Travels on my Elephant

by Mark Shand

  Later, Aditya drove Don into Patna as he was leaving for Delhi, and then for London the next day. Suddenly I was alone. The mela seemed to close in on me, and feeling adrift on this sea of alienness I crawled into the haven of my tent. I was sitting quietly when, a few moments later, Indrajit, looking anxious, poked his head around the flap. I noticed he was carrying a spear.

  ‘Come quickly,’ he said, ‘people make trouble with Tara. Bring ankush.’

  I hurried outside. Surrounding Tara, Bhim and Gokul was a large group of unruly ruffians led by the scar-faced man who had organised Tara’s rescue. One ruffian was carrying a knife. I noticed him edging slowly around her hindquarters towards the rope that tethered her back legs. Scarface stared at me insolently and pointed to Tara, then back to himself, as if announcing he was taking her. I realised they must have been employed by one of the zamindars. They had bided their time until Aditya, whose presence gave us some kind of authority, had left the mela, leaving me virtually defenceless, unable to speak the language.

  Heavily outnumbered, I looked towards the camp of our friend who owned the tusker and was alarmed to see he was not there. Bluff seemed the only alternative. I was about to try to charm Scarface when, suddenly, a vicious, uncontrolled anger exploded inside me. I didn’t care any more. I had had enough. The pressure had become too great. I lunged at him with the ankush, knocking him backwards.

  ‘Listen, you shithead!!’ I hissed. ‘Nobody takes my elephant. Not even over my dead body. If I catch you near her again I’ll kill you.’

  He had no idea what I was saying, but understood the intonation. I must have looked like one of the Naga saddhus – naked apart from a lunghi, my hair knotted and wild and my mouth drawn back in a rictus of hate. We stared at each other for a moment, eyeball to eyeball. With a forced laugh, trying to save face in front of his cronies, he turned and walked away. He stopped suddenly and shouted something at me.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked Indrajit, shaking with emotion.

  ‘Fat man warn you. He come back later.’

  It was midnight before I heard the sound of the minibus. I pulled Aditya into the tent.

  ‘You know what happened while you were away?’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘We got threatened by those bastards. They said they’re coming back later. We’ll have to go to the police.’

  ‘We’ll go first thing in the morning,’ Aditya said. ‘But now get some sleep.’

  At first I couldn’t. I sat at the entrance of our tent. Above the kanat Tara’s trunk reached up and over, and she stared at me with sad eyes.

  The police station was in the English Bazaar. Aditya had an introduction to the Superintendent of Police who, surprisingly, turned out to be a woman. To my knowledge, only three women in India hold this exalted position. As we approached the police lines, situated opposite the pig market, I was still in a deep rage. I imagined myself dealing with a masculine, humourless, domineering lady, characteristics with which I, as an Englishman, was only too familiar in the highest echelons of our government. We walked up a red gravel path bordered by a sweeping lawn that was surrounded by neat flower beds. It was like entering another world. Gone was the stink, the noise and the confusion of the mela, as we entered an opulent canvas oasis. Smart candy-striped marquees were pitched neatly, their sides draped in floating mosquito nets. Butterflies and birds played in the trees, and the air was filled with the sound of droning bees.

  We were ushered into the coolness of the largest tent by a smart sergeant wearing highly polished brown boots. The floor was covered in clean white linen and I winced as I left a trail of dirty footprints. We sat down on a luxurious velour sofa. In minutes, we had been served hot coffee from a silver pot and I helped myself to a cigarette from the box on the polished teak table.

  ‘Mem-sahib will be with you shortly,’ the sergeant announced, saluting smartly.

  As I gazed out into the garden I began to feel strangely at home. Up until Partition this whole area was known as the English Bazaar. I found myself torn between two worlds – the real India of the mela – and here, where my western upbringing reasserted itself. When the Superintendent of Police arrived I found myself automatically adopting the manners of a guest at an English country weekend, leaping to my feet politely. I couldn’t have failed to do so anyway, for she was quite unlike any other police officer I had ever encountered.

