To the Elephant Graveyard

by Hall, Tarquin

“They are having AIDS!” he burst out. “We can be catching it!”

  “AIDS!” I snorted. “You could only get AIDS by having sex with them. Or if you had a blood transfusion and they supplied the blood. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I don’t remember having either sex or a blood transfusion while we were there.”

  “You are eating their total coconuts,” he said. “For sure, now you will be getting maximum AIDS.”

  Neither of us said another word all the way back to the Wild Grass Hotel. Even so, the day had proved a tremendous success. I had discovered another legend about the elephant graveyard and had even been given some indication of where I might find it.

  Back in my hotel room, I found a message under my door from Mr Choudhury. It read:

  Meet me at camp at four tomorrow afternoon. Have found out everything about the elephant.

  9

  Death of a Mahout

  “Elephants are continually being compared to man in favourable terms. This is supposed to be some great compliment. Yet surely to these extraordinary creatures, there can be nothing more demeaning.”

  Bill Canning, Elephant Days

  Huddled in coarse blankets, the members of the elephant squad and the Kaziranga mahouts were gathered in the dark around a smouldering campfire, playing a bastardized version of gin rummy with a dog-eared pack of British Airways in-flight cards.

  Intermittently, as they drew burning twigs from the fire to light the ends of their cheroots, I caught glimpses of their faces. Shadows enhanced their features, accentuating hooked noses and cauliflower ears, while the combination of the smoke and the flickering light added to their sinister appearance.

  The mahouts regarded one another with suspicion. Eyes peered cautiously over the tops of tightly clasped hands of cards. Scrutinizing his opponents for any sign of bluff or weakness, one man chewed on the cuticle of his left thumb. Another nursed his bottom lip and studied his cards intently as if the game were a matter of life and death.

  In slow succession, each mahout picked up a card from the pile and added it to his hand. Bets of only a few rupees at a time were laid. This was no high-stakes game. Nonetheless, the oldest amongst them, a man whose eyebrows joined in the middle, was amassing a tidy sum. Each time he won a round, he let out a triumphant crow and gathered up his winnings with both hands like some greedy moneylender. The disappointed murmurs of his vanquished opponents suggested that unless their luck changed for the better, they would all soon be forced to fold.

  I sat on a nearby tree-trunk cocooned in a sleeping bag, trying to stay warm and waiting for Mr Choudhury. Mole, Badger and Vipal sat chatting with Baba. Churchill, who apparently did not feel the cold and was wearing only a thin shirt and tatty trousers, sat by my feet with his back to the log. He was trying to tune his short-wave radio to the BBC World Service. He turned the knob and the speaker spat out a succession of whirrs and buzzes and snatches of foreign languages. I recognized many of the stations. First came the Americanized Eastern European accent of Voice of Russia, then the enthusiastic lilt of an Australian presenting a programme on pet-care for ABC. Next there was some ping-pong-sounding music from Radio China, and for a moment the mahout settled on Voice of America. Finally there came the comforting sound of the BBC: “This is London.”

  “BBC is best, no?” said the mahout, who had bought the radio years before on the Burmese black market. “Very good English language. Make mahout international, no?”

  I had noticed that Churchill was in the habit of listening to the radio whenever he was feeling anxious. It was his form of escape. On this occasion, he was growing increasingly uneasy about the rogue’s latest movements.

  “Hathi wants drink, no?” said the mahout. “He has been on…how you say, cold chicken.”

  “I think you mean cold turkey,” I replied.

  “Chicken, turkey, duck, all same. Hathi want drinking. No drink in Kaziranga, I think, no?”

  According to the guards who were following the rogue, he would reach the park’s eastern perimeter in approximately thirty-six hours. That would put him within striking distance of a number of villages in the Nowgong district, not far from where we had visited the satra.

  “Soon we must go,” he said. “Hathi is big danger.”

  A presenter on the BBC introduced a programme about people obsessed with personal grooming. This seemed bizarre stuff to be broadcasting to an international audience, especially given my present company.

