The Inhumans (1935)

Hemendrakumar Roy

1 The Hunter’s Heaven

Mechanical automobiles, ships, airships, and airplanes have given us access to the whole planet. Geography textbooks have taught us all we need to know. Life has even been detected on Mars and other worlds. Scholars believe they know everything under the sun.

I have no intention of challenging such scholars. I just believe that there are uncharted countries and kingdoms outside the purview of our geography textbooks. I would be immensely thankful if our instructors would first listen to this unusual history before attacking me with their sticks. The authenticity of an oral narrative may be contested, but it cannot be completely disregarded.

Bengalis are notorious for laziness. This is not a matter of choice but rather of necessity. While other Indians are eager to leave the country for a better life, we Bengalis have inflated self-esteem. The Odias1 feel no shame in driving cabs, tending gardens, or waiting tables. The Marwaris2 have no qualms about selling ghee pots, garments, or dishes on the streets of Kolkata. Many labor contentedly as coolies in Fiji, Africa, or South America. This is what Bengalis cannot do. We get offended when asked to do menial work. While others don’t hesitate to stoop first for the promise of prosperity, Bengalis don’t bow our heads to foreigners easily for future prospects. Be a door-to-door salesman? Work as a coolie? For shame! This is the Bengali mentality. To maintain our self-respect, we would even embrace the reputation of being lazy.

So I wasn’t surprised that there weren’t many Bengalis among the many Indians in Africa. The majority of Indians here do not have gentlemanly occupations. Why would Bengalis mix with such a bunch?

You may wonder why I, a Bengali, was in Africa. This may come as a surprise, but I didn’t come here to work as a shopkeeper, a coolie, or even for a job. I came here to hunt. Oh how I love to hunt. I have the means, the time, and the liberty to devote myself to my obsession. I have taken every sort of large game in India’s woods and jungles. I have collected it all. So I came to Africa in good faith to see whether the hippopotamuses, gorillas, and lions would prove worthy of my effort in hunting them.

India is renowned for its tigers, elephants, cobras, and other ferocious creatures. For hunters worldwide, our Sundarbans are comparable to paradise; I have spent many joyful and wonderful years in these mangrove forests. I shall never forget their many marshes, uncountable streams and ponds, deep and dark woods, deserted sandy beaches, the scent of moist earth, and the beauty of their isolation. There, the water crocodile lashes its tail in frustration at the arboreal python. There in the undergrowth, a Bengal tiger moves as swiftly as lightning. There, noxious marsh vapors or dense mists rise slowly over the Sundari trees, obscuring the whole sky. No respectable hunter would consider his or her life complete without visiting the Sundarbans.

But Africa, with its huge woods, is an even greater hunting paradise. The Sundarbans dwarf in comparison to such vast wilderness. The ferocious lion, king of creatures, hippo, elephant, rhino, giraffe, zebra, cheetah, leopard, panther, gorilla, baboon, chimpanzee, mandrill, boar, gnu, camels, ostrich, okapi, wild buffalo, several species of deer, apes, and crocodiles—Africa is a menagerie. There is nowhere else on Earth where one may find such a variety of wild creatures. The gorilla, lion, and hippopotamus are the three species that I was most excited to collect. With civilizational progress, it has become possible to travel to the darkest depths of Africa. Large automobiles race across the beautiful roads that curve through these woodlands. It now takes three months to experience what used to take three years. Thanks to all the motorcars on land and all the motorboats on water, the thrill of risk at every step, which used to make hunters’ hearts sing with joy, is now much diminished. These days a few “hunters” even fly to Africa in order to obtain their trophies. What possible satisfaction could they derive from such a stunt? They could just as easily go and shoot some caged tigers, lions, and hippos at a zoo. The hunt without its inherent perils is not worthy of the name!

However, even in the twenty-first century, one cannot drive a motorcar through the Congolese jungles. So I hired several coolies and attendants to carry my equipment, and we set off on foot into the wilderness, leaving civilization behind. If I were to fall victim to a lion, hippo, or gorilla, I wanted it to be a worthwhile goodbye.

In the course of our expedition, we came upon Lake Bunyonyi.3 Its pristine blue waters with gorgeous reeds jutting out here and there towards the edges, and its magnificent pink-lavender lotuses floating above the blue like a still-life painting . . . no language has the vocabulary to express the magnificence of this scene. India does not have such enormous lotuses. These are at least ten feet broad, and the stalks are as robust as cords made from coconut fiber. Flowering euphorbias grow along the lake’s dark, elevated shores.

Although Bengal’s wildness is also gorgeous, it is not as unusual as this. There are mountains, volcanoes, waterfalls, and lakes in these parts that cannot be found in the Sundarbans. Every step here leads to fresh adventures and wonders. We have spent days traversing this woodland on foot, but I am not tired in the least due to its unending diversity. Yet despite all this beauty, there remains a sense of dread, a shadow of abrupt, unforeseen disaster. If one wants to wax lyrical about all the glories, one must do so with great caution, since the slightest negligence might result in disaster.

One night, we camped beside a river. Due to our extreme fatigue from the day’s hike and the dense darkness of the evening, we were negligent about where we pitched our tents. Even now, I shudder when I recall what transpired due to such a minor error.

We finished dining early, and I fell asleep as soon as I lay down on the camp-cot. Having spent most of my life on expeditions, I was used to sleeping well under any circumstances.

I do not recall how long I’d slept, but I do remember waking up in the midst of a pleasant dream. Half-asleep, I heard a tremendous commotion outside my tent. By the time I’d become more alert, the noise had subsided. I started to question whether it had just been a dream, but further events shattered this assumption. I was startled by a bizarre, very loud grunting sound right next to me!

I swiftly lit my flashlight and directed it toward the sound. I could only see the flapping of my tent’s walls. Then I heard the sound again, this time coming from the other side. Again, just the flapping of the walls could be heard. What might this be? What was this noise? What was causing these walls to flap? As I lay there startled, sounds began to emanate from all directions, and the walls began to sway violently.

I snatched up my weapon in a split second. Who was making so much noise outside, and why? What did they want?

I can’t recall exactly what transpired next. It resembled a tremor or maybe an avalanche. Suddenly, everything started to tremble, and I was violently projected from my tent.

Had it been anybody else, they would have likely fainted by that point, but I have been exposed to peril for many years and have often looked death in the face. Though I was bruised and disoriented, I sat up as soon as I struck the ground. In the low light of the moon, I saw several colossal white creatures walking past, shaking the ground as they passed. Though I looked up and down, left and right, I could not see my tent anywhere.

Forcing myself to get up and hobbling a few steps, I saw shattered bits of wood and torn rags strewn about—the only remnants of my tent. I’d had nearly thirty coolies and porters with me as well, but they seem to have been melted into air by some magical mantra. While I was contemplating, I heard some ominous noises in the distance—so I hurriedly climbed a massive tree next to me.

Imagine my amazement when I realized that the creatures were merely hippos. They smelled the ruins of the tent cautiously as they got nearer, and when they found nothing, they went back to the river. Everything made sense now. Every wild animal follows a certain route to the nearest water source—and the passage for hippos was where we had stupidly pitched our tents.

Hippos are renowned for their obstinacy and strength, but also for their idiocy. Two hippos were approaching the river when they encountered my tent. My men had fled in terror at the sight of them. Puzzled by this odd construction in the middle of nowhere, the hippos had pushed and butted the tent from all sides as though it were a wild animal invading their territory. The tent had crumbled as they’d attacked it, trapping them in the tangle of rope and wood. So they’d flung what parts of it they could around the campsite before fleeing with the remainder.

Every step you take in the wilderness is fraught with peril. Those who have never experienced it have no way of knowing just how perilous it really is; make a single mistake and you may never have a chance to make another. It would not be out of place here to mention the tragic tale of Paul Graetz, a German officer who went to hunt wild buffalo in Africa.4 No one should laugh when they think of the buffalo. Some hunters even go so far as to consider the wild buffalo more dangerous than predators like lions and tigers, so it is safe to say that they are not easy prey.

The incident is mentioned in the book Kill or Be Killed, by Major W. Robert Foran.5 Listen to this tale from Graetz himself, since such stories of dangers faced while hunting are indeed rare:

I was then traveling in Rhodesia along Lake Bangweolo in a launch [the Sarotti]. In my team, I had a French cinematograph operator, Octave Fière, an African cook named James, and four other African natives. [. . .]

The tales I had heard of Lake Bangweolo from the Awemba tribe, on my former motor-car journey across Africa, had made me most anxious to explore this mysterious sheet of water in the heart of North-Eastern Rhodesia. According to them, this lake enjoyed a most sinister reputation among the native tribes residing both near and far. They declared that it was studded with islands, on which were to be found mammoth elephants and immense giraffes; while in its waters were huge sea-serpents and other strange creatures. From the surface, hot springs rose like fountains into the air; and pestilential winds, sweeping across the nearby swamps, carried death to all who ventured near the lake’s shores. I gathered from the Awemba that Bangweolo and its vicinity was no health resort: rather a Dante’s Inferno.

These people insisted that no natives, who had ever ventured upon the waters of this lake in their frail canoes, had again been seen or heard of: they had just vanished. Bangweolo was regarded by some local tribes as a sort of Hades, where departed souls suffered continually the most dreadful torments; while others again believed it was the approach to a Paradise, where the spirits of their dead relatives enjoyed a perfect life under the benign protection of their gods.

After making all due allowances for their imagination and local native superstitions, Lake Bangweolo sounded sinister but worth investigating.

The lake was known to be surrounded by miles upon miles of thick and impenetrable marshes, and the swamps thickly clothed with tall papyrus reeds and rushes. This all rendered any chance of exploring its waters a matter of great difficulty. But the more obstacles placed in my path, the more I looked forward to the adventure. Any expedition into unknown regions would be deadly tame and devoid of all pleasurable thrills if all was smooth sailing. I was perfectly well aware that we should have to endure many severe hardships and swallow many keen disappointments; but what of that? No adventure is worth calling such unless it possesses those two characteristics.

The great prize which I hoped to secure, in addition to being the first white man to thoroughly explore this sheet of water in the wild heart of Africa, was one or more specimens of a giant buffalo, reported by the Awemba to make its home on the marshy shores of the lake. They had assured me that these colossal beasts were unusually fierce and dangerous. From all I was told, they seemed to be a new species of African buffalo.

We set off from Quelimane with light hearts and filled with hope. Mile after mile we journeyed onwards. Everything went according to plan, and the river journey proved quite uneventful. The Sarotti behaved beautifully, and fully justified the care I had devoted to its design. We were a very happy party, and enjoyed every minute of our adventure until we made the difficult passage of the watershed to Fife, over the so-called Stevenson Road. This was no road at all, in the generally accepted meaning of that word. After several weary weeks of hard labor in a terrific tropical heat, we managed to push the launch on its specially designed wheeled-carriage across the watershed, and reached the banks of the Chambezi River.

Even when the little Sarotti once more floated on the waters of this river, our trials were not ended. The next phase of the journey to Bangweolo was full of dangers, unexpected and impossible to guard against. The river had never before been navigated by anything larger than an African’s canoe; it was uncharted, and full of snags and sandbanks; and the hippo daily threatened our small craft with disaster. These brutes seemed to have a passion for bumping us or else trying to climb on board. As we slowly voyaged down the river, our hearts were often in our mouths.

Comparatively speaking, all went well with us until we had almost reached the shores of Bangweolo. Then disaster, dire and dreadful, overtook and swamped us. Within sight of our goal, we were overcome by a cruel and relentless fate.

At dawn, one morning, the blood-red sun of a new day rose triumphantly over the crest of the dark chain of the Muchemwa Mountains, drenching the countryside in vivid coloring. It bade us rise, and continue our journey down the Chambezi to our longed-for destination. The sun melted the mists on the river’s surface; and at our feet, as we emerged from our tent on the bank, lay our little motor-boat. It was anchored in a small bay formed by a deep bend in the river’s course.

A deep peace and stillness pervaded everything; but in Africa things happen so quickly, that there is seldom any real warning of approaching danger. One moment all is happiness and contentment: the next, you are battling for your life against some wholly unexpected terror. Little did we know, as we stood on the bank of the river and watched the beauties of the gorgeous sunrise, what that day held in store for us. Perhaps it was well that we were unable to gaze into the mirror of life.

As the sun rose in the sky, we embarked on the launch. A few moments later, we were being rowed lustily down the Chambezi towards Bangweolo, for whenever possible we conserved our petrol and oil supplies. For a time, nothing unusual occurred. There was no sign of life, except occasional birds and monkeys, along the river’s banks. At last, a convenient place to land and have breakfast was seen, and I ran the launch into the bank. While our servants made preparations for the meal, Fière and I rested while lazily smoking and watching the deft handiwork of James in the camp kitchen. Then he called out that our breakfast was ready. We rose, gleefully, to take our seats at the camp table.

As we stood erect, both were petrified with astonishment. Not more than fifty feet from us, and close to the river bank, stood three mighty buffalo of unusual size. They were staring at us with wondering eyes, and perfectly motionless. They had appeared so suddenly and silently through the reeds and bush that nobody had any warning of their approach.

And these were no ordinary buffalo. They were simply gigantic, and suggested to my mind a type of prehistoric animal.

Silence, deep and impressive, reigned for a brief moment or two. It was like the silence that foreshadows death, when the whole world and life seem to stop breathing momentarily. And then I awoke to the extremity of the danger that threatened us. With almost automatic precision, I unslung my rifle from my shoulder, and Fière followed my example.

I fired the instant my cheek rested on the butt of my Mauser rifle and the sights came on my target. Bang! The shot ran out, awakening the bird life. The report echoed through the trees to the distant mountain range, and then came back faintly to us.

The leading buffalo stumbled and fell forward on his knees, rose again, shook his ponderous head in mingled pain and shock, and then galloped up the river bank and out of sight into the bush. The other two followed in his wake.

Meanwhile, Fière stood ready to shoot in case of necessity; but there was no further need now. Intermittently, through the dense undergrowth, we caught glimpses of the shaggy forms of the three buffalo as they followed the course of the river toward the lake. Presently, we could see only two of them.

What had become of the third we asked ourselves? We were not yet out of danger, apparently. Possibly the wounded buffalo would return to attack us; but equally well it might be that the three were still together, and we could only see two of them. After a short period of thought, I decided that it was probable that the wounded beast had left his companions. That would be a sure indication that he was badly wounded. If this was so, it would be splendid. We should be able to secure that trophy, after a long pursuit. Bos caffer graetzii would read well in the natural history records of African fauna, I thought to myself!

The decision to follow up and kill the wounded giant was soon made. Breakfast was forgotten. Leaving James and two of our natives to clear away the untasted meal and pack the launch ready for a renewed start down the river, Fière and I hastened off on the trail of the buffalo.

It was not difficult to follow. Large smears of blood were seen everywhere—on bushes, boulders, grass and leaves. I must have hit that buffalo pretty hard. Judging by that bloody trail. The spoor led up the bank of the Chambezi, and patently the wounded animal was headed for the shelter of the papyrus reeds around Lake Bangweolo. If so, we should gaze upon that most mysterious lake before we had expected.

Hour after hour passed, and still we kept doggedly on the trail of the beast. The sun climbed higher into the sky until it stood directly over our heads, scorching us and everything with its fierce rays; but we were far too intent on our quarry to pay heed to the trials of terrific heat or the rough going. We were obsessed with the lust to kill this new species of African mammoth. Until we had done so, we could know no rest of body or mind. What we had wounded, we must now kill.

At last, after over six hours of fruitless search, nature demanded a temporary halt and rest. The afternoon was well advanced, and we felt ravenous for neither had eaten since dinner on the previous evening. I decided to have the launch brought up to us, and sent back one of our native followers to tell James to come on up the river to the spot where we had halted. We reclined in the shade and rested, waiting for the launch to arrive with something to eat and drink.

An hour before sundown, the motor-boat reached us, and James got busy with the preparation of a much-needed meal. We watched his work with hungry anticipation. Breakfast, lunch, and tea must be merged into one meal.

While the repast was being prepared, I sent three of our natives to search further for the wounded buffalo. I felt quite positive that he must be lying up in thick cover somewhere in our neighborhood; and I wanted this specimen—and was determined to get it. I offered a liberal reward in cash if they located the beast for me. With this incentive, they hurried off into the dense bush.

