Suresh got out of the car, went around and opened the rear gate of the Land Rover, and began unloading a few kilos of rice and lentils, some potatoes and onions. Aside from the food, I saw a can of kerosene for the cooking stove. It didn’t take long to finish setting all of it on the porch. Within minutes he was back in the jeep, the motor cranked over, and we were on our way. I turned back for a final look, but Kalidas was no longer standing in the door. I felt suddenly that I had missed out on something terribly important—an opportunity of some kind that would never come again.
We had driven as far as the edge of the jungle when I noticed the incense still lying on the seat next to me where I had let it fall.
“Ruk jaao!” I yelled at Suresh to stop and he hit the breaks.
“What is it?” Singh cried out.
I snatched up the package and waved it over the seat. “The incense. You forgot to leave it.” Singh was about to take the box from me when I opened the door and hopped out. “Sit still. I’ll run it back.”
I dashed across the yard and rushed up to the porch just as Kalidas shuffled through the doorway directly into the sunlight. He had come out to retrieve the bags, and my sudden appearance caught him entirely unprepared. We were no more than a few feet away from each other when he looked up and saw me there, standing across from him, close enough that I distinctly heard him draw a deep breath as he stopped dead in his tracks.
I will never forget the expression that swept over his face during those first few seconds, how he recoiled at the sight of me. Perhaps it was nothing more than the shock of being surprised like this by a stranger—a foreigner, no less. And yet, the meaning of the horror that passed over his face is a text that resists any authoritative interpretation, regardless of how many times I resurrect the image of his wrinkled face and scrutinize each ancient, weathered line.
Whatever its significance, the wave of that first reaction washed over the old man’s features and left behind eyes unlike any I have ever seen. They were open wounds. All falseness and artificiality had been scoured away; what remained was just pain, and boundless trust. I felt myself in the presence of a man who needed nothing, a man whose only purpose was to see. We stood motionless across from each other for a few seconds. And then I remembered the incense. I reached out my hand and offered the package to him. He looked at the shiny green wrapper for a moment but didn’t seem to realize what it was until I spoke.
“Aap kaa agarbatti,” I said tentatively, “Your incense.” He stared at the box I held between us. “We forgot to leave it with you.”
At last one frail arm moved forward, weak and trembling with age, his knuckles knotted and swollen. The arthritic fingers creaked open, hovered over my hand, then descended and closed around the incense, lifting it gently. He withdrew his arm and looked up at me. And then, just as I was about to turn away, he smiled—a shy, toothless grin that spread delicately out beneath the feathery whiskers and floated there for one timeless moment before he retreated into the hut and disappeared among the shadows.
I walked back to the Land Rover. Penny looked at me oddly as I climbed in and slammed the door shut, but no one said a word. The engine roared and we were gone. It wasn’t until reaching the spot where we had watched the crocodiles that the colonel said something about dinner, and we all agreed we were starving.
13
SINGH’S FOREST BUNGALOW could easily have been designed for use in an unfilmed sequel to Casablanca: Bogart loses Bergman and retreats to the foothills of the Himalayas. It was as far from civilization as Kalidas’s little hut but on the opposite side of the park and built to conform to the British imperial aesthetic.
We entered the compound through a stone gateway, following a broad circular drive of hard-packed clay lined on either side by rows of potted flowers. As the Land Rover approached we were greeted by the colonel’s majordomo, a stocky man in a rose-colored lungi and sleeveless white undershirt. His head was clean shaven except for a thin strand of hair left dangling in back. A young male langur perched on his right shoulder. The fingers of one spidery black hand were splayed over the man’s bald head, palming it like a basketball; with the other hand the monkey scratched idly at the shaggy fur on his own belly. Langurs have especially long tails—much longer than those of their smaller cousin, the rhesus—and this particular tail looped around the servant’s neck and down to his navel, where the tip curled back and forth, obviously looking for trouble. Colonel Singh introduced Penny and me to Jagjit Ram and his hirsute friend, Chota Hanuman.
