedsleepy,Rakeshwaslooking

forGrandfatherwithout finding him in any of his favourite places around the house.Thenhelookedoutof thebedroomwindowandsawGrandfatherrecliningonacanechairunderthecherrytree.

‘There’sjusttherightamountofshadehere,’saidGrandfather.‘AndIlikelookingattheleaves.’

‘They’reprettyleaves,’saidRakesh.‘Andtheyarealwaysreadytodance,ifthere’sabreeze.’

AfterGrandfatherhadcomeindoors,Rakeshwentintothegardenandlaydownonthe grass beneath the tree.He gazed up through the leaves at the great blue sky; andturningonhisside,hecouldseethemountainsstridingawayintotheclouds.Hewasstill lying beneath the tree when the evening shadows crept across the garden.GrandfathercamebackandsatdownbesideRakesh,and theywaited insilenceuntilthestarscameoutandthenightjarbegantocall. In theforestbelow, thecricketsandcicadasbegantuningup;andsuddenlythetreeswerefullofthesoundofinsects.

‘Therearesomanytreesintheforest,’saidRakesh.‘What’ssospecialabout thistree?Whydowelikeitsomuch?’

‘Weplanteditourselves,’saidGrandfather.That’swhyit’sspecial.’‘Justonesmallseed,’saidRakesh,andhetouchedthesmoothbarkofthetreethathe

hadgrown.Heranhishandalongthetrunkofthetreeandputhisfingertothetipofaleaf.‘Iwonder,’hewhispered.‘IsthiswhatitfeelstobeGod?’

TheSchoolAmongthePines1

leopard,litheandsinewy,drankatthemountainstream,andthenlaydownonthegrasstobaskinthelat36Februarysunshine.Itstailtwitchedoccasionallyandthe

animal appeared to be sleeping. At the sound of distant voices it raised its head tolisten, then stood up and leapt lightly over the boulders in the stream, disappearingamongthetreesontheoppositebank.

Aminuteortwolater,threechildrencamewalkingdowntheforestpath.Theywereagirlandtwoboys,andtheyweresingingintheirlocaldialectanoldsongtheyhadlearntfromtheirgrandparents.

Fivemoremilestogo!Weclimbthroughrainandsnow.Arivertocross…Amountaintopass…Nowwe’vefourmoremilestogo!Theirschoolsatchelslookednew,theirclotheshadbeenwashedandpressed.Their

loudandcheerfulsingingstartledaSpottedForktail.Thebirdleftitsfavouriterockinthestreamandflewdownthedarkravine.

‘Well,wehaveonlythreemoremilestogo,’saidthebiggerboy,Prakash,whohadbeenthiswayhundredsoftimes.‘Butfirstwehavetocrossthestream.’

Hewasasturdytwelve-year-oldwitheyeslikeraspberriesandamopofbushyhairthatrefusedtosettledownonhishead.Thegirlandhersmallbrotherweretakingthispathforthefirsttime.

‘I’mfeelingtired,Bina,’saidthelittleboy.Bina smiled at him, and Prakash said, ‘Don’tworry, Sonu, you’ll get used to the

walk. There’s plenty of time.’ He glanced at the old watch he’d been given by hisgrandfather.Itneededconstantwinding.‘Wecanresthereforfiveorsixminutes.’

They sat down on a smooth boulder andwatched the clearwater of the shallowstreamtumblingdownhill.BinaexaminedtheoldwatchonPrakash’swrist.Theglasswasbadly scratchedandshecouldbarelymakeout the figureson thedial. ‘Areyousureitstillgivestherighttime?’sheasked.

‘Well,itlosesfiveminuteseveryday,soIputittenminutesforwardatnight.Thatmeansbymorningit’squiteaccurate!Evenourteacher,MrMani,asksmeforthetime.

Ifhedoesn’task,Itellhim!Theclockinourclassroomkeepsstopping.’Theyremovedtheirshoesandletthecoldmountainwaterrunovertheirfeet.Bina

wasthesameageasPrakash.Shehadpinkcheeks,softbrowneyes,andhairthatwasjustbeginningtoloseitsnaturalcurls.Herswasagentleface,butadeterminedlittlechinshowedthatshecouldbeastrongperson.Sonu,heryoungerbrother,wasten.Hewas a thin boy who had been sickly as a child but was now beginning to fill out.Althoughhedidnotlookveryathletic,hecouldrunlikethewind.

BinahadbeengoingtoschoolinherownvillageofKoli,ontheothersideofthe

mountain.ButithadbeenaPrimarySchool,finishingatClassFive.Now,inordertostudy in the Sixth, shewould have towalk severalmiles every day toNauti,wheretherewasaHighSchoolgoinguptotheEighth.IthadbeendecidedthatSonuwouldalsoshift to thenewschool, togiveBinacompany.Prakash, theirneighbour inKoli,wasalreadyapupilattheNautischool.Hismischievousnature,whichsometimesgothimintotrouble,hadresultedinhishavingtorepeatayear.

But this didn’t seem to bother him. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he had told his indignantparents.‘You’renotsendingmetoaforeignlandwhenIfinishschool.Andourcowsaren’trunningaway,arethey?’

‘Youwouldprefertolookafterthecows,wouldn’tyou?’askedBina,astheygotuptocontinuetheirwalk.

‘Oh, school’s all right.Wait till you seeoldMrMani.Healwaysgetsournamesmixed up, as well as the subjects he’s supposed to be teaching. At out last lesson,insteadofmaths,hegaveusageographylesson!’

‘Morefunthanmaths,’saidBina.‘Yes, but there’s a new teacher this year. She’s very young, they say, just out of

college.Iwonderwhatshe’llbelike.’Bina walked faster and Sonu had some trouble keeping up with them. She was

excited about the new school and the prospect of different surroundings. She hadseldombeenoutsideherownvillage,withitssmallschoolandsinglerationshop.Theday’s routinenevervaried–helpinghermother in the fieldsorwithhousehold taskslikefetchingwaterfromthespringorcuttinggrassandfodderforthecattle.Herfather,whowasasoldier,wasawayforninemonthsintheyearandSonuwasstilltoosmallfortheheaviertasks.

As they neared Nauti village, they were joined by other children coming fromdifferentdirections.Evenwheretherewerenomajorroads,themountainswerefulloflittle lanes and short cuts. Like a game of snakes and ladders, these narrow pathszigzagged around the hills and villages, cutting through fields and crossing narrowravinesuntil theycame together to forma fairlybusy roadalongwhichmules, cattleandgoatsjoinedthethrong.

Nautiwasafairlylargevillage,andfromhereabroaderbutdustierroadstartedfor

Tehri.Therewasa smallbus, several trucksand (forpartof theway)a road-roller.Theroadhadn’tbeencompletedbecausetheheavydieselrollercouldn’ttakethesteepclimbtoNauti.ItstoodontheroadsidehalfwayuptheroadfromTehri.

Prakashknewalmosteveryoneinthearea,andexchangedgreetingsandgossipwithotherchildrenaswellaswithmuleteers,bus-drivers,milkmenandlabourersworkingontheroad.Helovedtellingeveryonethetime,eveniftheyweren’tinterested.

‘It’snineo’clock,’hewouldannounce,glancingathiswrist.‘Isn’tyourbusleavingtoday?’

‘Offwithyou!’thebus-driverwouldrespond,‘I’llleavewhenI’mready.’AsthechildrenapproachedNauti,thesmallflatschoolbuildingscameintoviewon

theoutskirtsofthevillage,fringedwithalineoflong-leavedpines.Asmallcrowdhadassembledontheplayingfield.Somethingunusualseemedtohavehappened.Prakashranforwardtoseewhatitwasallabout.BinaandSonustoodaside,waitinginapatchofsunlightneartheboundarywall.

Prakashsooncamerunningbacktothem.Hewasbubblingoverwithexcitement.‘It’sMrMani!’ he gasped. ‘He’s disappeared! People are saying a leopardmust

havecarriedhimoff!’

2

MrManiwasn’t reallyold.Hewasabout fifty-fiveandwasexpected to retiresoon.Butforthechildren,adultsoverfortyseemedancient!AndMrManihadalwaysbeenabitabsent-minded,evenasayoungman.

Hehadgoneoutforhisearlymorningwalk,sayinghe’dbebackbyeighto’clock,intimetohavehisbreakfastandbereadyforclass.Hewasn’tmarried,buthissisterandherhusbandstayedwithhim.Whenitwaspastnineo’clockhissisterpresumedhe’dstopped at a neighbour’s house for breakfast (he loved tucking into other people’sbreakfast)andthathehadgoneontoschoolfromthere.Butwhentheschoolbellrangat ten o’clock, and everyone but Mr Mani was present, questions were asked andguessesweremade.

Noonehadseenhimreturnfromhiswalkandenquiriesmadeinthevillageshowedthathehadnotstoppedatanyone’shouse.ForMrManitodisappearwaspuzzling;forhimtodisappearwithouthisbreakfastwasextraordinary.

Thenamilkmanreturningfromthenextvillagesaidhehadseenaleopardsittingonarockon theoutskirtsof thepine forest.Therehadbeen talkofacattle-killer in thevalley,ofleopardsandotheranimalsbeingdisplacedbytheconstructionofadam.Butasyetnoonehadheardofaleopardattackingaman.CouldMrManihavebeenitsfirstvictim?Someone found a strip of red cloth entangled in a blackberrybush andwentrunningthroughthevillageshowingittoeveryone.MrManihadbeenknowntowearredpyjamas.Surely,hehadbeenseizedandeaten!Butwherewerehisremains?And

whyhadhebeeninhispyjamas?Meanwhile,BinaandSonuandtherestofthechildrenhadfollowedtheirteachers

into theschoolplayground.Feelinga little lost,Bina lookedaroundforPrakash.Shefoundherself facingadarkslenderyoungwomanwearingspectacles,whomusthavebeeninherearlytwenties–justa little toooldtobeanotherstudent.Shehadakindexpressivefaceandsheseemedalittleconcernedbyallthathadbeenhappening.

Binanoticedthatshehadlovelyhands;itwasobviousthatthenewteacherhadn’tmilkedcowsorworkedinthefields!

‘Youmustbenewhere,’ said the teacher, smiling atBina. ‘And is thisyour littlebrother?’

‘Yes,we’vecomefromKolivillage.Wewereatschoolthere.’‘It’sa longwalkfromKoli.Youdidn’tseeany leopards,didyou?Well, I’mnew

too.AreyouintheSixthclass?’‘SonuisintheThird.I’mintheSixth.’‘ThenI’myournewteacher.MynameisTaniaRamola.Comealong,let’sseeifwe

cansettledowninourclassroom.’

MrManiturnedupat twelveo’clock,wonderingwhatall thefusswasabout.No,hesnapped,hehadnotbeenattackedbyaleopard;andyes,hehadlosthispyjamasandwouldsomeonekindlyreturnthemtohim?

‘Howdidyouloseyourpyjamas,Sir?’askedPrakash.‘Theywereblownoffthewashingline!’snappedMrMani.After much questioning, Mr Mani admitted that he had gone further than he had

intended,andthathehadlosthiswaycomingback.Hehadbeenabitupsetbecausethenewteacher,aslipofagirl,hadbeengivenchargeoftheSixth,whilehewasstillwiththeFifth,alongwiththat troublesomeboyPrakash,whokeptonremindinghimofthetime!TheheadmasterhadexplainedthatasMrManiwasduetoretireattheendoftheyear, theschooldidnotwishtoburdenhimwithaseniorclass.ButMrMani lookeduponthewholethingasaplottogetridofhim.HegloweredatMissRamolawheneverhepassedher.Andwhenshesmiledbackathim,helookedtheotherway!

MrManihadbeengettingevenmoreabsent-mindedof late–puttingonhisshoeswithout his socks, wearing his homespun waistcoat inside out, mixing up people’snames,andofcourse,eatingotherpeople’slunchesanddinners.Hissisterhadmadeaspecialmuttonbroth(pai)forthepostmaster,whowasdownwith‘flu’andhadaskedMrManitotakeitoverinathermos.Whenthepostmasteropenedthethermos,hefoundonlyafewdropsofbrothatthebottom–MrManihaddrunktherestsomewherealongtheway.

When sometimesMrMani spokeof his coming retirement, itwas to describe hisplans for the small field he owned just behind the house. Right now, it was full ofpotatoes, which did not require much looking after; but he had plans for growing

dahlias,roses,Frenchbeans,andotherfruitsandflowers.The next time he visited Tehri, he promised himself, he would buy some dahlia

bulbsandrosecuttings.Themonsoonseasonwouldbeagoodtimetoputthemdown.Andmeanwhile,hispotatoeswerestillflourishing.

3

Binaenjoyedherfirstdayatthenewschool.ShefeltateasewithMissRamola,asdidmostoftheboysandgirlsinherclass.TaniaRamolahadbeentodistanttownssuchasDelhiandLucknow–placestheyhadonlyreadabout–anditwassaidthatshehadabrotherwhowas a pilot and flew planes all over theworld. Perhaps he’d fly overNautisomeday!

Mostofthechildrenhad,ofcourse,seenplanesflyingoverhead,butnoneofthemhadseenaship,andonlyafewhadbeenina train.Tehrimountainwasfarfromtherailwayandhundredsofmilesfromthesea.ButtheyallknewaboutthebigdamthatwasbeingbuiltatTehri,justfortymilesaway.

Bina,SonuandPrakashhad company forpart of thewayhome,butgradually theotherchildrenwentoffindifferentdirections.Oncetheyhadcrossedthestream,theywereontheirownagain.

It was a steep climb all the way back to their village. Prakash had a supply ofpeanutswhichhesharedwithBinaandSonu,andatasmallspringtheyquenchedtheirthirst.

Whentheywerelessthanamilefromhome,theymetapostmanwhohadfinishedhisroundofthevillagesintheareaandwasnowreturningtoNauti.

‘Don’twastetimealongtheway,’hetoldthem.‘Trytogethomebeforedark.’‘What’sthehurry?’askedPrakash,glancingathiswatch.‘It’sonlyfiveo’clock.’‘There’saleopardaround.Isawitthismorning,notfarfromthestream.Nooneis

surehowitgothere.Sodon’ttakeanychances.Gethomeearly.’‘Sotherereallyisaleopard,’saidSonu.They took his advice and walked faster, and Sonu forgot to complain about his

achingfeet.Theywerehomewellbeforesunset.Therewasasmellofcookingintheairandtheywerehungry.‘Cabbage and roti,’ said Prakash gloomily. ‘But I could eat anything today.’ He

stoppedoutsidehissmallslate-roofedhouse,andBinaandSonuwavedhimgoodbye,thencarriedonacrossacoupleofploughedfieldsuntiltheyreachedtheirsmallstonehouse.

‘Stuffedtomatoes,’saidSonu,sniffingjustoutsidethefrontdoor.‘Andlemonpickle,’saidBina,whohadhelpedcut,sunandsaltthelemonsamonth

previously.

Theirmotherwas lighting thekitchenstove.Theygreetedherwithgreathugsanddemands for an immediate dinner. She was a good cook who could make even thesimplestofdishestastedelicious.Herfavouritesayingwas,‘Home-madepaiisbetterthanchickensoupinDelhi,’andBinaandSonuhadtoagree.

Electricityhadyet toreachtheirvillage,andtheytooktheirmealbythelightofakerosenelamp.Afterthemeal,Sonusettleddowntodoalittlehomework,whileBinasteppedoutsidetolookatthestars.

Acrossthefields,someonewasplayingaflute.‘ItmustbePrakash,’thoughtBina.‘Healwaysbreaksoffonthehighnotes.’Buttheflutemusicwassimpleandappealing,andshebegansingingsoftlytoherselfinthedark.

4

MrManiwashavingtroublewiththeporcupines.Theyhadbeengettingintohisgardenatnightanddiggingupandeatinghispotatoes.Fromhisbedroomwindow–leftopen,now that themild-April weather had arrived – he could listen to them enjoying thevegetableshehadworkedhardtogrow.Scrunch,scrunch!Katar,katar,astheirsharpteethslicedthroughthelargestandjuiciestofpotatoes.ForMrManiitwasasthoughtheywerebitingthroughhisownflesh.Andthesoundofthemdiggingindustriouslyastheyrootedupthosehealthy,leafyplants,madehimtremblewithrageandindignation.Theunfairnessofitall!

Yes,MrManihatedporcupines.Heprayedfortheirdestruction,theirremovalfromthefaceof theearth.But,ashis friendswerequick topointout, ‘Bhagwanprotectedporcupinestoo,’andinanycaseyoucouldneverseethecreaturesorcatchthem,theywerecompletelynocturnal.

MrManigotoutofbedeverynight,torchinonehand,astoutstickintheother,butas soonashe stepped into thegarden the crunchinganddigging stoppedandhewasgreeted by the most infuriating of silences. He would grope around in the dark,swingingwildlywiththestick,butnotasingleporcupinewastobeseenorheard.Assoonashewasbackinbed–thesoundswouldstartalloveragain.Scrunch,scrunch,katar,katar…

MrManicametohisclasstiredanddishevelled,withringsbeneathhiseyesandapermanentfrownonhisface.Ittooksometimeforhispupilstodiscoverthereasonforhismisery,butwhen theydid, they felt sorry for their teacherand took todiscussingwaysandmeansofsavinghispotatoesfromtheporcupines.

It was Prakashwho came upwith the idea of amoat orwaterditch. ‘Porcupinesdon’tlikewater,’hesaidknowledgeably.

‘Howdoyouknow?’askedoneofhisfriends.‘Throwwaterononeandseehowitruns!Theydon’tlikegettingtheirquillswet.’TherewasnoonewhocoulddisprovePrakash’s theory,and theclassfell inwith

theideaofbuildingamoat,especiallyasitmeantgettingmostofthedayoff.‘AnythingtomakeMrManihappy,’saidtheheadmaster,andtherestoftheschool

watched with envy as the pupils of Class Five, armed with spades and shovelscollectedfromallpartsofthevillage,tookuptheirpositionsaroundMrMani’spotatofieldandbegandiggingaditch.

Byeveningthemoatwasready,butitwasstilldryandtheporcupinesgotinagainthatnightandhadagreatfeast.

‘Atthisrate,’saidMrManigloomily‘therewon’tbeanypotatoeslefttosave.’ButnextdayPrakashandtheotherboysandgirlsmanagedtodivertthewaterfroma

streamthatflowedpastthevillage.Theyhadthesatisfactionofwatchingitflowgentlyinto the ditch. Everyone went home in a good mood. By nightfall, the ditch hadoverflowed, thepotato fieldwas flooded,andMrMani foundhimself trapped insidehishouse.ButPrakashandhis friendshadwon theday.Theporcupinesstayedawaythatnight!

Amonthhadpassed, andwild violets, daisies andbuttercups now sprinkled the hillslopes,andonherwaytoschoolBinagatheredenoughtomakealittleposy.Thebunchof flowers fittedeasily intoanold ink-well.MissRamolawasdelighted to find thislittledisplayinthemiddleofherdesk.

‘Whoputthesehere?’sheaskedinsurprise.Bina kept quiet, and the rest of the class smiled secretively.After that, they took

turnsbringingflowersfortheclassroom.Onherlongwalkstoschoolandhomeagain,BinabecameawarethatAprilwasthe

monthofnewleaves.Theoakleaveswerebrightgreenaboveandsilverbeneath,andwhentheyrippledinthebreezetheywerelikecloudsofsilverygreen.Thepathwasstrewnwitholdleaves,dryandcrackly.Sonulovedkickingthemaround.

Cloudsofwhitebutterfliesfloatedacrossthestream.Sonuwaschasingabutterflywhenhestumbledoversomethingdarkandrepulsive.Hewentsprawlingonthegrass.Whenhegottohisfeet,helookeddownattheremainsofasmallanimal.

‘Bina!Prakash!Comequickly!’heshouted.Itwaspartofasheep,killedsomedaysearlierbyamuchlargeranimal.‘Onlyaleopardcouldhavedonethis,’saidPrakash.‘Let’sgetaway,then,’saidSonu.‘Itmightstillbearound!’‘No, there’s nothing left to eat. The leopard will be hunting elsewhere by now.

Perhapsit’smovedontothenextvalley.’‘Still,I’mfrightened,’saidSonu.‘Theremaybemoreleopards!’Binatookhimbythehand.‘Leopardsdon’tattackhumans!’shesaid.‘Theywill,iftheygetatasteforpeople!’insistedPrakash.‘Well,thisonehasn’tattackedanypeopleasyet,’saidBina,althoughshecouldn’t

besure.Hadn’ttherebeenrumoursofaleopardattackingsomeworkersnearthedam?

ButshedidnotwantSonutofeelafraid,soshedidnotmentionthestory.Allshesaidwas,‘Ithasprobablycomeherebecauseofalltheactivitynearthedam.’

All the same, they hurried home.And for a fewdays,whenever they reached thestream,theycrossedoververyquickly,unwillingtolingertoolongatthatlovelyspot.

5

Afewdayslater,aschoolpartywasonitswaytoTehritoseethenewdamthatwasbeingbuilt.

MissRamolahadarrangedtotakeherclass,andMrMani,notwishingtobeleftout,insistedon takinghisclassaswell.Thatmeant therewereabout fiftyboysandgirlstakingpart in theouting.The little bus couldonly take thirty.A friendly truck-driveragreed to take some children if theywere prepared to sit on sacks of potatoes.AndPrakashpersuaded theownerof thediesel-roller to turn it roundandhead itback toTehri–withhimandacoupleoffriendsuponthedrivingseat.

Prakash’ssmallgroupsetoffatsunrise,astheyhadtowalksomedistanceinorderto reach the stranded road-roller. The bus left at 9 a.m. withMiss Ramola and herclass,andMrManiandsomeofhispupils.Thetruckwastofollowlater.

ItwasBina’sfirstvisittoalargetownandherfirstbusride.Thesharpcurvesalongthewinding,downhillroadmadeseveralchildrenfeelsick.

Thebus-driverseemedtobeinatearinghurry.Hetookthemalongatrolling,rollickingspeed,whichmadeBinafeelquitegiddy.Sherestedherheadonherarmsandrefusedtolookoutofthewindow.Hairpinbendsandcliffedges,pineforestsandsnowcappedpeaks,allsweptpasther,butshefelttooilltowanttolookatanything.Itwasjustaswell–thosesuddendrops,hundredsoffeettothevalleybelow,werequitefrightening.Binabegantowishthatshehadn’tcome–orthatshehadjoinedPrakashontheroad-rollerinstead!

MissRamolaandMrManididn’tseemtonoticethelurchingandgroaningoftheoldbus. They had made this journey many times. They were busy arguing about theadvantagesanddisadvantagesoflargedams–anargumentthatwastocontinueonandoff formuchof theday; sometimes inHindi, sometimes inEnglish, sometimes in thelocaldialect!

Meanwhile,Prakashandhisfriendshadreachedtheroller.Thedriverhadn’tturnedup,buttheymanagedtoreverseitandgetitgoinginthedirectionofTehri.Theyweresoonovertakenbyboth thebusand the truckbutkeptmovingalongatasteadychug.PrakashspottedBinaat thewindowof thebusandwavedcheerfully.She respondedfeebly.

BinafeltbetterwhentheroadlevelledoutnearTehri.Astheycrossedanoldbridgeoverthewideriver,theywerestartledbyaloudbangwhichmadethebusshudder.Acloudofdustroseabovethetown.

‘They’reblastingthemountain,’saidMissRamola.‘Endofamountain,’saidMrManimournfully.Whiletheyweredrinkingcupsofteaatthebusstop,waitingforthepotatotruckand

the road-roller,Miss Ramola andMrMani continued their argument about the dam.MissRamolamaintainedthatitwouldbringelectricpowerandwaterforirrigationtolargeareasofthecountry,includingthesurroundingarea.MrManideclaredthatitwasamenace,asitwassituatedinanearthquakezone.Therewouldbeaterribledisasterifthedamburst!Binafounditallveryconfusing.Andwhatabouttheanimalsinthearea,shewondered,whatwouldhappentothem?

Theargumentwasbecomingquiteheatedwhenthepotatotruckarrived.Therewasnosignoftheroad-roller,soitwasdecidedthatMrManishouldwaitforPrakashandhisfriendswhileMissRamola’sgroupwentahead.

SomeeightorninemilesbeforeTehritheroad-rollerhadbrokendown,andPrakashandhisfriendswereforcedtowalk.Theyhadnotgonefar,however,whenamuletraincamealong–fiveorsixmulesthathadbeendeliveringsacksofgraininNauti.Aboyrodeonthefirstmule,buttheothershadnoloads.

‘CanyougiveusaridetoTehri?’calledPrakash.‘Makeyourselvescomfortable,’saidtheboy.Therewerenosaddles,onlygunnysacksstrappedontothemuleswithrope.They

hada roughbut jolly ridedown to theTehribusstop.Noneof themhadever riddenmules;buttheyhadsavedatleastanhourontheroad.

Lookingaround thebus stop for the restof theparty, theycould findnoone fromtheirschool.AndMrMani,whoshouldhavebeenwaitingforthem,hadvanished.

6

TaniaRamolaandhergrouphadtakenthesteeproadtothehillaboveTehri.Half-an-hour’sclimbingbrought themtoa littleplateauwhichoverlooked the town, the riverandthedam-site.

Theearthworksfor thedamwereonlyjustcomingup,butawidetunnelhadbeenbored through themountain todivert the river intoanotherchannel.Downbelow, theold townwas still spread out across the valley and from a distance it looked quitecharmingandpicturesque.

‘Willthewholetownbeswallowedupbythewatersofthedam?’askedBina.‘Yes,allof it,’ saidMissRamola. ‘Theclock towerand theoldpalace.The long

bazaar, and the temples, the schools and the jail, and hundreds of houses, for manymilesupthevalley.Allthosepeoplewillhavetogo–thousandsofthem!Ofcourse,they’llberesettledelsewhere.’

‘Butthetown’sbeenhereforhundredsofyears,’saidBina.‘Theywerequitehappywithoutthedam,weren’tthey?’

‘Isupposetheywere.Butthedamisn’tjustforthem–it’sforthemillionswholivefurtherdownstream,acrosstheplains.’

‘Anditdoesn’tmatterwhathappenstothisplace?’‘Thelocalpeoplewillbegivennewhomes,somewhereelse.’MissRamolafound

herselfonthedefensiveanddecidedtochangethesubject.‘Everyonemustbehungry.It’stimewehadourlunch.’