  Churchill poked me in the leg, snapping me out of my daydream.

  “How is hotel? Very nice, no?” he asked.

  I nodded enthusiastically, wishing I was back in my queen-size bed.

  “You like warm room and nice bath,” stated the mahout.

  “Yes,” I said cautiously, wondering what he was getting at.

  “Huh,” he said with contempt. “You soft. No like life of mahout. Too hard for firang, no?”

  It was true that I had found the squad’s way of life hard going. Still, his comment hurt, even though I suspected his uncharacteristic severity had more to do with his concern over the rogue than with any real disapproval of my lack of fibre.

  “That’s not true,” I protested. “I like camping out and looking after the kunkis.”

  Churchill let out a loud tut.

  “You like girl,” he said, “very soft.”

  He looked at his watch, holding the face up to the light of the fire.

  “Where is Shikari?” he asked. “Maybe he is stopping for drink. Just like hathi, no?”

  ♦

  It was well past eleven o’clock before the Land Rover’s headlights were spotted along the Kaziranga road, making their way towards the camp.

  As the vehicle approached, I felt a growing sense of anticipation. What dark secrets had been uncovered? Where did the rogue come from? Why were his victims mostly drunken men? And how had he escaped captivity? With any luck, all these questions – and more – were about to be answered.

  Mr Choudhury was soon standing before us. Sipping a mug of tea, he stretched his legs and massaged his neck. The drive had been a long one. Judging by his haggard features, the hunter had had little or no sleep in the past thirty-six hours. The fact that he was still wearing the same clothes and had not shaved also suggested that his schedule had been a hectic one. Nevertheless, his eyes were twinkling with excitement. Clearly, things had gone well in Guwahati.

  “I am sorry for being so late,” he began, as we all gathered round. “Please bear with me a little longer. You will find that what I have discovered has been worth the wait.”

  He stooped to pick up a kettle of tea which was boiling on the fire and refilled his mug.

  “My trip was a success. I now know more about the rogue’s past,” continued Mr Choudhury. “It is one of the most astounding stories that I have ever come across. And one a journalist will love,” he added. He paused and nodded at me with a conspiratorial smile. “I have brought with me someone who knows this story better than any other man alive.”

  He turned towards the road where a Hindustan Ambassador was just pulling up next to the Land Rover.

  “Mr Jain,” called out Mr Choudhury, “please, come and join us.”

  The car’s headlights were switched off. A driver got out and scurried around the back of the Ambassador to open the door on the far side. We all strained to see who this mysterious guest could be, but the inside of the car was pitch black. Then one of the mahouts stepped forward with a hurricane lamp, illuminating the area where the vehicles were parked. A figure got out of the car, and as he walked towards us, we were provided with our first glimpse of the mysterious Mr Jain.

  He was a stout gentleman with fleshy cheeks and an abundant waistline that stretched his belt to the limit. Indeed, the newcomer reminded me of an overfed cat, for his moustache stuck out like whiskers. Otherwise, however, I could see nothing remarkable about Mr Choudhury’s friend – until, that is, he approached the campfire. For it was then that I noticed that there was something
extraordinary about him. Mr Jain had no legs. He was walking with the aid of a cane on two aluminium prostheses.

  “I am pleased to introduce you to the owner of the rogue elephant that we have been pursuing,” said Mr Choudhury, who was evidently developing a taste for theatrics.

  The hunter helped Mr Jain to a place on the tree-trunk. With some difficulty, he sat down, his imitation legs sticking out in front of him. The mahouts brought their guest some betel-nut arranged on a lime leaf and then some tea. Their hospitality was touching, but I was growing impatient.

  “Did he really own the elephant?” I whispered to Mr Choudhury. “How did you find him?”

  “Yes,” chipped in Churchill, “tell us hathi story, no?”

  The hunter raised his hands, appealing for quiet.

  “I think it would be best if Mr Jain told you everything.”

