Then Devanna had an idea. “Let’s give the chicks a funeral.”
She looked at him. “A funeral? What do you mean?”
“Leave that to me,” he said, improvising, “it will be a very special funeral, that’s all I can tell you.” Devi brightened at last.
Later that afternoon, they gathered the children of the Poleya servants by the banks of the crab stream. Devanna constructed a rough raft from twigs and banana leaves as Tukra watched, agog. They dug out the mangled remains of the chicks from the rubbish heap and wrapped the stiff little bodies in the tufts of silk cotton from the pods that lay scattered on the ground. They lowered them gently onto the raft and then, scattering marigold petals over their silk cotton shrouds, her lips moving in silent, fervent prayer, Devi set the raft adrift.
It twirled slowly in the eddies by the bank for a few moments. Devi bit her lip anxiously, watching. Then, as if following the shafts of sunlight piercing through the clouds, the raft, twisting back and forth, began merrily to pull away downstream.
Devi watched raptly as it sailed away, watching until the last bit of silk cotton shroud disappeared over the horizon. It was then that she turned toward Devanna.
He would never the forget the way she smiled at him, her face luminous, seeming to be lit from within by one, twenty, a thousand golden suns.
Chapter 4
The miniature raft that the children had set adrift spun down the stream intact, belying its flimsy construction. It sped past the village boundaries, ferrying its fragile cargo through the rolling hills that surrounded it, through groves of timber bamboo and open glades dotted with pink touch-me-nots, into and beyond the next village, neatly avoiding the pigs rooting by the banks. On it floated, past elegant knots of silver oak and rosewood, as the sun set and the stars came out. Through the night and into the dawn it journeyed, by herds of grazing bison and spotted deer, past sweet-scented bushes of wild rose and seven-layered jasmine, and down over a waterfall where the stream poured into a fast flowing river. It swirled through the green waters, gathering speed as it turned sharply into the jungle abutting the Kambeymada village. Here a stray eddy caught it and it was swept down one of the tributaries, finally coming to rest against the far side of a watering hole.
The tiger crouching by the edge of the water let out a low growl. It watched for a while as the raft continued to bob and then, sniffing the air suspiciously, the tiger slowly approached. It hooked the raft with one massive paw and nosed the stiff chicks. Losing interest, it sneezed, and splashing across the stream, made its way into the silent, gently steaming jungle. Its stomach distended from the hunt of the previous night, the tiger padded toward a patch of ferns sprouting under a shady pipal tree. It rubbed its face against the tree trunk, raising a muscular leg to further mark its territory with a jet of urine. Satisfied, it settled itself upon the ferns, and soon fell asleep.
Some distance away, in the neighboring village, the hunting party was preparing to set off. The trackers had returned earlier that morning, bearing good tidings. The ground was covered with hoof marks, the jungle flush with game. Each man checked once more the knives slung in his cummerbund—the short, sharp peechekathi at the waist and the heavier, broad-bladed odikathi at the back. The marksmen gathered up their guns as the village priest raised his hands to indicate the auspicious hour was upon them, and with a great cheering and banging of drums, the party set off.
Kambeymada Machaiah was near the head of the now-silent column, maintaining a steady pace as he hacked through the underbrush with easy strokes of his odikathi. The site of the hunt was still some furlongs away, but they were making good time. How he had waited for the hunting season to begin. All through the transplanting season and the monsoon he had bided his time, itching to try out the percussion cap rifle he had bought in Mercara earlier that year. It hadn’t taken the trader long to convince him. The gun had belonged to an English soldier, he claimed, who, having finished his commission, was returning to England. Machu had picked up the rifle, gauged its heft in his hands, held it to his shoulder, and lined up the sight. It was unquestionably a fine weapon, but no, it was entirely too expensive. Come, come, said the seller, this little thing? And what was money for the Kambeymadas anyway? This was a mighty weapon, meant for a mighty marksman. Who more worthy than Kambeymada Machaiah, winner of no fewer than five shooting contests in his village although he was no more than—twenty? Twenty-one? Ah, this gun was destined for him, it was almost as if it had been made for him and him alone. Hold it close to your ear and you could almost hear the barrel thrumming his name.
