MyFavouriteNatureStories

RuskinBondhasbeenwriting forover sixtyyears,andhasnowover120 titles in print—novels, collection of short stories, poetry, essays,anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on theRoof,receivedtheprestigiousJohnLlewellynRhysAwardin1957.HehasalsoreceivedthePadmaShri(1999),thePadmaBhushan(2014)andtwo awards from Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories andanotherforhiswritingsforchildren.In2012,theDelhigovernmentgavehimitsLifetimeAchievementAward.

Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, NewDelhiandDehradun.ApartfromthreeyearsinUK,hehasspentallhislifeinIndia,andnowlivesinMussooriewithhisadoptedfamily.

PublishedbyRupaPublicationsIndiaPvt.Ltd20167/16,AnsariRoad,DaryaganjNewDelhi110002

Copyright©RuskinBond2016Coverimagecopyright©Eisfrei/shutterstock.com

Theviewsandopinionsexpressedinthisbookaretheauthor’sownandthefactsareasreportedbyhimwhichhavebeenverifiedtotheextentpossible,andthepublishersarenotinanywayliableforthesame.

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,transmitted,orstoredinaretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,mechanical,photocopying,recordingorotherwise,withoutthepriorpermissionof

thepublisher.

ISBN:978-81-291-3768-5

Firstimpression2016

10987654321

Thisbookissoldsubjecttotheconditionthatitshallnot,bywayoftradeorotherwise,belent,resold,hiredout,orotherwisecirculated,withoutthepublisher’spriorconsent,inanyformofbindingorcoverother

thanthatinwhichitispublished.

Contents

IntroductionRuskin’sGreen-WorldAmongtheMaplesandOaksWhenCicadasChorusThingsIlovemostHeavenonEarthStreetoftheRedWellOnceYouhaveLivedwithMountainsIntheGardenofMyDreamsFernsinFoliageBirdsonTapInDefenceofSnakesAMarriageoftheWatersBestofAllWindowsTheGentleNightsBefriendMeAHouseCalledIvanhoeGrowingUpwithTreesABoyandaRiverMyTreesintheHimalayasDeathoftheTreesWhentheMonsoonBreaksRosebud:AFragmentTotheEndofOurDays

IntroductionRuskin’sGreen-World

I tisgoodofmylong-timepublishers,Rupa,tobringoutthisselectionofsomeofmyfavouritenaturepiecesonmy82ndbirthday.

Ihavebeenwriting stories, sketches,poemsandnovels forover65years,andthegreatestpleasurehascomefromwritingabout thenaturalworld inmyvicinity—whereverImayhavebeenliving.

When I came to live in Mussoorie just over fifty years ago, I lived inMaplewoodLodge,acottagebelowWynberg-AllenSchool.Itswindowsopenedontoawell-forestedhillside.SonaturallyIwroteaboutthetrees,wildflowersandbirdsandothercreatureswholivedamongthem.Thencircumstancesforcedmetomovehigherupthemountain,andforthelastthirty-fiveyearsIhavelivedonthetopfloorofIvyCottage,inLandourCantonment.Heretherearewindowstoo,andtheyopenontosky,clouds,theDoonvalley,andrangeuponrangeofmountains.AndfromthisperchonthehillsideIfeelthatIampartofthegreaterworld,motherIndiaaswellasthenaturalworldofplanetEarth.

Humankind took over the earth from the dinosaurs, who perished due tonaturalupheavalsanddramaticclimatechanges.Wecouldgothesameway,aswehaveprovedtobebad tenantswith littleornoregardfor thenaturalworldthatwehaveinherited.

ButIdonotdespair.Dawngiveswaytodaybreakanddaybreaktosunrise.And when the sun bursts through my windows and streams across my littleroom,IlookforwardtoanothergreatdayontheplanetEarth.Wemustcherisheachdayasthoughitisourlast.

Someofthesepieceshaveappearedbeforeinmagazinesornewspapers.Afewarerecent.Severalhavenotbeenpublishedbetweenbookcovers.

IdedicatethisbooktoallwhocherishthegreenworldofIndia,itsforests,fields,streamsandsacredrivers.Naturesustainsus.Letusnotdoawaywithournaturalinheritance.

RuskinBond

AmongtheMaplesandOaks

I tisn’tmanyyearssinceIleftMaplewood,butIwouldn’tbesurprisedtohearthatthecottagehasdisappeared.Already,duringmylastmonthsthere,thetreeswerebeingcutandthenewroadwasbeingblastedoutoftheMountain.Itwouldpassjustbelowtheoldcottage.Therewere(asfarasIknow)noplanstoblowupthehouse;butitwasalreadyshakyandfullofcracks,andafewtremors,suchas those produced by passing trucks, drillingmachines and bulldozers, wouldsoonbringthecottagetotheground.

Ifithasgone,don’twriteandtellme:I’drathernotknow.WhenImovedin,ithadbeennestlingthereamongtheoaksforoverseventy

years. It had become a part of the forest. Birds nestled in the eaves; beetlesburrowedinthewoodwork.Somedenizensremained,evenduringmyresidence.AndIwas there—howlong?Eight,nineyears, I’mnotsure; itwasa timelesssortofplace.Eventherentwaspaidonlyonceayear,atatimeofmychoosing.

Ifirstsawthecottageinlatespring,whenthesurroundingforestwasatitsbest—theoaksandmaples innew leaf, theoak leavesapalegreen, themapleleavesredandgoldandbronze;thisistheHimalayanmaple,quitedifferentfromtheNorthAmericanmaple;onlythewingedseed-podsaresimilar,twistingandturninginthebreezeastheyfalltotheground,sothattheGarhwaliscallittheButterflyTree.

There was one very tall, very old maple above the cottage, and this wasprobably the tree that gave the house its name.Aportion of itwas blackenedwhere it had been struck by lightning, but the rest of it lived on; a favouritehauntofwoodpeckers:theancientpeelingbarkseemedtoharbouranynumberof tiny insects, and thewoodpeckerswould be tapping away all day.A steeppathrandowntothecottage.Duringheavyrain,itwouldbecomeawatercourseand theearthwouldbewashedaway to leave itverystonyanduneven. I firsttookthispathtoseeMissMackenzie,animpoverishedoldladywholivedintwosmallroomsonthegroundfloorandwhowasactingonbehalfoftheowner.Itwasshewhotoldmethatthecottagewasto-letprovidedshecouldremainintheportiondownstairs.

Actually,thepathranstraightacrossalandinganduptothefrontdoorofthefirst floor. Itwas theground floor thatwas tucked away in the shadowof thehill;itwasreachedbyaflightofsteps,whichalsotooktherushofwaterwhen

thepathwasinflood.MissMackenziewaseighty-six.Ihelpedherupthestepsandsheopenedthe

doorforme.ItledintoanL-shapedroom.Thereweretwolargewindows,andwhenIpushedthefirstoftheseopen,theforestseemedtorushuponme.Frombelow,fromtheravine,thedeep-throatedsongofthewhistlingthrushburstuponme.

ItoldMissMackenzieIwouldtaketheplace.Shegrewexcited;itmusthavebeenlonelyforherduringthepastseveralyears,withmostofthecottagelyingempty,andonlyheroldbearerandamongreldogforcompany.Herownhousehadbeenmortgagedtoamoneylender.Herbrothersandsisterswerelongdead.

ItoldherIwouldmoveinsoon:mybookswerestillinDelhi.Shegavemethe keys and I left a cheque with her. It was all done on an impulse—thedecision to give upmy job inDelhi, find a cheap house in a hill-station, andreturntofreelancewriting.ItwasadreamI’dhadforsometime;lackofmoneyhadmadeitdifficulttorealize.Butthen,IknewthatifIwasgoingtowaitformoneytocome,ImighthavetowaituntilIwasoldandgreyandfullofsleep.Iwas thirty-five—still young enough to take a few risks. If the dream was tobecomereality,thiswasthetimetodosomethingaboutit.

Idon’tknowwhatledmetoMaplewood;itwasthefirstplaceIsaw,andIdidnotbothertoseeanyothers.Thelocationwasfarfrombeingideal.Itfacedeast,andstoodintheshadowoftheBalahissarHill;sothatwhileitreceivedtheearlymorningsun,itwentwithouttheeveningsun.

Therewasnoviewof the snowsandnoviewof theplains. In front stoodBurntHill.Buttheforestbelowthecottageseemedfullofpossibilities,andthewindowsopeningontoitprobablydecidedtheissue.Inmyromanticframeofmymind,Iwassusceptibletomagiccasementsopeningwide.Iwouldmakeawindow-seatandliethereonasummer’sday,writinglyricpoetry…

ButlongbeforethatcouldhappenIwasopeningtinsofsardinesandsharingthemwithMissMackenzie.AndthenPremcamealong.Andtherewereothers,likeBinya. Iwent away at times, but returned as soon as possible.Once youhavelivedwithmountains,thereisnoescape.Youbelongtothem.

WhenCicadasChorus

T he barbet is one of those birds which are heardmore often than they areseen.Summervisitors toShimla,Mussoorieandothernorth-Indianhill resortswillbefamiliarwithitsmonotonous,far-reachingcall:‘pee-ho,pee-ho’.Itkeepstothetopsofhightrees,whereitisnoteasilydistinguishedfromthefoliage.

Barbets love listening to their own voices, and often two or three birdsanswereachotherfromdifferenttrees,eachtryingtooutdotheotherinashrillshoutingmatch.Althoughmostbirdsarenoisyduringthematingseason,barbetsarenoisyalltheyearround.

Therearesomewholike thebarbet’scallandconsider itbothstrikingandpleasant.Othersdon’tlikeitandsimplyconsideritstriking.

Up here in the Garhwal Himalayas, there is a legend that the bird is thereincarnationofamoneylenderwhodiedofgriefattheunjustterminationofalaw-suit.Eternallyhisplaintivecriesrisetotheheaven:‘unn-ee-ow,unn-ee-ow’whichmeans‘injustice,injustice!’

So the barbet’s call can be interpreted in various ways. To me it alwayssoundslike:‘pakaro,pakaro!’or‘catchhim,catchhim!’Andofcoursethere’sastoryabouthowabarbethelpedtocatchathief.

Nowthatthemonsoonrainsarehere,theoccasionalsnake,floodedoutofitshome,makesitsappearanceontheroadorhillsides.

Most of the snakes up here are perfectly harmless, carrying only enoughvenomtoparalysetheirnaturalprey,whichconsistsoffrogs,rats,earthworms,smallbirdsandsmallersnakes.

Recently,Isawtwoprettygreenandbrownsnakesonthehillside.Ihavenoideawhattheyarecalled;Icannotpretendtobeanexpertonrecognisingallthedenizensofthewild,andneverceasetowonderatthesharp-eyedobservationsofwell-knownnaturalistswhocantellabullfinchfromachaffinchatadistanceof60metres,ordistinguishapit-viper froma saw-scaledviper inonehurriedglance.Isuspectsomeofthemarejustshowingoff.Theexperts,Imean.Snakesdonotshowoff.

However,asregardsthesnakesonmyhillside,Icansaywithcertaintythatoneisbrownandoneisgreen,andpersonallyIpreferthegreenone.

The postman,who almost trod on it the other day,wanted it killed; but IquotedthesayingsofBuddha,KrishnaandConfucius,andpersuadedhimtolet

itlive.Insomeformerincarnationitmightwellhavebeenrelatedtous,Isaid.Perhapsanauntordistantcousin.Althoughhewasn’tquiteconvinced,andnorwas I, but the conversation gave the snake enough time to slip away. Thepostmannolongerentersatthegate,butleavesmylettersinaholeinthewall.

Duringmonsoon,our insectmusiciansare roused to theirgreatest activity.Atdusk, theairseemsto tinkleandmurmur to theirmusic.To theshrillingofthegrasshopperisaddedthestaccatonotesofthecrickets,whileinthegrassandonthetrees,amyriadoflesserartistsareproducingavarietyofsounds.

