by Ruskin Bond
At length Kistimah said that he had been thinking of a plan which, though dangerous in the execution, might be attended with success. It was for me to go, with a man dressed as a runner, down the main road at sunset, being the time the tiger generally carried off his victims, and to run the chance of getting a shot. At this proposition sundry interjectional expressions, such as 'Abah!' 'Arrez!' 'Toba!' 'Toba!' escaped from the lips of the bystanders, and from sundry shaking of heads and other unmistakable signs, I could see that it had not found much favour in their eyes. Chineah, the dhoby, and one or two of the gang, however, approved of the plan, and Kistimah offered to accompany me as the post-runner. This, however, I objected for I thought I should have a better chance of meeting the tiger if I went alone than in company; besides, I preferred having only myself to look after. The plan of action once settled, I returned to the village and obtained from the Patel the bamboo on which the tappal-runners sling the mailbags over their shoulders. To the end of this is an iron ring with a number of small pieces of metal attached, making a jingling noise as the man runs, which gives warning of the coming of the post to any crowd that might be obstructing the path, allowing them time to get out of his way. Having broken off the ring, I fastened it to my belt, so as to allow it to jingle as I walked, and arming myself with a short double rifle by Westley Richards, a brace of pistols, and a huge shekar knife, I made Kistimah lead the way down the road towards the place where the man-eater was said to lurk.
About a mile from the village I made the gang and the villagers who accompanied me halt, and went on with Kistimah, Chineah, and Googooloo to reconnoitre the ground. The road was intersected by a narrow valley or ravine, along the bottom of which was a dry, sandy watercourse, the banks of which were overgrown with high rank grass and reeds, intermixed with low scrubby thorn-bushes. To the left was a low rocky hill, in some place bare and in others covered with thick jungle, with wild date or custard-apple clumps here and there. Kistimah pointed me out a clump of rather thick jungle to the right of the road, where, he said, the tiger often lurked whilst on the look-out for his prey, and here we saw two or three old trails. He also showed me a rock, from behind which the brute had sprung upon a post-runner some weeks before; but we saw no signs of his having been there lately. It was, however, quite what an Indian sportsman would term a 'tigerish-looking spot', for bold, scarped rocks, and naked, fantastic peaks rose in every direction from amongst the dense foliage of the surrounding jungle, whilst here and there noble forest trees lowered like giant patriarchs above the lower verdure of every shade and colour.
Not a breath of air was stirring nor a leaf moving, and as the sun was still high up, without a cloud visible to intercept his rays, the heat was most oppressive, and even respiration become difficult on account of a peculiar closeness arising from the decayed vegetation underfoot, and the overpowering perfume of the blossoms of certain jungle plants.
Having reconnoitred the ground round about, I felt rather overcome with lassitude, and returned to the rest of the gang whom I found sleeping in a clump of deep jungle a little off the roadside. Here I lay down to rest, protected from the piercing rays of the sun by the shade of a natural bower formed by two trees, which were bent down with the weight of an immense mass of parasitical plants in addition to their own foliage. I must have slept several hours, for when I awoke I found the sun sinking low in the horizon; however, I got up considerably refreshed by my nap, and giving myself a shake, prepared for the task I had undertaken. I carefully examined my arms, and having ascertained that nothing had been seen by any of my gang, some of whom had kept a look-out, I told my people that if they heard the sound of my gun they might come up, otherwise they were to remain quiet where they were until my return. I ordered Chineah, Kistimah, Googooloo, and the dhoby, to accompany me down the road with spare guns in case I might want them; and when I arrived at a spot which commanded a view of the ravine which was supposed to be the haunt of the man-eater, I sent them to climb different trees.
Kistimah begged hard to be allowed to accompany me, as he said this tiger never attacked a man in front, but always from behind; but I would not permit him, as I thought that two people would perhaps scare the animal, and his footsteps might prevent me from hearing any sound intimating his approach.
The sun had almost set as I proceeded slowly down the road, and although I was perfectly cool and as steady as possible, I felt cold drops of perspiration start from my forehead as I approached the spot where so many victims had been sacrificed. I passed the rock, keeping well on the look-out, listening carefully for the slightest sound, and I remember feeling considerably annoyed by the chirping made by a couple of little bulbuls, that were fighting in a bush close to the roadside. Partridges were calling loudly all around, and as I passed the watercourse I saw a jackal skulking along its bed. I stopped, shook my jingling affair, and listened several times as I went along, but to no purpose.