Binakeptquiet.Shedidn’t think the localpeoplewouldwant togoaway.And itwas agood thing, shemused, that therewasonly a small streamandnot abig riverrunningpasthervillage.Tobeuprootedlikethis–atownandhundredsofvillages–andputdownsomewhereonthehot,dustyplains–seemedtoherunbearable.

‘Well,I’mgladIdon’tliveinTehri,’shesaid.Shedidnotknowit,butall theanimalsandmostof thebirdshadalready left the

area.Theleopardhadbeenamongthem.

Theywalked through the colourful, crowdedbazaar,where fruit-sellers did businessbeside silversmiths, and pavement vendors sold everything from umbrellas to glassbangles.Sparrowsattackedsacksofgrain,monkeysmadeoffwithbananas,andstraycowsanddogsrummagedinrefusebins,butnobodytookanynotice.Musicblaredfromradios.Buses blew their horns. Sonubought awhistle to add to the general din, butMissRamolatoldhimtoputitaway.Binahadkepttenrupeesaside,andnowsheusedittobuyacottonhead-scarfforhermother.

As they were about to enter a small restaurant for a meal, they were joined byPrakashandhiscompanions;butofMrManitherewasstillnosign.

‘He must have met one of his relatives,’ said Prakash. ‘He has relativeseverywhere.’

Afterasimplemealofriceandlentils,theywalkedthelengthofthebazaarwithoutseeingMrMani.At last,when theywere about to give up the search, they sawhimemergefromaby-lane,alargesackslungoverhisshoulder.

‘Sir, where have you been?’ asked Prakash. ‘We have been looking for youeverywhere.’

OnMrMani’sfacewasalookoftriumph.‘Helpmewiththisbag,’hesaidbreathlessly.‘You’veboughtmorepotatoes,sir,’saidPrakash.‘Notpotatoes,boy.Dahliabulbs!’

7

It was dark by the time they were all back in Nauti. Mr Mani had refused to beseparatedfromhissackofdahliabulbs,andhadbeenforcedtosit in thebackof thetruckwithPrakashandmostoftheboys.

Binadidnotfeelsoillonthereturnjourney.Goinguphillwasdefinitelybetterthangoingdownhill!Butby the timethebusreachedNauti itwas too lateformostof thechildren towalkback to themoredistantvillages.Theboyswereputup indifferenthomes,whilethegirlsweregivenbedsintheschoolverandah.

Thenightwaswarmandstill.Largemothsflutteredaroundthesinglebulb that littheverandah.Countingmoths,Sonusoonfellasleep.ButBinastayedawakeforsometime,listeningtothesoundsofthenight.Anightjarwenttonk-tonk inthebushes,andsomewhere in the forest an owl hooted softly. The sharp call of a barking-deertravelled up the valley, from the direction of the stream. Jackals kept howling. Itseemedthatthereweremoreofthemthaneverbefore.

Binawasnottheonlyonetohearthebarking-deer.Theleopard,stretchedfulllengthonarockyledge,heardittoo.Theleopardraiseditsheadandthengotupslowly.Thedeerwas itsnaturalprey.But thereweren’tmanyleft,and thatwaswhythe leopard,robbedofitsforestbythedam,hadtakentoattackingdogsandcattlenearthevillages.

Asthecryofthebarking-deersoundednearer,theleopardleftitslook-outpointandmovedswiftlythroughtheshadowstowardsthestream.

8

InearlyJunethehillsweredryanddusty,andforestfiresbrokeout,destroyingshrubsandtrees,killingbirdsandsmallanimals.Theresininthepinesmadethesetreesburnmorefiercely,andthewindwouldtakesparksfromthetreesandcarrythemintothedrygrassandleaves,sothatnewfireswouldspringupbeforetheoldoneshaddiedout.Fortunately,Bina’svillagewasnotinthepinebelt;thefiresdidnotreachit.ButNautiwassurroundedbyafire thatragedfor threedays,andthechildrenhadtostayawayfromschool.

Andthen,towardstheendofJune,themonsoonrainsarrivedandtherewasanendto forest fires. The monsoon lasts three months and the lower Himalayas would bedrenchedinrain,mistandcloudforthenextthreemonths.

The first rain arrived while Bina, Prakash and Sonu were returning home fromschool. Those first few drops on the dusty pathmade them cry outwith excitement.Thentheraingrewheavierandawonderfularomarosefromtheearth.

‘Thebestsmellintheworld!’exclaimedBina.Everythingsuddenlycametolife.Thegrass,thecrops,thetrees,thebirds.Eventhe

leavesofthetreesglistenedandlookednew.Thatfirstwetweekend,BinaandSonuhelpedtheirmotherplantbeans,maizeand

cucumbers. Sometimes, when the rain was very heavy, they had to run indoors.Otherwisetheyworkedintherain,thesoftmudclingingtotheirbarelegs.

Prakashnowownedablackdogwithoneearupandoneeardown.Thedog ranaround getting in everyone’sway, barking at cows, goats, hens and humans, without

frighteninganyofthem.Prakashsaiditwasaverycleverdog,butnooneelseseemedtothinkso.Prakashalsosaiditwouldprotectthevillagefromtheleopard,butotherssaidthedogwouldbethefirsttobetaken–he’drunstraightintothejawsofMrSpots!

In Nauti, Tania Ramola was trying to find a dry spot in the quarters she’d beengiven. Itwas an old building and the roofwas leaking in several places.Mugs andbucketswerescatteredaboutthefloorinordertocatchthedrip.

Mr Mani had dug up all his potatoes and presented them to the friends andneighbourswhohadgivenhimlunchesanddinners.Hewashavingthetimeofhislife,plantingdahliabulbsalloverhisgarden.

‘I’llhaveafieldofmany-coloureddahlias!’heannounced.‘JustwaittilltheendofAugust!’

‘Watchoutforthoseporcupines,’warnedhissister.‘Theyeatdahliabulbstoo!’Mr Mani made an inspection tour of his moat, no longer in flood, and found

everythingingoodorder.Prakashhaddonehisjobwell.Now,whenthechildrencrossedthestream,theyfoundthatthewater-levelhadrisenbyabout a foot. Small cascades had turned intowaterfalls. Ferns had sprung up on thebanks.Frogschanted.

Prakash and his dog dashed across the stream. Bina and Sonu followed morecautiously.Thecurrentwasmuchstrongernowand thewaterwasalmostup to theirknees.Oncetheyhadcrossedthestream,theyhurriedalongthepath,anxiousnottobecaughtinasuddendownpour.

Bythetimetheyreachedschool,eachofthemhadtwoorthreeleechesclingingtotheirlegs.Theyhadtousesalttoremovethem.Theleecheswerethemosttroublesomepartoftherainyseason.Eventheleoparddidnotlikethem.Itcouldnotlieinthelonggrasswithoutgettingleechesonitspawsandface.

Oneday,whenBina,PrakashandSonuwereabouttocrossthestreamtheyheardalowrumble,whichgrewloudereverysecond.Lookingupattheoppositehill,theysawseveraltreesshudder,tiltoutwardsandbegintofall.Earthandrocksbulgedoutfromthemountain,thencamecrashingdownintotheravine.

‘Landslide!’shoutedSonu.‘It’scarriedawaythepath,’saidBina.‘Don’tgoanyfurther.’Therewasatremendousroarasmorerocks,treesandbushesfellawayandcrashed

downthehillside.Prakash’sdog,whohadgoneahead,camerunningback,tailbetweenhislegs.Theyremainedrootedtothespotuntiltherockshadstoppedfallingandthedusthad

settled.Birdscircledthearea,callingwildly.Afrightenedbarking-deerranpastthem.‘Wecan’tgotoschoolnow,’saidPrakash.‘There’snowayaround.’Theyturnedandtrudgedhomethroughthegatheringmist.InKoli,Prakash’sparentshadheardtheroarofthelandslide.Theyweresettingout

insearchofthechildrenwhentheysawthememergefromthemist,wavingcheerfully.

9

Theyhadtomissschoolforanotherthreedays,andBinawasafraidtheymightnotbeabletotaketheirfinalexams.AlthoughPrakashwasnotreallytroubledatthethoughtofmissingexams,hedidnotlikefeelinghelplessjustbecausetheirpathhadbeensweptaway.Soheexploredthehillsideuntilhefoundagoat-trackgoingaroundthemountain.It joinedupwithanotherpathnearNauti.Thismadetheirwalk longerbyamile,butBinadidnotmind.Itwasmuchcoolernowthattherainswereinfullswing.

Theonly troublewith thenewroutewas that itpassedclose to the leopard’s lair.Theanimalhadmadethisareaitsownsincebeingforcedtoleavethedamarea.

One day Prakash’s dog ran ahead of them, barking furiously. Then he ran back,whimpering.

‘He’salwaysrunningawayfromsomething,’observedSonu.Butaminutelaterheunderstoodthereasonforthedog’sfear.

They roundedabendandSonusaw the leopard standing in theirway.Theywerestruckdumb–tooterrifiedtorun.Itwasastrong,sinewycreature.Alowgrowlrosefromitsthroat.Itseemedreadytospring.

Theystoodperfectlystill,afraidtomoveorsayaword.Andtheleopardmusthavebeen equally surprised. It stared at them for a few seconds, thenbounded across thepathandintotheoakforest.

Sonu was shaking. Bina could hear her heart hammering. Prakash could onlystammer:‘Didyouseethewayhesprang?Wasn’thebeautiful?’

Heforgottolookathiswatchfortherestoftheday.A fewdays laterSonustoppedandpointed toa largeoutcropof rockon thenext

hill.The leopard stood far above them, outlined against the sky. It looked strong,

majestic.Standingbesideitweretwoyoungcubs.‘Lookatthoselittleones!’exclaimedSonu.‘Soit’safemale,notamale,’saidPrakash.‘That’swhyshewaskillingsooften,’saidBina.‘Shehadtofeedhercubstoo.’Theyremainedstillforseveralminutes,gazingupattheleopardandhercubs.The

leopardfamilytooknonoticeofthem.‘Sheknowswearehere,’saidPrakash,‘butshedoesn’tcare.Sheknowswewon’t

harmthem.’‘Wearecubstoo!’saidSonu.‘Yes,’saidBina.‘Andthere’sstillplentyofspaceforallofus.Evenwhenthedam

isreadytherewillstillberoomforleopardsandhumans.’

10

Theschoolexamswereover.Therainswerenearlyovertoo.Thelandslidehadbeencleared,andBina,PrakashandSonuwereonceagaincrossingthestream.

Therewasachillintheair,foritwastheendofSeptember.Prakashhadlearnttoplaytheflutequitewell,andheplayedonthewaytoschool

andthenagainonthewayhome.Asaresulthedidnotlookathiswatchsooften.OnemorningtheyfoundasmallcrowdinfrontofMrMani’shouse.‘Whatcouldhavehappened?’wonderedBina.‘Ihopehehasn’tgotlostagain.’‘Maybehe’ssick,’saidSonu.‘Maybeit’stheporcupines,’saidPrakash.Butitwasnoneofthesethings.MrMani’sfirstdahliawasinbloom,andhalfthevillagehadturnedouttolookatit!

Itwasahugereddoubledahlia,soheavythatithadtobesupportedwithsticks.Noonehadeverseensuchamagnificentflower!

MrManiwasahappyman.Andhismoodonlyimprovedoverthecomingweek,asmore and more dahlias flowered – crimson, yellow, purple, mauve, white – buttondahlias,pompomdahlias,spotteddahlias,stripeddahlias…MrManihadthemall!AdahliaeventurneduponTaniaRomola’sdesk–hegotonquitewellwithhernow–andanotherbrighteneduptheheadmaster’sstudy.

Aweeklater,ontheirwayhome–itwasalmost thelastdayof theschoolterm–Bina,PrakashandSonutalkedaboutwhattheymightdowhentheygrewup.

‘I think I’ll become a teacher,’ said Bina. ‘I’ll teach children about animals andbirds,andtreesandflowers.’

‘Betterthanmaths!’saidPrakash.‘I’llbeapilot,’saidSonu.‘IwanttoflyaplanelikeMissRamola’sbrother.’‘Andwhataboutyou,Prakash?’askedBina.Prakashjustsmiledandsaid,‘MaybeI’llbeaflute-player,’andheputtheflutetohe

lipsandplayedasweetmelody.‘Well, theworld needs flute-players too,’ saidBina, as they fell into step beside

him.Theleopardhadbeenstalkingabarking-deer.Shepausedwhensheheardtheflute

andthevoicesofthechildren.Herownyoungonesweregrowingquickly,butthegirlandthetwoboysdidnotlookmucholder.

Theyhadstartedsingingtheirfavouritesongagain.Fivemoremilestogo!Weclimbthroughrainandsnow,Arivertocross…Amountaintopass…Nowwe’vefourmoremilestogo!

Theleopardwaiteduntiltheyhadpassed,beforereturningtothetrailofthebarking-

deer.

TheWindonHauntedHillhoo,whoo,whoo,criedthewindasitsweptdownfromtheHimalayansnows.Ithurriedoverthehillsandpassedandhummedandmoanedthroughthetallpines

anddeodars.Therewas littleonHauntedHill to stop thewind–onlya fewstuntedtreesandbushesandtheruinsofasmallsettlement.

On the slopesof thenext hillwas avillage.Peoplekept large stoneson their tinroofstopreventthemfrombeingblownoff.Therewasnearlyalwaysastrongwindinthese parts. Three children were spreading clothes out to dry on a low stone wall,puttingastoneoneachpiece.

Eleven-year-old Usha, dark-haired and rose-cheeked, struggled with hergrandfather’slong,looseshirt.Heryoungerbrother,Suresh,wasdoinghisbesttoholddownabedsheet,whileUsha’sfriend,Binya,aslightlyoldergirl,helped.

Onceeverythingwasfirmlyhelddownbystones,theyclimbedupontheflatrocksandsattheresunbathingandstaringacrossthefieldsattheruinsonHauntedHill.

‘Imustgotothebazaartoday,’saidUsha.‘IwishIcouldcometoo,’saidBinya.‘ButIhavetohelpwiththecows.’‘Icancome!’saideight-year-oldSuresh.Hewasalwaysreadytovisitthebazaar,

whichwasthreemilesaway,ontheothersideofthehill.‘No,youcan’t,’saidUsha.‘YoumusthelpGrandfatherchopwood.’‘Won’t you feel scared returning alone?’ he asked. ‘There are ghosts onHaunted

Hill!’‘I’llbebackbeforedark.Ghostsdon’tappearduringtheday.’‘Aretherelotsofghostsintheruins?’askedBinya.‘Grandfathersaysso.Hesaysthatoverahundredyearsago,someBritisherslived

on the hill. But the settlement was always being struck by lightning, so theymovedaway.’

‘Butiftheyleft,whyistheplacevisitedbyghosts?’‘Because–Grandfathersays–duringaterriblestorm,oneofthehouseswashitby

lightning,andeveryoneinitwaskilled.Eventhechildren.’‘Howmanychildren?’‘Two.Aboyandhissister.Grandfathersawthemplayingthereinthemoonlight.’‘Wasn’thefrightened?’‘No.Oldpeopledon’tmindghosts.’Ushasetoutforthebazaarattwointheafternoon.Itwasaboutanhour’swalk.The

pathwentthroughyellowfieldsoffloweringmustard,thenalongthesaddleofthehill,

andup,straightthroughtheruins.Ushahadoftengonethatwaytoshopatthebazaarortoseeheraunt,wholivedinthetownnearby.

Wild flowers bloomedon the crumblingwalls of the ruins, and awild plum treegrewstraightoutof thefloorofwhathadoncebeenahall. Itwascoveredwithsoft,white blossoms. Lizards scuttled over the stones, while a whistling thrush, its deeppurpleplumageglisteninginthesunshine,satonawindow-sillandsangitsheartout.

Ushasangtoo,assheskippedlightlyalongthepath,whichdippedsteeplydowntothevalleyandledtothelittletownwithitsquaintbazaar.

Movingleisurely,Ushaboughtspices,sugarandmatches.Withthetworupeesshehadsavedfromherpocket-money,shechoseanecklaceofamber-colouredbeadsforherselfandsomemarblesforSuresh.Thenshehadhermother’sslippersrepairedatacobbler’sshop.

Finally,Ushawent to visit Aunt Lakshmi at her flat above the shops. Theyweretalking and drinking cups of hot, sweet teawhenUsha realised that dark clouds hadgatheredoverthemountains.Shequicklypickedupherthings,saidgoodbyetoheraunt,andsetoutforthevillage.

Strangely,thewindhaddropped.Thetreeswerestill,thecricketssilent.Thecrowsflewroundincircles,thensettledonanoaktree.

‘Imustgethomebeforedark,’thoughtUsha,hurryingalongthepath.Buttheskyhaddarkenedandadeeprumbleechoedoverthehills.Ushafeltthefirst

heavy drop of rain hit her cheek. Holding the shopping bag close to her body, shequickened her pace until shewas almost running. The raindropswere coming downfasternow–cold,stingingpelletsofrain.Aflashoflightningsharplyoutlinedtheruinsonthehill,andthenallwasdarkagain.Nighthadfallen.

‘I’llhavetoshelterintheruins,’Ushathoughtandbegantorun.Suddenlythewindsprangup again, but she did not have to fight it. Itwas behind her now, helping heralong, up the steep path and on to the brow of the hill. There was another flash oflightning, followed by a peal of thunder. The ruins loomed before her, grim andforbidding.

Usha remembered part of an old roof that would give some shelter. It would bebetter thantryingtogoon.Inthedark,withthehowlingwind,shemightstrayoff thepathandfallovertheedgeofthecliff.Whoo,whoo,whoo, howled thewind.Usha saw thewild plum tree swaying, its

foliage thrashing against the ground.She foundherway into the ruins, helped by theconstantflickeroflightning.Ushaplacedherhandsflatagainstastonewallandmovedsideways,hopingtoreachtheshelteredcorner.Suddenly,herhandtouchedsomethingsoft and furry, and she gave a startled cry.Her crywas answered by another – halfsnarl,halfscreech–assomethingleaptawayinthedarkness.

WithasighofreliefUsharealisedthat itwasthecat that livedintheruins.Foramomentshehadbeenfrightened,butnowshemovedquicklyalong thewalluntil she

heard the raindrummingona remnantof a tin roof.Crouched in a corner, she foundsome shelter. But the tin sheet groaned and clattered as if it would sail away anymoment.

Usha remembered that across this empty room stood an old fireplace. Perhaps itwouldbedrier thereunder theblockedchimney.Butshewouldnotattempt to find itjustnow–shemightloseherwayaltogether.

Herclothesweresoakedandwaterstreameddownfromherhair,formingapuddleatherfeet.Shethoughtsheheardafaintcry–thecatagain,oranowl?Thenthestormblottedoutallothersounds.

Therehadbeennotimetothinkofghosts,butnowthatshewassettledinoneplace,UsharememberedGrandfather’sstoryaboutthelightning-blastedruins.Shehopedandprayedthatlightningwouldnotstrikeher.

Thunderboomedoverthehills,andthelightningcamequickernow.Thentherewasa bigger flash, and for amoment the entire ruinwas lit up.A streak of blue sizzledalong the floorof thebuilding.Ushawas staring straight ahead, and, as theoppositewall lit up, she saw, crouching in front of the unused fireplace, two small figures –children!

TheghostlyfiguresseemedtolookupandstarebackatUsha.Andtheneverythingwasdarkagain.

Usha’sheartwasinhermouth.Shehadseenwithoutdoubt,twoghostsontheothersideoftheroom.Shewasn’tgoingtoremainintheruinsoneminutelonger.

She ran towards the big gap in thewall throughwhich she had entered. Shewashalfway across the open space when something – someone – fell against her. Ushastumbled, got up, and again bumped into something. She gave a frightened scream.Someoneelsescreamed.Andthentherewasashout,aboy’sshout,andUshainstantlyrecognisedthevoice.

‘Suresh!’‘Usha!’‘Binya!’They fell into each other’s arms, so surprised and relieved that all they could do

waslaughandgiggleandrepeateachother’snames.ThenUshasaid,‘Ithoughtyouwereghosts.’‘Wethoughtyouwereaghost,’saidSuresh.‘Comebackundertheroof,’saidUsha.Theyhuddledtogetherinthecorner,chatteringwithexcitementandrelief.‘When it grew dark, we came looking for you,’ said Binya. ‘And then the storm

broke.’‘Shallwerunbacktogether?’askedUsha.‘Idon’twanttostayhereanylonger.’‘We’llhavetowait,’saidBinya.‘Thepathhasfallenawayatoneplace.Itwon’tbe

safeinthedark,inallthisrain.’

‘We’llhavetowaittillmorning,’saidSuresh,‘andI’msohungry!’The stormcontinued,but theywerenot afraidnow.Theygaveeachotherwarmth

andconfidence.Eventheruinsdidnotseemsoforbidding.Afteranhourtherainstopped,andthethundergrewmoredistant.Towardsdawn thewhistling thrushbegan to sing. Its sweet,brokennotes flooded

theruinswithmusic.Astheskygrewlighter,theysawthattheplumtreestooduprightagain,thoughithadlostallitsblossoms.

‘Let’sgo,’saidUsha.Outside the ruins,walking along the brow of the hill, theywatched the sky grow

pink.Whentheyweresomedistanceaway,Ushalookedbackandsaid,‘Canyouseesomethingbehindthewall?It’slikeahandwaving.’

‘It’sjustthetopoftheplumtree,’saidBinya.‘Goodbye,goodbye…’Theyheardvoices.‘Whosaid“goodbye”?’askedUsha.‘NotI,’saidSuresh.‘NorI,’saidBinya.‘Iheardsomeonecalling,’saidUsha.‘It’sonlythewind,’assuredBinya.Ushalookedbackattheruins.Thesunhadcomeupandwastouchingthetopofthe

wall.‘Comeon,’saidSuresh.‘I’mhungry.’Theyhurriedalongthepathtothevillage.‘Goodbye,goodbye…’Ushaheardthemcalling.Orwasitjustthewind?

RomiandtheWildfire1

s Romi was about tomount his bicycle, he saw smoke rising from behind thedistantlineoftrees.

‘Itlookslikeaforestfire,’saidPrem,hisfriendandclassmate.‘It’swelltotheeast,’saidRomi.‘Nowhereneartheroad.’‘There’s a strongwind,’ said Prem, looking at the dry leaves swirling across the

road.ItwasthemiddleofMay,andithadn’trainedintheTeraiforseveralweeks.The

grasswasbrown,theleavesofthetreescoveredwithdust.Eventhoughitwasgettingontosixo’clockintheevening,theboys’shirtsweredampwithsweat.

‘Itwillbegettingdarksoon,’saidPrem.‘You’dbetterspendthenightatmyhouse.’‘No,IsaidI’dbehometonight.Myfatherisn’tkeepingwell.Thedoctorhasgiven

mesometabletsforhim.’‘You’dbetterhurry,then.Thatfireseemstobespreading.’‘Oh,it’sfaroff.Itwill takemeonlyfortyminutestoridethroughtheforest.‘Bye,

Prem–seeyoutomorrow!’Romi mounted his bicycle and pedalled off down the main road of the village,

scatteringstrayhens,straydogsandstrayvillagers.‘Hey,lookwhereyou’regoing!’shoutedanangryvillager,leapingoutofthewayof

theoncomingbicycle.‘Doyouthinkyouowntheroad?’‘OfcourseIownit,’calledRomicheerfully,andcycledon.Hisownvillage layabout sevenmilesdistant,on theother sideof the forest;but

therewasonlyaprimaryschoolinhisvillage,andRomiwasnowinHighSchool.Hisfather,whowas a fairlywealthy sugarcane farmer, had only recently bought him thebicycle.Romididn’tcaretoomuchforschoolandfeltthereweren’tenoughholidays;butheenjoyedthelongrides,andhegotonwellwithhisclassmates.

HemighthavestayedthenightwithPremhaditnotbeenforthetabletswhichtheVaid–thevillagedoctor–hadgivenhimforhisfather.

Romi’s father was having back trouble, and the medicine had been speciallypreparedfromlocalherbs.

Havingbeengivensuchafinebicycle,Romifeltthattheleasthecoulddoinreturnwastogetthosetabletstohisfatherasearlyaspossible.

Heputhisheaddownandrodeswiftlyoutofthevillage.Aheadofhim,thesmokerosefromtheburningforestandtheskyglowedred.

2

Hehadsoonleftthevillagefarbehind.Therewasaslightclimb,andRomihadtopushharder on the pedals to get over the rise.Once over the top, the roadwentwindingdowntotheedgeofthesub-tropicalforest.

ThiswasthepartRomienjoyedmost.Herelaxed,stoppedpedalling,andallowedthe bicycle to glide gently down the slope. Soon the wind was rushing past him,blowinghishairabouthis faceandmakinghisshirtbillowoutbehind.Heburst intosong.

Adogfromthevillageranbesidehim,barkingfuriously.Romishoutedtothedog,encouraginghimintherace.

Thentheroadstraightenedout,andRomibeganpedallingagain.The dog, seeing the forest ahead, turned back to the village. It was afraid of the

forest.Thesmokewasthickernow,andRomicaughtthesmellofburningtimber.Butahead

ofhimtheroadwasclear.Herodeon.Itwasarough,dustyroad,cutstraightthroughtheforest.Talltreesgrewoneither

side,cuttingoffthelastofthedaylight.Butthespreadingglowofthefireontherightlituptheroad,andgianttree-shadowsdancedbeforetheboyonthebicycle.

Usuallytheroadwasdeserted.Thiseveningitwasalivewithwildcreaturesfleeingfromtheforestfire.

ThefirstanimalthatRomisawwasahare,leapingacrosstheroadinfrontofhim.Itwas followed by several more hares. Then a band of monkeys streamed across,chatteringexcitedly.

They’llbesafeontheotherside,thoughtRomi.Thefirewon’tcrosstheroad.Butitwascomingcloser.Andrealisingthis,Romipedalledharder.Inhalf-an-hour

heshouldbeoutoftheforest.Suddenly, from the side of the road, several pheasants rose in the air, andwith a

whoosh, flew low across the path, just in front of the oncoming bicycle. Taken bysurprise,Romifelloff.Whenhepickedhimselfupandbeganbrushinghisclothes,hesawthathiskneewasbleeding.Itwasn’tadeepcut,butheallowedittobleedalittle,tookouthishandkerchiefandbandagedhisknee.Thenhemountedthebicycleagain.

Herodeabitslowernow,becausebirdsandanimalskeptcomingoutofthebushes.Notonlypheasantsbutsmallerbirds,too,werestreamingacrosstheroad–parrots,

junglecrows,owls,magpies–andtheairwasfilledwiththeircries.‘Everyone’sonthemove,’thoughtRomi.Itmustbeareallybigfire.Hecouldseetheflamesnow,reachingoutfrombehindthetreesonhisright,andhe

could hear the crackling as the dry leaves caught fire. The air was hot on his face.Leaves,stillalightorturningtocinders,floatedpast.