We had just finished our meal when they came running back with word that the wounded giant had been found. He was lying down in the long grass near the riverbank, not far from where we then were. We had hoped for some such kind of luck, but had scarcely expected to find it so soon. Fière and I rose excitedly to our feet and got our rifles ready. We were only just in time, for a second later the tall grass parted in front of us, and the buffalo dashed out straight at us.

We both fired simultaneously, so that the two gun reports sounded as one. Having shot, I sprang to one side to avoid that infuriated charge of the beast. As I did so, my foot caught in a tree-root, hidden in the long grass, and I fell forward on to my knees. This accident proved my salvation. If I had remained erect, I must have been impaled upon the sharp and cruel points of the buffalo’s wide-sweeping horns.

Snorting with intense anger, the huge animal nosed under me as I fell forward on the ground. He tried hard to toss me into the air on those wicked horns, but failed to get a hold of my body. At last, I sprang to my feet and clung with all my strength to the horns. I hoped that, severely wounded as the beast was, he might give way to me or that Fière could get a chance for a safe shot. For a brief moment or two, which seemed like hours, the buffalo and I pitted our strength against each other. The huge beast was rapidly tiring from loss of blood, and I made a supreme effort to throw him to the ground or, at least, hold him so that Fière might deliver the death-shot. But I was no match for that brute’s terrific strength, and there came no shot from my companion.

It all happened in a brief second or two. The buffalo tried to shake off my grip on his horns and, as he flung his massive head from side to side, the point of the left horn pierced deep into my right cheek. I cried out in agony, and then felt myself lifted bodily off the ground and hurled skywards. I remember nothing further of what happened. It was just as well that Nature had dropped a curtain over that scene and blotted out the ghastliness of it all.

In the meantime, I learned afterwards, Fière had come gallantly to my aid, wholly unmindful of his own great danger. It was some time before he could manage to shoot without the risk of hitting me instead of the buffalo. As I was flung away, he fired; but only succeeded in wounding and making the beast more infuriated than ever. The savage brute turned upon Fière instantly, and tossed him again and again. His body was fearfully torn and gored. Then, as if worn out with his terrific vengeance, the buffalo toppled over dead beside our mangled and unconscious bodies.

I recovered my senses to find myself covered with blood and racked by an extremity of pain. I was stretched out on the bank of the river, with the motor-boat afloat below me, being supported in the arms of two of the native followers. Another man was washing my dreadful wounds with cool water.

“Where is the other Bwana?” I managed to whisper. The effort was so terribly painful that I almost swooned again.

“The others are bringing him here. He will die soon,” answered one of the men sadly.

“And the buffalo?”

“Dead!” came the laconic reply.

A flood of thick blood was flowing continuously from my mouth and the right side of my face. The two natives lifted me gently, to carry me back to the tent which had been erected on the bank; but, with every movement, the blood flowed faster and the pain was excruciating.

“Quick!” I managed to gasp out. “Bring the medicine-chest!”

They brought it. There was only one thing to do, and that quickly. Sew, sew, sew! Terrible necessity taught me how to ply that surgical needle and thread. With a native holding up my shaving-mirror, and another supporting me from behind, I thrust the needle through the raw flesh. A jagged, irregular hole, as large as my hand, gaped in my right cheek; and my under-lip hung down loosely, quivering. Under the horrified stare of the natives, I jabbed the curved needle again and again through my flesh. Somehow I managed to cobble up the tattered ends.

The pain was terrific. Heaven alone helped me to keep my senses and carry on with the ghastly torture of the self-inflicted surgery. My whole being was in revolt, and I was feeling a deadly sickness. To this day, I do not know how it was possible for me to have completed that operation on myself. But it got done, somehow: and more or less efficiently.

My lower jaw was fractured in two different places: near the ear, and near the lips. From this crushed mass, a long splinter of bone, with three teeth attached, hung loosely by the nerves and flesh of the gums. The whole outer flesh of my lower jaw had been scraped loose from the bone. Teeth, roots and bones showed white and shimmering through the awful cavity in my cheek. My tongue had been pierced by the point of the buffalo’s horn, and half torn from its roots. I spat out, continually, large and small splinters of bone and broken teeth.

The operation completed to the best of my ability, I made the best job I could of bandaging my face. A strong neat brandy put new life into me, and furnished the necessary strength to face that other surgical operation for poor Fière.

While I had been cobbling up my tattered face, James had prepared a bed in the tent for each of us. When I reached them, he had cut away Fière’s clothes with a pair of scissors and had him ready for me to do what I could for the fearful wounds. As I staggered to his side, Fière regained consciousness. Softly his white lips framed two words: “Très mauvais!”

A rapid survey of his mangled body showed me at once that his case was quite hopeless. I gave him a stiff injection of morphia, and then set to work to make him as comfortable as I could. I knew he had no possible chance of living for long, and my efforts were directed to easing his pain.

He had been tossed and pierced by those sharp-pointed horns no less than three times. His left breast muscle hung loose with a flap of raw flesh; his heart and lungs, happily, had not touched; and, in his left side, between heart and hip, was a ghastly tear of considerable extent. I sewed up this wound at once and then did what little I could for the others.

When I had completed my rough surgery, James washed, bandaged and put Fière to bed. I was feeling far too weak, sick at all I had seen and had had to do, and too full of pain to be capable of doing any more for my poor companion. Fière was now breathing regularly, and appeared to be sleeping. As I sat on my bed, watched and listened, I began to entertain hopes that he might just pull through the crisis and eventually recover.

Night fell, dark and dismal. It was a night filled with torturing pain, during which my mouth seemed to be filled with red-hot coals. Toward morning, a short and troubled sleep gave me a temporary measure of relief from the awful torments I had to endure. With the gray light of dawn, I awoke to fresh agonies and found everything deathly still about me.

I summoned our servants by clapping my hands together. I could not shout, or do more than whisper softly. Even that effort made me feel sick and faint from the terrible pain the slight movement occasioned.

They came and opened the door of the tent. Fortified by another strong drink of neat brandy, I arose painfully and slowly from the bed, and staggered over to Fière. The first light of a new day fell on a white and shrunken face. I knew at once that he was dead, and freed from all earthly pains. In my heart, I envied him.

So, on the very threshold of success, one was taken and the other left a shattered wreck of a man. It was cruel hard luck!

I instructed James to make arrangements to bury poor Fière’s body near our camp, and then to send off a man to Kasama, in North-Eastern Rhodesia, to bring succor. This was the nearest point where any Europeans could be found. And thus, far from all medical aid and alone with my native servants, I faced the grim situation with the best fortitude I could summon to my help.

Dr. G. F. Randall, the District Surgeon, and Mr. Cookson, the District Magistrate, marched day and night for two days to my assistance. But those four to five days of waiting can better be imagined than told in cold words. They were a never-ending nightmare of excruciating bodily pain and grievous mental torture.

Randall performed further surgical operations upon me, and under the most difficult circumstances, in order that I could be moved. And then, on an improvised stretcher, I was carried back to Kasama. That journey was sheer agony to my tortured body, and rendered all the more tragic because of the death of Fière.

With the sad procession was carried the body of my late companion, and Cookson arranged for temporary burial at Charenama; but, later, his body was taken to Kasama and buried there by the White Fathers of the Roman Catholic Mission.

For many weeks I was most carefully nursed back to health and strength at Kasama. When fit to travel, I came on up to Dar-es-Salaam for additional operations in the hospital.

That giant buffalo has turned my face into a caricature of what it was once. I can never look the same again, and must always carry these dreadful scars.

As I already mentioned Major W. Robert Foran earlier, I mention here his own exciting description of the terrible nature of the wild buffalo. Goes without saying that this too is a true story, and once again, from Africa:

My attention was suddenly attracted by a furious commotion in the bush, a short distance ahead of my trail. Advancing silently and cautiously, my ears were assailed by a succession of fierce snarls and deep grunts, a few angry bellows, and then the deep-throated roar of a lion. I could now hear a terrific struggle in progress, and broke into a trot to reach the scene of the conflict as soon as possible. Hamisi [bin Baraka, my brave and trusted gun-bearer,] trotted close to my elbow.

We arrived at the edge of an open space in the dense thorn-scrub, and came abruptly to a halt. So astonished was I at what met my eyes, that my rifle was not even remembered. I felt unable to do anything but stare, with eyes starting out of my head. I could neither move nor speak. Hamisi crept up to my side, and I heard him utter a deep grunt of mingled surprise and pleasure.

Before our eyes, in full view, was a huge black-maned lion and a gigantic bull buffalo engaged in mortal combat. Patently, it was kill or be killed. I would have given a very great deal to have had a movie-camera with me or even a Kodak; but I had left the latter in my camp. What a stupendous opportunity missed! Never again shall I ever again get a sight to equal it; and I had not even a camera.

A camera-lens I would have used gladly on that madly fighting, savage pair of primitive animals; but a rifle—nothing could induce me. I would act as an audience: but shoot I would not. I wanted to see this thing through to a finish, and satisfy my curiosity as to which would prove the victor.

In all my long and varied experience of wildlife, I had only once, that time in India, seen anything so thrilling or more wonderful. Then it was a cow buffalo and a tiger: now a bull and a lion.

I do not know how long that fight had raged before I came accidentally upon the arena. It was obvious that I was only watching the final stages. I have no idea how long I stood there, eyes following intently every single detail of that fierce I lost all count of time.

The lion was firmly fixed on the massive shoulders of the old buffalo when I reached the spot. He was fighting, clawing, biting, and growling ferociously. The buffalo was using all his strength and every cunning ruse to dislodge the antagonist, and get in some deadly work with its powerful head and cruel horns.

Once he did succeed in throwing the lion from his back to the ground; and, before his foe could recover, had driven one horn clean through the body and impaled the beast to the earth. They fought and struggled violently, roaring and bellowing savagely. The whole veld seemed to vibrate to their noisy throats. It was awe-inspiring; and swift thrills ran up and down my spine.

Somehow, the lion managed to free himself. Before he did so, however, he had scored the body of the buffalo in the most terrible fashion. Shreds of hide and flesh were hanging down in long strips, blood and dust were everywhere as they waltzed round and round each other, heads always facing, eyes watchfully intent and glaring, and muscles tensely drawn. Both waited for a favorable moment to spring in again to close grips. Round and round they went, wounds completely ignored or forgotten, frothing with blood at mouth and nostrils, bodies torn open and pouring out a steady stream of scarlet life’s blood.

Unexpectedly, almost when I thought the lion had had enough and would slink away to lick his wounds, badly whipped, he sprang in like a flash of lightning and once more landed squarely on the broad shoulders of the buffalo. He perched on neck and withers, his tawny body outstretched along the buffalo’s back. The agility of that spring was simply amazing.

It seemed to me that now the buffalo’s days were nearly ended, and the fight just about finished. The lion would bite into that massive neck, reach the spinal vertebrae, and with one claw wrench round that great head to breaking point; and then the huge beast would be thrown to death with a broken neck. It is the lion’s way of killing big animals.

For a brief second only, I fingered my rifle; but quickly banished all thoughts of intervention. The fight was no concern of mine. Jungle laws had ordained it, and no human being had any shadow of right to interfere. Let the victor not be robbed of the honors in such a gigantic trial of strength.

Now the buffalo was down on his knees, but still struggled valiantly to throw off his foe. They fought all over the arena, savagely and with grim determination. Then, with a swift movement the buffalo threw himself over sideways, and for a moment I thought the lion had actually broken his neck. I was mistaken. The buffalo rolled over the lion, and rose to his feet, freed of that death-hold.

The lion was at him again almost before the buffalo had regained his feet. This time he landed sideways on the shoulder and neck of the bull, just behind that magnificent sweep of horns. He clung there, biting savagely, while the buffalo moaned aloud in agony. But the gallant old beast was not licked: far from it. He fought back strenuously and struggled hard to shake off the lion’s tenacious hold. Then, gathering all his strength in a last supreme effort, he threw himself backwards. The lion’s body was swung over his head in a half-circle, and he fell on his back beneath that gigantic and heavy body. His tawny hide was lost to view, crushed to a pulp beneath that great bulk of meat and bone.

All round them, the place was a shambles; blood was everywhere. For a moment or two neither animal moved: they appeared to be at death’s door. I waited and watched, wondering what the final curtain would be. For a brief instant I turned to look at Hamisi’s face. It was streaked with rivers of sweat, eyes staring fixedly, lips parted, and breath coming in gasps. He was hypnotized, oblivious to all but that titanic fight. My eyes swung back to the two combatants.

Slowly and groggily, the buffalo bull staggered to his feet, and stood staring down at the gored and crushed body of his foe. It remained there on the ground, motionless. With two or three savage lunges with those cruel horns into the prostrate body of the Kon, the latter died. The buffalo stood erect over the vanquished, swaying drunkenly on his feet. His eyes were glazing fast; breath coming in short and strangled sobs.

A moment or two of tense silence passed, and still the buffalo swayed on his feet. There was neither sound nor movement, except that terribly labored breathing and that gentle rocking to and fro. The veld all around the arena was as silent as the grave; not even a bird chirped in the nearby trees. I could hear my own heart pumping furiously.

In silence life slipped from the buffalo almost like a smothered sigh. He crumbled slowly, to fall with a dull thud on top of his enemy.

We left them there, victor and vanquished, just as they had fallen.

To have acted otherwise would have been sacrilege.

2 The Night Guest

Hunting gorillas piqued my curiosity more than hunting lions did. There is a plethora of lions in Africa’s jungles, and there are many who have hunted lions by the dozen. But gorillas are a rarer species. You won’t get to see many gorillas in zoos throughout the world. There are not that many in Africa either, numerically. Furthermore, their great strength and intelligence is unrivaled in the animal kingdom, so most hunters steer clear of these animals.

The forests of Kivu are the home of the gorillas. I have arrived here finally with all my people. The villagers have dubbed a little ditch where water flows freely the ‘death ditch.’ I had no way of finding out why it bore such a nasty moniker. Close to this ditch there is a large bamboo grove, which is known as Rugano. This is where I first tracked a gorilla’s footprints.

Young bamboo shoots are a favorite food of gorillas. The grove extends for kilometers, while three volcanoes, Mikeno, Karisimbi, and Bisoke, stand in the distance. The bamboo trees have taken over even these mountains. The trees are so closely packed together that passing through them requires chopping the plants or crawling through the vegetation. Nettles, red-white fuchsias, balsam plants bearing flowers, veronicas, and purple, yellow, and pink orchids flourish on the forest floor under the towering trees.

There are gorillas, hippos, and buffalo in these woods. There are also cheetahs and other ferocious beasts. When foraging for food, gorillas go from one patch of bamboo to another. Even though they resemble humans, they are not civilized; hence, they do not need to worry about food or labor for a livelihood. There’s a plant—break it and eat it. There’s water in the pond—drink it. Then make yourself a bed with broken branches and leaves, and sleep and snore contentedly. Oh, how blissful their lives are!

In Kivu, there are two species of plants that are noteworthy. The first is the plant known locally as Musungura. It has tiny, delicate leaves and blooms yellow rose-like flowers. It is about 50 to 60 feet tall. The second plant is called Mugesi. Its leaves resemble those of the walnut and it grows about 100 feet higher. In March and April, it produces dense clusters of violet-magenta blooms. In addition, the lovely orchids are situated on this bed of green and yellow algae. Oh, what a wonderful sight it was to see so many lovely wildflowers. This is a flower-filled land! However, I am traversing this kingdom of flowers armed not with a journal for penning poetry, but with a lethal weapon.

There is one factor that makes gorilla-hunting simpler than lion- or tiger-hunting. It is difficult to spot lions or tigers, but gorillas are relatively simple to locate in their native habitat. This is because they live in packs. They are so powerful that I doubt even lions would have a chance against them, and when they reside in groups, even elephants are no match for them. Gorillas are fully aware of their power, so when an adversary attempts to catch a peek of them, they often do not even bother to pay attention. If they spot a lion or a person from a distance, they will ignore it and then, upon approach, they will aggressively bare their teeth to frighten off their opponents. Those who move closer, however, will suffer a horrifying end. Gorillas like to live their lives quietly and peacefully, and they seldom move quickly or agitate their massive bodies unless the threat is imminent. Therefore, gorillas are simpler to hunt than other animals.

