by Mark Shand
We stopped that night at our most spectacular camp so far, next to an exquisite little colonial bungalow overlooking a vast, calm lake, where water swept noisily over a large concrete dam. Aditya and I went to bathe at the bottom of the dam. We sat with our backs against the cool stone as the water thundered over us, crashing past boulders into the valley below. As we walked back, something colourful caught my eye at the edge of the lake. It was a little offering of flowery garlands from which burnt incense sticks were poking out. Thick green sal trees swept up almost vertically from the lake and the ground was a carpet of crimson fallen flowers, like discarded silk handkerchiefs.
The occupant of the bungalow came out to meet us; an elderly man with a shock of wavy, white hair, wearing a smart khaki uniform on which the brass buttons gleamed. He was the dam-keeper and he had lived in this remote and beautiful place for the last twenty years.
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ I asked him.
‘I have my dogs, sir,’ which were pressing up against my legs. He winked at me conspiratorially and glanced behind at a curtained window. ‘Occasionally I am having company.’ For a second the curtain drew back and a pretty face peeped out before hastily disappearing. ‘But it is my garden that is keeping me busy. Please follow, sir. It would honour me to show you.’
It was indeed charming. Bougainvillaea spilled from the bungalow roof and night jasmine twisted round its small columns. A carefully tended vegetable patch lay on one side. On the other, surrounded by a ring of flame-of-the-forest trees, was an immaculate green lawn like a manicured croquet green on which stood an ancient Atco lawn-mower.
‘I am apologising for the state of the lawn, sir,’ he said regretfully. ‘I now have to do it by hand. I am not able to get spare parts for my machine. The blades were worn down many years ago. I could probably be getting a Japanese one from the mining company, but they are no good. They do not understand lawns like the British do. If it would not be too much trouble,’ he continued, ‘could you be sending me a spare set of blades?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘if I can. It will probably take a long time as I won’t be returning to England for some months.’
He smiled. ‘What to do? I have all the time in the world.’
The trees thinned out alarmingly as we began to descend. Great trunks lay like slain corpses along our route, on which men worked feverishly chopping and sawing as if they were dismembering their victims. I supposed it would not be long before the beautiful forests that we had travelled through suffered the same fate. Under bridges, in order to avoid detection, villagers panned for gold, sifting the silt brought down by the rushing streams through concave boards. Aditya tried to photograph them but they hid their faces. Apparently their activities were illegal and if discovered were punishable by heavy fines.
At the village of Harichandanpur we met with Indrajit, Khusto and the jeep. The vehicle was surrounded by people, who grew to a huge crowd by the time we joined them. Sensing a reception like this, Indrajit had wisely made the camp about three miles out of the village. We tried to shake off the crowd, but by the time we reached the camp, hidden by a small rocky escarpment and surrounded by mango trees, we found ourselves hemmed in by about five hundred people. Eventually even Aditya got fed up with them and hurled a well-aimed anti-elephant bomb. The result was most satisfactory and they fled, but not too far, only as far as the rocky escarpment where they sat, patiently like hyenas.
Indrajit managed to find a couple of chickens and provided us with a very passable dinner. I congratulated him profusely, hoping that this flattery would induce further culinary prowess; our food up until then had been somewhat bland. Just before falling asleep I remembered the mimosa plant.
‘What about my puja? When is it happening?’ I enquired urgently of Aditya, who was cocooned like a mummy beside me.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said sleepily. ‘It’s all arranged.’
‘But why tomorrow? What about the mimosa? I can’t do it without the mimosa. Tara won’t listen to me,’ I banged on anxiously.
‘Tomorrow, because …’ He replied wearily, ‘Bhim has decided it is an auspicious day. And as for the mimosa, well, do you really think it will make any difference?’
‘Well, yes, I believe in those sort of things now. After all, India’s full of them and you are always expounding the theories of the unknown and the supernatural, and the higher levels of cosmic consciousness.’
‘Far out, man,’ he replied and fell asleep.