Aherdofdeercrossedtheroad,andRomihadtostopuntiltheyhadpassed.Thenhe

mountedagainandrodeon;butnow,forthefirsttime,hewasfeelingafraid.

3

Fromaheadcameafaintclangingsound.Itwasn’tananimalsound,Romiwassureofthat.Afire-engine?Therewerenofire-engineswithinfiftymiles.

Theclangingcamenearer, andRomidiscovered that thenoisecame froma smallboywhowasrunningalongtheforestpath,twomilk-cansclatteringathisside

‘Teju!’calledRomi,recognisingtheboyfromaneighbouringvillage.‘Whatareyoudoingouthere?’

‘Tryingtogethome,ofcourse,’saidTeju,pantingalongbesidethebicycle.‘Jumpon,’saidRomi,stoppingforhim.Tejuwasonlyeightornine–acoupleofyearsyoungerthanRomi.Hehadcometo

delivermilktosomeroad-workers,buttheworkershadleftatthefirstsignsofthefire,andTejuwashurryinghomewithhiscansstillfullofmilk.

Hegotuponthecross-barofthebicycle,andRomimovedonagain.Hewasquiteusedtocarryingfriendsonthecrossbar.

‘Keepbeatingyourmilk-cans,’saidRomi.‘Likethat,theanimalswillknowwearecoming.Mybelldoesn’tmakeenoughnoise.I’mgoingtogetahornformycycle!’

‘Ineverknewthereweresomanyanimalsinthejungle,’saidTeju.‘Isawapythoninthemiddleoftheroad.Itstretchedrightacross!’

‘Whatdidyoudo?’‘Justkeptrunningandjumpedrightoverit!’Teju continued to chatter but Romi’s thoughts were on the fire, which wasmuch

closernow.Flamesshotupfromthedrygrassandranupthetrunksoftreesandalongthebranches.Smokebillowedoutabovetheforest.

Romi’seyesweresmartingandhishairandeyebrowsfeltscorched.Hewasfeelingtiredbuthecouldn’tstopnow,hehadtogetbeyondtherangeofthefire.Anothertenorfifteenminutesofsteadyridingwouldgetthemtothesmallwoodenbridgethatspannedthelittleriverseparatingtheforestfromthesugarcanefields.

Onceacrosstheriver,theywouldbesafe.Thefirecouldnottouchthemontheotherside, because the forest ended at the river’s edge.But could they get to the river intime?

4

Clang,clang,clang,wentTeju’smilk-cans.Butthesoundofthefiregrewloudertoo.

A tall silk-cotton tree, its branches leaning across the road, had caught fire.Theywerealmostbeneathitwhentherewasacrashandaburningbranchfelltothegroundafewyardsinfrontofthem.

Theboyshadtogetoffthebicycleandleavetheroad,forcingtheirwaythroughatangle of thorny bushes on the left, dragging and pushing at the bicycle and onlyreturningtotheroadsomedistanceaheadoftheburningtree.

‘Wewon’tgetoutintime,’saidTeju,backonthecross-barbutfeelingdisheartened.‘Yes,wewill,’saidRomi,pedallingwithallhismight.‘Thefirehasn’tcrossedthe

roadasyet.’Even as he spoke, he saw a small flame leap up from the grass on the left. It

wouldn’tbelongbeforemoresparksandburningleaveswereblownacrosstheroadtokindlethegrassontheotherside.

‘Oh,look!’exclaimedRomi,bringingthebicycletoasuddenstop.‘What’s wrong now?’ asked Teju, rubbing his sore eyes. And then, through the

smoke,hesawwhatwasstoppingthem.Anelephantwasstandinginthemiddleoftheroad.Teju slipped off the cross-bar, his cans rolling on the ground, bursting open and

spillingtheircontents.The elephant was about forty feet away. It moved about restlessly, its big ears

flappingasitturneditsheadfromsidetoside,wonderingwhichwaytogo.Fromfartotheleft,wheretheforestwasstilluntouched,aherdofelephantsmoved

towardstheriver.Theleaderoftheherdraisedhistrunkandtrumpetedacall.Hearingit,theelephantintheroadraiseditsowntrunkandtrumpetedareply.Thenitshambledoffintotheforest,inthedirectionoftheherd,leavingthewayclear.

‘Come,Teju,jumpon!’urgedRomi.‘Wecan’tstayheremuchlonger!’

5

Teju forgot about his milk-cans and pulled himself up on the cross-bar. Romi ranforwardwiththebicycle,togainspeed,andmountedswiftly.Hekeptasfaraspossibleto the left of the road, trying to ignore the flames, the crackling, the smoke and thescorchingheat.

Itseemedthatalltheanimalswhocouldgetawayhaddoneso.Theexodusacrosstheroadhadstopped.

‘Wewon’tstopagain,’saidRomi,grittinghisteeth.‘Notevenforanelephant!’‘We’renearlythere!’saidTeju.Hewasperkingupagain.Ajackal,overcomebytheheatandsmoke,layinthemiddleofthepath,eitherdead

orunconscious.Romididnotstop.Heswervedroundtheanimal.Thenheputallhisstrengthintoonefinaleffort.

Hecoveredthelasthundredyardsattopspeed,andthentheywereoutoftheforest,free-wheelingdowntheslopingroadtotheriver.

‘Look!’shoutedTeju.‘Thebridgeisonfire!’Burning embers had floated down on to the small wooden bridge, and the dry,

ancienttimberhadquicklycaughtfire.Itwasnowburningfiercely.Romididnothesitate.He left the road, riding thebicycleover sandandpebbles.

Thenwitharushtheywentdowntheriver-bankandintothewater.Thenextthingtheyknewtheyweresplashingaround,tryingtofindeachotherinthe

darkness.‘Help!’criedTeju.‘I’mdrowning!’

6

‘Don’tbesilly,’saidRomi.‘Thewaterisn’tdeep–it’sonlyuptotheknees.Comehereandgrabholdofme.’

TejusplashedacrossandgrabbedRomibythebelt.‘Thewater’ssocold,’hesaid,histeethchattering.‘Doyouwanttogobackandwarmyourself?’askedRomi.‘Somepeoplearenever

satisfied. Come on, help me get the bicycle up. It’s down here, just where we arestanding.’

Togethertheymanagedtoheavethebicycleoutofthewaterandstanditupright.‘Nowsitonit,’saidRomi.‘I’llpushyouacross.’‘We’llbesweptaway,’saidTeju.‘No,wewon’t.There’snotmuchwaterintheriveratthistimeoftheyear.Butthe

currentisquitestronginthemiddle,sositstill.Allright?’‘Allright,’saidTejunervously.Romibeganguidingthebicycleacrosstheriver,onehandontheseatandonehand

on thehandlebar.Theriverwasshallowandsluggish inmidsummer;evenso, itwasquiteswiftinthemiddle.Buthavinggotsafelyoutoftheburningforest,Romiwasinnomoodtoletalittleriverdefeathim.

Hekickedoffhisshoes,knowingtheywouldbelost;andthengrippingthesmoothstonesoftheriver-bedwithhistoes,heconcentratedonkeepinghisbalanceandgettingthebicycleandTejuthroughthemiddleof thestream.Thewaterherecameuptohiswaist,andthecurrentwouldhavebeentoostrongforTeju.Butwhentheyreachedtheshallows,TejugotdownandhelpedRomipushthebicycle.

Theyreachedtheoppositebank,andsankdownonthegrass.‘Wecanrestnow,’saidRomi.‘Butnotallnight–I’vegotsomemedicinetogiveto

myfather.’Hefeltinhispocketsandfoundthatthetabletsintheirenvelope,hadturnedintoasoggymess.‘Ohwell,hehadtotakethemwithwateranyway,’hesaid.

Theywatchedthefireasitcontinuedtospreadthroughtheforest.Ithadcrossedtheroaddownwhichtheyhadcome.Theskywasabrightred,andtheriverreflectedthecolourofthesky.

Severalelephantshadfoundtheirwaydowntotheriver.Theywerecoolingoffbysprayingwateroneachotherwiththeirtrunks.Furtherdownstreamthereweredeerand

otheranimals.RomiandTeju lookedateachother in theglowfromthe fire.Theyhadn’tknown

eachotherverywellbefore.Butnowtheyfelttheyhadbeenfriendsforyears.‘Whatareyouthinkingabout?’askedTeju.‘I’mthinking,’saidRomi,‘thatevenif thefire isout inadayor two, itwillbea

longtimebeforethebridgeisrepaired.Soitwillbeanicelongholidayfromschool!’‘Butyoucanwalkacrosstheriver,’saidTeju.‘Youjustdidit.’‘Impossible,’saidRomi.‘It’smuchtooswift.’

TigerMyFriend

1

n the left bank of the river Ganges, where it flows out from the Himalayanfoothills,isalongstretchofheavyforest.Therearevillagesonthefringeofthe

forest,inhabitedbyfarmersandherdsmen.Big-gamehunterscametotheareaformanyyears, and as a result the animals had been getting fewer. The trees, too, had beendisappearingslowly;andastheanimalslosttheirfoodandshelter,theymovedfurtherintothefoothills.

There was a timewhen this forest had provided a home for some thirty to fortytigers, but men in search of skins and trophies had shot them all, and now thereremainedonlyoneoldtigerinthejungle.Thehuntershadtriedtogethim,too,buthewasawiseandcraftytiger,whoknewthewaysofman,andsofarhehadsurvivedallattemptsonhislife.

Althoughthetigerhadpassedtheprimeofhislife,hehadlostnoneofhismajesty.Hismusclesrippledbeneaththegoldenyellowofhiscoat,andhewalkedthroughthelonggrasswiththeconfidenceofonewhoknewthathewasstillaking,althoughhissubjectswerefewer.Hisgreatheadpushedthroughthefoliage,anditwasonlyhistail,swinginghigh,thatsometimesshowedabovetheseaofgrass.

Hewasheadingforwater,thewaterofalargemarsh,wherehesometimeswenttodrinkor cool off.Themarshwasusually deserted exceptwhen thebuffaloes fromanearbyvillagewerebroughttheretobatheorwallowinthemuddywater.

Thetigerwaitedintheshelterofarock,hisearsprickedforanyunfamiliarsound.Heknewthatitwasherethathunterssometimeswaitedforhimwithguns.

He walked into the water, amongst the water-lilies, and drank slowly. He wasseldominahurrywhenheateordrank.

Heraisedhisheadandlistened,onepawsuspendedintheair.Astrangesoundhadcometohimonthebreeze,andhewaswaryofstrangesounds.

So he moved swiftly into the shelter of the tall grass that bordered the marsh, andclimbedahillockuntilhereachedhisfavouriterock.Thisrockwasbigenoughtohidehimandtogivehimshade.

The soundhehadheardwasonlya flute, sounding thinand reedy in the forest. ItbelongedtoNandu,aslimbrownboywhorodeabuffalo.Nanduplayedvigorouslyontheflute.Chottu,aslightlysmallerboy,ridinganotherbuffalo,broughtuptherearoftheherd.

Therewereeightbuffaloesintheherd,whichbelongedtothefamiliesofNanduandChottu,whowerecousins.Theirfatherssoldbuffalo-milkandbutterinvillagesfurtherdowntheriver.

The tiger had often seen them at the marsh, and he was not bothered by theirpresence.Heknewthevillagefolkwouldleavehimaloneaslongashedidnotattacktheirbuffaloes.Andaslongasthereweredeerinthejungle,hewouldnotbeinterestedinotherprey.

Hedecidedtomoveonandfindacoolshadyplaceintheheartofthejungle,wherehe could rest during the hot afternoon and be free of the flies and mosquitoes thatswarmedaroundthemarsh.Atnighthewouldhunt.

With a lazy grunt that was half a roar, ‘A-oonh!’ – he got off his haunches andsaunteredoffintothejungle.

The gentlest of tigers’ roars can be heard amile away, and the boys, whowerebarelyfiftyyardsdistant,lookedupimmediately.

‘There he goes!’ said Nandu, taking the flute from his lips and pointing with ittowardsthehillock.‘Didyouseehim?’

‘Isawhistail,justbeforehedisappeared.He’sabigtiger!’‘Don’t’callhimtiger.CallhimUncle.’‘Why?’askedChottu.‘Becauseit’sunluckytocallatigeratiger.Myfathertoldmeso.Butifyoumeeta

tiger,andcallhimUncle,hewillleaveyoualone.’‘Isee,’saidChottu.‘Youhavetomakehimarelative.I’lltryandrememberthat.’Thebuffaloeswerenowwellintothemarch,andsomeofthemwerelyingdownin

themud.Buffaloeslovesoftwetmudandwillwallowinitforhours.NanduandChottuwerenotsofondofthemud,sotheywentswimmingindeeperwater.Later,theyrestedintheshadeofanoldsilk-cottontree.

Itwasevening,andthe twilightfadingfast,whenthebuffaloherdfinallymadeitswayhomeward,tobegreetedoutsidethevillagebythebarkingofdogs,thegurgleofhookah-pipes,andthehomelysmellofcow-dungsmoke.

2

Thefollowingevening,whenNanduandChottucamehomewiththebuffaloherd,theyfoundacrowdofcuriousvillagerssurroundingajeepinwhichsatthreestrangerswithguns.Theywerehunters,andtheywereaccompaniedbyservantsandalargestoreofprovisions.

Theyhadheardthattherewasatigerinthearea,andtheywantedtoshootit.Thesemenhadmoneytospend;and,asmostofthevillagerswerepoor,theywere

preparedtogointotheforesttomakeamachaanortree-platformforthehunters.Theplatform, big enough to take the three men, was put up in the branches of a tall

mahoganytree.Nandu was told by his father to tie a goat at the foot of the tree. While these

preparationswerebeingmade,Chottuslippedoffandcircledthearea,withaplanofhisowninmind.Hehadnowishtoseethetigerkilledandhehaddecidedtogiveitsomesortofwarning.Sohetiedupbitsandpiecesofoldclothingonsmalltreesandbushes.Heknewthewilyoldkingofthejunglewouldkeepwellawayfromtheareaifhesawthebitsofclothing–forwherethereweremen’sclothes,therewouldbemen.

Thevigilkeptbythehunterslastedallthroughthenight,butthetigerdidnotcomenearthetree.Perhapshe’dgotChottu’swarning;orperhapshewasn’thungry.

Itwasacoldnight,anditwasn’tlongbeforethehuntersopenedtheirflasksofrum.Soontheywerewhisperingamongthemselves;thentheywerechatteringsoloudlythatno wild animal would have come anywhere near them. By morning they were fastasleep.

Theylookedgrumpyandshamefacedastheytrudgedbacktothevillage.‘Wrongtimeoftheyearfortiger,’saidthefirsthunter.‘Nothingleftintheseparts,’saidthesecond.‘IthinkI’vecaughtacold,’saidthethird.Andtheydroveawayindisgust.

Itwasnotuntilthebeginningofthesummerthatsomethinghappenedtoalterthehuntinghabitsofthetigerandbringhimintoconflictwiththevillagers.

Therehadbeennorainforalmosttwomonths,andthetalljunglegrasshadbecomea sea of billowy dry yellow. Some city-dwellers, camping near the forest, had beencarelesswhilecookingandhadstartedaforestfire.Slowlyitspreadintotheinterior,fromwhere the acrid fumes smoked the tiger out towards the edge of the jungle.Asnight came on, the flames grewmore vivid, the smell stronger. The tiger turned andmadeforthemarsh,whereheknewhewouldbesafeprovidedheswamacrosstothelittleislandinthecentre.

Next morning he was on the island, which was untouched by the fire. But hissurroundingshadchanged.Theslopesofthehillswereblackwithburntgrass,andmostofthetallbamboohaddisappeared.Thedeerandthewildpig,findingthattheirnaturalcoverhadgone,movedfurthereast.

Whenthefirehaddieddownandthesmokehadcleared,thetigerprowledthroughtheforestagainbutfoundnogame.Hedrankatthemarshandsettleddowninashadyspottosleepthedayaway.

The tiger spent fourdays looking forgame.By that timehewassohungry thatheevenresortedtorootingamongthedeadleavesandburnt-outstumpsoftrees,searchingforwormsandbeetles.Thiswasasadcomedownforthekingofthejungle.Butevennowhehesitatedtoleavetheareainsearchofnewhuntinggrounds,forhehadadeepfear and suspicion of the unknown forests further east – forests thatwere fast beingsweptawaybyhumanhabitation.Hecouldhavegonenorth,intothehighmountains,but

theydidnotprovidehimwiththelonggrassheneededforcover.Atbreakofdayhecametothemarsh.Thewaterwasnowshallowandmuddy,anda

greenscumhadspreadoverthetop.Hedrank,andthenlaydownacrosshisfavouriterock,hopingforadeer;butnonecame.Hewasabouttogetupandlopeawaywhenheheardananimalapproach.

Thetigeratonceslippedoffhisrockandflattenedhimselfontheground,histawnystripesmergingwiththedrygrass.

Abuffaloemergedfromthejungleandcametothewater.Thebuffalowasalone.Hewas a big male, and his long curved horns lay right back across his shoulders. Hemovedleisurelytowardsthewater,completelyunawareofthetiger’spresence.

Thetigerhesitatedbeforemakinghischarge.It was a long time – many years – since he had killed a buffalo, and he knew

instinctively that thevillagerswouldbeangry.But thepangsofhungerovercamehiscaution.Therewasnomorningbreeze,everythingwasstill,andthesmellofthetigerdidnot reach thebuffalo.Amonkeychatteredonanearby tree,buthiswarningwentunheeded.

Crawling stealthily on his stomach, the tiger skirted the edge of the marsh andapproached the buffalo from behind. The buffalo was standing in shallow water,drinking,whenthetigerchargedfromthesideandsankhisteethintohisvictim’sthigh.

Thebuffalostaggered,but turnedtofight.Hesnortedandloweredhishornsat thetiger.Butthebigcatwastoofastforthebravebuffalo.Hebitintotheotherlegandthebuffalocrashedtotheground.Thenthetigermovedinforthekill.

Afterresting,hebegantoeat.Althoughhehadbeenstarvingfordays,hecouldnotfinish the huge carcass. And so he quenched his thirst at themarsh and dragged theremainsofthebuffalointothebushes,toconcealitfromjackalsandvultures;thenhewentofftofindaplacetosleep.

Hewouldreturntothekillwhenhewashungry.

3

The herdsmen were naturally very upset when they discovered that a buffalo wasmissing.Andnextday,whenNanduandChottucamerunninghometosaythattheyhadfound thehalf-eaten carcassnear themarsh, themenof thevillagegrewangry.Theyknewthatoncethetigerrealisedhoweasyitwastokilltheiranimals,hewouldmakeahabitofdoingso.

KundanSingh,Nandu’s father,whoowned thebuffalo, saidhewouldgoafter thetigerhimself.

‘It’stoolatenow,’saidhiswife.‘Youshouldneverhaveletthebuffaloroamonitsown.’

‘Hehadbeenonhisownbefore.Thisisthefirsttimethetigerhasattackedoneof

ouranimals.’‘Hemusthavebeenhungry,’saidChottu.‘Well,wearehungrytoo,’saidKundanSingh.‘Ourbestbuffalo–theonlymalein

theherd.Itwillcostmeatleasttwothousandrupeestobuyanother.’‘The tigerwillkillagain,’saidChottu’sfather. ‘Manyyearsago therewasa tiger

whodidthesamething.Hebecameacattle-killer.’‘Shouldwesendforthehunters?’‘No,theyareclumsyfools.Thetigerwillreturntothecarcassforanothermeal.You

haveagun?’Kundan Singh smiled proudly and, going to a cupboard, brought out a double-

barrelledgun.Itlookedancient!‘MyfatherboughtitfromanEnglishman,’hesaid.‘Howlongagowasthat?’‘AboutthetimeIwasborn.’‘And have you ever used it?’ asked Chottu’s father, looking at the old gun with

distrust.‘A fewyearsago I let itoff at somebandits.Don’tyou remember?When I fired,

theydidnotstoprunninguntiltheyhadcrossedtheriver.’‘Yes,butdidyouhitanyone?’‘Iwouldhave,ifsomeone’sgoathadn’tgotintheway.’‘Wehadroastmeatthatnight,’saidNandu.AccompaniedbyChottu’s fatherandseveralothers,Kundansetout for themarsh,

where,withoutshiftingthebuffalo’scarcass–fortheyknewthetigerwouldnotcomenearthemifhesuspectedatrap–theymadeanothertree-platforminthebranchesofatalltreesomethirtyfeetfromthekill.

Late that evening,KundanSingh andChottu’s father settled down for the night ontheirroughplatform.

Severalhourspassedandnothingbutajackalwasseenbythewatchers.Andthen,justasthemooncameupoverthedistanthills,thetwomenwerestartledbyalow‘A-oonh’,followedbyasuppressed,rumblinggrowl.

Kundantightenedhisgripontheoldgun.Therewascompletesilenceforaminuteortwo,thenthesoundofstealthyfootfallsonthedeadleavesbeneaththetree.

Amomentlaterthetigerwalkedoutintothemoonlightandstoodoverhiskill.AtfirstKundancoulddonothing.Hewascompletelytakenabackbythesizeofthe

tiger. Chottu’s father had to nudge him, and then Kundan quickly put the gun to hisshoulder,aimedatthetiger’shead,andpressedthetrigger.

The gunwent offwith a flash and two loud bangs, asKundan fired both barrels.Therewas a tremendous roar. The tiger rushed at the tree and tried to leap into thebranches.Fortunately, theplatformhadbeenbuiltatagoodheight,and the tigerwasunabletoreachit.

Heroaredagainandthenboundedoffintotheforest.‘Whatatiger!’exclaimedKundan,halfinfearandhalfinadmiration.‘Youmissedhimcompletely,’saidChottu’sfather.‘Ididnot,’saidKundan. ‘Youheardhimroar!Wouldhehavebeensoangry ifhe

hadnotbeenhit?’‘Well,ifyouhaveonlywoundedhim,hewillturnintoaman-eater–andwherewill

thatleaveus?’‘Hewon’tbeback,’saidKundan.‘Hewillleavethisarea.’Duringthenextfewdaysthetigerlaylow.Hedidnotgonearthemarshexceptwhen

itwasverydarkandhewasverythirsty.Theherdsmenandvillagersdecidedthatthetigerhadgoneaway.NanduandChottu–usuallyaccompaniedbyothervillageyouths,andalwayscarryingtheirsmallhand-axes–beganbringingthebuffaloestothemarshagainduringtheday;theywerecarefulnottoletanyofthemstrayfarfromtheherd.

Butoneday,whiletheboysweretakingtheherdhome,oneofthebuffaloeslaggedbehind.Nandudidnot realise that ananimalwasmissinguntil heheardanagonisedbellowbehindhim.Heglancedoverhisshoulderjustintimetoseethetigerdraggingthe buffalo into a clump of bamboo. The herd sensed the danger, and the buffaloessnortedwith fear as they hurried along the forest path.To urge them forward and towarnhisfriends,Nanducuppedhishandstohismouthandgaveayodellingcall.

The buffaloes bellowed, the boys shouted, and the birds flew shrieking from thetrees. Together they stampeded out of the forest. The villagers heard the thunder ofhoofs,andsawtheherdcominghomeamidstcloudsofdust.

‘Thetiger!’calledNandu.‘Heisback!Hehastakenanotherbuffalo!’‘Heisafraidofusnolonger,’thoughtChottu.Andnoweveryonewillhatehimand

dotheirbesttokillhim.‘Didyouseewherehewent?’askedKundanSingh,hurryinguptothem.‘Iremembertheplace,’saidNandu.‘Thenthereisnotimetolose,’saidKundan.‘Iwilltakemygunandafewmen,and

waitnearthebridge.Therestofyoumustbeatthejunglefromthissideanddrivethetigertowardsme.Hewillnotescapethistime,unlessheswimsacrosstheriver!’

4

Kundan tookhismen andheaded for the suspension bridge over the river,while theothers, guided byNandu andChottu,went to the spotwhere the tiger had seized thebuffalo.

Thetigerwasstilleatingwhenheheardthemencoming.Hehadnotexpectedtobedisturbedsosoon.Withanangry‘Whoof!’heboundedintothejungle,andwatchedthemen–thereweresometwentyofthem–throughascreenofleavesandtallgrass.

Themencarriedhanddrumsslungfromtheirshoulders,andsomecarriedsticksand

spears. After a hurried consultation, they strung out in a line and entered the junglebeatingtheirdrums.

Thetigerdidnotlikethenoise.Hewentdeeperintothejungle.Butthemencameafter him, banging awayon their drums and shouting at the topof their voices.Theyadvancedsinglyorinpairs,butnowhereweretheymorethanfifteenyardsapart.

Thetigercouldeasilyhavebrokenthroughthisslowlyadvancingsemi-circleofmen–oneswiftblowfromhispawwouldhavefelledthestrongestofthem–buthismainobjectwastogetawayfromthenoise.Hehatedandfearedthenoisemadebyhumans.

Hewasnotaman-eaterandhewouldnotattackamanunlesshewasveryangryorveryfrightened;andasyethewasneither.Hehadeatenwell,andhewouldhavelikedtorest–buttherewouldbenorestforhimuntilthemenceasedtheirtremendousclatteranddin.

NanduandChottukeptclosetotheirelders,knowingitwouldn’tbesafetogobackontheirown.Chottufeltsorryforthetiger.

‘Do they have to kill the tiger?’ he asked. ‘If they drive him across the river hewon’tcomeback,willhe?’

‘Whoknows?’saidNandu.‘Hehasfoundit’seasytokillourbuffaloes,andwhenhe’shungryhe’llcomeagain.Wehavetolivetoo.’

Chottuwassilent.Hecouldseenowayoutforthetiger.For an hour the villagers beat the jungle, shouting, drumming, and trampling the

undergrowth.Thetigerhadnorest.Wheneverhewasabletoputsomedistancebetweenhimself

andthemen,hewouldsinkdowninsomeshadyspottorest;but,withinafewminutes,thetramplinganddrummingwouldcomenearer,andwithanangrysnarlhewouldgetupagainandpadnorthwards,alongthenarrowingstripof jungle, towards thebridgeacrosstheriver.

Itwasaboutnoonwhenthe tigerfinallycameinto theopen.Theboyshadaclearviewofhimashemovedslowlyalong,now in theopenwith the sunglintingonhisglossyside,nowintheshadeorpassingthroughtheshortergrass.HewasstilloutofrangeofKundanSingh’sgun,buttherewasnowayinwhichhecouldretreat.

