When the Tiger Was King

by Ruskin Bond

  He gave a sigh of relief and wanted to wipe his face with his handkerchief. He found he could not move his left arm which, moreover, hurt him a good deal. Surprised, he looked and saw that a tiger was standing by his chair and had seized his left arm, just as the other tiger sixty years before had seized his grandfather's. By an involuntary trick of memory he called out 'Richardson! Richardson!' Then his blood ran cold as he realised that he was alone in the bungalow. If only Ford Halley had been there; but there was no one. Even the shikari had gone to another village to tie up for the shoot on Boxing Day. There were, it is true, the servants in their quarters; but their doors were certainly barricaded from inside and they would be far too frightened to come outside, even if they knew how to handle a rifle. Sandy Beresford's case was indeed desperate, nevertheless he called out at the top of his voice 'Qui Hai! Qui Hai!' hoping for some miracle to happen.

  No one answered and the tiger, disturbed by the noise, was pulling at Beresford's left arm in a way that took no denial. Just as his grandfather had done, Sandy rose to his feet, and walked alongside the tiger down the verandah steps and across the compound towards the far wall. He continued to call at the top of his voice as he went. He knew that it was wasted breath; still, hope dies hard.

  At last, when he was close to the compound wall, he realised that he was a doomed man. Nevertheless, he made a supreme effort to escape. Indeed he actually tore his arm out of the tiger's jaws; but the effort was useless. A stroke of the tiger's paw knocked him senseless to the ground. The tiger's teeth tearing through his heart and lungs effectually prevented his ever recovering consciousness. Taking Beresford's arm again into his mouth, the man-eater skilfully swung the dead man's body across its shoulders and easily clearing the compound wall disappeared into the forest.

  Next morning Beresford's cook and butler opened the doors of their quarters and peered outside. Ignorant of the previous night's tragedy, the cook made his master's tea and the butler carried it inside the bungalow. The latter was surprised not to find Beresford in his bedroom and he was still more astonished to notice that his master's bed had not been slept in. He called to the cook and the sepoys. They searched everywhere but in vain. Then the butler saw drops of blood on the floor of the verandah leading into the compound. These they followed until they came to some softer earth where they could make out clearly an Englishman's footprints and a tiger's pugs. They guessed then that Beresford had fallen a victim to the very man-eater that he had come to kill.

  When Ford Halley arrived about eleven, he found his friend's domestic staff in a state of utter perplexity and confusion. The shikari to whom Beresford had related what had happened to his grandfather was loudly proclaiming that the tiger was not an ordinary animal but a demon reincarnation of the beast that Richardson had shot. It was, therefore, useless to hunt it. All that man could do was to flee from the accursed spot as quickly as possible.

  Ford Halley brushed aside this fantastic theory and restored some order among the household. He organised a search for Beresford's body and found his half-eaten remains a mile from the bungalow. These he had put into an improvised coffin and sent into Dharwar, where they received a Christian burial. The rest of the holidays he spent hunting the man-eater and was able to put 'paid' to its account on the very last day, namely the second of January. In the meantime he reported his friend's death to the Bombay Government.

  When His Excellency learnt the news of the tragedy he wrote a charming letter to Beresford's widowed mother, informing her – which was quite true – how much he regretted her son's death and how greatly he felt the loss of his valuable services.

  From his brother officers, Beresford received the epitaph which was usual in such cases:

  'Beresford killed by a tiger! By Jove, what bad luck!' After a pause, 'Damn it all! Dharwar is a splendid climate. I wonder whether the government would send me there if I applied for it.'

  Charles A. Kincaid , Indian Christmas Stories (1930)

  The Tiger of Chao-Ch'êng

  t Chao-ch'êng there lived an old woman more than seventy years of age, who had an only son. One day he went up to the hills and was eaten by a tiger, at which his mother was so overwhelmed with grief that she hardly wished to live. With tears and lamentations she ran and told her story to the magistrate of the place, who laughed and asked her how she thought the law could be brought to bear on a tiger. But the old woman would not be comforted, and at length the magistrate lost his temper and bade her begone. Of this, however, she took no notice; and then the magistrate, in compassion for her great age and unwilling to resort to extremities, promised her that he would have the tiger arrested. Even then she would not go until the warrant had been actually issued; so the magistrate, at a loss what to do, asked his attendants which of them would undertake the job. Upon this one of them, Li Nêng, who happened to be gloriously drunk, stepped forward and said that he would; whereupon the warrant was immediately issued and the old woman went away. When our friend, Li Nêng, got sober, he was sorry for what he had done; but reflecting that the whole thing was a mere trick of his master to get rid of the old woman's importunities, did not trouble himself much about it, handing the warrant as if the arrest had been made. 'Not so,' cried the magistrate, 'you said you could do this, and now I shall not let you off.' Li Nêng was at his wits' end, and begged that he might be allowed to call upon the hunters of the district. This was conceded; so collecting together these men, he proceeded to spend day and night among the hills in the hope of catching a tiger, and thus making a show of having fulfilled his duty.

