The rogue lowered his head, his eyes turning wildly in their sockets. He was preparing to charge.
But that moment never came. Even now, when confronted with this demonic elephant no more than a hundred yards away, Mr Choudhury’s nerve held. Once again he kneeled on the ground and raised his rifle. He inclined his head and squinted down the sights. He took aim. For the last time, the tusker trumpeted defiantly. And then the hunter pulled the trigger.
I watched as the powerful weapon kicked hard against his shoulder. A deafening thunderclap ripped through the jungle. And then a deathly silence fell over the place, and time seemed to slow down.
The elephant’s head jerked back as the high-velocity bullet penetrated his temple. I could see clearly the spurt of blood that gushed out on to his ear and dripped down his cheek. His trunk whipped back in the air. His mouth opened wide, revealing his writhing black tongue. He reared up on his hind legs, kicking out defiantly.
Then the fight went out of him. His ears fell to his sides. His trunk flagged. His head slumped as if he was overcome with fatigue. Like a disgraced child who only now understood that he had misbehaved, the rogue tried to turn and walk away, almost apologetically.
Then, in one violent movement, he reared up once again, his trunk reaching for the sky as if he was trying to clutch at his departing soul. He let out a tortured, rasping noise. Then his legs buckled. His body slumped forward. And he dropped to the ground with a thud, his tusks driving into the soft earth.
♦
I felt nauseous and disorientated, as if I had been in a car accident or near a bomb blast. A numbness came over me. I lost all sense of touch and smell. All I could hear was a ringing in my ears, together with the sound of my heart pounding. It was as if I was no longer a part of the events taking place around me, but just a ghost who could only watch silently.
Looking down, I saw Mr Choudhury place his rifle on the ground. Still kneeling, he lowered his head.
No one else moved or said a word.
At least five minutes passed, each minute like an hour. Then, gradually, I felt reality taking hold once more. I found that my mouth was wide open and my hands were frozen around one of Jasmine’s ropes. All at once, the adrenalin that had been coursing through my veins ebbed away and a feeling of total exhaustion swept over me. All I wanted to do was lie down, go to sleep and have nothing further to do with the world.
Then my eyes fixed on the elephant. He was slumped on the ground, his trunk curled up around him, his legs tucked in underneath his belly and his ears draped over his cheeks. He looked peaceful. Even now, it was difficult to picture him tearing people apart.
Somehow, I found the strength to climb down from Jasmine. Mr Choudhury was still kneeling on the ground, his head lowered as if in prayer. I walked past him and, folding my hands in front of me, approached the elephant.
I could have sworn that he was watching me. His left eye, which had glazed over, all the malice driven from it for ever, seemed to follow me as I walked up to him.
Standing there, I reached out with my hands and touched his head. The skin was still warm, the hairs soft to the touch.
I noticed a tear roll down the rogue’s left cheek and fall into the grass. Choked with emotion, I felt my own tears well up and fall from my eyes, splashing on to his ear.
Mr Choudhury walked up behind me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He kept it there for some time, patting me reassuringly. Then, bending over the tusker, he drew the palm of his hand over the elephant’s eyes, closing the lids shut.
12
To the Elephant Graveyard
“What happens to beasts will happen to man. All things are connected. If the great beasts are gone, man will surely die of a great loneliness of spirit.”
Chief Seattle of the Nez Perce, 1884
An elderly couple stepped shyly into the clearing and, with heads bent low, made their way over to where the elephant lay inert upon the ground. Dressed in filthy, tattered clothes, their faces worn by years of hardship, they both walked with pronounced limps. The woman’s left hip appeared to be deformed, while the man’s right foot was twisted at a sharp angle.
They must be bonded labourers, I thought. Like millions of other Indians, they probably spent their days breaking rocks on the roadside or baking bricks in inferno-like kilns – only to watch their children grow up trapped by the same unscrupulous trade. Even so they had walked barefoot for more than five miles to reach this spot, bringing with them handfuls of blossom picked in the jungle along the way.