Hedisappearedamongsomebushesbutsoonreappeared to retracehissteps.Thebeatershaddone theirworkwell.The tigerwasnowonly about a-hundred-and-fiftyyardsfromtheplacewhereKundanSinghwaited.

Thebeathadclosed in, themenwerenowbunched together.Theyweremakingagreatnoise,butnothingmoved.

Chottu,watching from a distance,wondered:Has he slipped through the beaters?Andinhishearthehopedso.

Tinsclashed,drumsbeat,andsomeofthemenpokedintothereedsalongtheriverbankwith theirspearsorbamboosticks.Perhapsoneof these thrusts found itsmark,becauseatlastthetigerwasroused,andwithanangry,desperatesnarlhechargedout

ofthereeds,splashinghiswaythroughaninletofmudandwater.KundanSinghfiredandmissed.The tiger rushed forward,making straight for the onlyway across the river – the

suspensionbridgethatcrossedit,providingarouteintothehillsbeyond.The suspension bridge swayed and trembled as the big tiger lurched across it.

Kundanfiredagain,andthistimethebulletgrazedthetiger’sshoulder.Thetigerboundedforward,losthisfootingontheunfamiliar,slipperyplanksofthe

swayingbridge,andwentovertheside,fallingheadlongintotheswirlingwateroftheriver.

He rose to the surfaceonce,but the current tookhimunder andaway, andbeforelonghewaslosttoview.

5

Atfirstthevillagerswereglad–theyfelttheirbuffaloesweresafe.Thentheybegantofeel thatsomethinghadgoneoutof their lives,outof thelifeof theforest.Theforesthadbeenshrinkingyearbyyear,asmorepeoplehadmovedintothearea;butaslongasthetigerhadbeenthereandtheyhadheardhimroaratnight,theyhadknowntherewasstillsomedistancebetweenthemandtheever-spreadingtownsandcities.Nowthatthetigerhadgone,itwasasthoughaprotectorhadgone.

The boys lay flat on their stomachs on their little mud island, and watched themonsooncloudsgatheringoverhead.

‘Thekingofthejungleisdead,’saidNandu.‘Therearenomoretigers.’‘Therehavetobetigers,’saidChottu.‘CantherebeanIndiawithouttigers?’

Theriverhadcarriedthetigermanymilesawayfromhisoldhome,fromtheforesthehadalwaysknown,andbroughthimashoreontheoppositebankoftheriver,onastripofwarmyellowsand.Herehelayinthesun,quitestill,breathingslowly.

Vulturesgatheredandwaitedatadistance,someofthemperchingonthebranchesofnearbytrees.But thetigerwasmoredrownedthanhurt,andastheriverwateroozedoutofhismouth,andthewarmsunmadenewlifethrobthroughhisbody,hestirredandstretched,andhisglazedeyescameintofocus.Raisinghishead,hesawtreesandtallgrass.

Slowlyheheavedhimselfoff thegroundandmovedat a crouch towhere the tallgrasswavedintheafternoonbreeze.Wouldhebehuntedagain,andshotat?Therewasnosmellofman.Thetigermovedforwardwithgreaterconfidence.

Therewas,however,anothersmellintheair,asmellthatreachedbacktothetimewhenhewasyoungandfreshandfullofvigour;asmellthathehadalmostforgottenbutcouldneverreallyforget–thesmellofatigress.

Heliftedhishead,andnewlifesurgedthroughhislimbs.Hegaveadeeproar,‘A-

oonh!’andmovedpurposefullythroughthetallgrass.Andtheroarcamebacktohim,callinghim,urginghim forward; a roar thatmeant therewouldbemore tigers in theland!

Thatnight,halfasleeponhiscot,Chottuheardthetigersroaringtoeachotheracrosstheriver,andherecognisedtheroarofhisowntiger.Andfromthevigourofitsroarheknewthatitwasaliveandsafe;andhewasglad.

‘Lettherebetigersforever,’hewhisperedintothedarknessbeforehefellasleep.

MonkeyTroublerandfatherboughtTutufromastreetentertainerforthesumoftenrupees.Themanhadthreemonkeys.Tutuwasthesmallest,butthemostmischievous.Shewastied

upmostofthetime.ThelittlemonkeylookedsomiserablewithacollarandchainthatGrandfather decided it would be much happier in our home. Grandfather had aweaknessforkeepingunusualpets.ItwasahabitthatI,attheageofeightornine,usedtoencourage.

Grandmother at first objected tohavingamonkey in thehouse. ‘Youhaveenoughpetsasitis,’shesaid,referringtoGrandfather’sgoat,severalwhitemice,andasmalltortoise.

‘ButIdon’thaveany,’Isaid.‘You’rewickedenoughfortwomonkeys.OneboyinthehouseisallIcantake.’‘Ah, but Tutu isn’t a boy,’ said Grandfather triumphantly. ‘This is a little girl

monkey!’Grandmothergavein.Shehadalwayswantedalittlegirlinthehouse.Shebelieved

girlswerelesstroublesomethanboys.Tutuwastoproveherwrong.Shewasaprettylittlemonkey.Herbrighteyessparkledwithmischiefbeneathdeep-

seteyebrows.Andherteeth,whichwereapearlywhite,wereoftenrevealedinagrinthatfrightenedthewitsoutofAuntRuby,whosenerveshadalreadysufferedfromthepresenceofGrandfather’spetpython.Butthiswasmygrandparents’house,andauntsanduncleshadtoputupwithourpets.

Tutu’s hands had a dried-up look, as though they had been pickled in the sun formanyyears.OneofthefirstthingsItaughtherwastoshakehands,andthissheinsistedondoingwithallwhovisitedthehouse.PepperyMajorMalikwouldhavetostoopandshakehandswithTutubeforehecouldenterthedrawingroom,otherwiseTutuwouldclimb onto his shoulder and stay there, roughing up his hair and playing with hismoustache.

UncleBenjicouldn’tstandanyofourpetsandtookaparticulardisliketoTutu,whowasalwaysmakingfacesathim.ButasUncleBenjiwasneverinajobforlong,anddependedonGrandfather’sgood-naturedgenerosity,hehadtoshakehandswithTutu,likeeveryoneelse.

Tutu’sfingerswerequickandwicked.Andhertail,whileaddingtohergoodlooks(Grandfatherbelievedatailwouldaddtoanyone’sgoodlooks!),alsoservedasathirdhand.Shecoulduse it tohangfromabranch,and itwascapableofscoopingupanydelicacythatmightbeoutofreachofherhands.

OnoneofAuntRuby’svisits,loudshrieksfromherbedroombroughtusrunningto

seewhatwaswrong. It was only Tutu trying onAunt Ruby’s petticoats! Theyweremuch too large,ofcourse,andwhenAuntRubyentered the room,all shesawwasafacelesswhiteblobjumpingupanddownonthebed.

WedisentangledTutuandsoothedAuntRuby.IgaveTutuabunchofsweet-peastomake her happy.Granny didn’t like anyone plucking her sweet-peas, so I took somefromMajorMalik’sgardenwhilehewashavinghisafternoonsiesta.

ThenUncleBenjicomplainedthathishairbrushwasmissing.WefoundTutusunningherselfonthebackveranda,usingthehairbrushtoscratchherarmpits.

ItookitfromherandhandeditbacktoUncleBenjiwithanapology;butheflungthebrushawaywithanoath.

‘Suchafussaboutnothing,’Isaid.‘Tutudoesn’thavefleas!’‘No, and she bathesmore often thanBenji,’ saidGrandfather,whohad borrowed

AuntRuby’sshampootogiveTutuabath.All thesame,GrandmotherobjectedtoTutubeinggiventherunof thehouse.Tutu

hadtospendhernightsintheouthouse,inthecompanyofthegoat.Theygotonquitewell,anditwasnot longbeforeTutuwasseensittingcomfortablyonthebackof thegoat,whilethegoatroamedthebackgardeninsearchofitsfavouritegrass.

ThedayGrandfatherhadtovisitMeeruttocollecthisrailwaypension,hedecidedtotakeTutuandmealongtokeepusbothoutofmischief,hesaid.TopreventTutufromwanderingaboutonthetrain,causinginconveniencetopassengers,shewasprovidedwith a large black travelling bag. This, with some straw at the bottom, became hercompartment. Grandfather and I paid for our seats, andwe took Tutu along as handbaggage.

TherewasenoughspaceforTututolookoutofthebagoccasionally,andtobefedwithbananasandbiscuits,butshecouldnotgetherhandsthroughtheopeningandthecanvaswastoostrongforhertobiteherwaythrough.

Tutu’seffortstogetoutonlyhadtheeffectofmakingthebagrollaboutontheflooror occasionally jump into the air – an exhibition that attracted a curious crowd ofonlookersattheDehraandMeerutrailwaystations.

Anyway, Tutu remained in the bag as far as Meerut, but while Grandfather wasproducingour ticketsat the turnstile,shesuddenlypokedherheadoutof thebagandgavetheticketcollectorawidegrin.

The poor man was taken aback. But, with great presence of mind and much toGrandfather’sannoyance,hesaid,‘Sir,youhaveadogwithyou.You’llhavetobuyaticketforit.’

‘It’snotadog!’saidGrandfatherindignantly.‘Thisisababymonkeyofthespeciesmacacus-mischievous, closely related to the human species homus-horriblis! Andthereisnochargeforbabies!’

‘It’sasbigasacat,’saidtheticketcollector,‘Catsanddogshavetobepaidfor.’‘But,Itellyou,it’sonlyababy!’protestedGrandfather.

‘Haveyouabirthcertificatetoprovethat?’demandedtheticketcollector.‘Next,you’llbeaskingtoseehermother,’snappedGrandfather.In vain did he take Tutu out of the bag. In vain did he try to prove that a young

monkeydidnotqualifyasadogoracatorevenasaquadruped.Tutuwasclassifiedasadogbytheticketcollector,andfiverupeeswerehandedoverasherfare.

ThenGrandfather,justtogethisownback,tookfromhispocketthesmalltortoisethat he sometimes carried about, and said: ‘Andwhatmust I pay for this, since youchargeforallcreaturesgreatandsmall?’

The ticket collector looked closely at the tortoise, prodded itwith his forefinger,gaveGrandfatheratriumphantlook,andsaid,‘Nocharge,sir.Itisnotadog!’

WintersinNorthIndiacanbeverycold.AgreattreatforTutuonwintereveningswasthe large bowl of hot water given to her by Grandfather for a bath. Tutu wouldcunninglytestthetemperaturewithherhand,thengraduallystepintothebath,firstonefoot,thentheother(asshehadseenmedoing)untilshewasinthewateruptoherneck.

Oncecomfortable,shewouldtakethesoapinherhandsorfeetandrubherselfallover.Whenthewaterbecamecold,shewouldgetoutandrunasquicklyasshecouldtothekitchenfireinordertodryherself.Ifanyonelaughedatherduringthisperformance,Tutu’sfeelingswouldbehurtandshewouldrefusetogoonwiththebath.

One day Tutu almost succeeded in boiling herself alive. Grandmother had left alargekettleon thefirefor tea.AndTutu,allbyherselfandwithnothingbetter todo,decidedtoremovethelid.Findingthewater justwarmenoughforabath,shegot in,withherheadstickingoutfromtheopenkettle.

Thiswasfineforawhile,untilthewaterbegantogetheated.Tuturaisedherselfalittle.But finding it cold outside, she sat down again. She continuedhoppingup anddownforsometime,untilGrandmotherreturnedandhauledher,half-boiled,outofthekettle.

‘What’sforteatoday?’askedUncleBenjigleefully.‘Boiledeggsandahalf-boiledmonkey?’

ButTutuwasnonetheworsefortheadventureandcontinuedtobathemoreregularlythanUncleBenji.

AuntRubywasafrequenttakerofbaths.ThismetwithTutu’sapproval–somuchso that, one day, when Aunt Ruby had finished shampooing her hair, she looked upthrougha latherofbubblesandsoap-suds toseeTutusittingoppositeher in thebath,followingherexample.

One day Aunt Ruby took us all by surprise. She announced that she had becomeengaged.WehadalwaysthoughtAuntRubywouldnevermarry–shehadoftensaidsoherself–butitappearedthattherightmanhadnowcomealonginthepersonofRockyFernandes,aschoolteacherfromGoa.

Rockywas a tall, firm-jawed, good-naturedman, a couple of years younger thanAuntRuby.Hehad a finebaritonevoice and sang in themannerof thegreatNelsonEddy.AsGrandmotherlikedbaritonesingers,Rockywassooninhergoodbooks.

‘Butwhatonearthdoesheseeinher?’UncleBenjiwantedtoknow.‘Morethananygirlhasseeninyou!’snappedGrandmother.‘Ruby’safinegirl.And

they’rebothteachers.Maybetheycanstartaschooloftheirown.’Rockyvisitedthehousequiteoftenandbroughtmechocolatesandcashewnuts,of

which he seemed to have an unlimited supply. He also taught me several marchingsongs. Naturally, I approved of Rocky. Aunt Ruby won my grudging admiration forhavingmadesuchawisechoice.

OnedayIoverheardthemtalkingofgoingtothebazaartobuyanengagementring.IdecidedIwouldgoalong,too.ButasAuntRubyhadmadeitclearthatshedidnotwantme around, I decided that I had better follow at a discreet distance. Tutu, becomingawarethatamissionofsomeimportancewasunderway,decidedtofollowme.ButasIhadnotinvitedheralong,shetoodecidedtokeepoutofsight.

Onceinthecrowdedbazaar,IwasabletogetquiteclosetoAuntRubyandRockywithoutbeingspotted. Iwaiteduntil theyhadsettleddown ina large jewelleryshopbeforesaunteringpastandspottingthem,asthoughbyaccident.AuntRubywasn’ttoopleasedatseeingme,butRockywavedandcalledout,‘Comeandjoinus!Helpyourauntchooseabeautifulring!’

Thewholethingseemedtobeawasteofgoodmoney,butIdidnotsayso–AuntRubywasgivingmeoneofhermoreunlovinglooks.

‘Look, thesearepretty!’ I said,pointing to somecheap,bright agates set inwhitemetal.ButAuntRubywasn’tlooking.Shewasimmersedinacaseofdiamonds.

‘WhynotarubyforAuntRuby?’Isuggested,tryingtopleaseher.‘That’sherluckystone,’saidRocky.‘Diamondsarethethingforengagements.’And

hestartedsingingasongaboutadiamondbeingagirl’sbestfriend.While the jeweller and Aunt Ruby were sifting through the diamond rings, and

Rockywastryingoutanothertune,Tutuhadslippedintotheshopwithoutbeingnoticedbyanyonebutme.Alittlesquealofdelightwasthefirstsignshegaveofherpresence.Everyonelookeduptoseehertryingonaprettynecklace.

‘Andwhatarethosestones?’Iasked.‘Theylooklikepearls,’saidRocky.‘Theyarepearls,’saidtheshopkeeper,makingagrabforthem.‘It’s that dreadful monkey!’ cried Aunt Ruby. ‘I knew that boy would bring him

here!’ThenecklacewasalreadyadorningTutu’sneck.Ithoughtshelookedrathernicein

pearls,but shegaveusno time toadmire theeffect.Springingoutofour reach,TutudodgedaroundRocky,slippedbetweenmylegs,andmadeforthecrowdedroad.Iranafterher,shoutingtohertostop,butshewasn’tlistening.

Therewerenobranches toassistTutu inherprogress,butsheused theheadsandshouldersofpeopleasspringboardsandsomaderapidheadwaythroughthebazaar.

Thejewellerlefthisshopandranafterus.SodidRocky.Sodidseveralbystanders,whohadseentheincident.Andothers,whohadnoideawhatitwasallabout,joinedinthechase.AsGrandfatherusedtosay,‘Inacrowd,everyoneplaysfollow-the-leader,evenwhen they don’t knowwho’s leading.’Not everyone knew that the leaderwasTutu.Onlythefrontrunnerscouldseeher.

She tried to make her escape speedier by leaping onto the back of a passingscooterist.Thescooterswervedintoafruitstallandcametoastandstillunderaheapofbananas,while the scooterist foundhimself in the armsof an indignant fruitseller.Tutupeeledabananaandatepartofit,beforedecidingtomoveon.

From an awning she made an emergency landing on a washerman’s donkey. Thedonkeypromptlypanickedandrusheddowntheroad,whilebundlesofwashingfellbythe wayside. The washerman joined in the chase. Children on their way to schooldecidedthattherewassomethingbettertodothanattendclasses.Withshoutsofglee,theysoonovertooktheirpantingelders.

Tutufinallyleftthebazaarandtookaroadleadinginthedirectionofourhouse.Butknowingthatshewouldbecaughtandlockeduponceshegothome,shedecidedtoendthechasebyriddingherselfofthenecklace.Deftlyremovingitfromherneck,sheflungitinthesmallcanalthatrandowntheroad.

Thejeweller,withacryofanguish,plungedintothecanal.SodidRocky.SodidI.Sodidseveralotherpeople,bothadultsandchildren.Itwastobeatreasurehunt!

Sometwentyminuteslater,Rockyshouted,‘I’vefoundit!’Coveredinmud,water-lilies, ferns and tadpoles, we emerged from the canal, and Rocky presented thenecklacetotherelievedshopkeeper.

Everyone trudged back to the bazaar to findAunt Rubywaiting in the shop, stilltryingtomakeuphermindaboutasuitableengagementring.

Finallytheringwasbought,theengagementwasannounced,andadatewassetforthewedding.

‘I don’twant thatmonkey anywhere near us on ourwedding day,’ declaredAuntRuby.

‘We’ll lockherup in theouthouse,’ promisedGrandfather. ‘Andwe’ll let heroutonlyafteryou’veleftforyourhoneymoon.’

A few days before thewedding I foundTutu in the kitchen, helpingGrandmotherpreparetheweddingcake.Tutuoftenhelpedwiththecookingand,whenGrandmotherwasn’t looking, addedherbs, spices, andother interesting items to thepots – so thatoccasionallywefoundachilli in thecustardoranonion in the jellyorastrawberryfloatinginthechickensoup.

Sometimes these additions improved a dish, sometimes they did not.UncleBenjilostatoothwhenhebitfirmlyintoasandwichwhichcontainedwalnutshells.

I’mnot sure exactlywhatwent into thatwedding cakewhenGrandmotherwasn’tlooking–sheinsistedthatTutuwasalwaysverywell-behavedinthekitchen–butIdidspotTutustirringinsomeredchillisauce,bittergourdseeds,andageneroushelpingofegg-shells!

It’struethatsomeoftheguestswerenotseenforseveraldaysafterthewedding,butnoonesaidanythingagainstthecake.Mostpeoplethoughtithadaninterestingflavour.

Thegreatdaydawned,and theweddingguestsmade theirway to the littlechurchthatstoodontheoutskirtsofDehra–atownwithachurch,twomosques,andseveraltemples.

IhadofferedtodressTutuupasabridesmaidandbringheralong,butnooneexceptGrandfatherthoughtitwasagoodidea.SoIwasanobedientboyandlockedTutuintheouthouse.Idid,however,leavetheskylightopenalittle.Grandmotherhadalwayssaidthatfreshairwasgoodforgrowingchildren,andIthoughtTutushouldhavehershareofit.

Theweddingceremonywentwithoutahitch.AuntRubylookedapicture,andRockylookedlikeafilmstar.

Grandfatherplayedtheorgan,anddidsowithsuchgustothatthesmallchoircouldhardly be heard. Grandmother cried a little. I sat quietly in a corner, with the littletortoiseonmylap.

When the servicewas over,we trooped out into the sunshine andmade ourwaybacktothehouseforthereception.

Thefeasthadbeenlaidoutontablesinthegarden.Asthegardenerhadbeenleftincharge,everythingwasinorder.Tutuwasonherbestbehaviour.Shehad,itappeared,used theskylight toavailofmore freshairoutside,andnowsatbeside the three-tierweddingcake,guardingitagainstcrows,squirrelsandthegoat.Shegreetedtheguestswithsquealsofdelight.

ItwastoomuchforAuntRuby.SheflewatTutuinarage.AndTutu,sensingthatshewasnotwelcome,leaptaway,takingwithherthetoptieroftheweddingcake.

Led byMajorMalik,we followed her into the orchard, only to find that she hadclimbedtothetopofthejackfruittree.Fromtheresheproceededtopeltuswithbitsofweddingcake.Shehadalsomanagedtogetholdofabagofconfetti,andwhensheranoutofcakesheshowereduswithconfetti.

‘That’smorelikeit!’saidthegood-humouredRocky.‘Nowlet’sreturntotheparty,folks!’

UncleBenji remainedwithMajorMalik,determined tochaseTutuaway.Hekeptthrowingstonesintothetree,untilhereceivedalargepieceofcakebangonhisnose.Mutteringthreats,hereturnedtotheparty,leavingthemajortodobattle.

Whenthefestivitieswerefinallyover,UncleBenjitooktheoldcaroutofthegarageanddroveup theveranda steps.Hewasgoing todriveAuntRubyandRocky to the

nearbyhillresortofMussoorie,wheretheywouldhavetheirhoneymoon.Watchedby familyand friends,AuntRubyclimbed into thebackseat.Shewaved

regallytoeveryone.SheleantoutofthewindowandofferedmehercheekandIhadtokissherfarewell.Everyonewishedthemluck.

As Rocky burst into song, Uncle Benji opened the throttle and stepped on theaccelerator.Thecarshotforwardinacloudofdust.

RockyandAuntRubycontinuedtowavetous.AndsodidTutu,fromherperchonthe rearbumper!Shewasclutchingabag inherhandsand showeringconfettionallwhostoodinthedriveway.

‘They don’t know Tutu’s with them!’ I exclaimed. ‘She’ll go all the way toMussoorie!WillAuntRubyletherstaywiththem?’

‘Tutumight ruin the honeymoon,’ saidGrandfather. ‘But don’tworry – our Benjiwillbringherback!’

SnakeTrouble

1

fter retiring from the Indian Railways and settling in Dehra, Grandfather oftenmadehisdays(andours)moreexcitingbykeepingunusualpets.Hepaidasnake-

charmerinthebazaartwentyrupeesforayoungpython.Then,tothedelightofacuriousgroupofboysandgirls,heslungthepythonoverhisshoulderandbroughtithome.

Iwaswithhimatthetime,andfeltveryproudwalkingbesideGrandfather.Hewaspopular in Dehra, especially among the poorer people, and everyone greeted himpolitelywithoutseemingtonoticethepython.Theywere,infact,quiteusedtoseeinghiminthecompanyofstrangecreatures.

ThefirsttoseeusarrivewasTututhemonkey,whowasswingingfromabranchofthejackfruittree.Onelookatthepython,ancientenemyofhisrace,andhefledintothehousesquealingwithfright.Thenourparrot,Popeye,whohadhisperchontheveranda,set up themost awful shrieking andwhistling.Hiswhistlewas like that of a steam-engine. He had learnt to do this in earlier days, when we had lived near railwaystations.

ThenoisebroughtGrandmothertotheveranda,whereshenearlyfaintedatthesightofthepythoncurledroundGrandfather’sneck.

Grandmotherputupwithmostofhispets,butshedrewthelineatreptiles.Evenasweet-temperedlizardmadeherbloodruncold.Therewaslittlechancethatshewouldallowapythoninthehouse.

‘Itwillstrangleyoutodeath!’shecried.‘Nonsense,’saidGrandfather.‘He’sonlyayoungfellow.’‘He’llsoongetusedtous,’Iadded,bywayofsupport.‘Hemight,indeed,’saidGrandmother,‘butIhavenointentionofgettingusedtohim.

AndyourAuntRubyiscomingtostaywithus tomorrow.She’ll leavetheminutesheknowsthere’sasnakeinthehouse.’

‘Well, perhapswe should show it toher first thing,’ saidGrandfather,who foundAuntRubyrathertiresome.

‘Getridofitrightaway,’saidGrandmother.‘Ican’tletitlooseinthegarden.Itmightfinditswayintothechickenshed,andthen

wherewillwebe?’‘Minus a few chickens,’ I said reasonably, but this onlymadeGrandmothermore

determinedtogetridofthepython.

‘Lockthatawfulthinginthebathroom,’shesaid.‘Goandfindthemanyouboughtitfrom,andgethimtocomehereandcollectit!Hecankeepthemoneyyougavehim.’

Grandfather and I took the snake into thebathroomandplaced it in anempty tub.Lookingabitcrestfallen,hesaid,‘Perhapsyourgrandmotherisright.I’mnotworriedaboutAuntRuby,butwedon’twantthepythontogetholdofTutuorPopeye.’

Wehurriedofftothebazaarinsearchofthesnake-charmerbuthadn’tgonefarwhenwefoundseveralsnake-charmerslookingforus.TheyhadheardthatGrandfatherwasbuyingsnakes,andtheyhadbroughtwiththemsnakesofvarioussizesanddescriptions.

‘No,no!’protestedGrandfather.‘Wedon’twantmoresnakes.Wewanttoreturntheonewebought.’

But themanwho had sold it to us had, apparently, returned to his village in thejungle,lookingforanotherpythonforGrandfather;andtheothersnake-charmerswerenot interested inbuying,only in selling. Inorder to shake themoff,wehad to returnhomebyaroundaboutroute,climbingawallandcuttingthroughanorchard.WefoundGrandmotherpacingupanddowntheveranda.Onelookatourfacesandsheknewwehadfailedtogetridofthesnake.

‘Allright,’saidGrandmother.‘Just takeitawayyourselvesandseethat itdoesn’tcomeback.’

‘We’llgetridofit,Grandmother,’Isaidconfidently.‘Don’tyouworry.’Grandfather opened the bathroom door and stepped into the room. I was close

behindhim.Wecouldn’tseethepythonanywhere.‘He’sgone,’announcedGrandfather.‘Weleftthewindowopen,’Isaid.‘Deliberately, nodoubt,’ saidGrandmother. ‘But it couldn’t havegone far.You’ll

havetosearchthegrounds.’A careful searchwasmadeof the house, the roof, the kitchen, the garden and the

chickenshed,buttherewasnosignofthepython.‘Hemust havegoneover thegardenwall,’Grandfather said cheerfully. ‘He’ll be

wellawaybynow!’Thepythondidnotreappear,andwhenAuntRubyarrivedwithenoughluggage to

showthatshehadcomeforalongvisit, therewasonlytheparrottogreetherwithaseriesoflong,ear-splittingwhistles.

