Satisfied that all the parts were properly oiled, he removed a circular piece of cork that had been jammed into the muzzle to prevent insects from crawling inside. Then he reached into his knapsack and pulled out a small packet wrapped in plastic. Inside were several sachets of silicon gel, used to keep out the damp, and a small cardboard box printed with the words ‘WARNING: KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN’. Cautiously, as if he was handling unstable dynamite, Mr Choudhury took off the lid, revealing a row of brass bullets. Each one was as thick as a man’s index finger, their shiny metal cones nestling innocently in their styrofoam packaging.
Choosing one from the middle, the hunter held the deadly object up to the light, turning it round in his fingers, like a jeweller appraising a rare gem. Then he inserted the bullet into a slot at the bottom of the rifle and, once it was in place, pulled back the weapon’s iron bolt with a clunk-click, thereby loading the round into the chamber.
“I will only have the opportunity for one shot,” he said to me as I approached his tent. “But to be on the safe side, I had better keep a few more up my sleeve. It is always better to be safe than sorry.”
So saying, he extracted four more rounds from the box of ammunition and pushed them into the magazine clip, which he then attached to the bottom of the rifle.
“Here, take it,” he said, holding out the weapon to me.
I hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” he prompted. “The safety catch is on. It cannot be fired. See?”
He pulled the trigger and, sure enough, nothing happened.
Cautiously, I took the rifle from him and held it in both hands. I had handled a diverse assortment of weapons, everything from pistols to rocket-propelled grenades. But the Magnum was in a class of its own.
“Come over here, I’ll show you something,” said Mr Choudhury, leading me to the edge of the clearing where dawn was just breaking over the tops of the trees. “See if you can do this.”
He undipped the magazine and ejected the bullet from the chamber, putting it in his pocket for safe-keeping. Then, holding the rifle to his shoulder as if to fire the weapon, he pointed the barrel at the ground at an angle.
“Take this coin and balance it on the end,” he said.
He handed me a rupee and I did as he instructed. Then, once the coin was in place, he gently raised the rifle until it was level with his chin and shoulders, keeping the weapon steady. Squinting down the barrel, he squeezed the trigger. Amazingly, the coin remained in place.
“Now you have a go,” he said, flipping the rupee up into the air and catching it with his left hand. “You have a steady hand, is it not so?”
“Quite steady, although a cigarette and a scotch wouldn’t go amiss at this stage.”
Holding the rifle as Mr Choudhury had done, I attempted the same exercise. But my hands trembled, causing the coin to fall to the ground.
“It is a good job you are not the one shooting the rogue today,” laughed the hunter, reloading the rifle. “You’d probably miss his temple by a few inches and that would be the end of you.”
We strolled back to the camp. The apprentices were busy tying sacking to the kunkis’ backs, while Churchill, Mole and Badger sat around the main campfire, bolting down a meagre breakfast of cold rotis with bright, radioactive-looking jam. The mahout offered me a plateful, but I was suffering from nerves and the most I could manage was some tea.
Filling up his mug, Mr Choudhury called everyone into the middle of the camp where he outlined his plan.
“Prat and Sanjay, you are to stay here and guard the camp. Keep in radio contact,” he said briskly. “Report anything strange immediately. If the rogue should get past us, he will come for you. So be prepared.”
The two apprentices nodded solemnly.
“I will ride with Churchill on Raja. Badger, you and the guards are to stay on the ground. I will need you to work as scouts. Don’t shoot at the rogue unless he leaves you with no choice. But if he attacks you, aim for his knees. That’s the only way you’ll bring him down. Mole, you ride on the back of Jasmine with Chander.”
Mr Choudhury took out his good-luck charm, his silver rupee coin, which he turned around in his fingers.
“What about me?” I asked.
“I was just coming to you,” said the hunter. “Tarquin, you ride on Jasmine with Mole and Chander. But remember, if the rogue attacks us, do not dismount under any circumstances. You will be safest on her back. It is very rare that an elephant will try to pull someone off a kunki.”
