Wherever I had travelled in the subcontinent – from the southernmost tip of Tamil Nadu to the hill stations crouched in the foothills of the Himalayas – it had been impossible to escape this chaos. Even here on the North-East Frontier, a part of the world that has remained isolated for centuries, traffic madness had spread like a virus.
Guwahati, or Gauhati as the British referred to it, might have been a beautiful city had it not caught this debilitating disease. Instead, it has been reduced to a sprawling, filthy, polluted and congested mess. Hundreds of thousands of Bangladeshi immigrants, corrupt politicians, a burgeoning indigenous population and a stagnant economy have only compounded the problem.
Guwahati’s saving grace is its position, built around rolling emerald-green hills along the southern bank of the Brahmaputra, the largest of India’s rivers. Known to the Assamese as the Lohit, or Red River and to the Burmese as the Bhullambuthur, which means ‘Making a gurgling sound’, it rises in Tibet and flows for 1,800 miles before discharging an estimated 500,000 cubic feet of water per second into the Bay of Bengal. Off to the left, I caught my first glimpse of this massive waterway, which remained virtually uncharted by European explorers until the end of the nineteenth century. It was broad, dark and brooding, its fast-moving surface alive with whirlpools, eddies and rapids as if some Hindu god was churning it from beneath. Fishing boats and ferries chugged upstream, straining against the current. Two Christmas pudding-shaped islands sat in the middle of the river surrounded by brown and yellow sandbanks. On the far shore, soft afternoon light played across rolling hills thick with jungle, while downstream, car windows glistened as they passed over a high, mile-long suspension bridge.
We turned down a filthy side street, its gutters heaped with festering rubbish, a welcome playground for India’s flourishing rodents and carrion. Over one shop entrance a sign announced: ‘M/S D. CHOUDHURY & SONS’.
“Okay. Bus,” I cried out above the noisy engine. “Stop! This is it!”
The auto-rickshaw came to an abrupt halt. I stumbled out, half dazed, and paid the driver. He seemed amazed when I handed him a tip. Clearly it was his first – who else but a crazy foreigner would reward such suicidal driving? He nodded gratefully before turning round and heading back in the direction we had come, the repetitive Bengali music still blaring from his speakers.
I approached Mr Choudhury’s shop and pushed the door ajar. A wide desk dominated the otherwise sparsely furnished, dimly lit room, its surface littered with a collection of odds and ends – a can of lubricating oil, a telescopic sight, a used shotgun cartridge filled with paper clips, and half a dozen dusty back issues of The Shooting Times. Against the far wall stood a glass cabinet full of rifles with polished chestnut-coloured butts and shiny barrels. Next to it, I spied some fishing rods, nets and tackle. But there was no sign of the owner.
“Hello. Is anyone there?” I called out as I stepped inside.
“One moment, please,” came a voice from the back. “Take a seat. I’ll be with you shortly.”
I sat down in the chair in front of the desk as instructed, still taking in my surroundings. Half a dozen black-and-white pictures hung unevenly from the damp-stained wall. One showed a handsome young man with chiselled features sitting on top of a magnificent-looking male elephant with long, thick, white tusks. In a smaller print, the same youth was kneeling over the body of a dead leopard, rifle in hand.
“There used to be thousands of leopards in Assam,” came the same voice, now just a few feet behind me. “We used to bag them quite regularly. Today, all we’re allowed to shoot are rats and crows.”
Startled, I leapt up from my chair and found myself standing face to face with the same man who appeared in the photographs on the wall, or rather an older version with greying sideburns and sagging jowls. Dressed in camouflage fatigues and a Guwahati Rifle Association baseball cap, he looked every bit the hunter – right down to his glasses, which were square, concave and, for a trained marksman, surprisingly thick. They were custom-made bifocals and the lenses reached above his eyebrows so that from certain angles his eyes seemed to bulge like goldfish in a bowl.
“Hello, I’m Dinesh Choudhury,” he said in a soft voice.
