IN FORMER YEARS, the Sonepur Mela was the occasion for a large sporting and social gathering of Europeans. Where we were driving now, horse racing, polo, gymkhanas, cricket matches and lavish balls had taken place in the past.
We slowed down as we passed the encampments, so that the zamindars could clearly see that we were now under protection of the Superintendent of Police. As I breathed in the evocative smells of the elephant camps, the reality of the situation bore in on me once again and I found my emotions being torn one way and then the other. Inside our tent I asked Aditya, helplessly, ‘What do we do now?’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to sell, Mark,’ he said quietly, ‘and you’ll have to find a buyer here.’
‘NO!’ I shouted. ‘I just can’t sell her …’
‘You have no alternative. What are you going to do with her? Take her to England? The wheeling and dealing here is nearly over. Due to the poor quality of elephants, only a few have been sold. When I was driving back last night, elephants were already moving out of the mela. Please be reasonable. I know I am being brutal, but she is, after all, only an elephant.’
‘She is more than that,’ I yelled angrily. ‘How can you say that after all we’ve been through together?’
‘You have completed an extraordinary journey, Mark. You have become a mahout. The boys feel you are one of them, and consider you a brother. But your western side is now showing. You’re too emotional. India is a hard place. Here, people have to survive. Life has to go on. If you can’t face it, let me deal with it.’
I couldn’t face it. Sitting in the tent in despair, I could hear the commotion outside as the zamindars bid furiously against one another. They had returned in force. I covered my ears. I did not want to know, and as the dread and panic churned my stomach, I almost vomited. I pulled down the flap of the tent, blotting out the colour of the crowds, and Tara herself. A wind had blown up, pushing dust into every nook and crevice of the tent. I sat despondently and found myself writing her name in the dust on my pillow.
Aditya poked his head into the tent. ‘The best price we are going to get is one lakh, 15,000 rupees,’ he said wearily. ‘The prospective buyer has given me his word that he only wants Tara for prestige and good fortune. She will not even be used at weddings. He’s given me his address and you will be free to visit her at any time.’
‘Just hang on a little longer,’ I implored, trying to buy non-existent time. He shrugged and left the tent. Praying for a reprieve, I thought I was dreaming the very English voice calling my name. I clambered out and stood bewildered in the middle of the encampment before two English women who were old friends of mine. We stared at each other in astonishment.
‘Anne! Belinda!’ I shouted. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I might ask you the same question, Mark,’ Anne replied, looking in amazement at my appearance. ‘We’ve come to buy an elephant – what else? Bob wants one.’ (Bob is Anne’s husband, Belinda their daughter.)
‘Why does he want an elephant? What about the golf course?’ I pictured Tara straying on to those immaculate greens and rampaging up and down the fairways. ‘And what about your horses? They’ll go berserk.’
‘No, no, no,’ she replied in exasperation. ‘Not for the Tolleygunge Club. For Kipling – our jungle camp in the buffer zone of Kanha National Park in Madhya Pradesh. Bob wants an elephant to take the guests for rides.’
‘Bob wants an elephant,’ I repeated parrot-fashion.
‘Are you all right, Mark?’ Anne said, looking at me oddly. ‘You haven’t gone deaf or something? Yes, an elephant.’
‘Well,’ I heard myself saying, in a distant echo, ‘I’ve got an elephant. You can have her. I’ll give her to you. She’s the best elephant here, or anywhere for that matter.’
‘You’ve got an elephant!? I can’t believe it. What on earth are you doing with an elephant?’
I told her briefly of our journey. ‘Go and see for yourselves. She’s a princess.’ A crowd of zamindars was still gathered around Tara, inspecting her carefully. ‘Tara,’ I said. ‘Bowl, bowl.’
As if she sensed my happiness, her little brown eyes lit up and she blew a long, shrill trumpet. I hugged her fiercely and she wrapped her trunk tightly around me.
Anne and Belinda took no more than five minutes to make up their minds.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Anne kept repeating. ‘She’s so pretty, and she’s got such lovely kind eyes. Are you sure, Mark? I mean, this is not exactly an ordinary present. Of course we will always regard her as yours.’
‘Absolutely convinced,’ I replied. ‘She’ll be so happy with you and thoroughly spoiled. You have no idea how extraordinary this is. I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am.’
The zamindars, altogether confused on hearing that Tara was no longer for sale, became highly aggressive, and Aditya had to call the police again.
‘I think you should take her as soon as possible,’ Aditya advised. ‘I’ll arrange another truck and we’ll find you a new mahout. Unfortunately Bhim has to return to his job in Bhubaneshwar.’