The house was situated in a clearing not far from the bank of the Kosi. The muted lapping of the river mingled with a screeching and chattering that emanated from the bush: white noise of the jungle. Despite its modest proportions, the bungalow was an icon of British colonial architecture. Wrapped in a deep veranda supported by Doric columns, the wide, sloping roof of ceramic tile absorbed the last rays of the sun as it sank behind the forest. Jagjit led us between the two shutters that framed the entranceway and on into the foyer. Once inside, man and monkey excused themselves—with some prodding, even Chota Hanuman joined two tiny palms and raised them summarily to his forehead—and withdrew.
The interior of the bungalow was shaped by vaulted ceilings and stone floors. On our right was a sitting room with a large, open fireplace reminding me of the mammoth grates one finds in the villas of Tuscany. The flames cast a warm glow. To the left a dining room was furnished with a heavy, rectangular table and six ornate wooden chairs. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, fitted out with no less than a dozen candles. The hallway, opening directly in front of us, led off to the master suite and a guest room that would be ours for the next few nights.
“Well,” said the colonel, “this is my own jungle retreat, so to speak. I’m here during the hot season and the monsoon, a good seven months out of the year. More, if I can manage it. In the coldest part of the winter I close things up and shift down to Ramnagar.”
“It’s marvelous,” Penny exclaimed. “Really. A dream!”
“You think so, do you?” Singh replied, visibly swelling with pride.
“Oh, yes! I’m quite envious.” She turned and gave him a look of mock anger. “A few days here and I won’t want to leave.”
“Indeed!” Singh laughed self-consciously and began gazing fondly around the room with undisguised satisfaction. Sturdy rattan furniture overlaid with deep cushions had been drawn up around the fireplace on a colorful woven dhari. A tiger skin hung over the mantel, and the rest of the room was strewn with trophies, souvenirs, and curios from the colonel’s various adventures. There was a small bar in the far corner. It was early evening and the house was set with oil lamps. The shutters had been drawn against the cool air outside, and a log blazed in the hearth. “Yes,” he said, as if to himself, “I have enjoyed myself here.”
I followed his gaze to a frame set on the bar, a black and white photograph of the colonel and an attractive, matronly woman in a sari; it had been taken in the circular driveway just outside. They were standing together in front of an elephant, laughing as though someone out of the camera’s range had done something to amuse them. A mahout sat astride the elephant’s neck, his goad held at military attention. Judging from the colonel’s appearance in the picture, it could not have been more than a few years old. His eyes lingered over the photograph, and then, as if to rouse himself, he raised the stick and delivered an abrupt swat to one of his pant legs. “It’s quite dark in here, don’t you think? I’m accustomed to the poor lighting, but we do have a petrol generator out back. Shall I have Jagjit engage it for us?” He turned to call the servant but Penny stopped him.
“Oh no, please. This is much better as it is. Can we just have the lamps? It’s such a treat to have left the noise and the tube lights behind.” She moved near the fire and began to warm her hands.
I wandered over to the bar for a closer look at his photographs; twenty or thirty of them hung in frames above the bottles. Many showed the colonel posing with various
Indian dignitaries and military officers. In quite a few I recognized the woman I had already seen standing with him and the elephant. Some were much older than the rest. Yellowed and fading behind the glass, they depicted a world before Singh’s time: Europeans gussied up in polished black boots, jodhpurs, and pith helmets, with bushy moustaches and enormous rifles slung over their shoulders—the lost world of the Raj. Several of the photos had been taken in front of the bungalow, and a handsome Englishman turned up here and there shaking hands and smiling with people that appeared to be his guests. I noticed that in several photos he carried a riding crop identical to the colonel’s. “Who’s this fellow?” I pointed at one where he was saluting a regal looking British officer.
Colonel Singh stepped over to the bar and examined the picture. “Jim Corbett. The park’s namesake. I told you about him earlier. He’s greeting the viceroy, Lord Irwin, at an official reception for the inauguration of the park. It was called Hailey National Park then, but Corbett was already quite well known in the area.”
