When the Lotus Blooms

by Kanchana Krishnan Ayyar

  The family gathered together and jointly made the wise decision to call in the English Doctor, who stitched her badly torn genitals and gave her some pills and a host of pink lotions and concoctions. Over the next few days, sores emerged in her genitalia but slowly they subsided. The fever that racked her weak body also abated. But the psychological scar took a long time to heal. Sita never talked about what happened and neither did the rest of the family. Getting her back alive was the best gift and Jameen Amma never forgot that. She treated her with gentle care and tenderness, constantly by her side, attending to her every need and just loving her unconditionally. Sita did eventually talk but became a little reticent. She was never ever allowed to play with Dharmu in the garden. Recently, she married into a wealthy family from Thirunelveli, and this unpleasant incident was forever buried, consigned permanently to stray discomforting thoughts and unspoken words.

  To Jameen Amma’s credit, she did not let the incident affect her outward disposition. She continued to love everyone around her and was a source of positive energy for everyone. Most of all, she was Dharmu’s best friend.

  Dharmu smiled as her mind came back to the present. “Aahh, Jameen Amma, I miss you,” she said aloud as she lay down ready to sleep. “What a joy it has been to know you.”

  Then, suddenly, she sat up and rushed across the hall to her daughters’ bedroom. They were both safe and sound, fast asleep under the mosquito net. She kissed them both, allowing herself a rare moment of tenderness.

  The next morning Dharmu woke up later than usual. She looked outside and to her consternation, Corbin, the English Saab, was seated in the verandah polishing his gun, and right next to him crouching on the floor, was ‘a-million-questions-Kandu.’ Their guest patiently answered all of Kandu’s probing queries and explained to him how he would catch the tiger. Kandu listened with rapt attention, his eyes unwavering, absorbing everything about the machaan, the bait and the kill.

  A short while later, Dharmu rushed out to the verandah after hearing Corbin’s hearty laughter. He was standing at the side of the house watching the pantomime unfold under the direction of Kandu, the Great Tiger Killer.

  Kandu had rounded up all the servants to help him. He put a large piece of cardboard on a broad low limb of a tree to resemble a machaan and was seated cross legged, dressed for the part, in khakis, a bowler hat and a toy gun. Right underneath him, barking and yelping away, the family Labrador, Raja, was tied securely with a long leash to the grand trunk of the tree. The cook wore a tiger mask and all the others banged pots and pans, to scare the ‘tiger’ towards the bait. In between Raja’s vociferous growls, Kandu directed everyone’s actions, barking out commands, “Aur Chillao! Bhago! Idhar Aao! Down Raja down!”

  The pantomime became even more hilarious. Every time the cook approached Raja, who was supposed to be a goat tied up as bait for the tiger, the dog leaped up on his hind legs barking ferociously, straining at the leash, making the poor ‘tiger cook’ jump back to a safe distance. The dog was excited by all the noise and confused because he was tied up and of course terrorized by the mask.

  “Maybe the dog should have worn the mask instead,” said Corbin, laughing helplessly, as he watched the cook dancing around the excited dog.

  “Hope it doesn’t turn out this way at the machaan this week,” he added as he picked up his guns and went into the house, much to Dharmu’s relief. Knowing Kandu’s inquisitive nature, she was not happy at all about guns lying around. Those weapons were much safer in Corbin’s room, off limits to Kandu.

  A heart wrenching wail suddenly emanated from the servant’s quarters.

  “Maago…Naa…Maago…naa…Amaar Kamala…Maago!!”

  No, Mother Goddess, no, not my Kamala!!

  It was Meera. Theyhad found Kamala’s remains and Meera’s worst nightmare was realized. It was almost as if she had a premonition about the foreboding event when she asked for permission to bring her daughter to the big house. Why did Kamala go alone to fetch water? She knew the rules. She knew one must never go into the jungle alone, aware fully of safety in numbers. But she had disobeyed the cardinal rule and paid for it with her young life.