Unwittingly, they stopped at precisely the spot where Mr Choudhury had pulled the trigger and stared, transfixed, at the rogue’s head, reverence and disbelief written large across their faces.
In the few hours that had passed since the hunter finally brought the animal’s murderous rampage to an end, the forest guards, using an axe, had hacked out the tusks, slicing away the flesh at their roots in order to remove every last inch of ivory. Since then, a pool of blood had formed around the body, gallons of the dark liquid seeping from the wounds on to the grass.
Confronted with this gory spectacle, the couple were overcome with emotion. Shuffling forward, the husband clasped his hands to his head and began to wail. His wife, shaking with grief, fell to her knees, the tears coursing down her face. Then, together, they began to pray, placing their blossoms on the animal’s head and raising their eyes heavenward.
News of the shooting had spread far and wide, drawing hundreds of people from a radius of seven miles or more. Some came because they had nothing better to do and spent their time crouched on the edge of the clearing, watching the comings and goings as they might at any other public event. Others had come to pray for the rogue’s soul.
The elephant squad, too, was in a sombre mood. Even Churchill was quiet. He sat on his own on a grassy bank, watching with a sorrowful expression as the locals filed past the dead elephant. Periodically, he glanced down at his feet and rubbed at the patches of calcified skin on the bottoms of his toes, lost in thought.
Raja and Jasmine also seemed subdued. Their ears hung down the sides of their bowed heads, slack and listless. Remarkably, Jasmine had not regained her appetite and didn’t touch any of the fruit that had been placed by the mourners next to the tusker’s head. Raja stood just a few feet from the dead elephant, running the tip of his trunk over the body and sniffing at the carcass.
Mr Choudhury had clearly been deeply affected by the morning’s events. The recent lack of sleep had caught up with him and he looked tired and pale, dark bags etched under his eyes. Far from being relaxed now that the ordeal was over, he seemed tense. As he sat on a log at the end of the clearing, he watched the locals warily.
“The Assamese believe each elephant is a manifestation of Ganesha. When one is killed, it is very upsetting for them,” said Mr Choudhury, as I sat down next to him. “A few years ago, when I shot another dangerous rogue who was terrorizing southern Assam, the local people tried to lynch me. They said I had brought misfortune upon them. It was only thanks to the local forest officer, who dispersed the crowd by firing his pistol over their heads, that I was able to escape.”
“Do you think we are in any danger?” I asked.
“So far, these people do not appear to be angry, only upset. But if a crowd should gather…well, we must keep an eye out, is it not so?”
Just then, a group of tough-looking characters armed with pickaxes walked into the clearing. I shrank at the sight of them. But I soon realized that they were only day labourers, hired by Mole to dig a grave for the rogue elephant.
“I’ve taken on twelve men for the job,” said the forest officer, who had brought them from the nearest village. “I’d still prefer to cremate the elephant, but there’s no way we’d ever get him up on a funeral pyre.”
It surprised me to learn that Mole was going to the trouble of burying the elephant. After all, in most parts of India dead animals are traditionally left out in the open and nature is allowed to take its course.
�
��What’s different about an elephant?” I asked.
“If we leave him here, do you know what’s going to happen?” he countered.
“He’ll start to smell incredibly bad?”
“Yes. But also the local poachers will cut off his feet just above the ankles and make them into genuine ‘foot’ stools. If we allow that to happen, it will help increase the appetite for elephant trophies.”
“Is that why you cut off the tusks?”
“Exactly, man. Stop the bastards getting at them.”
“So are you going to mount them over your fireplace?”
“You must be kidding, man. That’s illegal. No, they’ll be kept under lock and key at the state repository in Guwahati. They’ll be in their own box, which will be sealed with wax. And that’s where they’ll remain.”
Mole picked up a stick from the ground and used it to mark out an area in the middle of the clearing roughly fifteen foot long and ten foot wide. Stripping down to their waists, the labourers set to work, driving their pickaxes into the earth and gouging out great chunks which they shovelled to one side.