Machu had laughed out loud at such blatant oiliness, but pleased by the flattery and carried away by the gleam of its barrel, he had bought the gun, quite forgetting even to bargain. It had lived up to its promise at the coconut-shooting contest earlier that week, just as he had known it would—a single shot, the coconut had exploded, and Machu had fortified his standing as one of the most redoubtable shots in the village.
It would be a good hunt today, he could feel it in his bones.
The party split up at a gently sloping hillock, the drummers and the dog bearers pushing on to skirt the base and a section of the forest beyond. The marksmen, meanwhile, spread out in a line around the summit, each man within sight of his neighbor to avoid being caught in the crossfire. They crouched silently in the damp grass waiting for the drums to start. Machu was stationed under a nandi tree, amid a cluster of wild cardamom.
The trackers had chosen well, he thought, picking at a cardamom pod, crushing its seeds between his fingers and releasing their warm scent into the air. There was a natural clearing in the tree cover just beneath where he sat, offering him a prime view of any game that might head his way. He squinted up at the sun. Another fifteen minutes or so, he calculated, for the drummers to reach their positions. The morning drizzle had ended, revealing a clear, beautiful sky. He shifted restlessly in the grass, feeling the warmth of the sun drifting across his shoulders.
He glanced at the tree above him, scanning its branches for pythons. “Nothing, thank Ayappa,” not that he had really expected any, but … and then he froze. He shut his eyes and slowly opened them again, but no, it was no mistake. He stood up and, motioning to the tracker behind him, pointed silently at the tree. On its trunk, several feet above, were ten gouge marks.
A tiger had stood exactly here, not long ago, rearing up on its hind legs to sharpen its claws on the bark.
The tracker shook his head in wonder at the height of the marks, the span of the claws. The beast must be huge. He dropped on all fours, peering at the underbrush. “It must have moved later this morning,” he whispered to Machu. “We didn’t see its spoor during our scout.” Machu’s heart began to pound. A tiger. It had been years since a tiger was last hunted in Coorg. Ayappa Swami, let it come his way. A tiger, felled by his bullet—he would be a hero forever.
The drums started up, shattering the quiet, joined a moment later by the frenzied barking of the dogs. The jungle stirred. There was a rustling in the underbrush and the marksmen took aim. A wild dog shot out and then another, yelping in fright. The hunters lowered their guns and waited. There was a distant thundering of hooves, getting closer and closer, so loud now it almost drowned out the drums. The marksmen lifted their guns in anticipation, but just as suddenly the sound swerved off into the distance. The herd had wisely turned aside. The men cursed and spat into the grass, but Machu remained silent. He wasn’t even watching the clearing, his eyes glued to the trees instead. A wild boar hurtled into sight. Machu saw his cousin take aim; out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of gunpowder and heard the squeal of the boar as it fell. He noted with a strange detachment the men racing toward the animal to claim first privilege. The drums grew steadily louder but he stayed still. And then there it was.
A bone-jarring, spine-crushing roar, shocking the marksmen, silencing even the drums for a terrifying instant.
The jungle erupted. Animals scurried through the underbrush, mon
keys gibbering in fright as they bounced up and down the vines. The drums started again, tentatively, as masses of parrots and mynahs burst from the trees, shrieking their warnings. Machu’s pulse quickened. This was what he had been waiting for. The tiger was on the move. The birds were flying frantically away from the slope, which could mean only one thing: the tiger was headed directly toward the hunters. Let the beast be caught in his crosshairs. “Bless me, Ayappa Swami, let it be my bullet alone that downs it.”
He raised the gun to his shoulder, staring into the jungle. The drums grew louder still. Another deafening roar, making the hairs stand up on Machu’s neck, raising gooseflesh all along his forearms. And there it was, a liquid pour of orange and black, moving swiftly, gaining ground in vast leaps and bounds as it charged into the clearing.
