AT LAST IT was Kartik Purnima. From three o’clock in the morning a continuous wave of people surged past, and sometimes through, our encampment, on their way to the bathing ghats. The eastern horizon started to show a hint of red. As the visibility increased I saw it would have been difficult to insert a stick between the solid mass of people stretching down from our camp.
I was deeply impressed by the orderliness of the proceedings. Again there was no jostling, pushing or shoving. When a child fell from its mother’s arms – a frequent occurrence – the crowd instantly withdrew like a wave, opening a small gap from which it was plucked to safety. As the sun rose battalions of different sects of saddhus marched to the river, carrying their holiest men on flower-decked palanquins, heralding their arrival with the blowing of trumpets. The first elephants started to trundle down, and the crowd again parted magically to let them pass. Convinced that Tara wanted to escape, I waited until the crowds had thinned out before taking her for the ritual bath. While we waited, we were entertained by a troupe of transvestites, whose performance was brazenly suggestive. One was totally outrageous. Wearing a long black wig, and a gold-threaded tribal dress which when he pirouetted revealed his long black hairy legs, he winked and blew continuous kisses through thickly rouged lips that barely camouflaged his heavy moustache. Recognising a good portrait, Don photographed him. The transvestite took this zealous interest to be of the romantic kind, and each time Don left the camp he had to take evasive action to avoid his advances.
Just after midday, preparations for the cremation of an old woman took place at the side of the river. Her body lay on a bamboo pallet, cocooned in a simple white sheet, scattered with marigolds and rose petals. Her neck was wrapped in a blood red silk gumcha, her face in death, serene. As the sharp rays of the sun lanced downwards, illuminating her composed features, she almost seemed to smile. The pallet was then lifted and placed on a funeral pyre. Before ‘the dom’ (the undertaker) lit it, a young boy, her grandson, came forward and placed a single red rose in her gnarled, clasped hands. The fire ignited in a burst of yellow flame and a thick black plume spiralled slowly upwards, for a moment blacking out the orb of the sun. Gathering her ashes, the family spread them on the smooth, fast surface of the Gandak, transporting her to rest in the holy Ganges.
We bathed Tara in the mid-afternoon. The multitudes of people had largely dispersed by then, but space was still cramped. Elephants and devotees bathed side by side, in complete harmony amongst a floating carpet of droppings and rose petals. I felt weary and oddly depressed, and could not find the energy to scrub her. As she lay in the water, I stood by her head idly stroking her trunk. Perhaps it was because I realised that this was one of the last times that I would be bathing her, or perhaps it was because I knew that I had failed in my role as her protector. As I rode her up the bank towards the camp, under a tunnel of gently flapping saris in yellows, reds, saffrons, vermilions and greens, where the women had draped them in the trees to dry, not even the riot of colour could lift my gloom.
Kartik Purnima was the day when elephant trading began in earnest. Groups of powerful zamindars wearing ‘Jawahar jackets’ (coarse handwoven silk waistcoats) and dhotis were waiting to see me. Each one was surrounded by a posse of armed guards carrying ancient shotguns. Like Mexican bandits, they wore bandoliers filled with cartridges.
One of them offered a lakh, which he said was the highest price ever paid for a female elephant. He had just sold his elephant for 75,000 rupees, he informed us, and she was undoubtedly the best elephant of the fair. He promised that his elephants were only kept for prestige. After all he was a rich man. Why should he need to rent her out? Another zamindar offered one lakh, 5,000 rupees, and whispered urgently in Aditya’s ear. It was a bribe – of any woman I desired, to be delivered anywhere, any time, at my convenience. They all left disconsolately. One group stopped at the next camp, to talk with the owner of the injured elephant. He listened to them and then nodded reassuringly in my direction.
‘What’s he up to?’ I asked Aditya.
‘He’s managed to sell his elephant, somehow, for 40,000 rupees. He’s already pestered me about selling Tara. He’s acting as middle man for that zamindar on a commission basis. We will have to be careful. I don’t trust him. I’ve asked our friend who owns the tusker to keep an eye on things. If we have any trouble, he will come over immediately.’
Further down the orchard, I watched a deal being negotiated in the traditional way. The prospective buyer and seller sat side by side, with a blanket covering their hands. The joints of the fingers represent different amounts of money. The buyer presses the first two joints of the first finger of the right hand which, for instance, represents 5,000 rupees. The vendor in reply squeezes the same, but also pinches the first joint of the purchaser’s next finger, raising the price to say 5,500, and so on. A bargain was struck almost immediately. The two men got to their feet smiling, and clasped their hands together. The beauty of this lies in its secrecy and simplicity. The vendor may sell well below what he had asked, but no one but the purchaser would know.