“Tarquin Hall,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”
For a moment or two, a self-conscious unease crept over me as I was gently appraised through narrowed eyes, rather as a hunter might watch an animal in the wild.
Mr Choudhury did not appear to be the menacing character I had built up in my mind. If anything, he seemed gentle, with a slightly quizzical air and a boyish charm. Yet at the same time, there was something supremely confident about the man. He had the considered, introspective look of someone who makes few mistakes, his prominent chin and set mouth suggestive of resolution, even of obstinacy.
Olive-skinned with brown eyes, he was unlike the other Assamese I had seen in the street, most of whom had distinct Mongoloid features. With his aquiline nose and arched forehead, he might have been mistaken for an Italian. Indeed, as I discovered later, he was of Aryan stock, a descendant of Hindu Rajasthani princes who had fled to Assam three hundred years earlier to escape the Mogul invasion.
“So what brings you to my little shop, Mr Hall?” he asked at last, playing absentmindedly with an empty brass bullet casing that lay on the desk.
“Well, I’ve flown all the way from Delhi to find you. In fact I’ve been travelling for several days to get here,” I began, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.
“And you are a journalist. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I answered, realizing that Das must have tipped him off. Either that or he had made a calculated guess. Whatever the case, hacks have a bad name the world over and I was keen to present myself in an altogether different light.
“My main interest in life is travel writing,” I explained, taking a copy of my first book from my backpack and handing it to him.
He inspected the bright cover, glancing at the publisher’s blurb. Then, thumbing through the pages, he paused to look at some of the photographs. Encouraged by his apparent interest, I continued: “That book’s about some journeys I made when I was younger. In one chapter, I go rattlesnake-hunting in Texas,” I added, hoping to strike a chord.
“Very interesting,” he said, smiling at me. “You’ve done a lot of things for someone so young – is it not so?”
My attempt to engage his interest was working, I thought. Now that he was primed, I felt confident of tackling him on the subject of the elephant hunt. Would he be leaving soon?
“Yes, I think so. Probably tonight.”
“Ah, right,” I said, feeling a tingle in my stomach as I formulated the next question in my mind. “Well, I was wondering if you would allow me to tag along, so that I might write about it later?” I paused. “I think it would make a fascinating book.”
“Yes, yes, sure,” replied the hunter. “I’m quite happy for you to come up to Sonitpur.”
A wave of relief and excitement swept over me.
“Oh great! Thank you very much,” I said, amazed at how easy this was proving.
But then Mr Choudhury raised a finger and added the word ‘However’. He crossed his arms and stiffened.
“However,” he repeated, sitting back in his chair and frowning, “you understand that you will not be able to come with us when we hunt the elephant. You will have to stay in the camp.”
My skin went clammy and my stomach started to churn. Had I heard him correctly? He wasn’t going to allow me on the hunt? Did that mean he suspected my motives? That he feared I wanted to expose him and the elephant-shooting racket? Was he being friendly just to lead me on?
All I could say was, “Why can’t I come?” in a feeble, childlike whine.
“Well, the tusker has already killed thirty-eight people,” explained Mr Choudhury. “That makes him a formidable opponent and very dangerous. Also, we will be travelling in areas where there are insurgents who are fighting for an
independent Assam. I couldn’t be responsible for your safety.”
My chance of a great adventure was fading fast. I had not come all the way from Delhi to sit around in some crummy camp. For a split second, I felt like arguing my case but then thought better of it. The only thing to do was to accept Mr Choudhury’s offer, drive up to Sonitpur, spend some time with him and try to wangle my way on to the hunt later. With this in mind, I took a deep breath and changed tack.
“I completely understand the dangers and I would hate to put you in a difficult position,” I said. “At the very least, I’d like to come up to Sonitpur. After all, I have come all the way from Delhi to be here.”
The hunter nodded his head in agreement.
“By all means come,” he replied. “It will be very educational for you. I must warn you, though, that it will be rough. You’ll be sleeping outside, the food will be basic and you’ll have to help out in the camp. Everyone mucks in. You will be required to cook and clean up, and you may even have to do some hard manual labour.”