  Dharmu walked round the back of the house to the servants’ quarters where the inconsolable Meera was crying and lamenting. She banged her chest and swayed from side to side, all the while repeating, “Maago…Maago…Kamala.” In the span of a few minutes, the comic scene in the garden had converted into one of desolate, desperate grief. Talking in loud whispers, the servants huddled around Meera’s room, their faces mirroring the deep angst consuming Meera.

  News had come from the village. When Kamala did not return to the hut at sundown, the neighbors realized something was wrong but they could not begin the search till the following morning. It was too dark and they did not know where to begin. The farmers had seen her walking towards the jungle but she could have gone anywhere. There were several ghats along the river bank and Kamala could be near any one of them. The next morning, the men set out in parties of five. In an hour, one unfortunate party arrived at the ill-fated ghat and confronted a horrific sight.

  Two brass pots were bobbing on the edge of the river and in the wet, bloody mud, they saw fresh pug marks. Kamala definitely had been attacked by the tiger but there was no sign of her body. They noticed the surrounding area had blood smears in the mud, where the tiger probably dragged the body into the shade of the trees to complete his meal in solitude. The bushes were covered with long strands of black hair. Then, they found in the undergrowth one nubile leg still awash in its own gore, torn above the knee but intact otherwise. On the slender ankle gleamed the anklet Meera had bought for Kamala the previous year. There was no doubt Kamala was the tiger’s latest victim.

  They brought the leg back to the village and immediately set out to inform Meera, as her husband was away and someone needed to arrange to cremate her remains. Corbin joined them soon after, questioning and commiserating, trying to understand what happened. The cook, who spoke a smattering of English, translated. In the midst of this grief, Dharmu suddenly felt a giggle bubbling up to her lips at the cook’s comic attempt at English, which was worse than her own. Dharmu went in to see Meera, who was rocking from side to side banging her head on the edge of the bed. No matter what anyone said, she could not be consoled, so intense was her anguish.

  Once again, Dharmu watched karma unfold right before her eyes. Death struck unexpectedly, completely disrupting her life. Meera was a good woman. She did nothing to deserve this.

  Meera’s whole life was one of sacrifice and hardship. Born into a poor farming family, she struggled to keep them fed. Sometimes, when there was no food, she slept after drinking just a cup of water. The pangs of hunger kept her awake all night but she comforted herself with the thought that her husband needed food to work in the fields under the grueling sun and her child needed nourishment, so one more day of hunger would not kill her. These last few years the position as an ayah in Rangpur had improved her quality of life. At least she received two full meals a day. She felt guilty about her own good fortune and often spoke of how people in her village were so poor; sometimes when the crop was bad, they ate mud cakes to keep hunger at bay. But she consoled herself, saying she was in Rangpur for her family’s sake.

  Meera’s saw her child for only twelve precious days a year; all her actions were done so that her daughter could be fed and clothed. Now what did she have to live for? There seemed to be no purpose. God was testing her in ways incomprehensible to mortal minds. And Kamala? What did she do to deserve such a death? All that was left of her was one leg. She had so much to live for. Like other young girls, Kamala should have married and had children of her own. But that was not how things turned out. Nothing made any sense. They must have committed terrible acts in their past lives to deserve such a fate in this one.

  What words could heal her tormented soul? What could Dharmu do to calm her mental anguish? How was she going to go on? There were no answers.

  She
knew Meera had to return home to cremate the remains of her daughter. She needed to be with her family and friends at this time. She never got a chance to say goodbye to Kamala and required some time to grieve and find some peace after this terrible ordeal. The ritual death ceremonies and company of her close family would give her some comfort. But she would probably never get over Kamala’s violent death.

  Just then Corbin walked into the room and informed them of his intention to accompany Meera to her village. If he saw Kamala’s remains and the accident site, he would get vital clues to track down the Man-Eater. He also needed help from the villagers to track and kill the tiger. Meera would get closure with the death of the tiger, and Corbin would be instrumental in bringing her some justice. But the death of a tiger was poor compensation for the life of a young girl.

