The Jungle Books Read online

  Father, Mother and Me

  Sister and Auntie say

  All the people like us are We,

  And every one else is They.

  And They live over the sea,

  While We live over the way,

  But—would you believe it?— They look upon We

  As only a sort of They!

  The Jungle Books became immensely successful, and sparked many imitations. The best-known was written by an American, Edgar Rice Burroughs, who changed the wolves into apes, set the story in Africa instead of India, made Mowgli white, and renamed him Tarzan.

  But the Jungle Books are not only about Mowgli. Tucked away among the jungle tales proper are several that concern other humans, such as Toomai of the Elephants and Kotuko the Inuit, who lives in the Northern or Elder Ice, “beyond the white man’s ken.” Other stories tell of different beasts: a seal, a mongoose, an old crane, a jackal, a crocodile. Though all of these thrilled me, none moved as much as the second tale in the second volume, “The Miracle of Purun Bhagat,” the story of an efficient Indian bureaucrat who after following the teachings of his English overlords and becoming Prime Minister of one of the semi-independent native States, leaves everything to become a holy man, with a begging bowl and an ochre-colored dress. “He did a thing no Englishman would have dreamed of doing,” Kipling writes, “for, so far as the world’s affairs went, he died.” Like Mowgli’s, the story of Purun Bhagat, who was once Purun Dass and a knight of the British Empire, is a story of learning and transformation. But while Mowgli travels from the natural world to that of human society, Purun Bhagat advances in the opposite direction, from civilization back to nature, to a state in which he can converse with the animals and be not against, not above, but in the world.

  As a British subject, Kipling certainly endorsed the tenets of Victorian society and of the industrial revolution, but as a writer, something in him believed in forces more powerful and truer than mere civilization. In all his stories, from Plain Tales of the Hills and the Jungle Books to the dark and complex masterpieces of his old age, Kipling acknowledged our daily struggle to survive, the pain and suffering that everyone endures at some time or another, from childhood to old age, the violence of amorous passion, the madness of war, the despair of doubt and incomprehension. But, at the same time, in stories such as that of Purun Bhagat, Kipling showed that he also knew how, in spite of all that turmoil, the world can be a good place, and, if the stars are kind, human beings can lead good lives and do good things.

  —Alberto Manguel

  BOOK I

  PREFACE TO BOOK I

  THE demands made by a work of this nature upon the generosity of specialists are very numerous, and the Editor would be wanting in all title to the generous treatment he has received were he not willing to make the fullest possible acknowledgment of his indebtedness.

  His thanks are due in the first place to the scholarly and accomplished Bahadur Shah, baggage elephant 174 on the Indian Register, who, with his amiable sister Pudmini, most courteously supplied the history of “Toomai of the Elephants” and much of the information contained in “Servants of the Queen.” The adventures of Mowgli were collected at various times and in various places from a multitude of informants, most of whom desire to preserve the strictest anonymity. Yet, at this distance, the Editor feels at liberty to thank a Hindu gentleman of the old rock, an esteemed resident of the upper slopes of Jakko, for his convincing if somewhat caustic estimate of the national characteristics of his caste—the Presbytes. Sahi, a savant of infinite research and industry, a member of the recently disbanded Seeonee Pack, and an artist well known at most of the local fairs of Southern India, where his muzzled dance with his master attracts the youth, beauty, and culture of many villages, has contributed most valuable data on people, manners, and customs. These have been freely drawn upon, in the stories of “ ‘Tiger-Tiger!’ ” “Kaa’s Hunting,” and “Mowgli’s Brothers.” For the outlines of “‘Rikki-tikki-tavi’ ” the Editor stands indebted to one of the leading herpetologists of Upper India, a fearless and independent investigator who, resolving “not to live but know,” lately sacrificed his life through over-application to the study of our Eastern Thanatophidia. A happy accident of travel enabled the Editor, when a passenger on the Empress of India, to be of some slight assistance to a fellow-voyager. How richly his poor services were repaid, readers of “The White Seal” may judge for themselves.

  MOWGLI’S BROTHERS

  Now Chil the Kite brings home the night

  That Mang the Bat sets free—

  The herds are shut in byre and but

  For loosed till dawn are we.

  This is the hour of pride and power,

  Talon and tush and claw.

  Oh, hear the call!—Good hunting all

  That keep the Jungle Law!