I was also amazed to encounter an unfamiliar kind of human in the Kivu forest. If you were to refer to them in English, I suppose you would use the term “pygmy,” but I like to refer to them as Valakhilyas.6 There are no smaller people on the planet than these Valakhilyas. They are no higher than my waist, and if you see them from a distance, you would imagine them to be a group of children nine or ten years old.

The Valakhilyas have exceptionally dark complexion, curly hair, and flat noses. They wear nothing save an oil-soaked rag to cover their bodies. Despite their small stature, they are very robust, with muscles showing all over their bodies. They are also quite courageous. They take small spears into the thick forests to hunt elephants and the enormous buffalo. Their sole source of livelihood is hunting. They typically subsist on vegetables and roots, but when they are in the mood for meat, they hunt boars and deer with spears and bows and arrows. They do not intermarry with other African tribes. Along the woodland lakes, they dwell in little, idyllic huts covered in leaves. They have no interest in civilization.

While hiking one day I stumbled upon some large beds on the ground—I counted thirty. The beds were constructed with twigs and leaves. The chief of the coolies explained that these were gorilla beds. “I have heard that they never use the same bed twice,” I said. “Is that so?” He told me that it was so—and that they must be nearby.

I glanced in every direction. The bamboo and other plants shimmered on the grass below. The branches of the trees were covered in ravens, woodpeckers, doves, sunbirds, and a kind of sparrow. Their songs blended with the murmur of the forest. Sometimes one could see golden monkeys as they ran through the tall forest trees. On the other side a small river flowed in shining silvery waves. It was not long before sunset. I heard the noise of some branches breaking not far from us. I asked the chief coolie again about who it was that was making this noise.

“Gorillas,” he replied.

So I said, “Pitch a tent here. I like this location. We are going to hunt gorillas tomorrow.”

But I fell ill that night, and going for a hunt the next day was out of the question. I had a fever for five days and became so weak from fasting that I had to rest for another few days. A bizarre incident occurred about this time.

That day I was on a restricted diet, in a feeble condition. A collection of Rabindranath’s poetry that I had brought along kept me occupied. I would flip its pages on the occasional long waits inside the tent, and at other times I would spend time sitting on the camp chair outdoors. I looked at the river and listened to the birds. This is how I spent my days. Just before sunset a herd of elephants went by near us, causing a ruckus as they went to the river. They did not even look at us. All of this had become somewhat more familiar by then. It was not just elephants; I came across lions playing close by during our trek that didn’t pay us any mind either.

The evening grew darker, and the avian symphony eventually ended as well. I also heard a cheetah somewhere out there in the vast solitude. I rose slowly and returned to my tent. Just two pieces of roti and some water let me get through the night, since I was unable to stomach anything more substantial.

African monkeys and birds don’t wait for a proper sunrise before they start their activities of the day. Their ruckus roused me even before dawn broke.

I was famished. I opted to make my own breakfast since the servants were still asleep. The first thing I noticed was that three cans of jelly were missing from my table. Then I saw that the four rotis I had not consumed the day before had also vanished. I grew irritated. Surely a thief or hungry coolie had entered my tent during the night. I summoned the chief immediately. After he listened to me, he gathered his people together. However, none of them took responsibility for the theft. I said to them in frustration, “If I ever find a thief in my tent again, I will shoot him.”

That night it rained quite heavily. I love the sound of rain when I go to sleep. Outside, while the earth bathed in the rain, the ground became muddy, and the travel clothes got wet—but I was happily inside my tent, keeping warm and cozy in my bed. This wonderful sensation caused me to get drowsy, and the sound of raindrops eventually lulled me to sleep.

The next morning we discovered that the three tins of biscuit that had been on the table had also disappeared. I got irrationally annoyed. It is never a big deal if food gets stolen in the city. But in the forest, far away from civilization, where even gold can’t get you biscuits, theft of food meant that we would have to fold up our hunting expedition a few days earlier than planned.

Exiting the tent, I spotted them as soon as I glanced down. Footprints were easily discernible in the ground that was still soggy from yesterday night’s rain. Human footprints.

I called the chief yet again, informed him about the theft, and showed him the footprints. He gazed at them thoughtfully for a while. It is the coolies’ job to roam the African forests and detect wild animals, so tracking creatures by their footprints is part of their profession. I waited for his expert opinion. He began crawling all over, examining the prints closely. I could sense amazement in his face as he went about it. The seriousness of his look deepened as he stood up.

“What is the matter?”

He sighed and shrugged.

“You do not know what these are, do you? I can tell you with absolute certainty these belong to a human. And it must be one of the coolies. The closest village is a good twenty miles away. A human being, as I am sure you will agree, cannot possibly make it this far in the dark through this perilous forest.”

“Yes, bwana, I agree.”

“So it must be one of our coolies who has stolen the food?”

He shook his head and replied: “No bwana, this is not one of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if I told you, you would not believe me.”

“Why?”

“Because you would think I’m lying to you.”

“Ok, tell me what you think. I will believe you.”

“Bwana, the one who came to your tent last night was not a man.”

“What?”

“Yes, indeed, bwana. These footprints belong to a woman. I have no doubts at all.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? This forest is 20 miles away from the village. The forest is full of gorillas, elephants, buffaloes and tigers. A woman came all this way to steal from us at night?”

He said deliberately, “Well, I have thought of those things too. This, however, is not up for debate. These footprints belong to a woman.”

I stood there transfixed. It seemed like the chief was about to depart. I warned him, “Do not speak of this with the others.”

He smiled tiredly and said, “I wouldn’t have even if you hadn’t asked me not to. If I told them, they would believe there’s witchcraft here. They would flee and abandon us.”

I contemplated the chief’s theory for a considerable amount of time, but came to the conclusion that it was just too fantastic to be true. The terrifying forests of Kivu, where there are no signs of human civilization, where even fully armed hunting parties such as ours tread carefully, where every step of the way brings new nightmares of mortal danger, there, in the middle of the night, a woman all by herself—this is a joke. He must have been mistaken.

I left on my own with a gun in the afternoon, to see if I could hunt a few birds nearby. At least I would have a proper dinner tonight. I started walking along the river looking for birds in the trees close by. The sunbeams lit up the flowing river water, and the joyful songs of countless birds floated on the gentle breeze. I enjoyed the tranquility of this scene so much that I no longer felt like taking a life. A large wild pigeon sat down on one of the branches in the distance, but I did not chase it. It is as if my heart said: “As much right as you have to live in this bright sunny day, so do they.” After wandering about for a while, I began to head back towards the tent.

A glint of an object on the beach caught my eye. I approached it and discovered it was my tin of biscuits. I picked it up immediately. It was completely empty—and the beach was covered in human footprints. Whoever stole my tin did not return to human civilization in the middle of the rainy night. Rather, they sat here right on this beach and devoured all my biscuits. Who could it be? Even if it wasn’t a coolie or a woman, what kind of a human was this? If a man, what sort of man? Does he have no place to shelter? Does he then not have the usual fears of humankind?

I was thinking these thoughts as I walked back. I noticed the chief sitting quietly under a tree, so I went up to him and told him about my discovery. He again shook his head dispiritedly. He was behaving oddly for sure. It is as if he possessed some secret that he did not want to divulge to me. I did not press him, either. He already had some strange notions in his head, so he might have blurted out something even more nonsensical. I only said: “Chief, we need to apprehend this thief. I intend to stay awake tonight and keep watch. Will you be able to stay up and alert?”

He replied: “Yes, I have decided that tonight I shall be keeping vigil from this tree.”

I thanked him.

Right after supper that night, I tucked myself into bed and turned off the lights. I did not sleep. The moon shone brightly in the cloudless sky. The chief was keeping watch outside from his treetop perch, so he would be able to see the thief for sure. I lay inside the tent completely awake. We would have a good chance of nabbing the crook tonight.

The only thing that disrupted the quiet of the night was the constant chirping of crickets. Every now and then the loud trumpet of an elephant could be heard coming from afar too. An owl sometimes bleated outside the tent, as if calling out just to keep me awake.

So I stayed awake and alert. Even though I had shut my eyes, my mind’s eye stayed open. Sleep came and flirted with me several times, but I refused to give in to it. I forced myself to stay awake by any means necessary.

Dawn broke, and there was no sign of the thief. The cacophony of morning birds taunted me. I walked out of the tent, annoyed. The chief stood close by, so I expressed my frustration to him: “It was a waste staying up all night. The mischief maker didn’t even turn up.”

He replied: “They came.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, bwana. They came to these bushes right here.”

“That’s impossible. These bushes are so dense no human can come through them, whether day or night.”

“Bwana, what makes you think they are human?”

“Uff, have you started believing in witches too?”

“What I believe, well, Allah alone knows. But they came through these bushes. I heard their footsteps on the dry grass. I inspected the grounds just now. The earth is still soft from the rain. I saw footprints and handprints on the ground. They were coming crawling through the bushes. But their vision is far superior to ours, so they must have seen me sitting on the treetop. There’s no way they would dare to come out from the bushes after that.”

I stood still in my seething rage.

He continued: “But bwana, this is the day we are meant to start again. We need to pack up camp. I was wondering when we were going to get started?”

I stopped him, determined to have my way: “First I shall catch this thief. Then, and only then, will we budge from here. Chief, you pitch your tent next to mine today. Don’t go up the tree tonight, just stay up in your own tent. I will do the same. I’ll shout out when I need you.”

He nodded in assent.

So another night of staying awake. The moon was blazing in the clear night sky, the feral bloodlust of nocturnal carnivores was keeping them awake, my eyes were wide open, and in the bushes the thief was awake. The river was awake too, its soft song entrancing all who heard it.

The chief had said: “Why do you think they are human?” Ridiculous! Was he starting to believe in superstitions too? But why should it come as a shock? He’s African too. This Africa is the home of all superstitions. This place reeks of specters, witchcraft, sorcery. Man-eating monsters are not your run-of-the-mill beasts; rather, they are malevolent sorcerers posing as humans and preying on the innocent. Which is why there are fewer ghosts than exorcists in these parts!

I had stayed up all day yesterday and today, so I dozed off while thinking these thoughts. I wasn’t aware that I’d fallen asleep; a noisy rustling jolted me awake. There was someone inside the tent. It was too dark for me to make out any details, but a skunk-like noxious stench had filled up the tent. This was not a human smell at all.

I stopped breathing and lay absolutely still. The creature was also absolutely still. Perhaps I had made some noise when I woke up startled, so it was now watching me with its sharp eyes. Perhaps it could even see in the dark. Five minutes passed like this. In this silence the breath of the wild creature in the dark began to assault my ears. And that stench! Intolerable!

The rustling sound began again. Someone was going through things on my table. They must have thought me asleep. I first determined where the creature was in relation to the table. Then, without any warning, I jumped up straight and tackled the creature in the dark. Two strong arms shoved me aside so sharply that I fell back onto my bed. By sheer good fortune, the object that came to rest in my grasp was my electric torch—which, together with my gun, are the two things I sleep with at night. I turned the light on the creature, and what I saw I’ll never forget.

Thick, medusa-like clusters of black hair framed a ferocious, dark face. It had a female face, and it looked human, yet also not. Those eyes were not human; they were blazing red with hunger. And were those human teeth, or something more like the keen, cruel, brutal teeth of an animal?

It was dazzled by the sudden glare of the torch. I quickly yelled, “Chief! Chief!”

The next moment, my tent was flooded with an ear-splitting, furious roar, the likes of which no human is capable of producing!

I shivered and reached for my rifle, and the creature bolted out of my tent. I heard piercing screams coming from the outside! It was the chief, screaming in pain! I rushed out from the tent and saw the man down on the ground, crumpled and crying, and the pitch-dark naked creature standing over him, its bare hands holding the man’s neck in a death grip. In a word: brutal!

I could not risk shooting the chief when the two were so connected, so I brought the full force of my rifle butt down on the creature. It howled in anguish, half stood up and lunged at me like a viper, its wild hair lashing out in all directions. My rearward leap caused the creature to fall flat on the ground. It remained motionless where it had fallen.

I ran to the chief, who sat up without my help. I said: “Chief, you’re bleeding from your neck!”

He pressed the area with a piece of cloth and said, “She wasn’t able to go deep, but had you been a few minutes late I would be dead . . . but, what is that noise!” His eyes widened in the dark as he fearfully looked about.

True—it was as if the whole forest had suddenly woken up. The ground was rumbling and shaking, the trees were crumpling and breaking, and the bamboo forests were swaying and cracking. And with it an unknown, strange, and terrifying roar coming towards us!

By this point, most of the coolies had woken up and joined us. A full moon illuminated the sky, and the river burbled gently close to the majestic shadows of the forest. The moonlight had spread out across the earth like a soft, ethereal blanket. This tranquility was abruptly shattered by the advancing, deafening noise of a group of creatures marching towards us. We all froze in place and stared into the night forest—waiting for something to happen. The chief sprang to his feet and stood next to me. A look of terror had spread over his face; his eyes were popping in fear.

The alarmed birds arose noisily from the forests in the east, and a few monkeys and even a cheetah sprinted away westwards. The chief spoke in a quiver: “Bwana, right there! They are coming from over there!”

My throat was completely dry. “Who are they? Who is coming?”

But he said nothing more. His face was pale as death.

That terrible, indescribable sound was now close to us. It felt like an earthquake had struck. Never before had I heard such otherworldly sounds. These earth-shattering sounds were not human, but I knew of no other creature that could make them either. All of a sudden, the eastern bamboo grove fell apart, and then—oh, what is that! Who are they? I looked out into the moonlight and saw a dark barrier materializing in front of us. I just stood there, transfixed, staring at it. It seemed as though dozens of massive human arms were forming a wall!

A black thing sped past us, heading directly into that dark, living wall of arms. Glancing quickly around, I saw that the female creature had disappeared. We’d had no clue when she’d regained consciousness—we hadn’t had time to check! Moments later, the figure had vanished into the wall’s darkness. Excitement, terror, and awe had driven me to the brink of insanity, so I started to empty my rifle by firing at the wall of creatures. Having fallen asleep while wearing my bandolier, I continually reloaded and fired my rifle.

The chief stopped me and said, “Bwana, why are you wasting your bullets like this?”

I came to my senses. The daze cleared, and I saw that dark wall was no longer there. There was no longer any unearthly noise permeating the air, and the bamboo grove was similarly silent.

I let out a sigh and sat down on the ground. I inquired, exhausted, “What was that?”

“Gorillas.”

“Gorillas? What did they want here?”

“To take back Tana.”

“Who in the blazes is Tana?”

“The one who was stealing from your tent.”

“Have you lost your mind, Chief? For the life of me, I cannot figure out what you are saying.”

“Tana is a human female, bwana. The gorillas kidnapped her when she was a year old—that was fifteen years ago. She has been living with the gorillas since then. Even though she is human she lives and acts like a gorilla. I had heard this tale a long while ago, but this was the first time I’ve seen her. Allah forbid that I ever have to see her again.”

In the glow of the moon, the forest took on the appearance of a fairy world. Tana, a human female, but humans are now her enemy. Perhaps her gorilla family is tenderly petting her injured head right now. I kept staring into that dark forest stupefied in wonder. What an alien land this is!

3 In the Lion’s Den

I’d arrived in Uganda. A lion, wounded by me, had fled, leaving behind a trail of blood. I followed that trail deep into the forest. I had with me a few local coolies.

There was a massive mountain straight in front of us. The flat, level route that led to it ascended precipitously and disappeared into the mountain. The trail clearly indicated that the lion took this path.

I was getting ready to go up when the coolies’ chief cautioned me: “Bwana, don’t follow this path.”

“Why?”

“This is the Juju7 Mountain.”

Incredulous, I said: “Juju Mountain? What is that?”

His expression hardened and he said: “There is no end to this mountain. I have never climbed it or been inside, but I have been told the people that reside there are not human. . . .”

“How is that a surprise? This is a forest, one shouldn’t expect humans here anyway.”

“No, bwana, that is not at all what I am saying. Inside that cursed place is the kingdom of the Jujus. The mere sight of them can make humans die of fright.”

“I don’t believe in Jujus, Chief. This is all crazy talk. I am heading up. Come with me.”

Frightened, the chief shrieked: “Me? No way! I do not want to die this young. None of us will go up that mountain. You can ask for yourself if you like!”

I didn’t even have to ask. The others said in unison: “Never!”