Asmusicians,thecicadasareaclassoftheirown.Allthroughthemonsoon,their screaming chorus rings through the forest. A shower of rain, far fromdampeningtheirardour,onlyrousesthemtoadeafeningcrescendoofeffort.

As with most insect musicians, the males do the performing, while thefemalesremainsilent.ThismovedonechauvinistGreekpoettoexclaim:‘Happythe cicadas, for they have voiceless wives!’ To which I would respond bysaying:‘Pitythefemalecicadas,fortheyhavesinginghusbands!’

Probably themost familiar andhomelyof insect singersare thecrickets. Iwon’tattempttogointodetailonhowthecricketproducesitsmusic,excepttosaythatitsloudernotesareproducedbyarapidvibrationofthewings,therightwingusuallyworkingovertheleft,theedgeofoneactingonthefileoftheothertoproducea shrill, long-sustainednote, like aviolinistgonemad.Cicadas,ontheotherhand,usetheirabdominalmusclestoproducetheirsound.

One of our best-known crickets is a large black fellow who livesundergroundandrarelycomestoearthbyday,exceptwhentherainsfloodhimoutofhisburrow.Butwhennightfalls,hesitsonhisdoorstepandpoursouthissoul in strident song. This troubadour’s name is as impressive as his sound—Brachytrypesportentosus.

Themole-cricket is a genius by itself.Mole-crickets are tillers of the soil.They use their powerful forelimbs for shovelling up the earth and their hardheadsforbuttingintoit.

Notwithstanding its earthly occupations, the mole-cricket is sometimesmoved tomusic.Butashe repeatshisnote—asolemndeep-tonedchirp (moreburp than chirp) about a hundred times a minute—the performance can bemonotonous.

The cone-headed katydids are probably the most notable performers.Katydidsaretrim,slenderinsects,muchinevidenceinthefreshgreengrassofthemonsoon.Inthefields,theirloudshrillnotesmaybeheardbydayandnight.Sometimesoneofthemcomesintothehouseandtreatsustoasuddenoutburstofhigh-pitchedfiddling.Inaroom,itcanbequitedeafening,andthesoundisalwaysmostdifficulttolocate—itseemstocomefromeverywhere!

And finally there are the tree-crickets, a band of willing artistes whocommencetheirperformanceatdusk.Theirsoundsarefamiliar,butitisdifficulttoseethemusicians.Ataponthebushuponwhichoneofthemsitswillbringanimmediateendtotheperformance.

I wish the tree-crickets would duet, in the manner of Nelson Eddy andJeanetteMacdonald.But it isonly themaleswhosing, inorder toplease theirconsorts.

AndspeakingofNelsonEddy, this is the100thanniversaryofhisbirth.Afinebaritone,unjustlyneglected.WhenIlistentohissongs(ontapeordisk),thecricketsandcicadasmaintainarespectfulsilence.I’msuretheyarelistening.

ThingsIlovemost

S ea-shells. They are among my earliest memories. I was five years old,walkingbarefootalongthegoldensandsofaKathiawarbeach,collectingshellsandcowriesandtakingthemhometofillupanoldtrunk.Someoftheseshellshaveremainedwithmethroughtheyears.IstillhaveonewhichIplaceagainstmyeartolistentothedistantmusicoftheArabianSea.

A jackfruit tree. It stood outsidemy grandfather’s house inDehraDun: itwaseasytoclimbandgenerouswithitsshadeandinitstrunkwasalargeholewhereIkeptmymarbles,sweets,prohibitedbooksandothertreasures.

Ihavealwayslikedthesmellofcertainleaves,perhapsevenmorethanthescentofflowers.Crushedgeraniumandchrysanthemumleaves,mintandmyrtle,lime and neem trees after the rain, and the leaves of ginger, marigolds andnasturtiums.

Of course, therewere other smellswhich as a boy I especially liked—thesmellsofpillauandkofta,curry,hotjalebis,roastchickenandfriedprawns.Butthesearesmellslovedmostbygourmets(andmostboys)andarenotaspersonalasthesmellofleavesandgrass.

I have always liked trains and railway stations I like eating at railwaystations—hotgram,peanut,puris,oranges.

Asaboy,ItravelledtoShimlaonalittletrainthatcrawlsroundandthroughthe mountains. In March, the Dowers on the rhododendron trees providedsplashes of red against the dark green of the hills. Sometimes therewould besnowonthegroundtoaddtothecontrast.

WhatelsedoIloveandrememberofthehills?Smellsagain.Thesmellsoffallenpineneedles,cow-dungsmoke,spring, rain,bruisedgrass, thepurecoldwaterofmountainstreams,thedepthandblue-nessofthesky.

Inthehills, Ihavelovedforests.Intheplains,Ihavelovedsingletrees.Alonetreeonawide,flatplain—evenif it isathin,crooked,nondescript tree—gains beauty and nobility from its isolation, from the precarious nature of itsexistence.

‘Ofcourse,Ihavehadmyfavouritesamongtrees.Thebanyan,withitsgreatbranchesspreadingtoformrootsandintricatepassageways.Thepeepulwithitsbeautiful heart-shaped leaves catching the breeze and fluttering even on thestillestofdays.Itisalwayscoolunderapeepul.TheJacarandaandgolmohour

bursting into blossomwith the coming of summer. The cherries, peaches andapricotsfloweringinthehills—thetall,handsomechestnutsandthewhisperingdeodars.

Deodarshaveofteninspiredmetopoetry.OnedayIwrote:TreesofGod,wecallthem.Plantedtherewhentheworldwasyoung.

ThefirsttreesTheirfingerspointingtothestars,OlderthanthecedarsofLebanon.SeveralofthesetreeswerecutdownrecentlyandIwasfuriousTheycutthemdownlastspringWithquickandefficienttools,Thesapwasrisingstill.Thetreesbled,

SlaughteredTomakefurniturefortools.Andwhich flower is most redolent of India? Not forme the lotus or the

water-lily but the simplemarigold, fresh, golden, dew-drenched, kissedby themorningsun.

Thesmellofthesea.IlivedwithitforoverayearintheChannelIslands,Ilikedtheseamistandlikedthefiercegalesthatsweptacrosstheislandsinthewinter.

Later,therewerethefogsofLondon;IdidnotlikethembuttheymademethinkofDickens,andIwalkedtoWappingandtheEastIndiaDockRoadandwatched the barges on the Thames, I hadmy favourite pub andmy favouritefish-and-chipsshop.TherewerealwayschildrenflyingkitesfromPrimroseHillorsailingboatsinthepondsonHampsteadHeath.

OncewevisitedthegardensatKewandinahot-house,moistandsmellingofthetropics,IrememberedtheEastandsomeofthesimplethingsIhadknown—afieldofwheat,astackofsugar-cane,acowatrestandaboysleepingintheshadeofalong,red-fingeredpoinsettia.AndIknewIwouldgohometoIndia.

HeavenonEarth

‘I ftherebeaheavenonearth,itisthis,itisthis.’ThewordsareinscribedonthewalloftheHallofSpecialAudience,intheroyalgardenoftheRedFortofDelhi, built by the Emperor Shah Jahan in the 17th century. It is a beautifulpavilion,thewallsinlaidwithjadeandothersemipreciousstones;andfromthelatticedwindowsoneseesthewatersoftheriverJumnawindingplacidlyacrosstheplain.InShahJahan’stime,theriverranmuchclosertothefort,andIliketothink that the emperor, when he found time to be alone, strolled along therampartsofhispalacewhile itwasbeingbuilt;andthatoneevening,whilehegazedattheriver,somethinghappenedtomakehimfeelatpeacewiththeworld,andhewassomovedbythemomentandallthatwasassociatedwithit,thathedecided to build his private pavilion at that spot, inscribing on it the line: ‘Iftherebeaheavenonearth,itisthis,itisthis.’

Suchmomentscometoeachofus—momentswhenwefeeldeeplymovedorinspired,momentswhen time seems to stand still…They come but rarely, assmallmiracles, like thefragranceof thefirstsummerramonparchedearth,orthesongofthewhistling-thrushemerginglikeasweetsecretfromadarkforest;moments when heaven is here, compensating for the irritations and pettydisastersthatwecreatearoundourselveseachday.

When Iwasonly17, Iwanteddesperately tobeawriter.Myearlyeffortsdidnotmeetwithmuchsuccess,andmyrelativesdiscouragedme.AtthattimeIwas living andworking in the Channel Islands in the UK. Late one evening,when I was feeling particularly discouraged, I went for a walk along theseafront.Thetidewasin,theseawasrough;andthewind,whichwasalmostagale,camepouringinfromthedarknesslikeamadgeniejustreleasedfromhisbottle.Greatwavescrashedagainstthesea-wall,andthewindwhippedthesaltsprayacrossmyface.Iwasaloneinawildwastelandofwindandwater.Andthensomethingtouchedme,somethingfromtheelementstookholdofmyheart,and all the depression leftme, and I felt free and as virile as thewind—quitecapableofbuildingmyownfort,myownpavilionofwords.AndIspoketothegenieintheswirlingdarknessandsaid,‘Iwillbeawriter,andnoonecanstopme!’

Well,30yearslater,thewritingisstillgoingon,anditisstillastruggle;butwheneverIfeellikegivingup,Itrytorecapturethatmomentwhenheavenand

earthandIwereallone;andthenthewritingbeginsagain.Almostalways,it’stheunexpectedthatthrillsus.Itmayonlybeashaftof

sunlight, slanting through the pillars of banyan tree; or dewdrops caught in aspider’s web; or, in the stillness of the mountains, the sudden chattter of amountainstreamasyouroundthebendofahill;oranemperor’sfirstglimpseofawindingriverandtheworldbeyond.

Time,placeandemotionmustcoalesce,hencetherarityoftheseoccasions.Delightcannotbeplannedfor—shemakesnoappointments!

StreetoftheRedWell

T hesunbeatsdownon theswelteringcityofOldDelhi.Notabreathofairstirs in thenarrow,windingstreets.ThisoldWalledCity,nowover300yearsold, has noopen spaces, no sidewalks, no shady avenues.During the reignofEmperor Shah Jahan, a canal ran down the centre of the main throughfare,Chandni chowk (street of the silversmiths), but the canal has long since beencoveredover,andtheYamunariver,fromwhichwaterhasbeenchannelled,liesbeyond the emperor’s fort, the Red Fort of Delhi, where the Prime MinisterspeakstothemultitudeeveryyearonindependenceDay.

ItisnotwaterthatIseekmost,butshelterandheatfromtheheatandglareoftheoverheadsun.IhavechosenwhatisquitepossiblythehottestdayinMay,thetemperatureover105degreesFahrenheit,togowalkinginsearchof—what?Astory,perhaps,andadventure.OrthatiswhatIsetouttodo.Theheatofthedayhaswilledotherwise. Imaybe ready for an adventure, but noone else isinterested.Iamtheonlyonewalkingthestreetsfromchoice.

Shopkeepers nod drowsily beneath whirring ceiling-fans. The pavementbarberhastakenhiscustomerintotheshelterofanawning.Afortune-tellerhasdecided that there is nothing to predict and has fallen asleep under the sameawning. A vegetable seller sprinkles water on his vegetables in a dispiritedfashion.Thosecauliflowerswerefreshanhourago:theylookoldalready.Eventhe flies are drowsy. Instead of buzzing feverishly from place to place, theystaggeraboutontiredlegs.

It is the pigeonswho have found all the coolest places. These birds havemadetheoldcitytheirown.NewDelhiisforthecrowswholiketohaveatreetosleepin,ever,iftheytaketheirmealsfromoutofkitchensandverandahsButthe pigeons prefer buildings and the older the buildings the better. They arefamiliar with every cool alcove or shady recess in the crumbling walls ofneglectedmosquesandmansions.

