OUR PROCESSION INTO Sonepur town to garland the statue of the freedom fighter was most impressive. The grandees of the Shoba Theatre supplied us with a bodyguard and I felt terribly important. Forming a phalanx around us, they spearheaded a path through the gaping onlookers. Our entourage, however, did not quite match that of the Prime Minister of Nepal who arrived in Sonepur in 1871 with a bodyguard of three hundred Gurkhas and a harem of pretty, lively Nepalese princesses.
My self-importance now blown out of all proportion, I expected a tumultuous welcome to greet me. Instead, there was an infuriated, sweating policeman, trying vainly to control the traffic, roaring uncontrollably around the monument, and a madman juggling ludoos. One of the grandees placed a garland of marigolds in my hand. Self-consciously I climbed over the fence protecting the statue, looped the garland over the marble head, and feeling I should somehow justify this honour that had been bestowed upon me, bowed deeply. As I climbed out, the madman dropped his ludoos, grabbing me fiercely in a sticky embrace.
Again cocooned by our bodyguard, we soon reached a large building like a warehouse, constructed from wood and corrugated iron. Its front façade was painted gaudily with ladies cavorting in various stages of undress. Tannoys noisily advertised the delights of the show to an eagerly waiting crowd, pushing and shoving to get nearer an entrance controlled by four large policemen wielding large lead-topped bamboo canes with clinical efficiency.
‘Welcome to the Shoba Theatre, Mr Shand,’ the spokesman shouted. ‘As you can see it is very popular. Come. We will go through the back.’
Inside it resembled an aircraft hangar. At one end, shrouded by a gauzy curtain, was the stage, the backdrop a grove of palm trees set against a starry night. Below, in the pit, fenced off by large iron palings, sat the orchestra tuning their instruments in a cacophony of discordant notes. Behind the pit were the best seats, costing 25 rupees, and separated from them by a triple-stranded barrier of barbed wire, was standing room only, at five rupees per person. The theatre put on three shows daily and could hold a crowd of eighteen thousand people.
We sat sipping tea and eating cakes in the wings. Aditya and I were introduced to the artistes – highly painted, plumpish ladies in sequinned outfits, their male partners squeezed into tightly fitting jumpsuits, brocaded like matadors’ costumes. The building vibrated suddenly, as the gates were opened and a surge of people fought their way in.
Behind the curtain, a row of chairs had been placed beyond a large red ribbon. A barrage of arc lights hit us as we sat down. I felt inordinately self-conscious and nervous. Sweat began to trickle down my back. The star of the show, Miss Shoba, whose appearance caused a roar of excitement from the crowd, blessed and garlanded us. Long speeches followed. The Master of Ceremonies, wearing a smart, navy blue blazer with shiny gold buttons and white bell-bottomed trousers, introduced me as the famous English mahout and gave a lengthy account of my adventures. The crowd became instantly restless, longing for the show to start.
The band struck up, the gauzy curtains lifted and a pair of scissors were thrust into my hands. I stood up, sawed through the ribbon and stammered a few appropriate words, which Aditya then translated. Miss Shoba reappeared and led me off the stage to a small smattering of applause. I wanted to leave immediately to see Tara but Aditya insisted it would be impolite. We must stay to watch at least one act.
I’m glad we did. A seductive girl dressed in a black, transparent sari worked the crowd into a frenzy. The origins of the dancing girl go back to the Gandharva women, renowned for their beauty and skill in dancing and singing. In the old days when the fair was a meeting place for Rajas, zamindars, big agriculturists and businessmen, the girls made a good harvest. Fees of 500 or 1,000 rupees were a common feature for a few dances. On some of the more noted dancing girls, lakhs of rupees used to be spent for more personal services.
The seductress of the Shoba Theatre undulated across the stage, singing a ballad of obviously erotic content. She was singing about her lover, with whom she was in bed, complaining he would not make love to her. Aditya translated: ‘Why do you not come to me, my darling? My breasts are young and firm.’ There was a groan from the crowd behind us. ‘My thighs are as soft as satin, my crop green and young, ready to be irrigated.’ This brought the house down. Turning around I saw the barbed wire bulging outwards as the crowd pressed against it, frantic to reach her, followed by the whacks of the police sticks as they rained down on unprotected heads.
It was a relief to be back in the relative peace of the Haathi Bazaar. Smoke rose in eddies through the rich foliage of the mango orchard from the fires round which mahouts were huddled, their animated faces illuminated in the ruddy glow, as they traded tales and secrets of their ancient craft. To reach our camp we had to thread our way carefully across a carpet of sleeping people. Inside, feet and arms protruded from under the kanat.