  Mr Jain leaned back on the palms of his hands to prevent himself from falling off the log. It was a cold night but he was sweating as if it was midday on the equator, beads of perspiration rolling down his neck. Before beginning his narrative, he took a crumpled packet of 555s from his suit pocket and lit one. Then, smoothing down the few remaining strands of hair on his otherwise bald head, he turned to Mr Choudhury and raised his eyebrows, as if looking for inspiration.

  “I suggest you start at the beginning,” prompted the hunter.

  Mr Jain nodded and drew hard on his cigarette.

  “I am a businessman,” he began, licking the perspiration from his upper lip. “I own a transport company. Mostly, I deal with tea. From Assam we send it down to Calcutta and then ship it to the UK.”

  Judging by his fair features and green eyes, I guessed that he was a Marawari, a term used to describe businessmen from the state of Rajasthan who are said to own half of India. The majority of Indians despise them as a class for their overt materialism and legendary stinginess. They are often referred to as the Jews of India.

  “As a child,” he continued, “I dreamed of owning my own elephant, but my father would never allow me to have one. He said the animals were dangerous and that I would get hurt. How right he was,” he added, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Many years later, in 1986, a mahout came to the door of my house where I live on the edge of the jungle outside Guwahati. He was travelling with an elephant, a beautiful creature with long tusks. The mahout said he wanted to sell the animal and I couldn’t resist. As I said, I had always wanted an elephant. So, after some haggling, I agreed to buy it.”

  Despite his enthusiasm for elephants, Mr Jain admitted that he knew nothing about the animals. In his excitement, he did not stop to ask where the tusker had come from, or about his past. Nor did he seek out an expert’s opinion as to whether the animal was suitable as a domesticated pet.

  “There was only one condition to the sale,” continued our guest, lighting his second cigarette. “I could not buy him without hiring his mahout. But right from the start, I disliked and distrusted the man. At our first meeting, I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. I should have got rid of him immediately. He was always getting into fights and was rarely sober. Dev was his name, but I soon came to call him Devil.”

  Mr Jain’s business kept him travelling all over India and he spent little time at his house near Guwahati. Often, he would be away from home for weeks on end.

  “One day, I returned from a trip to Delhi to find the animal in a terrible condition and all alone. He hadn’t been fed properly and he looked emaciated. Also, he was tied to a tree with a chain which was too tight for his ankle and it had rubbed his flesh raw. Scars on the animal’s back, legs and head suggested that the mahout had beaten the unfortunate animal with his ankush.

  “But Dev was nowhere to be seen. I searched for him and eventually tracked him down to the local gaol where he was being held for fighting in a bar.”

  Mr Jain made a fist with his left hand as he spoke, squeezing his fingers.

  “I discovered that the mahout had been stealing the elephant’s fodder allowance and buying arak and whisky, and gambling at cards.”

  Churchill and the other mahouts were disgusted.

  “If mahout steal food hathi know, no?” interrupted Churchill, who was clearly disturbed by the story and had been tutting throughout. “That is making hathi most very angry.”

  “So what did you do next?” asked Mr Choudhury, prompting the Marawari to continue.

  “I fired the mahout. I told him to get out and never return. Otherwise, I would have him thrown in prison. He left and I soon found another man to look after the elephant.”

  For some weeks, everything seemed to go well. The new mahout treated the tusker kindly, fed him properly and nursed him back to health. But then, one day, Dev came back. Drunk and cursing, he demanded money from Mr Jain which, he said, was owed to him.

  “I told him to get out and went to call the police. I walked behind the house where we kept the elephant. The mahout followed me, shouting at the top of his voice. His presence had an instant effect on the elephant, who was in musth and already bad-tempered. The animal strained against his chain. He kicked at the earth. He trumpeted. He wanted to break free and get at the mahout, who stood just out of reach. His eyes were wild. He was insane.”

  Mr Jain’s words began to flow more quickly.

