To the Elephant Graveyard

by Hall, Tarquin

  “So you have to care. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I think so,” replied Mole. “If you really care, you’ll make a difference. Not enough people in this country care. Plus there are too many of us. What India really needs is three hundred million less people. Then it would be an okay place.”

  ♦

  An hour passed and still there was no sign of the elephant. Disappointed, we prepared to climb down from the platform. Mole went first, then Vipal. Badger was to go next. Mr Choudhury took a last look through his binoculars. Then, just as the Gurkha had started down the ladder, the hunter let out a cry. Much to everyone’s amazement, he had spotted the rogue elephant.

  “I don’t believe it,” Badger blurted out, clambering back on to the platform. “Let me see.”

  He grabbed the binoculars from Mr Choudhury and held them up to his eyes. The tusker had emerged from the jungle about a mile to the north and was moving at a leisurely pace in an easterly direction.

  “It’s him all right,” said the hunter. “I can tell by the way he’s limping.”

  Churchill poked the Gurkha in the ribs.

  “See. Mahout is right, no?” he bragged, as giddy with excitement as a lottery-prize winner. “Gurkha know nothing.”

  “I don’t bloody believe it,” repeated Badger. “It’s got to be a coincidence. Has to be.”

  “Whatever you want to believe, there he is,” said Mr Choudhury. “We’ve found him.”

  The others came back up the ladder to take a look. Vipal peered through his telephoto lens and started clicking his Nikon F2. Mole squinted through a pair of opera glasses that he had pinched from a theatre in America.

  “Hello, old friend,” said Mr Choudhury. “Now, at last, I can get a good long look at you, is it not so?”

  The rogue stopped by a stream to eat some aquatic weed, shoving the vegetation into his mouth with his trunk.

  “This is interesting,” said the hunter, who had retrieved his binoculars from Badger.

  “What’s interesting?”

  There was a pause.

  “What’s interesting?” I repeated, frustrated.

  “Oh, he is a koomeriah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means he is a high-caste elephant,” explained Mr Choudhury, “a kind of Brahmin.”

  As he explained, India’s mahouts recognized an intricate elephant caste or bandh system, a form of classification laid down in one of the ancient books called the Matanga-lila, or Sport of Elephants. Long-legged pachyderms with small bodies fell into the mreega category and were considered common. But to the elephant connoisseur, the rogue was of a high caste. In the old days, had he been caught as a calf, he would have found his way into a maharajah’s stables.

  “Judging by the length of the tusks,” continued Mr Choudhury, “I would say he is about forty years old. See how they are worn down at the ends.”

  Borrowing the binoculars, I was finally able to get a close look at the elephant.

  Even from such a distance, his tusks would have made a white hunter’s mouth water. The slender ivory was sheer white, the tusks curved like two longbows, and his body was muscular and well-proportioned. But otherwise the rogue looked the worse for wear. His ears were frayed around the edges as if they had been rubbed thin with age. His trunk was scarred, several new gashes visible across the upper half. And he was still limping badly. What’s more, he was filthy. His left flank was covered in mud, a sure sign that he had been lying down, something elephants rarely do, while his back was covered in twigs and leaves, as if he had attempted to camouflage himself.

  “He is trying to keep the insects from biting him,” said the hunter. “Do you notice anything else about him?”

  I had another look but noticed nothing else of interest.

  “Not really,” I answered.

  “Look at his eyes, they are light-coloured. It is something that I did not see before,” admitted Mr Choudhury.

  I was surprised that he could distinguish their shade at such a distance.

  “What about them?” I asked.

  White or yellow eyes, he explained, are anathema to the elephant connoisseur.

  “It is a sign that he is dangerous,” he replied. “Even though he is of a high caste, no phandi would ever capture him in the wild.”

  The rogue laboured across the grassland, resting his trunk on his tusks. A crow landed on his back, hitching a free ride.

  “Boss, I am seeing eleey-pant,” said Vipal, borrowing the binoculars. “But I want to get closer. To get the maximum shot.”

  “No, you can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the elephant will kill you.”

  “Ah, okay,” replied Vipal. He sat down next to me on the edge of the platform and looked dejected. “But Boss, I am not understanding one teeng. Why don’t they just take him?”

  “How do you mean? Take who?” I asked.

  “You know,” continued Vipal, “take him. With the streengs.”

  I was tired of having to go to extra lengths to interpret Vipal’s particular brand of English.

  “Vipal, I don’t understand you,” I said, trying not to be short with him but having to exercise a great deal of restraint in the process.

  The Bengali tried again.

  “It’s no problem. I have seen it on BBC.” Vipal seemed to think that I was now following his train of thought.

  Exasperated, I looked round to see if anyone might be willing to come to my aid. But everyone was preoccupied.

  “What wouldn’t be a problem?” I asked.

  “To-take him with the streengs!” he repeated.

  It was Vipal’s turn to look annoyed.

  I sat on the edge of the platform, trying to make sense of it all.

  “Do you mean why don’t they capture him using ropes?”

  “Yes, Boss. That is what I am saying for five minutes past!” His tone seemed to imply that I was being rather dim.