  CHAPTER 14 – CORBIN

  SONARPUR, EAST BENGAL

  Jeff Corbin reached Sonarpur at midday. The grueling sun combined with the humidity made it almost impossible for him to breathe. His clothing didn’t help. Thick khaki pants and a full-sleeved shirt made the sweltering heat even more unbearable. Corbin preferred to be fully covered, so he would not be prey to the swarms of mosquitoes that inhabited this scorching delta. The local people were immune to insect bites and men were clothed in mere loin cloths, never bothering to use upper garments. For the local populace, death from disease was commonplace and with poor access to medical care, life expectancy was low. Corbin always wondered why anyone chose to live in such harsh surroundings. But to the locals, this was home, this was their entire universe.

  Corbin and Meera got down from the horse cart about a mile away from the village. From here, they had to trek through the thick forest on foot, as there were no accessible pathways, just a dirt track carved out of the jungle. Meera became his guide, navigating through the thick foliage with an uncanny familiarity. She had not spoken at all. For one, she did not know English and added to that, her mind was singularly focused on reaching her home in Sonarpur. In the village, only one man knew English, who officiated as the guide for all the Forest Officers and visiting Englishmen. He was to be Corbin’s companion for the next few weeks, or however long it took to kill the man-eater.

  Corbin clutched the butt of the rifle, his senses on high alert for sharp birdcalls or the shrill cry of the cheetal that would signal danger. His eyes scanned the surrounding area for any sudden movement. It took about a half hour before they reached a clearing. From the edge of a copse of mangrove trees, he could see about two dozen huts. A huge fire was burning and he could spot more fires around the perimeter of the village of Sonarpur. This was typical after a tiger kill. For a while villagers became vigilant, trying to protect themselves from further attacks, leading to a frenzied tiger hunt. Once the animal was killed, they slipped back into their old ways, letting caution drop away. Meera broke into a run and Corbin watched as people emerged from their huts and on spotting her, ran out to greet her. Corbin slowed down, not wanting to interrupt Meera’s reunion with her family.

  He could see the entire village of Sonarpur in front of him. On either side of the community were fields of paddy, beautiful velvet green rice fields stretching out from the tree line. The huts were very rudimentary, built out of dried mud with thatched fronds for roofs. Most of the people who lived in this area were subsistence farmers. The soil was very rich and every year the summer brought with it torrential rain and floods. The Ganga and the Brahmaputra rivers met at the Sunderbans delta and floods could sometimes be sudden and devastating, killing hundreds of people. Hungry tigers probably got their first taste of human flesh feasting on bodies brought in by the tides. But when the flood subsided, the rich alluvial soil remained, replenishing the land. Cut off from the rest of the world, these farmers grew the rice, pulses and vegetables needed for survival. The river was nearby and farmers complemented their meal with fresh-water fish. Their favorite meal was fried Bhetki soaked in spices with boiled rice. As the community grew, more land was needed and farmers began encroaching on the surrounding forests, cutting down and burning trees in their quest for more arable land. The only way growing communities could survive was by going deeper into the forests to collect food like honey, fish, shrimp and crabs by the water’s edge and wood for their boats and homes and this brought them in closer proximity to the tiger. Fishing expeditions took the men away from their villages for many hours at a time, leaving them vulnerable to tiger attacks.

  Territorial in nature, tigers found their hunting grounds were smaller with the depletion of forests and switched to targeting humans, becoming the biggest threat to these isolated villagers. Every village had a local deity they prayed to for protection against this fearsome predator, like Banobibi in Sonarpur. Before venturing out into the forests, the villagers always prayed for her protection. Kamala did too, but her destiny was overriding. Knowing there was a man-eating tiger on the prowl, she should not have tempted fate by venturing out to the ghats alone.