We were woken in the middle of the night by a terrible commotion. Tins were being banged, people were shouting hysterically and the glow of fire lit up the interior of the tent. Aditya and I shot out to a scene from a Ku Klux Klan film as the villagers swept across the fields with lighted torches.
‘What’s going on?’ we yelled.
‘Bhalloo,’ came Bhim’s muffled and bored voice from the interior of his tent. ‘Mummy not crying, so no trouble.’
Aditya laughed. ‘It’s a bear, Mark. It’s been feeding on those ground-nut fields over there. The look-outs must have discovered it.’
The bear had succeeded in attracting the crowd away from us. Apart from one solitary silhouette, the escarpment above the camp was empty. I crawled back into the tent, contented.
‘Rabbits and hares,’ I said, poking my head out of the tent in the morning.
‘What, where?’ Aditya croaked, waking up quickly.
‘No, no, it’s only a silly English expression which you are supposed to say on the first day of every new month, and today is the first of October. But they must be the first words otherwise the charm doesn’t work and is considered unlucky.’
‘Just as well,’ he yawned sleepily, falling back into his cocoon. ‘Today is your puja. Today you ride Tara and you are going to need all the luck in the world.’
Against a lemon-tinged dawn sky we bathed Tara in a small, deep, circular rock pool that was choked with weeds and lilies. It was so perfect that it might have been made to order. Bhim and Gokul were worried about the possibility of snakes, so we threw buckets of water over her while she stood pulling at the weeds. When the crowds began to return, Tara was saddled quickly and we set off.
Indrajit and Khusto had already left on a secret shopping mission to Keonjhar. I guessed it might have something to do with my puja. I had seen Aditya slipping Indrajit a piece of paper. They were to meet us later on that day. I was consumed with curiosity and longed to interrogate Bhim about what part I was to play in this ceremony. I was still concerned about the absence of the mimosa plant. I wanted to know everything, but Bhim seemed very detached and pushed Tara along with clinical efficiency. Fields of ground-nuts – the poor man’s almond – stretched out on each side of the road, broken by small hideouts – anti-bear machans. We had left the hunting grounds of the Haathi and were in the territory of the Bhalloo. Remembering the confusion he had caused last night, I saluted the bear again.
On a telegraph wire a handsome Oxford and Cambridge blue bird with a big head and a heavy black bill chuckled as we passed underneath.
‘Roller or blue jay,’ Aditya exclaimed excitedly, fumbling for his notebook. ‘Your luck is in, it seems. The roller is considered very auspicious because of its colour. It represents the god Shiva, whose neck turned blue when he swallowed the poison of the world.’
‘Far out, man,’ I quipped nastily. I was still fuming about the lack of importance Aditya had attached to my mimosa plant.
Suddenly our progress was halted. Four policemen, astride bicycles, formed a road block. One of them was holding up his hands, as if stopping traffic.
‘Good morning, Mr Sands,’ he said.
‘Good morning, officer,’ I replied bewildered. ‘Have you come to arrest me?’
‘Good heavens no, sir, just to escort you.’
‘Escort me. Why? Are we in danger?’
‘No, no, Mr Sands. Just orders from headquarters.’
‘What headquarters? Whose orders?’
‘Bhubaneshwar,
sir. I am not knowing who, but if you are comfortable we will begin.’
I never did unravel this mystery. It was a genuine escort and a very jolly one at that. Two policemen wobbled precariously in front while the two behind swerved to avoid the contents of Tara’s breakfast which thudded down in front of them at irregular intervals. Buses and trucks and bullock carts were all pushed aside as the officer blew furiously on his whistle. One felt terribly important. The police station which they insisted I should inspect was spotless and neat, with gardens surrounding the pretty white bungalow built by the British in 1927. Inside it was cool, the cells were empty; there was no crime here they told me. Hanging next to a rack of well-oiled Lee Enfield .303 rifles and a bunch of handcuffs was a curious looking object like a grappling iron attached to a long rope.
‘What is that for?’ I enquired.
‘For drunks, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘Many people are drinking now because of the harvest. Sometimes they drink too much and topple down wells. We fetch them out with that.’