2

ForacoupleofdaysGrandfatherandIwerealittleworriedthatthepythonmightmakeasuddenreappearance,butwhenhedidn’tshowupagainwefelthehadgoneforgood.AuntRubyhadtoputupwithTututhemonkeymakingfacesather,somethingIdidonlywhenshewasn’t looking;andshecomplainedthatPopeyeshriekedloudestwhenshewasintheroom;butshewasusedtothem,andknewshewouldhavetobearwiththem

ifshewasgoingtostaywithus.Andthen,oneevening,wewerestartledbyascreamfromthegarden.Seconds laterAuntRubycame flyingup theveranda steps,gasping, ‘In theguava

tree!IwasreachingforaguavawhenIsawitstaringatme.Thelookinitseyes!Asthoughitwouldeatmealive–’

‘Calmdown,dear,’urgedGrandmother, sprinkling rosewaterovermyaunt. ‘Tellus,whatdidyousee?’

‘A snake!’ sobbedAuntRuby. ‘Agreat boa constrictor in the guava tree. Its eyeswereterrible,anditlookedatmeinsuchaqueerway.’

‘Tryingtotemptyouwithaguava,nodoubt,’saidGrandfather,turningawaytohidehis smile.Hegaveme a look full ofmeaning, and I hurriedout into the garden.ButwhenIgottotheguavatree,thepython(ifithadbeenthepython)hadgone.

‘AuntRubymusthavefrighteneditoff,’ItoldGrandfather.‘I’mnotsurprised,’hesaid.‘Butitwillbeback,Ranji.Ithinkithastakenafancyto

youraunt.’Sureenough,thepythonbegantomakebriefbutfrequentappearances,usuallyupin

themostunexpectedplaces.OnemorningIfoundhimcurleduponadressing-table,gazingathisownreflection

inthemirror.IwentforGrandfather,butbythetimewereturnedthepythonhadmovedon.

Hewasseenagaininthegarden,andonedayIspottedhimclimbingtheironladdertotheroof.Isetoffafterhim,andwassoonuptheladder,whichIhadclimbedupmanytimes. I arrived on the flat roof just in time to see the snake disappearing down adrainpipe. The end of his tail was visible for a few moments and then that toodisappeared.

‘Ithinkhelivesinthedrainpipe,’ItoldGrandfather.‘Wheredoesitgetitsfood?’askedGrandmother.‘Probablylivesonthosefieldratsthatusedtobesuchanuisance.Remember,they

livedinthedrainpipes,too.’‘Hmm…’Grandmotherlookedthoughtful.‘Asnakehasitsuses.Well,aslongasit

keepstotheroofandprefersratstochickens…’Butthepythondidnotconfineitselftotheroof.PiercingshrieksfromAuntRubyhad

us all rushing to her room. There was the python on her dressing-table, apparentlyadmiringhimselfinthemirror.

‘All the attention he’s been getting has probably made him conceited,’ saidGrandfather,pickingup thepython to theaccompanimentof furthershrieks fromAuntRuby.‘Wouldyouliketoholdhimforaminute,Ruby?Heseemstohavetakenafancytoyou.’

AuntRuby ran from the room and onto the veranda,where shewas greetedwithwhistlesofderisionfromPopeyetheparrot.PoorAuntRuby!Shecutshortherstayby

aweekandreturnedtoLucknow,whereshewasaschoolteacher.Shesaidshefeltsaferinherschoolthanshedidinourhouse.

3

HavingseenGrandfatherhandlethepythonwithsucheaseandconfidence,IdecidedIwoulddolikewise.SothenexttimeIsawthesnakeclimbingtheladdertotheroof,Iclimbedupalongsidehim.Hestopped,andIstoppedtoo.Iputoutmyhand,andheslidovermyarmandup tomyshoulder.As Ididnotwanthimcoiling roundmyneck, Igrippedhimwithbothhandsandcarriedhimdown to thegarden.Hedidn’t seem tomind.

Thesnakefeltrathercoldandslipperyandatfirsthegavemegoosepimples.ButIsoongotusedtohim,andhemusthavelikedthewayIhandledhim,becausewhenIsethimdownhewantedtoclimbupmyleg.AsIhadotherthingstodo,Idroppedhiminalarge empty basket that had been left out in the garden. He stared out at me withunblinking,expressionlesseyes.Therewasnowayofknowingwhathewasthinking,ifindeedhethoughtatall.

I went off for a bicycle ride, and when I returned, I found Grandmother pickingguavasanddroppingthemintothebasket.Thepythonmusthavegoneelsewhere.

When the basketwas full,Grandmother said, ‘Will you take these over toMajorMalik?’It’shisbirthdayandIwanttogivehimanicesurprise.’

IfixedthebasketonthecarrierofmycycleandpedalledofftoMajorMalik’shouseattheendoftheroad.Themajormetmeonthestepsofhishouse.

‘Andwhathasyourkindgrannysentmetoday,Ranji?’heasked.‘Asurpriseforyourbirthday,sir,’Isaid,andputthebasketdowninfrontofhim.Thepython,whohadbeenburiedbeneathalltheguavas,chosethismomenttowake

upandstandstraightuptoaheightofseveralfeet.Guavastumbledallovertheplace.Themajorutteredanoathanddashedindoors.

Ipushedthepythonbackintothebasket,pickeditup,mountedthebicycle,androdeoutofthegateinrecordtime.AnditwasaswellthatIdidso,becauseMajorMalikcamechargingoutofthehousearmedwithadouble-barrelledshotgun,whichhewaswavingallovertheplace.

‘Didyoudelivertheguavas?’askedGrandmotherwhenIgotback.‘Ideliveredthem,’Isaidtruthfully.‘Andwashepleased?’‘He’sgoingtowriteandthankyou,’Isaid.Andhedid.‘Thank you for the lovely surprise,’ he wrote, ‘Obviously you could not have

known that my doctor had advised me against any undue excitement. My blood-pressurehasbeenratherhigh.Thesightofyourgrandsondoesnot improve it.All

thesame,it’sthethoughtthatmattersandItakeitallingoodhumour…’‘What a strange letter,’ saidGrandmother. ‘Hemust be ill, poorman.Areguavas

badforbloodpressure?’‘Notbythemselves,theyaren’t,’saidGrandfather,whohadaninklingofwhathad

happened.‘Buttogetherwithotherthingstheycanbeabitupsetting.’

4

Just when all of us, including Grandmother, were getting used to having the pythonaboutthehouseandgrounds,itwasdecidedthatwewouldbegoingtoLucknowforafewmonths.

Lucknowwasalargecity,aboutthreehundredmilesfromDehra.AuntRubylivedandworkedthere.Wewouldbestayingwithher,andsoofcoursewecouldn’ttakeanypythons,monkeysorotherunusualpetswithus.

‘WhataboutPopeye?’Iasked.‘Popeyeisn’tapet,’saidGrandmother.‘He’soneofus.Hecomestoo.’And so theDehra railwayplatformwas thrown into confusionby the shrieks and

whistlesofourparrot,whocouldimitateboththeguard’swhistleandthewhistleofatrain.Peopledashedintotheircompartments,thinkingthetrainwasabouttoleave,onlytorealisethattheguardhadn’tblownhiswhistleafterall.Whentheygotdown,Popeyewould let out another shrillwhistle,which sent everyone rushing for the train again.This happened several times until the guard actually blew hiswhistle. Then nobodybotheredtogeton,andseveralpassengerswereleftbehind.

‘Can’tyougagthatparrot?’askedGrandfather,asthetrainmovedoutofthestationandpickedupspeed.

‘I’lldonothingofthesort,’saidGrandmother.‘I’veboughtaticketforhim,andhe’sentitledtoenjoythejourneyasmuchasanyone.’

Wheneverwestoppedatastation,Popeyeobjectedtofruit-sellersandotherpeoplepokingtheirheadsinthroughthewindows.Beforethejourneywasover,hehadnippedtwofingersandanose,andtweakedaticket-inspector’sear.

It was to be a night journey, and presently Grandmother covered herself with ablanketandstretchedoutontheberth.‘It’sbeenatiringday.IthinkI’llgotosleep,’shesaid.

‘Aren’twegoingtoeatanything?’Iasked.‘I’mnothungry–Ihadsomethingbeforeweleftthehouse.Youtwohelpyourselves

fromthepicnichamper.’Grandmother dozed off, and even Popeye started nodding, lulled to sleep by the

clackety-clackofthewheelsandthesteadypuffingofthesteam-engine.‘Well,I’mhungry,’Isaid.‘WhatdidGrannymakeforus?’‘Stuffedsamosas,omelettes,and tandoorichicken. It’sall in thehamperunder the

berth.I tugged at the cane box and dragged it into themiddle of the compartment. The

strapswerelooselytied.NosoonerhadIundonethemthanthelidflewopen,andIletoutagaspofsurprise.

Inthehamperwasapython,curledupcontentedly.Therewasnosignofourdinner.‘It’sapython,’Isaid.‘Andit’sfinishedallourdinner.’‘Nonsense,’ said Grandfather, joining me near the hamper. ‘Pythons won’t eat

omeletteandsamosas.Theyliketheirfoodalive!Why,thisisn’tourhamper.Theonewithourfoodinitmusthavebeenleftbehind!Wasn’t itMajorMalikwhohelpeduswithourluggage?Ithinkhe’sgothisownbackonusbychangingthehamper!’

Grandfathersnappedthehampershutandpusheditbackbeneaththeberth.‘Don’tletGrandmotherseehim,’hesaid.‘Shemightthinkwebroughthimalongon

purpose.’‘Well,I’mhungry,’Icomplained.‘Waittillwegettothenextstation,thenwecanbuysomepakoras.Meanwhile,try

someofPopeye’sgreenchillies.’‘Nothanks,’Isaid.‘Youhavethem,Grandad.’AndGrandfather,whocouldeatchilliesplain,poppedacoupleintohismouthand

munchedawaycontentedly.

Alittleaftermidnighttherewasagreatclamourattheendofthecorridor.Popeye

madecomplainingsquawks,andGrandfatherandIgotuptoseewhatwaswrong.Suddenlytherewerecriesof‘Snake,snake!’Ilookedundertheberth.Thehamperwasopen.‘The python’s out,’ I said, andGrandfather dashed out of the compartment in his

pyjamas.Iwasclosebehind.Aboutadozenpassengerswerebunchedtogetheroutsidethewashroom.‘Anythingwrong?’askedGrandfathercasually.‘Wecan’tgetintothetoilet,’saidsomeone.‘There’sahugesnakeinside.’‘Letmetakealook,’saidGrandfather.‘Iknowallaboutsnakes.’Thepassengersmadeway,andGrandfatherandIenteredthewashroomtogether,but

therewasnosignofthepython.‘Hemusthavegotoutthroughtheventilator,’saidGrandfather.‘Bynowhe’llbein

anothercompartment!’Emergingfromthewashroom,hetoldtheassembledpassengers‘It’sgone!Nothingtoworryabout.Justaharmlessyoungpython.’

Whenwegotbacktoourcompartment,Grandmotherwassittinguponherberth.‘I knew you’d do something foolish behindmy back,’ she scolded. ‘You toldme

you’dleftthatcreaturebehind,andallthetimeitwaswithusonthetrain.’Grandfather tried toexplain thatwehadnothing todowith it, that thispythonhad

beensmuggledontothetrainbyMajorMalik,butGrandmotherwasunconvinced.‘Anyway, it’s gone,’ said Grandfather. ‘It must have fallen out of the washroom

window.We’reoverahundredmilesfromDehra,soyou’llneverseeitagain.’Evenashespoke,thetrainsloweddownandlurchedtoagrindinghalt.‘Nostationhere,’saidGrandfather,puttinghisheadoutofthewindow.Someonecamerushingalongtheembankment,wavinghisarmsandshouting.‘Idobelieveit’sthestoker,’saidGrandfather.‘I’dbettergoandseewhat’swrong.’‘I’mcomingtoo,’Isaid,andtogetherwehurriedalongthelengthof thestationary

trainuntilwereachedtheengine.‘What’s up?’ called Grandfather. ‘Anything I can do to help? I know all about

engines.’Buttheengine-driverwasspeechless.Andwhocouldblamehim?Thepythonhad

curleditselfabouthislegs,andthedriverwastoopetrifiedtomove.‘Just leave it to us,’ saidGrandfather, and, dragging the python off the driver, he

dumped the snake in my arms. The engine-driver sank down on the floor, pale andtrembling.

‘I think I’d better driver the engine,’ saidGrandfather. ‘We don’twant to be lategettingintoLucknow.Yourauntwillbeexpectingus!’Andbeforetheastonisheddrivercouldprotest,Grandfatherhadreleasedthebrakesandsettheengineinmotion.

‘We’veleftthestokerbehind,’Isaid.‘Nevermind.Youcanshovelthecoal.’Only too glad to help Grandfather drive an engine, I dropped the python in the

driver’slapandstartedshovellingcoal.Theenginepickedupspeedandweweresoonrushing through the darkness, sparks flying skywards and the steam-whistle shriekingalmostwithpause.

‘You’regoingtoofast!’criedthedriver.‘Makingupforlosttime,’saidGrandfather.‘Whydidthestokerrunaway?’‘Hewentfortheguard.You’veleftthembothbehind!’

5

EarlynextmorningthetrainsteamedsafelyintoLucknow.Explanationswereinorder,butastheLucknowstation-masterwasanoldfriendofGrandfather,allwaswell.Wehadarrivedtwentyminutesearly,andwhileGrandfatherwentofftohaveacupofteawith theengine-driverand thestation-master, I returned thepython to thehamperandhelped Grandmother with the luggage. Popeye stayed perched on Grandmother’sshoulder,eyeingthebusyplatformwithdeepdistrust.HewasthefirsttoseeAuntRubystridingdowntheplatform,andletoutawarningwhistle.

AuntRuby,aloverofgoodfood,immediatelyspottedthepicnichamper,pickeditupandsaid,‘It’squiteheavy.Youmusthavekeptsomethingforme!I’llcarryitoutto

thetaxi.’‘Wehardlyateanything,’Isaid.‘ItseemsagessinceItastedsomethingcookedbyyourgranny.’Andafterthatthere

wasnogettingthehamperawayfromAuntRuby.Glancingatit,IthoughtIsawthelidbulging,butIhadtieditdownquitefirmlythis

timeandtherewaslittlelikelihoodofitssuddenlyburstingopen.Grandfatherjoinedusoutsidethestationandweweresoonsettledinsidethetaxi.

AuntRubygaveinstructionstothedriverandweshotoffinacloudofdust.‘I’mdying toseewhat’s in thehamper,’ saidAuntRuby. ‘Can’t I take justa little

peek?’‘Notnow,’saidGrandfather.‘Firstlet’senjoythebreakfastyou’vegotwaitingfor

us.’Popeye,perchedproudlyonGrandmother’sshoulder,keptonesuspiciouseyeonthe

quiveringhamper.WhenwegottoAuntRuby’shouse,wefoundbreakfastlaidoutonthedining-table.‘Itisn’tmuch,’saidAuntRuby.‘Butwe’llsupplementitwithwhatyou’vebrought

inthehamper.’Placingthehamperonthetable,sheliftedthelidandpeeredinside.Andpromptly

fainted.Grandfather picked up the python, took it into the garden, and draped it over a

branchofapomegranatetree.WhenAuntRubyrecovered,sheinsistedthatshehadseenahugesnakeinthepicnic

hamper.Weshowedhertheemptybasket.‘You’reseeingthings,’saidGrandfather.‘You’vebeenworkingtoohard.’‘Teachingisaverytiringjob,’Isaidsolemnly.Grandmother saidnothing.ButPopeyebroke into loudsquawksandwhistles, and

sooneveryone,includingaslightlyhystericalAuntRuby,wasdoubledupwithlaughter.Butthesnakemusthavetiredofthejokebecauseweneversawitagain!

ThoseThreeBearsostHimalayan villages lie in the valleys,where there are small streams, somefarmland, and protection from the biting winds that come through the mountain

passes inwinter.Thehousesareusuallymadeof largestonesandhaveslopingslateroofssotheheavymonsoonraincanrunoffeasily.Duringthesunnyautumnmonths,theroofsareoftencoveredwithpumpkins,lefttheretoripeninthesun.

OneOctober night,when Iwas sleeping at a friend’s house in a village in thesehills, Iwasawakenedbyarumblingand thumpingon theroof. Iwokemyfriendandaskedhimwhatwashappening.

‘It’sonlyabear,’hesaid.‘Isittryingtogetin?’‘No.It’safterthepumpkins.’A little later,whenwe lookedoutof awindow,we sawablackbearmakingoff

throughafield,leavingatrailofhalf-eatenpumpkins.Inwinter,whensnowcoversthehigherranges,theHimalayanbearscometolower

altitudes in search of food. Sometimes they forage in fields and because they areshortsighted and suspicious of anything thatmoves, they can be dangerous. But, likemostwildanimals,theyavoidhumansasmuchaspossible.

Villagefolkalwaysadvicemetorundownhillifchasedbyabear.Theysaybearsfinditeasiertorunuphillthandown.Iamyettobechasedbyabear,andwillhappilyskiptheexperience.ButIhaveseenafewofthesemountainbearsinIndia,andtheyarealwaysfascinatingtowatch.

Himalayan bears enjoy pumpkins, corn, plums, and apricots. Once, while I wassittinginanoaktreehopingtoseeapairofpinemartensthatlivednearby,Iheardthewhininggrumbleofabear,andpresentlyasmallbearambledintotheclearingbeneaththetree.

Hewaslittlemorethanacub,andIwasnotalarmed.Isatverystill,waitingtoseewhathewoulddo.

He put his nose to the ground and sniffed hisway along until he came to a largeanthill.Herehebeganhuffingandpuffing,blowingrapidlyinandoutofhisnostrils,sothat thedust fromtheanthill flew inalldirections.But theanthillhadbeendeserted,andso,grumbling,thebearmadehiswayupanearbyplumtree.Soonhewasperchedhighinthebranches.Itwasthenthathesawme.

Thebearatoncescrambledseveralfeethigherupthetreeandlayflatonabranch.Sinceitwasn’taverybigbranch,therewasalotofbearshowingoneitherside.Hetuckedhisheadbehindanotherbranch.Hecouldno longer seeme, soheapparently

wassatisfiedthathewashidden,althoughhecouldn’thelpgrumbling.Like all bears, this onewas full of curiosity. So, slowly, inch by inch, his black

snoutappearedovertheedgeofthebranch.Assoonashesawme,hedrewhisheadbackandhidhisface.

Hedid thisseveral times.Iwaiteduntilhewasn’t looking, thenmovedsomewaydown my tree.When the bear looked over and saw that I was missing, he was sopleasedthathestretchedrightacrosstoanotherbranchandhelpedhimselftoaplum.Icouldn’thelpburstingintolaughter.

Thestartledyoungbeartumbledoutofthetree,droppedthroughthebranchessomefifteenfeet,andlandedwithathumpinapileofdriedleaves.Hewasunhurt,butfledfromtheclearing,gruntingandsquealingalltheway.

Anothertime,myfriendPremtoldme,abearhadbeenactiveinhiscornfield.Wetookupapostatnight inanoldcattle shed,whichgaveaclearviewof themoonlitfield.

Alittleaftermidnight,afemalebearcamedowntotheedgeofthefield.Sheseemedtosense thatwehadbeenabout.Shewashungry,however.So,after standingonherhindlegsandpeeringaroundtomakesurethefieldwasempty,shecamecautiouslyoutoftheforest.

Her attentionwas soon distracted by some Tibetan prayer flags, which had beenstrungbetweentwotrees.Shegaveagruntofdisapprovalandbegantobackaway,butthe flutteringof the flagswas apuzzle that shewanted to solve.So she stopped andwatchedthem.

Soon the bear advanced to within a few feet of the flags, examining them fromvariousangles.Then,seeing that theyposednodanger, shewent rightup to the flagsandpulledthemdown.Gruntingwithapparentsatisfaction,shemovedintothefieldofcorn.

Premhaddecided that hedidn’twant to lose anymoreof his crop, sohe startedshouting. His children woke up and soon came running from the house, banging onemptykerosenetins.

Deprivedofherdinner, thebearmadeoff inabad temper.She randownhill at agoodspeed,andIwasgladthatIwasnotinherway.

Uphillordownhill,anangrybearisbestgivenaverywidepath.

TheCoralTreehenighthadbeenhot,therainfrequent,andIhadbeensleepingontheverandahinsteadofinthehouse.Iwasinmytwenties,hadbeguntoearnalivingandfeltI

hadcertainresponsibilities.Inashorttime,atongawouldtakemetotherailwaystation,andfromthereatrain

wouldtakemetoBombay,andthenashipwouldtakemetoEngland.Therewouldbework,interviews,ajob,adifferentkindoflife,somanythingsthatthissmallbungalowofmygrandfatherwouldberememberedfitfully,inraremomentsofreflection.

WhenIawokeontheveranda,Isawagreymorning,smelttherainontheredearthand remembered that I had to go away. A girl was standing on the veranda porch,lookingatmeveryseriously.WhenIsawher,Isatupinbedwithastart.

Shewasasmalldarkgirl,hereyesbigandblack,herpigtailstiedupinabrightredribbon,andshewasfreshandcleanliketherainandtheredearth.

Shestoodlookingatmeandwasveryserious.‘Hullo,’Isaid,smilingandtryingtoputheratease.Butthegirlwasbusiness-like

andacknowledgedmygreetingwithabriefnod.‘CanIdoanythingforyou?’Iasked,stretchingmylimbs.‘Doyoustaynearby?’Withgreatassuranceshesaid,‘Yes,butIcanstayonmyown.’‘You’relikeme,’Isaid,andforawhile,forgotaboutbeinganoldmanoftwenty.‘I

liketobeonmyownbutI’mgoingawaytoday.’‘Oh,’shesaid,alittlebreathlessly.‘WouldyoucaretogotoEngland?’‘I want to go everywhere,’ she said. ‘To America and Africa and Japan and

Honolulu.’‘Maybe youwill,’ I said. ‘I’m going everywhere, and no one can stopme…But

whatisityouwant,whatdidyoucomefor?’‘I want some flowers but I can’t reach them.’ She waved her hand towards the

garden,‘Thattree,see?’Thecoraltreestoodinfrontofthehousesurroundedbypoolsofwaterandbroken,

fallenblossoms.Thebranchesofthetreewerethickwithscarlet,pea-shapedflowers.‘Allright,justletmegetready.’The tree was easy to climb and I mademyself comfortable on one of the lower

branches,smilingdownattheseriousupturnedfaceofthegirl.‘I’llthrowthemdowntoyou,’Isaid.IbentabranchbutthewoodwasyoungandgreenandIhadtotwistitseveraltimes

beforeitsnapped.‘I’mnotsureIoughttodothis,’IsaidasIdroppedthefloweringbranchtothegirl.‘Don’tworry,’shesaid.Ifeltasuddennostalgiclongingforchildhoodandanurgetoremainbehindinmy

grandfather’shousewith its tangledmemoriesandghostsofyesteryear.ButIwas theonlyoneleftandwhatcouldIdoexceptclimbtamarindandjackfruittrees?

‘Haveyoumanyfriends?’Iasked.‘Ohyes.’‘Andwhoisthebest?’‘Thecook.Heletsmestayinthekitchenwhichismoreinterestingthanthehouse.

AndIliketowatchhimcooking.Andhegivesmethingstoeatandtellsmestories…’‘Andwhoisyoursecondbestfriend?’Sheinclinedherheadtoonesideandthoughtveryhard.‘I’llmakeyousecondbest,’shesaid.Isprinkledcoralblossomsonherhead. ‘That’sverykindofyou. I’mhappytobe

secondbest.’AtongabellsoundedatthegateandIlookedoutfromthetreeandsaid,‘It’scome

forme.Ihavetogonow.’Iclimbeddown.‘Willyouhelpmewithmysuitcases?’Iasked,aswewalkedtogethertowardsthe

veranda.‘There’snooneheretohelpme.Iamthelasttogo.NotbecauseIwanttogobutbecauseIhaveto.’

Isatdownonthecotandpackedafewlastthingsinmysuitcase.Allthedoorsofthe house were locked. On my way to the station, I would leave the keys with thecaretaker.Ihadalreadygiveninstructionstotheagenttotryandsellthehouse.Therewasnothingmoretobedone.Wewalkedinsilencetothewaitingtonga,thinkingandwonderingabouteachother.Thegirlstoodat thesideofthepath,onthedampearth,lookingatme.

‘Thankyou,’Isaid,‘IhopeIshallseeyouagain.’‘I’llseeyouinLondon,’shesaid.‘OrAmericaorJapan,Iwanttogoeverywhere.’‘I’msureyouwill,’Isaid.‘Andperhaps,I’llcomebackandwe’llmeetagaininthis

garden.Thatwouldbenice,wouldn’tit?’She nodded and smiled.Weknew itwas an importantmoment.The tonga driver

spoketohisponyandthecarriagesetoffdownthegravelpath,rattlingalittle.Thegirland Iwaved to eachother. In thegirl’s handwas a springof coral blossom.As shewaved,theblossomsfellapartanddancedlightlyinthebreeze.

‘Goodbye!’Icalled.‘Goodbye!’calledthegirl.The ribbonhad come loose fromher pigtail and layon thegroundwith the coral

blossoms.

Andshewasfreshandcleanliketherainandtheredearth.

TheThief’sStory

wasstillathiefwhenImetRomi.AndthoughIwasonlyfifteenyearsold,Iwasanexperiencedandfairlysuccessfulhand.RomiwaswatchingawrestlingmatchwhenIapproachedhim.Hewasabouttwenty-fiveandhelookedeasygoing,kind,andsimpleenoughformypurpose.IwassureIwouldbeabletowintheyoungman’sconfidence.

‘Youlookabitofawrestleryourself,’Isaid.There’snothinglikeflatterytobreaktheice!

‘Sodoyou,’hereplied,whichputmeoffforamomentbecauseatthattimeIwasratherthinandbony.

‘Well,’Isaidmodestly,‘Idowrestleabit.’‘What’syourname?’‘HariSingh,’ I lied. I took anewnameeverymonth,whichkeptmeaheadof the

policeandformeremployers.AftertheseformalitiesRomiconfinedhimselftocommentingonthewrestlers,who

were grunting, gasping, and heaving each other about. When he walked away, Ifollowedhimcasually.