  Night-Song in the Jungle

  IT was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee Hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big grey nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived. “Augrh!” said Father Wolf, “it is time to hunt again.” And he was going to spring down hill when a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: “Good luck go with you, O Chief of the Wolves; and good luck and strong white teeth go with the noble children, that they may never forget the hungry in this world.”

  It, was the jackal—Tabaqui the Dish-licker—and the wolves of India despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village rubbish-heaps. But they are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more than any one else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets that he was ever afraid of any one, and runs through the forest biting everything in his way. Even the tiger runs and hides when little Tabaqui goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee—the madness—and run.

  “Enter, then, and look,” said Father Wolf, stiffly, “but there is no food here.”

  “For a wolf, no,” said Tabaqui, “but for so mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the Jackal-People], to pick and choose?” He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end merrily.

  “All thanks for this good meal,” he said, licking his lips. “How beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes! And so young too! Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings are men from the beginning.”

  Now, Tabaqui knew as well as any one else that there is nothing so unlucky as to compliment children to their faces; and it pleased him to see Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable.

  Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully:

  “Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting-grounds. He will hunt among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me.”

  Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Wainganga River, twenty miles away.

  “He has no right!” Father Wolf began angrily. “By the Law of the Jungle he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I—I have to kill for two, these days.”

  “His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing,” said Mother Wolf, quietly. “He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Wainganga are angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry. They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very grateful to Shere Khan!”

  “Shall I tell him of your gratitude?” said Tabaqui.

  “Out!” snapped F
ather Wolf. “Out and hunt with thy master. Thou hast done harm enough for one night.”

  “I go,” said Tabaqui, quietly. “Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the thickets. I might have saved myself the message.”

  Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little river, he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it.

  “The fool!” said Father Wolf. “To begin a night’s work with that noise! Does he think that our buck are like his fat Wainganga bullocks?”

  “Hsh. It is neither bullock nor buck he hunts to-night,” said Mother Wolf. “It is Man.” The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to come from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders woodcutters and gipsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger.

  “Man!” said Father Wolf, showing all his white teeth. “Faugh! Are there not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat Man, and on our ground too!”

  The Law of the Jungle, which never orders anything without a reason, forbids every beast to eat Man except when he is killing to show his children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting-grounds of his pack or tribe. The real reason for this is that man-killing means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches. Then everybody in the jungle suffers. The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenceless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him. They say too—and it is true—that man-eaters become mangy, and lose their teeth.

  The purr grew louder, and ended in the full-throated “Aaarh!” of the tiger’s charge.

  Then there was a howl—an untigerish howl—from Shere Khan. “He has missed,” said Mother Wolf. “What is it?”

  Father Wolf ran out a few paces and heard Shere Khan muttering and mumbling savagely, as he tumbled about in the scrub.

  “The fool has had no more sense than to jump at a woodcutters’ camp-fire, and has burned his feet,” said Father Wolf, with a grunt. “Tabaqui is with him.”

  “Something is coming up hill,” said Mother Wolf, twitching one ear. “Get ready.”

  The bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and Father Wolf dropped with his haunches under him, ready for his leap. Then, if you had been watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world—the wolf checked in mid-spring. He made his bound before he saw what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself. The result was that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing almost where he left ground.

  “Man!” he snapped. “A man’s cub. Look!”

  Directly in front of him, holding on by a low branch, stood a naked brown baby who could just walk—as soft and as dimpled a little atom as ever came to a wolf’s cave at night. He looked up into Father Wolf’s face, and laughed.

  “Is that a man’s cub?” said Mother Wolf. “I have never seen one. Bring it here.”

  A wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs can, if necessary, mouth an egg without breaking it, and though Father Wolf’s jaws closed right on the child’s back, not a tooth even scratched the skin, as he laid it down among the cubs.

  “How little! How naked, and—how bold!” said Mother Wolf, softly. The baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide. “Ahai! He is taking his meal with the others. And so this is a man’s cub. Now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a man’s cub among her children?”

  “I have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our pack or in my time,” said Father Wolf. “He is altogether without hair, and I could kill him with a touch of my foot. But see, he looks up and is not afraid.”

  The moonlight was blocked out of the mouth of the cave, for Shere Khan’s great square head and shoulders were thrust into the entrance. Tabaqui, behind him, was squeaking: “My lord, my lord, it went in here!”

  “Shere Khan does us great honour,” said Father Wolf, but his eyes were very angry. “What does Shere Khan need?”

  “My quarry. A man’s cub went this way,” said Shere Khan. “Its parents have run off. Give it to me.”