At mid-day we passed a long granite ridge. Bhim pointed saying, simply, ‘Puja.’
At a small stream the old man and I immersed ourselves in the muddy water to cleanse ourselves before the ceremony. Then we ascended to the ridge’s bleak summit. It was an eerie, lonely place shrouded in metallic clouds. The wind tugged at our clothes and the clouds moved together becoming a monstrous black umbrella.
‘It’s going to rain,’ Aditya said suddenly, breaking the silence. ‘You know this is really extraordinary, it is considered …’
‘Yes, I know,’ I interrupted flippantly, ‘if it rains it is considered auspicious.’
‘For once, Mark,’ he said unsmiling, ‘just try to be serious. For some inexplicable reason the gods are favouring you. Now pay attention, for Tara’s sake, and I will tell you what to do.’
The jeep pulled up on the road far below and Indrajit and Khusto struggled up the hill, carrying an assortment of packages. Indrajit unpacked the boxes. On a big metal platter he placed bananas, two coconuts, bundles of incense and small arrangements of coloured flowers. I was told to undress and my waist was wrapped in a starched white dhoti, the traditional dress of the Indian when at worship. Around my neck was placed a saffron gumcha, a cloth about the size of a small sarong, and my forehead smeared with vermilion. Bhim was dressed identically. I faced him trying to keep a serious expression on my face. This was difficult as I could feel the cold tip of Tara’s trunk exploring the back of my dhoti.
Picking up the offerings between my clasped hands I made my namaste to Bhim and placed it at his feet. I repeated this three times, each time bending to touch his feet. He placed his hands lightly on my head and recited a mantra. I completed my obeisance by a gift of money, 500 rupees, adding one rupee to make the total uneven and therefore auspicious. We both faced Tara. Her forehead shone crimson with the mark of Shiva. Bhim then uttered a mantra over Tara, circling her head with sticks of burning incense. We smashed the coconuts in turn and anointed her feet with the milk.
‘Raja-sahib,’ Bhim instructed, ‘now make mantra to Tara. Then we ride.’
Caught unawares, I closed my eyes and recited in a loud pious voice a poem by Hilaire Belloc,
When people call this beast to mind,
They marvel more and more,
At such a little tail behind
So large a trunk before.
Luckily, the boys did not understand. They smiled approvingly at what they thought was an immensely powerful English mantra. On the other hand Aditya understood only too well and shook his head in despair.
Anxious that the next and most difficult stage of the ceremony went smoothly, I surreptitiously slipped Tara a large chunk of gur.
‘Please, Tara,’ I whispered in her ear, ‘make this easy for me. Be nice. If you are’, slipping another piece, ‘there is plenty more where this came from. We’ll have secret midnight feasts together. I won’t tell Bhim. You know he doesn’t like you eating too much as it upsets your stomach.’
She rumbled quietly and squeezed her eyes together as if winking at me in approval of our conspiracy. I might as well have been talking to the moon. When I placed my foot on her lifted front leg and grabbed her ear, she shook her head violently. I found myself being swung wildly – my dhoti unfurling – backwards and forwards like a rat being shaken by a terrier, and then with a spine-jarring thud, I landed on the ground.
‘Traitor,’ I muttered angrily, ‘the deal’s off,’ and smacked her hard on her trunk. She looked only slightly remorseful but the next attempt was successful, only because I was aided by Gokul who pushed giggling from below, and by Bhim who pulled sternly from above until I was settled unceremoniously on her neck. Still, on reflection I didn’t blame her. If I had been used to the nimble light tugs of Bhim, Gokul and Rajpath I would react similarly to the sudden dead weight of a hundred and eighty pounds hanging like a limpet from my ear. Determined, at least, to regain some measure of dignity, I dug my toes firmly behind the ears and said ‘Agit.’ Nothing happened. She remained stationary, turning her head to look at me with a puzzled expression.
‘Come on, Barbara,’ Aditya yelled. ‘You can do better than that. It’s not “Aaahgit,” like “Amen,” it’s a short command and don’t mumble. Yell.’