  A month passed away, during which he received several hundred blows with the bamboo,1 and at length, in despair, he betook himself to the Ch'êng-huang temple in the eastern suburb, where, falling on his knees, he prayed and wept by turns. By-and-by a tiger walked in, and Li Nêng, in a great fright, thought he was going to be eaten alive. But the tiger took no notice of anything, remaining seated in the doorway. Li Nêng then addressed the animal as follows: – 'O tiger, if thou didst slay that old woman's son, suffer me to bind thee with this cord;' and, drawing a rope from his pocket, threw it over the animal's neck. The tiger drooped its ears, and, allowing itself to be bound, followed Li Nêng to the magistrate's office. The latter then asked it, saying, 'Did you eat the old woman's son?' to which the tiger replied by nodding its head; whereupon the magistrate rejoined, 'That murderers should suffer death has ever been the law. Besides, this old woman had but one son, and by killing him you took from her the sole support of her declining years. But if now you will be as a son to her, your crime shall be pardoned.' The tiger again nodded assent, and accordingly the magistrate gave orders that he should be released, at which the old woman was highly incensed, thinking that the tiger ought to have paid with its life for the death of her son.

  Next morning, however, when she opened the door of her cottage, there lay a dead deer before it, and the old woman, by selling the flesh and skin, was able to purchase food. From that day this became a common event, and sometimes the tiger would even bring her money and valuables, so that she became quite rich, and was much better cared for than she had been even by her own son. Consequently, she became very well-disposed to the tiger, which often came and slept in the verandah, remaining for a whole day at a time, and giving no cause of fear either to man or beast. In a few years the old woman died, upon which the tiger walked in and roared its lamentations in the hall. However, with all the money she had saved, she was able to have a splendid funeral; and while her relatives were standing round the grave, out rushed a tiger, and sent them all running away in fear. But the tiger merely went up to the mound, and after roaring like a thunder-peal, disappeared again. Then the people of that place built a shrine in honour of the 'Faithful Tiger', and it remains there to this day.

  Translated from the Chinese by Herbert A. Giles (1916)

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  1 Constables, detectives, and others were liable to be bambooed at intervals, generally of three or fiv
e days, until the mission on which they are engaged has been successfully accomplished. In cases of theft and non-restoration of the stolen property within a given time, the detectives or constables employed may be required to make it good.

  Where's the Tiger?

  t is like any other evening. The brown sahib sits on the porch of his mansion overlooking the street outside. From where I stand in the living room, I can only see his shining boots and his grey trousers. Though the rest of him is hidden from me, I know he is wearing his usual white shirt, starched stiff and ironed. His slim body belies his age, and though he has no paunch he wears suspenders with his trousers. He is expecting visitors, visitors unknown to him, yet, who come here every evening and ask him, 'Where's the tiger?'

  Today the visitors are all in their twenties and all wearing T-shirts with my picture on it – possibly another group that calls itself conservationists. There is one odd looking face among them; she introduces herself as Hua from China.

  The sahib twirls his carefully groomed moustache as he leads his visitors into the living room, and, with an air of pride, he points in my direction. 'Look at him,' he says. 'What large teeth, the burning eyes, and what a shining coat!' People look at me with awe and at my owner with admiration.

  ' Wuh de ma, what a big tiger!' says the slit-eyed Hua in a strange accent. I see a kind of fear in her eyes as she shuffles some distance away from me.

  'He won't bite, Hua,' assures my sahib as he runs his hand over my smooth skin and tries to dispel the fear of the girl. Soon the group is convinced that I am not that fearsome, at least not any longer, and sits around me. Even Hua, after some coaxing, snuggles into the couch next to me, though a measure of unease is still evident on her, and she rarely takes her eyes off me.

  'Where did you get this one from?' asks a young man named Virendra.

  The sahib always ignores that question. 'Annie, bring us some coffee, will you?' He quickly diverts the talk. Then the memsahib makes her gracious appearance. She is tall like our sahib, but unlike him she is very fair. Her name is Anita, but the sahib loves to call her Annie.

  It is not always possible to avoid such a question, not if it comes from a conservationist. 'I am keen to know where you got this tiger. You know it's against the rules.' Virendra presses the sahib for an answer.

  'A friend gave it to me, before he left for Australia,' retorts the sahib with a straight face. 'And I too am a conservationist, a senior member of "save our tigers" movement.'

  It was Annie memsahib and her tray loaded with coffee and snacks that come to the rescue. Not all have come here with the intention of seeing me. Some, like the plump boy sitting to the right, have come to feast on the delicacies offered by the memsahib. For now, they get busy indulging themselves with scones and muffins.