A fat, supercilious pigeon watches me from the window ledge above ajeweller’s shop. The pigeon’s forebears settled here long before the Britishthought of taking Delhi. Conquerors have come and gone, Nadir Shah thePersian,MadhavRaotheMaratha,GulamKadirtheRohilla,andgenerationsofgoldsmithsandsilversmiths.HindusandMuslimshavemadeandlostfortunesinthecity,butnothinghasdisturbedthetranquillifeofthesepigeons.Theirgentle

cooing can always be heard when there is a lull in the jagged symphony oftrafficnoise.Howdotheymanagetosoundsocool?

Buthere’swelcomerelief forhumans;ashadycorner inLalKuanbazaar,(street of theRedWell),where an oldman provides drinkingwater to thirstywayfarers such asmyself.Hiswater is stored in a surahi, an earthenware jugwhichkeepsthewatersweetandcool.Ibenddown,cupmyhands,andreceivethesparklingliquidasmybenefactortiltsthesurahitowardsme.

LalKuan.TheRedWell.Ofcourse it isno longerhere,but thestreetstillbearsitsname.AndIliketothinkthathere,inthemiddleofthestreet,whereabullockhasgonetosleepforcingthecycliststomakeadetour,therewasonceawellmadeofdarkredbrick,wherethewaterbubbledforthallday.Imprisonedbeneath the soil, held down by the crowded commercial houses of this oldquarter,thewatermuststillbethere;itgivesnourishmenttoanoldpeepultreethatgrowsbesidea temple. It is theonly tree in thestreet. It jutsout fromthetemplewallgrowingstraightandtall,dwarfingthetwo-storeyedhouses.Oneofits roots, breaking throughout the ground, has curled up to provide a smooth,well-wornseat.Andit iscoolhere,beneath thepeepul.Evenwhenthere isnobreeze, the slender heart-shaped leaves revolve prettily. Creating their owncurrentsofair.Nowonder thesagesofoldfounditagoodtree tositbeneath,andnowondertheycalleditsacred.

Ontheothersideoftheroad,atallirondoorwayissetinahighwall.Doorslike this were only built in the previous century, when a wealthy merchant’shousehadtobeaminiaturefortressaswellasaresidence.IcannotseeoverthewallandIwouldliketoknowwhatliesbehindthedoor.Perhapsasidestreet,perhapsamarket,perhapsagarden,perhaps.

Thedooropens,noteasily,becauseithadbeenleftclosedforalongtime,but slowly and with much complaint. And beyond the door there is only anemptycourtyard,coheredwithrubble,theruinsoftheoldhouse.IamabouttoturnawaywhenIhearadeeptremendousmurmur.

Itisthecooingofmanypigeons.Butwherearethey?Iadvancefurtherintotheruin,andthere,openingoutinfrontofme,ready

to receivemeas the rabbit-holewas ready to receiveAlice, is anold, disusedwell.Ipeerdownintoitsmurkydepths.Itisdark,verydarkdownthere;butthatiswherethepigeonslive,inthewallsofthislost,longforgottenwellshutawayfromtherestofthecity.Icannotseeanywater.SoIdropapebbleovertheside.Itstrikesthewall,andthen,withasoftplop,toucheswater.Atthatinstantthereisarushofairandatremendousbeatingofwings,andaflockofpigeons.Thirtyorfortyofthemflyoutofthewell,streakupwards,circlethebuilding,andthenfalling into formation, wheel overhead, the sun gleaming white on their

underwings.I have discovered their secret. Now I know why they look so cool, so

refreshed,whilewewhowalkthestreetsofolddelhidosowithparchedmouthsanddroopinglimbs.ThepigeonsaretheonlyoneswhostillknowabouttheRedWell.

OnceYouhaveLivedwithMountains

I twaswhileIwaslivinginEnglandinthejostleanddrizzleofLondon,thatIremembered theHimalayasat theirmostvivid. Ihadgrownupamongst thosegreatblueandbrownmountains,theyhadnourishedmyblood,andthoughIwasseparated from themby thousandsofmilesofocean,plainanddesert, I couldnotforgetthem.Itisalwaysthesamewithmountains.Onceyouhavelivedwiththemforanylengthoftime,youbelongtothem.Thereisnoescape.

Andso,inLondoninMarch,thefogbecameamountainmistandtheboomof traffic became the boom of the Ganges emerging from the foothills. Irememberedalittlemountainpathwhichledmyrestlessfeetintoacoolsweetforestofoakandrhododendronand thenon to thewindsweptcrestofanakedhilltop.ThehillwascalledCloud’sEnd.Itcommandedaviewoftheplainsononeside,andof thesnowpeaksontheother.Littlesilverriverstwistedacrossthe valley below,where the rice fields formed a patchwork of emerald green.Andonthehillitselfthewindmadea‘hoo-hoo-hoo’inthebranchesofthetalldeodars where it found itself trapped. During the rains, clouds enveloped thevalleybutleftthehillsalone,anislandinthesky.Wildsorrelgrewamongtherocks, and there were many flowers—convolvulus, clover, wild begonia,dandelion—sprinklingthehillside.

Onaspurofthehillstoodtheruinsofanoldbuilding,theroofofwhichhadlong since disappeared and the rain had beaten the stone floors smooth andyellow.Moss,fernsandMaidenhairgrewfromthewalls.Inahollowbeneathaflightofwornstonestepsawildcathadmadeitshome.Itwasabeautifulgreycreature,black-stripedwithpalegreateyes.Sometimesitwatchedmefromthestepsorthewall,butitnevercamenear.

Noone livedon thehill, exceptoccasionally a coal-burner in a temporarygrassthatchedhut.Butvillagersusedthepathforgrazingtheirsheepandcattleonthegrassyslopes.Eachcoworsheephadabellsuspendedfromitsnecktolettheshepherdboyknowitswhereabouts.

Theboycouldthenlie in thesunandeatwildstrawberrieswithoutfearoflosing his animals. I remembered some of the shepherd boys and girls. Therewasaboywhoplayedtheflute.Itsrough,sweet,straightforwardnotestravelledclearly through themountain air. Hewould greetmewith a nod of his head,withouttakingtheflutefromhislips.

Therewasagirlwhowasnearlyalwayscuttinggrassforfodder.Sheworeheavy bangles on her feet and long silver earrings. She did not speak mucheither, but she always had awide smile on her facewhen shemetme on thepath.Sheusedtosingtoherself,ortothesheep,ortothegrass,ortothesickleinherhand.Andtherewasaboywhocarriedmilkintotown(adistanceofaboutfivemiles)whowouldoftenfallintostepwithmetoholdalongconversation.Hehadneverbeenawayfromthehillsorinalargecity.Hehadneverbeenonatrain.

Itoldhimaboutthecitiesandhetoldmeabouthisvillage,howtheymadebreadfrommaize,howfishweretobecaughtinthemountainstreams,howthebearscametostealhisfather’spumpkins.Wheneverthepumpkinswereripe,hetoldme,thebearswouldcomeandcarrythemoff.ThesethingsIremembered—these, and the smell of pine needles, the silver of oak leaves and the red ofmaple, the call of theHimalayan cuckoo, and themist, like a wet face-cloth,pressingagainstthehills.

Odd,howsome little incident, somesnatchofconversationcomesback toone again and again in the most unlikely places. Standing in the aisle of acrowdedtubetrainonaMondaymorning,mynosetuckedintothebackpageofsomeoneelse’snewspaper,Isuddenlyhadavisionofabearmakingoffwitharipepumpkin!Abearandapumpkin—andthere,betweenBelsizeParkandtheTottenhamCourtRoadstation,allthesmellsandsoundsoftheHimalayascamerushingbacktome.

IntheGardenofMyDreams

T hecosmoshasallthegeniusofsimplicity.Theplantstandstallanderect;itsfoliageisuncomplicated,itsinflorescencearebold,fresh,cheerful.Anyflower,froma rose to a rhododendron, canbe complicated.The cosmos is splendidlysimple.

NowonderittakesitsnamefromtheGreek‘cosmos’,meaningtheuniverseasanorderedwhole—thesumtotalofexperience!Forthisunpretentiousflowerdoesseemtosumitallup:perfectionwithoutapparentstrivingforit,theartistryof the South American footballer! Needless to say, it came from tropicalAmerica.

Andgrowingitisnotrouble.Ahandfulofseedsthrowninawastepatchoron agrassyhill slope, and a fewmonths later there they are, enmasse, doingtheirsambainthesunshine.Theyarealmostwild,butnotquite.Theyneedverylittleattention,butifyoutakethemtoomuchforgrantedtheywillgoawaythefollowing year. Simple theymay be, but not insensitive. They need plenty ofspace. And as my own small apartment cannot accommodate them, theydefinitelybelongtomydreamgarden.

MyrespectforthecosmosgoesbacktomychildhoodwhenIwanderedintowhatseemedlikeaforestoftheseflowers,alltwicemyheight(Imusthavebeenfive at the time) but looking down on me in the friendliest way, their finefeatheryfoliagegivingoffafaintaroma.NowwhenIfindthemfloweringontheHimalayanhillsidesinmellowOctobersunshine,theyarelikeoldfriendsandIgreetthemaccordingly,pressingmyfacetotheirpetals.

Not everyone likes the cosmos. I have met some upper-class ladies (golfclubmembers)whocomplainthatitgivesthemhayfever,andtheyusethisasanexcusetorootoutallcosmosfromtheirgardens.Iexpecttheyarejustbeingsnobbish.Thereareotherflowerswhichgiveoffjustasmuchpollendust.

Ihavenoticedthesamesnobbishnessinregardtomarigolds,especiallythesmaller Indian variety. ‘Cultivated’ people won’t cultivate these humble butattractiveflowers.Is itbecausetheyareusedformakinggarlands?Orbecausethey are not delicately scented? Or because they are so easily grown in thebackyardsofhomes?

My grandparents once went to war with each other over the marigold.Grandfather had grown a few in one corner of the garden. Just as they began

flowering, they vanished—Granny had removed them overnight! Therewas arow,andmygrandparentsdidnotspeaktoeachotherforseveraldays.Then,bycalling them ‘French’marigolds,Grandfathermanaged to reintroduce them tothegarden.Granny liked the ideaofhavingsomething‘French’ inhergarden.Suchishumannature!

Sometimes a wildflower can put its more spectacular garden cousins toshame.IamthinkingnowoftheCommelina,whichIdiscoverinsecretplacesafter therainshavepassed.Itsbrightsky-blueflowers takemybreathaway.Ithasasortofunguardedinnocencethatisbeyondcorruption.

Wild rosesgivememorepleasure than the sophisticateddomesticvariety.On a walk in the Himalayan foothills I have encountered a number of theseshrubsandclimbers—theineptlynamedDogRose,sparklingwhiteinsummer;theSweetBriarwith its deeppinkpetals andbright red rosehips; theTrailingRose, found in shadyplaces; and thewildRaspberry (the fruitmore attractivethantheflower)whichbelongstothesamefamily.

A sun-lover, I like plenty of yellow on the hillsides and in gardens—sunflowers, Californian poppies, winter jasmine, St John’s Wort, buttercups,wildstrawberries,mustardinbloom…Butifyouliveinahotplace,youmightprefer cooling blues and soft purples—forget-me-not, bluebells, cornflowers,lavender. I’d go far for a sprig of sweetly-scented lavender. To many olderpeoplethewordlavenderischarm;itseemstorecalltheplaintivestrainofoncefamiliarmusic—

Lavenderblue,dillydilly,Lavendergreen,WhenIamking,dillydilly,You’llbemyqueen.

This tame-looking,blue-green, stiff, sticky, and immovable shrubholds asmuchpoetryandromanceinitswiryarmsaswouldfillalargebook.

Most cultivated flowers were originally wild, and many take their namesfrom thebotanistswho first ‘tamed’ them.Thus, thedahlia is namedafterMrDahl, a Swede; the rudbeckia afterRudbeck, aDutchman; the zinnia afterDrZinn, a German; and the lobelia after Monsieur Lobel, a Flemish physician.TheyandothersbroughttoEuropemanyoftheflowersfoundgrowingwildintropicalAmerica,AsiaandAfrica.

