“Where is Vipal?” he asked, as I settled the bill. “Is he coming?”
“He’ll catch up with us later,” I said, not entirely truthfully.
In fact, the Bengali and I had stayed up late the night before. I had bought a bottle of Old Monk rum from a local off-licence and, while I hadn’t touched the stuff, Vipal had had seven or eight glasses. It wasn’t long before he began to sing Frank Sinatra hits in a voice that would have been considered distasteful even in a karaoke bar. Shortly after midnight, he launched into an ear-splitting rendition of ‘New York, New York’, and as he finished the last verse, reaching a shrieking crescendo that threatened to perforate my eardrums, he keeled over on his bed and passed out. I was fairly sure he would not wake up before lunch, by which time we would be well on the trail of the rogue elephant.
“It will be up to him to find us later,” said Mr Choudhury, as we loaded our bags into the back of the Land Rover. “But I won’t wait around for anyone. This isn’t a Cub Scout outing.”
The hunter was in no mood for complications. The rogue elephant, who was still on the move, was expected to reach the park’s perimeter the next morning. Mr Choudhury planned to cut him off by heading east along the highway which ran around the edge of the park. Then, once we reached the Nowgong district, we would head south into the rain forest.
“If we leave now with the elephants, we will reach the edge of the park as he comes out,” said the hunter, as we drove to the squad’s camp. “There are no villages in that area, so we will not be endangering anyone’s life.”
There was just one problem.
Assam’s main insurgency group, ULFA, had declared a day’s bandh, or strike, to protest against the arrest of a member of their high council. The militants had ordered the entire population, with the exception of those working in the emergency services, to remain at home from six in the morning until six in the evening. All shops would remain closed, all factories would shut down. No tea would be picked, no oil would be pumped and no planes would land at Guwahati airport. Vegetables would decay, fish would go bad, meat would turn rotten. Not a single government office would function – not even the Chief Minister’s. In short, the entire state of twenty-three million people would come to a grinding halt.
“How can that happen?” I asked Mole when we reached the squad’s camp inside Kaziranga, where Churchill and the others were packing up their tents. “A bunch of thugs can’t just close down the place.”
“Sure they can. It happens several times a month,” said Mole nonchalantly. “It costs the government and business millions in lost revenue. But there ain’t nothing they or the army can do about it, man.”
“Doesn’t anyone stand up to them?” I asked.
Mole looked at me.
“Would you?”
“Sure I would.”
“Well then, you’re stupid and you’d get shot, man. ULFA kills anyone found outside during a bandh.”
“Okay, so I’d stay at home,” I conceded. “But I wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“You’re not Assamese, man,” pointed out Mole. “We’re a lazy people and most of us love the strikes. As a matter of fact, ULFA usually calls them on a Friday or a Monday which gives everyone a nice long weekend to sit at home and watch videos.”
Given ULFA’s track record, didn’t he think it was a bad idea to travel along the state’s only highway? “We’ll be spotted in a heartbeat. Can’t we go through the park?” I asked, concerned that we might end up dead. “Surely that would be safer. There aren’t supposed to be any militants in Kaziranga.”
But there was no choice. Travelling through the park would take too long.
“Relax,” said Mole, “it’ll be fine.”
“You just said I’d get shot if I went outside!”
“Don’t worry about it, man. I know these guys. They won’t touch us. They’re probably all at home watching videos too.”
♦
We set off under a blood-red sky, waving farewell to Baba and the other Kaziranga mahouts who came out of their tents to give us an enthusiastic send-off.
Sitting astride Raja, I was happy to be back on the road again. As much as I had enjoyed the comforts of the Wild Grass Hotel, I had come to realize that there is nothing to compare with the thrill of travelling on elephant-back. The leisurely pace made me appreciate the beautiful countryside far more than if I had been in a coach or a car. It also gave me a sense of freedom and timelessness which, for all the tension of the hunt, I found relaxing. Somehow, moving about on an animal rather than in a machine made the whole endeavour of travelling seem more worthwhile. With each mile came a growing sense of achievement that I had not experienced before.