  ‘I am so sorry I have kept you waiting. I am Kumud Choudhury. Please sit down.’ She held out her hand, shaking a thick mane of freshly washed hair. ‘This bloody dust gets everywhere,’ she complained, ‘I have to wash my hair at least twice a day. How on earth are you surviving? If you need to take a bath, feel free to come here.’

  Aditya explained the situation. She rang a bell. Immediately two officers appeared and saluted. With a quiet authority, she ordered them to take us back to the Haathi Bazaar and deal with the problem. She even offered us a policeman to guard our camp, adding that, if she had time, she would love to come and see Tara.

  ‘I’m sorry about your floor,’ I said as I got into her green Suzuki jeep, which flew a smart stiff pennant.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she replied, laughing. ‘A fresh one is laid down every day. But are you sure you would not like a bath? Apart from your accent, I cannot tell whether you are Indian or a foreigner.’

  ‘That’s my problem,’ I replied. Thanking her, we drove off.

  21

  God’s Will

  IN FORMER YEARS, the Sonepur Mela was the occasion for a large sporting and social gathering of Europeans. Where we were driving now, horse racing, polo, gymkhanas, cricket matches and lavish balls had taken place in the past.

  We slowed down as we passed the encampments, so that the zamindars could clearly see that we were now under protection of the Superintendent of Police. As I breathed in the evocative smells of the elephant camps, the reality of the situation bore in on me once again and I found my emotions being torn one way and then the other. Inside our tent I asked Aditya, helplessly, ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to sell, Mark,’ he said quietly, ‘and you’ll have to find a buyer here.’

  ‘NO!’ I shouted. ‘I just can’t sell her …’

  ‘You have no alternative. What are you going to do with her? Take her to England? The wheeling and dealing here is nearly over. Due to the poor quality of elephants, only a few have been sold. When I was driving back last night, elephants were already moving out of the mela. Please be reasonable. I know I am being brutal, but she is, after all, only an elephant.’

  ‘She is more than that,’ I yelled angrily. ‘How can you say that after all we’ve been through together?’

  ‘You have completed an extraordinary journey, Mark. You have become a mahout. The boys feel you are one of them, and consider you a brother. But your western side is now showing. You’re too emotional. India is a hard place. Here, people have to survive. Life has to go on. If you can’t face it, let me deal with it.’

  I couldn’t face it. Sitting in the tent in despair, I could hear the commotion outside as the zamindars bid furiously against one another. They had returned in force. I covered my ears. I did not want to know, and as the dread and panic churned my stomach, I almost vomited. I pulled down the flap of the tent, blotting out the colour of the crowds, and Tara herself. A wind had blown up, pushing dust into every nook and crevice of the tent. I sat despondently and found myself writing her name in the dust on my pillow.

  Aditya poked his head into the tent. ‘The best price we are going to get is one lakh, 15,000 rupees,’ he said wearily. ‘The prospective buyer has given me his word that he only wants Tara for prestige and good fortune. She will not even be used at weddings. He’s given me his address and you will be free to visit her at any time.’

  ‘Just hang on a little longer,’ I implored, trying to buy non-existent time. He shrugged and left the tent. Praying for a reprieve, I thought I was dreaming the very English voice calling my name. I
clambered out and stood bewildered in the middle of the encampment before two English women who were old friends of mine. We stared at each other in astonishment.

  ‘Anne! Belinda!’ I shouted. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question, Mark,’ Anne replied, looking in amazement at my appearance. ‘We’ve come to buy an elephant – what else? Bob wants one.’ (Bob is Anne’s husband, Belinda their daughter.)

  ‘Why does he want an elephant? What about the golf course?’ I pictured Tara straying on to those immaculate greens and rampaging up and down the fairways. ‘And what about your horses? They’ll go berserk.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she replied in exasperation. ‘Not for the Tolleygunge Club. For Kipling – our jungle camp in the buffer zone of Kanha National Park in Madhya Pradesh. Bob wants an elephant to take the guests for rides.’

  ‘Bob wants an elephant,’ I repeated parrot-fashion.

  ‘Are you all right, Mark?’ Anne said, looking at me oddly. ‘You haven’t gone deaf or something? Yes, an elephant.’