  'In the good old days it was so different. Maharajas went on hunting elephants. A royal sport it used to be,' memsahib says as she pours some coffee for Virendra.

  'Thanks Ma'm,' says Virendra and takes his coffee. 'Wasn't that awful? I mean the indiscriminate hunting. All those people who killed tigers for fun or for personal gain must be put behind bars.' He turns towards the sahib and adds, 'Don't you agree with me, Sir?'

  At this, the sahib winces somewhat, though very imperceptibly, but I do notice the momentary wrinkle that comes on his brow. He looks the other way. 'What a glorious animal the tiger is!' he declares. 'But what a pity, people hunted it down for sport!'

  You brute! It's because of you human beings, I am in such a state here. I wish these people could hear me. But it is no good, such wishes! These humans never heard another animal, much less would they hear me now.

  'I too have signed in for the campaign,' adds Roma. She was so frail and so small – just a skeleton, no meat – I wondered what she could have done to save me. 'We distributed posters with pictures of the tiger, and we blogged a great deal on the Net and placed a lot of ads.'

  Oh, so you blogged and turned my saviour! I pity myself. Such hogwash! This speaking up for me on the TV, placing ads, writing articles in papers, blogging, educating people, posters, T-shirts; a hogwash! I continue with my monologue, knowing well these people aren't listening one bit.

  If you truly wish to conserve the tiger, all you need to do is leave us alone. First you encroach into our jungle, cut down all the trees and then make your houses, roads and factories right in the middle of our habitat. Finally, the biggest sham – you create the reserves, which happen to be the most dangerous place for a tiger. Your forest officials connive with the poachers and slaughter us right inside those protected areas.

  'At the turn of the twentieth century there were 40,000 tigers in India; within just a hundred years, this number has dwindled to 1,411,' adds Virendra woefully. 'And today, how many tigers are left in the wild? I wonder if there are any! The last count was a disaster; no one ever sighted a single tiger.'

  'In the last Chinese year of the tiger, that is to say, in 2010, the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) counted only 45 tigers in our country,' speaks up Hua. 'The year of the tiger has come around once again, but the big cat is no longer found in China.'

  They seem genuinely concerned but what use is it counting now? I know for sure I was the last tiger roaming free in the wild.

  At this point, the plump boy finishes his repast, wipes his mouth and joins in the discussion. 'My grandfather once told me, there was this man-eater that used to slink into our village at night and carry away our folks and sometimes our cattle. The news reached the king. He came with his rifle and bellowed, "Where's the tiger?" With a band of hunters he followed the trail of the animal into the jungle, waited the entire night and finally shot the beast.' He looks towards Memsahib expecting some more muffins.

  There seems a certain heroism attached to killing a tiger. Tales are woven with rancour towards us and valour towards our killers. There are people who take it upon themselves to avenge the death of some gazelle. I am portrayed as a tyrannous creature that kills and devours humans as well as other docile animals. As for the first part, it is more a fantasy of the human mind. We never cross a man's path. If ever there was a scuffle, it was in the interest of self-preservation. And for the second part – our role in preying on other animals – that's our food, and that is exactly how nature ordained us to keep its balance.

  'That's precisely what has led the world to such a situation. After all, the tiger needs to prey for a living,' adds the sahib, after deliberating for a while on the plump boy's account.

  Well said, well said, Sahib. Go on, I am listening.

  'Yes, we humans also kill for food. What's wrong? The tiger is carnivorous,' says Roma, our frail saviour.

  So long as you people limit your slaughters to your need for food, there would be no cause for us to lament. You say you do it in the most humane manner; we too do it in our tigerish manner. But you also display a wanton desire to kill for pleasure, for sports, for keeping trophies and for showing off.

  I know what is coming next – a photo shoot. They crowd around me as I stand among them in my usual majestic pose, powerlessly. Flashes and clicks go off everywhere. Then, each, in turn, get themselves snapped standing next to me. Even Hua picks up courage, edges up to a whisker length and places a hand on my head. More flashes and clicks go off this time and I am reminded of another kind of shoot.

  Just then a little girl comes running into the room with her mother scrambling behind her. All heads turn towards the newly arrived pair.

  'Where's the tiger?' cries the little girl.

  'My girl wants to see a tiger,' says the mother. 'We went to the zoo. The keeper says the last tiger there died yesterday.'

  'Oh!' says the memsahib. 'Gauri is gone. She was so lonely there.'

  'The keeper says you have a tiger here. Where is it?'

  'It's right here.' The group disperses a bit and I come face-to-face with the new visitors.

  'No! It's dead. It's a stuffed tiger!' the little girl screams.

  Yes, I am dead. I stand in this majes
tic gait here, but only as a centrepiece, a trophy, a mute artefact of a cruel game. I am dead, because the brute of this sahib shot me in my reserve, some years ago. You're right, little girl, I am dead. Not merely dead, but probably extinct!

  Surendra Mohanty