An elephant mela is full of mahouts looking for jobs, but first we asked Gokul. He thought it over but declined. It was too big a move for him and he had to think of his family. The man who owned the tusker offered his assistance and introduced four candidates. By now I could spot a mahout immediately, by his carriage, straight-backed and proud and by his build; sinewy, slight and bow-legged. However, picking a good mahout is an instinct inbred, a knowledge only gained or handed down from a lifetime of experience. I turned to Bhim.
‘Mahouts ride,’ he said. ‘Mummy choose.’
Each one, in turn, rode Tara, their styles and commands differing, yet all clearly experts.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘Him,’ Bhim replied, unhesitatingly, pointing to a middle-aged man with gentle eyes, a Muslim called Mujeem.
‘Why him?’ I was fascinated. We all were.
‘When mahout finish ride, Mummy kiss. Others Mummy not kiss. Also Mussalman,’ he added with a grin. ‘Not drinking like Bhim.’
Everything was arranged. A truck would arrive early next morning and Indrajit volunteered to accompany Tara to Kipling. Aditya and I would go down there in a couple of days’ time to meet up with Bob. I said goodbye to Anne and Belinda who had to return to Calcutta.
‘How can we ever thank you enough,’ Anne said. ‘Bob will be so thrilled.’
‘I should thank you. I now know that she will be in good hands – with friends. Look at her,’ I said happily, ‘it’s as if she already knows.’ Tara was stamping her feet impatiently, ordering Bhim with urgent signals of her trunk, to bring her some more sugar cane.
‘Well! How about that!’ I exclaimed to Aditya excitedly. ‘What luck! Let’s get really drunk!’
Exhausted from the pressures of high level negotiation, we sat around a small fire reflecting on the day.
‘Right, Aditya. I’m going to teach you the famous drinking song from the time when we ran the Sonepur Mela.’
Aditya sighed wearily. ‘Oh God. Not another childish English …’
‘No, you idiot,’ I interrupted. ‘This was written by Mr Hodgson, a very handsome man, who by the way, ran off with the wife of an Indian Army Officer. He also made Hodgson’s Beer, known in the English Bazaar as “rare good stingo”.’ Raising my voice in military style I sang:
Who has not tasted of Hodgson’s pale beer
With its flavour the finest hops ever gave?
It drives away sadness – it vanishes fear
And imparts a glad feeling of joy to the grave.
O to drink it at morning, when just from our bed
We rise unrefreshed, and to breakfast sit down,
The froth crested brimmer we raise to our head
And in swigging off Hodgson, our sorrows we drown.
Or to drink it at tiffin when thirsty and warm,
We say to the khidmutgar ‘bring me some beer’,
Soon, soon do we feel its most magical charm,
And quickly the eatables all disappear.
Or at ev’ning when, home from our ride we return,
And jaded and weary we sit down to dine,
We ask but for Hodgson and willingly spurn
The choicest – the dearest – the rarest of wine.
Then hail to thee, Hodgson! of brewers the head,
Thy loss we in India would sadly bewail;
May you live long and happy and when you are dead,
I will think of you daily whilst drinking your ale.
Raising his empty glass for a refill, Aditya roared in lusty Maratha fashion, ‘Then hail to thee, Hodgson! of …’ when with a crack like a pistol-shot, the chair on which he was sitting collapsed. In the process of trying to break his fall, Aditya buried his arm in the red hot embers of the fire. He was wearing a long-sleeved nylon shirt which promptly burst into flames. For a moment, Indrajit and I were too stunned to do anything. Then we leapt forward to pull him free. As gently as possible, we patted out the still smouldering shirt. The air was filled with the smell of burning flesh, and something glistened white in the charred skin. It was bone.
‘I seem to have burnt myself,’ Aditya said, gazing at the hideous wound in fascination. Being obsessed with medical matters, I knew that if the wound was not covered immediately, infection would set in quickly, particularly here in the filth of the mela. Aditya could lose his arm.
Indrajit and I bundled him into the bus and drove like lunatics to Hajipur, where we found a hospital. In the emergency room an overworked doctor was dealing with the victims of a bad car accident. The floor was awash with blood. A man lay with a leg half amputated. Another man was sitting quietly, smiling strangely, his glistening eyeball hanging by a thread against his cheek-bone. Shards of sharp glass were embedded in his head, like arrows.
The doctor took a quick look at the burn and gave me some dressings. ‘Put these on and go immediately to the main hospital in Patna. I am sorry. I cannot dress the wound myself, sir. As you can see I am most busy.’