Whilst ascending the opposite side of the ravine I heard a slight noise like the crackling of a dry leaf. I paused, and turning to the left fronted the spot from whence I thought the noise proceeded. I distinctly saw a movement or waving in the high grass, as if something was making its way towards me; then I heard a loud purring sound, and saw something twitching backwards and forwards behind a clump of low bush and long grass, about eight or ten paces from me, and a little in the rear. It was a ticklish moment, but I felt prepared. I stepped back a couple of paces in order to get a better view, which probably saved my life, for immediately the brute sprang into the middle of the road, alighting about 6 feet from the place where I was standing. I fired a hurried shot ere he could gather himself up for another spring, and when the smoke cleared away I saw him rolling over and over in the dusty road, writhing in his death agony, for my shot had entered the neck and gone downwards into his chest. I stepped on one side and gave him my second barrel behind the ear, when dark blood rushed from his nostrils, a slight tremor passed over all his limbs, and all was still. The man-eater was dead, and his victims avenged.
My gang, attracted by the sound of my shots, came rushing up almost breathless, and long and loud were the rejoicings when the tiger was recognised by Kistimah as the cunning man-eater who had been the scourge of the country for months. He was covered with mange, and but had little hair left on his skin, which was of a reddish brown colour, and not worth taking.
I have killed many tigers both before and since, but I never met with such a determined enemy to mankind, for he was supposed to have carried off more than a hundred individuals. He fully exemplified an old Indian saying: 'When a tiger has once tasted human blood he will never follow other game, men proving an easier prey.' On the spot where the tiger was killed a large mausoleum now stands, caused by the passers-by each throwing a stone until a large heap is formed. Since that day many a traveller who passed that way have been entertained by the old pensioned sepoy, who is in charge of the travellers' bungalow, with an account of the terrible man-eater of Botta Singarum.
This account on the death of a man-eater in Botta Singarum (a village near Malkapur in the Telangana region), is taken from Henry Astbury Leveson's famous book, Sport in Many Lands. His other well known books are: The Hunting Grounds of the Old World (1860) and The Forest and the Field (1867). Henry Astbury Leveson (1828–75) was considered among the foremost of big game hunters.
Henry Astbury Leveson , the Old Shekarrey 1877
The Langra Tigress
henever I look back on the incident now, I wonder what might have happened if I had fired at the Langra Tigress the first time I saw her. Certainly she gave me the chance: the sort of chance that sportsmen often dream about yet so seldom get in reality. And I ought to have been ready and waiting to take it; for there had been plain warning that she was about. Even so, I was taken by surprise. Yet if I had been ready, I think it is very doubtful if I should have been able to write this story.
On the evening that this first encounter took place, I had gone out after a wild pig. For
we are farmers, and our estate is situated in what were the old Central Provinces of India. That year we were planting a crop of groundnut over about a hundred acres of land which had just been cleared of thick jungle. It was something of an emergency measure. Coming Land Reforms threatened to take this area away from us unless it was put under cultivation. And since a considerable block of our forests had already been ceded to the government, we were trying to save the rest of the estate by complying quickly with the new regulations. But everything had been very hurried: so much so, that for this crop there would be no fences round the fields.
That was the trouble. Wild boars and their sows love groundnuts. So, just before planting-time, I hoped to spread enough alarm and despondency among these pests to keep them away from the new fields until the seeds were in and had germinated. For if the swine are given the chance, they will run their iron-like snouts down the fresh drill-lines the night the seeds are put in; sucking up the nuts as they go along like mobile vacuum cleaners. Once the crop is above ground, it is fairly safe until half-ripe. Then the pigs again become an unmitigated nuisance.
It was a stifling, hot-weather evening when I prepared to go out. The rains were due to break at any moment, most probably early that night; for even as I was leaving the house, angry black clouds were building up rapidly above the distant, shimmering blue hills.
Just before I set off, the call of peafowl, coming from the direction in which I was going, had decided me to take a twelve-bore shot gun – for the larder was low. And as the area for which I was bound was thick scrub jungle, buck-shot would be the most effective ammunition to sling against any pig I put up.
Through this ground there runs a small, twisting nullah, about ten feet wide and six deep. I dropped down to the sandy bed. The banks are lined with many kinds of jungle tree: some were already in full leaf, while others were performing that yearly miracle of producing delicate little green leaves and buds when it seemed impossible that there could be any moisture in that rock-like soil.
Peafows are very difficult to surprise: but a stalk along that soft, sandy bed could be made in absolute silence; and this place was a favourite haunt of these gallinaceous birds. Slowly I began to creep forward – and I had only been going about ten minutes when, cautiously rounding a sharp bend, I was suddenly stopped dead.