Penny came over from the fire to take a look. “That’s your house in the picture, isn’t it? This house?”
“Yes, it is. Corbett built it. He was the first to live here. Some of the things you see are just as he left them. This picture, for example, and the tiger skin.” He gestured toward the mantel. “One of the ‘man eaters of Kumoan’ that he wrote about in his books.”
Penny and I studied the photo. The colonel had picked up a poker and was making a desultory stab at the coals. “What I want to know, Colonel Singh, is how did you find work like this? You seem to be reaping the fruits of some very good karma.”
“Good karma is not enough,” he replied with a smile, still gazing at the coals. “It took me twenty years in the Army Core of Engineers. This position was a sort of gift when I left behind my official duties in the service.” He laid aside the iron and dusted his hands. “You both must be tired from your journey. Why don’t we bathe and change our clothes, then meet back here in . . .” He glanced at Penny. “Will half an hour be sufficient?”
“Certainly.”
“Right, then. Jagjit will take your bags.” He stopped speaking and cleared his throat, apparently at a loss as to how he should continue. “There is, I’m afraid, only one guest room.” Again he paused. “However, if you require separate quarters, I could of course make arrangements.”
Penny suddenly became engrossed in an object down at the far end of the bar, an ashtray fashioned out of some unfortunate animal’s hoof that had been hollowed out and notched along one edge to support a row of butts. I tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye and finally said, “The single room will be fine, for both of us.”
Colonel Singh looked at Penny, who lifted her eyes now and returned his gaze. Her expression was impossible to read. “Just so,” he said. “If you require anything simply tell Jagjit, and he will be glad to help you out.” He gave us a stiff, quasi-military bow and strode briskly around the corner and down the hallway.
Like the rest of the colonel’s forest bungalow, the guest room was a vision of the Raj, slightly worn around the edges, to be sure, but absolutely perfect in its own way. The stone floor was covered with a hand-loomed wool carpet tinted to deep russet. In the center of the room the low bed had been positioned under a bamboo frame from which a mosquito net hung loosely. It was suspended at the end of a rope running up through a pulley mechanism that allowed for the entire apparatus to be hoisted up out of the way during the day. There was a vanity table and stool and another comfortable sofa similar to the one by the fire. Two large shuttered doors opened onto the veranda. A familiar aroma wafted out of the bathroom from the Indian-style squatter. Nothing strong enough to be seriously offensive, merely a slight, noisome reminder that we were not altogether removed from the world of Delhi and the northern plains. Someone had lit a stick of sweet incense and set it discreetly on the vanity, next to tea—not chai, but a “full set,” as it is called in India: tea as the British preferred it, with milk and sugar served separately.
We had just begun to unpack when Jagjit and Chota Hanuman arrived at the door with two buckets of hot water for bathing. While Jagjit went to deposit them near the tap, the anthropoid began rifling through the contents of Penny’s bag until she dissuaded him with a sharp tug at his furry tail. “Scat!” She turned to me and laughed. “Cheeky little beast.”
When we returned to the main room, Colonel Singh was already there sitting comfortably by the fire. He saw us coming and rose, complimenting Penny on her sari, an inexpensive, cream-colored cotton, the border printed with a floral pattern in shades of pastel green and cinnamon. It was one of my favorites but not the sort of thing I would have expected a man like Singh to go for. While we relaxed by the hearth, the table was set for dinner.
Despite the unanticipated guests, Singh’s cook managed to produce a delicious meal with ingredients already on the premises. Palak paneer; mixed curried vegetables; rich, creamy dal makhani; and tandoori chicken—all of this served with nutty basmati rice and a continuous supply of warm chapatis. I declined to sample the bird, begging off on the grounds that I was a vegetarian, but Penny helped herself to a second large portion and insisted on personally complimenting the chef. Everything was excellent. I made a glutton of myself, giving in to Singh’s admonitions to fill my plate again at least two times after I was convinced I could not possibly eat another bite. He maintained that I was desperately underweight for my height. Both Penny and I were much too thin in his eyes, though by the time she finished eating he was forced to concede that it was difficult to understand how she remained so slim consuming as much food as she did.