But I amnobotanist. Iprefer tobe thebutterfly,perfectlyhappy ingoingfromflowertoflowerinsearchofnectar.

FernsinFoliage

A t the bottom of the hill there is a small rippling stream, its water almosthidden by the bright green, tangled growth along its course. It is only by itssoundasitbattersoverthepebbles,thatwebecomeawareofit.Herewecameacrossmanyplantsthatdelighttogrowinsuchplaces—wildstrawberries,woodsorrel,orchids,violetsanddandelions,andanestofferns.

Thefirstthingonenoticesisabeautifulgroupoffernsgrowingalmosttothewater.ThisistheLadyFern,whosebroadfrondsmustbefourtofivefeethigh,a delicate plant, frail and almost transparent in the fineness of its foliage, andlookingsotenderthatyouwouldthinkthesunandwindwouldalmostscorchorshrivel it up.But theabundant supplyof flowingwaterkeeps these ferns coolandfresh.

When the frostsofwintercome, the frondswillcrumpleup intoaheapofbrown fragments. But their strength has by that time returned into the thickclumpofrootstobestoredandusedforastillfinergroupoffrondsnextyear.

In themoist parts of any forest there are sure to be several other kindsoffernssuchastheMaleFern,withitsstrong,uprightfrondslookinglikealargegreenshuttlecock three feethigh.Oneof thecommonestof Indian ferns is theMaidenhairwhich grows along thewest coast and in theHimalayan foothills.Duringthemonsoon,itcanbefoundonalmosteverywallandrock—adelicate,tenderfern,easilytornbythewind.

On the stumpofa fallen treegrow thePicklytoothedBuckler fernand theBoard Buckler fern, whose rootlets penetrate the soft, rotting wood to obtaintheirmoisture.Theyarehardy,oftenremaininggreenallthroughthewinter.ThehandsomeBrackenfernoftengrowstoaheightofsixorsevenfeet.

Then there is the lovely Hart’s tongue fern, great clumps of which growbeside the forest paths. It has broad, green crinkled fronds and is quite unlikeother ferns. If you look at the back of the fronds youwill see from the littleheapsofrust-colouredsporecases,thatthisisindeedafern;allfernsgrowtheirseedsinthisway.

There are several hundred varieties of ferns. They are easily pressed andpreserved.Theymayalsobegrownindoorsinpots.Buttheyareloveliestintheopen, in cool, damp places, in the depths of the forest or by the side of amountainstream.

Thehistoryof fernsgoesback to themistsof antiquity.Therewasa timewhenfernsandplantslikethemfilledtheearth.Itwasawetanddrippingtime.Flowerswouldhavebeenofnouseatallbutsporescouldcarryontheirlivesintheprevailingdampness.Somefernsgrewaslargeastrees.Thefallingstemsofthesemightytreefernswerefloatedtogetherbymightystreams,carriedawaytotheseaandburiedundersandandmud.Theremainsoftheseplantsbeingthusshut off from the air, could not rot but were slowly changed into coal. Theimpressionsofleavesandstemsofthesefernscanbedistinctivelyseenonmanypiecesofcoal.

Astheearthbecamedrier,fernsretiredtothedamp,shadyspotsinwhichwenowfindthem.Theyareadecliningfamilybutletushopetheywillremainwithusforsometime,foraforeststreamwithoutfernswouldbelikeamaidenwhoseloveliesttresseshavebeenshorn.

BirdsonTap

I nspiteofseveralwrittenrequeststothemunicipality,noonecametorepairtheleakingwater-pipe.Gradually thewaterbeganseepingthroughthehillside,collecting in a rocky basin below the cottage. At first I was perturbed; then,whenIfoundthatthebirdswerecomingtothepooltobatheanddrink,Istoppedsendingreminderstothemunicipality.

Beforetheleak,bird-watchinghadusuallymeantalongtrudgedowntothestreamatthebottomofthehill.Nowthatthebirdswerecomingtome,Icouldsimplysitatmyfirst-floorwindowandlookdownat themsportinginthetap-waterpool.

ThemostfrequentvisitorwastheHimalayanwhistling-thrush.OnsummerafternoonsIwokefrommysiestatohearthesplashingofwaterandflappingofwings,and,lookingdown,wasintimetowatchthissplendidblue-blackbirdathisablutions.Returningtothetreestodryhimself,hewouldburstintosong,asongindescribablysweetandmelodic,oneoftheloveliestsoundsintheforest.

THETITSLater in the afternoon, numbers of small birds visited the tap-water pool:hunting-parties of tits—greytits, red-headed tits, and green-backed tits—and apairoftinywillow-warblers,theirchirpingjustafairytinkle.Whilethetitswerebathing,thewarblerswouldwaitinthecherrytree,passingthetimebyattackingthesourredfruitofthewildcherry.

The various kinds of tits did not fraternisemuchwith each other; nor didthey squabble.While the green-backs took their plunge, the red-heads waitedpatientlyonthemoss-coveredrocks.Ithoughttheyshowedmoredisciplinethanacrowdofpeopleatacitywater-tap.Butthemynaswhoarethedacoitsofthebird-world,wouldturnupbeforelonganddrivethesmallerbirdsaway.

ADUETSince the pre-monsoon showers began, the tap-water pool has attracted othervisitors. It beganwith one frog croakingdismally in the darker reaches of thenight.Nextdayhislonelinesswasalleviatedbythearrivalofafriendorrelative.Theysangaduet.IthoughtitwasPuccini’s‘Yourtinyhandisfrozen…’Onthe

followingnight therewereseveralsingers,bothIndianandWestern,andsomeofthemseemedtohavebroughttheirtablasalong,too.Now,aweeklater,thereisanall-nightPopfestivalinprogressbeneathmywindow.

I could, I suppose, collect the frogs in abucket anddeposit themnear thestream;butotherswouldprobablytaketheirplace.Icouldevenstartafrogfarm,and make a fortune exporting frogs’ legs to France; but what’s a fortunecomparedtoone’speaceofmind?AsmuchasI liketohavethebirdsbyday,havingfrogsbynightistooheavyapricetopay.SoonceagainIsitdowntopenamissivetothemunicipality,urgingthemtosendsomeonetorepairtheleakingwater-pipe.Bird-songiswonderful;butfrog-songisstrictlyforthebirds.

InDefenceofSnakes

I t isdifficult tounderstandthereasonsforpeoplereactinginsuchapetrifiedway to the presence of a snake on the road, in the garden, or on the backverandah.Afterfirstfreezingwithfright,andthendiscoveringthatthesnakehasnoevilintentions,humansbecomeverybraveindeed,shouting‘Snake,snake!’untilotherhumansarrive,armedwithstoutsticks.Andifbythattimethesnakehasnotmadeitselfscarce,itisbeatentodeath.

I suppose it all has something to dowith the story of the devil taking theformof a serpent in order to temptEve.ButEvewould have fallen, anyway,regardlessofwhatearthlyformthedeviltook.

Poordeadsnake!Allthatiteverintendedwastobaskinthesunforafewminutes between showers, and, if possible, snap up a dallying frog. Instead itfinds itself surrounded by a group of terrified and terrifying humans, alldeterminedtoputanendtoitsexistence.

Most of the snakes that are killed in this way are perfectly harmlessspecimens.Ofthe300differentspeciesinIndia,thereareonly40whichmaybeconsidereddangerous,andof these thereare justfivewhichcankillahealthy,grownman.Allsnakesarepoisonous,butsomesnakesaremorepoisonousthanothers.Most of them carry just enough venom to paralyse their natural prey,which consists of frogs, rats, birds, earthworms and smaller snakes. Pythonsdon’t need anyvenom.Once theyhave taken a firmgriponyou, they simplysqueezeawayuntilallyourbonesarecrushed;andthentheystartswallowing—preferablystartingwiththehead.Butpythonsdon’tneedmorethantwoorthreegoodmealsinayear,soyouarequitesafewithapetpythonprovidedyoudon’tstarveit.

Butevenadangeroussnakewon’tattackyouunlessitistroddenupon,orinsome way provoked. One hears of thousands of people dying from snakebiteevery year. If this is true, then it is due more to human carelessness than toreptilianaggressiveness.Ihaveyet tocomeacrossavictimofsnakebite;andIhaveyettocomeacrossasnakewhoshowedtheleastinclinationtobiteme.(Ascompared to scorpions and centipedes, who can be quite vicious.) After all,snakeskillmainlyinordertoeat;andnosnakethatIknowof(except,ofcourse,theamiablepython)isgreedyenough,orlargeenough,towanttoswallowmeinmyentirety.

My tolerance towards snakes has not gone unrewarded. I have noticed asignificantreductioninthefrogpopulation.Theoperaticwarblingthatkeptmeawakeatnighthasceased,andIsleepinpeace.Iameventhinkingofallowingthegreensnakeintothehouseoccasionally,toseeifitwillridmeofthefield-ratswhohavetakenupresidenceforthedurationofthemonsoon.Ihavenothingto lose.My friends have already stopped coming to see me; but so havemycreditors.

AMarriageoftheWaters

I n summer the grass on the hills is still a pale yellowish green, tingedwithbrown, and that is how it remains until the monsoon rains bring new life toeverythingthatsubsistsonthestonyHimalayansoil.Andthen,forfourmonths,thehillsaredeepanddarkandemeraldbright

Buttheotherday,takinganarrowpaththatleftthedryMussoorieridgetolinkupwithPariTibba(FairyHill),Iranacrossapathoflushgreengrass,andIknewtherehadtobewaterthere.

The grass was soft and springy, spotted with the crimson of small, wildstrawberries. Delicate Maidenhair, my favourite fern, grew from a cluster ofmoist, glistening rocks. Moving the ferns a little, I discovered the spring, afreshetofclearsparklingwater.

Ineverceasetowonderatthetenacityofwater—itsabilitytomakeitswaythrough various strata of rock, zigzagging, back tracking, finding space,cunningly discovering faults and fissures in the mountain, and sometimestravelling underground for great distance before emerging into the open. Ofcourse,there’snostoppingwater.Fornomatterhowtinythatlittletrickle,ithastogosomewhere!

Likethislittlespring.AtfirstIthoughtitwastoosmalltogoanywhere,thatitwoulddryupattheedgeofthepath.ThenIdiscoveredthatthegrassremainedsoft andgreen for somedistance along theverge, and that therewasmoisturebeneaththegrass.Thiswetstretchendedabruptly;but,onlookingfurther,Isawitcontinuedontheothersideofthepath,afterbrieflygoingundergroundagain.

I decided to follow its fortunes as it disappeared beneath a tunnel of tallgrassandbrackenfern.Slitheringdownastonyslope,Ifoundmyselfinasmallravine, and there I discovered that my little spring had grown, having beenjoined by the waters of another spring bubbling up from beneath a path ofprimroses.

A short distance away, a spotted forktail stood on a rock, surveying thismarriageofthewaters.Hislong,forkedtailmovedslowlyupanddown.Hepaidnoattentiontome,beingtotallyabsorbedinthemovementsofawaterspider.Aswiftpeck, and the spidervanished, completing thebird’sbreakfast.Thirsty, Icuppedmyhandsanddrankalittlewater.Sodidtheforktail.Wehadaperennialsupplyofpurepurewateralltoourselves!

Therewasnowarivulet tofollow,andIcontinueddowntheravineuntilIcametoasmallpoolthatwasfednotonlybymybrook(Iwasalreadythinkingofitasmyveryown!)butalsobyalittlecascadeofwatercomingdownfromarocky ledge. I climbed a little way up the rocks and entered a small cave, inwhich there was just enough space for crouching down. Water dripped andtrickledoff its roofandsides.Andmostwonderfulofall, someof thesedropscreated tinyrainbows, fora rayofsunlighthadstruck throughacrevice in thecave roof making the droplets of moisture radiant with all the colours of thespectrum.