  Shere Khan had jumped at a woodcutters’ camp-fire, as Father Wolf had said, and was furious from the pain of his burned feet. But Father Wolf knew that the mouth of the cave was too narrow for a tiger to come in by. Even where he was, Shere Khan’s shoulders and fore paws were cramped for want of room, as a man’s would be if he tried to fight in a barrel.

  “The wolves are a free people,” said Father Wolf. “They take orders from the head of the pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer. The man’s cub is ours—to kill if we choose.”

  “Ye choose and ye do not choose! What talk is this of choosing? By the bull that I killed, am I to stand nosing into your dog’s den for my fair dues? It is I, Shere Khan, who speak!”

  The tiger’s roar filled the cave with thunder. Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan.

  “And it is I, Raksha [the Demon], who answer. The man’s cub is mine, Lungri—mine to me! He shall not be killed. He shall live to run with the pack and to hunt with the pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs—frog-eater—fish-killer—he shall hunt thee! Now get hence, or by the sambur that I killed (I eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world! Go!”

  Father Wolf looked on amazed. He had almost forgotten the days when he won Mother Wolf in fair fight from five other wolves, when she ran in the pack and was not called the Demon for compliment’s sake. Shere Khan might have faced Father Wolf, but he could not stand up against Mother Wolf, for he knew that where he was she had all the advantage of the ground, and would fight to the death. So he backed out of the cave-mouth growling, and when he was clear he shouted:

  “Each dog barks in his own yard! We will see what the pack will say to this fostering of man-cubs. The cub is mine, and to my teeth he will come in the end, O bush-tailed thieves!”

  Mother Wolf threw herself down panting among the cubs, and Father Wolf said to her gravely:

  “Shere Khan speaks this much truth. The cub must be shown to the pack. Wilt thou still keep him, Mother?”

  “Keep him!” she gasped. “He came naked, by night, alone and very hungry; yet he was not afraid! Look, he has pushed one of my babes to one side already. And that lame butcher would have killed him and would have run off to the Wainganga while the villagers here hunted through all our lairs in revenge! Keep him? Assuredly I will keep him. Lie still, little frog. O thou Mowgli—for Mowgli the Frog I will call thee—the time will come when thou wilt hunt Shere Khan as he has hunted thee.”

  “But what will our pack say?” said Father Wolf.

  The Law of the Jungle lays down very clearly that any wolf may, when he marries, withdraw from the pack he belongs to; but as soon as his cubs are old enough to stand on their feet he must bring them to the pack council, which is generally held once a month at full moon, in order that the other wolves may identify them. After that inspection the cubs are free to run where they please, and until they have killed their first buck no excuse is accepted if a grown wolf of the pack kills one of them. The punishment is death where the murderer can be found; and if you think for a minute you will see that this must be so.

  Father Wolf waited till his cubs could run a little, and then on the night of the pack meeting took them and Mowgli and Mother Wolf to the Council Rock—a hill-top covered with stones and boulders where a hundred wolves could hide. Akela, the great grey Lone Wolf, who led all the pack by strength and cunning, lay out at full length on his rock, and below him sat forty or more wolves of every size and colour, from badger-coloured veterans who could handle a buck alone, to young black three-year-olds who thoug
ht they could. The Lone Wolf had led them for a year now. He had fallen twice into a wolf-trap in his youth, and once he had been beaten and left for dead; so he knew the manners and customs of men. There was very little talking at the rock. The cubs tumbled over each other in the centre of the circle where their mothers and fathers sat, and now and again a senior wolf would go quietly up to a cub, look at him carefully, and return to his place on noiseless feet. Sometimes a mother would push her cub far out into the moonlight, to be sure that he had not been overlooked. Akela from his rock would cry: “Ye know the Law—ye know the Law. Look well, O wolves!” And the anxious mothers would take up the call: “Look—look well, O wolves!”

  At last—and Mother Wolf’s neck-bristles lifted as the time came—Father Wolf pushed “Mowgli the Frog,” as they called him, into the centre, where he sat laughing and playing with some pebbles that glistened in the moonlight.

  Akela never raised his head from his paws, but went on with the monotonous cry: “Look well!” A muffled roar came up from behind the rocks—the voice of Shere Khan crying: “The cub is mine. Give him to me. What have the Free People to do with a man’s cub?” Akela never even twitched his ears. All he said was: “Look well, O wolves! What have the Free People to do with the orders of any save the Free People? Look well!”