  “Oh. Well, I believe it would be extremely dangerous to try capturing him. Even tranquillizing a rogue is no easy matter. If the elephant awoke and found himself tied up,” I elaborated, “he might break free and kill people.”

  I got up from where I had been sitting. Mr Choudhury was still watching his quarry. The elephant had moved on to a hillock. Until now, his legs had remained hidden in the grass, but at last Mr Choudhury was able to get a closer look at his injured ankle.

  “I don’t believe it!” he called out. “Look at his lame leg, his ankle!”

  I had never seen Mr Choudhury so animated. He sounded like a little boy.

  “Do you see?” bawled the hunter, as I snatched Vipal’s camera out of his hands. “Look at his left ankle!”

  I zoomed in as far as the lens would allow, adjusting the focus ring.

  “Do you see? Do you see the chain?”

  I squinted through the viewfmder. The image was grainy. But sure enough, I could make out something metallic wrapped around the elephant’s ankle.

  “Yes, I see it.”

  Mr Choudhury lowered his binoculars and looked at me, his expression one of total puzzlement.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “It means that he is a bon-zharshia!” breathed Mr Choudhury.

  “A bon what?” I parroted.

  “It means the rogue is a kunki, a domesticated elephant that has returned to the wild.”

  8

  The Pool of Ganesha

  What boots their thirst, what boots the ravening fly,

  The sun that sears their hide of wrinkles made?

  Plodding, they leave a country parched and dry,

  Dreaming of fig-tree forests and their shade.

  Leconte de Lisle, Les Elephants

  The fact that the rogue had once been a domesticated elephant explained a great deal, or so Mr Choudhury assured me later that afternoon as we sat in the comfort of the Wild Grass Hotel.

  “He must have been carrying that chai
n around for some years because it has become embedded in his skin,” said the hunter, as we sat drinking mugs of hot chocolate in front of a welcoming fire. “The rust and friction have caused an infection. That is why he limps. No doubt it is also contributing to his vile temper.”

  This new revelation also shed light upon certain aspects of the tusker’s behaviour. The apparent ease with which he moved from one area of Assam to another, rather than sticking to one ‘range’, could be attributed to the fact that, as a calf, he had been taken from the wild and, consequently, did not behave like a typical male elephant.

  Mr Choudhury also believed that something in his past, some terrible event or ordeal, had scarred him psychologically.

  “I am not saying that he was a saint to begin with,” he said. “But something has pushed him over the edge and he is wreaking his revenge. I believe he is trying to get back at humans for what they have done to him.”

  I wondered whether there was anything in Baba’s assertion that the elephant was dying.

  “It is too difficult to tell from such a distance,” he said. “Perhaps gangrene has set in. If it has, his days are numbered.”

  “Why do you think most of his victims have been drunks?” I asked, as a waiter brought the hunter a sandwich.

  “Who knows?” he replied. “Perhaps he was badly treated by someone who drank. It is possible.”

  Given this new development, it was now Mr Choudhury’s duty to report his findings to the Forest Department in Guwahati. He was planning to leave for the capital within the hour.

  “I would like you to stay here. I should only be gone for one day,” he said. “There is a very slim chance that I may be able to persuade the department to revoke the destruction order because he is a kunki and not a wild elephant. Perhaps then they can send someone else to capture him, remove the chain and put him in a zoo.”

  He also planned to look through the records and find out about the rogue’s past.

  “It would be interesting to know where he came from and the name of his owner and mahout. These men have a great deal to answer for.”

  In the meantime, Mr Choudhury asked Amu to assign two guards, travelling with two mahouts and their kunkis and adequate provisions, to keep an eye on the animal and report his movements to the elephant squad.

  “Is that a good idea?” I asked, thinking back to the death of the farmer in the rain forest. “You know what happened last time you sent guards after him. Someone was killed.”

  Mr Choudhury believed it was still worth taking the risk.

  “This time it will be different,” he assured me. “As long as the rogue remains in the park, there is no danger. I will be back by tomorrow night.”

  He made his way outside where Rudra was waiting in the Land Rover. The driver had just purchased several chunks of fresh betel-nut from a vendor across the street.

  “What about Baba?” I asked. “How did he know where to find the rogue?”

  The hunter shrugged his shoulders.

  “Perhaps it was a calculated guess. That area where we spotted him is not far from the river. It was an obvious place to look. He was bound to be somewhere in that vicinity.”

  Mr Choudhury got into the passenger seat and rolled down the window. Standing there in the driveway, I must have looked anxious, wondering what was going to happen and how long I would be left hanging around the hotel.

  “Don’t worry. This matter will be resolved soon,” said the hunter, before he drove off. “That elephant will not stay in the park. He will head towards the villages. Just remember one of our Assamese sayings: lahe lahe, slowly, slowly. When it happens, it happens.”

  ♦

  The hotel restaurant was packed with Indian tourists from Delhi. Plump Punjabi aunties with flabby midriffs bulging from their polyester saris gobbled down parathas and butter chicken as their undisciplined children chased one another around the tables. Their husbands, who all sported black moustaches and large bellies, guzzled tumblers of Royal Challenge whisky, cracked jokes with each other and guffawed loudly.