Praise be to you, Ayappa, was Machu’s first thought. What a magnificent creature. He dropped to one knee, the tiger firmly in his sights. Hold, hold, stay steady, NOW. The gun coughed ineffectually, thudding against his shoulder. Son of a whore! Not now, don’t fail me now. He slammed back the breech and fired again. The bullet flew out of the gun this time, but the stuck breech had shifted the focus of the weapon. The bullet sped, off by a fraction of a millimeter, sailing left past the tiger’s ear to slam into its shoulder instead. The beast stumbled, righted itself, then raced on. Machu knelt, frozen in horror. He had missed. Kambeymada Machaiah, ace shot of the village, had missed. They would whip his legs with thorned branches as penalty for missing his target, whip him like a rank amateur.
The drums filled his ears, or was it his heartbeat? He heard guns being reloaded all around him, saw a barrel being raised to his right. Another second and the tiger would pass by, be lost to him forever. “AYY,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and pounding after it. His odikathi was in his hand, although he had no memory of sliding it from his cummerbund. He dashed down the slope, gravel flying under his feet. “Son of a whore, where are you running, AYY.” The tiger whirled around to face him, eyes ablaze. What perfection, Machu thought again. Time slowed. The jungle was a green blur; he was vaguely aware of the other hunters trying to take aim, but he was now in their sights. It was only him and the big cat.
The wounded tiger crouched, muscles rippling beneath striped, massive shoulders. For an instant they stared straight at one another, man and beast. Machu was filled with a wild, primeval fury. The sky above, the ground below, seeming to meld together as the blood rushed to his head. The past, the future, name, identity, all falling away unimportant, his energies, his very being locked in on one elemental equation: the hunter and the hunted.
The tiger roared again, deafeningly loud, and then, almost before he saw it move, it sprang. Machu moved with an ancient instinct, the blood of his ancestors in his veins, the veera singing in his ears. “Swami Ayappa!” He leaped, too, in that very instant, toward the cat, coming up just under its breast.
Massive paws the size of his head. Long, pointed teeth, Swami Ayappa, he had not known they could be this long. Fetid, foul-smelling breath. Orange, such a vivid orange, the color of the sun as it rose above the fields, smeared with the soot of the night. Clutching the rifle by its barrel, he smashed its butt upward against the tiger’s jaw. The beast swerved slightly in midair. Machu dropped to his knee, unnoticing as it smashed into a rock. The tiger was going to fall on top of him. Those claws. His other hand rose, the same graceful motion with which he cored the colocasia plants that sometimes clotted the fields. The sun, glinting from the blade of the odikathi; the fur, such a bright orange, of the tiger. Past skin, through flesh, his blade sinking deep. “Mine!” Machu gasped. “You are mine!” The warm gush of blood, the weight of the animal, pushing down on his blade. The splatter of putrid stomach juices across his face, those paws swinging toward him, and still he dug the odikathi in, deep, deep into the tiger’s guts. You are mine. They crashed to the ground, the tiger falling across his chest.
The jungle came sharply into focus for an instant, and then everything was dark.
Chapter 5
The day after the tiger hunt, much to Devanna’s consternation, Pallada Nayak paid a visit to the mission. He sailed into the classroom, oblivious to the Reverend’s purse-lipped disapproval. “Ayy, Devanna, there you are, monae,” the Nayak called cheerfully. “Why are you sitting like a nervous mouse, at the edge of your chair, on only half your buttocks?”
The Nayak turned to the Reverend. He had come, he boomed, on behalf of Devanna’s father to invite the Reverend to a very special celebration in the Kambeymada village. A nari mangala was going to be held there, for the first time in almost three decades. Since Devanna’s presence was required, he would not be attending school for the remainder of the week. Offering no further explanation, the Nayak then whisked Devanna away.
When Devi returned home that evening, pouting because Devanna had been allowed to leave his classes in the middle of the day but not her, Thimmaya ruffled her hair, amused. “How would you like to attend a tiger wedding?” he asked.