  ‘Well,’ I heard myself saying, in a distant echo, ‘I’ve got an elephant. You can have her. I’ll give her to you. She’s the best elephant here, or anywhere for that matter.’

  ‘You’ve got an elephant!? I can’t believe it. What on earth are you doing with an elephant?’

  I told her briefly of our journey. ‘Go and see for yourselves. She’s a princess.’ A crowd of zamindars was still gathered around Tara, inspecting her carefully. ‘Tara,’ I said. ‘Bowl, bowl.’

  As if she sensed my happiness, her little brown eyes lit up and she blew a long, shrill trumpet. I hugged her fiercely and she wrapped her trunk tightly around me.

  Anne and Belinda took no more than five minutes to make up their minds.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Anne kept repeating. ‘She’s so pretty, and she’s got such lovely kind eyes. Are you sure, Mark? I mean, this is not exactly an ordinary present. Of course we will always regard her as yours.’

  ‘Absolutely convinced,’ I replied. ‘She’ll be so happy with you and thoroughly spoiled. You have no idea how extraordinary this is. I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am.’

  The zamindars, altogether confused on hearing that Tara was no longer for sale, became highly aggressive, and Aditya had to call the police again.

  ‘I think you should take her as soon as possible,’ Aditya advised. ‘I’ll arrange another truck and we’ll find you a new mahout. Unfortunately Bhim has to return to his job in Bhubaneshwar.’

  An elephant mela is full of mahouts looking for jobs, but first we asked Gokul. He thought it over but declined. It was too big a move for him and he had to think of his family. The man who owned the tusker offered his assistance and introduced four candidates. By now I could spot a mahout immediately, by his carriage, straight-backed and proud and by his build; sinewy, slight and bow-legged. However, picking a good mahout is an instinct inbred, a knowledge only gained or handed down from a lifetime of experience. I turned to Bhim.

  ‘Mahouts ride,’ he said. ‘Mummy choose.’

  Each one, in turn, rode Tara, their styles and commands differing, yet all clearly experts.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘Him,’ Bhim replied, unhesitatingly, pointing to a middle-aged man with gentle eyes, a Muslim called Mujeem.

  ‘Why him?’ I was fascinated. We all were.

  ‘When mahout finish ride, Mummy kiss. Others Mummy not kiss. Also Mussalman,’ he added with a grin. ‘Not drinking like Bhim.’

  Everything was arranged. A truck would arrive early next morning and Indrajit volunteered to accompany Tara to Kipling. Aditya and I would go down there in a couple of days’ time to meet up with Bob. I said goodbye to Anne and Belinda who had to return to Calcutta.

  ‘How can we ever thank you enough,’ Anne said. ‘Bob will be so thrilled.’

  ‘I should thank you. I now know that she will be in good hands – with friends. Look at her,’ I said happily, ‘it’s as if she already knows.’ Tara was stamping her feet impatiently, ordering Bhim with urgent signals of her trunk, to bring her some more sugar cane.

  ‘Well! How about that!’ I exclaimed to Aditya excitedly. ‘What luck! Let’s get really drunk!’

  Exhausted from the pressures of high level negotiation, we sat around a small fire reflecting on the day.

  ‘Right, Aditya. I’m going to teach you the famous drinking song from the time when we ran the Sonepur Mela.’

  Aditya sighed wearily. ‘Oh God. Not another childish English …’

  ‘No, you idiot,’ I interrupted. ‘This was written by Mr Hodgson, a very handsome man, who by the way, ran off with the wife of an Indian Army Officer. He also made Hodgson’s Beer, known in the English Bazaar as “rare good stingo”.’ Raising my voice in military style I sang:

  Who has not tasted of Hodgson’s pale beer

  With its flavour the finest hops ever gave?

  It drives away sadness – it vanishes fear

  And imparts a glad feeling of joy to the grave.

  O to drink it at morning, when just from our bed

  We rise unrefreshed, and to breakfast sit down,

  The froth crested brimmer we raise to our head

  And in swigging off Hodgson, our sorrows we drown.