Though Mr Choudhury didn’t know it, this was exactly the kind of experience I was looking for. After years of eating junk food and sitting at a desk, some honest physical work would do me good. But I was taken aback when he asked me if I smoked.
“Just a few a day,” I said casually. “I’ve cut down a lot recently and…”
The hunter was shaking his head in disapproval.
“No smoking. Elephants have an acute sense of smell. They don’t like cigarettes.”
“Right, no smoking,” I said, wondering how I would survive.
Did I drink?
“Well, one or two…you know, just sometimes…the odd glass of beer…” I felt almost apologetic.
One look told me that I would be off the sauce for a while.
“Right, no drinking,” I sighed out loud.
“And one last thing, from now on, don’t use any deodorant.”
No deodorant? Banning fags and booze was one thing, but surely my Right Guard was harmless stuff? Or perhaps he found my brand offensive. Did he, like an elephant, have an acute sense of smell?
“It’s a small detail, but it could be your undoing. An elephant will pick up its scent a mile off,” he added. “And it might attract the unwanted attention of the rogue. He would be less than friendly.”
Then Mr Choudhury stood up, muttering that he had lots to organize before his departure.
“That settles it then. I will pick you up at your hotel at eight o’clock tonight. Please bring as few belongings as possible.”
I thanked him for his time and turned towards the door. But just then, he called me back. Reaching into the drawer of his desk he pulled out a book, a reprint of P.D. Stracey’s Elephant Gold, the standard work on the Asian elephant in Assam.
“Here, I would like to give you this,” he said, and with that, taking up his fountain pen, he wrote an inscription on the title page, which he attributed to the legendary fifth-century Assamese sage Palakapya, who is said to have been born from an elephant.
It read:
Where there is duty, there is nobility.
Where there are elephants, there is victory.
On my way back to the hotel, my head was spinning. How could someone like Mr Choudhury, who seemed so kindly, shoot elephants? Had he grown so used to hunting animals that one more didn’t make any difference? Or did he just need the money? Judging by the state of his shop, the rifle and ammunition business was hardly booming. The bounty of 50,000 rupees, the equivalent of roughly six hundred pounds, would go a long way in Assam. And there was the ivory to consider. The two tusks would be worth a fortune on the world market if they could be smuggled out of India – enough to set someone up for life.
It took less than twenty minutes to reach my hotel. The foyer was packed with Congress Party politicians and workers holding their annual regional meeting. The bigwigs, those who professed to be carrying on the work of the Mahatma, were all dressed in white homespun pyjamas, a uniform that had once stood for humility in the days when India’s freedom fighters had identified with the common man. Now, it was synonymous with corruption and was worn by pot-bellied men with generous double chins. Somehow, I found it hard to imagine these individuals putting the Mahatma’s example of abstinence into practice.
The Congressmen jostled for the attention of the lone man behind the reception desk. He had been landed with the jobs of telephone operator, receptionist, concierge, occasional bellboy – he had helped me with my bags – and cashier. Looming over the Congressmen I successfully caught his attention. His name was Rishi. It said so on his name-tag.
“You had a call, sir,” he said, beaming at me as he pushed my room key over the counter and tried to grapple with two telephones at the same time.
“Oh really, who from?”
He rummaged behind the desk, getting the lines twisted, and handed me a message. It was from a ‘Mr Banerjee, Ministry of Sports’.
I licked my top lip as I studied the slip of paper, noticing that my first name had been spelt ‘Fartquin’.
“What does he want, this Mr Banerjee?” I asked Rishi, as he tried to fend off an irate Congressman who was complaining that he didn’t have a room with a view.
“He’s heard that you are a professional goalkeeper and is coming to meet with you.”
“A goalkeeper!” I exclaimed. “I’m not a…”
Then, with a sinking feeling, I suddenly remembered what had happened that morning.
Upon my arrival at Guwahati airport, I had been required to register myself at Passport Control. The aggressive bureaucrat behind the desk had handed me a form to complete that asked for all the usual details: passport number, date of birth, country of origin and so on.
