OVERNIGHT, AS IF somebody had simply pushed a button, the monsoons left us, hurrying their black clouds further south. There was a distinct change in the air. It was crisp, alive; the early morning a few degrees colder and then warming as the sun rose. Autumn in India had arrived bringing with it long, hot, golden days of harvest, celebration and festivals.
As instructed by Bhim, we were to be on the look-out for the mimosa plant, otherwise known as ‘touch-me-not’. If you caressed its small fern-like leaves they closed quickly, like a shutting book. The plant was an essential ingredient in the puja that was soon to be performed, where I would take on Bhim as my guru. Bhim called it the ‘full control ceremony’. Once Tara had eaten the blessed offering of mimosa and gur, he explained, she would be as obedient as a lamb and I would become the complete master. I was sceptical about this – not that I doubted Bhim, but because I doubted my abilities in controlling Tara, who was becoming friskier as each day passed. All the same I eagerly scanned the countryside for this plant. I was going to need all the help I could get. I was also encouraged by watching Gokul. He had apparently undergone a similar ceremony before we had started at Nandankanan and now was riding Tara with all the ability of a seasoned mahout, urging her along with shrill, squeaky cries.
We were well into rural Orissa, where fresh droppings were abundant, signalling that we had entered elephant country. At the top of the giant bamboo groves ringing the paddy fields were tree houses, constructed like large storks’ nests, access to which was gained by long rickety ladders. These were anti-elephant machans in which the villagers would sit at night and, by means of fireworks, crackers, shouting and flaming torches, attempt to deter rampaging beasts from demolishing their crops. In one village, where we stopped for tea, a young man, the local teacher, approached me.
‘It is indeed,’ he said, ‘a wonderful thing that you are coming today. A gift from the gods.’
‘Namaste,’ I replied, delighted by this welcome but slightly bewildered.
‘You, of course, will stop and help us?’ he enquired eagerly.
‘Well, yes,’ now completely bewildered. ‘If I can.’
‘It is the tusker, sir. It has decimated our crops. It has already killed eleven of our people. You,’ he said pointing to Tara, ‘will catch it with your elephant.’
‘Catch it with my elephant?’ I answered amazed. Tara was happily rummaging around by the side of the tea-stall in search of food. The thought of the four of us with Tara engaged in some mad Mela Shikar chasing a highly dangerous elephant was absurd, and yet it was wonderful that he imagined it as being so simple. ‘I’m sorry. You see we are just travelling through your beautiful country and we are not equipped to undertake such a task. Can’t the government do anything about it?’
‘The government,’ he replied crestfallen, ‘will do nothing. The tusker has only killed eleven people, sir. It must kill twenty-four before they are even considering taking actions.’
This was but one of many similar situations that I would encounter on my travels concerning the growing imbalance in India between the rural man and the natural life of the elephant living in harmony. Both are blameless and both are victims of greed; greed caused by the desire for timber, and the consequent massive deforestation. Elephants are creatures of habit. They have, for centuries, followed the same migratory routes in search of food. They arrive and find none: their larder has been cut down, and in desperation they turn to raiding crops on which the villagers’ livelihood depends. The villagers are helpless and, even if they could afford to buy modern firearms, would usually be loath to use them. The elephant is a revered beast. Even when, which is seldom, a licence is granted to shoot an elephant that has been established as a rogue, more often than not the kill is not carried out. They revert to modern methods of trying to drug the animal, which in reality is an expensive and impractical situation. In a local newspaper I had read about a problem tusker that had killed and was causing havoc in another area of Orissa:
Licences were issued to kill it. When the hunters took position closer to the pachyderm to shoot him, they found that tears flowed from his eyes and he was supplicant. They dropped their plans and the tusker returned to the forests. The experts are of the opinion that the best way to tackle the situation is to capture the pachyderm. For every untoward incident created by the animal, they contend, there has been enough provocation by the timber merchants and the others who depend on the forest produce. The Minister for Forests who was informed of the case, vehemently opposed all proposals to kill the elephant. He asserted that he would instruct the forest staff to have him tranquillised and deported to the zoo where necessary arrangements with Rs 1 lakh would be made to get him trained under an expert mahout from Assam.
Sadly, this situation is worsening. The Indian elephant is simply running out of living space. Recently a herd of thirty were creating havoc as close as twenty miles to Calcutta. It is fervently to be hoped that desperate measures like culling will not be introduced, and it is up to man to redress the balance. The tiger, which until recently was almost extinct, is beginning to make a dramatic recovery thanks to the resources and expertise made available to ‘Project Tiger’. The elephant must now be given the same attention.
At Mandahat, we came to another mighty river, the Brahamani. Some people had told us authoritatively that it was six feet deep and could be crossed, while others shook their heads, knowledgeably stating that it had burst its banks. The latter were right: no one could ford it. We took a short cut along a road which would lead us to another bridge at Kabatobandah, where we hoped to meet up with the jeep. The road soon turned into a track, and then into nothing, as we found ourselves amongst fields choked with baysharam, a kind of bush with long wavy stems sprouting lilac bell-shaped flowers, also known as ‘shameless’ for its gregarious, prolific and deep-rooted growth. It is considered a virulent weed which causes the Indian farmer enormous difficulties. The baysharam gave way to bamboo groves that had been decimated by wild elephants. In turn the bamboo led into sal forests still being decimated by human beings, in which the sound of a falling axe was always audible.