Jasmine followed behind us, pulling up clumps of juicy green grass from the verge. After bashing them against her knee to remove the dirt, she stuffed the clumps into her mouth and seemed to wink at me as if to say that I didn’t know what I was missing. The Land Rover brought up the rear, packed with Badger, Mole, Rudra and two forest guards provided by Amu for our protection.
Raja, who during our time in Kaziranga had been carrying on with an attractive young female, was in high spirits. Indeed, had it not been for the fact that he weighed seven tons, I would have sworn that there was a spring in his step. Repeatedly, from inside his chest, he emitted a deep, satisfied rumbling noise. It sounded like a bad case of indigestion, but according to Mr Choudhury it was the skin over his nasal passage vibrating like a drum and creating the sub-sonic wave that could travel twelve miles and be understood by all other elephants.
“It is a far more sophisticated form of communication than anything we humans are capable of,” said the hunter, who was sitting behind me. “If we want to talk with someone over that distance, we have to use a radio.”
I wondered if Raja was chatting to his girlfriend back in Kaziranga. For all I knew, at that very moment he was wooing her with some choice pachyderm poetry. Then again, perhaps he was warning the rogue of our approach. Did his loyalties lie with the tusker or with his human masters?
My thoughts were interrupted by the thudding sound of helicopter rotor blades. Looking up at the sky, I soon spotted a camouflaged army Chinook skimming across the tops of the Karbi Anglong hills and then swooping over the road half a mile ahead where it hovered like a bird of prey searching for its breakfast. The force of its blades stirred up a whirling dust storm, beating back bushes and bending over trees. Then, from the middle of this whirlwind charged two formations of Black Cats, India’s Special Forces, armed with machine guns. Zigzagging across the road in neat formation, they took up positions along the hedgerows, the officers scanning the countryside with their binoculars.
Then more army personnel came into focus. Soldiers marched along the verge, bristling with grenades, bayonets, pistols, knives and machine guns. Jeeps sped past. Troops manoeuvred across paddy-fields, gesturing to each other with hand signals. The Chinook veered off to the south, climbing into the sky where it hovered high above the ground.
Evidently, we had walked straight into the middle of a major operation.
“ULFA killed two soldier yesterday,” said Churchill, who hated the omnipresent Indian army, likening them to an occupation force. “Now they search. Take revenge.”
It wasn’t long before we were stopped at a checkpoint manned by a group of thuggish-looking, plain-clothed Assamese. Their commander, who wore a uniform, was a cocky Punjabi badly in need of a lesson in public relations.
“Hey, you ugly jungleys,” he called out to Churchill and the others in Hindi, spitting at the ground. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
The mahout tried to explain our mission, but the Punjabi only sneered and spat again.
“Shut your mouth, jungley!” he shouted aggressively. “Get down from the elephant. Give me your ID.”
Fortunately, despite the soldier’s insulting language, Churchill kept his cool and ordered Raja to sink to his knees. Mr Choudhury, the mahout and I slid down the elephant’s side on t
o the road, the commander looking at Churchill with contempt.
“Your ID, now!” he barked, snatching away Churchill’s identity card.
I knew from past experience that the Punjabi’s attitude was typical of many soldiers and officers based in troubled states such as Kashmir and Assam. Mostly, these men hail from elsewhere in India and they tend to regard the Kashmiris and the Assamese as troublemakers. Indeed, at checkpoints, they generally show disdain for the locals, an attitude that does little to endear them to the population.
“Hey, you, foreigner,” the officer cried in English when he spotted me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He swaggered over to where I was standing between Raja and Jasmine.
“I’m on my way to Nowgong,” I replied.
“Where are you from?” he demanded, standing inches from my face.
“I’m British,” I told him.
He held out his hand.
“Passport.”
“How about a ‘please’,” I said, irritated by his tone.
“Passport!” he spat.