  Watching them from the sofa in front of the fire, I felt only pity for the over-worked Assamese waiter. Each time the young man brought another dish, the aunties gave him an earful, ticking him off for this and that, and telling him to hurry up. The men clicked their fingers in the air whenever they wanted a top-up. Not once did I hear any of them say thank you to the waiter.

  “I am not liking Delhi people,” commented Vipal, who joined me by the fire. “They have the maximum aggression.”

  I had to agree. Although I had close friends in Delhi, people there were all too often rude and discourteous, which was not the general rule elsewhere in India.

  “Okay, so vhat is your idea for tomorrow?” asked the Bengali, changing the subject.

  “I need a rest,” I said wearily. “It’s been a long week.”

  Concerned that Vipal might come knocking at my door at the crack of dawn, I asked him to allow me to sleep in.

  “Don’t worry, Boss,” he assured me. “I have a total plan.”

  With these words, he edged along the sofa and began to whisper conspiratorially.

  “See, I am making contacts with…”

  At that moment, a waiter approached. The Bengali began coughing loudly, apparently nervous that the man might be eavesdropping on our conversation.

  “Yes,” he continued, once the waiter had withdrawn, “I am making contacts with Bodo liberation peoples.”

  By this, he meant the Bodo Liberation Front, one of Assam’s principal insurgency groups, who were fighting for their own homeland within Assam. From what I understood, they were difficult to meet.

  “Can I come along?” I asked eagerly.

  His eyes narrowed and he nodded his head.

  “Okay, Boss. I am making the total interview.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “Don’t worry about a teeng.”

  I rose from the couch, said goodnight and headed upstairs. Secretly, I was overjoyed at Vipal’s latest plan. The prospect of interviewing the Bodos was an appealing one, but even more appealing was the fact that it would take time to set up a clandestine meeting. For tomorrow at least, it looked as if I would be left in peace.

  ♦

  After breakfast the next day, the receptionist asked if I had seen my companion. Vipal had apparently gone off in the middle of the night, accompanied by two dubious-looking characters – the receptionist described them as ‘mischief-making men’ – who had arrived on bicycles. Since then, none of the hotel staff had laid eyes on the Bengali, although the manager was keen to have a word with him as some of his friends had run up a substantial bill at the bar and he was anxious that the amount should be settled.

  Delighted that I was destined for a day of peace and quiet, I returned to my room. An hour or so later there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Vipal standing in the corridor, wearing a fake black beard and moustache, fighter-pilot sunglasses and an American baseball cap bearing the words WITH AN OPEN MIND. He looked like a second-rate pimp.

  “Vipal…” I began, but before I could get any further he waved his hands frantically in front of my face and rushed past me into the room.

  “No, no, no,” he stuttered. “Don’t be saying my name!”

  Then he stuck his head out into the corridor, glanced left and right and slammed the door behind him.

  “See, I am in disguise!” he explained, adjusting his beard which was slightly lop-sided.

  “Some disguise,” I said. “I recognized you immediately.”

  He was crestfallen. His shoulders slouched and his head drooped. Apparently, he had gone to great lengths to make himself look inconspicuous.

  “It is a maximum disguise,” he said weakly.

  Vipal was extremely sensitive and I did not want to hurt his feelings, so I tried backtracking.

  “I only recognized you because I know you, Vipal,” I said, sounding like a parent offering encouragement to an insecure child.
“No one else would see through your disguise. It’s very good.”

  As Vipal observed himself in the mirror, I had to fight hard to suppress my laughter – especially when his moustache began to part company with his upper lip.

  “So why are you in all this get-up anyway?” I asked.

  “Because I am meeting with Bodo liberation peoples,” he whispered, patting down his moustache.

  Through a friend of a friend of a friend, he had arranged an interview with a Bodo commander ‘in three days’ time only’.

  “But why the disguise?” I asked again.

  “See, I am checking into another hotel under different name. So I am making the total arrangement from there.”

  “What’s your cover name?”

  His eyes narrowed and, for a split second, he looked the part.

  “I am Tagore. Mr R. Tagore.”

  Rabindranath Tagore, Vipal’s hero, was the Bengali poet and playwright who had won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913. But I still didn’t quite understand the point of his elaborate arrangements for the rendezvous with the terrorists. I suspected they had more to do with my friend’s compulsion to turn everything into a drama than with a genuine need for security. That aside, the news sounded encouraging and I congratulated him on his progress.

  “Thank you, Boss,” he said, grinning beneath his thick polyester whiskers. “So is there anyteeng new with the eleey-pant?”

  ♦

  Over breakfast that morning, I had chatted with the hotel manager who proved extremely knowledgeable about Assamese culture. When I mentioned my interest in elephant graveyards, he suggested I visit a nearby monastery inhabited by monks who were, he said, the custodians of Assamese culture.

  The only problem was that Mole and the others were busy, so I didn’t have an interpreter. I needed Vipal’s help.