Considering their size, it is remarkable how elephants can move so soundlessly. Tara’s footsteps, at their loudest, resembled the shuffle of an old man wearing carpet slippers. Because of this quietness, we encountered everything with an element of surprise, whether animal, human, bird or insect. Aditya was particularly happy. When we saw the flash of a golden oriole, a beautiful yellow bird with a jet black streak through its eye dipping away with a raucous Cheeugh, or the long ribbon-like tail of a paradise flycatcher, he would jot down his sightings excitedly in a small book. At one point Tara disturbed a carpet of big yellow butterflies that exploded into the air. A single butterfly, more courageous than its companions, attached itself firmly to the end of her trunk and after several vain attempts to dislodge it, by swinging it from side to side, she finally blew it off with a large sneeze.
The sal forests began to thin out and we moved carefully along the ridges dividing well-tended paddy fields. In corners of these fields were small tribal shrines situated under the spread of large shady trees. Dedicated to the goddess Devi, they consisted of groups of exquisite terracotta figures of horses, camels, elephants and bears which were offered as gifts to the deity, to ensure a healthy harvest to the indigenous Mundas. In the distance we heard the sound of drums. Spurring Tara on, we reached a small collection of thatched huts with pink walls surrounding a muddy courtyard where a Munda party was in full swing. A chain of men and women, dark muscular people with full lips and handsome high-cheekboned faces, were pounding their feet drunkenly in ankle-deep mud, performing a kind of ritual hokey-cokey.
At the sight of Tara looming over their compound, they threw their arms into the air, moaning loudly. The drum tempo increased, they whirled in ever-decreasing circles and finally collapsed laughing in an exhausted heap. A young woman wearing a brilliant azure sari, moulded to the contours of her body, untangled herself from the group and undulated over to Tara. She knelt gracefully and touched Tara’s feet in obeisance. Each of her companions followed suit, and then offered us leaf cups containing a milky fluid which they had filled from large terracotta gourds. This was ‘handia’, a local rice beer. At first it tasted slightly bitter and fizzy, but after numerous replenishments, one was filled with a sense of contentment.
The drums started again. We were dragged to our feet and whirled round the compound. Now as drunk as our hosts, we proudly showed our paces. Aditya performed a sort of martial strut. I attempted to show them break dancing, which resulted in my head becoming firmly stuck in the mud, my feet waving in the air. Gokul, the professional, delighted the audience by doing somersaults, handstands and back flips. Even Tara, after draining one of the gourds, flapped her ears and shook her head while Bhim squatted with the elders and concentrated on the more serious aspect of things – drinking. When we took our leave the women presented us each with a frangipani flower, garlanded Tara, and blessed us for a safe journey.
We reached a small river where a flash flood had washed away the bridge. A man sat forlornly on the bank drying out a bundle of soggy letters. He told us that while attempting to cross, he had been knocked over by the current and his bicycle was now caught in a bundle of branches in the middle of the whirling water. Bhim and Tara waded into the river. Directed by his sharp commands of ‘Uhta, uhta,’ Tara lowered her trunk and plucked the bicycle from the branches as if it was a feather, depositing it gently in front of the grateful postman.
Out of curiosity, I penned a letter to myself in London and gave it to him. When I returned home three months later it was waiting for me. The letter was slightly worse for wear, with an added message written on the back of the envelope. ‘For Haathi-wallah from K. Rath, postman, thanking him sincerely.’
Guided by a full moon that washed the landscape in a pale light, we finally crossed the Brahamani over a long concrete bridge. It was late by the time we found the camp and by the look on Indrajit’s face we knew there had been trouble between the two drivers.
‘Khusto!’ he spat fiercely. ‘No good, he take rum. He always drunk. No helping either. I put tents, I cook, he does nothing. So I hit him. Either he go or I go.’
Aditya and I looked at each other in despair. We did not need a domestic squabble and we couldn’t afford to lose Indrajit. He was invaluable. We checked the rum supply. Indrajit was right. Out of a new case of twelve bottles of rum one was missing. We found Khusto sitting in the jeep nursing a face that was even more swollen than usual. He mumbled something incomprehensible and turned his back to us insolently.
‘Leave this to me, Mark,’ Aditya said angrily.
For the next ten minutes there was an angry exchange of words punctuated by metallic slaps as Aditya banged his fist on the side of the jeep. It stopped abruptly. Khusto’s voice had changed. He was now pleading. Eventually he shuffled into the firelight and muttered an apology to Indrajit and offered his hand. Indrajit took it hesitatingly and then with an angry smile touched him on the shoulder. The crisis it seemed was over for a time.
‘What did you tell him?’ I asked Aditya.