This was a setback. I’d shot an unusually large lion, and wounded it severely. I doubted it would be able to go much further. Should I let go of such a precious prize? No, whatever lay ahead, I intended to continue the hunt. So I told the others, “You all wait here. I will go up by myself and return with the lion.”

The chief urged me again: “Please listen to me, bwana. No one who goes up that mountain returns to tell the tale.”

I laughed at these superstitions of the uncivilized. There was no point in continuing the debate. I just picked up the trail and started going up the steep mountain cautiously. Every hunter knows that an injured lion or tiger can be extremely dangerous. As a result, I was on the lookout and ready to use my weapon. Roughly three hundred feet higher up, the path took an abrupt right turn into dense woods. It was so thick that standing upright seemed quite impossible. But I was possessed by the hunter’s bloodlust, so I started crawling along the trail without hesitation. The remoteness of the forest made it obvious that no human had set foot there before. There was no sign of life—even the sun refused to shine here.

Suddenly the path came to an end. In front of me was a cave, and the trail led within it. Perhaps this was the lion’s den?

It was pitch dark inside. I was unable to see a thing even after trying to let my eyes adapt. As far as I could make out, there was no lion here. Perhaps it was lying in wait inside, watching me. Perhaps it would pounce at me without warning and unleash its fury. I had my electric torch with me, so I switched it on and looked into the cave. I saw the lion at once. It just lay there on the ground about five feet away. Even when I shone the light directly on it there was no movement at all. It wasn’t breathing; I had killed it. However, the situation still warranted caution. Injured beasts can often play dead, and then the moment the hunter comes close they will spring to life and strike a fatal blow. I kept the torch lit and fired a few more rounds into its body. When it still didn’t move, I went inside the cave. I was ecstatic that my efforts had borne fruit.

The cave was small, but oh, how frightful it was. Darkness seeped into the black rock all around. The floor of the cave was covered in white bones that had been stripped of all their flesh. Perhaps human bones lay amongst them too?

Something caught my eye as soon as I had that notion. A piece of fabric was caught in a pile of bones. I prodded it with my rifle. It was a coat! So this lion was used to eating humans too. Something dropped out of the coat at my prodding, and I crouched down to pick it up. It was a small diary, the journal of the unfortunate soul who’d lost his life to this lion. It must have belonged to some white explorer. Curious to identify this man, I opened the diary and shone my torch on it.

With a shock, I realized that the writing was Bangla! I was astonished to see traces of Bangla in this remote lion-cave in Uganda. An introspective Bengali had traveled all the way here just to be dinner for this cruel lion.

But I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, I am a Bengali too, and this lion could easily have made a meal of me. Then my remains too would lie on the pile of bones like those of this unfortunate man. No one would ever have found either of us again.

I came out of the cave—that gruesome pit of savagery—to the open air outside. I remembered my servants at once—I had forgotten all about them in my frenzied pursuit of game. They’d named this Juju Mountain. Why did they name it so? Why did people die here? Nobody within miles ever approached this peak. Why?

I looked around carefully for answers to that “why.” But I found nothing suspicious. A barren mountain, a bleak mountain road, a forlorn forest. The stillness and the quiet slowly merging into the pale pink evening light. It did seem peculiar, but nothing really frightening to me. But it would soon be evening, so it would be a mistake to loiter here much longer. I rapidly went down the mountain.

The expression on the chief’s face said it all. He had not expected me to return.

I could not help but chuckle. I asked the chief, “Why is your jaw hanging open like that? Do not be afraid, I am not a ghost.”

In a trembling whisper, the chief asked, “Did you see them?”

“Who?”

“The Ones Who Are Not Human?”

“Yes, I did see a creature that was not human.”

He turned white in terror and began to shiver. I burst out laughing and said, “Indeed! I saw such a creature! And that was none other than our injured lion. It’s lying in a cave up above, dead as a doornail.”

The chief spoke in disbelief: “You saw nothing else at all, bwana?”

“Nope. Not a thing. Not even a jungle rat.”

The chief sighed in relief: “You are a fortunate man. Those who climb this mountain never come down again.”

I asked him bluntly: “Tell me, did a Bengali ever go up this mountain?”

He replied, “Yes indeed, bwana, precisely one year ago. I brought him here too. Just like you, he would not listen to me. I warned him many times, but he went right up. He never returned.”

“Well, how could he? He was eaten by a lion. I found his bones in the lion’s den.”

But the man refused to accept that the Bengali had died at the hands of a lion. He kept repeating ‘Devil,’ ‘Juju,’ and other such things. I refused to entertain any further superstitious nonsense.

The diary was still in my possession. I decided I would make it a priority to get to know my fellow Bengali as soon as I returned to camp. What an unlucky soul! No doubt his family was unaware of his tragic end.

4 The Eyes in the Barrel

After dinner I stretched out on my camp-cot and began to read the diary. The more I read his account, the more marvelous it seemed. This was a strange, wondrous, inhuman history or autobiography: If you start reading this diary you will not be able to put it down. A narrative as incredible as this is one I have never heard before, and am unlikely to ever hear again. If anybody back in the city had told me this tale, I would not have believed them. If someone had insisted to me that this was the truth, I would have had them committed to a mental institution.

But here, in the deep forests of Africa . . . Everything seems possible here. I lifted the door of the tent and looked outside.

Such a pristine night. The sky spread out like an ocean and the wind was made of cascading moonbeams. There stood the Juju Mountain, its summit adorned with a silver crown above the shadowy clouds, its slopes covered in lush, impenetrable forest that no man would dare enter. Yet in the moonlight even this bone-chilling forest seems utterly glorious. I could hear the ceaseless nighttime music of the forest. The roars of ravenous lions that shook the forest floor could be heard from near and far. Fearful herds of zebras galloped away in the dark. The incessant, manic laughs of the hyenas. A troop of monkeys swinging through the treetops. The last shrieks of a bird trapped in a snake’s maw warning other birds to take flight. A cobra’s hiss announcing that it, too, belongs in this endless struggle for life. The owls hooting away as if to poison the night. And beneath all this, like the hungry growls of a stomach, a steady, eternal, forest hum. The many sounds of forest life, mixed with the sounds of this deathless hum, create a bizarre soundscape.

The local attendants and coolies were gathered around a fire pit just ahead. In the glare of the flames, their features seemed bloodied. Even though I did not speak their language and could not understand a word they were saying, I was able to pick out the three-word phrase: “Juju! Juju! Juju!”

They must have been discussing the Juju Mountain still. These are simple, uncivilized folk—their minds unencumbered by the complexity and concerns of urban life. Whenever a bizarre new idea comes to them, it remains with them forever. Still, was it only superstition that explained their fear of Juju Mountain’s interior? After reading the Bengali hunter’s diary, I had more doubts than previously, and could no longer ignore their concerns. Unlike them, the diarist must have been a civilized individual. The writing style suggests that he was well-educated. It did not seem as though he was merely narrating a bad dream. However, the story he told . . .

The chief suddenly appeared before me in the tent. He was clearly afraid and agitated.

I asked: “What’s the matter, Chief?”

He said: “Are you planning to hunt here any longer?”

I replied: “Yes. Big game seems to be easy to get here. I think I might stay here for a fortnight.”

He responded: “OK, in that case, we’ll take our leave. It is imperative that we get out of here immediately.”

“What! Why?”

“Men shouldn’t linger in these places. The Jujus have cast a curse on all the rocks and stones in this area.”

I laughed: “Uff, this again, Chief?”

He shot back: “It’s not madness, bwana. We saw something just now.”

My curiosity was piqued: “You saw something now? Juju? Ghost? Witch? Monster?”

He was serious: “No, bwana, none of that. One shouldn’t laugh about such things. It is inappropriate to make light of such situations. If I ever see something like what I witnessed today again, I will not be around to tell the story.”

My impatience was growing as I demanded, “What did you see?”

“We’ve always assumed, sir, that the Jujus remain within the mountain. They’d never before revealed themselves outside it. So we’d gone about our business, around the camp, without any anxiety. It wasn’t until today that I learned they could descend the mountain. There is no way this did not start with you. You disregarded our advice. You, a mere human, chose to contaminate their holy place. They must have descended from the mountain to exact vengeance.”

I’d been lying down on the cot talking to him, but now I sat up and yelled: “OK, Chief. Either tell me what you saw right away, or just leave the tent. I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

“I had gone to the river to fetch water,” he said. “When I was returning I saw something roll away hastily in front of me and disappear into the forest. I saw it clearly in the moonlight.”

“So what was it? An animal?”

“No.”

“Nor a human?”

“No. Just a small barrel.”

I said, haltingly: “A small . . . barrel?”

“Yes, bwana. A small barrel. Whoever has seen a barrel come to life and roll about?”

“Perhaps someone was just trying to scare you by rolling a barrel.”

“No, bwana. I promise you, there was no one else there. And there’s something else. I swear that I saw two fiery eyes peering out from inside that barrel, glaring at me as it rolled along. I dropped my bucket and raced back to camp. We have to leave this cursed place immediately. Tomorrow.” Having said this, he exited the tent.

I could not dismiss the chief’s words any longer. If he was lying to me, then the man who’d written the diary had been lying as well. I had suspected embellishment in the man’s account in many places, as if I was reading some fairytale or an amusing children’s story, but it was not possible to wholly disbelieve the account anymore. Perhaps it was overblown in parts; after all, no man can resist the temptation in telling a good tale. Still, I am a modern twentieth-century man, a college-educated, motorcar-driving, scientifically minded man. Why should I take at face value whatever claims this uncivilized man and this unknown dead adventurer make? Who knows, maybe the man who wrote this diary had suffered a mental breakdown? Or perhaps he was writing a fantastic voyage like Gulliver’s Travels? I would have asked him to explain, but death had silenced him eternally. There was no way to communicate with him from the beyond.

Suddenly, I had an idea: Maybe I could verify what the chief had told me. The chief’s tall tale and the diary did have points of agreement between them. How was that possible? If the chief was telling the truth, then the story in the diary surely was true. I shouldn’t let go of a chance to verify such a fabulous discovery.

I got up at once with urgency and donned my full hunting gear. Fear crept up on me, but I forced it out of my mind. Why should one who has left the lush vegetation of Bengal for the bleak darkness of the African jungles to battle its lions, elephants, and rhinos, and who carries an ammo-filled pistol, a revolver, and a hunting knife, shrink from confronting danger? Thanks to our capacity to voluntarily immerse ourselves in situations fraught with extreme peril, humans have risen to the position of the planet’s most successful animal species. How did we learn that there is a North Pole and a South Pole, how did we discover the North American continent, how did we invent aircraft and submarines? It was the thrill of the unknown! To make such discoveries, many have joyfully risked fates worse than death. The thrill of danger is at the root of all new discoveries. Those who seek danger, theirs is the earth. Theirs is the sky.

I put on my gear in this frame of mind. I tucked a torch into my belt, and I also made sure to carry a bright, long-burning petrol lantern. In the half-darkness even the slightest movement of trees could induce hallucinations. But all illusions would be dispelled by the stark, calm flame.

Outside my tent I discovered that the coolies and the servants had begun to strike camp. Addressing the Chief, I asked, “What is going on here?”

“They are genuinely afraid. Many of them are getting ready to leave this evening and are frantically packing their bags. But where are you off to?”

“To the river.”

“What! Why, bwana?”

“To verify your story.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. After a pause, he said: “Please, bwana. Don’t do this. The curse of the Jujus is all over that place. No one who ventures there will return alive. If you go there by yourself you will surely die.”

“Why would I go alone? You will show me the way—you have nothing to fear.”

“Me? Is that a joke, bwana?” he sputtered. “I am not crazy! I have a wife and kid at home, I am not suicidal!”

“All right, just show me the way to the river. I will go there by myself.”

He pointed. “There, the place is straight down that way. It is quite close. But sir, please, listen to me, do not confront the Jujus.”

I went on my way. It would have been futile to argue with him.

I have previously mentioned how bright the night was. Luminosity pervaded every surface. Before me, the path to the river coiled like a motionless python. The moonlight cast a magical glow on the woods on each side of the road. It seemed as though Juju Mountain was rubbing up against the clear sky.

The forest seemed isolated but not uninhabited. The mysterious forest sounds came from every side—the hyena’s mad laugh, the terrified screams of the monkeys, the hooting owl—and so many other inexplicable sounds. The only thing missing was the ear-shattering roar of the lion, a familiar sound of these parts of the African jungle. Rather than a cause for celebration, this was alarming. All experienced hunters in Africa know that one should be extra careful when the lions are quiet. They are silent only when they spot a prey, waiting to strike quietly like a thief. Who knows, maybe the king of beasts was looking at me right now with its greedy bloodthirsty eyes.

Lantern in hand, I cautiously made my way to the water. I wasn’t worried about the lions. I was only thinking of the words of the chief and the diarist: Juju and the living barrel!

Something resembling a cheetah sprinted through the woods. A few baboons peeked out of the bushes and bared their teeth at me. They did not expect to see a human walking here at night.

A pack of birds suddenly flew out of the forest with agitated chirps. Every hunter knows the meaning of this: the birds must have caught sight of some fierce predator nearby. As I looked in their direction, the trees swayed and stopped moving, as if an invisible animal had suddenly come to a halt. I did the same and waited silently. There was no motion at all for quite a while. So I started walking again. I felt uneasy passing along that trail.

The mountain and lakes were still and peaceful under the moonlight, and the sky was adorned with the moon like a diamond. There was no dearth of flowers here either. I’ve read in magazines that poets find such places very romantic. But if I were to abandon a poet here and say, “Come, write a poem about this! Everything you love is right here—the rising moon, the blooming flower, the perfumed crisp breeze!” I want to know whether they would write poetry, pass out, or flee like the wind!

I made my way to the riverbank, where I spied nothing unusual. Whatever one might fear in a forest is here, true, but those are the things that the hunter is looking for! But what I came here to see, the things described on every page of the diary, the thing that gave the Chief the willies, of these there is no trace whatsoever. I laughed and thought to myself, “Fantastic creatures are the stuff of fairytales and children’s stories. I feel stupid to have come out here all kitted out in the middle of the night, when I should have just been sleeping after a hard day’s work.”

I surveyed the river again. A crocodile was lying there looking at me. “My friend!” said its eyes. “Why don’t you come just a little bit closer! I will show you what I do when I am hungry.”

A bloat of hippos floated in the middle of the river. A few calves were playing in the water, some bumping into their mothers, others splashing about.

Suddenly I sensed that there were more eyes on me than those of the hippos and the crocodile. I was surrounded by a pack of unseen beings. At first glance, the trail seemed deserted, and the surrounding forest appeared completely still. Yet this eerie feeling of being observed disturbed me. This hadn’t been the case a few moments earlier. Was there a lion? A tiger? What was hiding in the bushes?

It’s not shocking that a wild creature would stay out of sight. It is possible that whatever had come this way was simply hiding out because of me, even if it had come here to get a sip of water. Maybe it was lying in wait to see whether it wanted to snack on me before getting a drink.

Whatever you may feel reading this right now, I didn’t feel good at all at that moment. I put the lantern down. I took out the torch and shone it on the trees on either side of the trail. And then . . .

I saw it!

What were those two eyes? Through the bushes two fiery red orbs were peering at me! Two furious and fiercely hungry burning eyes! Was it a lion? A tiger? Whatever it might be, I immediately unshouldered my rifle and fired two rounds into the grass.

The next thing I knew, the sky was filled with a scream of unimaginable horror! No lion or tiger could ever make such a terrible cry! Something went running away—could it be a barrel? The whole forest was suddenly filled with shrill, horrible cries, enough to make even the most courageous hunter run for cover. No human has ever heard anything like that. I stood there uncertain of what to do next. All I was thinking was: “What monster is this that can utter such unearthly screams?” But what happened next made me lose my nerve altogether.

I had positioned myself smack-dab in the middle of the path. About ten to twelve feet away was where the forest began. Any monster intent on attacking me would have to cover at least that distance. But out of nowhere a snake-like thing shot from within the trees and struck my left hand. As my rifle clattered to the ground, the tentacle caught my hand with an iron grip and started to drag me into the woods.

I was momentarily too stunned to attempt to release myself. I was on the verge of being dragged off the trail when I realized that my right hand was still free. I quickly took out my revolver and fired several rounds in the direction of my assailant. The grip suddenly relaxed.