I handed it over. He grabbed it and, turning the pages, scrutinized every single visa and stamp. The names of the countries in it read like the United States’ list of terrorism-supporting nations: Afghanistan, Sudan, Iraq, Iran, Algeria. All I was missing was Libya. Finally, he came to a green sticker printed with an Islamic crescent and read out the word emblazoned across the top: “Paa-kee-stan.”
I could almost read his mind as he jumped to all sorts of convoluted and paranoid conclusions. As far as he was concerned, the fact that I had visited India’s arch-rival condemned me as a dangerous terrorist. After all, I might be an agent of ISI, Inter-Services Intelligence, Pakistan’s secret service, who are known to aid Assam’s militants, or maybe a gun-runner, supplying arms to the various insurgency groups.
“I’m taking you in for questioning,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulder. “You come with me.”
I tried to explain that I was a journalist but he wouldn’t listen. While Mr Choudhury protested, he began to lead me across the road.
Just then, Mole, who had been slow at getting out of the Land Rover, intervened, saying that he was a senior officer with the Forest Department and that I was a fully accredited journalist and his guest in Assam.
“Well, what are you standing around here for? Go on! Get out of here or I’ll have you all arrested!” He stomped off to the other side of the road as we climbed up on to the elephants.
Churchill nestled his feet behind Raja’s ears and, with a shout, the kunkis lurched forward.
Curling his lip, the Punjabi saluted me with a quick flick of his hand to his forehead and, hawking, spat a gob of phlegm on to the road.
Only when we were out of earshot, did Churchill start cursing.
“Bastard mens, no?” said Churchill. “They are mating with buffalo.”
♦
The soldiers were soon far behind us. However, the incident had left the squad feeling angry and unsettled, and for some time they talked to one another in Assamese in raised voices, leaving me out of the general conversation.
Mole had switched places with Mr Choudhury and was now sitting behind me. When he and the others had cooled down, I asked him about the plain-clothes Assamese that we had seen at the checkpoint.
“They didn’t look like soldiers,” I said. “Why weren’t any of them in uniform?”
“They’re what we call SULFA, ULFA militants who have surrendered and are now on the army payroll,” he said. “They’re used to hunt down their former comrades. They’re a very dangerous bunch, man.”
These so-called ‘surrendered militants’ are allowed to retain their arms and are encouraged to police certain territories. The policy has proved effective at weakening ULFA but has also given SULFA units carte blanche to set up protection rackets and terrorize the local people. Anyone standing in their way is fingered as a militant and arrested or gunned down during so-called ‘encounters’.
“The government just wants the militants under control and out of the headlines, and they don’t care how it’s done,” said Mole. “But it’s a sick, cowardly policy. It leaves the local people at the mercy of these thugs. They’ve created a monster and it’s going to come back and bite them on the ass.”
♦
The road was deserted thanks to the strike. So, too, were the few villages scattered along the way, save for a few defiant souls who emerged from their homes to give presents to the kunkis.
“Blessings upon you,” called out one slim Assamese woman who dashed out into the road with a banana for Jasmine before quickly scampering back inside her house.
“God protect you,” beamed a toothless old man who brought Raja some lychees, allowing the elephant to take them from the palm of his hand.
In the next village, the head of the local nam ghar, or prayer house, came out on to the highway and invited us to stop and share some tea.
“You are my guests. Please stop and honour my home,” he implored.
But there was not a moment to lose and Mr Choudhury, thanking the man for his kind offer, urged the squad on towards Nowgong.
By midday, however, everyone was in need of a break, especially the elephants, and when we came upon a garage and café, we padded into the car park. A sign over the petrol pumps read: SWASTIKA SERVICE STATION. Next to it hung a swastika, the arms pointing anti-clockwise, a sign that figures in nearly all of India’s great religions. In the Buddhist tradition it represents the Buddha’s footprints; to the Jains it is a symbol of their seventh saint; while to the Hindus it is simply an auspicious sign and is often found on the front door of people’s homes.
