INDIA SHOWS WHAT she wants to show, as if her secrets are guarded by a wall of infinite height. You try to climb the wall – you fall; you fetch a ladder – it is too short; but if you are patient a brick will loosen and then another. Once through, India embraces you, but that was something I had yet to learn.
When I arrived in Delhi it was my ladder that was too short. I wanted everything immediately. The monsoons had broken. Black, swollen clouds brought the usual rain, humidity and chaos. Roads were awash, taxis broke down, peacocks screamed. I perspired, worried and developed prickly heat – and I had only been there a few days.
Inevitably I consulted a fortune-teller. ‘You are married, yes,’ he stated wisely.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘But you are having a companion, I think.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are most fortunate, sir. Soon you will be having another one. I am seeing many problems. But do not worry, sir,’ he added brightly. ‘They will only be getting worse.’
With characteristic generosity my friend had put his house at my disposal. It was to become ‘elephant headquarters’ and the mantle of co-ordinator had settled, however unwillingly, upon his shoulders. In the following week his elegant dining-room was converted into an operations area fit for a world war. Maps and papers littered the table, kit bags, medical supplies, mosquito nets, tents and food rations occupied corners. People dropped in and out. The telephone never stopped ringing and his staff worked overtime producing a continuous chain of refreshments. Game wardens, wildlife officials and forest officers, retired shikaris, politicians, journalists, government servants, ministers and just plain friends were contacted – all important people with tight schedules who went out of their way to help. Undeservedly, however, the bricks had already been loosened for me.
‘Everybody’s so kind,’ I remarked to my friend incredulously.
‘It is not you that they’re worried about, it’s the elephant.’
In this merry-go-round of madness I sloshed from office to office pestering people. I spent a morning discussing the reproduction cycles of the gharial, the Indian freshwater crocodile, and another looking at slides of seabirds. I was offered a camel and found myself buying a jade green parrot from a mobile bird seller, which promptly bit me. I listened carefully to mercurial advice on ancient routes and less carefully to lectures about pilgrimages and migrations affected by lunar and solar cycles. I heard about the great temples and festivals I would see, the jungles I would travel through and the tribals that I would encounter. ‘And elephants?’ I would eventually enquire hopefully.
‘India is like an elephant,’ I was told. ‘She moves slowly.’
At last a vital brick fell out. Through my friend I met an important bureaucrat who had a deep knowledge of wildlife and, more important, was an expert on elephants.
‘Orissa, the old kingdom of Kalinga,’ he said, studying the map I had spread before him, ‘is where you should go. For centuries the rulers paid their tributes in elephants. They were known as Gajpati, the Lords of Elephants. In fact,’ he continued, ‘you will almost certainly be retracing some ancient elephant route. You tell me that you are ending the journey at the Sonepur Mela in Bihar.’
‘It was just an idea …’
‘Well, where did those elephant tributes go? To Pataliputra, the old capital of India, or Patna as it is known today. Sonepur is a few miles north of Patna, across the Ganga. Now,’ he paused for a moment. ‘In India every great pilgrimage or journey begins or ends at a temple or place of worship.’ He smiled. ‘In your case particularly an auspicious start would be of great importance. You might consider the great Sun temple at Konarak, the Black Pagoda. The main structure is supported by a carved frieze of two thousand elephants and the north side is guarded by two colossal war elephants which are so lifelike that, on moonlit nights, visitors often mistake them for the real thing.’
I now had a complete journey more or less mapped out, but still no vehicle. ‘And an elephant, sir?’ I enquired with diffidence.
‘Your best bet is the zoo. I’ll give you a letter of introduction to the director of the Nandankanan Biological Park. He’s a helpful man and runs one of our better establishments. If anyone can find you an elephant, he will. Now, whatever you do, don’t buy a Muckna.’
‘Of course not,’ I replied firmly, assuming more knowledge than I possessed. Obviously he did not believe me. He explained that a Muckna is a male elephant without tusks that suffers from a kind of inferiority complex and is usually exceedingly dangerous.
‘Like a sort of eunuch,’ I suggested brightly.
‘Well, yes,’ he replied, looking at me oddly. ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Of course, you will need a mahout and a charkaatiya.’
I must have looked perplexed.
‘A charkaatiya,’ he explained patiently, ‘is a man who cuts fodder for the elephant. Its daily consumption can be as much as two hundred kilos. In certain areas, fodder will not be available, so you will have to buy it. It will be expensive. And,’ he continued, ‘it might be a good idea to get hold of a jeep. You can probably hire one in Orissa. You’ll need back up.’
I swallowed hard. My entourage was growing. The idea of climbing on and setting off vanished. I would now command a small army.
His information was limitless. He advised me on the different types of howdahs, the price of elephants, their feeding habits, medical care, emergency tactics, mahouts and elephant commands (alarmingly there were eighty-four of them). Before I left, he gave me the letter and told me that when one is buying an elephant, there are five points to look for that one doesn’t look for when buying a wife, and vice versa. Unfortunately, he could not remember what they were.
Back at the house I found my friend pacing the garden nervously.
‘I’m off to Orissa,’ I announced happily.
‘I know,’ he sighed. He was born in Orissa and had spent his childhood there.
‘Well, don’t look so miserable. You are about to get rid of me. Anyway you should be happy I am going to visit your home.’
‘That’s what I am worried about,’ he retorted testily. ‘You are bound to get into trouble, or else get lost. You must take somebody with you. What about the language? How on earth are you going to understand anything?’
I had become so obsessed with finding an elephant that I had not given this a thought. Two or three months of sign language could become confusing, in fact, unbearable. ‘What should I do?’ I asked anxiously.
‘I think I know a man. He is a photographer. This kind of folly will appeal to him.’
‘When can I meet him?’
‘In about ten minutes,’ he announced smugly. ‘I have invited him for lunch.’
Ten minutes later a distinguished, well-built man, sporting a full moustache and wearing Rayban sunglasses, loped into the garden. He took off his glasses. ‘You!’ he barked fiercely. Puzzled I looked around me. The garden was empty. He then roared with laughter and held out his hand. ‘I’m Aditya Patankar. We have met before – at Holi. But I do not think that you would remember me.’
I cringed at the mention of the Spring Festival of Holi, a wild, bacchanalian affair where people smear each other with coloured powders. Pulverised by traditional opium concoctions I had passed out in a fountain. He won’t want to come, I thought.
‘I don’t know much about elephants,’ Aditya said, to my surprise. ‘As a child I was taken by my father to see the elephants in the stables at my cousin’s palace in Gwalior. These elephants were used for ceremonial occasions and for the tiger shoots. About one hundred years ago the ruling Maharaja hoisted two of the great beasts on to the roof of the palace to ensure that the ceiling would withstand the stupendous weight of two Venetian chandeliers he wished to install. But tell me about your journey …’
Over lunch I weaved a beguiling tale of a well-planned expedition.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he said with a smile, ‘but I will come. There is another reason. You see I’m a Maratha – my ancestors, of whom I’m intensely proud, formed a superb fighting force, and were reputed to have invented guerrilla warfare. Their barbaric reputation alone was enough to strike terror into the heart of India. Both Orissa and Bihar suffered from their swords. It will be interesting to retrace some of their exploits.’
I realised I was extremely fortunate. Already I liked this straightforward man with his loud voice and laughing eyes. We were an unlikely pair, I thought to myself – an Indian nobleman and an errant Englishman, thrown together by a whim, like some mad nineteenth-century expedition, except the quest was not for a lost city or a hidden treasure, but for an elephant.
Two days later we flew to Bhubaneshwar, the capital of Orissa.