Mr Choudhury watched their progress for some minutes and then headed back to the camp where we had slept the night before to take a nap. Once he was out of sight, I sidled up to Mole, who was overseeing the digging.
“So did you manage to get me some?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I remembered,” he said reluctantly. “But I don’t approve, man. These things are bad for you.”
So saying, he reached into his pocket and drew out a packet of Indian cigarettes. Normally, I would never have smoked such a low-quality brand, but I was craving nicotine.
Thanking him, I tore off the cellophane wrapping and pulled out a cigarette, lighting the end with a match. I took a long, hard drag, allowing the smoke to slip over my tongue and down into my lungs.
“That’s absolutely disgusting,” I said, “but I can’t tell you how good it feels.”
Mole watched me exhale the smoke and then reached for the packet.
“I think I need one too.”
He pulled out a cigarette, lit the end and took a drag.
“I’ve got some good news,” he said. “The guards who were tracking the rogue weren’t killed after all. It turns out one of them accidentally dropped the walkie-talkie into a stream. That’s why we couldn’t reach them.”
“Thank God for that,” I said.
“Let’s celebrate.”
So saying, he reached into his rucksack and pulled out two bottles of Tipsy 1000 beer. They were wrapped in a plastic bag along with half a dozen chunks of melting ice. With a wink, he tugged off the caps and handed me a bottle.
I hesitated. As much as I was dying for a drink, it seemed inappropriate to be celebrating so soon after the elephant’s death. Didn’t he think we should wait?
“Probably. But after what we’ve been through, I think we deserve it.”
He pushed the bottle into my hands and raised his in the air.
“Cheers.”
♦
Vipal Ganguly did not learn about the shooting until the following morning, but he wasted little time in travelling to the scene. He arrived in the clearing shortly after midday, when the labourers had almost finished digging the grave.
Characteristically, he brought with him no less than eleven friends. They immediately gathered for a group photograph in front of the elephant, thereby offending the crowd of mourning locals.
“Hey, Boss,” he shouted, spotting me on the other side of the clearing where I sat chatting with Mole and Churchill. “I am here!”
Seeing the Bengali, I felt a further twinge of guilt at having left him behind at the hotel, but at the same time I was kicking myself for having suggested that we travel together to Majuli, the river island.
“Hi, Vipal,” I said as he approached. “How are you?”
“Great! I am making the total arrangements for nice journey to Majuli,” he replied. “We will be having the maximum fun. Two of my friends, they are coming with us. Okay?”
“Fine,” I said wearily, realizing that I would have to hatch another plan to escape from the Bengali. “So how did it go with the Bodos? Did you meet them?”
Vipal waved his hands frantically in front of my face and emitted a loud shush, which only succeeded in attracting the attention of everyone standing within a hundred-yard radius. Taking me by the arm, he led me to one side.
“Not to be saying so loud, Boss,” he said. “I can be in total trouble with police peoples.”
The thought of this rather appealed to me, but I kept my voice down.
“So did you meet the insurgents?” I whispered.
Vipal narrowed his eyes and, for a moment, he looked really angry.
“Bodo peoples are maximum idiots!” he spat.
“Why? What happened?” I asked.
“Last night, they are coming to my hotel. There I am waiting in my total disguise. But the Bodo peoples are making the maximum mistake. They are going to reception and asking for Mister Tagore. That is me…”
“Your assumed name,” I added.
“Correct, Boss. So Bodo peoples are being told room fourteen and then they are going and knocking on door!”
“What was so wrong with that?”
“I am not in fourteen! I am in seventeen!” he said, raising his voice.
“So who was in room fourteen?”
“One army man. He is called Tagore, also. But he is not wearing uniform. So the idiot Bodos are introducing themselves and being arrested – on the spot.”
Unable to control myself, I burst out laughing. But Vipal saw nothing amusing in what had happened.