Relieving Gokul, I took the next watch over Tara. She still was not her old self. There was something else, an uneasiness about her, which immediately transmitted itself to me. I felt that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that precedes impending disaster. She seemed to be trying to communicate with me. When I started to feed her sugar cane, she suddenly grabbed my arm and held it firmly in her mouth. She pulled me even closer and we rested against one another, like lovers in a long embrace. Eventually, she released me and lay down.
All down the orchard, in night air hazy from the smoking fires, elephants lay sleeping. Disturbed by something, one would silently rise up like a monstrous spirit and then settle down again as it realised that all was well. Surrounded by six hundred tons of these huge animals, soothed by their snoring, like a ward of asthmatic old men, I felt for the first time a sense of vulnerability. I had never really given it a thought before, but as I looked back on the journey, I realised how much I had taken for granted. At any stage Tara could have killed me. Or any of us for that matter, as simply as swatting a fly. Now I understood that she had always been in control. My destiny had been in her hands. With that realisation, once again, she had taught me respect.
The day before Kartik Purnima, we took Tara down to the Gandak for her bath. We passed the saddhu encampment. Its entrance was guarded by two wild creatures carrying tridents. Inside the saddhus were busily preparing food, churning great vats of stew in readiness for the feast the next day. Among their dark skins, I noticed an old pale woman with long grey hair, dressed in a sari, sitting quietly in the back of the marquee. At first I thought she was an albino, but looking closer I saw she was a white woman, a firinghee, and I waved to her gaily. There was no response. She sat like a stone, staring blankly. Later I found out she was deaf, dumb and blind. Fifty years ago she had been accepted by this sect, which had looked after her ever since.
As we stood patiently in line with the other elephants, waiting for a space in the river, a fight broke out between a large tusker and a female bathing side by side. Throwing off the mahouts washing him, the tusker lumbered to his feet and charged the female who was being ridden by her mahout out of the water. His tusks, even blunted (as they have to be by law), gouged a great rip in her side. She toppled over, squealing, blood bursting from the wound, in the process crushing her mahout. The tusker charged again, enlarging the wound, then turned as if to run up the bank. Tara and the other elephants scattered in alarm. Immediately, mahouts rushed into the river. Surrounding the tusker, they stuck their spears viciously into its legs, flanks and trunk, forcing it back into the water where they managed to chain both its back and front legs. It was then led away. The poor female, badly gored, struggled to her feet, blood streaming down her flanks. From underneath the mahout emerged, miraculously unhurt.
Disturbed by the excitement, we had neglected to chain Tara’s front feet together. As she entered the water she flipped me off and swam out about twenty yards. There she started to perform her dolphin act, plunging in and out before turning on her back to float for a few seconds, like an old lady in a swimming bath. Indrajit and I struck out towards Tara but we were unable to reach her. The current was far too strong and we struggled back to the bank. We watched helplessly as she was being swept away. Unless we could somehow cut her off, she might easily drown.
Bhim and Gokul rushed back to the camp. Immediately Aditya arranged a posse of mahouts led by a large, unpleasant individual with a scar running down his face. He demanded, before he did anything, a fee of 600 rupees. Everyone thought this an exorbitant sum but I would gladly have paid anything to get Tara back. Two boats were arranged. Splitting into two groups, we pushed the boats out of the shallows and were at once swept down by the current. Excited crowds ran up and down the river bank, desperate not to miss the action. We caught up with Tara a mile down the river, where she was struggling, whirling round and round in a strong eddy. I dived in, followed by two mahouts. In a second we were pushed back and just managed to catch hold of our boat. Panicking, Tara lurched towards the bank and somehow extracted herself from the current.
She sat blowing in the shallows. From the other boat, a mahout jumped into the water. Crooning gently, he approached cautiously and patted her backside to soothe her. Then he crawled up her back and sat astride her. She surged off again trying to throw him off, shaking her head and rolling. Like a champion rodeo rider, he managed to cling on, steering her to the bank.
He was the same man who had painted Tara. When I thanked him, he told me with a smile that ‘the little one’ was only playing and he would come later to decorate her again, since most of his handiwork had been washed off in the river. I rode her back to camp, followed by a phalanx of mahouts carrying raised spears. Feeling again that unpleasant coldness in the pit of my stomach, I was convinced that this time she was not playing. It was as if she had sensed some bad omen and had made a desperate attempt to escape.