‘Helloagain,’hesaid.Igavehimmymostappealingsmile.‘Iwanttoworkforyou,’Isaid.‘ButIcan’tpayyouanything–notforsometime,anyway.’I thought that over for aminute. Perhaps I hadmisjudgedmyman. ‘Canyou feed

me?’Iasked.‘Canyoucook?’‘Icancook,’Iliedagain.‘Ifyoucancook,thenmaybeIcanfeedyou.’HetookmetohisroomovertheDelhiSweetShopandtoldmeIcouldsleeponthe

balcony.ButthemealIcookedthatnightmusthavebeenterriblebecauseRomigaveittoastraydogandtoldmetobeoff.

But I just hung around, smiling in my most appealing way, and he couldn’t helplaughing.

Later, he said nevermind, he’d teachme to cook.He also taughtme towritemynameandsaidhewouldsoonteachmetowritewholesentencesandtoaddfigures.Iwasgrateful.IknewthatonceIcouldwritelikeaneducatedperson,therewouldbenolimittowhatIcouldachieve.

ItwasquitepleasantworkingforRomi.Imadeteainthemorningandthentookmytimebuyingtheday’ssupplies,usuallymakingaprofitoftwoorthreerupees.Ithinkhe

knewImadealittlemoneythisway,buthedidn’tseemtomind.Romimademoneybyfitsandstarts.Hewouldborrowoneweek,lendthenext.He

keptworrying about his next cheque, but as soon as it arrived hewould go out andcelebrate.Hewrote for theDelhi andBombaymagazines: a strangeway tomake aliving.

Oneeveninghecamehomewithasmallbundleofnotes,sayinghehadjustsoldabooktoapublisher.ThatnightIsawhimputthemoneyinanenvelopeandtuckitunderthemattress.

I had beenworking forRomi for almost amonth and, apart from cheating on theshopping,hadnotdoneanythingbiginmyreallineofwork.Ihadeveryopportunityfordoingso.IcouldcomeandgoasIpleased,andRomiwas themost trustingpersonIhadevermet.

Thatwaswhyitwassodifficulttorobhim.Itwaseasyformetorobagreedyman.Butrobbinganicemancouldbeaproblem.Andifhedoesn’tnoticehe’sbeingrobbed,thenallthespicegoesoutoftheundertaking!

Well,it’stimeIgotdowntosomerealwork,Itoldmyself.IfIdon’ttakethemoney,he’llonlywasteitonhisso-calledfriends.Afterall,hedoesn’tevengivemeasalary.

Romiwassleepingpeacefully.Abeamofmoonlightreachedoverthebalconyandfellonhisbed.Isatonthefloor,consideringthesituation.IfItookthemoney,Icouldcatchthe10:30expresstoLucknow.Slippingoutofmyblanket,Icreptovertothebed.

Myhandslidunderthemattress,searchingforthenotes.WhenIfoundthepacket,Idrewitoutwithoutasound.Romisighedinhissleepandturnedonhisside.Startled,Imovedquicklyoutoftheroom.

Onceontheroad,Ibegantorun.Ihadthemoneystuffedintoavestpocketundermyshirt.WhenI’dgottensomedistancefromRomi’splace,Islowedtoawalkand,takingthe envelope frommy pocket, counted themoney. Seven hundred rupees in fifties. Icouldlivelikeaprinceforaweekortwo!

WhenIreachedthestation,Ididnotstopattheticketoffice(Ihadneverboughtaticketinmylife)butdashedstraightontotheplatform.TheLucknowExpresswasjustmovingout.The trainhadstill topickupspeedandIshouldhavebeenable to jumpintooneofthecompartments,butIhesitated–forsomereasonIcan’texplain–andIlostthechancetogetaway.

Whenthe trainhadgone,I foundmyselfstandingaloneonthedesertedplatform.Ihadnoideawheretospendthenight.Ihadnofriends,believingthatfriendsweremoretroublethanhelp.AndIdidnotwanttoarousecuriositybystayingatoneofthesmallhotelsnearby.TheonlypersonIknewreallywellwasthemanIhadrobbed.Leavingthestation,Iwalkedslowlythroughthebazaar.

Inmyshortcareer,Ihadmadeastudyofpeople’sfacesaftertheyhaddiscoveredthelossoftheirvaluables.Thegreedyshowedpanic;therichshowedanger;thepoor,resignation.ButIknewthatRomi’sfacewhenhediscoveredthetheftwouldshowonly

atouchofsadness–notforthelossofmoney,butforthelossoftrust.The night was chilly – November nights can be cold in northern India – and a

showerofrainaddedtomydiscomfort.Isatdownintheshelteroftheclocktower.Afewbeggars and vagrants lay besideme, rolled up tight in their blankets. The clockshowedmidnight.Ifeltforthenotes;theyweresoakedthrough.

Romi’smoney.Inthemorning,hewouldprobablyhavegivenmefiverupeestogoto themovies,butnowIhad itall:nomorecookingmeals, running to thebazaar,orlearningtowritesentences.

Sentences!Ihadforgottenaboutthemintheexcitementofthetheft.Writingcompletesentences, Iknew,couldonedaybringmemore thana fewhundredrupees. Itwasasimplematter to steal.But to be a really bigman, a clever and respectedman,wassomethingelse. I shouldgoback toRomi, I toldmyself, if only to learn to read andwrite.

I hurried back to the room feeling very nervous, for it is much easier to stealsomethingthantoreturnitundetected.

I opened the door quietly, then stood in the doorway in cloudedmoonlight.Romiwasstillasleep.Icrepttotheheadofthebed,andmyhandcameupwiththepacketofnotes.Ifelthisbreathonmyhand.Iremainedstillforafewmoments.Thenmyfingersfoundtheedgeofthemattress,andIslippedthemoneybeneathit.

I awoke late the next morning to find that Romi had already made the tea. Hestretchedoutahandtome.Therewasafifty-rupeenotebetweenhisfingers.Myheartsank.

‘Imadesomemoneyyesterday,’hesaid.‘NowI’llbeabletopayyouregularly.’My spirits rose.Butwhen I took thenote, I noticed that itwas stillwet from the

night’s rain. So he knew what I’d done. But neither his lips nor his eyes revealedanything.

‘Todaywe’llstartwritingsentences,’hesaid.IsmiledatRomiinmymostappealingway.Andthesmilecamebyitself,without

anyeffort.

WhentheTreesWalkednemorningwhileIwassittingbesideGrandfatherontheverandasteps,Inoticedthetendrilofacreepingvinetrailingnearby.Aswesatthereinthesoftsunshine

ofaNorthIndianwinter,IsawthetendrilmovingslowlytowardsGrandfather.Twentyminuteslater,ithadcrossedthestepandwastouchinghisfeet.

Thereisprobablyascientificexplanationfortheplant’sbehaviour–somethingtodowithlightandwarmthperhaps–butIlikedtothinkitmovedacrossthestepssimplybecauseitwantedtobenearGrandfather.Onealwaysfelt likedrawingclosetohim.SometimeswhenIsatbymyselfbeneathatree,IwouldfeelratherlonelybutassoonasGrandfatherjoinedme,thegardenbecameahappyplace.GrandfatherhadservedmanyyearsintheIndianForestServiceanditwasnaturalthatheshouldknowtreesandlikethem.Onhisretirement,hebuiltabungalowontheoutskirtsofDehradun,plantingtreesall around. Lime,mango, orange and guava, also eucalyptus, jacaranda, and Persianlilacs.InthefertileDoonValley,plantsandtreesgrewtallandstrong.

Therewereothertreesinthecompoundbeforethehousewasbuilt,includinganoldpeepul thathad forced itsway through thewallsofanabandonedouthouse,knockingthebricksdownwithitsvigorousgrowth.Peepultreesaregreatshowoffs.Evenwhenthere is no breeze, their broad-chested, slim-waisted leaves will spin like topsdetermined to attract your attention and invite you into the shade. Grandmother hadwanted thepeepul treecutdownbutGrandfatherhadsaid, ‘Let itbe,wecanalwaysbuildanotherouthouse.’

Grandmother didn’t mind trees, but she preferred growing flowers and wasconstantlyorderingcataloguesandseeds.Grandfatherhelpedheroutwiththegardeningnot because he was crazy about flower gardens but because he liked watchingbutterfliesand‘there’sonlyonewaytoattractbutterflies,’hesaid,‘andthatistogrowflowersforthem.’

Grandfatherwasn’tcontentwithgrowingtreesinourcompound.Duringtherains,hewould walk into the jungle beyond the river-bed armed with cuttings and saplingswhichhewouldplantintheforest.

‘But noone ever comeshere!’ I hadprotested, the first timewedid this. ‘Who’sgoingtoseethem?’

‘See, we’re not planting them simply to improve the view,’ replied Grandfather.‘We’re planting them for the forest and for the animals and birdswho live here andneedmorefoodandshelter.’

‘Ofcourse,menneedtreestoo,’headded.‘Tokeepthedesertaway,toattractrain,

topreventthebanksofriversfrombeingwashedaway,forfruitandflowers,leafandseed.Yes,fortimbertoo.Butmenarecuttingdowntreeswithoutreplacingthemandifwedon’t plant a few treesourselves, a timewill comewhen theworldwill beonegreatdesert.’

ThethoughtofaworldwithouttreesbecameasortofnightmaretomeandIhelpedGrandfatherinhistree-plantingwithgreaterenthusiasm.Andwhilewewentaboutourwork,hetaughtmeapoembyGeorgeMorris:

Woodman,sparethattree!Touchnotasinglebough!Inyouthitshelteredme,AndI’llprotectitnow.‘Onedaythetreeswillmoveagain,’saidGrandfather.‘They’vebeenstandingstill

for thousandsofyearsbut therewasa timewhen theycouldwalkabout likepeople.Thenalongcameaninterferingbusybodywhocastaspellover them,rootingthemtooneplace.Butthey’realwaystryingtomove.Seehowtheyreachoutwiththeirarms!Andsomeof them, like thebanyan treewith its travellingaerial roots,manage togetquitefar.’

We found an island, a small rocky island in a dry river-bed. Itwas one of thoseriver-bedssocommoninthefoothills,whicharecompletelydryinsummerbutfloodedduring themonsoonrains.Asmallmangowasgrowingon the island. ‘Ifasmall treecangrowhere,’saidGrandfather,‘socanothers.’Assoonastherainssetinandwhileriverscouldstillbecrossed,wesetoutwithanumberoftamarind,laburnum,andcoraltreesaplingsandcuttingsandspentthedayplantingthemontheisland.

The monsoon season was the time for rambling about. At every turn, there wassomethingnewtosee.Outoftheearthandrockandleaflessboughs,themagictouchofthe rains had brought life and greenness. You could see the broad-leaved vinesgrowing.Plantssprangupinthemostunlikelyofplaces.Apeepulwouldtakerootintheceiling,amangowouldsproutonthewindow-sill.Wedidnotliketoremovethembuttheyhadtogoifthehousewastobekeptfromfallingdown.

‘Ifyouwanttoliveinatree,that’sallrightbyme,’saidGrandmothercrossly.‘ButIlikehavingaroofovermyheadandI’mnotgoingtohavemyroofbroughtdownbythejungle.’

ThencametheSecondWorldWarandIwassentawaytoaboardingschool.Duringtheholidays,IwenttolivewithmyfatherinDelhi.Meanwhile,mygrandparentssoldthehouseandwenttoEngland.Twoorthreeyearslater,ItoowenttoEnglandandwasawayfromIndiaforseveralyears.

Someyearslater,IreturnedtoDehradun.Afterfirstvisitingtheoldhouse–ithadn’tchangedmuch – I walked out of town towards the river-bed. It was February. As I

lookedacrossthedrywater-course,myeyewasimmediatelycaughtbythespectacularredbloomsof thecoralblossom.Incontrastwith thedryriver-bed, the islandwasasmallgreenparadise.WhenIwentuptothetrees,Inoticedthatsomesquirrelswerelivinginthemandakoel,acrowpheasant,challengedmewithamellow‘who-are-you,who-are-you’.

Butthetreesseemedtoknowme;theywhisperedamongthemselvesandbeckonedme nearer. And looking around I noticed that other smaller trees, wild plants andgrasseshadsprungupundertheirprotection.Yes,thetreeswehadplantedlongagohadmultiplied.Theywerewalkingagain.Inonesmallcorneroftheworld,Grandfather’sdreamhadcometrue.

Goodbye,MissMackenzieheOaks,HollyMount,TheParsonage,ThePines,Dumbarnie,Mackinnon’sHall,andWindermere.Thesearenamesofsomeoftheoldhousesthatstillstandonthe

outskirtsofoneofthelargerIndianhill-stations.TheywerebuiltoverahundredyearsagobyBritishsettlerswhosoughtrelieffromthesearingheatoftheplains.Afewfellintodecayandarenowinhabitedbywildcats,owls,goats,andtheoccasionalmule-driver.Otherssurvive.

Among these oldmansions stands a neat,white-washed cottage,MulberryLodge.And in it livedanelderlyBritishspinsternamedMissMackenzie.Shewassprightlyandworeold-fashionedbutwell-preserveddresses.Once aweek, shewalkedup totownandboughtbutter,jam,soapandsometimesabottleofeau-de-cologne.

MissMackenziehadlivedtheresinceher teens,beforeWorldWarI.Herparents,brother,andsisterwerealldead.Shehadnorelatives inIndia,and livedonasmallpensionandgiftparcels sentbyachildhood friend.Shehad fewvisitors– the localpadre,thepostman,themilkman.Likeotherlonelyoldpeople,shekeptapet,alargeblackcatwithbright,yelloweyes.

In a small garden, she grew dahlias, chrysanthemums, gladioli and a few rareorchids.Sheknewagreatdealaboutwildflowers,trees,birds,andinsects.Sheneverseriously studied them, but had an intimacywith all that grewand flourished aroundher.

It was September, and the rains were nearly over. Miss Mackenzie’s Africanmarigolds were blooming. She hoped the coming winter wouldn’t be too severebecause she found it increasingly difficult to bear the cold. One day, as she wasputteringaboutinhergarden,shesawaschoolboypluckingwildflowersontheslopeabovethecottage.‘Whatareyouupto,youngman?’shecalled.

Alarmed,theboytriedtodashupthehillside,butslippedonpineneedlesandsliddown the slope intoMissMackenzie’s nasturtiumbed.Findingno escape, hegave abrightsmileandsaid,‘Goodmorning,Miss.’

‘Goodmorning,’saidMissMackenzieseverely.‘Wouldyoumindmovingoutofmyflowerbed?’

Theboysteppedgingerlyoverthenasturtiums,andlookedatMissMackenziewithappealingeyes.

‘Yououghttobeinschool,’shesaid.‘Whatareyoudoinghere?’‘Pickingflowers,Miss.’Heheldupabunchoffernsandwildflowers.‘Oh,’MissMackenziewasdisarmed.Ithadbeenalongtimesinceshehadseena

boytakinganinterestinflowers.‘Doyoulikeflowers?’sheasked.‘Yes,Miss.I’mgoingtobeabotan…abotanitist.’‘Youmeanabotanist?’‘Yes,Miss.’‘That’sunusual.Doyouknowthenamesoftheseflowers?’‘Thisisabuttercup,’hesaid,showingherasmallgoldenflower.‘ButIdon’tknow

whatthisis,’hesaid,holdingoutapale,pinkflowerwithaheart-shapedleaf.‘It’sawildbegonia,’saidMissMackenzie.‘Andthatpurplestuffissalvia.Doyou

haveanybooksonflowers?’‘No,Miss.’‘ComeinandI’llshowyouone.’Sheledtheboyintoasmallfrontroomcrowdedwithfurniture,books,vases,and

jamjars.Hesatawkwardlyontheedgeofthechair.Thecatjumpedimmediatelyontohiskneesandsettleddown,purringsoftly.

‘What’syourname?’askedMissMackenzie,assherummagedthroughherbooks.‘Anil,Miss.’‘Andwheredoyoulive?’‘Whenschoolcloses,IgotoDelhi.Myfatherhasabusinessthere.’‘Oh,andwhat’sthat?’‘Bulbs,Miss.’‘Flowerbulbs?’‘No,electricbulbs.’‘Ah,hereweare!’shesaidtakingaheavytomefromtheshelf.‘FloraHimaliensis,

publishedin1892,andprobablytheonlycopyinIndia.Thisisavaluablebook,Anil.NoothernaturalisthasrecordedasmanywildHimalayanflowers.But therearestillmanyplantsunknowntothebotanistswhospendalltheirtimeatmicroscopesinsteadofinthemountains.Perhapsyou’lldosomethingaboutthatoneday.’

‘Yes,Miss.’Shelitthestoveandputthekettleonfortea.AndthentheoldEnglishladyandthe

small Indianboysatsidebyside,absorbed in thebook.MissMackenziepointedoutmanyflowersthatgrewaroundthehill-station,whiletheboymadenotesoftheirnamesandseasons.

‘MayIcomeagain?’askedAnil,whenfinallyherosetogo.‘Ifyoulike,’saidMissMackenzie.‘Butnotduringschoolhours.Youmustn’tmiss

yourclasses.’After that, Anil visited Miss Mackenzie about once a week, and nearly always

brought a wild flower for her to identify. She looked forward to the boy’s visits.Sometimeswhenmorethanaweekpassedandhedidn’tcome,shewouldgrumbleatthecat.

BythemiddleofOctober,withonlyafortnightleftbeforeschoolclosed,snowfellonthedistantmountains.Onepeakstoodhighabovetheothers,awhitepinnacleagaintanazuresky.Whenthesunset,thepeakturnedfromorangetopinktored.

‘Howhighisthatmountain?’askedAnil.‘Itmustbeover15,000feet,’saidMissMackenzie. ‘Ialwayswanted togo there,

butthereisnoproperroad.Onthelowerslopes,there’llbeflowersthatyoudon’tgethere:bluegentian,purplecolumbine.’

Thedaybeforeschoolclosed,Anilcametosaygoodbye.Ashewasabouttoleave,MissMackenziethrusttheFloraHimaliensisintohishands.‘It’sagift,’shesaid.

‘ButI’llbebacknextyear,andI’llbeabletolookatitthen,’heprotested.‘Besides,it’ssovaluable!’

‘That’swhy I’mgiving it toyou.Otherwise, itwill fall into thehandsof the junkdealers.’

‘But,Miss…’‘Don’targue.’Theboytuckedthebookunderhisarm,stoodatattention,andsaid,‘Goodbye,Miss

Mackenzie.’Itwasthefirsttimehehadspokenhername.

Strongwinds soon brought rain and sleet, killing the flowers in the garden. The catstayedindoors,curledupatthefootofthebed.MissMackenziewrappedherselfinoldshawlsandmufflers,butstillfeltcold.Herfingersgrewsostiffthatittookalmostanhourtoopenacanofbakedbeans.Thenitsnowed,andforseveraldaysthemilkmandidnotcome.

Tired,shespentmostofhertimeinbed.Itwasthewarmestplace.Shekeptahot-waterbottleagainstherback,and thecatkepther feetwarm.Shedreamedof springandsummer.Inthreemonths,theprimroseswouldbeout,andAnilwouldreturn.

One night the hot-water bottle burst, soaking the bed. The sun didn’t shine forseveraldays,andtheblanketsremaineddamp.MissMackenziecaughtachillandhadtokeeptohercold,uncomfortablebed.

A strong wind sprang up one night and blew the bedroom window open. MissMackenziewastooweaktogetupandcloseit.Thewindswepttherainandsleetintotheroom.Thecatsnuggledclosetoitsmistress’sbody.Towardsmorning,thebodylostitswarmth,andthecatleftthebedandstartedscratchingaboutonthefloor.

As sunlight streamed through the window, themilkman arrived. He poured somemilkintothesauceronthedoorstep,andthecatjumpeddownfromthewindow-sill.

The milkman called out a greeting to Miss Mackenzie. There was no answer.Knowingshewasalwaysupbeforesunrise,hepokedhisheadintheopenwindowandcalledagain.

Miss Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone to the mountain, where the bluegentianandpurplecolumbinegrow.

PretintheHouse

twasGrandmotherwhodecidedthatwemustmovetoanotherhouse.Anditwasallbecause of a pret, a mischievous ghost, who had been making life intolerable foreveryone.

InIndia,prets usually live inpeepul trees, and that’swhereourPret firsthadhisabode–inthebranchesofanoldpeepulwhichhadgrownthroughthecompoundwallandhadspreadintothegarden,onourside,andovertheroad,ontheotherside.

Formanyyears,thePrethadlivedtherequitehappily,withoutbotheringanyoneinthe house. I suppose the traffic on the road hadkept him fully occupied. Sometimes,whenatongawaspassing,hewouldfrightentheponyand,asaresult,thelittlepony-cartwouldgoreelingofftheroad.Occasionallyhewouldgetintotheengineofacarorbus,whichwouldsoonafterwardshaveabreakdown.Andhelikedtoknockthesola-topisofftheheadsofsahibs,whowouldcurseandwonderhowabreezehadsprungupso suddenly, only to die down again just as quickly. Although the Pret could makehimselffelt,andsometimesheard,hewasinvisibletothehumaneye.

At night, people avoidedwalking beneath the peepul tree. Itwas said that if youyawnedbeneaththetree,thePretwouldjumpdownyourthroatandruinyourdigestion.Grandmother’s tailor, Jaspal,whoneverhadanything readyon time,blamed thePretfor all his troubles.Once,whenyawning, Jaspal had forgotten to snaphis fingers infrontofhismouth–alwaysmandatorywhenyawningbeneathpeepul trees–and thePrethadgotinwithoutanydifficulty.Sincethen,Jaspalhadalwaysbeensufferingfromtummyupsets.

Butithadleftourfamilyaloneuntil,oneday,thepeepultreehadbeencutdown.Itwasnobody’sfaultexcept,ofcourse,thatGrandfatherhadgiventhePublicWorks

Department permission to cut the tree which had been standing on our land. Theywantedtowidentheroad,andthetreeandabitofwallwereintheway;sobothhadtogo. Inanycase,notevenaghostcanprevail against thePWD.ButhardlyadayhadpassedwhenwediscoveredthatthePret,deprivedofhistree,haddecidedtotakeupresidence in thebungalow.AndsinceagoodPretmustbebad inorder to justifyhisexistence,hewassoonuptoallsortsofmischiefinthehouse.

HebeganbyhidingGrandmother’sspectacleswhenevershetookthemoff.‘I’msureIputthemdownonthedressing-table,’shegrumbled.A little later theywere found balanced precariously on the snout of awild boar,

whosestuffedandmountedheadadornedtheverandawall.Beingtheonlyboyin thehouse,Iwasatfirstblamedforthisprank;butadayortwolater,whenthespectacles

disappearedagainonlytobediscovereddanglingfromthewiresoftheparrot’scage,itwasagreedthatsomeotheragencywasatwork.

Grandfatherwasthenexttobetroubled.Hewentintothegardenonemorningtofindallhisprizedsweet-peassnippedoffandlyingontheground.

UncleKenwas thenext tosuffer.Hewasaheavysleeper,andoncehe’dgone tobed,hehatedbeingwokenup.Sowhenhecametothebreakfasttablelookingbleary-eyedandmiserable,weaskedhimifhewasn’tfeelingallright.

‘Icouldn’tsleepawinklastnight,’hecomplained.‘EverytimeIwasabouttofallasleep,thebedclotheswouldbepulledoffthebed.Ihadtogetupatleastadozentimestopick themoff the floor.’Hestaredbalefullyatme. ‘Wherewereyousleeping lastnight,youngman?’

Ihadanalibi.‘InGrandfather’sroom,’Isaid.‘That’sright,’saidGrandfather.‘AndI’malightsleeper.I’dhavewokenupifhe’d

beensleep-walking.’‘It’sthatghostfromthepeepultree,’saidGrandmother.‘It has moved into the house. First my spectacles, then the sweet-peas, and now

Ken’sbedclothes!Whatwillitbeuptonext?Iwonder!’Wedidnothavetowonderforlong.Therefollowedaseriesofdisasters.Vasesfell

offtables,picturescamedownthewalls.Parrotfeathersturnedupintheteapotwhiletheparrothimselfletoutindignantsquawksinthemiddleofthenight.UncleKenfounda crow’s nest in his bed, and on tossing it out of thewindowwas attacked by twocrows.

When Aunt Minnie came to stay, things got worse. The Pret seemed to take animmediatedisliketoAuntMinnie.Shewasanervous,easilyexcitableperson,justtherightsortofpreyforaspitefulghost.SomehowhertoothpastegotswitchedwithatubeofGrandfather’sshaving-cream,andwhensheappearedinthesitting-room,foamingatthemouth,weranforourlives.UncleKenwasshoutingthatshe’dgotrabies.

Two days later AuntMinnie complained that she had been hit on the nose by agrapefruit,whichhadofitsownaccordtakenaleapfromthepantryshelfandhurtledacrosstheroomstraightather.Abruisedandswollennosetestifiedtotheattack.AuntMinniesworethatlifehadbeenmorepeacefulinUpperBurma.

‘We’llhavetoleavethishouse,’declaredGrandmother.‘Ifwestayheremuchlonger,bothKenandMinniewillhavenervousbreakdowns.’‘IthoughtAuntMinniebrokedownlongago,’Isaid.‘Noneofyourcheek!’snappedAuntMinnie.‘Anyway, I agree about changing the house,’ I said breezily. ‘I can’t even domy

homework.Theink-bottleisalwaysempty.’‘Therewasinkinthesouplastnight.’ThatcamefromGrandfather.Andso,afewdaysandseveraldisasterslater,webeganmovingtoanewhouse.Twobullock-cartsladenwithfurnitureandheavyluggageweresentahead.Theroof

oftheoldcarwaspiledhighwithbagsandkitchenutensils.Everyonesqueezedintothecar,andGrandfathertookthedriver’sseat.

Wewerebarelyoutofthegatewhenweheardapeculiarsound,asifsomeonewaschucklingandtalkingtohimselfontheroofofthecar.

‘Istheparrotoutthereontheluggage-rack?’thequerycamefromGrandfather.‘No,he’sinthecageononeofthebullock-carts,’saidGrandmother.Grandfatherstoppedthecar,gotout,andtookalookattheroof.‘Nothingupthere,’hesaid,gettinginagainandstartingtheengine.‘I’msureIheard

theparrottalking.’Grandfather had driven some way up the road when the chuckling started again,

followedbyasqueakylittlevoice.Weallheardit.ItwasthePrettalkingtoitself.‘Let’sgo,let’sgo!’itsqueakedgleefully.‘Anewhouse.Ican’twaittoseeit.What

funwe’regoingtohave!’