  The rivalry between the region’s top two predators was based on equal amounts of fear and respect. Old and wounded tigers discovered long ago that humans were easy prey. Many villages domesticated cattle and goats and tigers showed their displeasure at the encroachment by carrying off a cow or a goat. The Sunderbans’ maze of swamp, islands, and mangrove forests was one of the very few places left in the world where man was not on top of the food chain, and it was just a matter of time before an emboldened tiger wandered into the village to carry away a child or woman, even as they slept inside their huts. The chase was less exhausting and the kill was easy. Locals believed once a tiger tasted human blood, its thirst for more would become an addiction that could only end with the death of the tiger. Villagers stood in groups at night with fires burning, so at any moment a burning log could be used to fend off a tiger attack. They beat drums and screamed together to alert fellow villagers on sighting a tiger, even on sensing any suspicious sound or movement. One cardinal rule they always followed was going out in groups, never alone, no matter what the urgency. Sometimes people going into the forest wore tiger masks with the face on the back of their heads in the belief that tigers always attack from behind. Meera had given one of these masks to Kandu.

  Bantu, the official translator, ran out to meet Corbin. “Come Saar, leg of Kamala here. Come.”

  Corbin followed him to the back of the village near the small Banobibi temple. What he saw affected him deeply; he would remember it for the rest of his life. A comely leg, bitten off cleanly a little above the knee, as if it had been severed by an axe. On the ankle was a silver anklet, round and tubular, filled with shells. Looking at the clean bite of the tiger, Corbin knew that Kamala’s death would have been very quick. This was a hungry, devious and efficient killing machine. More than half a dozen deaths were attributed to this killer, whom Corbin named the Sonarpur tiger.

  “Don’t let Meera see this. Spare her the agony,” he said to a bewildered Bantu, whose English was not that advanced. It was clear from the lack of expression on Bantu’s face he did not understand a word. So Corbin mimed it. “Cover the leg. No show Meera.”

  Bantu shook his head from side to side. “Understand,” he said. “Sad, very sad. Meera only child now dead.”

  ‘Yes,’ thought Corbin, ‘for Meera’s sake I need to end this story.’

  The next morning news arrived from a neighboring village that the tiger had been spotted five kilometers downstream. People working in the fields said it was huge, maybe ten or fifteen feet long. Corbin knew he had to discount the accuracy of the information he received. To terrified villagers, the tiger was always larger than its actual size. He asked Bantu to accompany him to the site of the killing from where he would begin the tracking process. After a hot cup of tea and a breakfast of steaming rice balls and spinach, Corbin and Bantu set out. Corbin’s back was sore from sleeping on the floor but he would get used to it. Bantu shared his hut with Corbin, and all the villagers were so hospitable that Corbin did not have the heart to complain. Altho
ugh he had his own supply of dry packaged food and water, over time he had developed a taste for Indian food. Over the years the spices that initially burned his mouth and inflamed his intestines had become more palatable, and soon he could tell the difference between the cooking in the northern Himalayas, where he was normally stationed and here in Bengal. A lot of mustard and green chilly was used here, whereas in the North, they were partial to cumin and red chillies.

  The walk to the ghats was not very long but Corbin imagined himself as a frightened child, walking alone in these parts. He felt Kamala’s presence guiding his movements and it made his resolve to find the tiger even stronger. The edge of the ghat was full of footprints and several pug marks. Corbin bent down and examined them closely. A pad was missing in the hind paw, which would help in identifying and tracking the tiger. The attack must have taken place on the edge of the ghat. The tiger would have killed her with one powerful bite to the neck perhaps and then dragged her body into the trees. The thick bracken bushes were spotted with blood and long strands of raven black hair draped over its prickly branches. There were no more remains of the body. Either the tiger ate all the flesh or carried the remains someplace else to eat at a later time. This was very common. Tigers ate voraciously initially because the gnawing hunger would be unbearable and once they were satisfied, they returned to the carcass to feed on it at a later time.

  From there, they walked to the spot where the Tiger was last seen. Corbin examined the pug marks. Yes, it was definitely the same tiger. The pug marks had the tell-tale missing pad on the hind leg. The wound caused by the missing pad was probably painful, slowing down the tiger’s customary lightning speed. Corbin knew he would not need to travel too far, as tigers hunted only within a marked territory, which sometimes extended more than two hundred kilometers. But this tiger was wounded which could possibly hamper its movement, keeping it within a small area. They would spend the night at a nearby village and keep on tracking the movements of the tiger till they found the right spot for a machaan.