‘Simple, my friend. He has stolen, so therefore he is a thief. I threatened to take him to the police station. That did it. I have told him that from now on Indrajit is the boss.’
‘Do you think it will work?’ I said.
‘We’ll see. Anyway, I don’t think Khusto’s bad, just foolish. He told me that all his problems stem from being born with too small a tongue.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ I asked incredulously.
‘I have no idea,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway we shall be without them for a few days. We are entering the forests of Daitari tomorrow and Bhim has announced that Tara is fit enough to carry the howdah.’
‘What about my puja?’ I insisted anxiously. ‘Why can’t we find this bloody mimosa plant?’
‘Slowly, Mark, remember this is India.’
‘Slowly indeed.’ At this rate I was going to walk to Sonepur, I thought, as I finished my mug of coffee.
We were sitting round the fire which had been made in the crumbling porch of a deserted house near our camp. Bhim suddenly jumped to his feet and pointed into the dark confines of the house. ‘Nag, nag!’ he cried excitedly. Everybody immediately disappeared and I was left sitting bewildered.
‘What the hell’s going …’
‘Get out of there, Mark!’ Aditya shouted.
‘Will somebody tell me what’s going on?’
‘Nag, nag!’
‘What in the hell is nag?’
‘A snake, you idiot! Cobra!’ Aditya yelled from the jeep, from which he, Bhim, Gokul and Indrajit reappeared armed with axes.
‘Jeeesus! A snake! Oh my God!’ I shot out of the porch and fled towards Tara who in the circumstances seemed to be the safest bet, noting on my way that Khusto had climbed on top of the jeep. The boys advanced quickly into the house and a tremendous mêlée started. Shouts and screams followed by the sound of metal ringing on stone. I returned as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Well?’
‘Nag escape,’ Bhim stated crossly. ‘Big, maybe seven feet.’
‘Seven feet!’ I cried. ‘Well, where is it now?’
‘Maybe tent,’ he leered happily. A thorough inspection of our sleeping quarters was made, but none of us slept well that night.
Early next morning before setting off, Aditya and I took a detour to visit Bhuban, famous as Asia’s most populated village. Our mission was more than one of tourism: we were to buy ‘bombs’, anti-elephant devices that Bhim said we might well need over the next few days. The houses of Bhuban are so close together that their thatched roofs join over the narrow alleys, cutting out the light, and only single-line pedestrian traffic is possible. None the less, in the maze of shops selling brass and metal objects for which Bhuban has a reputation, we located the bomb-seller.
The bombs were hard and round, about the size of golf balls, and were wrapped in brightly coloured paper. When thrown against something hard they exploded like army thunderflashes. These ethnic grenades scared the hell out of me, and it was hoped that they would have the same effect on a wild animal.
By the time we returned to camp Tara was fully loaded. Unhappy about this sudden extra weight, she kept whipping her trunk back trying to undo Bhim’s knots. From the front she looked like an old bag lady. Pots, pans, kerosene stoves and old sacks filled with tinned food hung from one side. Over the other flank dangled tents, sleeping bags, pillows, axes and cameras. All this paraphernalia had been placed in two white nylon hammocks that I had brought from England, so that from the back she resembled some grotesque model, wearing gigantic shoulder pads. As a deterrent against the hot sun, the top of her head had been oiled and it gleamed like a patent leather shoe. When Gokul, eager to see her reaction, exploded a bomb beneath her feet, she displayed the same patience as a nanny with a small naughty child, simply turning her head and giving him a look as if to say, ‘Silly child,’ and continued trying to undo the knots. It was not surprising that she didn’t react. Rajpath must have taken her through so many town festivals that she was now indifferent to ordeal by firecracker.
There are four ways to climb on to an elephant. The first, and the one that we were about to adopt, is the easiest for the passenger and the most uncomfortable for the elephant. With a command of ‘Baitho!’ the elephant kneels and one clambers up on to the howdah by way of stepping on to the top of the front part of either leg, grabbing on to the ear, and hauling oneself up. In the old days a ladder would be produced or one would mount from a special block. The second way is harder. Upon the command of ‘Utha! utha!’ the elephant lifts either of its front legs and, grabbing the ear, one steps on to the leg and is raised up like an elevator. The third is over the backside. The elephant lowers one of its back legs, and one simply catches on to her tail or the crupper rope. The fourth, the expert’s way, and the way that I hoped one day to achieve, is by the trunk. It looks so casual, elegant and simple. The trunk is lowered to the ground; placing a foot about in the centre, one holds both ears and is hoisted up and over.
Having awkwardly, but successfully climbed aboard, I settled into the howdah and noticed Aditya about to mount with his boots on.
‘Take off your boots,’ I said.
‘What?’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know why. But from now on, no boots when riding Tara.’ For some inexplicable reason I felt her to be as sacred as the deck of a yacht and I was delighted when I saw Bhim nod his approval. Grumbling, Aditya untied his boots, threw them up to me and climbed aboard. Tara immediately rose to her feet and we were lifted gently upwards. Elephant-back at last, I thought happily. We really have started the journey.