This time I yelled. To my surprise Tara lumbered forward and we set off down the hill.
‘That’s it,’ he shouted encouragingly. ‘Keep at her. She has got to learn that you are her master. Keep your back straight, have some pride. It is a great moment for you. You are the first “firinghee” mahout.’
As if my action had met with approval from the gods, it started to rain lightly, and then mysteriously stopped.
The eight miles to Keonjhar were sheer agony, chaotic and slow. I had now changed my riding position, sitting at the edge of the howdah to work her with my heels, digging them in continuously. Then, to guide her, I flicked my toes under her ears. After a mile I felt as if I had completed the Tour de France. My legs ached mercilessly and my toes were a bleeding mess. Oblivious, Tara wandered from side to side like a hungry locomotive, stopping at bamboo groves to feed at her leisure. However much I pleaded, kicked or cajoled, she did exactly what she wanted. It was like trying to steer a bulldozer for the first time. Bhim, perched behind me, did his best, rectifying my mistakes like a patient driving instructor.
‘You just need practice,’ Aditya remarked nonchalantly from where he lay sprawled on the howdah. ‘You can’t expect to be an expert overnight. Bhim has told me it will take at least a week before she will be used to you. During that time,’ he said happily, ‘you will be unable to wash, sit down or sleep. And do you realise,’ he continued, even more happily, ‘that as you are now Bhim’s pupil you will have to do everything for him?’
‘What do you mean?’ I grunted, wiping the sweat from my face.
‘Well, for instance, you must prepare his food, wash his clothes. All sorts of things.’
‘Christ,’ I said bitterly. ‘I’ve come all this way to ride an elephant only to be turned into a bloody valet. The sooner I find that mimosa the better.’
The sight of this uncontrollable elephant on which sat a cursing, wild-eyed Englishman dressed like a saddhu, caused a variety of reactions in passersby. Women quickly ushered their terrified children to the safety of their houses. Some men shook their heads in total disbelief, while others doubled over in laughter. At one village, a group of men sitting drinking tea on a ‘charpoy’ laughed so much that it tipped over backwards, and six pairs of thin, brown legs waved like tentacles from underneath. Bhim spent a voluble afternoon alternately satisfying their curiosity, controlling Tara and pacifying me. Eventually he got fed up. In answer to the standard question of ‘Where are you going?’ he would snap ‘England.’
At a small roadside house an old man with a long grey beard shuffled out from inside and stopped us. He sank to his knees, prostrating himself in front of Tara while she gently rubbed her trunk through his hair. A beau
tiful girl in a blood-red sari with a frangipani blossom behind her ear followed suit. After washing Tara’s feet with water, she presented all of us with garlands of jacaranda flowers. There was a sudden sharp cry of pain behind us. A little boy, the girl’s son, ran screaming to his mother, holding a small brown hand to his face. Blood seeped through his fingers. He had been standing too close to Tara’s tail, watching in fascination as she whipped it back and forth to brush off the flies. The thick, long, hard hairs at the tip had struck him in the cheek, splitting it like a melon. Aditya quickly pulled out the first-aid kit and after cleaning the deep wound, patched it with Elastoplast.
‘I am sorry,’ I said to the girl and the old man. ‘I’m afraid it will leave a nasty scar.’
‘Sorry, why be sorry?’ he said quietly. ‘Your elephant has done my grandchild a great honour. He has been blessed by Ganesh. He will always be lucky.’
10
Tara’s Tantrum
BY THE TIME we reached the outskirts of Keonjhar it was dark and I was both hoarse from shouting commands and exhausted. Once an old British hill station, the town lay at some elevation and for the last ten miles I had forced Tara up steep inclines. After that the thought of spending the night under canvas was just too hideous to contemplate. I went to visit the Collector, a charming, easy-going man, who immediately arranged for us to sleep in the Circuit House, built by a former Maharaja of Keonjhar some eighty years ago, which was now usually reserved for visiting dignitaries and judges.