TheOvercoat

twasclearfrostyweather,andasthemooncameupovertheHimalayanpeaks,Icouldsee thatpatchesofsnowstill layon theroadsof thehill-station. Iwouldhavebeenquitehappyinbed,withabookandahot-waterbottleatmyside,butI’dpromisedtheKapadiasthatI’dgototheirparty,andIfeltitwouldbechurlishofmetostayaway.Iput on two sweaters, an old football scarf, and an overcoat, and set off down themoonlitroad.

ItwasawalkofjustoveramiletotheKapadias’house,andIhadcoveredabouthalfthedistancewhenIsawagirlstandinginthemiddleoftheroad.

Shemust have been sixteen or seventeen. She looked rather old-fashioned – longhair, hanging to her waist, and a flummoxy sequined dress, pink and lavender, thatremindedmeof thephotos inmygrandmother’s familyalbum.When Iwentcloser, Inoticedthatshehadlovelyeyesandawinningsmile.

‘Goodevening,’Isaid.‘It’sacoldnighttobeout.’‘Areyougoingtotheparty?’sheasked.‘That’s right. And I can see from your lovely dress that you’re going too. Come

along,we’renearlythere.’She fell into step beside me and we soon saw lights from the Kapadias’ house

shiningbrightlythroughthedeodars.ThegirltoldmehernamewasJulie.Ihadn’tseenherbefore,butI’donlybeeninthehill-stationafewmonths.

Therewasquiteacrowdattheparty,andnooneseemedtoknowJulie.Everyonethoughtshewasafriendofmine. Ididnotdeny it.Obviouslyshewassomeonewhowas feeling lonely and wanted to be friendly with people. And she was certainlyenjoyingherself.Ididnotseeherdomucheatingordrinking,butsheflittedaboutfromonegroup toanother, talking, listening, laughing;andwhen themusicbegan, shewasdancing almost continuously, alone orwith partners, it didn’tmatterwhich, shewascompletelywrappedupinthemusic.

ItwasalmostmidnightwhenIgotuptogo.Ihaddrunkafairamountofpunch,andIwas ready for bed. As I was saying goodnight tomy hosts andwishing everyone amerryChristmas,Julieslippedherarmintomineandsaidshe’dbegoinghometoo.

Whenwewereoutside,Isaid,‘Wheredoyoulive,Julie?’‘AtWolfsburn,’shesaid.‘Rightatthetopofthehill.’‘There’sacoldwind,’Isaid.‘Andalthoughyourdressisbeautiful,itdoesn’tlook

verywarm.Here,you’dbetterwearmyovercoat.I’veplentyofprotection.’Shedidnotprotest,andallowedmetoslipmyovercoatoverhershoulders.Then

westartedoutonthewalkhome.ButIdidnothavetoescortheralltheway.Ataboutthespotwherewehadmet,shesaid,‘There’sashortcutfromhere.I’lljustscrambleupthehillside.’

‘Doyouknowitwell?’Iasked.‘It’saverynarrowpath.’‘Oh,Iknoweverystoneonthepath.Iuseitallthetime.Andbesides,it’sareally

brightnight.’‘Well,keepthecoaton,’Isaid.‘Icancollectittomorrow.’Shehesitated foramoment, then smiledandnodded.She thendisappearedup the

hill,andIwenthomealone.The next day I walked up toWolfsburn. I crossed a little brook, fromwhich the

househadprobablygotitsname,andenteredanopenirongate.Butofthehouseitself,littleremained.Justarooflessruin,apileofstones,ashatteredchimney,afewDoricpillarswhereaverandahadoncestood.

HadJulieplayedajokeonme?OrhadIfoundthewronghouse?Iwalkedaroundthehill,tothemissionhousewheretheTaylorslivedandaskedold

MrsTaylorifsheknewagirlcalledJulie.‘No,Idon’tthinkso,’shesaid.‘Wheredoesshelive?’‘AtWolfsburn,Iwastold.Butthehouseisjustaruin.’‘NobodyhaslivedatWolfsburnforoverfortyyears.TheMackinnonslivedthere.

Oneoftheoldfamilieswhosettledhere.Butwhentheirgirldied…’Shestoppedandgavemeaqueerlook.‘IthinkhernamewasJulie…Anyway,whenshedied,theysoldthehouseandwentaway.Nooneever lived in itagain,and it fell intodecay.But itcouldn’tbethesameJulieyou’relookingfor.Shediedofconsumption–therewasn’tmuchyoucoulddoaboutitinthosedays.Hergraveisinthecemetery,justdowntheroad.’

IthankedMrsTaylorandwalkedslowlydowntheroadtothecemetery;notreallywantingtoknowanymore,butpropelledforwardalmostagainstmywill.

Itwasasmallcemeteryunderthedeodars.YoucouldseetheeternalsnowsoftheHimalayas standing out against the pristine blue of the sky. Here lay the bones offorgottenempire-builders–soldiers,merchants,adventurers,theirwivesandchildren.Itdidnot takemelongtofindJulie’sgrave.Ithadasimpleheadstonewithhernameclearlyoutlinedonit:

JulieMackinnon1923-39‘Withusonemoment,Takenthenext,GonetoherMaker,Gonetoherrest.’

Althoughmanymonsoonshadsweptacrossthecemeterywearingdownthestones,theyhadnottouchedthislittletombstone.

I was turning to leavewhen I caught a glimpse of something familiar behind theheadstone.Iwalkedroundtowhereitlay.

Neatlyfoldedonthegrasswasmyovercoat.Nothank-younote.Butsomethingsoftandinvisiblebrushedagainstmycheek,andI

knewsomeonewastryingtothankme.

TheTunnel

twasalmostnoon,andthejunglewasverystill,verysilent.Heatwavesshimmeredalongtherailwayembankmentwhereitcutapaththroughthetallevergreentrees.Therailway lines were two straight black serpents disappearing into the tunnel in thehillside.

Surajstoodnearthecutting,waitingforthemid-daytrain.Itwasn’tastation,andhewasn’tcatchingatrain.Hewaswaitingsothathecouldwatchthesteam-enginecomeroaringoutofthetunnel.

Hehadcycledoutofthetownandtakenthejunglepathuntilhehadcometoasmallvillage.He had left the cycle there, andwalked over a low, scrub-covered hill anddowntothetunnelexit.

Nowhelookedup.Hehadheard,inthedistance,theshrillwhistleoftheengine.Hecouldn’tseeanything,becausethetrainwasapproachingfromtheothersideofthehill;butpresentlyasound,likedistantthunder,issuedfromthetunnel,andheknewthetrainwascomingthrough.

Asecondortwolater,thesteam-engineshotoutofthetunnel,snortingandpuffinglikesomegreen,blackandgolddragon,somebeautifulmonsteroutofSuraj’sdreams.Showeringsparksleftandright,itroaredachallengetothejungle.

Instinctively,Surajsteppedbackafewpaces.Andthenthetrainhadgone,leavingonlyaplumeofsmoketodriftlazilyovertallshishamtrees.

The junglewasstillagain.Noonemoved.Suraj turnedfromhiscontemplationofthedriftingsmokeandbeganwalkingalongtheembankmenttowardsthetunnel.

Thetunnelgrewdarkerashewalkedfurtherintoit.Whenhehadgoneabouttwentyyards,itbecamepitchblack.Surajhadtoturnandlookbackattheopeningtoreassurehimself that therewasstilldaylightoutside.Aheadofhim, the tunnel’sotheropeningwasjustasmallroundcircleoflight.

The tunnel was still full of smoke from the train, but it would be several hoursbeforeanothertraincamethrough.Tillthen,itbelongedtothejungleagain.

Surajdidn’tstop,becausetherewasnothingtodointhetunnelandnothingtosee.He had simplywanted towalk through, so that hewould knowwhat the inside of atunnel was really like. The walls were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizardscuttledbetweenthelines.

Coming straight from thedarkness into the light,Surajwasdazzledby the suddenglare.Heputahanduptoshadehiseyesandlookedupatthetree-coveredhillside.Hethoughthesawsomethingmovingbetweenthetrees.

Itwasjustaflashoforangeandgold,andalongswishingtail.Itwastherebetweenthetreesforasecondortwo,andthenitwasgone.

Aboutfiftyfeetfromtheentrancetothetunnelstoodthewatchman’shut.Marigoldsgrewinfrontofthehut,andatthebacktherewasasmallvegetablepatch.Itwasthewatchman’sdutytoinspectthetunnelandkeepitclearofobstacles.Everyday,beforethetraincamethrough,hewouldwalkthelengthofthetunnel.Ifallwaswell,hewouldreturn tohishutand takeanap. Ifsomethingwaswrong,hewouldwalkbackup theline and wave a red flag and the engine-driver would slow down. At night, thewatchman lit an oil lamp andmade a similar inspection of the tunnel.Of course, hecouldnotstopthetrainiftherewasaporcupineontheline.Butiftherewasanydangertothetrain,he’dgobackupthelineandwavehislamptotheapproachingengine.Ifallwaswell,he’dhanghislampatthedoorofthehutandgotosleep.

Hewas just settling down on his cot for an afternoon napwhen he saw the boyemergefromthetunnel.HewaiteduntilSurajwasonlyafewfeetawayandthensaid:‘Welcome,welcome,Idon’toftenhavevisitors.Sitdownforawhile,andtellmewhyyouwereinspectingmytunnel.’

‘Isityourtunnel?’askedSuraj.‘Itis,’saidthewatchman.‘Itistrulymytunnel,sincenooneelsewillhaveanything

todowithit.Ihaveonlylentittothegovernment.’Surajsatdownontheedgeofthecot.‘Iwanted to see the train come through,’ he said. ‘And then,when it had gone, I

thoughtI’dwalkthroughthetunnel.’‘Andwhatdidyoufindinit?’‘Nothing.Itwasverydark.ButwhenIcameout,IthoughtIsawananimal–upon

thehill–butI’mnotsure,itmovedawayveryquickly.’‘Itwasaleopardyousaw,’saidthewatchman.‘Myleopard.’‘Doyouownaleopardtoo?’‘Ido.’‘Anddoyoulendittothegovernment?’‘Idonot.’‘Isitdangerous?’‘No,it’saleopardthatmindsitsownbusiness.Itcomestothisrangeforafewdays

everymonth.’‘Haveyoubeenherealongtime?’askedSuraj.‘Manyyears.MynameisSunderSingh.’‘Myname’sSuraj.’‘There’sonetrainduringtheday.Andanotherduringthenight.Haveyouseenthe

nightmailcomethroughthetunnel?’‘No.Atwhattimedoesitcome?’‘Aboutnineo’clock,ifitisn’tlate.Youcouldcomeandsitherewithme,ifyoulike.

Andafterithasgone,I’lltakeyouhome.’‘Ishallaskmyparents,’saidSuraj.‘Willitbesafe?’‘Ofcourse.It’ssaferinthejunglethaninthetown.Nothinghappenstomeouthere,

butlastmonthwhenIwentintothetown,Iwasalmostrunoverbyabus.’SunderSinghyawnedandstretchedhimselfoutonthecot. ‘AndnowI’mgoingto

takeanap,myfriend.Itistoohottobeupandaboutintheafternoon.’‘Everyonegoestosleepintheafternoon,’complainedSuraj.‘Myfatherliesdown

assoonashe’shadhislunch.’‘Well, theanimalsalsorest in theheatof theday. It isonly the tribeofboyswho

cannot,orwillnot,rest.’SunderSinghplaceda largebanana-leafoverhisface tokeepawaytheflies,and

wassoonsnoringgently.Surajstoodup,lookingupanddowntherailwaytracks.Thenhebeganwalkingbacktothevillage.

Thefollowingevening,towardsdusk,astheflyingfoxesswoopedsilentlyoutofthetrees,Surajmadehiswaytothewatchman’shut.

Ithadbeena longhotday,butnowtheearthwascooling,anda lightbreezewasmovingthroughthetrees.Itcarriedwithitascentofmangoblossoms,thepromiseofrain.

Sunder Singh was waiting for Suraj. He had watered his small garden, and theflowerslookedcoolandfresh.Akettlewasboilingonasmalloil-stove.

‘I’mmakingtea,’hesaid.‘There’snothinglikeaglassofhotteawhilewaitingforatrain.’

They drank their tea, listening to the sharp notes of the tailorbird and the noisychatter of the seven-sisters.As the brief twilight faded,most of the birds fell silent.Sunder Singh lit his oil-lamp and said itwas time for him to inspect the tunnel.Hemovedofftowardsthetunnel,whileSurajsatonthecot,sippinghistea.Inthedark,thetreesseemedtomoveclosertohim.Andthenightlifeoftheforestwasconveyedonthebreeze– the sharp call of a barking-deer, the cryof a fox, thequaint tonk-tonk of anightjar.ThereweresomesoundsthatSurajcouldn’trecognise–soundsthatcamefromthetrees,creakingsandwhisperings,asthoughthetreeswerecomingalive,stretchingtheirlimbsinthedark,shiftingalittle,reflexingtheirfingers.

Sunder Singh stood inside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds werefamiliartohimandhedidnotgivethemmuchthought;butsomethingelse–apaddedfootfall,arustleofdryleaves–madehimstandalertforafewseconds,peeringintothedarkness.Then,hummingsoftlytohimself,hereturnedtowhereSurajwaswaiting.Anothertenminutesremainedforthenightmailtoarrive.

AsSunder Singh sat downon the cot besideSuraj, a new sound reached both ofthemquitedistinctly–arhythmicsawingsound,asifsomeonewascuttingthroughthebranchofatree.

‘What’sthat?’whisperedSuraj.

‘It’stheleopard,’saidSunderSingh.‘Ithinkit’sinthetunnel.’‘Thetrainwillsoonbehere,’remindedSuraj.‘Yes,myfriend.Andifwedon’tdrivetheleopardoutofthetunnel,itwillberun

overandkilled.Ican’tletthathappen.’‘Butwon’titattackusifwetrytodriveitout?’askedSuraj,beginningtosharethe

watchman’sconcern.‘Notthisleopard.Itknowsmewell.Wehaveseeneachothermanytimes.Ithasa

weaknessforgoatsandstraydogs,butitwon’tharmus.Evenso,I’lltakemyaxewithme.Youstayhere,Suraj.’

‘No,I’mgoingwithyou.It’llbebetterthansittingherealoneinthedark!’‘Allright,butstayclosebehindme.Andremember,there’snothingtofear.’Raisinghislamphigh,SunderSinghadvancedintothetunnel,shoutingatthetopof

hisvoicetotryandscareawaytheanimal.Surajfollowedclosebehind,buthefoundhewasunabletodoanyshouting.Histhroatwasquitedry.

Theyhadgonejustabouttwentypacesintothetunnelwhenthelightfromthelampfellupontheleopard.Itwascrouchingbetweenthetracks,onlyfifteenfeetawayfromthem.Itwasnotaverybigleopard,butitlookedlitheandsinewy.Baringitsteethandsnarling,itwentdownonitsbelly,tailtwitching.

SurajandSunderSinghbothshoutedtogether.Theirvoicesrangthroughthetunnel.Andthe leopard,uncertainas tohowmanyterrifyinghumanswere there in the tunnelwithhim,turnedswiftlyanddisappearedintothedarkness.

To make sure that it had gone, Sunder Singh and Suraj walked the length of thetunnel.Whentheyreturnedtotheentrance,therailswerebeginningtohum.Theyknewthetrainwascoming.

Surajputhishandtotherailsandfeltitstremor.Heheardthedistantrumbleofthetrain.Andthentheenginecameroundthebend,hissingatthem,scatteringsparksintothe darkness, defying the jungle as it roared through the steep sides of the cutting. Itchargedstraightatthetunnel,andintoit,thunderingpastSurajlikethebeautifuldragonofhisdreams.

Andwhenithadgone,thesilencereturnedandtheforestseemedtobreathe,toliveagain.Onlytherailsstilltrembledwiththepassingofthetrain.

Andtheytrembledtothepassingofthesametrain,almostaweeklater,whenSurajandhisfatherwerebothtravellinginit.

Suraj’sfatherwasscribblinginanotebook,doinghisaccounts.Surajsatatanopenwindowstaringoutatthedarkness.HisfatherwasgoingtoDelhionabusinesstripandhaddecidedtotaketheboyalong.(‘Idon’tknowwherehegetsto,mostofthetime,’he’dcomplained.‘Ithinkit’stimehelearntsomethingaboutmybusiness.’)

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

jungle.Surajheardtherumbleasthetrainpassedoverasmallbridge.Itwastoodarktosee

thehutnearthecutting,butheknewtheymustbeapproachingthetunnel.Hestrainedhiseyeslookingoutintothenight;andthen,justastheengineletoutashrillwhistle,Surajsawthelamp.

Hecouldn’tseeSunderSingh,buthesawthelamp,andheknewthathisfriendwasoutthere.

Thetrainwentintothetunnelandoutagain;itleftthejunglebehindandthunderedacross the endlessplains; andSuraj staredout at thedarkness, thinkingof the lonelycutting in the forest, and the watchman with the lamp who would always remain afirefly for those travelling thousands, ashe lit up thedarkness for steam-engines andleopards.

WildFruit

twasalongwalktoschool.Downthehill,throughtherhododendrontrees,acrossasmallstream,aroundabare,brownhill,andthenthroughthenarrowlittlebazaar,pastfruitstallspiledhighwithoranges,guavas,bananas,andapples.

Theboy’sgazeoftenlingeredonthoseheapsofgoldenoranges–orangesgrownintheplains,nowchallengingthepalewintersunshineinthehills.Hisnosetwitchedatthesharpsmellofmelonsinsummer;hisfingerswouldsometimestouchforamomentthesoftdownontheskinofapeach.Butthesewereforbiddenfruit.Theboyhadn’tthemoneyforthem.

Hetookonemealatseveninthemorningwhenhelefthome;anotheratsevenintheeveningwhenhereturnedfromschool.Thereweretimes–especiallywhenhewasatschool,andhisteacherdronedonandon,lecturingonhonesty,courage,duty,andself-sacrifice–whenhe felt veryhungry;buton theway to school,oron thewayhome,therewasnearlyalwaystheprospectofsomewildfruit.

Theboy’snamewasVijay,andhebelongedtoavillagenearMussoorie.Hisparentstilled a few narrow terraces on the hill slopes. They grew potatoes, onions, barley,maize; barely enough to feed themselves.When greenswere scarce, they boiled thetopsofthestinging-nettleandmadethemintoadishresemblingspinach.

Vijay’sparentsrealisedtheimportanceofsendinghimtoschool,anditdidn’tcostthemmuch,except for thebooks.But itwasallof fourmiles to the town,anda longwalkmakesaboyhungry.

Buttherewasnearlyalwaysthewildfruit.Thepurpleberriesofthethornybilberrybushes, ripening inMay and June.Wild strawberries, growing in shady places likespots of blood on the deep green monsoon grass. Small, sour cherries, and toughmedlars.Vijay’sstrongteethandprobingtongueextractedwhatevertangorsweetnesslayhiddeninthem.AndinMarchthereweretherhododendronflowers.

Hismothermadetheminto jam.ButVijaylikedthemas theywere.Heplacedthepetalsonhistongueandchewedthemtillthesweetjuicetrickleddownhisthroat.ButinNovember, therewas nowild fruit. Only acorns on the oak trees, and theywerebitter,fitonlyforthemonkeys.

Hewalkedconfidently through thebazaar, strong in the legs.He lookedahealthyboy,untilyoucameupcloseand saw thepatchesonhis skinand thedullness inhiseyes.

Hepassedthefruitstalls,wonderingwhoateallthatfruit,andwhathappenedtothefruit that went bad; he passed the sweet shop, where hot, newly-fried jelabies lay

protectedliketwistedorangejewelsinaglasscase,andwhereafat,oilymanraisedaknifeandplungeditdeepintoathickslabofrichamber-colouredhalwa.

ThesalivabuiltupinVijay’smouth;therewasadullacheinhisstomach.Buthiseyesgaveawaynothingofthesharppangshefelt.

And now, a confectioner’s shop. Glass jars filled with chocolates, peppermints,toffees – sweets he didn’t know the names of, English sweets –wrapped in bits ofcolouredpaper.

Aboyhad justboughtabagof sweets.Hehadone inhismouth.Hewasawell-dressedboy;coinsjingledinhispocket.Thesweetmovedfromonecheektotheother.Hebitdeepintoit,andVijayheardthecrunchandlookedup.TheboysmiledatVijay,butmovedaway.

Theymetagain,furtheralongtheroad.Onceagaintheboysmiled,evenlookedasthoughhewasabouttoofferVijayasweet;butthistime,Vijayshylylookedaway.Hedidnotwantittoappearthathehadnoticedthesweets,orthathehungeredforone.

But he kept meeting the boy, who always managed to reappear at some corner,suckingasweet,movingitaboutinhismouth,lettingitshowbetweenhiswetlips–astickygreenthing,temptingly,lusciouslybeautiful.

Thebagofsweetswasnearlyempty.Reluctantly,Vijaydecidedthathemustovertaketheboy,forgetallaboutthesweets,

andhurryhome.Otherwise,hewouldbetemptedtograbthebagandrun!Andthen,hesawtheboyleavethebagonabench,lookathimonce,andsmile–

smileshylyandinvitingly–beforemovingaway.Wasthebagempty?Vijaywonderedwithmountingexcitement.Itcouldn’tbe,orit

wouldhaveblownawayalmostimmediately.Obviously,therewerestillafewsweetsinit.Theboyhaddisappeared.Hehadgoneforhistea,andVijaycouldhavetherestofthesweets.

Vijay took the bag and jammed it into a pocket of his shirt. Then he hurriedhomewards.Itwasgettinglate,andhewantedtobehomebeforedark.

As soon as hewasout of the town, he opened the bag and shook the sweets out.Theirredwrappersglowedlikerubiesinthepalmofhishand.

Carefully,heundidawrapper.Therewasnosweetinside,onlyasmooth,roundstone.Vijayfoundstonesinallthewrappers.Inhismind’seye,Vijaysawthesmilingface

oftheboyinthebazaar:aboywhosmiledsweetlybutexchangedstonesforsweets.Forcing back angry tears, Vijay flung the stones down the hillside. Then he

shoulderedhisbagofbooksandbeganthelongwalkhome.Therewerepatchesofsnowontheground.Thegrasswasadirtybrown,thebushes

werebare.ThereisnowildfruitinNovember.

TheNighttheRoofBlewOffeareusedtosuddenstorms,uphereonthefirstrangeoftheHimalayas.Theoldbuilding inwhichwe livehas, formore thanahundredyears, received the full

forceofthewindasitsweepsacrossthehillsfromtheeast.We’d lived in thebuilding formore than tenyearswithout adisaster. It had even

takentheshockofasevereearthquake.AsmygranddaughterDollysaid,‘It’sdifficulttotellthenewcracksfromtheold!’

It’s a two-storeybuilding, and I liveon theupper floorwithmy family:my threegrandchildrenandtheirparents.Theroofismadeofcorrugatedtinsheets,theceilingofwoodenboards.That’sthetraditionalMussoorieroof.

Lookingbackattheexperience,itwasthesortofthingthatshouldhavehappenedina JamesThurber story, like the dam that burst or the ghostwho got in.But Iwasn’tthinkingofThurberatthetime,althoughafewofhisbookswereamongthemanyIwastryingtosavefromtheicyrainpouringintomybedroom.

Ourroofhadheldfastinmanyastorm,butthewindthatnightwasreallyfierce.Itcamerushingatuswithahigh-pitched,eeriewail.Theoldroofgroanedandprotested.Ittookabatteringforseveralhourswhiletherainlashedagainstthewindowsandthelightskeptcomingandgoing.

Therewasnoquestionofsleeping,butweremainedinbedforwarmthandcomfort.The fire had long since gone out, as the chimney had collapsed, bringing down ashowerofsootyrainwater.

After about four hours of buffeting, the roof could take it no longer.Mybedroomfaceseast,somyportionoftheroofwasthefirsttogo.

Thewind got under it and kept pushing until,with a ripping, groaning sound, themetal sheets shifted and slid off the rafters, some of them dropping with claps likethunderontotheroadbelow.

Sothat’sit,Ithought.Nothingworsecanhappen.Aslongastheceilingstayson,I’mnotgettingoutofbed.We’llcollectourroofinthemorning.

Icywatersplashingdownonmyfacemademechangemymindinahurry.Leapingfromthebed,Ifoundthatmuchoftheceilinghadgone,too.Waterwaspouringonmyopentypewriteraswellasonthebedsideradioandbedcover.

Pickingupmyprecious typewriter (mycompanionfor fortyyears) Istumbled intothe front sitting room (and library), only to find a similar situation there.Waterwaspouringthroughtheslatsofthewoodenceiling,rainingdownontheopenbookshelves.

BynowIhadbeenjoinedbythechildren,whohadcometomyrescue.Theirsection

oftheroofhadn’tgoneasyet.Theirparentswerestrugglingtocloseawindowagainstthedrivingrain.

‘Savethebooks!’shoutedDolly,theyoungest,andthatbecameourrallyingcryforthenexthourortwo.

Dolly and her brotherMukesh picked up armfuls of books and carried them intotheirroom.Butthefloorwasawash,sothebookshadtobepiledontheirbeds.Dollywashelpingmegathersomeofmypaperswhenalargefieldratjumpedontothedeskinfrontofher.Dollysquealedandranforthedoor.

‘It’sallright,’saidMukesh,whoseloveofanimalsextendseventofieldrats.‘It’sonlyshelteringfromthestorm.’

BigbrotherRakeshwhistled forourdog,Tony,butTonywasn’t interested in ratsjustthen.Hehadtakenshelterinthekitchen,theonlydryspotinthehouse.

Two rooms were now practically roofless, and we could see the sky lit up byflashesoflightning.

There were fireworks indoors, too, as water spluttered and crackled along adamagedwire.Thenthelightswentoutaltogether.

Rakesh, at his best in an emergency, had already lit two kerosene lamps.And bytheirlightwecontinuedtotransferbooks,papers,andclothestothechildren’sroom.

Wenoticedthatthewateronthefloorwasbeginningtosubsidealittle.‘Whereisitgoing?’askedDolly.‘Throughthefloor,’saidMukesh.‘Downtotheflatbelow!’Criesofconcernfromourdownstairsneighbourstoldusthattheywerehavingtheir

shareoftheflood.Our feetwere freezingbecause therehadn’t been time toput onproper footwear.

Andbesides,shoesandslipperswereawashbynow.Allchairsandtableswerepiledhighwithbooks.Ihadn’trealisedtheextentofmylibraryuntilthatnight!

Theavailablebedswerepushedinto thedriestcornerof thechildren’sroom,andthere,huddled inblanketsandquilts,wespent theremaininghoursof thenightwhilethestormcontinued.