WhenIemergedfromthecave,Isawapairofpinemartensdrinkingatthepool. As soon as they sawme, they were up and away, bounding across theravineandintothetrees.

Thebrookwasnowasmallstream,butIcouldnotfollowitmuchfarther,because the hill went into a steep decline and the water tumbled over large,slipperyboulders,becomingawaterfallandthenanoisylittletorrentasitspedtowardthevalley.

ClimbingupthesidesoftheravinetothespurofPariTibba,IcouldseethedistantsilverofameanderingriverandIknewmylittlestreamwasdestinedtobecomepartof it; and that the riverwouldbe joinedbyanother that couldbeseenslippingover the farhorizon,and that theircombinedwaterswouldenterthegreatGanga,orGanges,fartherdownstream.

This mighty river would, in turn, wander over the rich alluvial plains ofnorthernIndia,finallyflowingintotheoceanneartheBayofBengal.

Andtheocean,whatwasitbutanotherdropletintheuniverse,inthegreaterschemeofthings?Nogreaterthantheglisteningdropofwaterthathelpedstartitall,wherethegrassgrowsgreeneraroundmylittlespringonthemountain.

BestofAllWindows

T hosewhoadvertiseroomsorflatstoletoftendescribethemas‘Roomwithbath’ or ‘Room with tea and coffee-making facilities’. A more attractivepropositionwouldbe‘Roomwithwindow’,forwithoutaviewaroomishardlyalivingplace—merelyaplaceoftransit.

As an itinerant young writer, I lived in many single room apartments, orbedsittersastheywerecalled,andIhavetoadmitthatthequalityofmylifewascertainlyenhancedifmywindowlookedoutonsomethingalittlemoreinspiringthana factorywallor someone’sbackyard.Wecherisha romantic imageof astarvingyoungpoetlivinginagarretandwritingodestoskylarks,but,believeme,garretsdon’thelp.Forsixmonths inLondonI lived inasmallattic roomwhichhadnoviewatall,exceptfortheroofsofotherhouses—anendlessvistaof grey tiles and blackened chimneys,without somuch as a proverbial cat torelieve the monotony. I did not write a single ode, for no self-respectingnightingaleorlarkeverfounditswayupthere.

My next room, somewhere near Clapham Junction, had a view of therailway,butyoucouldn’tactuallysee the railway linesbecauseof the rowsofwashing thatwerehungout todrybehind thebuilding. Itwasaworkingclassareaand therewereno laundries round thecorner.But ifyoucouldn’t see therailway, you could certainly hear it. Every time a train thundered past, thebuilding shuddered, and ornaments, crockery and dishes rattled and rocked asthoughanearthquakewasinprogress.Itwasimpossibletohangapictureonthewall, the nail (and with it the picture) fell out after a couple of days. But itremindedme a bit of my Uncle Fred’s railway quarters just near Delhi-mainrailwaystation,andImanagedtowriteacoupleoftrainstorieswhilelivinginthisparticularroom.

Trainwindows,naturally,havenoequalwhenitcomestoviews,especiallyin India, where there’s an ever-changing panorama of mountain, forest anddesert,village,townandcity,alongwiththecolourfulcrowdsateveryrailwaystation.

But good, personalwindows—windows to livewith—thesewere to proveelusiveforseveralyears.EvenafterreturningtoIndia,Ihadsomedifficultyinfindingtheidealwindow.

Moving briefly to a small town in north India, Iwas directed to the Park

Viewlodging-house.Theredidhappentobeaparkinthevicinity,butnoviewofitcouldbehadfrommyroomor,indeed,fromanyroominthehouse.ButIfound,tomysurprise,thatthebathroomwindowactuallylookedoutonthepark.Itprovidedafineview!However,thereisalimittothelengthoftimeonecanspendinthebath,gazingoutatpalmfrondswavinginthedistance.SoImovedonagain.

AfteracoupleofclaustrophobicyearsinNewDelhi,Iescapedtothehills,fullyexpecting that Iwould immediately find roomsoracottagewithwidowsfacingtheeternalsnows.But itwasnot tobe!ToseethesnowsIhadtowalkfourmilesfrommylodgingstothehighestpointinthehill-station.Mywindowlooked out on a high stone rampart, built to prevent the steep hillside fromcollapsing. True, a number of wild things grew in the wall—bunches of redsorrel,dandelions,toughweedsofvariouskinds,and,atthebase,alargeclumpofnettles.NowIamsure therearepeoplewhocangrowecstaticovernettles,butIamnotoneofthem.Ifindthatnettlesstingmeatthefirstopportunity.SoIgavemynettlesawideberth.

And then, at last, fortune smiled, or rather, persistence was rewarded. Ifoundmypresentabode,awindswept,rathershakyoldhouseontheedgeofaspur.My bedroomwindow opened on to blue skies,mountains striding awayinto the fardistance,winding rivers in thevalleybelow, and, just tobringmedowntoearth, the local television tower.LikeTheRedShadowinTheDesertSong,Icouldstandatmywindowandsing‘Blueheaven,andyouandI’,eveniftheonlylistenerwasastartledpoliceman.

Thewindowwas sopositioned that I could lieonmybedand lookat thesky,orsitatmydeskandlookatthehills,orstandatthewindowandlookattheroadbelow.

Whichisthebestoftheseviews?Somewould say thehills,but thehillsneverchange.Somewould say the

road,becausetheroadisfullofchangeandmovement—tinkers,tailors,tourists,salesmen, cars, trucks and motor-cycles, mules, ponies and even, on oneoccasion,anelephant.Theelephanthadnobusinessbeinguphere,butIsupposeifHannibal could take themoverAlps, an attempt could also bemade on theHimalayanpasses.(Itreturnedtotheplainsthenextday.)

The road isneverdull,but,givenachoice, I’dopt for thesky.Thesky isnever the same. Even when it’s cloudless, the sky colours are different. Themorningsky,thedaytimesky,theeveningsky,themoonlitsky,thestarrysky,therearealldifferentskies.Andtherearealmostalwaysbirdsinthesky—eaglesflyinghigh,mountainswiftsdoingacrobatics,cheekymynabirdsnestingundertheeavesoftheroof,sparrowsflittinginandoutoftheroomatwill.Sometimes

abutterflyfloats inonthebreeze.Andonsummernights,greatmothsenteratthe openwindow, dazzled bymy reading-light. I have to catch them and putthemoutagain,lesttheyinjurethemselves.

When the monsoon rains arrive, the window has to be closed, otherwisecloudandmist fill the room,and that isn’tgood formybooks.But the sky isevenmorefascinatingatthistimeoftheyear.FrommydeskIcan,atthisverymoment, see the clouds advancing across the valley, rolling over the hills,ascending thenextrange.Raindropspatteragainst thewindow-panes,drumonthe corrugated iron roof.Themynas lineupon thewindow-ledge,waiting fortheraintostop.

And when the shower passes and the clouds open up, the heavens are adeeper,darkerblue.Trulymagiccasementsthese…ForeverytimeIseetheskyI am aware of belonging to the universe rather than to just one corner of theearth.

TheGentleNightsBefriendMe

H ere in Landour, India, on the first range of theHimalayas, I have grownaccustomedtothenight’sbrightness—moonlight,starlight, lamplight,firelight!Evenfirefliesandglow-wormslightupthedarkness.

Over theyears, thenighthasbecomemyfriend.On theonehand, itgivesmeprivacy;ontheother,itprovidesmewithlimitlessfreedom.

Notmanypeoplerelishthedark.Someevensleepwiththeirlightsburningallnight.Theyfeelsaferwiththelightson.Saferfromthephantomsconjuredupbytheirimaginations.

And yet, I have always felt safer by night, provided I do not deliberatelywanderaboutoncliff-topsorroadswheredangermaylurk.It’struethatburglarsandother lawbreakersoftenworkbynight.Theyarenot intocommuningwiththestars.Norarelate-nightrevelers,whoareusuallytobefoundinbrightlylitplacesandsoareeasilyavoided.

I feel safer by night, yes, but then I have the advantage of living in themountains,inaregionwherecrimeiscomparativelyrare.IknowthatifIwereliving inabigcity in someotherpartof theworld, Iwould think twiceaboutwalkinghomeatmidnight,nomatterhowpleasingthenightsky.

Walking home at midnight in Landour can be quite eventful, but in adifferentway.Oneisconsciousallthetimeofthesilentlifeinthesurroundingtreesandbushes.Ihavesmelledaleopardwithoutseeingit.Ihaveseenjackalson theprowl. Ihavewatchedfoxesdance in themoonlight. Ihaveseenflyingsquirrelsflitfromonetreetoptoanother.Ihaveobservedpinemartensontheirnocturnal journeys, and listened to the calls of nightjars, owls and other birdswholivebynight.

Notallonthesamenight,ofcourse.Thatwouldbetoomanyrichesatonce.Somenightwalksareuneventful.Butusuallythereissomethingtoseeorhearorsense.Likethosefoxesdancinginthemoonlight.

Whoelse,apartfromfoxes,flyingsquirrelsandnight-lovingwriters,areathomeinthedark?

The nightjars, for one. They aren’t much to look at, although their large,lustrous eyes gleam uncannily in the light of a lamp. But their sounds aredistinctive. The breeding call of the Indian nightjar resembles the sound of astone skimming over the surface of a frozen pond; it can be heard for a

considerabledistance.Anothernightjarspeciesuttersaloudgratingcallwhich,whencloseathand,

soundsexactlylikeawhiplashcuttingtheair.Horsfield’snightjar(withwhichIammorefamiliar)makesanoisesimilartothatmadebystrikingaplankwithahammer.

I must not forget the owls, those most celebrated of night birds, muchmalignedbythosewhofearthenight.

Mostowlshaveverypleasantcalls.Thelittlejungleowlethasanotethatisboth mellow and musical. One misguided writer has likened its call to amotorcycle starting up, but this is libel. If onlymotorcycles sounded like thejungleowl,theworldwouldbeamorepeacefulplaceinwhichtoliveandsleep.

The little Scops owl speaks only in monosyllables, occasionally saying‘wow’ softly, but with great deliberation. He will continue to say ‘wow’ atintervalsofaboutaminuteforhoursthroughoutthenight.

ProbablythemostfamiliarofIndianowlsisthespottedowlet—anoisybirdthat pours forth a volley of chuckles and squeaks in the early evening and atintervalsallnight.Towardsunset, Iwatch theowletsemerge from theirholes,oneafter another.Before theycomeout, they stickout theirqueer little roundheadswithstaringeyes.Afteremerging,theyusuallysitveryquietlyforatimeasthoughonlyhalfawake.Then,allofasudden,theybegintochuckle,finallybreaking into a torrent of chattering. Having apparently ‘psyched’ themselvesintotherightframeofmind,theyspreadtheirshort,roundedwingsandsailoffforthenight’shunting.

Iwendmywayhomeward. ‘Nightwithher trainof stars’ is enticing.TheEnglishpoetW.E.Henleyfoundherso.Buthealsowroteof‘hergreatgiftofsleep’,and it is thisgift that Iamabout toacceptwithgratitudeandhumility.Foritisalsogoodtobeupanddancinginthemorningdew.

AHouseCalledIvanhoe

‘S tandstillfortenminutes,andthey’llbuildahotelontopofyou,’saidoneold-timer, gesturing towards the concrete jungle that had sprung up alongMussoorie’sMall, the traditionalpromenade.Thishill-stationinnorthernIndiaisnowonelong,uglybazaar,butifyouleavetheMallandwalkalongsomeoftheoldlanesandby-ways,youwillcomeacrossmanyoftheoldhouses,mostofthem still bearing the names theywere bornwith, back in themid-nineteenthcentury.