  “Even now, Dev jeered at him. He stood there laughing like a clown. Then, suddenly, the chain snapped. The elephant was loose. He charged at the mahout. Dev turned to run, but the animal grabbed him and hurled him to the ground. He lay there, putting up his arms in defence. He tried to order the elephant to stop, shouting out, ‘Stop! Kneel! Lie down!’ But his fate was sealed. I could see the lust for revenge in the elephant’s eyes.”

  Mr Jain’s hands began to shake and a muscle in his eye twitched involuntarily.

  “The elephant picked up Dev and lifted him in the air. He was screaming for help, but there was nothing to be done. I stood there watching, horrified. Then the tusker slammed him down on the ground. I could hear the crunch of bones. He was not a strong man. He died immediately. He was lucky.”

  The rogue hadn’t finished with him, however. As with his other, more recent victims, he proceeded to batter the body.

  “Finally, he ground the remains into the earth. The elephant was covered in blood. It was all over his tusks and all over his trunk…”

  The Marawari’s voice cracked as he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “Next, he came for me. The last thing I remember, he was towering over me. Then I must have fainted. Either that or my mind has blanked out what happened next.

  “When I came round, I was in excruciating pain. I was lying on the ground in a pool of my own blood. I sat up with great difficulty. Then I looked down and found that my legs…my legs…”

  Mr Jain’s voice broke as he lowered his head.

  “My legs had been crushed,” he whispered. “I believe the elephant did this to me deliberately,” he said after a long pause, his voice now quiet and reflective. “He wanted me to live in agony. He wanted me to remember him every day for the rest of my life. And so I have done for the past ten years.”

  The Marawari did not see his condition as a misfortune. Rather, he believed it was punishment for some terrible sin committed, perhaps, in a past life.

  “I must have done something very bad to deserve this,” he said. “But what it could have been, I cannot imagine.”

  A northerly wind had begun to blow across Kaziranga, pitching up leaves and loose bits of straw from the ground and throwing them across the landscape. The embers in the fire stirred, red-hot coals revealing themselves beneath the grey ash. The mahouts drew their blankets ever tighter around them.

  Mr Choudhury sat down on the log next to Mr Jain and continued the story where his guest had left off.

  “The elephant made his escape and was declared a rogue,” he said. “After a few days, another hunter, who is now retired, went after him. The rogue escaped across the Brahmap
utra. Eventually, he went into Arunachal Pradesh.”

  The hunter took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “History has a way of repeating itself, is it not so?”

  We sat pondering over the story for a few minutes before I asked Mr Choudhury whether he had had any luck with the Forest Department. Had they revoked the destruction order?

  The hunter shook his head regretfully.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “The elephant has killed too many people. He is too dangerous. He must be destroyed.”

  “What about you, Mr Jain?” I asked. “Do you want to see him killed?”

  The cripple nodded his head.

  “I’m not interested in revenge,” he insisted. “I do not blame him for what he did to me. I blame myself for not taking proper care of the animal. And I feel responsible for what he has done.

  “If you can shoot him,” he continued, looking Mr Choudhury in the eye, “you would be ending a lot of pain and misery. Most of all his.”

  Mr Choudhury nodded.

  Mr Jain raised himself from the log. “By coincidence I was coming this way for a meeting and I was happy to accept Mr Choudhury’s invitation to tell my story. But now I must get going if I’m to make my appointment. Let me wish you good luck.”

  We shook hands and then he made his way to the car. Mr Choudhury gave him a helping hand as the rest of us followed behind.

  “Just one more thing before you go,” I said, as he squeezed into the back of the Ambassador. “What’s the rogue’s name? He must have a name.”

  “Yes, he does,” he replied. “He is called Phandika.”

  10

  A Rendezvous with Terrorists

  “When you have got an elephant by the hind leg and he is trying to run away, it is best to let him run!”

  Abraham Lincoln

  At four-thirty the next morning, I tiptoed past Vipal’s room and made my way down to the lobby with my bags. Mr Choudhury was waiting for me by the front desk.