“Tigers get married? Where? How?” asked a startled Devi, all petulance forgotten. Thimmaya laughed, telling her she would have to see for herself—they were going to a tiger wedding in Devanna’s village the next day.
“Tayi, did you hear? I am going to a tiger wedding!” Devi said, as she ran into the kitchen. “A tiger wedding, a tiger is getting married and he has called me to his wedding.” She sang all that evening until an exasperated Muthavva shouted at her to be silent. “A tiger wedding,” Devi sang sotto voce, “what does she know, I am going to a tiger wedding … ”
She was up before sunrise, needing none of the usual cajoling to get her out of bed. She wriggled impatiently as Muthavva braided her hair and lined her eyes with lampblack, leaning from the window to call out to the sleepy Poleyas who were hitching the oxen to the cart in the mist-filled courtyard below. “Ayy, did you hear I am going to a tiger wedding? Tukra!” she yelled, as she spotted the servant boy, “are you coming too?” Tukra dolefully shook his head. “Oh … Well, don’t you fret,” Devi called out. “When I come back, I will tell you everything that happened, minute by minute.”
“Will you stop distracting the servants and let them finish their work?” Muthavva scolded. “Stand straight or your braid will be all crooked.”
Finally the cart was loaded; Tayi had finished her morning prayers; and Thimmaya, the children, and Tayi set off for the Kambeymada village. Devi pestered them with questions all the way. Why hadn’t anyone told her about tiger weddings before? Did fish and birds get married, too? Did the tigress have to wear a sari?
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” her brother, Chengappa, said, grinning, “and you’d better be nice to the bride or she will eat you alive.”
Thimmaya smiled as he listened to the banter. It was good they had left early; they would be in the Kambeymada village by dusk. Some of these stretches were notorious for wild elephants, and he did not want to risk an encounter. He let his fingers drift over his matchlock. They would be fine … and elephants or not, he would not have missed the tiger wedding for anything. When was the last time a tiger had been hunted in Coorg? Twenty years ago? Thirty? Even earlier?
They arrived at the Kambeymada village a little past sundown. The sky was a swollen, luscious purple, like an overripe jungle fruit, its skin rent here and there to reveal the first stars. The young men of the village stood at the entrance to the green welcoming the guests, and women flitted about like fireflies, filling and refilling the brass urns of water afloat with fragrant rosebuds and tulasi. Devi perfunctorily splashed some of this perfumed water over her face and hands as she searched excitedly for Devanna, but it was too crowded to see very far.
People thronged the green, the din of their voices rising above the lowing of the tethered oxen and the pounding drums. A large tent had been erected at the far side of the open space, auspiciously facing east. Rows of chairs and wooden benches were arranged before it, for those who were too old or too drunk to stand. A bonfire bur
ned fiercely in the middle of the green, staving off the cold and the milky strands of fog floating through the air. The commissioner of police, Dr. Jameson, the Reverend, and a few prominent planters and their wives threaded through the crowd, their presence further testimony to the reach and influence of the Kambeymada clan.
The white sail of the tent billowed in the wind, and Devi tugged impatiently at Thimmaya’s hand. Smiling, he hoisted her onto his shoulders.
“There,” he said, “there is your tiger.”
A log shifted in the fire, sending sparks shooting high into the night. Devi blinked. A colossal tiger glared through the smoke, frozen in mid-leap toward her. It hung suspended from the roof of the tent, its head held high with ropes, its legs splayed, its lips yanked into a rictus of a snarl. The stripes on its back gleamed in the firelight, and the rest of its fur was orange, a fiery, burnished orange, the color of the sampigé flowers that Muthavva liked to wear in her hair.
The music rose to a crescendo, the musicians beating their hide-covered kettledrums into a thunderclap of sound. Instinctively, the crowd parted. “Look,” said Thimmaya, pointing. “There is the bridegroom.”
Tiger Hills Page 5