We dismounted in front of a squat concrete building that housed the café. Much to everyone’s surprise the place was open. When Churchill pushed through the doors, two muddy-faced boys carrying wooden boxes bursting with pots of polish and brushes ran out shouting, “Shoeshine! Shoeshine!”
They pointed at my sneakers.
“Shine good!” they both screeched. “Panch ruppeea! Five rupees!”
I pointed at my Nikes.
“You can’t polish these,” I said. “They’re made of foam and rubber.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the boys. “Shining!”
I shook my head apologetically.
“Why don’t you do their shoes?” I said, pointing to Raja and Jasmine’s enormous feet.
The two boys looked at one another in confusion and then up at the elephants, cocking their heads like puppies reacting to an unfamiliar sound. Then they both screeched “Okay!” and ran over to the mahouts to plead to be allowed to polish the kunkis’ feet.
The rest of us walked into the dingy café where our nostrils were assaulted by the powerful smell of rancid butter. Fans hung from the ceiling covered in cobwebs thick with decomposing flies. Behind the cash register, the proprietor, a man with a larcenous face and greedy, bloodshot eyes, sat counting a wad of dirty banknotes. A toothpick protruded from between his stained teeth, the end gnawed like a dog’s bone. Narrowing his eyes, he motioned us to a table on one side of the room under a sign that announced: ‘CAUSE NO NUISANS’.
A waiter brought us each a metal cup brimming with tap water. Thirsty, I lifted one to my lips, only then noticing the bits of finely chewed meat swimming about at the bottom. After that, I settled for a bottle of warm Thums-Up cola and a packet of stale Hombre nacho chips. I was still suffering from the after-shocks of the meal at the ABBA Restaurant and wasn’t going to take any more risks.
My companions were equally decisive when it came to giving their orders. The day’s menu offered yoghurt and rice, and nothing more. It took less than five minutes for their food to arrive and when it did, I couldn’t help looking down at their plates in disgust. Even the smell made me feel nauseous.
The only other customers in the Swastika café were four men dressed identically in white cotton kurta pyjamas. With their yellow skin, wiry beards, oriental features and blue turbans, they looke
d like Hazaras, a people who inhabit central and western Afghanistan and are reputedly descended from the hordes of Genghis Khan.
Curious, I went over to greet them. However, as I drew nearer, I noticed that their turbans were not Afghani, they were pagris or Indian turbans, tied like a Sikh’s.
“We live in a village called Barkola,” said the youngest of the group in English when I asked them where they were from. “Our car broke down early this morning and now we are stuck here until the bandh is over.”
They might have looked and even dressed like Sikhs, but they were spindly individuals compared to those I had seen in Amritsar. There, the men sported great black beards and ceremonial daggers tucked into their belts.
“You are thinking that we are not like the Punjabi Sikhs you have seen in north India,” he said, evidently guessing my thoughts. “This is because we are Assamese Sikhs. My name is Gurudutt Singh.”
Shaking me by the hand, the young man invited me to sit down next to him. Intrigued, I drew up a chair.
“Our forefathers came here in 1824,” he continued. “They were sepoys in the British army and fought against the Burmese. After many battles, they decided to stay. They fell in love with the Brahmaputra valley and the beautiful local girls.
“When our forefathers settled here, they retained no links to their home. Their children were born Sikhs, but over the years our traditions were mostly forgotten. Because of our Assamese blood, we grew only short beards.”
Finally, in the 1970s, the village elders decided to take action to save their traditions. They raised funds to send a representative to Amritsar to establish links with their past and bring back a copy of the Sikhs’ holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib.
“When he arrived at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, our most holy shrine, the other Sikhs laughed at him. They said, ‘What kind of a Sikh are you? You do not speak Punjabi or even Hindi. And you cut your beard off which a Sikh must never do.’”
With difficulty, the envoy established his credentials and, eventually, he was able to return to his village with a teacher, who helped the Assamese Sikhs to re-establish their traditions and learn Punjabi.
To the Elephant Graveyard Page 20