Mussoorie,likeotherhillresortsinIndia,cameintoexistenceinthe1820sorthereabouts,whenthefamiliesofBritishcolonialsbeganmakingforthehillsinordertoescapethescorchingheatoftheplains.Smallsettlementsgrewintolarge‘stations’,andweresoonvyingwitheachotherfor thetitleof‘Queenofthe Hills’. Mussoorie’s name derives from the Mansur shrub (Cororiananepalensis),commonin theHimalayanfoothills;butmanyof thehouse-namesderivefromthenativeplacesofthosewhofirstbuiltandlivedinthem.Today,the old houses and estates are owned by well-to-do Indians, many of whomfollowthelifestyleoftheirformercolonialrulers.Inmostcases,theoldnameshavebeenretained.

Take, for instance, theMullingar. This is not one of the better preservedbuildings,havingbeenunderlitigationforsomeyears;butitwasafinemansiononce,andithasthedistinctionofbeingtheoldestbuildinginMussoorie.Itwasthe home, naturally enough, of an Irishman,CaptainYoung,who commandedthe first Gurkha battalion when it was in its infancy. As you have probablyguessed,hecame fromMullingar, inold Ireland, and itwas to Ireland thathefinallyreturned,whenhegaveuphisswordandsaddle.ThereisastorythatonmoonlitnightsaghostlyridercanbeseenontheMullingarflat,andthatthisisCaptainYoungrevisitingoldhaunts.

There must have been a number of Irishmen settling and building inMussoorie in those pioneering days, for there are houses with names such asTipperary,Killarney,ShamrockCottage andTaraHall. ‘Theharp thatonce inTara’sHalls’musthavesoundedinShimlatoo,forthereisalsoaTaraHallintheoldsummercapitalofIndia.

As everywhere, the Scotswere great pioneers inMussoorie too, andwerequicktoidentifyHimalayanhillsandmeadowswiththeirownglensandbraes.

Thereareoveradozenhouse-namesprefixedwith‘Glen’,andclosetowhereIlivethereisaScottsburn,aWolfsburnandaRedburn.Aburnisasmallstream,buttherearenoneinthevicinity,sothenamesmusthavebeengivenforpurelysentimentalreasons.

TheEnglish, of course,went in for castles—there’sConnaughtCastle andGreyCastleandTheCastleHill,homeforatimetotheyoungSikhprince,DalipSingh,beforehewenttoEnglandtobecomeaprotegeofQueenVictoria.

SirWalter Scottmust have been a very popularwriterwith theBritish inexile,fortherearemanyhousesinMussooriethatwerenamedafterhisnovelsand romances—Kenilworth, Ivanhoe, Waverley, The Monastery. And there isalsoAbbotsford,namedafterScott’sownhome.

Dickens’ loversmust have felt frustrated, because they couldhardlynametheirhousesNicholasNickleby orMartinChuzzlewit; butoneDickens fandidcomeupwithBleakHouseforaname,andbleakitis,eventothisday.Ihavenever had the money to buy or build a house of my own, but I am ever theoptimist,andifeverIdohaveone,IshallcallitGreatExpectations.

Mussoorie did have aDickens connection in 1850,whenCharlesDickenswaspublishinghismagazine,HouseholdWords.HiscorrespondentinIndiawasJohnLang,apopularnovelistandnewspaperproprietor,whospentthelastyearsofhislifeinMussoorie.HisdivertingaccountofatypicalMussoorie‘season’,called‘TheHimalayaClub’,appearedinHouseholdWordsintheissueofMarch21,1857.RecentlyIwasabletoobtainacopyfromtheBritishMuseum.

Ihaven’tbeenabletolocatethehouseinwhichLanglived,butfromoneofhisdescriptionsitmayhavebeenWhiteParkForest,nowpracticallyaruin.Thename is another puzzle, because of park or forest there is no trace. But onlooking up an old guide, I discovered that it had been named after its jointowners,MrWhite,MrParkandMrForest.

Itiswellover50yearssinceaparsonlivedinTheParsonage,anditsownertodayisVictorBanerji,theactor,whoreceivedanAcademyawardnominationforhisroleinDavidLean’sAPassagetoIndia.Victordoesn’tmindhisfriendscallinghimtheVicar.

Another name that puzzledme for a time was that of the old CharlevilleHotel, nowanacademy foryoungcivil servants.Was itFrench in itsorigins?Most of the locals always referred to it as the ‘Charley-Billy’ Hotel, which Ithought was an obvious misprounciation; but the laugh was really on me.According to the records, theoriginalownerhad two sons,Charley andBilly,andhehadnamedthehotelafterthem!

This naming of places is never as simple as itmay seem. I shall end thispiecewithMossyFalls,asmallwaterfallontheoutskirtsofthehill-station.You

mightthinkitwasnamedafterthemossthatissoplentifularoundit,butyou’dbewrong.ItwasreallynamedafterMrMoss,theowneroftheAllianceBank,whowasaffectionatelyknownasMossytohisfriends.When,attheturnofthecentury, theAllianceBankcollapsed,MrMossalso fell fromgrace. ‘PooroldMossy,’saidhisfriends,andpromptlynamedthefallsafterhim.

GrowingUpwithTrees

D ehraDunwasaplacefortrees,(andGrandfather’shousewassurroundedbyseveral kinds—peepul, neem,mango, jackfruit and papaya.Therewas also anancientbanyantree. Igrewupamongst these trees,andsomeof them,plantedbyGrandfather,grewwithme.

Therewere two typesof trees thatwereof special interest toaboy—treesthatweregoodforclimbing,andtreesthatprovidedfruit.

The jackfruit treewasboth these things.Thefruit itself—the largest in theworld—grewonlyonthetrunkandmainbranches.Ididnotcaremuchforthefruit,althoughcookedasavegetableitmadeagoodcurry.Butthetreewaslargeandleafyandeasytoclimb.ItwasaverydarktreeandifIhidinit,Icouldnoteasilybeseenfrombelow.Inaholeinthetree-trunkIkeptvariousbanneditems—acatapult,someluridcomics,andalargestockofchewing-gum.Perhapstheyarestillthere,becauseIforgottocollectthemwhenwefinallywentaway.

Thebanyantreegrewbehindthehouse.Itsspreadingbranches,whichhungto the ground and took root again, formed a number of twisting passagewayswhichgavemeendlesspleasure.Thetreewasolder thanthehouse,older thanmygrandparents, as old asDehra. I could hidemyself in its branches, behindthickgreenleaves,andspyontheworldbelow.Icouldreadinit,too,proppedup against the bole of the tree, with Treasure Island or the Jungle Books orcomicslikeWizardorHotspurwhich,unliketheforbiddenSupermanandotherslikehim,werefullofclean-cutschoolboyheroes.

Thebanyantreewasaworldinitself,populatedwithsmallbeastsandlargeinsects.Whiletheleaveswerestillpinkandtender,theywouldbevisitedbythedelicateMapButterfly,whocommittedhereggstotheircare.The‘hony’ontheleaves—an edible smear—also attracted the little striped squirrels, who soongrew used to my presence and became quite bold. Redheaded parrakeetsswarmedaboutthetreeearlyinthemornings.

But thebanyanreallycameto lifeduring themonsoon,whenthebrancheswerethickwithscarletfigs.Theseberrieswerenotfitforhumanconsumption,butthemanybirdsthatgatheredinthetree—gossipyRosyPastors,quarrelsomeMynas, cheerfulBulbuls andCoppersmiths, and sometimesa raucousbullyingcrow—feastedonthem.Andwhennightfell,andthebirdswereresting,thedarkFlying Foxes flapped heavily about the tree, chewing and munching as they

clamberedoverthebranches.Among nocturnal visitors to the jackfruit and banyan trees was the

Brainfeverbird,whoserealnameistheHawk-Cuckoo.‘Brainfever,brainfever!’it seems to call, and this shrill, naggingcrywillkeep the soundestof sleepersawakeonahotsummer’snight.

TheBritishcalledittheBrainfeverbird,butthereareothernamesforit.TheMahrattas called it Paos-ala’ which means ‘Rain is coming!’ PerhapsGrandfather’sinterpretationofitscallwasthebest.Accordingtohim,whenthebirdwastuningupforitsmainconcert,itseemedtosay:‘Ohdear,ohdear!Howveryhotit’sgetting!wefeelit…weFEELIT…WEFEELIT!’

Yes, the banyan treewas a noisy place during the rains. If theBrainfeverbirdmademusicbynight,thecricketsandcicadasorchestratedduringtheday.Asmusicians, the cicadaswere in a class by themselves. All through the hotweather theirchorusrang through thegarden,whileashowerof rain, far fromdampingtheirspirits,onlyrousedthemtoagreatervocaleffort.

The tree-crickets were a band of willing artistes who commenced theirperformance at almost any time of the day but preferably in the evenings.Delicate pale green creatureswith transparent greenwings, theywere hard tofind amongst the lushmonsoon foliage; but once located, a tap on the leaf orbushonwhichtheysatwouldputanimmediateendtotheperformance.

Attheheightofthemonsoon,thebanyantreewaslikeanorchestra-pitwiththemusiciansconstantlyturningup.Birds,insectsandsquirrelsexpressedtheirjoyattheendofthehotweatherandthecoolquenchingreliefortherains.

Afluteinmyhands,Iwouldtryaddingmyshrillpipingtotheirs.Buttheythought poorly ofmymusical ability, for,whenever I played on the flute, thebirdsandinsectswouldsubsideintoapainedandpuzzledsilence.

ABoyandaRiver

B etweentheboyandtheriverwasamountain.Iwasasmallboy,anditwasasmall river, but the thickly forestedmountainwasbig andhid the river.Yet Iknew itwas there andwhat it looked like. I hadnever seen the riverwithmyowneyes,butfromthevillagersIhadheardofit,ofthefishinitswaters,ofitsrocksandcurrentsandwaterfalls;anditonlyremainedformetotouchthewaterandknowitpersonally.

I stood in frontofourhouseon thehill opposite themountain, andgazedacrossthevalley,dreamingoftheriver.Iwasbarefooted;notbecauseIcouldn’taffordshoes,butbecauseIfeltfreewithmybarefeet,becauseIlikedthefeelofwarmstonesandcoolgrass,becausenotwearingshoessavedmethetroubleoftakingthemoff.

Itwaseleveno’clockandIknewmyparentswouldn’tbehometillevening.Therewas a loaf of bread I could takewithme, and on theway Imight findsomefruit.HerewasthechanceIhadbeenwaitingfor:itwouldnotcomeagainforalongtime,becauseitwasseldommyfatherandmothervisitedfriendsfortheentireday.IfIcamebackbeforedark,theywouldn’tevenknowwhereIhadbeen.

Iwentintothehouseandwrappedtheloafofbreadinanewspaper.ThenIclosedallthedoorsandwindows.

The path to the river dropped steeply into the valley, then rose and wentround thebigmountain. Itwas frequentlyusedby thevillagers—woodcutters,milkmen, shepherds, mule-drivers—but there were no villages beyond themountainorneartheriver.

Ipassedawoodcutterandaskedhimhowfar itwastotheriver.Hewasashort,powerfulman,withacreasedandweatheredfaceandmusclesthatstoodoutinhardlumps.

‘Sevenmiles,’hesaid.‘Whydoyouwanttoknow?’‘Iamgoingthere,’Isaid.‘Alone?’‘Ofcourse.’‘Itwilltakeyouthreehourstoreachit,andthenyouhavetocomeback.It

willbegettingdark,anditisnotaneasyroad.’‘ButI’magoodwalker,’Isaid,thoughIhadneverwalkedfartherthanthe

twomilesbetweenourhouseandmyschool.Ileftthewoodcutteronthepathandcontinueddownthehill.Itwasadizzy,windingpath,andIslippedonceortwiceandslidintoabush

ordownaslopeofslipperypine-needles.Thehillwascoveredwithlushgreenferns, the trees were entangled in creepers, and a great wild dahlia wouldsuddenlyrearitsgoldenheadfromtheleavesandferns.