“Boss, why you laugh? This is not so funny. I am having to make the total escape from the hotel. Probably the Bodo peoples are looking for me! They are thinking I am arranging the total teeng.”
Here was a golden opportunity to persuade Vipal to go back to Calcutta.
“Just think what they might do to you if they caught you. You should lie low, perhaps go home,” I said.
Unfortunately, the Bengali did not seem at all concerned. He had been in far stickier circumstances, he assured me – like the time a group of Naxalites, Communist militants renowned for their violent ways, held him hostage for two days and threatened to slit his throat.
“Don’t worry, Boss,” said Vipal, regaining his sense of humour. “Like I am telling you always, I have fifteen thousand friends! Here, meet two more.”
Two of his new hangers-on stepped forward.
“These are my friends, Tinu and JJ,” he said. “They are coming to Majuli.”
I shook them each by the hand.
“So, Boss, when we leave?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, hesitating. “I’m still trying to find out more about the elephant graveyard. Some Sikhs I met a couple of days ago told me about a man who might be able to help and…”
Vipal waved his hand in the air dismissively. Right from the start, he had been sceptical about the legend and had wasted no opportunity in patronizing me as an ignorant foreigner.
“This is total bullshit, only,” he said in exasperation. “Why you are wasting your time with the maximum garbage?”
“I like the legend and I’m sure there has to be something behind it.”
Only that morning, I explained, I had interviewed various locals who had heard of the Pool of Ganesha, the place described by the head monk at the monastery. However, I had to concede that no one seemed to have any idea how to find it.
“See!” jibed the Bengali. “Hindustan has one millions of these legends. People are believing the total teengs they are hearing. They will be telling you what you want to hear only.”
“Be that as it may, I am going to continue looking for it.” I suggested we meet up in two days’ time in Guwahati where I hoped to visit the university and see if the folklore department might be able to help.
♦
Hundreds of farmers gathered in the mild afternoon sun to wat
ch the rogue elephant’s last rites. Some had waited since dawn for the proceedings to begin, sitting patiently for up to seven hours while the labourers worked tirelessly to extract the large pile of dirt that now lay to one side of the pit.
There were representatives of all ages and castes. Faces squinted in the sunlight: toothless crones with wrinkled features, black adivasis with caste marks daubed on their foreheads, rosy-cheeked children with slanting eyes and high cheekbones, and wives with red powder rubbed into their scalps, indicating that they were married.
Crouching on their haunches, shoulder to shoulder, they chatted to one another while they waited for the proceedings to begin. Women bedecked in bright reds and yellows and jangling bangles clucked like broody hens. The men, mostly farmers, chewed paan and kept up a running commentary as the elephant squad made preparations for burying the dead animal.
By mid-afternoon, the grave was finished and the squad, having tied two thick ropes to the elephant’s ankles, were at last ready to proceed. Raja and Jasmine, ridden by Churchill and Chander, took up their positions in front of the rogue while four labourers, standing on the other side of the grave, took hold of the ropes.
At Mr Choudhury’s signal the mahouts shouted a string of commands, working their feet behind the kunkis’ ears. Obediently, the animals lowered their heads and began to nudge against the carcass. Seeing this, the crowd rose to their feet and fell silent, watching, fascinated, while the mahouts urged the elephants to push harder.
With a great bellowing, trumpeting and snorting of air, Raja and Jasmine leaned forward, pushing for all they were worth, their legs straining as their feet slipped on the grass. Directly opposite them, the labourers pulled hard on the ropes, their muscles taut and glistening with sweat, grunting and groaning in unison.
Gradually, the body inched towards the grave, feet first, blood still ebbing from its wounds. The rogue’s trunk dragged behind him, bouncing along the ground as if he was still alive and was trying desperately to grab hold of something.
Soon, the legs drooped over the edge and, inevitably, gravity took over. The earth beneath the elephant gave way and he tumbled to the bottom, his great trunk arching through the air before it slammed to the ground with a muffled thump.
To the Elephant Graveyard Page 23