Later, Aditya drove Don into Patna as he was leaving for Delhi, and then for London the next day. Suddenly I was alone. The mela seemed to close in on me, and feeling adrift on this sea of alienness I crawled into the haven of my tent. I was sitting quietly when, a few moments later, Indrajit, looking anxious, poked his head around the flap. I noticed he was carrying a spear.
‘Come quickly,’ he said, ‘people make trouble with Tara. Bring ankush.’
I hurried outside. Surrounding Tara, Bhim and Gokul was a large group of unruly ruffians led by the scar-faced man who had organised Tara’s rescue. One ruffian was carrying a knife. I noticed him edging slowly around her hindquarters towards the rope that tethered her back legs. Scarface stared at me insolently and pointed to Tara, then back to himself, as if announcing he was taking her. I realised they must have been employed by one of the zamindars. They had bided their time until Aditya, whose presence gave us some kind of authority, had left the mela, leaving me virtually defenceless, unable to speak the language.
Heavily outnumbered, I looked towards the camp of our friend who owned the tusker and was alarmed to see he was not there. Bluff seemed the only alternative. I was about to try to charm Scarface when, suddenly, a vicious, uncontrolled anger exploded inside me. I didn’t care any more. I had had enough. The pressure had become too great. I lunged at him with the ankush, knocking him backwards.
‘Listen, you shithead!!’ I hissed. ‘Nobody takes my elephant. Not even over my dead body. If I catch you near her again I’ll kill you.’
He had no idea what I was saying, but understood the intonation. I must have looked like one of the Naga saddhus – naked apart from a lunghi, my hair knotted and wild and my mouth drawn back in a rictus of hate. We stared at each other for a moment, eyeball to eyeball. With a forced laugh, trying to save face in front of his cronies, he turned and walked away. He stopped suddenly and shouted something at me.
‘What did he say?’ I asked Indrajit, shaking with emotion.
‘Fat man warn you. He come back later.’
It was midnight before I heard the sound of the minibus. I pulled Aditya into the tent.
‘You know what happened while you were away?’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘We got threatened by those bastards. They said they’re coming back later. We’ll have to go to the police.’
‘We’ll go first thing in the morning,’ Aditya said. ‘But now get some sleep.’
At first I couldn’t. I sat at the entrance of our tent. Above the kanat Tara’s trunk reached up and over, and she stared at me with sad eyes.
The police station was in the English Bazaar. Aditya had an introduction to the Superintendent of Police who, surprisingly, turned out to be a woman. To my knowledge, only three women in India hold this exalted position. As we approached the police lines, situated opposite the pig market, I was still in a deep rage. I imagined myself dealing with a masculine, humourless, domineering lady, characteristics with which I, as an Englishman, was only too familiar in the highest echelons of our government. We walked up a red gravel path bordered by a sweeping lawn that was surrounded by neat flower beds. It was like entering another world. Gone was the stink, the noise and the confusion of the mela, as we entered an opulent canvas oasis. Smart candy-striped marquees were pitched neatly, their sides draped in floating mosquito nets. Butterflies and birds played in the trees, and the air was filled with the sound of droning bees.
We were ushered into the coolness of the largest tent by a smart sergeant wearing highly polished brown boots. The floor was covered in clean white linen and I winced as I left a trail of dirty footprints. We sat down on a luxurious velour sofa. In minutes, we had been served hot coffee from a silver pot and I helped myself to a cigarette from the box on the polished teak table.
‘Mem-sahib will be with you shortly,’ the sergeant announced, saluting smartly.
As I gazed out into the garden I began to feel strangely at home. Up until Partition this whole area was known as the English Bazaar. I found myself torn between two worlds – the real India of the mela – and here, where my western upbringing reasserted itself. When the Superintendent of Police arrived I found myself automatically adopting the manners of a guest at an English country weekend, leaping to my feet politely. I couldn’t have failed to do so anyway, for she was quite unlike any other police officer I had ever encountered.
‘I am so sorry I have kept you waiting. I am Kumud Choudhury. Please sit down.’ She held out her hand, shaking a thick mane of freshly washed hair. ‘This bloody dust gets everywhere,’ she complained, ‘I have to wash my hair at least twice a day. How on earth are you surviving? If you need to take a bath, feel free to come here.’
Aditya explained the situation. She rang a bell. Immediately two officers appeared and saluted. With a quiet authority, she ordered them to take us back to the Haathi Bazaar and deal with the problem. She even offered us a policeman to guard our camp, adding that, if she had time, she would love to come and see Tara.
‘I’m sorry about your floor,’ I said as I got into her green Suzuki jeep, which flew a smart stiff pennant.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ she replied, laughing. ‘A fresh one is laid down every day. But are you sure you would not like a bath? Apart from your accent, I cannot tell whether you are Indian or a foreigner.’
‘That’s my problem,’ I replied. Thanking her, we drove off.