Although I hadn’t caught a clear glimpse of what had gripped me and then let me go, it had managed to drag me nearly a dozen feet. I was dizzy with fear. I didn’t dare to experiment any further—I sprinted back towards my tent. The inhuman screams pursued me along my run.

No doubt believing that I was being followed when they saw me sprint into the camp, the coolies screamed and fled, never to be seen again. I cannot blame them for cowardice. Perhaps they too had seen or heard of such things that I’d only now seen with my own eyes. Only my maker and I know how I endured that night of terror, worry, and sleeplessness. I left the cursed place the very next morning. My expensive rifle and lantern I abandoned. Even in the light of day I didn’t feel safe going back for them. It is true that peril reveals a man’s true nature, but even so surely there is a limit to how much one man can accept. No matter how much you may like seeking thrills, it is foolish to leap into a river without knowing how to swim.

The rest of this book I will devote to transcribing the contents of the Bengali’s diary. Whether you think it is to be believed or not is up to you. The author of the diary has written of his adventures in clear and understandable language. I have not excised a single line from his account. In order to include it within my narrative, I have only added a few chapter headings.

5 The Diary Begins

There is no doubt about it—the coolies were telling the truth.

I have seen with my own eyes the possibility of the impossible! If I did not have nerves of steel, I would have gone insane.

Sometimes I have to pinch myself to be sure I am not in some kind of outlandish dream. But then I look at the sketches which I carried with me from that strange land. The sketches, at least, do not appear to be part of a dream.

My tale will be recorded as quickly as possible. I am in a dire state of health, so bad I cannot even begin to describe it. It has been seven days since I last ate, and three since I last drank anything. The climate on this side of the mountain is dry as a desert. I cannot muster the energy to go on.

Although the beginning of my tale will undoubtedly shock you, I think you will find that, by its conclusion, horror has given way to riotous hilarity. Many of you may even see my situation as farcical. However, human existence itself is a farce; the grin of one individual may be lethal to another. If you find my story humorous, please remember that throughout my ordeal, humor was the last thing on my mind.

This story might be called “The History of a Nightmare.” When a person wakes up, the terrifying dream they had while sleeping now seems like a joke. That is almost how I feel, but I am close to the end of my life. I won’t live long enough to see the humor in this situation—more’s the pity.

I am now hiding out in a cave high in the mountains, attempting to complete this diary. My expectations for living much longer or seeing another human are low. But I hope that my journal will be found by someone in the future—and that these lines will be read by human eyes.

---

*

None of the coolies would agree to come with me. They said, in unison: “No one goes to the Juju Mountain.”

This infuriated me. Determined to solve the mystery of the Juju Mountain before I left Africa, I left the coolies in the camp and began my ascent.

I climbed, and climbed, and climbed. Although I did not see any Juju creature, I can attest to this mountain’s bleakness. There is no sign of human life—or any other kind—here. Things began to feel scarier the higher I ascended. Why did humans avoid this place? Why were there no signs of habitation? This mountain should be a poet’s paradise, a pilgrimage for the devout! It was stunningly beautiful in the sunlight, with magnificent waterfalls singing melodious songs in their own language as they rolled down to the ground. It was covered in wild, colorful flowers and bushes, and there was lush green grass covering the ground all the way to the volcano. So why did humans stay away? Why had these mountains never been described in any guidebook?

As I continued to ascend, I was overcome by another, even more eerie sensation: I sensed that creatures were following me on both sides of the trail. Although no people or animals dwelled here, I was not entirely alone. Things were cautiously watching me. I double-checked the trail ahead of and behind me, and I peeked into the bushes, but I didn’t see anything. Still, these invisible spirits stalked me relentlessly. I couldn’t shake the sensation. Uff, I felt so uneasy!

After four hours of climbing, something caught my eye. A narrow path had been carved out of the mountain’s side; in places, it was caked in dried mud. Inspecting this path for human footprints, I instead discovered strange skidmarks. It appeared as though someone had dragged cylindrical objects along this path when the ground was wet. But whoever had dragged these cylinders hadn’t left any footprints—how?

I had been standing at the edge of a crevice, while I was pondering over these mysteries. Suddenly I slipped and fell. I hurtled into the crevice as though I were plunging into hell. My body shattered and cracked as I dropped into the darkness, and I screamed in agony.

Suddenly I hit a rock, and lost consciousness.

6 Sixteen Arms Long

I felt myself lying on a table when I recovered consciousness. I discovered only later that it was an operating table, or more precisely, a table used to alter people.

It took me several moments to realize that I was not lying on the table, but rather that the table was resting on my back. The table was suspended from the ceiling, and I was beneath it, looking straight down at the center of the room. I was not restrained in any way, but I did not fall. Though subsequently I would learn the scientific reason for all of this, in that moment my body froze, and I imagined I was having a nightmare.

Suddenly, I observed a little barrel on the ground with two eyes staring at me from within. This comical face resembled a child’s drawing of a round moon with two eyes, a nose, a mustache, and a mouth. Again, I felt certain that this was all a dream.

The moon-face smiled. “Ah, you are finally awake. Amal, do you believe this is all a dream?”

I blurted out: “What do you mean—it isn’t a dream?”

“No.”

“So where am I? All I remember is tumbling down the hillside.”

“Exactly. We picked you up from where you fell. Had we had not come to your rescue, you would undoubtedly have perished. Both your legs and your spine were broken in the fall. In the end, it was my scientific knowledge that saved your life.”

The moon-face was confusing me. I no longer thought it was just a dream, but what could it be? Can a human hang from the ceiling without any support? And this moon-face that was staring and talking to me, has anyone ever seen such a face? My head began to spin.

The face in the barrel said: “Amal, you have been cured.”

I asked: “How do you know my name?”

“We read your journal. Hold on, let me lower you . . .” As he said this, he did something that made the table—along with me—slowly rotate and descend to the floor.

The moon-face said, “Now you may get down from the table.”

I slowly sat upright, then stepped down from the operating table.

A hand shot out from the barrel holding a glass. The moon-face said: “Here, drink this.”

There was something green in the glass. As soon as I drank it, I felt a kind of sharp and painful lightning shoot through me.

I said, fearfully: “What did you make me drink?”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” the moon-face replied with a laugh. “It will help you.”

I asked again: “So where am I?”

“Within the borders of a secret African nation.”

“How did you learn Bangla?”

“Everyone here speaks Bangla. But I will explain our past later. For now, please pay attention to what I am saying. I know you are a Bengali. However, outsiders are prohibited from entering this realm. I brought you here because I want to do some experiments on you. But I don’t know if the king will let you remain here. The court will assemble soon enough. You will have to wait to find out whether you are allowed to remain or if you are going to be put to death.”

I shrieked: “Put to death?”

The moon-face replied, quite calmly: “Yes, indeed. That is our law, after all, for all outsiders who come here.”

Such a perfectly ghastly law. I felt my stomach churn.

The moon-face spoke reassuringly: “But don’t worry your head about this for now, Amal. I will try my best to see you aren’t executed.”

“Thank you,” I replied, gratefully. “But may I know your name?”

The moon-face said: “No one calls me by my name in this place. Just call me Science Master. As the king’s minister of knowledge I am responsible for all matters pertaining to science and learning.” Saying this, the Science Master began to pace back and forth in the room.

The creature’s movements threw me into a panic. I noticed that three legs had shot out of the barrel, from which still peered the Science Master’s face. This barrel of legs and face was scuttling all around me.

I had once read of a magic kettle in a Japanese fairytale. That kettle had an awful habit—sometimes it would shoot out legs and grow a face, and would show off its dancing skills. But that was a children’s fable, meant as amusement. What I had in front of me at that moment was a barrel that was completely alive and moving all around me. This was not something I could dismiss as an opium eater’s dream.8

Seeing my gaping expression, the Science Master grinned: “So you believe my physique seems somewhat new and different? I promise to explain it as soon as I can, but right now I have to go to work. My daughter will soon be here—you may talk to her while I am gone.”

Do you know what a paper snake looks like? It is little when coiled up, but if you blow into it, it stretches out as long as your arm. As quickly as that, a hand shot out from the barrel, opened the door, then shot back into the barrel. But the door must have been at least 16 or 17 arm’s lengths away from the Science Master’s barrel! The next instant, I saw the three legs coiling back into the barrel, after which the barrel rolled across the floor and through the door.

I could hardly believe my eyes. Are such things even possible?

I was standing there dumbfounded and perspiring from worried thoughts when I saw that a fresh, lovely figure had entered the room.

7 The Kind Kamala

There was no reason to fear the vision that walked in. Your eyes would have teared up in delight and your heart would have felt lighter and happier at the sight. She was beautiful, like a princess from a fairytale.

I have read about such creatures before in folk tales, in epics, in stories and novels. But this girl, oh! She was more gorgeous than words could ever express. It is difficult to conceive of a more stunning skin color, figure, or face! In this godless, otherworldly barrel-kingdom, the sight of my host’s daughter cast a spell on me.

She drew closer and greeted me with a warm smile: “You must be my father’s guest. Would you mind telling your name?”

“Amalkumar Sen.”

“I assume you must be quite terrified?”

“Is there a human soul that wouldn’t feel scared in this place? Did you notice who or what it was that just exited the room?”

She giggled and said: “Of course, why would I not?”

“And you still wonder why I am scared? How many other moon-faces have you trapped in barrels?”

“There are far too many to count.”

“What the—what do you mean? What do you do with them?”

“What should we do? Some are my friends, some are my foes, some are people I play with. And then there is my father—”

“Your father? That creature—moon-faced, arms sixteen arms long, a barrel body, three legs? That’s your father?”

“He is indeed.”

“But you seem to be no different than us humans . . .”

“Yes, but this is not my true form.”

I asked, stupefied: “What do you mean?”

“I am merely imitating the form of my ancestors. I do not much like my true form.”

Was she out of her mind? What could it mean to have a ‘true’ form—or an ‘untrue’ form?

She continued: “My true form resembles my dad’s, though he has a mustache and I don’t. I am as pliable as he is, oftentimes, because we cannot maintain the illusion of a stable form for long. It’s painful.”

I could not believe my ears. Pliable like her father, imitating her ancestors’ “stable” form . . . all this was making my head spin. Was she kidding me? If she was attempting to play a cruel prank, her innocent, childish countenance belied any malice. Did that mean I really was in a spirit kingdom? Many believe that male and female spirits roam in dimensions beyond our own. Could it be I was in such a place—and that I would have to embrace the horrible possibility that I’d perished a long time ago on that Juju mountain, and had become a spirit? Maybe like the famous Alice I was roaming in a wonderland, trapped in my own unconscious. But I refrained from expressing these distressing thoughts. I asked instead: “So you live in a barrel?”

“Yeah. Like tortoises in their shell, we make ourselves at home in barrels. As we don’t have bones in our bodies, we can assume whatever form we like. Our bodies are like rubber, all of us can stretch or compress them to whatever size we choose. Look at this—” the girl said, as she began to stretch out her neck—so high and so thin that her head disappeared through an open window!

I screamed in horror: “Stop it! Stop it now! This is too much for me—I can’t breathe . . .”

Instantaneously her head returned to her shoulders, like a rubber ball bouncing back. She was amused. “Look, we can perform all of these things with our eyes as well.” Saying that, she popped her eyeballs six inches from their sockets, then popped them back in!

I was utterly terrified. My heart beat so rapidly I thought it would explode. I’d heard about shapeshifting monsters and she-monsters in fairy tales . . . was I in a land of monsters? Every hair on my body, from head to toe, stood on end. I knew this was real, it wasn’t a dream—but what was this bizarre, fantastical world?

“Please, girl, don’t frighten me anymore,” I begged. “It would be kinder if you’d just kill me.”

She giggled again: “Ha ha—fine. I see that all this scares you. I apologize, and I won’t do it any more. But really, there is nothing to be alarmed about. You will get used to everything in two days. OK, now I should go.” With that, she left.

I was annoyed by how disrespectful the young woman was. She’d begun by addressing me formally, but by the time she’d left she was using quite familiar terms. By tomorrow, would she dare to address me by my first name—like a friend?

I suddenly noticed that the Science Master had quietly slipped back into the room. He was standing on his three legs near the door and smirking.

“Ha! Why are you standing so rigidly?” he asked. “Did Kamala frighten you with her antics? She cannot help it. Did you like her initial appearance? Of course you did. To you those kinds of faces are attractive—though we do not think so. Are you curious why? OK, let me tell you a little bit about us.”

8 The History of the Juju Kingdom

The Science Master began: “You must have heard about Vijay Singh of Bengal, who sailed to Sinhala by water and reigned there for many years?9 A group of his followers—whose ship was separated from Vijay’s fleet by a terrible storm—were our forebears. After many years of drifting at sea, the ship ended up landing here in Africa.

“The ship’s captain was a man called Chandrasen.10 The term “brave warrior” alone does not do justice to his character. He had extensive knowledge of several shastras11 and arcana. Most of his time was devoted to researching scientific secrets. Well-versed in areas unknown to even the brightest minds of your scientists today, he discovered a technique to improve people physically and spiritually to the point of perfection. Even if I took the time to explain this to you, you still would not get it. If you’re interested, maybe I’ll show you our children’s science museum.

“Chandrasen began by experimenting on his shipmates. We are the result of that experiment!

“In the past, as I’ve explained, we were no different from you primitive Bengalis. We used to be weak, worthless, and imperfect beings just like you, but that has all changed. Our souls are now the masters of our bodies, not their slaves. We do not have skeletons, since there is no use in having bones. We can mold our bodies into any form whatsoever, as Kamala has demonstrated to you. Our brains are not confined to the jail of our skulls—instead, they are manifested throughout our bodies, which is why we have limitless control of every organ and appendage.

“Have a look at how I can manipulate my own appearance.” (Saying this, the Science Master began to transform his face in so many different ways that my body froze in terror.) “It’s entirely up to us how many or few hands and legs we have.” (He extruded some twenty arms and legs from his barrel and began to move them around). “We can stroll along as slowly as you do, or we can run faster than your motorcars. I also get to decide how long I want to live.

“Lanka, or Sinhala, was formerly home to King Ravana.12 His body had twenty limbs and ten heads. He could also disguise himself as a regular person if he so desired. Kumbhakarna, his elder sibling, towered above even the tallest palm trees. Such feats demonstrate the power of the spirit over the material form. You are all ordinary humans, so you write this legend off as the ramblings of a cannabis-smoker. But this is why you are so stupid. Could you really believe that the authors of the great epics Ramayana and Mahabharata were stoned?

“It is quite likely that Chandrasen learnt the secret techniques to completely alter human bodies because he had traveled to the land of King Ravana. Perhaps scientists experimenting with these secret techniques showed him their methods. Now we are the last people on Earth with this knowledge. If you remain for a while, perhaps you will learn a few new things, too.

“OK, that is everything for today, Amal. To keep filling your little brain with fresh knowledge would cause it to explode. Come with me.”

I followed him into the next room, where an abundance of fresh produce was piled high on two small tables. The Science Master crossed his three legs under himself and sat down at one table, motioning for me to do the same. “Sit down, Amal, sit. Let’s eat. We don’t waste much time on food.” He then stretched his mouth wide like a python and devoured an entire basket of fruit in under two minutes. He finished by drinking some water and said, “Done! Hope you have had enough. Let’s get going.”

Had enough? Maybe these people don’t need to spend much time eating—if you can eat enough for ten people in two minutes, why would you need any time? I feared I would die of starvation if I continued dining with this moon-face. I was unable to eat even two apples in two minutes. So while the Science Master drank his water I pocketed a few fruits for snacking later.

“Overeating turns your head into mush,” he murmured as he dried his face. “Therefore, we are only going through the motions of eating. However, there are still some fools in our world who believe that consuming more food would result in greater physical strength. I hope they get what they deserve for being so foolish. Oh, speak of the devil—one such is coming over to us.”

I turned around to see a barrel-being come our way, rolling and panting. His barrel was so huge that two of the Science Master would easily fit inside it. His face was enormous and he was covered in warts the size of golf-balls. He had such a sanctimonious smile on his lips that it made my skin crawl. I took an instant dislike to him.

He came close and looked me up and down. “Dear Master,” he said, “is this the unusual creature you mentioned? Huh. I came all this way to see it.”