“Yes, it is true,” interrupted Churchill. “Mahout and hathi, they have smell same, no?”
“If the rogue should attempt to pull you off,” continued Mr Choudhury, “spit at the end of his trunk. Elephants detest that. It should help deter him.”
He paused, looking at each of us in turn.
“Any questions?”
On any other day, Churchill, Badger or Mole would have cracked a joke or two to help ease the growing tension. But now the three of them looked deadly serious.
“Churchill, are you ready?” asked the hunter.
“We are always ready, no?”
“Badger?”
“Yes, mate. Ready.”
“Good,” said Mr Choudhury, wishing us all luck. “The rogue is only a few miles ahead. Let’s get this over with.”
The hunter put on his baseball cap and climbed up on to Raja’s back, his rifle held across his chest. Churchill took his position on the kunki’s neck.
“Forward!”
Raja moved out of the clearing, heading east towards Kaziranga and our final showdown with the rogue elephant.
♦
Something was troubling Jasmine. At feeding time earlier that morning, she had eaten little of her rice and drunk only a small quantity of water. Now, as we followed a narrow path through the jungle, she stopped every few hundred yards and refused to budge, infuriating Chander, her mahout. Only the sternest of reprimands persuaded the elephant to move on, and even then she did so grudgingly.
Could this sudden change in her behaviour have anything to do with the hunt, I wondered. Was she, like me, dreading the thought of watching the elephant being gunned down? Or was she simply feeling under the weather as Churchill had suggested.
Whatever the case, Jasmine was not her usual self. When I offered her a packet of paan-flavoured Polo mints, which she had never refused in the past and which she usually gobbled down wrapping and all, she turned her trunk up at them. And as we plodded along the path, she trumpeted continually, the squeaky notes coming out in rapid succession.
Unfortunately, as I soon discovered, Jasmine’s trunk was not the only part of her anatomy through which the kunki was inclined to blast hot air. Periodically, from the centre of her great sagging buttocks, a series of low-pitched, reverberating sounds erupted which rivalled, in both their duration and intensity, the kettledrum crescendos in Sibelius’s Finlandia. These outbursts were invariably followed by an intense hissing sound and then a pungent, fermented-cabbage smell that lingered long after the accompanying thunder had died down, causing me to lift my shirt up over my mouth and nose and breathe through the cotton.
In the meantime, Jasmine’s stomach rumbled loudly. Every so often, she would lift her tail high in the air and push out great clods of dung. These thumped to the jungle floor where they lay steaming in the cold morning air.
“That flippin’ elephant’s got more wind than a bloody force nine gale,” said Badger who, on foot, was trying his best to stay ahead of the kunki. “There’s no need to shoot the bloomin’ rogue, we’ll just get Jasmine to gas ‘im.”
But it wasn’t long before we came across something that rivalled even the kunki’s suffocating emissions. It was the sweet yet sickly stench of decomposing flesh, a disgusting smell that made my eyes water as I tried to prevent myself from retching. Soon, we discovered the rotting remains of a pi-dog strewn across the path. The creature’s throat and stomach had been ripped out, its assailant’s teeth marks clearly discernible in the remaining f
lesh. A few yards on, we spotted its half-eaten intestines hanging from the low-lying branch of a tree where some large cat must have crouched.
Further on, however, the awful odour was replaced by a pleasanter autumnal smell of compost, the result of an overnight downpour that had left the jungle fresh and glistening. By now, the sun had climbed high into the sky, flickering behind the canopy of emerald-green leaves like a strobe light. Crystal-clear beads of rainwater dripped down from branches, bouncing off the plants below and pitter-pattering on to the carpet of decomposing leaves that lay in a thick layer upon the earth.
The elephants padded across this soft, organic carpeting, brushing against freshly spun spider’s webs that had caught only raindrops in their intricate patterns of silk thread.
After a while, Mr Choudhury turned on his walkie-talkie and called the two guards who had been trailing the elephant through Kaziranga.
“Elephant squad to team two,” he called. “Come in, team two.”
The hunter released the talk button. The speaker hissed static.