With amateurish clumsiness I bound up Aditya’s burn. Not once did he complain or show any sign of pain. He was extraordinarily brave. If it had been me, I would have been screaming, demanding a helicopter to fly me out. In Patna, the wound was cleaned and dressed properly and he was pumped full of morphine. They wanted to keep him in, but he insisted on leaving. At five o’clock in the morning, we reached the camp, where he collapsed.
The sunrise turned the Gandak into a smooth carpet of gold as Bhim and I took Tara down for her last bath. The journey was over. Today we would go our separate ways. As I scrubbed Tara, Bhim sat on her neck, rubbing her head, talking to her quietly. Tara’s trunk lifted up to touch his wise old face. I realised he was saying goodbye so I waded back to the bank, to leave them together. As he rode her towards me, they were silhouetted against the huge rising sun. The sharp rays reflected off the droplets of water on Tara’s skin, and she could have been wearing a cape of pearls.
I held out a lump of gur. Her manners now impeccable, she stretched out her trunk, plucked the gur delicately from my hand, rolled it into a more suitable shape and popped it into her mouth. She then rumbled softly to say ‘thank you’.
‘You see Raja-sahib, Mummy no longer beggar. Now royal princess.’
We struck camp, rolled up the tents and packed up our belongings. Bhim formally presented me with the ankush, an object I had once so hated. Now its smooth cold surface was as familiar as my own hands. In a few days, I thought sadly, I would have to hand it over to the new mahout.
The truck arrived. There was now only one last obstacle to overcome – getting Tara on to it. Bhim climbed on top of her for the last time. Whispering encouragement into her ear, he moved her slowly forwards. She put one foot inside, checked the wooden structure carefully with her trunk. Then, with a suspicious squeal, she backed out hurriedly, her head held low. A phalanx of mahouts carrying spears rushed at her from behind, jabbing her in her backside and legs. She whirled round trumpeting in rage, flaying the mahouts with her trunk. They fell back. She then rapped her trunk hard on the ground and stood defiantly, her sides heaving, blood dripping down her legs. I could hardly bear to watch her pain, even though I was determined she would get on this vehicle which would carry her to a happy new life.
‘Wait! wait!’ Bhim shouted suddenly to the mahouts. ‘If Mummy see, not go. Maybe go backwards.’
With strong feet movements against her neck Bhim urged her backwards into the truck. Cautiously Tara planted one back leg inside, then the other. She was now half in and half out.
‘Now,’ Bhim shouted, ‘come with spears.’
A solid wall of sharp points rushed towards her. Squealing in terror she reversed hurriedly into the truck and the big steel-lined doors were slammed behind her.
Encased in this foreign wooden prison, Tara went berserk stamping her feet, swaying from side to side. Her trunk curled around the top edges of the open box, as if trying to pull herself up. The truck lurched alarmingly and, in her fear, a continuous gush of urine and runny excrement poured through the floor-boards. The mahouts clambered up the sides of the truck. Using their ropes like lassoes they trussed her tightly. Bhim and I climbed up and peered inside. Tara’s eyes rolled in terror and she squealed, reaching out desperately to us with her trunk.
There was one last rope to tie, the most dangerous, the one that would secure her back legs. From the top of the truck Bhim shouted down to Gokul who was standing on the ground looking miserable.
‘You go my son. Mummy not hurt you. Then you proper mahout.’ It was his final test for the young man – Bhim’s last lesson. Gokul lithely clambered up the side of the truck and dropped in beside her. Rubbing her ears to soothe her, he moved quickly underneath her legs. Tara became still, obediently lifting one leg and then the other, to step into the open nooses. Bhim bent forward and kissed her once on her forehead. As he climbed down, tears were streaming down his face.
The taxi arrived to take Bhim and Gokul to the station. I embraced them both tightly and thanked them. I couldn’t face a prolonged farewell. I had become so close to them. Now they would disappear from my life for ever. Bhim saluted smartly. As he got into the car, he wound down the window.
‘Bhim happy now. Mummy go good place. But remember Raja-sahib, Mummy miss you. Haathi do forget. See her by six months. Not forget,’ he called as the car drove away.
When the truck moved slowly through the Haathi Bazaar, all the mahouts scrambled to their feet, clasping their hands together and shouting – ‘Go safely, little one. Our blessings are with you.’
As we reached the road leading to the bridge, a police escort was waiting – a last kind gesture from the Superintendent. The truck joined the queue of vehicles inching down the road. Tara lifted her trunk and let out one last shrill trumpet, but the sound was drowned by the roar of the traffic.