The Science Master introduced us: “The gentleman’s name is Amalkumar Sen—he hails from Bengal. Bhombol, don’t forget your manners. Show some courtesy.”

Bhombol changed his tune immediately: “Of course, of course. Your friend is my friend too. By the way, where is Kamala?”

“She must have gone to the minister’s house. But anyway, can you do something for me? Show Amal around a bit?”

“Of course, of course,” Bhombol replied. “I would lay down my life for you, so this is but a small favor. Come, Amal-babu, let us go for a stroll. I can take you to the children’s science museum. There’s also a good hotel nearby, we can eat a bit too. What do you say?” He slapped me hard on my back in jest.

The Science Master ordered: “Bring him back by sundown. Remember, he is your responsibility now.” He folded his limbs back into his barrel and sped out of the house.

9 The Human Egg

Bhombol waggled his eyebrows: “I must do what the master commands. Amal-babu, so you are what they call a human? What do you think of us?” He flashed his teeth in a wide grin.

I did not reply.

He continued with a grin: “Can you roll like us?”

I was a bit annoyed. I said: “Of course not. It is obvious I do not have a barrel.”

“There is no avoiding it then. I am doomed to use my legs to walk like an inferior human. It can be quite exhausting. But well, please come this way.”

We exited the house via a walkway that sloped steeply downwards. These were apparently stairs, but they had no steps, as they were solely designed for rolling. I found it difficult to descend, and almost slipped and fell on my face twice. Ultimately, I was unable to maintain my equilibrium, and I slipped, tumbled down, and bruised myself.

Bhombol did not help me in the slightest. He casually rolled down and stopped next to me. Grinning broadly, he said: “See? There are so many perks to living in your own barrel.”

I replied, resentfully: “You will see who has the last laugh if you visit our country. If you tried to climb down our stairs, your barrel would shatter completely.”

He scoffed: “Who’s going to your country? You are all so uncivilized!”

I kept silent. We walked till we reached the main Royal boulevard.

It was a bizarre sight. On both sides were rows of houses, but none of them looked alike, either in design or style! And all the roofs were arched, twisted, grotesque! There were skyscrapers here, too, like there are in the office district in Kolkata, but just the thought of using their rolling staircases made my heart skip a beat. Although someone with a dozen monster limbs may be able to scale them, I think I would be crushed to a pulp if I attempted any such thing.

The streets were tranquil and quiet, a far cry from the chaotic streets back home. There were barrels rolling all over the place, some fast, some slow. There were hardly any that were walking on their legs. Those who were on their feet, though, stood on three legs, which made me think that, though they can use more legs if needed, their usual style was to use just three legs.

A lot of wheels were whizzing by on the roads. The diameter of some of these wheels had to be at least eight or ten feet! They were going at the speed of a motorcar, and it was impressive to see how deftly they were able to weave in and around the moving barrels. But it also became clear that it didn’t really matter if they did strike a barrel. I saw one wheel just roll atop a barrel, cross it, and continue rolling—without causing any problem at all for either party. Such ‘accidents’ must be so common here that this was not even worth their attention.

The big barrel next to me, which is to say Bhomboldas, licked his lips once and said: “So, Amala, I see that you are floored by our country, eh!”

I snapped: “Why do you call me Amala? My name is Amal.”13

He bared his teeth again: “Why do you get offended with such jokes? Amal and Amala are identical.”

I said: “No, they are in no way identical. I do not appreciate these jokes.”

He replied: “Oh my god, you are such a humorless country dolt! You get so upset at something so trivial! Do you even realize how you look right now?” Saying this, he proceeded to contort his face in a weird manner, until before long his face was exactly like mine. Only those who have endured it can comprehend the nature of such a horrifying experience. Another “me” emerged in front of my eyes. I said in exasperation: “I give up! I apologize. Stop this, please.”

His visage snapped back into his own nasty Bhombol face. He grinned: “Indra, the king of the gods, assumed the guise of the Rishi Goutam. I can replicate what he did because I know it all. And Science Master’s daughter, Kamala, is likewise quite skilled in this art. No one in this whole kingdom is as competent in these arts as us. Anyway, we are wasting our time in idle chatter, and I am getting hungry. Let us visit the museum first. Here, wheel! Wheel!” He whistled. It sounded like an engine was whistling!

Two enormous wheels came out of nowhere and stopped in front of us. By God knows what odd art, two barrel people had affixed themselves to the middle of those wheels, where they sat gripping a peculiar nest-like seat.

Bhombol scooped me up and flung me onto the seat, similar to how people toss their portmanteaus or bags into a motorcar. Then he took the seat next to mine and barked “Museum. Quick!”

The wheel spun—fast! I thought I might be hurled off at any moment, so I held onto the seat for dear life. The giant wheels moved like the Punjab Mail. My throat constricted and it became almost impossible to breathe. How someone could travel while sitting in these chairs baffled me. Bhombol appeared completely unperturbed. He had his teeth out in that stupid grin and seemed to be enjoying the ride. Praise be to the wheel!

It came to an abrupt halt. Unable to maintain my balance, I was catapulted from my seat onto something soft and squishy. The next moment the squishy thing flung me off too. It said in a whining, annoyed tone, “What type of person are you?”

I must have fallen on someone. I hurriedly rose to my feet and began to apologize: “Excuse me, I’m—”

“Can you not see that I am not in my barrel? Have you lost your eyesight?”

I recovered my concentration and breath. Looking around, I spied a barrel rolling aimlessly on the ground. Addressing myself to it apologetically, I said, “Please, I’m not used to these wheels, I have never seen one before in my life, so—”

“What an idiot! He is conversing with the barrel,” the voice said. “If you must converse with someone, sir, why not with me?”

I turned to my right to see a gloopy jelly-like substance lying on the road. From the middle of it an infuriated face glared at me. The face repeatedly puffed up like a football, only to deflate the next second.

Bhombol was laughing away—so hard that his eyes were watering. When he eventually regained his composure after great effort, he said, “Amal, you jumped this fellow in the middle of the street, so he has lost all his energy. Hey, Nasu, this human did not do it on purpose, so just calm down. And by the way, it is quite inappropriate to come out of your shell in the middle of the street—ha ha!”

Nasu grimaced: “Such words from you! We will see when it happens to you! Do you think I am a river or pond that anyone can just hop onto me? Go on, go, I’ll need a few minutes to collect myself.” Saying this he slid into his barrel, ejected three legs, and sprinted away.

Bhombol said: “Here we are at the museum. Go, take a thorough look inside. Manke,” he said to a museum guard, “take this gentleman and show him around.”

Since Bhombol was addressing me informally, I did the same: “Bhombol, where are you off to?”

“To the restaurant! I will collapse if I do not eat something soon. Explore it all and then come see me.” He didn’t even stop for a response, so he must have smelled food somewhere.

My stomach was rumbling from hunger too. I thought of going to the restaurant with him, but I doubted that my money would work in these parts. How would I pay for food? Having reached this conclusion, I followed the guide called Manke straight into the museum.

There was no end to the things I discovered and marvels I saw that day! I saw many technical drawings from the hands of the creator of these weird beings. These drawings demonstrated how our human body was transformed into theirs, how their bones were extracted from their bodies, and how their brain capacities were enhanced with chemicals, among other things. There is no use in discussing any of it, as none of it makes sense without his drawings.

There were also a lot of surreal stone statues. These statues demonstrated the transformation process and how their bodies first looked when the process began. In another exhibit, I saw a mysterious device labeled “Human Egg Incubator.” Next to it was an enormous egg, at least as large as an ostrich egg, with the words “human egg” written on it. I was puzzled. I had heard of people talking about a horse’s egg in jest, but never had I heard of a human egg. How fantastic! I spent a considerable amount of time attempting to comprehend how the machine worked, what the egg was, and the point of it all, but nothing made sense. I concluded after some time that this was all some kind of elaborate joke. There should be no space for such an object in a scientific museum.

In a different room I came across a statue of Chandrasen. Chandrasen—the creator deity of these beings. That colossal statue did not inspire the slightest awe or reverence. It was a figure stooping from age, the figure of a skinny, wiry old man. In that frail body shone two eyes that seemed power-hungry and completely crazed. It was a nightmare. In fact, it seemed as though his crazed eyes were glaring directly at me with malice, allowing no intruders into his domain.

The light was fading in the room. I turned around and found Manke standing there in silence. As soon as I attracted his attention, he cautioned, “Do not linger in this room for too long.”

“Why?”

Manke seemed a bit nervous: “No one comes here after dark.”

“But why?”

He pointed at the statue and said: “Because of him.”

I re-examined the statue. A thin beam of light from a window was shining on the lips of Chandrasen’s statue. It seemed to me a bloodthirsty grin was forming on those lips.

I turned and asked Manke: “But why be scared of him? He is only stone.”

He replied: “The statue comes to life at night. We can all hear someone pacing back and forth in the room with the heavy thud of stone. Let us go, now.”

I did not believe him, of course, but I no longer wanted to remain in this room, or even this museum. I departed and went in search of Bhombol.

Arriving at the restaurant, I found that Bhombol had caused quite a stir. Twenty or thirty empty plates were piled in front of him, and he was drinking directly from a pitcher. Seeing me come in, he banged on his table merrily: “Here you are, Amala! Come have some bhang with me!”14

I forced myself to swallow my irritation. I said, “I do not touch the stuff. But I must be back before sunset. Take me back.”

He jumped up at once and said: “Ah, so glad you reminded me! Let me drop you off. Otherwise that grumpy old man will get annoyed and will not let me marry his daughter!”

“What do you mean by that? Are you going to marry her?”

“Oh you didn’t know? I am engaged to be married to Kamala!”

Kamala! This hideous ogre was to wed that stunning girl? What a bizarre idea!

Bhombol said: “Listen, do not tell the old man that I drink bhang. I will make your life a living hell if you dare speak up about this.”

We made our way out of the restaurant. Bhombol was too inebriated to use only three legs, so he pulled out an extra three and started to walk with me. Then he shot out four hands, too, and began to clap and sing:

“Hey, he may be Amala

But he ain’t a koala

Let’s beat him with a paddle

(Paddle, paddle)

His name is Amala!

His legs are but two,

His brain’s empty too,

He is too full of poo,

Let’s turn him upside down!

Let’s make Amala frown!

Gets thrown from a wheel

He talks in a squeal

His face, now—what’s the deal?

Green banana is his meal!

Hey, he may be Amala

But he ain’t a koala

Let’s beat him with a paddle

(Paddle paddle)

His name is Amala!”

I was quite irritated and I wanted to slap him, but he was so intoxicated that it would have made no difference at all. So, I kept my cool and let him finish his offensive song uninterrupted.

10 I Will Be a New Human

A bird song woke me up the next morning. An exquisite colorful bird sat on the windowsill fluttering its tail and singing melodiously. The sight of a familiar bird from the outside world made my heart swell with joy. Thank the heavens that Chandrasen had not decided to augment birds, too, with his evil arts.

The lovely Kamala came into my room. She seemed a bit glum.

I enquired: “What happened, Kamala? Are you unwell?”

She said: “No, it’s just that my father is angry with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I have put on this form. He says that I am sinning by not living in my barrel. Is that true?”

“If you do not want to, why should you have to?”

“I am of the same opinion. But my father just does not understand this. He is quite conservative and obstinate. He also told me that you cannot change shape like we do—not even a little? That your body is full of bones, and that you cannot roll. Is that all true?”

“It is.”

“And you have no barrel at all?”

“Not at all! Only tortoises, crabs, oysters and the like live in shells where I come from.”

“I have read about your species in history books, but never seen one in the flesh. OK, tell me, is everyone like this where you come from?”

“Yes.”

“I like how you look. Tell me, are the women beautiful there?”

“Yes, but they are not as beautiful as you.”

She liked that and started laughing.

I went over to the window and pointed at a particular building about which I’d been wondering. I asked her: “What is that place over there, Kamala?”

She took a look and said: “That is the hatchery.”

“What is that?”

“You are quite silly—that is where babies are born. Now, since I am struggling with my posture, I need to return to my barrel. I do not want to show you my true form, because if I do so you will laugh at me.” She exited with her jet-black hair swirling behind her.

I closed my eyes and thought about the hatchery. What could it be? Was this another of Kamala’s pranks?

I was lost in such odd thoughts when I heard two voices: the Science Master and someone else. I was going to get up, but then I felt it might be better to eavesdrop. It took me little time to understand that the topic of conversation was myself. They must have thought I was asleep.

The anonymous voice said: “Science Master, this sample of yours is going to be difficult.”

He replied: “True. But if we can achieve something great with this one, then we will be even more famous. I am quite certain that I’d be able to achieve my goals with just one surgery.”

“And then what?”

“Then all we need is more human test subjects. We can prolong our life-force infinitely with this process. We have run out of options. Our life-force has grown terribly feeble after all these centuries of isolation.”

“Will we inform him about all this before the surgery?”

“Amarchandra, you are naïve. Amal would not be pleased at all if he learns of our plans.”

“What do you plan to do, then?”

“I shall begin by slicing through his whole body along its length. Then I will electrify his body and carefully extract all his bones one by one.”

I had been silently listening to everything up until this point, but I almost yelled in horror when I heard this. You moon-faced old monster, so this was your diabolical plan all along!

Amarchandra said: “Science Master, do you recall you tried the process last year with that Turkish fellow? The king issued an edict prohibiting anyone from attempting these experiments ever again.”

“I have no memory lapses. But I will be stealthy about the experiment this time. If I am successful, the king will not be upset with me at all. My failure was the source of all the uproar.”

“Yes, but keep in mind that many other scholars in this land are your enemies too. And Bhombol, who has a great deal of influence at the court, is not your friend either.”

The Science Master replied: “I am aware of everything already. You will be here on the day of the procedure, right?”

“Absolutely! I will enlist Pramod’s help too.”

“Yes, that would be useful. He is quite handy with scalpels.”

Amarchandra said: “I pray to God for your success this time. May the spirit of Chandrasen guide us.”

With this, the two devils left the room.

---

*

So that was the plan. Slice my body open, pump me with electricity, and extract my bones. An experiment? What a lovely idea. My whole body felt numb. Scared? This was beyond scary. It was as if my heart had completely squeezed in and become dry as tanned leather.

I heard footsteps in the room again. Who would it be now? I would die of fright in this place, it seemed. Every second seemed to unfold a new danger. What an abominable country!

I lay there completely still, waiting.

The next minute I heard the booming voice of Bhomboldas: “Hey Amal, do people sleep till noon back in your country too?”

I sat upright. I still had not forgotten his disrespectful song from yesterday. My name is Amala? He will paddle me? Really now!

He was staring at me with his dumb fish-like eyes. He must have sensed my displeasure. He came closer and said, “Come on, Amal! I was a bit intoxicated yesterday and sang a ridiculous song. Such things can occur between buddies. Do not be grumpy about such things.”

I frowned even more. Honestly, that this odd monster even considered me a friend only intensified my disgust. I am going to befriend such monsters—hah, piss off!

Bhombol said again, “Amal, brother, come on, are you really unwilling to forgive me? Look, here are eight hands, I’m going to fold them all in penitence. I will not sing songs about you again. If you like, I can also produce four or five noses . . .”

It became apparent why he was doing all of this! He was afraid I would inform the Science Master about his drug habits, and his engagement to Kamala would be broken off. He probably couldn’t stand me one bit. Anyway, since I had him in my grasp, there was no point in letting him escape. In this awful kingdom, I would have to use all the help I could get, or, in other words, use a thorn to remove a thorn.

So I said to him: “OK, so you promise not to sing such songs again?”

“Never, never! Triple promise!”

“Ok, I forgive you this time.”

“So you will not tell anyone about last evening?”

“No. But I have a question: do you have influence at the court here?”

“Yes, a lot! The king loves me!”

“Do you know someone called Amarchandra?”

“Yes, quite well. But why do you ask?”

“And you do not much like this Amarchandra and the Science Master, am I right?”

His face turned ashen. “How did you hear of this?”

I replied: “The source does not matter. But tell me, is it OK to conduct experiments on live human bodies?”

Bhombol replied: “Well, it all depends on who is being cut and who is doing the cutting. Say for instance someone wanted to cut me, I’d yell and scream so much even the heavens would hear me. But if it were your body, I might not mind at all.”

I rolled my eyes: “Is that so?”

He stammered: “No, no brother. Just kidding.”