“Intestinal parasites, young lady,” he finally proclaimed, in lieu of any other explanation. “You really ought to have it looked into the moment you’re back in Delhi.”
When the last of the plates had been cleared away, Jagjit returned with silver finger bowls filled with steaming lemon water and another silver dish containing anise seeds and chunks of crystallized sugar that sparkled under the candles. A round of tea was served, and we sat around the table, too stuffed to move. Soon enough, though, the tea and anise settled our stomachs, and Singh suggested that we withdraw to the other room, where we could relax by the fire with a nightcap.
Before the drinks were poured, however, the colonel suddenly remembered something he wanted to show Penny and me. He escorted us to the kitchen, where we found Jagjit and the cook squatting together in a corner, enjoying a smoke. One of them had given Chota Hanuman a bidi, and when we walked in, the ape had just finished sticking it up his nose. Singh picked up a platter piled with scraps of raw meat and motioned for us to follow him through the kitchen toward a storeroom at the back. The doorway had been blocked off somewhat above waist level with heavy wire mesh. Jagjit followed close behind us holding a lamp so we could peer inside. At the far end of the narrow room a tiger cub crouched in the shadows, eyeing us suspiciously as we leaned over the gate for a better look.
This was no domestic kitty. She was the size of small Labrador, and already considerably heavier and more solid than any dog, with thick, muscular legs and broad paws. It occurred to me as strange and somehow disconcerting that I had never before stood so close, unprotected, to a wild animal. Despite present circumstances she was only a step removed from the jungle where she had lived until recently, when Singh and Jagjit had managed to trap her and transport her back to the house. Her eyes were right out of Blake’s poem, blazing with insolent fury and a predator’s fierce indignation at having been taken from her rightful home and confined to this dungeon merely for our amusement. It would not be long before the present barrier would no longer suffice to hold her captive.
“Go ahead,” Singh said. “Feed her.”
Penny stepped toward the platter and sunk her fingers into a thick slice of meat. She lobbed it over the gate and then shook the blood from her hand as she watched the tiger slink forward. Her eyes were riveted on the animal.
The two of us too
k turns flinging chunks of carrion over the fence to where they slapped on the floor. Each time the cat would pull back on her haunches, hiss and snarl, baring her prodigious teeth, then swipe at the meat with one paw, catch it up in her claws, and devour it whole in a single swift movement.
“What do you think of her?” Singh directed his query at Penny, who had just finished throwing the last chunk over the fence.
“She’s gorgeous. How old is she?”
“Not more than four months. We first spotted her mother a few months ago, not far from the house. The kits weren’t hard to find. I had my eye on this one, waiting until she was old enough to be taken.”
“But why would you do such a thing? It’s so sad to see her caged up like this.”
“You needn’t worry,” he laughed. “She will be free to roam again soon enough. But before she goes home I shall teach her a few useful tricks. I’ve been waiting years for this. Until now the proper animal had not appeared.” He handed over the platter to Jagjit, who seemed already to have enough to deal with between the lamp and the monkey, who sat fretting on his shoulder, obviously disturbed by Singh’s feline pet. I observed that the bidi was now planted in the servant’s left ear.
“A friend of mine manages a park in Bengal,” the colonel continued. “He has a male cat that he trained from just about this age. Ramu. That’s what he calls him. I’ve wanted one of my own ever since I saw that tiger.”
Penny’s eyes were fixed on the cub, who was returning her stare, crouched low in the corner as she had been when we arrived. “What’s her name?”
“She doesn’t yet have a name. You may perhaps have a suggestion?”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare,” Penny breathed. The cat curled back her lips. A long, low rumble rolled up from deep in her belly. Her whiskers bristled.
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