Soon Iwas in the valley, and the path straightened out and then began torise.Imetagirlwhowascomingfromtheoppositedirection.Sheheldalongcurvedknifewithwhichshehadbeencuttinggrass,andtherewereringsinhernoseandears,andherarmswerecoveredwithheavybangles.Thebanglesmademusicwhenshemovedherwrists.Itwasasthoughherhandsspokealanguageoftheirown.

‘Howfarisittotheriver?’Iasked.Thegirlhadprobablyneverbeentotheriver,orshemayhavebeenthinking

ofanotherone,becauseshesaid,withoutanyhesitation,‘Twentymiles.’Ilaughedandrandownthepath.Aparrotscreechedsuddenlyandflewlow

overmyhead, a flash of blue andgreen. It took the course of the path, and Ifolloweditsdippingflight,runninguntilthepathroseandthebirddisappearedamongstthetrees.

Atrickleofwatercamedownthehillside,andIstoppedtodrink.Thewaterwascoldandsharpandvery refreshing.But Iwassoon thirstyagain.Thesunwas striking the side of the hill, and the dusty path became hotter, the stonesscorchingmyfeet.IwassureIhadcoveredhalfthedistance:Ihadbeenwalkingforoveranhour.

PresentlyIsawaboyaheadofme,drivingafewgoatsdownthepath.‘Howfarisittotheriver?’Iasked.Thevillageboy smiled and said, ‘Oh,not far, just round thenexthill and

straightdown.’Feelinghungry,Iunwrappedmyloafofbreadandbrokeitintwo,offering

onehalftotheboy.Wesatonthehillsideandateinsilence.Whenwefinished,we walked on together and began talking; and, talking, I did not notice thesmartingofmyfeetandtheheatofthesunandthedistanceIhadcoveredandthedistanceIhadyettocover.Butaftersometimemycompanionhadtotakeanotherpath,andoncemoreIwasonmyown.

Imissedthevillageboy;Ilookedupanddownthemountainpathbutnooneelse was in sight. My own home was hidden from view by the side of themountain, and there was no sign of the river. I began to feel discouraged. Ifsomeonehadbeenwithme,Iwouldnothavefaltered;butalone,Iwasconsciousofmyfatigueandisolation.

Ihadcomemore thanhalfway,and Icouldn’t turnback; Ihad to see theriver. If I failed, I would always be a little ashamed of the experience. So Iwalkedon,alongthehot,dusty,stonypath,paststonehutsandterracedfields,untiltherewerenomorefieldsorhuts,onlyforestandsunandloneliness.Therewerenomen,andnosignofman’s influence—only treesand rocksandgrassandsmallflowers—andsilence…

Thesilencewasimpressiveandalittlefrightening.Therewasnomovement,except for the bending of grass beneath my feet, and the circling of a hawkagainsttheblindingblueofthesky.

Then,asIroundedasharpbend,Iheardthesoundofwater.I gasped with surprise and happiness, and began to run. I slipped and

stumbled,but Ikepton running,until Iwasable toplunge into the snow-coldmountainwater.

Andthewaterwasblueandwhiteandverywonderful.

MyTreesintheHimalayas

L iving in a cottage at seven thousand feet in theGarhwalHimalayas, I amfortunatetohaveabigwindowthatopensoutontheforestsothatthetreesarealmostwithinmyreach.IfIjumped,Icouldlandquiteneatlyinthearmsofanoakorhorsechestnut.Ihavenevermadethatleap,butthebiglangurs—silver-graymonkeyswith long, swishing tails—often spring from the trees ontomycorrugatedtinroof,makingenoughnoisetofrightenallthebirdsaway.

Standingonitsownoutsidemywindowisawalnuttree,andtrulythisisatreeforallseasons.Inwinterthebranchesarebare,butbeautifullysmoothandrounded.Inspringeachlimbproducesabrightgreenspearofnewgrowth,andbymidsummer the entire tree is in leaf. Toward the end of themonsoon thewalnuts,encasedintheirgreenjackets,havereachedmaturity.Whenthejacketsbegintosplit,youcanseethehardbrownshellsofthenuts,andinsideeachshellisthedeliciousmeatitself.

Everyyearthistreegivesmeabasketofwalnuts.Butlastyearthenutsweredisappearingonebyone,and Iwasat a lossas towhohadbeen taking them.Couldithavebeenthemilkman’ssmallson?Hewasaninveteratetreeclimber,buthewasusuallytobefoundontheoaktrees,gatheringfodderforhisherd.Headmitted that his cows had enjoyed my dahlias, which they had eaten thepreviousweek,buthestoutlydeniedhavingfedthemwalnuts.

It wasn’t the woodpecker either. He was out there every day, knockingfuriously against the bark of the tree, trying to pry an insect out of a narrowcrack, but he was strictly non-vegetarian. As for the langurs, they ate mygeraniumsbutdidnotcareforthewalnuts.

ThenutsseemedtodisappearearlyinthemorningwhileIwasstillinbed,soonedayIsurprisedeveryone,includingmyselfbygettingupbeforesunrise.Iwasjustintimetocatchtheculpritclimbingoutofthewalnuttree.Shewasanoldwomanwho sometimes came to cutgrasson thehillside.Her facewas aswrinkledasthewalnutsshesofancied,butherarmsandlegswereverysturdy.

‘Andhowmanywalnutsdidyougathertoday,Grandmother?’Iasked.‘Justtwo,’shesaidwithagiggle,offeringthemtomeonheropenpalm.I

acceptedone,andthusencouraged,sheclimbedhigherintothetreeandhelpedherself to the remaining nuts. Itwas impossible forme to object. Iwas takenwithadmirationforheragility.Shemusthavebeentwicemyage,butIknewI

couldnevergetupthattree.Tothevictor,thespoils!Unliketheprizedwalnuts,thehorsechestnutsareinedible.Eventherhesus

monkeys throw them away in disgust. But the tree itself is a friendly one,especiallyinsummerwhenitisinfullleaf.Thelightestbreezemakestheleavesbreakintoconversation,andtheirrustleisacheerfulsound.Thespringflowersof the horse chestnut look like candelabra, and when the blossoms fall, theycarpetthehillsidewiththeirpalepinkpetals.

Itstandserectanddignifiedanddoesnotbendwiththewind.Inspringthenew leaves, or needles, are a tender green,while during themonsoon the tinyyoungconesspread likeblossomsin thedarkgreenfoldsof thebranches.Thedeodarenjoysthecompanyofitsownkind:whereonedeodargrows,therewillbeothers.Awalkinadeodarforestisawe-inspiring—surroundedonallsidesbythesegreat sentinelsof themountains,you feelas though the trees themselvesareonthemarch.

I walk among the trees outside my window often, acknowledging theirpresencewitha touchofmyhandagainst their trunks.Theoakhasbeen therethelongest,andthewindhasbentitsupperbranchesandtwistedafewsothatitlooksshaggyandundistinguished.Butitisagoodtreefortheprivacyofbirds.Sometimesitseemscompletelyuninhabiteduntilthereisawhiningsound,asofahelicopterapproaching,andapartyoflong-tailedbluemagpiesfliesacrosstheforestglade.

Mostofthepinesnearmyhomeareonthenexthillside.ButthereisasmallHimalayanbluealittlewaybelowthecottage,andsometimesIsitbeneathittolistentothewindplayingsoftlyinitsbranches.

WhenIopenthewindowatnight,thereisalmostalwayssomethingtolistento—themellowwhistle of a pygmyowlet, or the sharp cry of a barking deer.Sometimes,ifIamlucky,Iwillseethemooncomingupoverthenextmountain,andtwodistantdeodarsinperfectsilhouette.

Some night sounds outside my window remain strange and mysterious.Perhapstheyarethesoundsofthetreesthemselves,stretchingtheirlimbsinthedark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers, whispering to one another. Thesegreattreesofthemountains,Ifeeltheyknowmewell,asIwatchthemandlistentotheirsecrets,happytorestmyheadbeneaththeiroutstretchedarms.

DeathoftheTrees

T he peace and quiet of the Maplewood hillside disappeared forever onewinter.Thepowers-that-bedecidedtobuildanothernewroadintothemountainsand the PWD saw fit to take it right past the cottage, about six feet from thewindowwhichoverlookedtheforest.

In my journal I wrote—Already they have felled most of the trees. Thewalnutwas one of the first to go.A tree I had livedwith for over ten years,watching itgrowas IhadwatchedPrem’ssmall sonRakeshgrowup, lookingforwardtoitsnewleaf-buds,thebroadgreenleavesorsummerturningtospearsofgoldinSeptemberwhenthewalnutswereripeandreadytofall.Iknewthistreebetterthantheothers.Itwasjustbelowthewindowwhereabuttressfortheroadisgoingup.

Another tree Iwillmiss is theyoungdeodar, theonlyonegrowing in thisstretchofthewoods.Someyearsbackitwasstuntedfromlackofsunlight.Theoaks covered it with their shaggy branches, so I cut away some of theoverhangingonesandafterthatthedeodargrewmuchfaster.Itwasjustcomingintoitsownthisyear—nowcutdowninitsprimelikemyyoungbrotherontheroadtoDelhilastmonth.Bothvictimsoftheroads—thetreekiltedbythePWD,mybrotherbyatruck.

Twentyoakshavebeenfelledjustinthissmallstretchnearthecottage.Bythe time this by-pass reaches Jabai khet, about six miles from here, over athousand oaks will have been slaughtered, besides many other fine trees—maples,deodarsandpines—mostofthemunnecessarilyastheygrewsomefiftyorsixtyyardsfromtheroadside.

Thetroubleis,hardlyanyone(withtheexceptionofthecontractorwhobuysthefelledtrees)reallybelievesthat treesandshrubsarenecessary.Theyget inthewaysomuch,don’tthey?Accordingtomymilkman,theonlyusefultreeistheonewhichcanbepickedcleanof its leaves for fodder!Andayoungmanremarked tome, ‘YoushouldcometoPauri.Theviewis terrific, there’snotatreeintheway!’

Wellhecanstayherenowandenjoytheviewoftheravagedhillside.Butastheoakshavegone,themilkmanwillhavetolookfurtherafieldforhisfodder.

Rakeshcallsthemaplesbutterflytreesbecausewhenthewingedseedsfall,theyflutterlikebutterfliesinthebreeze.Nomaplesnow.Nobrightredleavesto

flame against the sky. No birds! That is to say, no birds near the house. Nolonger will it be possible for me to open the window and watch the scarletminivets flitting through the dark green foliage of the oaks… the long-tailedmagpiesgliding through the trees, thebarbet calling insistently fromhisperchonthetopofthedeodar.Forestbirds,allofthem,theywillnowbeinsearchofsomeotherstretchofsurvivingforest.Theonlyvisitorswillbethecrowswhohavelearnttolivewithandoffhumansandseemtomultiplyalongwithroads,housesandpeople.Andevenwhenallthepeoplehavegone,thecrowswillstillbethere.

Otherthingstolookforwardto—trucksthunderingpastinthenight,perhapsa tea and pakora shop around the corner. The grinding of gears, themusic ofmotorhorns.Willthewhistlingthrushbeheardabovethem?Theexplosionsthatcontinually shatter the silenceof themountainsas thousand-year-old rocksaredynamitedhavefrightenedawayallbutthemostintrepidofbirdsandanimals.Eventheboldlangurshaven’tshowntheirfacesforoverafortnight.

Somehow,Idon’tthinkweshallwaitfortheteashoptoarrive.Theremustbesomeotherquietcorner,possiblyonthenextmountainwherenewroadshaveyettocomeintobeing.NodoubtthisisanegativeattitudeandifIhadanysenseI’dopenmyownteashop.Toretreatistobealoser.Butthetreesareloserstooandwhentheyfall,theydosowithacertaindignity.

Nevermind.Mencomeandgo,themountainsremain.