“This is worse than your song from yesterday.”

“Whatever you say, brother. You have no sense of humor. Once upon a time I cut off someone’s four arms. They didn’t say a thing.”

“Why would they? They can just grow eight more in their place.”

“That is true. But see, Amal, this reminds me. Sometime ago there was a Turk who came to our kingdom by mistake. The Science Master dissected him for experimentation.”

I replied, feigning innocence: “Why?”

“I am not entirely sure why. But rumors circulated that he was trying to create a being that was even superior to us.”

I shuddered. “Then?”

“Thereafter nothing! There was no new human. It was only the poor Turk that lost his life in the whole process. Since then, there is a law that if such experiments are to be conducted on anyone, the subject must give their consent.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. Even if the Science Master came to speak to me in the sweetest of his voices and said: “Amal, you are such a good boy. I want to cut your body into long strips and conduct some experiments. I hope you are OK with it,” I would surely not agree and say: “Yes of course, your wish is my command. Why wait, just bring your surgical instruments, let’s do the honors!”

Bhombol said: “Come to think of it, for the last few days I have seen this Amar fellow and the Science Master whispering about something. They must be up to something again.”

I hid my true opinions and said: “No, no, it can’t be. The Science Master seems such a kind, sagacious, being!”

“Kind? Sagacious? You are bad with people it seems. He is a Juju! The Science Master is a wicked old Juju! Anyway, let it be. Do you want to go out?”

“Again?”

“No worries, we will not go to that restaurant. Nor will I sing any songs.”

“Then where will we go?”

“To the ministerial court! There is a debate today.”

“OK, sure. I will ask the Science Master first. We need his consent, after all.”

11 The Human Egg, Once Again

While we drink tea in the late afternoon, these creatures drink a sherbet made of spicy chili peppers. The Science Master had remarked: “We drink spicy sherbet to remind ourselves that the world is not a cheerful place.”

I had discovered how miserable the world was just by being imprisoned in the Juju country. I had no need to sample their concoction to make matters worse.

That evening I bumped into Kamala as she was panting from her chili sherbet. She asked: “So, how do I look today, in my blue saree?”

“Splendid!”

She asked, out of the blue: “Amal-babu, how do the children look back in your home country?”

I tried to describe them as accurately as possible.

She asked: “Do you have any children?”

“No.”

She seemed a bit crestfallen: “I don’t have any either. You cannot purchase a child here before turning 25.”

I was rendered speechless with wonder. After a little pause, I replied: “You buy and sell children here?”

“Yes, we do. The younger the child, the more expensive it is. My father purchased me when I was two years old.”

The Science Master joined us, so we ceased our conversation. But I resolved to inquire about it with Bhombol the next time we met. This seemed quite mysterious.

Bhombol dropped in at the usual hour. On the way to the court, I questioned him: “So, Kamala said she was purchased by her father when she was two. What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it means! Wait—I see why you might be puzzled. Here’s how it works. When Chandrasen made us, he figured out that if we continued to be born in the conventional manner as inferior, weak humans, we would not all evolve equally to supremacy at the same rate. Think about it: Your parents and children do not have the same mental or physical abilities. Therefore, he determined that we must become oviparous.”

I could not believe my ears: “Eggs? You lay eggs?”

“Yep, we lay eggs. And every single one of them is scientifically analyzed. The inferior or damaged eggs are discarded, while the healthy ones are cared for in the hatchery. Which is also where the eggs hatch.”

“But why do those who lay eggs not care for them?”

“That would be illegal. The penalties are quite severe for any male or female discovered hiding their eggs.”

“Male or female?”

“Yes, both men and women lay eggs.”

“Even males lay eggs here?”

“Of course!”

“And then what?”

“The hatchery takes care of our young after they have hatched. Once we reach the age when we may purchase a child, we simply do so and bring it home.”

I was too overwhelmed with wonder at all this new information to bring myself to ask any more questions before we reached the ministerial court.

The ministerial courthouse was a gigantic, spherical structure. I was thoroughly patted down at the entrance by a few sepoys. They took everything they deemed inappropriate before allowing me to pass. I was told I could retrieve my things when I left.

I questioned Bhombol: “Why such strict precautions?”

He grinned his usual grin, all teeth bared: “The general populace dislikes the ministerial court.”

The main hall was deserted, with the exception of one barrel-person who was snoring contentedly upon the dais. In front of him I spotted a brass pipe.

Bhombol informed me: “That pipe is how the peace is kept at these meetings. You might even see it in use today.”

The hall does not need much description. Its main distinguishing feature was that it was shaped like a spiral tower rising from the center of the room. There was not a single chair in sight. The barrel-people, who come, sit themselves all around the tower’s spirals, and settle in, don’t need chairs. Simple as that.

The sleeping barrel suddenly came to life and rang a gong. As soon as he did so, doors opened on all sides of the hall, and numerous barrel-folk rushed into the chamber. They quickly settled themselves in their allotted spaces, and a hushed silence fell.

The barrel in the center spoke out: “Let the work of the court begin!”

Instantly about a dozen barrels jumped up and began yelling, while flailing their arms and making bizarre facial gestures. As soon as they fell silent, another group stood up and started doing the same. Looking at Bhombol nodding, I assumed he was able to follow whatever it was that was going on in the room. But I could make neither head nor tail of anything they said.

I asked: “When will the debates begin?”

“I have never met another as stupid as you,” he said. “This is the debate.”

“But how? They are all chattering together . . .”

“How else are they supposed to talk? If each of us took a turn, how would we ever find enough time to say everything we want to say?”

“But can you even understand each other in this cacophony of voices?”

“There is absolutely no need to understand.”

“So how can anyone decide how to vote on the issues?”

He looked at me pityingly and said: “You are so naïve. Everyone votes strictly along party lines, so there is no need to understand any other viewpoints.”

“So why waste your time engaging in a sham of a discussion?”

“Looks like I’m in painfully stupid company. What does it mean to be civilized, if not speaking publicly about important issues?”

“So you have no obligation to listen to the other party, only speak?”

“Indeed. No one here wants to listen to the other party. They want to express their own ideas. This is how civilization works.”

The central barrel had begun to snore again, but it snapped out of it and hit the gong. Instantaneously, all the barrels raced to one side of the room or another with great commotion.

I asked again: “What is happening now?”

He replied: “They are voting, obviously.”

Out of nowhere, a brawl broke out between the two parties. The barrel in the middle must have been trying to sleep yet again, but it suddenly got up and stood all alert. Directing its brass pipe in the direction of the disturbance, it pressed a button. The device fired a little ball, which landed in the middle of the fight and detonated. Three barrel-people fell to the ground at once, no longer even recognizable—their bodies had disintegrated completely.

“Oh my, would you look at that!” remarked Bhombol, casually. “Old man Deben has turned to dust!”

The fighting ceased immediately.

I asked, fearfully: “Bhombol, are they really dead?”

“Yeah, they’re dead,” he replied. “There was no other means of maintaining order. It was Deben’s fault—he couldn’t resist starting a fight every time we had these assemblies. Now it’s all over for him. But—you look pale—what’s upsetting you?”

I replied: “I salute your great system. Now please just get me out of here.”

12 Looming Threats

I could not get the ugly incident at the court out of my mind. I felt completely defeated. Even once I’d returned to the house of the Science Master, I didn’t feel any better. There was a violin mounted on the wall of my room, so I picked it up and started to play. I was a prisoner in this godforsaken land. There was a sword hanging above my head at every moment—because the murderous Science Master wanted to dissect me for his secret experiments. Was it surprising that I should absentmindedly play a sad melody on this mournful-sounding instrument?

When I’d finally stopped playing, I felt a warm drop of liquid splash on my neck. Startled, I turned around to find Kamala standing just behind me. I’d been so immersed in my music that I’d completely missed her entrance. Her large eyes were filled with tears as they gazed upon me. I asked: “Kamala! Why do you weep?”

She brushed away her tears and asked, shyly: “Why were you playing such a depressing tune? It made me cry!”

I laughed and said: “Very well, let us turn this into something joyful. You can sing a happy song, and I can play for you. Will you sing?”

“Sure, why not. Here we go:

The moon in the sky at night,

Floats away in the river bright.

The wind sings in my ear,

Songs of love I hear.

The red and blue flowers shine,

Lift their heads up to mine.

Their fragrant dreams,

Hide in moonbeams.

Birds sing their soothing song,

To calm away all the storms.

They say to me,

Just smile and let be,

There’s but one life for you and me.

The song ended. I exclaimed: “Kamala, you have the sweetest voice! After hearing Bhombol’s horrible singing I had lost all interest in the music of this land.”

“He sang for you? This is one of his most annoying habits—he forces everyone to listen to his silly songs. He imagines himself a great Ustad, as if the whole world is just waiting to hear him sing! He does the same to me every now and then—forcing me to listen to him. What a nightmare! It’s like three owls, two donkeys, and a wild bobcat all yelling at once! And then he’ll ask: ‘Did you enjoy it?’ If you politely tell him that you did, he’ll grab his tanpura and start singing with even more enthusiasm!”

I burst out laughing and replied: “Ha ha, no—he has promised me he will not sing a song for me again.”

“Amal-babu, then he has finally been endowed with good sense.”

I said: “Kamala, why do you call me Amal-babu? Do you not want to call me dada?”15

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Why would I? I think of you like a younger sister!”

“Oh, that is so delightful to hear! Sometimes I wish I were exactly like you people.”

“But Kamala—you do look just like us.”

“No, no. I saw a picture at the museum once that I really loved, and it pleases me to imitate it with this form. But I cannot do it for long. Since we lack bones, our bodies begin to ache quite soon if we hold a particular form for too long. Then we have to slip back into our ugly barrels again. Chandrasen was wrong to tinker with our bodies. You like me right now, in this form, and you even think of me as a sister—but if you saw me in my barrel-body form you would be disgusted, right?”

“It isn’t disgust, Kamala. I’m just not used to seeing bodies like yours. It’s startling, but not repulsive.”

“You’re just being polite. I’ve seen how you look at us. It is not just surprise I discern on your face, but fear and contempt.”

“What I’m afraid of, Kamala, is your father. Like Chandrasen, he wants to experiment on my body and turn me into an inhuman.”

“I had no idea!” she gasped. “But I have noticed, these last few days, that he’s been acting quite suspiciously.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve heard that we had a Turkish visitor a while ago, and he killed that poor man by trying to do something along those lines. His face now has the same expression it did then.”

“Then listen, Kamala. You are like a sister to me, so I will not hide anything from you.” I told her about the recent exchange I’d overheard between the Science Master and Amarchandra.

She was struck dumb with horror. Then she said, excitedly: “Can he really be so cruel? But don’t worry—I’ll help you. Conducting experiments on living subjects is forbidden by law here. Once I tell the right people about this, they will not let my father do such wicked things.”

A deep, angry voice interrupted us: “Is that so?”

We whirled around. The Science Master stood in the doorway. His eyes flashed with fiery anger, and his eyeballs were popping several arms’ lengths out of their sockets and back in again. So this is how the people of this land express their rage!

13 Kamala’s Barrel

That ill-fated moment that had made me lose my will to live was right here, personified in this figure standing in front of me. The Science Master had overheard Kamala. He had heard, too, that I knew about his vile plans. There was no escape.

The Science Master’s face reminded me of Bhombol’s words: “Juju. The Science Master is a wicked old Juju!” He looked like the devil incarnate, a bloodsucking monster.

He mocked Kamala: “Daughter mine has become a guardian angel! She will not let her father commit sins! She will save the life of this foreign animal by denouncing and disgracing her father! Hah, what a goody two-shoes!”

Kamala just stood there with her eyes downcast. Her face was pallid with fear.

The Science Master said: “Your mind has become warped thanks to your ridiculous practice of copying these animals. I’d feared as much, but I had no idea it had gone this far. You do know how children who disobey or disrespect their parents are punished, here, don’t you?”

She said: “But you cannot murder Amal-dada!”

He grimaced with rage: “Amal-dada! You have the audacity to call this primitive imbecile your brother to my face! That does it—I am going to end your nonsense right now.”

The Science Master moved swiftly to stand before her. He waved his hands in a strange way. Kamala started to writhe in agony, as if her whole body was being tortured. Though she did her best to hide it, a look of extreme fear appeared on her face.

Kamala collapsed to the ground, nothing but a shapeless blob of muscle and fat. She reminded me of the naked barrel-person I’d fallen on in front of the science museum.

The Science Master hissed at the shapeless mass and said sternly: “Why do you not try calling for your Amal-dada? He will not even glance at you now.”

My ears were red with rage. I looked at the shapeless mass, from which two eyes looked back at me sadly. Her form had changed indeed, but her eyes were the same. I replied affectionately: “He’s wrong, Kamala. Just because you have lost your form does not mean I no longer think of you as a sister!”

The Science Master laughed cruelly: “Oh really, the silly sister has a silly brother! Wonderful!” He called to a servant outside the room: “Hey you, bring Kamala’s barrel at once!”

A bigger barrel came at once holding a small barrel.

The Science Master said: “Kamala! Get into your barrel this instant!”

She pleaded mournfully: “Please, please, father! Do not make me get into the barrel in front of Amal-dada! I will die of shame!”

The Science Master barked: “Get in! Now! If you die of shame that is fine by me! Get in!”

Three hands and three legs protruded from the shapeless mass, which then slid into the barrel. The barrel-face looked a bit like the Kamala I knew, but unlike her at the same time.

The Science Master said: “I command you! For a whole month you are forbidden to leave your barrel. Now go to your room.”

Her arms and legs reabsorbed, Kamala rolled slowly out of the room.

The one friend I had in this cruel enemy kingdom, the one who’d been there through all my hardships and imprisonment, the only one who could have really helped me, was now a helpless prisoner herself. No one else would even care about me anymore. My life was forfeit.

The Science Master looked at me and said: “Now it is your turn.”

I replied with quiet determination: “Then get started.”

“I saved your life. I gave you shelter. And this is how you repay me?”

I replied: “I do not believe I have done anything wrong.”

He shouted at me: “Oh you don’t, eh? Perhaps where you come from it isn’t a serious offense to cause a daughter to disobey her father, but here it is. What’s more, children here who disrespect or disobey their parents are subject to capital punishment!”

“I didn’t know!” I protested. “Don’t tell me about it. I assure you, I have never asked Kamala to disobey you.”

“You really expect me to believe that? Do you think I am as stupid as you inferior creatures? Has my brain evaporated like camphor? Do you think Kamala would dare to defy her father if you hadn’t poisoned her against me? Against the one who saved your life?”

This was intolerable. I said: “Stop crediting yourself for saving my life. Do you think I’m in the dark about your true motivations for rescuing me? You plan to murder me at your leisure.”

He flew into a rage: “I have no more time to waste on you. I will lock you up. There will be no more mercy for you.”

14 The Real Face of Bhomboldas

I lay in my room alone, drowning in the well of my misfortune. I could dream no dream of escape. My one and only chance had been with Kamala, but she too was now a prisoner. She would no longer be able to expose the Science Master’s nefarious plan. Everything in this weird, wretched country has been twisted—kindness, affection, and love all have a different face.

On the topic of different faces, I thought about legends I’d heard, from various parts of the world, about ghosts and spirits who assume different shapes to scare people. They come out at night and play their tricks, and then disappear again at daylight—no one knows where they originate, and no one knows where they vanish to. I believe these barrel-people are the origin of such stories, and perhaps this land is the hell that people imagine awaits us after death. Bhombol, for example, assumed my face right in front of my eyes—maybe these barrel-people take on the shape of our dead relatives and ancestors, while visiting the outside world, thus creating a belief in ghosts.

They call themselves “new humans.” That’s utter rubbish! There can be no humanity in a barrel.

I heard a voice calling out to me softly: “Amala, oh Amala!”

Outside my window, I saw the hideous, wart-covered face of Bhombol.

I retorted: “You know that is not my name. Are you here to cheer my execution?”

He said: “Come on, brother, why do you get annoyed so easily? I told you that both men and women here lay eggs—so to us, ‘Amal’ and ‘Amala’ are interchangeable names. But come close to the window, so we won’t be overheard. I’ll get right to the point.”

Though I knew he was a useless fellow, I went over to the window to hear him out.