As a foreigner in a land that thrives on paperwork and bureaucracy, I was forever filling in such forms. Indian hotels always wanted to know everything about me, usually in triplicate. Sometimes, to amuse myself, I would give a false name, and I often added an out-of-the-way occupation like ‘Brain Surgeon’ or ‘Concert Pianist’ for good measure.
On this occasion I had scrawled ‘Goalkeeper’ and had handed the completed form back to the man. He had examined it carefully, checking the facts with those in my passport.
“Goalkeeper?” he exclaimed. “That is no occupation.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Yes it is. I’m a goalkeeper,” I replied, deadpan.
“You mean you are a player of soccer?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, and then I overstepped the mark. “I play for Manchester United.”
He returned his attention to the form, crossed out ‘Goalkeeper’ and inserted ‘Soccer Player, Manchester Unlimited’.
In the end, all the fuss was worth it. He soon produced an ink pad and banged an Assam entry stamp on to an empty page in my passport. This was an unexpected and welcome bonus and I thanked him heartily, leaving the airport delighted. I had a new addition to my visa collection, and a rare one at that.
Nevertheless, it seemed as if my bluff had been called. The bureaucrat at the airport had obviously rung the Ministry of Sports and tipped them off. Now this Mr Banerjee was coming to the hotel.
Perhaps the airport official was still suspicious and wanted someone to check my credentials. I imagined myself having to prove my mettle against an Assamese striker on some Guwahati football pitch. Or perhaps Mr Banerjee wanted me to come and coach his team or even play in a game. If that were to happen, I would be unmasked as a fraud and, in such a sensitive part of India, rife with insurgency and drug smuggling, my innocent joke might be interpreted as something more sinister.
Whatever the case, I felt certain of one thing: Mr Banerjee would want to talk about soccer and all I knew about the game was that England had only once won the World Cup. I couldn’t even remember in which year.
Up in my room, I tried to decide the best course of action. I had three hours to kill. If I remained in the hotel, I was a sitting duck. After a quick shower I slipped ou
t. With any luck, Mr Banerjee would call while I was out, and later that night I would get clean away.
Sitting at the back of a local tandoori restaurant, I ordered a late lunch. While I waited for the platter of food to come, I tugged a box-file from my backpack and flicked through its contents. Dog-eared and yellowed with age, they were a clutch of private letters written by my godfather Charles that I had inherited on his death in 1989. Since then, I hadn’t delved deeper than the first two or three. But now I pored over each page, searching for references to the North-East Frontier, where Charles had been stationed during the Second World War.
As I soon discovered, in April 1944 he had fought at the battle of Kohima in Nagaland, only a few hours’ drive from Guwahati. According to his own vivid description, Charles, along with several hundred Allied troops and local tribesmen, took on the Japanese army and won. During the battle, regarded as one of the most desperate of the war, Charles spent three weeks in a rat-infested trench on the edge of the British Governor’s tennis court. Day after day, and night after night, he defended his position against waves of Japanese infantry. Miraculously, Charles was one of the few lucky enough to make it out alive.
Later letters revealed that after the battle, he spent six months travelling around India, indulging his greatest passion: hunting. Not far from Mysore, in the southern state of Karnataka, he took part in five elephant hunts, bagging himself two pairs of tusks.
“There’s nothing quite as satisfying as shooting an elephant,” he wrote to his younger brother Jeffrey in January 1945. “The shot – to the heart or the brain – is a tricky one to accomplish, especially when the beast is charging towards you. I cannot put into words the thrill of seeing such a large animal falling to one’s gun. I’m afraid it makes beagling seem rather silly.”
It was clear from Charles’s words that he, like most of his generation, had a different attitude towards hunting. In his time, there had been no such thing as an endangered species list, and even the largest animals were considered little more than vermin. But to someone of my generation the idea of killing such a fine animal was utterly abhorrent.
To the Elephant Graveyard Page 2