“This is elephant squad calling team two. Come in, team two,” he repeated.
But there was no answer.
I exchanged an anxious look with Badger, who was walking alongside Jasmine. Mr Choudhury looked concerned.
“Maybe there is something wrong with my radio,” said the hunter. “Mole, you have a try.”
The forest officer switched on his own walkie-talkie and repeated our call signal. But still there was no reply.
A chill ran down my spine.
“Pray that it isn’t true,” said Mole, who was sitting behind me. “I know those two guards. They were – are – good guys, man.”
“Come on, now. Don’t jump to conclusions, mate,” said Badger. “They could be out of batteries, or anyfink. They might be takin’ a piss.”
“He’s right. Let us not assume the worst,” said Mr Choudhury.
However, given the elephant’s history, it was difficult to think otherwise. Time and again, the rogue had proved himself both cunning and deadly, and now, it seemed, he had struck again. In doing so, the elephant had relieved us of our advantage. Without Amu’s guards, there was no way of knowing the tusker’s exact position. Mr Choudhury could only hope that we were following the right course.
For the next ten minutes, hardly a word passed between us. Everyone stared stoically ahead, lost in their own private thoughts, their faces rigid with tension.
Continuing east, we passed an illegal still built out of termite-ridden planks of wood and corrugated iron, its roof patched with plastic bags. A faint trail of wood smoke together with the smell of fermenting sugarcane rose from the rusting, cock-eyed chimney. If anything was going to attract the rogue’s attention, I thought to myself, it was this place.
Over the next mile or so, the path grew gradually narrower and the jungle pressed in around us. Little light penetrated inside this shadowy world where snakes slithered through the undergrowth and lizards with beady eyes regarded us suspiciously. Churchill pulled out a machete from the sheath hanging around his kunki’s neck and began to hack away at low-lying branches and springy bamboo.
Then, quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, Raja and Jasmine stopped. Simultaneously, they raised their trunks in the air, bending the ends forward ninety degrees and moving them from side to side like submarine periscopes searching the surface of the sea for enemy ships. Churchill held up his hand, indicating that everyone should remain still. Badger crouched down, like a cat ready to spring. Mr Choudhury held his rifle at the ready. The guards slipped their machine guns off their shoulders and levelled them at the undergrowth. The rest of us sat completely still.
Bizarrely, the jungle had fallen silent too, as if the animals and birds also sensed something up ahead. Indeed, the only sounds audible were those of Raja’s ears beating against his sides and Jasmine’s tail whisking away flies.
Seconds later, however, the jungle was rent by the bloodcurdling sound of a woman’s scream. A desperate cry of sheer terror, it first stunned me and then sent my heart racing. Instantly, the jungle broke into uproar, hundreds of animals and birds calling out all at once, their screeches and cackles, squawks and squeals panicked and confused.
The woman screamed again – and then again. It seemed as if she might be close by. But with all the racket that had broken out around us, it was impossible to gain a fix on her position.
She screamed a fourth time.
“Quick! Over there!” bawled Mr Choudhury, throwing out his arm to the right. “She is over there!”
Churchill pummelled the backs of Raja’s ears with his feet, shouting out urgent commands. The mahout turned the kunki off the path and into the dense jungle. Like a tank, the animal’s immense body drove through the vegetation, crushing plants and flattening saplings.
Badger and the guards charged after Raja, with Jasmine close on their heels. Trying to grip with my legs and hold on tight to the ropes drawn across the elephant’s back, I rose and fell in time with the kunki’s great shoulders as thorns and twigs lashed out at my face and hands. Low-lying branches threatened to sweep us from Jasmine’s back, but somehow we stayed on, soon emerging, eyes blinking, into a wide clearing bathed in sunshine.
Once again, the kunkis came to an abrupt halt. The guards blew on their whistles in an effort to attract the woman’s attention.
“Where the hell is she, man?” murmured Mole as he glanced around him, blocking out the sun with the backs of his hands. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”
But the screaming had ceased and the woman was nowhere to be seen.