“I have not given up on you,” Bhombol whispered. “I have spoken to many influential people who cannot stand the Juju. But so far I have not met with much success. You are nobody here, no one even knows your name. Nobody will go up against the Science Master for a mere foreigner. He has a lot of power, so people assume that he is a patriot—and that whatever he is planning to do must be for the benefit of our country.”

I said: “You did not have to come all this way just to bring me this bad news.”

He replied with his usual grin: “I know I didn’t have to come all this way—but I couldn’t help myself. You are, after all, my friend. But I have good news too, Amala. I was able to arrange a hearing with the king himself. If you have any strong reasons as to why you should not be dissected, then he is willing to hear your plea. If you can persuade him you might survive. That’s the good news: No one can dissect you without presenting you to the king first.”

I replied gratefully, “Brother Bhombol, thank you for so much helping me! This is indeed great news!”

Bhombol replied: “No need to thank me yet. First, let us see whether you survive this, then we can see about the thanks. Well, all this has made me very hungry. To a restaurant I go!”

I began to believe that Bhombol was not so terrible after all. Despite his ugly features and rude manners, his barrel-body has a heart and soul. Bhombol seems to be like a mango, misshapen on the outside, but pure sweetness within!

I thought he had left, but his face popped up again. He glanced both ways and then whispered: “There is one more thing. Sorry, I forget things when I’m hungry. Take this and conceal it on your person. If you get into a pickle, just press the knob at the back.” He handed me a small brass pipe, grinned again, and vanished.

I gingerly inspected the pipe. It appeared to be the same sort of deadly instrument I’d seen deployed at the ministerial court. The one Bhombol gave me was easy to conceal. OK, at least I was armed now.

Hearing someone at the door, I hastily hid the pipe in my pocket. The door opened to reveal Amarchandra, the Science Master, and four other barrel-people.

“Amal, you must come with us,” the Science Master grated.

Thank goodness, they were going to present me to the king. Assuming this was the case, I left my chambers without making a fuss. The Science Master and Amarchandra led the line, two barrels guarded me from the sides and two others watched me from the rear. They had no intention of letting me escape.

15 My Great Courage

The chamber to which I was taken was the one where I’d first opened my eyes in this strange land. It had once again been transformed into a laboratory—or an operating room. At the center of the room was the long table on which I’d been stretched. It was surrounded by surgical equipment and all manner of medicinal concoctions, glass bottles and glass utensils!

Looking me over carefully, Amarchandra wasn’t satisfied. “It’s too soon,” he said doubtfully. “This one’s body isn’t sufficiently prepared for the surgery—I don’t think it’s going to work.”

The Science Master said: “It makes no difference to me. I will do this today.”

Fear gripped me as I said: “Wait, why have you brought me here?”

“Today is the day I experiment on you.”

“What do you mean?” I cried indignantly. “Do you not know that the king has ordered you to take me to him first?”

“Indeed?” The Science Master was startled. “And where have you heard this?”

“It doesn’t matter! Take me to your leader!”

Amarchandra chortled: “I can guess who has been scheming behind our backs. We have many enemies in the court. If we take you there, we may well end up without a test subject!”

“You refuse to listen to your king?”

The Science Master shrugged: “We must protect the integrity of science. We don’t have time for debate.” Turning to the other barrel-folk, he said: “Hold him down and bind him to the table.”

I launched myself at the Science Master, driven by pure rage, and kicked him with all my might. With a cry of pain he crumpled to the floor. In a frenzy, I reached for the largest knife on the operating table, the one that must have been intended to tear me to pieces, and began swinging it wildly about. The barrel-men’s lack of bones made them an easy target—pieces of them were severed wherever the blade struck. Slicing them was like slicing tapioca. They howled and shrieked as the knife passed through their bodies, then fled. Their fallen body parts flopped on the floor like severed lizard tails.

I turned now to Amarchandra, who folded himself into his barrel and slithered away like a snake.

It was only me and the Science Master now. He shouted for his servants, who were nowhere to be seen. I roared: “So, old Juju! Who will save you now? Come let me perform some surgery on you!” I sprang at him with my knife. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and his face turned pale as a ghost. Many legs uncurled out of his barrel, and he scuttled off like a spider. Though I chased him around the room, with two legs it’s tricky to catch a creature with a bunch of them. I don’t know how long we would have danced this dance had the door not slammed open. A group of new barrel-folk came crashing in, with Bhomboldas leading the way.

One of the barrel-folk spoke in a grave voice: “What is the meaning of all this?”

The Science Master replied: “Please, Your Majesty! Save me!”

The King was enormous; his barrel dwarfed even Bhomboldas’s. It was an even bigger and fatter barrel than the kind we use to mix cement back home. His cheeks were swollen like gourds and his long trailing mustache nearly touched the floor. Really? This was their ruler?

Eyes the size of gooseberries protruded from the King’s enormous face and bore down on me. They scrutinized me from every angle for a couple of minutes, before receding into his eye sockets. “Are you a madman?” he asked, in a regal tone. “Looking at you makes Us wonder.”

I smiled a wan smile: “No, Your Majesty! Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to go mad. But I imagine I will be able to quite soon.”

The King oscillated. “We are delighted to hear that,” he said. “Those who have no hope of going mad are most unlucky. Regardless, We are extremely fatigued with all Our walking. We are parched. Servant, fetch Us some spring water now.”

The servant presented him with water. The King swallowed the contents of the pitcher in a gulp and belched with satisfaction. He continued: “Ah, that was refreshing. Back to business. So, Bhomboldas, is this the foreigner you were pleading for? What is his name?”

Bhombol flashed his grin at me and replied: “Amala.”

I piped up: “No, Your Majesty! My name is Amal, not Amala!”

The King snapped at me: “Silence, fool! We know Bhomboldas a lot better than We know you. He has the authority to choose the name you deserve. Looking at you today, We are certain that Amala is a much better name for you. Oh my, it is sweltering here. Servants, why are you not fanning Us?”

Two barrel-folk immediately began fanning the king with large palm leaves.

After cooling down, the King began to oscillate again. He asked: “So, Amala, was that a war dance you were doing for the Science Master? We enjoyed it! Come, dance for Us again!”

I clasped my hands in submission: “Not at all, Your Majesty! I was teaching him the ins and outs of surgery!”

The King roared at me: “What! Do you not know We have outlawed all surgical procedures! We only go for Ayurvedic medicinal practices here, nothing else will do! Instead of wasting your time on surgery, you should tell the Science Master to consume some potions!”

I apologized to the King and said: “I didn’t remember about the potions, Your Majesty.”

The Science Master was trying to make himself heard, but the King cut him off: “Silence, you old fool! Do you not know that you should not speak to Us unless spoken to? Oh, Our ears are itching. Servants, get me an earbud now!”

The servant barrels brought him a large earbud. The King relaxed for five minutes, twisting it around in his ear. Suddenly he pulled it out and yelled: “So what was going on?”

I replied: “Your Majesty, did you know that the Science Master was about to operate on me? He was planning to cut my body into strips and conduct his experiments.”

The King exploded in rage: “What! Without first presenting you to Us?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty! He said he was going to honor science instead of you!”

“My, such grand words!” raged the King. “Won’t honor Us indeed! My head is spinning! Servants, stop my head from spinning.”

The King’s head was indeed whirling, and fast! I could hardly discern his facial features. Servant-barrels grabbed his head as firmly as possible from all sides, until it came to a stop.

The King wheezed for a while until he regained his breath. Then he growled: “Evil Science Master! You seek to defy Our will again and cook up new experiments! Bhomboldas, you remember when he was at it before? To think of all the trouble he caused!”

Bhomboldas replied: “Indeed, Your Majesty! I remember—the Science Master vivisected the Turk in such a way that his body looked as twisted and ugly as that of the Science Master himself!”

The Science Master protested: “No, he did not look like me! Such slander!”

The King roared again: “How dare you speak out again, Science Master! You have no right to protest here! When We decide to allow you to protest is up to Us!”

The Science Master said: “But my King, how will You know when I want to protest?”

The King scowled at the Science Master’s brazenness: “Tell Us, Bhombol, just what he means? If We cannot tell him when to protest, what right do we have to call Ourselves king?”

Bhombol nodded: “Indeed, Your Majesty!”

The Science Master pleaded: “Your Majesty, I plead for justice to be done!”

“You plead for justice?” scoffed the King. “Bhombol, look, the Science Master pleads for justice! Very well. We shall hand out justice to you. Bhombol, assemble the ministerial court at once. We will pass our judgment here today. Deliver Our royal scepter!”

16 The King’s Judgment

The King lifted his scepter and proclaimed: “Science Master! Tell Us why you want to dissect this inferior human? Give Us all the details—and with all the respect this occasion demands!”

The Science Master replied: “Your Majesty, it is to create a human even more advanced than us.”

The King furrowed his brows: “Even more advanced than us? Are you implying that we have regressed? That we are primitive?”

“Yes, your Majesty, that is what I believe. Just imagine, my King, this Amal, this savage, will be the first to be improved. What an incredible honor! Rather than murdering him, I would have dissected him slowly—while keeping him alive. I will require no more than twenty days! My motives are pure, my King!”

The King nodded and said: “Indeed, We sense how pure your motives truly are. Amala, why do you come between the man and his pure motives?”

I replied: “No, Your Majesty! I was not trying to stop him; I was merely trying to save my own life! Would you command me to go under his knife, be sliced into bits for twenty days, be tortured alive, and not protest at all?”

“Of course not!” agreed the King. “We would never give such a cruel command.”

I continued: “Furthermore, Your Majesty, this Science Master would have operated on me without Your knowledge, and against Your explicit orders! If he had done so after You gave Your order, I would have not protested in the slightest. Was his not a serious offense?”

“A heinous offense indeed! A heinous, horrible offense! Servant, bring Us the fifth volume of our laws. Let Us determine the severity of the offense.”

The King was presented with the code of laws, and he pored over its pages. “Here it is! This is a violation of Section 727—the penalty is death! Science Master, you will be executed!”

The Science Master began to tremble. He fell on his knees and pleaded: “Your Majesty, please, have pity on me! If I am put to death, I will not be alive. You have not heard the whole story. This primitive man has done me great harm . . . he has turned my daughter against me!”

The King gasped: “What! There is nothing worse than a disobedient daughter! This surpasses Section 727! Amala, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

I began to fear for my life once again: “Yes, Your Majesty! However, I must start at the beginning! Yesterday I was playing the violin . . .”

“Nice, nice! So you can play the violin?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And you can sing as well?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Nice, nice! Then perform a song for Us.”

I pleaded: “But Your Majesty, I am an Ustad!16 I require a tabla17 and other accompaniments for my performance.”

The King beckoned: “Servants! Bring a tabla.”

Bhomboldas hurriedly whispered something in the King’s ear.

The King turned to me again: “Amala, this is an operation theater! There are no tablas here. Do you have a solution for Us?”

I said: “I do, Your Majesty! The Science Master has round rubbery cheeks! Please command him to come here, and I will smack him left and right. That will be enough music for me.”

The Science Master said: “I object! I vehemently object to this!”

The King scowled at him: “Seems you cannot stay silent. What Amala is requesting is perfectly lawful. You must obey him. I command you to act as a tabla for him.”

The Science Master approached me. I was about to give him a good slap, but he kept turning his face every time I raised my hand. I told the King: “Your Majesty, the Science Master refuses to be played. He keeps turning his head!”

The King said: “Is that so? Very well! Guards, seize his head and hold him still.”

The guards held the Science Master’s head in a strong grip. I slapped his cheeks to establish a rhythm and began singing:

In the Juju Kingdom

A Juju I have seen

He has little wisdom

But he is just so mean

He is a bit ghostly, and he is a bit ghastly

He has silly manners, but all so dastardly

He lives in a round barrel,

His eyes are glowing feral

But his brain has gone sterile,

If you believe his lies,

You do it at your peril.

His love is a death sentence,

His words will test your patience

He will murder without remorse

He suffers from complacence

He may shout, he may spin

Like he’s a crazy djinn

He may huff, he may puff,

Let’s throw him in a loony bin

If you see him coming

Run and climb a tree

Spit on him from the treetop

Or throw your machete

Mash the Juju into pulp

Or you won’t be free!

The King applauded: “Bravo, bravo! What a song! What a voice! Is it not so, Bhombol?”

He said: “Yes indeed, Your Majesty!”

The Science Master stroked his flaming cheeks and said: “My King, I protest this song . . .”

The King shook his head: “No, you cannot object to this. We will let you know when and where you may protest!”

The Science Master said: “But my King, that song was slanderous! It was all about me!”

The King said: “Do you believe you are Juju?”

“No, I don’t!”

The King replied: “Then you have no reason to complain. This song is about a Juju. Is it not so, Amala!”

I replied: “Yes indeed, Your Majesty!”

Bhombol said: “Your Majesty, it is getting late, and I am getting hungry.”

The King said, “Bhombol is hungry again, so we cannot postpone our judgment any longer. Science Master and Amal, here is Our judgment. Both of you have committed grave crimes. Both of you will be put to death! Ministers, choose the order of execution. But do not overthink this. Bhombol is hungry.”

The Ministers said: “Amala’s offense is the greater one. Let him be executed first!”

The King exclaimed: “This is why one needs ministers! Look, how easy it was to decide all this. Amala, you heard the verdict, right? Science Master, put him on the table and start your experiments at once.”

These insanities were giving me a headache. The King was mad, the ministers were mad! Insanity reigned supreme in this realm. I looked at Bhombol. He grinned and gestured at my pockets.

Remembering his gift to me, I ran my hand over my trouser pockets. It was still there.

The King said: “Amala, do you have anything more to say?”

I said: “Yes, Your Majesty. I have two things left to say!”

“Go on! Bhombol is getting hungry.”

“Your Majesty! The first thing is: You may no longer call me ‘Amala.’ The second thing is: My death sentence must be commuted!”

The King sighed: “And if We do not agree?”

I took out the pipe and aimed it at him: “Then this kingdom will be without a king.”

The King shouted: “Guards! Guards!”

I said: “I will finish this if they come any closer. The throne will be empty.”

The King said: “Retreat, guards! Go away, don’t come any closer!”

Bhombol said: “Your Majesty, I am hungry.”

The King said: “Very well! We will not call you ‘Amala.’ And We will not have you put to death.”

I brought down the gun and said: “Glory to the King!”

He continued: “But instead of death, We banish you from our land. Leave now and never come back. You are not fit for this place. Bhombol is hungry, so We declare this session over.”

17 Exile

Many barrel-folk surrounded me and snatched away my weapon. Then they hauled me to the main street. Everywhere I looked, thousands of barrels were streaming towards us. Men-barrels, women-barrels, baby-barrels, teen-barrels! I never imagined there were so many.

The barrel-folk all seemed to be furious with me! Perhaps they were infuriated that I had dared to aim a gun at their king? Rumors fly fast in this land! I was scared witless—I thought they were going to tear me to pieces. But they didn’t harm me, they just came to glare at me!

The King’s wheel-car went whooshing past me. The King did not even spare me a glance, but Bhombol, who sat next to him, pulled a face at me as they went past.

I shouted: “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Please wait!”

The wheel-car came to a halt. The King spoke: “What is it now?”

I said: “I have a small complaint!”

“Go on!”

I said: “Bhombol made a face at me.”

The King looked at me suspiciously: “Do you still have your gun?”

“No, Your Majesty! The guards took it away.”

The King sighed with relief. “Then Bhombol may do as he pleases. He makes faces at me, too, when he is hungry. Is that not so, Bhombol?”

Bhombol pulled another face: “Yes, Your Majesty! But oh, we made a grave mistake!”

Aghast, the King asked: “Quick, what mistake? What have we done wrong?”

Bhombol replied: “We did not carry out the Science Master’s sentence!”

The King smiled and said: “Not to worry. He is not going anywhere. First let Us eat and you fill yourself up. Then We can see to him. Chauffeur, let’s go!”

The King’s wheel sped away and disappeared into the distance.

I was blindfolded by the guards. Perhaps it was to prevent me from ever finding my way back. We traveled like this for nearly two days. When they removed the blindfold at last, I found myself back on the side of the mountain.

The guards snarled at me, “Away with you!”

Behind the guards I spied a sad face. It was Kamala—leaning against the entrance to the cave.

The guards shoved me: “Go away! Now! Run!”

I began walking away—so why wasn’t I elated? Because I was leaving my sister behind. My heart wept.

THE END