Towardsmorningthewindfell,anditbegantosnow.ThroughthedoortothesittingroomIcouldseesnowflakesdriftingthroughthegapsintheceiling,settlingonpicture-frames.Ordinary things likeagluebottle anda small clock tookona certainbeautywhencoveredwithsoftsnow.

Mostofusdozedoff.Whendawncame,wefoundthewindowpanesencrustedwithsnowandicicles.The

rising sun struck through the gaps in the ceiling and turned everything golden. Snowcrystalsglistenedontheemptybookshelves.Butthebookshadbeensaved.

Rakeshwentouttofindacarpenterandtinsmith,whiletherestofusstartedputtingthingsinthesuntodry.Byeveningwe’dputmuchoftheroofbackon.

It’s a much-improved roof now, and we look forward to the next storm with

confidence!

ATraveller’sTaleopalpur-on-sea!Anametoconjurewith…AndasaboyI’dhearditmentioned,bymyfatherand

others,anddescribedasaquaint littleseasideresortwithasmallporton theOrissacoast.Theyearspassed,andIwentfromboyhoodtomanhoodandeventuallyoldage(isseventy-sixoldage?Iwouldn’tknow)andstillitwasonlyaplaceI’dheardaboutanddreamtaboutbutnevervisited.

Untillastmonth,whenIwasaguestofKiiTInternationalSchoolinBhubaneswar,andsomeoneaskedmewhereI’dliketogo,andIsaid,‘IsGopalpurveryfar?’

‘And off I went, along a plam-fringed highway, through busy little market-townswithnamesRhambaandHumma,pasttheenormousChilikaLakewhichopensintothesea through paddy fields and keora plantations, and finally on to Gopalpur’s beachroad,withthesunglintinglikegoldonthegreatwavesoftheocean,andthefishermencounting their catch, and the children sprinting into the sea, tumbling about in theshallows.

Buttheseafrontworeaneglectedlook.Thehotelswereempty,thecafésdeserted.Acheekycrowgreetedmewith adisconsolate caw from its perchon aweatheredoldwall.Someof thebuildingswere recent,but aroundus therewerealso the shellsofolderbuildingsthathadfallenintoruin.Andnoonewasgoingtopreservetheserelicsofacolonialpast.Asmallhousecalled‘BrightonVilla’stillsurvived.

But away from the seafront a tree-lined road took us past some well-maintainedbungalows,aschool,anoldcemetery,andfinallyaPWDresthousewhereweweretospendthenight.

Itwasgrowingdarkwhenwearrived,andinthetwilightIcouldjustmakeouttheshapesofthetreesthatsurroundtheoldbungalow–ahoaryoldbanyan,ajack-fruitandseveral mango trees. The light from the bungalow’s veranda fell on some oleanderbushes.Ahawkmothlandedonmyshirt-frontandappearedreluctanttoleave.Itookitbetweenmyfingersanddepositeditontheoleanderbush.

ItwasalmostmidnightwhenIwenttobed.Therest-housestaff–thecaretakerandthegardener–wenttosometroubletoarrangeameal,butitwasalongtimecoming.ThegardenertoldmethehousehadoncebeentheresidenceofanEnglishmanwhohadleft the country at the time of Independence, some sixty years or more ago. Somechangeshadbeencarriedout,butthebasicstructureremained–high-ceilingedroomswith skylights, a long veranda and enormous bathrooms.The bathroomwas so largeyoucouldhaveheldapartyinit.Buttherewasjustonepottyandabasin.Youcouldsit

on the potty andmeditate, fixing your thoughts (or absence of thought) on the distantbasin.

Iclosedalldoorsandwindows,switchedoffalllights(Ifinditimpossibletosleepwithalighton),andwenttobed.

Itwas a comfortablebed, and I soon fell asleep.Only tobe awakenedbya lighttappingonthewindownearmybed.

Probablyabranchof theoleanderbush, I thought,andfellasleepagain.But therewasmoretapping,louderthistime,andthenIwasfullyawake.

Isatupinbedanddrewasidethecurtains.Therewasafaceatthewindow.In the half-light from the veranda I could not make out the features, but it was

definitelyahumanface.Obviouslysomeonewantedtocomein,thecaretakerperhaps,orthechowkidar.But

then,whynotknockonthedoor?Perhapshehad.Thedoorwasattheotherendoftheroom,andImaynothaveheardtheknocking.

Iamnotinthehabitofopeningmydoorstostrangersinthenight,butsomehowIdidnot feel threatened or uneasy, so I got up, unlatched the door, and opened it formymidnightvisitor.

Standingonthethresholdwasanimposingfigure.Atalldarkman,turbaned,anddressedallinwhite.Heworesomesortofuniform–

the kind worn by those immaculate doormen at five-star hotels; but a rare sight inGopalpur-on-sea.

‘Whatisityouwant?’Iasked.‘Areyoustayinghere?’Hedidnotreplybutlookedpastme,possiblythroughme,andthenwalkedsilently

intotheroom.Istoodthere,bewilderedandawestruck,ashestrodeacrosstomybed,smoothedout thesheetsandpatteddownmypillow.Hethenwalkedover to thenextroomandcamebackwithaglassandajugofwater,whichheplacedonthebedsidetable.Asifthatwerenotenough,hepickedupmydayclothes,foldedthemneatlyandplaced themonavacant chair.Then, just asunobtrusively andwithout somuchas aglanceinmydirection,helefttheroomandwalkedoutintothenight.

Earlynextmorning,asthesuncameuplikethunderovertheBayofBengal,Iwentdown to the sea again, picking my way over the puddles of human excreta thatdecoratedpartsofthebeach.Well,youcan’thaveeverything.Theworldmightbemorebeautifulwithoutthehumanpresence;butthen,whowouldappreciateit?

Backat theresthouseforbreakfast, Iwasremindedofmyvisitorof thepreviousnight.

‘Whowasthetallgentlemanwhocametomyroomlastnight?’Iasked.‘Helookedlikeabutler.Smartlydressed,verydignified.’

Thecaretakerandthegardenerexchangedmeaningfulglances.‘Youtellhim,’saidthecaretakertohiscompanion.

‘ItmusthavebeenHazoorAli,’saidthegardener,nodding.‘Hewastheorderly,thepersonal servant ofMrRobbins, the port commissioner – theEnglishmanwho livedhere.’

‘Butthatwasoversixtyyearsago,’Isaid.‘Theymustallbedead.’‘Yes,allaredead,sir.ButsometimestheghostofHazoorAliappears,especiallyif

oneofourguestsremindshimofhisoldmaster.Hewasquitedevotedtohim,sir.Infact,hereceivedthisbungalowasapartinggiftwhenMrRobbinsleftthecountry.Butunabletomaintainit,hesoldittothegovernmentandreturnedtohishomeinCuttack.Hediedmanyyearsago,butrevisitsthisplacesometimes.Donotfeelalarmed,sir.Hemeansnoharm.Andhedoesnotappeartoeveryone–youaretheluckyonethisyear!Ihavebutseenhim twice.Once,whenI tookservicehere twentyyearsago,and then,lastyear,thenightbeforethecyclone.Hecametowarnus,Ithink.Wenttoeverydoorandwindowandmadesuretheyweresecured.Neversaidaword.Justvanishedintothenight.’

‘Andit’stimeformetovanishbyday,’Isaid,gettingmythingsready.IhadtobeinBhubaneswarby lateafternoon, toboard theplaneforDelhi. Iwassorry ithadbeensuchashortstay.IwouldhavelikedtospendafewdaysinGopalpur,wanderingaboutitsbackwaters,oldroads,mangogroves,fishingvillages,sandyinlets…Anothertimeperhaps.Inthislife,ifIamsolucky.Orthenext,ifIamluckierstill.

AttheairportinBhubaneswar,thesecurityaskedmeformyphoto-identity.‘Drivinglicence,pancard,passport?Anythingwithyourpictureonitwilldo,sinceyouhaveane-ticket,’heexplained.

Idonothaveadriving licenceandhavenever felt theneed tocarrymypancardwithme.Luckily,Ialwayscarrymypassportonmytravels.Ilookedforitinmylittletravel-bagandtheninmysuitcase,butcouldn’tfindit.Iwasfeelingawkwardfumblinginallmypockets,whenanotherseniorofficercametomyrescue.‘It’sallright.Lethimin.IknowMrRuskinBond,’hecalledout,andbeckonedmeinside.Ithankedhimandhurriedintothecheck-inarea.

All the time in the flight, I was trying to recollect where I might have kept mypassport.Possiblytuckedawaysomewhereinsidethesuitcase,Ithought.Nowthatmybaggagewassealedattheairport,IdecidedtolookforitwhenIreachedhome.

AdaylaterIwasbackinmyhomeinthehills,tiredafteralongroadjourneyfromDelhi.Iliketravellingbyroad,thereissomuchtosee,buttheever-increasingvolumeoftrafficturnsitintoanobstacleracemostofthetime.Toaddtomywoes,mypassportwas still missing. I looked for it everywhere – my suitcase, travel-bag, in all mypockets.

Igaveupthesearch.EitherIhaddroppeditsomewhere,orIhadleftitatGopalpur.Idecidedtoringupandcheckwiththeresthousestaffthenextday.

Itwasafrostynight,bitinglycold,soIwenttobedearly,well-coveredwithrazaiandblanket.OnlytwonightspreviouslyIhadbeensleepingunderafan!

Itwasawindynight,thewindowswererattling;andtheoldtinroofwasgroaning,aloosesheetflappingaboutandmakingafrightfuldin.

Isleptonlyfitfully.Whenthewindabated,Iheardsomeoneknockingonmyfrontdoor.‘Who’sthere?’Icalled,buttherewasnoanswer.Theknockingcontinued,insistent,growinglouderallthetime.‘Who’sthere?Kaunhai?’Icallagain.Onlythatknocking.Someone in distress, I thought. I’d better see who it is. I got up shivering, and

walkedbarefoottothefrontdoor.Openeditslowly,openeditwider,someonesteppedoutoftheshadows.

HazoorAlisalaamed,enteredtheroom,andasinGopalpur,hewalkedsilentlyintothe room. Itwas lying in disarray because ofmy frantic search formy passport.Hearrangedtheroom,removedmygarmentsfrommytravel-bag,foldedthemandplacedthemneatlyuponthecupboardshelves.Then,hedidasalaamagainandwaitedatthedoor.

Strange,Ithought.Ifhedidtheentireroomwhydidhenotsetthetravel-baginitsrightplace?Whydidheleaveitlyingonthefloor?Possiblyhedidn'tknowwheretokeep it;he left the lastbitofwork forme. Ipickedup thebag toplace iton the topshelf.Andthere,fromitsfrontpocketmypassportfellout,ontothefloor.

IturnedtolookatHazoorAli,buthehadalreadywalkedoutintothecolddarkness.

AndNowWeareTwelveeopleoftenaskmewhyI’vechosentoliveinMussoorieforsolong–almostfortyyears,withoutanysignificantbreaks.‘Iforgottogoaway,’Itellthem,butofcourse,thatisn’ttherealreason.The people here are friendly, but then people are friendly in a great many other

places. The hills, the valleys are beautiful; but they are just as beautiful in Kulu orKumaon.

‘Thisiswherethefamilyhasgrownupandwherewealllive,’Isay,andthosewhodon’t know me are puzzled because the general impression of the writer is of areclusiveoldbachelor.

UnmarriedImaybe,butsingleIamnot.NotsincePremcametoliveandworkwithmein1970.Ayearlater,hewasmarried.Thenhischildrencamealongandstolemyheart;andwhentheygrewup,theirchildrencamealongandstolemywits.SonowI’man enchanted bachelor, head of a family of twelve. Sometimes I go out to bat,sometimestobowl,butgenerallyIprefertobetwelfthman,carryingoutthedrinks.

Intheolddays,whenIwasasolitarywriterlivingonbakedbeans,theprospectofmysufferingfromobesitywasveryremote.Nowthere isa littlemoreofauthor thanthereused tobe,and theotherday five-year-oldGautampattedmeonmy tummy(orbalcony,asIprefertocallit)andremarked;‘Dada,youshouldjointheWWF.’

‘I’malreadyamember,’Isaid,‘IjoinedtheWorldWildlifeFundyearsago.’‘Notthat,’hesaid.‘ImeantheWorldWrestlingFederation.’IfIhaveatummytoday,it’sthankstoGautam’sgrandfatherandnowhismotherwho,

overtheyears,havemadesurethatIamwell-fedandwell-proportioned.Fortyyearsago,whenIwasa leanyoungman,peoplewould lookatmeandsay,

‘Poorchap,he’sdefinitelyundernourished.Whatonearthmadehimtakeupwritingasa profession?’ Now they look at me and say, ‘You wouldn’t think he was a writer,wouldyou?Toowellnourished!’

Itwasacold,wetandwindyMarcheveningwhenPremcamebackfromthevillagewithhiswifeandfirst-bornchild,thenjustfourmonthsold.Inthosedays,theyhadtowalktothehousefromthebusstand;itwasahalf-hourwalkinthecoldrain,andthebabywasallwrappedupwhentheyenteredthefrontroom.Finally,Igotaglimpseofhim.Andheofme,anditwasfriendshipatfirstsight.LittleRakesh(ashewastobecalled)grabbedmebythenoseandheldon.Hedidnothavemuchofanosetograb,

buthehadadimpledchinandIplayedwithituntilhesmiled.Thelittlechapspentagooddealofhistimewithmeduringthosefirsttwoyearsin

Maplewood–learningtocrawl,totoddle,andthentowalkunsteadilyaboutthelittlesitting-room.Iwouldcarryhimintothegarden,andlater,upthesteepgravelpathtothemainroad.Rakeshenjoyedtheselittleexcursions,andsodidI,becauseinpointingouttrees, flowers, birds, butterflies, beetles, grasshoppers, et al, I was givingmyself achancetoobservethembetterinsteadofjusttakingthemforgranted.

Inparticular,therewasapairofsquirrelsthatlivedinthebigoaktreeoutsidethecottage. Squirrels are rare inMussoorie though common enough down in the valley.This couple must have come up for the summer. They became quite friendly, andalthoughtheynevergotaroundtotakingfoodfromourhands,theyweresoonenteringthe house quite freely. The sitting roomwindow opened directly on to the oak treewhose various denizens – ranging from stag-beetles to small birds and even anacrobaticbat–tooktodartinginandoutofthecottageatvarioustimesofthedayornight.

Life at Maplewood was quite idyllic, and when Rakesh’s baby brother, Suresh,cameintotheworld,itseemedwewereallsetforalongperiodofdomesticbliss;butatsuchtimestragedyisoftenlurkingjustaroundthecorner.Sureshwasjustoverayearoldwhenhecontractedtetanus.Doctorsandhospitalswereofnoavail.Hesuffered–asanychildwould from this terribleaffliction–and left thisworldbeforehehadachanceofgettingtoknowit.Hisparentswerebroken-hearted.AndIfearedforRakesh,for hewasn’t a very healthy boy, and two of his cousins in the village had alreadysuccumbedtotuberculosis.

Itwastobeadifficultyearforme.AcriminalchargewasbroughtagainstmeforaslightlyrisquéstoryI’dwrittenforaBombaymagazine.IhadtofacetrialinBombayandthisinvolvedthreejourneysthereoveraperiodofayearandahalf,beforeaniratebutperceptivejudgefoundthechargesbaselessandgavemeanhonourableacquittal.

It’stheonlytimeI’vebeeninvolvedwiththelawandIsincerelyhopeitisthelast.Mostcasesdragoninterminably,andthemainbeneficiariesarethelawyers.Mytrialwouldhavebeenmuchlongerhadnottheprosecutordiedofaheartattackinthemiddleoftheproceedings.Hissuccessordidnotpursueitwiththesamevigour.Hisheartwasnotinit.Thewholeissuehadstartedwithacomplaintbyalocalpolitician,andwhenhe lost interest so did the prosecution.Nevertheless the trial, once begun, had to beseen through. The defence (organised by the concerned magazine) marshalled itswitnesses (which included Nissim Ezekiel and the Marathi playwright VijayTendulkar).Imadeashortspeechwhichcouldn’thavebeenverymemorableasIhaveforgotten it!And everyone, including the judge,was boredwith thewhole business.Afterthat,Isteeredclearofcontroversialpublications.Ihaveneversetouttoshocktheworld.Tellingameaningfulstorywasallthatreallymattered.Andthatisstillthecase.

IwaslookingforwardtocontinuingouridyllicexistenceinMaplewood,butitwas

nottobe.Thepowers-that-be,intheshapeofthePublicWorksDepartment(PWD),haddecidedtobuilda‘strategic’roadjustbelowthecottageandwithoutanywarningtous,allthetreesinthevicinitywerefelled(includingthefriendlyoldoak)andthehillsidewas rocked by explosives and bludgeoned by bulldozers. I decided it was time tomove. Prem andChandra (Rakesh’smother)wanted tomove too; not because of theroad, but because they associated the house with the death of little Suresh, whosepresence seemed tohaunt every room,everycornerof thecottage.His little criesofpainandsufferingstillechoedthroughthestillhoursofthenight.

I rentedroomsat the topofLandour,agoodthousandfeethigherupthemountain.Rakeshwasnowoldenoughtogotoschool,andeverymorningIwouldwalkwithhimdowntothelittleconventschoolneartheclocktower.Premwouldgotofetchhimintheafternoon.Thewalktookusabouthalf-an-hour,andonthewayRakeshwouldaskforastoryandIwouldhavetorackmybrainsinordertoinventone.Iamnotthemostinventive of writers, and fantastical plots are beyond me. My forte is observation,recollection, and reflection. Small boys prefer action. So I invented a leopard whosuffered from acute indigestion because he’d eaten one human too many and a beltbucklewascausinganobstruction.

ThiswentdownquitewelluntilRakeshaskedmehowtheleopardgotaroundtheproblemofthevictim’sclothes.

‘Thesecret,’Isaid,‘istopounceonthemwhentheirtrousersareoff!’Notthestuffofwhichgreatpicturebooksaremade,butthen,I’veneverattemptedto

writestoriesforbeginners.RedRidingHood’sgranny-eatingwolfalwaysscaredmeasasmallboy,andyetparentshavealwaysfounditacceptablefortoddlers.Possiblytheyfeelgranniesareexpendable.

MukeshwasbornaroundthistimeandSavitri(Dolly)acoupleofyearslater.WhenDollygrewolder,shewasannoyedathavingbeennamedSavitri(mychoice),whichisnowconsideredveryold-fashioned;sowesettledforDolly.Icanunderstandachild’sdissatisfactionwithgivennames.

MyfirstnamewasOwen,whichinWelshmeans‘brave’.AsIamnot in the leastbrave, I have preferred not to use it. One given name and one surname should beenough.

Whenmy granny said, ‘But you should try to be brave, otherwise howwill yousurviveinthiscruelworld?’Ireplied:‘Don’tworry,Icanrunveryfast.’

NotthatI’veeverhadtodomuchrunning,exceptwhenIwaspursuedbyalissomeAustralianladywhothoughtI’dmakeagoodobedienthusband.Itwasn’tsomuchtheladyIwasrunningfrom,buttheprospectofspendingtherestofmylifeinsomeremotecattle station in theAustralianoutback.Anyonewhohas tried todragmeaway fromIndiahasalwaysmetwithstoutresistance.

UpontheheightsofLandourlivedamotleycrowd.MyimmediateneighboursincludedaFrenchwomanwhoplayedthesitar(verybadly)allthroughthenight;andaSpanishladywith twohusbands,oneofwhompractisedacupuncture– rather ineffectivelyasfar as hewas concerned, for he seemed to be dying of somemysterious debilitatingdisease.Anotherneighbourcameandwentrathermysteriously,andfinallyendedupinTihar jail, having been apprehended at Delhi carrying a large amount of contrabandhashish.

Apartfromtheseandafewothercolourfulcharacters,theareawasinhabitatedbysome very respectable people, retired brigadiers, air marshals and rear admirals,almostallofwhomwerebusywritingtheirmemoirs.Ihadtoreadorlistentoextractsfromtheirliteraryefforts.Thiswasslowtorture.Afewyearsbefore,Ihaddoneastintof editing for amagazine called Imprint. It had involved going through hundreds ofbadlywrittenmanuscripts,andinsomecases(friendsoftheowner!)rewritingsomeofthemforpublication.Oneof life’s joyshadbeen to throwup thatparticular job,andnowhereIwas,besiegedbyallthetopbrassofthearmy,navyandairforce,eachonedetermined that I should read, inwardly digest, improve, and if possible find apublisher for their outpourings.Thankgoodness theywere all retired. I couldnot beshotor court-martialled.Butat least twoof themset theirwivesuponme,and theseintrepid ladieswould turnuparoundnoonwithmy‘homework’– typescripts to readandedit!Therewasnoescape.Myownwritingwasofnoconsequencetothem.ItoldthemthatIwastakingsitarlessons,buttheydisapproved,sayingIwasmoresuitedtothetabla.

WhenPremdiscoveredasetofvacantroomsfurtherdowntheLandourslope,closetoschoolandbazaar,Irentedthemwithouthesitation.ThiswasIvyCottage.Comeupandseemesometime,butleaveyourmanuscriptsbehind.

WhenwecametoIvyCottagein1980,weweresix,Dollyhavingjustbeenborn.Now,twenty-fouryearslater,wearetwelve.Ithinkthat’sareasonableexpansion.TheincreasehasbeenbroughtaboutbyRakesh’smarriagetwelveyearsago,andMukesh’smarriage two years ago.Both precipitated themselves intomarriagewhen theywerebarely twenty,andbothwere lucky.BeenaandBinita,whohappentoberealsisters,have brightened and enlivened our lives with their happy, positive natures and thewonderfulchildrentheyhavebroughtintotheworld.Moreaboutthemlater.

IvyCottagehas,on thewhole,beenkind tous,andparticularlykind tome.Somehouses like their occupants, others don’t.Maplewood, set in the shadow of the hill,lackedanaturalcheerfulness;therewasasettledgloomabouttheplace.ThehouseatthetopofLandourwastooexposedtotheelementstohaveanysortofcharacter.Thewindmoaninginthedeodarsmayhaveinspiredthesitarplayerbut itdidnothingformywriting.Iproducedverylittleupthere.

Ontheotherhand,IvyCottage–especiallymylittleroomfacingthesunrise–hasbeen conducive to creative work. Novellas, poems, essays, children’s stories,

anthologies, have all come tumbling on to whatever sheets of paper happen to benearestme.As Iwritebyhand, I haveonly tograb for thenearest pad, loose sheet,page-prooforenvelopewheneverthemusetakeholdofme;whichissurprisinglyoften.

IcameherewhenIwasnearingfifty.NowI’mapproachingeighty,and insteadofdryingup,assomewritersdoin their lateryears, I findmyselfwritingwithasmucheaseandassuranceaswhenIwastwenty.AndIenjoywriting, it’snotaburdensometask.Imaynothaveanythingofearth-shatteringsignificancetoconveytotheworld,butinconveyingmysentimentstoyou,dearreaders,andintellingyousomethingaboutmyrelationshipwith people and the naturalworld, I hope to bring a little pleasure andsunshineintoyourlife.

Life isn’t a bedof roses, not for anyof us, and I havenever had the comforts orluxuries thatwealthcanprovide.ButhereIam,doingmyownthing, inmyowntimeandmyownway.WhatmorecanIaskoflife?GivemeabigcashprizeandI’dstillbehere.Ihappentoliketheviewfrommywindow.AndIliketohaveGautamcominguptome,pattingmeonthetummy,andtellingmethatI’llmakeagoodgoalkeeperoneday.

It’saSundaymorning,asIcometotheconclusionofthischapter.There’sbedlaminthe house. Siddharth’s football keeps smashing against the front door. Shrishti ispractising her dance routine in the back verandah. Gautam has cut his finger and istryinghisbesttobandageitwithcellotape.Heis,ofcourse,theyoungestofRakesh’sthreemusketeers, and probably themost independent-minded. Siddharth, now ten, isrestless,neverquiteabletoexpendallhisenergy.‘Doesnotpayenoughattention,’sayshisteacher.Itmustbehardforanyonetopayattentioninaclassofsixty!Howdoesthepoorteacherpayattention?

Ifyou,dearreader,haveanyambitionstobeawriter,youmustfirstridyourselfofanynotionthatperfectpeaceandquietisthefirstrequirement.Thereisnosuchthingasperfectpeaceandquietexceptperhapsinamonasteryoracaveinthemountains.Andwhatwouldyouwriteabout,livinginacave?Oneshouldbeabletowriteinatrain,abus,abullock-cart,ingoodweatherorbad,onaparkbenchorinthemiddleofanoisyclassroom.

Of course, the best place is the sun-drenched desk right next to my bed. It isn’talwayssunnyhere,butonagooddaylikethis,it’sideal.Thechildrenaregettingreadyfor school, dogs are barking in the street, and down near the water tap there’s analtercationbetweentwowomenwithemptybuckets,thetaphavingdriedup.Buttheseareallbackgroundnoisesandwillsubsideinduecourse.Theyarenotdirectedatme.

Hello! Here’s Atish,Mukesh’s little ten-month old infant, crawling over the rug,curioustoknowwhyI’msittingontheedgeofmybedscribblingaway,whenIshouldbeplayingwithhim.SoIshallplaywithhimforfiveminutesandthencomebacktothispage.Givinghimmytimeisimportant.Afterall,Iwon’tbearoundwhenhegrowsup.

Half-an-hourlater.Atishsoontiredofplayingwithme,butmeanwhileGautamhad

abscondedwithmypen.WhenIaskedhimtoreturnit,heasked,‘Whydon’tyougetacomputer?Thenwecanplaygamesonit.’

‘Mypen is faster thananycomputer,’ I tellhim. ‘Iwrote threepages thismorningwithoutgettingoutofbed.AndyesterdayIwrotetwopagessittingunderthechestnuttree.’

‘Untilachestnutfellonyourhead,’saysGautam,‘didithurt?’‘Onlyalittle,’Isaid,puttingonabravefront.Hehadsavedthechestnutandnowheshowedit tome.Thesmoothbrownhorse-

chestnutshoneinthesunlight.‘Let’sstickitintheground,’Isaid.‘Theninthespringachestnuttreewillcomeup.’Sowewent outside and planted the chestnut on a plot ofwasteland.Hopefully a

smalltreewillburstthroughtheearthataboutthetimethisbookispublished.Thirtyyearsago,RakeshandIhadplantedacherryseedonthehillside.Itgrewinto

atree,whichisstillburstingwithblossomseveryyear.Nowit’sGautam’sturn.Andsowemoveon.