Mr Choudhury slipped down the side of Raja and walked cautiously into the middle of the clearing, his rifle held across his chest. Then, from in front of us, a woman came stumbling out of the woods. Whimpering pathetically and glancing fearfully over her shoulder, she ran towards the hunter, flailing her arms in the air. Twice, she tripped, falling flat on her face, but each time she managed to scramble to her feet and run on.
Mr Choudhury rushed towards her and saved her from falling a third time. Badger reached the spot and, together, the two men helped the woman back to where the elephants were standing on the edge of the clearing.
The terrified woman clutched at her legs which were badly cut and bruised. Her clothes, too, had been shredded. Blood ebbed from a wound on the bottom of her left foot.
Mr Choudhury stooped down next to the distraught woman, offering her a sip of water from a flask as he tried to comfort her. All the while, she gasped and sobbed to herself, trying to articulate what had happened.
“What’s she saying?” he asked Churchill.
The mahout’s eyes were fixed on the jungle. When he replied, they did not move.
“Hathi attack her,” said Churchill rapidly, half under his breath. “Hathi chase. Just behind. There in jungle, no?”
Mr Choudhury stood up. Removing his waterproof coat, he laid it on the ground like a matador preparing to face the bull. He pushed back his glasses until they sat firmly on the bridge of his nose and switched off the safety catch on his rifle. Instructing us to stay put, the hunter walked back into the middle of the clearing. There, he knelt down, his eyes scanning the line of trees that rose up in front of him, some thirty feet away.
The kunkis’ chests began to rumble, sounding their in-built elephantine early warning system. Jasmine took several steps backwards as if she was considering making a run for it.
“Hathi is here,” whispered Churchill. “Now he come.”
To the right of Mr Choudhury, trees began to shake as if an earthquake had struck. The hunter turned, still kneeling, and raised his rifle. With the butt held firmly against his shoulder, he inclined his head, rested his right cheek on the Magnum’s neck and aimed through the sights.
From the jungle came a drawn-out creak as the branch of a tree snapped and crashed to the ground.
Mole’s hands clutched my shoulders, his fingernails digging into my skin. I found myself shivering a
nd realized I was suffering from hathijokar, or elephant shivers, a term used by the mahouts to describe how it feels to come face to face with a wild rogue.
Then suddenly, with a loud crunch, the rogue appeared on the edge of the jungle, just behind a copse of trees, his head obscured by some bushes. He trumpeted furiously and I caught a glimpse of his tusks which, for a split second, were thrust through the bushes, snow white against the green foliage. The end of his trunk followed, writhing like an angry python.
Mr Choudhury curled his index finger around the trigger and lowered the rifle by several degrees. He stiffened, preparing for the rogue to reveal himself.
The elephant took another step forward. I could make out the nails on his front feet. His moment of retribution had finally arrived. Yet even now, despite everything I had seen and knew about him, I found myself urging him to make his escape. “Go back. Go back!”
Then, as if he had heard my words of warning, the rogue retreated. We caught glimpses of his massive frame as he walked to the left just behind the perimeter of trees. Mr Choudhury kept his rifle trained on him, but the tusker disappeared from view.
Two or three minutes passed. The hunter remained crouched on the grass, his Magnum still levelled at the rain forest. He moved the rifle from left to right and back again in one fluid, steady movement.
The rest of us remained frozen, eyes staring forward, ears straining for the slightest sound. Behind us, a monkey’s screech made us start, sending our hearts pounding ever faster. Another minute passed. The hunter relaxed his pose and lowered the rifle. Nothing stirred. He stood up, his eyes still fixed on the trees. Cautiously, he began to walk backwards towards the elephant squad.
It was then that the rogue launched his surprise attack. Squealing furiously, he came crashing out of the forest in a last desperate attempt to rid himself of the hunter. The elephant was crazed and defiant. His ears were stretched wide, his trunk held rigid like a spear, his tusks scything through the air like scimitars. He tossed his head from side to side. Every fibre in his massive body was set on one thing and one thing alone: murder.
To the Elephant Graveyard Page 22