WhentheMonsoonBreaks

IwasstayingatasmallhotelinMeerut,innorthIndia.Therehadbeennorainfor amonth, but the atmospherewas humid, and therewere clouds overhead,darkcloudsburgeoningwithmoisture.Thunderblossomedintheair.

Themonsoonwasgoingtobreakthatday.Iknewit;thebirdsknewit;thegrassknewit.Therewasthesmellofrainintheair.Andthegrass,thebirdsandIrespondedtothisodorwiththesamelonging.

A large drop ofwater hit thewindowsill, darkening the thick dust on thewoodwork.A faintbreezehad sprungup, andagain I felt themoisture, closerandwarmer.

Thentherainapproachedlikeadarkcurtain.Icouldseeitmovingdownthestreet,heavyandremorseless.Itdrummedonthecorrugatedtinroofandsweptacross the roadandover thebalconyofmy room. I sat therewithoutmoving,lettingtherainsoakmystickyshirtandgrittyhair.

Outside,thestreetrapidlyemptied.Thecrowddisappeared.Thenbuses,carsandbullockcartsplowedthroughthesuddenlyrushingwater.Agroupofsmallboys,gloriouslynaked,camerompingalongasidestreet,whichwaslikeariverinspate.Agarlandofmarigolds,sweptoffthestepsofatemple,camefloatingdownthemiddleoftheroad.Therainstoppedassuddenlyasithadbegun.

The daywas dying, and the breeze remained cool andmoist. In the brieftwilightthatfollowed,Iwaswitnesstothegreatyearlyflightofinsectsintothecool,brieffreedomofthenight.

Termites andwhite ants,which had been sleeping through the hot season,emergedfromtheirlairs.Outofeveryholeandcrack,andfromundertherootsoftrees,hugewingedantsemerged,atfirstflutteringaboutheavilyonthis,thefirst and last flight of their lives. Therewas only one direction inwhich theycould fly—toward the light—toward the street lights and the bright neontubelightabovemybalcony.

Thelightabovemybalconyattractedamassive,quiveringswarmofclumsytermites,givingtheimpressionofonethick,slowlyrevolvingmass.Afroghadfound its way through the bathroom and came hopping across the balcony topausebeneaththelight.Allhehadtodowasgobble,asinsectsfellaroundhim.

Thiswasthehourofthegeckos,thewalllizards.Theyhadtheirrewardforweeksofpatientwaiting.Plyingtheirstickypinktongues,theydevouredinsects

asswiftlyandmethodicallyaschildrendevourpopcorn.Forhourstheycrammedtheir stomachs, knowing that such a feast would not come their way again.Throughouttheentirehotseasontheinsectworldhadpreparedforthisflightoutofdarknessintolight,andthephenomenonwouldnothappenagainforanotheryear.

In hot up-country towns in India, it is good to have the first monsoonshowersarriveatnight,whileyouaresleepingontheveranda.Youwakeuptothe scent of wet earth and fallen neem leaves, and find that a hot and stuffybungalowhasbeenconvenedintoacool,dampplace.

The swish of the banana fronds and the drumming of the rain on broad-leavedsaltreeswillsootheanybrow.

Duringtherains, thefrogshaveaperfectcountrymusicfestival.Therearetwo sets of them, it seems, and they sing antiphonal chants all evening, eachgrouplettingtheother takeits turninthefairestmanner.Nooneseesorhearsthemduringthehotweather,but themomentthemonsoonbreaks, theyswarmallovertheplace.

When night comes on, greatmoths fly past, and beetles of all shapes andsizes come whirring in at the open windows. The fireflies also light up theirlamps, flashing messages to each other through the mango groves. Somenocturnal insects thrivemainly at the expense of humans, and sometimes onewakes up to find thirty or forty mosquitoes looking through the netting in ahungrymanner.Ifyouaresleepingout,you’llneedthatmosquito-netting.

Theroadoutside is linedwith linebabul trees,nowcoveredwithpowderylittle halls of yellow blossom, filling the air with a faint scent. After the firstshowers, there isagreatdealofwaterabout,and formanymiles the treesarestanding in it. The common sights along an up-country road are oftenpicturesque—thewideplainswithgreatherdsofsmoke-colored,delicate-limbedcattle being driven slowly home for the night, accompanied by troops ofungainly buffaloes, and flocks of goats and black long-tailed sheep.Thenyoucometoapond,wherethebuffaloesareindulginginawallow,nopartofthemvisiblebutthetipsoftheirnoses.

Withinafewdaysofthefirstrain,theairisfullofdragonflies,crossingandrecrossing,poisedmotionlessforamoment,thendartingawaywiththatmingledgraceandpowerthatisunmatchedamonginsects.Dragonfliesaretheswallowsof the insectworld; theirprey is themosquitoes, thegnats, themidgesand theflies.Theseswarms,therefore,tellusthatthemoistenedsurfaceoftheground,with its mouldering leaves and sodden grass, has become one vast incubatorteemingwitheveryformofephemerallife.

After themonotonyofafiercesunandadustylandscapequarteringin the

dimdistance,onewelcomesthesedaysofmildlight,greenearthandpurplehillscomingnearintheclearandtransparentair.

Andlateron,whenthemonsoonbeginstobreakupandthehillsaredappledwithlightandshade,darkislandsofcloudsmovingacrossthebrightgreensea,theeffectonone’s spirit is strangelyexhilarating.For in India the true spring,thebeginningofthings,thebirthdayofnature,isnotinMarchbutinJune.

Rosebud:AFragment

J aihadplacedachairon thebeatenearth floorof the littlecourtyard, in theshadeofanapricottree.Apricotsappearedtobetheonlytreesthatgrewnearthevillage.Theirleaveswererusset-redintheautumnsun.Ifeltsurethatotherfruitcouldgrowheretoo—apples,pears,peaches.IfIwerelivinghere,I thought,Icould try them out. If I could get a message to McNulty he would send mesaplingsfromtheSaharanpurnurseries.Andontheothersideofthehill,whereitwas shadier andmoister, therewere plants that hewould love to have. If Iwerelivinghere—butIhadnoplanstostay.

Jai’svillage, in thenextvalley,wasawarmerplace.Herewewere facingthe snows—themighty Srikanth peak towered directly above us. Twomonthsfromnowthevillagewouldbeundersnow.

‘Doyoustayherethroughthewinter?’IaskedGulabi.She nodded, ‘People come down from the Gangotri shrine to stay here

duringthewinter.Thetemplepriestsandothers.’I lookeddown themountain towhere the river,greenandgold,wound its

way through sandbanks and rocky islets on which grew clumps of pine andmaple.

‘Whynotlivedownthere?’Iasked.‘Thereisnolanddownthereforfields,’shesaid.‘Andsometimestheriver

isinfloodandeverythinggetssweptaway.’Sheseemedtogiveoutsomeoftheglowthatwasinherface.Ifeltitpour

overme.And thisgoldenfeelingdidnotpass,evenwhenIwent into thecooldarknessofthehousetojoinJaiinamealpreparedespeciallyforus.

It can be hot in September, even in the mountains and by the time weclimbedthesteeppathtoHarsil,mycompanionandIwerebothverythirsty.Isatdownonalowboundarywall,whileJaiwalkedovertoasmallhousetoaskforwaterandenquireabouthisrelatives.

Itwasoneof thosewarm,humidafternoonswhendrowsiness is in theair,andthebuzzofinsectslullsoneintoslumber.Ihadclosedmyeyesandwashalfasleepwhenafootstepmademesitup.Someonewasholdingatumberofwaterbeforeme,butthehandsthathelditwerenotJai’s.Theywerethehandsofagirl—notverydelicate,butfirmandwithoutblemish.Ilookedupintoherfaceandoureyesmetovertherimofthetumbler.Iforgottotakeitfromher.

Shewasafairgirl,asfairastheycomeinthehills,andtherewasatingeofpink in her cheeks. Her hair was black and glossy and lay open across hershoulders,forshehadbeendryingitinthewarmsun.Herclotheswereplainbutneat;herfeetandhandswerebrownfromsunandwind.Herlipswerefullandsoft.Poppiesinhercheeksandrosesinherlips,Ithought.

‘Youarethirsty,’shesaid.I tookmyeyesoffher foramoment,grasped the tumbleranddrank till it

wasempty.‘Thankyou,’Isaid.‘Andwhoareyou?’‘IamGulabi.’‘Rosebud.Aprettyname.Itsuitsyou.’‘Thesearemyfather’sfields.Yourfriendisacousinofmine.Heiswaiting

foryouinthehouse.Comeinsideandrest.’WhatIlikedaboutherwashersmile.Itdroppedoverherfaceslowly,like

sunshinemovingoverbrownhills.

TotheEndofOurDays

S ixorseven—that’stheageatwhichouressentialtastes,evenourobsessions—begintobestampedonusbyoutsideimpressions.Theyarenevereradicated,evenwhenwe thinkwehave forgotten them.Tomydyingday I shall have aspecial fondness for thecosmosflowerbecauseI rememberwalking throughaforest of them—orwhat seemed like a forest—when Iwas fiveor six.White,lightpurple,magenta,thosefresh-facedflowersnoddedtomeasIplayedonthelawnsoftheJamnagarpalacegrounds;andtodaymorethanseventyyearslater,wheneverIseethecosmosinflower,Igoamongthem,fortheyareeternalevenifIamnot.AndtothisdayIlikethesoundofacockcrowingatbreakofday,becausethiswasoneofthefirstsoundsthatimpingedonmybrainwhenIwasachild. A cock crowing at dawn. Harbinger of light, of optimism. ‘Great day!Greatday!’itseemstosay.Anditwillnotbedenied.

Little things staywith us, remainwith us over the years. The sound of abroom,thesmallhand-broom,sweepingthestepsorverandahtakesmebacktothat distant but vivid childhood, and the thin dark woman who swept thebungalow’sroomsandverandah.Ilovedwatchingheratwork.Itseemedlikeagame to me and sometimes I would take the jharoo from her and sweep sovigorously that the dust rose and settled on the furniture. ‘Mem-sahibwill beangry,’she’dsay,andtakethebroomawayfromme.Butshe’dletmeborrowitfrom time to time, when my parents weren’t around! The broom-motif hasremainedwithme, and the other day, seeing thatmy stepswere coveredwithdead leaves, I picked up the small jharoo lying outside my door and beganclearingawaytheleaves.Alocalshopkeeperonhiswayto thebazaarsawmesweeping away and called out: ‘Sir,what are youdoing?That’s not your job.Give the jharoo to thesweeper!’Absorbed inmychildhoodhobby,all Icouldsay was, ‘Yes, mem-sahib,’ while sending up a flurry of dead leaves. Hecontinuedonhisway,mutteringsomethingaboutthepooroldwriterhavinglosthisbalanceatlast.Notallourearlyimpressionsareofapleasantnature,buttheylingerwithusjustthesame.Likethefrequentquarrelsthattookplacebetweenmy parents, frequently inmy presence. I hated these quarrels and Iwas quitehelplesstostopthem.Eventuallytheyledtomyparents’separation.Andallmylife I have felt profoundly disturbed if I see or overhear a husband and wifequarrellingbitterly. I lookaround to see if a child ispresent.And then realise

thatIamthatchild.Fortunatelythemostlastingimpressionsaretheharmoniousones.Whydo I still preferhomemadebutter to factory-madebutter?Because,whenIwasfiveorsix,Iwouldwatchmyfathervigorouslybeatingupabowlofcream and then spreading a generous amount of creamy white butter on mytoast. Now Beena, who looks after the household, knows why I am alwaysdemandingcreamywhitehomemadebutterforbreakfast.

And you, dear reader, will have similar impressions to carrywith you allyour days. That first day at school, maybe an agonising parting from yourparents. The face of a loved one lost. A pullover knitted by your granny. Afavourite toy.A doll, perhaps.A book of rhymes, tattered and torn. Someonewhogaveyouaflower,akissontheforehead.Totheendofyourdaysyouwillcarrythatkisswithyou.Andmayitprotectyoufromallharm.