  Or to drink it at tiffin when thirsty and warm,

  We say to the khidmutgar ‘bring me some beer’,

  Soon, soon do we feel its most magical charm,

  And quickly the eatables all disappear.

  Or at ev’ning when, home from our ride we return,

  And jaded and weary we sit down to dine,

  We ask but for Hodgson and willingly spurn

  The choicest – the dearest – the rarest of wine.

  Then hail to thee, Hodgson! of brewers the head,

  Thy loss we in India would sadly bewail;

  May you live long and happy and when you are dead,

  I will think of you daily whilst drinking your ale.

  Raising his empty glass for a refill, Aditya roared in lusty Maratha fashion, ‘Then hail to thee, Hodgson! of …’ when with a crack like a pistol-shot, the chair on which he was sitting collapsed. In the process of trying to break his fall, Aditya buried his arm in the red hot embers of the fire. He was wearing a long-sleeved nylon shirt which promptly burst into flames. For a moment, Indrajit and I were too stunned to do anything. Then we leapt forward to pull him free. As gently as possible, we patted out the still smouldering shirt. The air was filled with the smell of burning flesh, and something glistened white in the charred skin. It was bone.

  ‘I seem to have burnt myself,’ Aditya said, gazing at the hideous wound in fascination. Being obsessed with medical matters, I knew that if the wound was not covered immediately, infection would set in quickly, particularly here in the filth of the mela. Aditya could lose his arm.

  Indrajit and I bundled him into the bus and drove like lunatics to Hajipur, where we found a hospital. In the emergency room an overworked doctor was dealing with the victims of a bad car accident. The floor was awash with blood. A man lay with a leg half amputated. Another man was sitting quietly, smiling strangely, his glistening eyeball hanging by a thread against his cheek-bone. Shards of sharp glass were embedded in his head, like arrows.

  The doctor took a quick look at the burn and gave me some dressings. ‘Put these on and go immediately to the main hospital in Patna. I am sorry. I cannot dress the wound myself, sir. As you can see I am most busy.’

  With amateurish clumsiness I bound up Aditya’s burn. Not once did he complain or show any sign of pain. He was extraordinarily brave. If it had been me, I would have been screaming, demanding a helicopter to fly me out. In Patna, the wound was cleaned and dressed properly and he was pumped full of morphine. They wanted to keep him in, but he insisted on leaving. At five o’clock in the morning, we reached the camp, where he collapsed.

  The sunrise turned the Gandak into a smooth carpet of gold as B
him and I took Tara down for her last bath. The journey was over. Today we would go our separate ways. As I scrubbed Tara, Bhim sat on her neck, rubbing her head, talking to her quietly. Tara’s trunk lifted up to touch his wise old face. I realised he was saying goodbye so I waded back to the bank, to leave them together. As he rode her towards me, they were silhouetted against the huge rising sun. The sharp rays reflected off the droplets of water on Tara’s skin, and she could have been wearing a cape of pearls.

  I held out a lump of gur. Her manners now impeccable, she stretched out her trunk, plucked the gur delicately from my hand, rolled it into a more suitable shape and popped it into her mouth. She then rumbled softly to say ‘thank you’.

  ‘You see Raja-sahib, Mummy no longer beggar. Now royal princess.’

  We struck camp, rolled up the tents and packed up our belongings. Bhim formally presented me with the ankush, an object I had once so hated. Now its smooth cold surface was as familiar as my own hands. In a few days, I thought sadly, I would have to hand it over to the new mahout.

  The truck arrived. There was now only one last obstacle to overcome – getting Tara on to it. Bhim climbed on top of her for the last time. Whispering encouragement into her ear, he moved her slowly forwards. She put one foot inside, checked the wooden structure carefully with her trunk. Then, with a suspicious squeal, she backed out hurriedly, her head held low. A phalanx of mahouts carrying spears rushed at her from behind, jabbing her in her backside and legs. She whirled round trumpeting in rage, flaying the mahouts with her trunk. They fell back. She then rapped her trunk hard on the ground and stood defiantly, her sides heaving, blood dripping down her legs. I could hardly bear to watch her pain, even though I was determined she would get on this vehicle which would carry her to a happy new life.