Just in front of me, apparently asleep under a patch of shade, was a large leopard stretched out on the sand. But a closer look showed that something was wrong: its attitude was most unnatural; the head was twisted, and one forepaw was slightly bent and held drunkenly in the air. The animal was dead.
Moving swiftly up to it, my nose told me that it was very dead indeed. A swarm of blue flies buzzed up at my approach, wafting the sickly sweet smell of death more strongly to my nostrils. Some animal had eaten a small part of the hindquarters, and all round the sand was wildly churned up – but it was too soft to show any tracks. I began to look about me.
At once I spotted something else. A little farther down the nullah, and pulled in right under the bank, were the remains of what had once been a young chital stag. All that was left of it was the head, a few pieces of skin and splintered bone, and two almost whole ribs.
Both animals had been dead for about two days, and I began to wonder just what had happened. Then, looking round again for some definite clue, I saw that a small flame-of-the-forest tree had fallen across the bed of the nullah, and was blocking the view in that direction. I went up to it and looked across. Immediately something black caught my eye, lying almost at my feet, but on the other side of the tree: it was the dead body of a huge wild boar.
I climbed over and began to examine it. The mask was set in the most hideous snarl, and the one large tush I could see was not white, but stained brown with congealed blood. The remains were fresh, the meat hardly tainted; but some part of the hindquarters had been eaten, and the rest of the boar had been horribly ripped and torn. This was undoubtedly the work of a tiger, and by the look of things, he had not had it all his own way.
Then a very sinister fact penetrated to my mind. There was a complete absence of vultures or crows about any of the kills, and the jungle was ominously silent. Somewhere, close at hand, that tiger was lying up: it must be, or the nearby trees and the ground would have been thick with these revolting scavengers.
It was now just six o'clock, and a little darker than usual; for the black clouds had crept up overhead, and muffled thunder was vibrating in the hot, stifling air. This was a very likely time for the tiger to return for a feed, and the bed of that nullah was a very unhealthy spot. Rather hastily I climbed the bank and stood beside a small clump of saplings. The scrub jungle was very thick; for the previous year it had been cut over, and now, with the amazing rapidity with which the forests revive, the old stumps had sent up shoots to a height of several feet, and visibility was reduced to a few yards in any direction. Once up on the higher ground, I began to listen – complete silence. At the same time I was looking around for a suitable tree, covering the nullah, in which I might sit. For I felt sure that the tiger would return; most probably very soon.
But had it already seen or heard me?
There was not a rustle, or any other warning sound from the jungle; only the awakening evening insects broke the silence. And while I listened, I tried to put together the pieces of the story of that small nullah. That a tiger had killed the boar, I knew – but what of the leopard and the young chital stag? It was the most fascinating little mystery that I had ever come across.
Then, without a sound, the tiger suddenly appeared about five yards in front of me.
It was, rather, a tigress; and she came from behind a small cluster of teak like a conjurer's illusion. At first instance she did not see me, for she was moving obliquely away. But I must have made some slight movement of surprise, for suddenly she turned her head and looked straight at me. Yet it seemed that she did not notice me at all: her eyes looked quite vacant, and in the calmest manner she continued on her way and passed out of sight behind some cover. As she went, I saw she was plastered with dried mud, along her left flank ran a long, bloody gash, and she was walking with a decided limp.
To this day I cannot understand why that tigress's sudden arrival was such a surprise to me. She so obviously had to be somewhere close. Yet, when she came, I was caught completely off my guard and made no effort to bring her down. An easier target could hardly have been imagined; but had I fired instinctively, it might well have been, for two reasons, the last trigger I ever squeezed.
The moment after that mud-stained body had disappeared from sight, I recovered my wits as there was still a good chance of collecting her. After the blistering heat of the day, and the pain of the wound, she would be making for water. Certainly she was headed in the right direction; for there was a pool, about fifty yards away, on the bed of another and larger nullah. If I could come upon her there, she would be a sitting shot from the high bank above.
I gave her a minute's start, then followed softly. About twenty yards to my front was a little clearing among the trees; on the farther side the ground rose steeply, and was covered with young saplings. Coming into the open space, I stopped and looked around: there was nothing in sight.
I was about to go on when a sudden, startling thought made me pause. I had been acting like a lunatic ever since I found that butcher's shop in the small nullah; for I had completely forgotten that I was carrying a shotgun, loaded, at that moment, with number six in the right barrel and buckshot in the choke. In mitigation, I can only plead that almost invariably I carry a .375 when out in the jungles, and the recent, unusual events were filling my mind to the exclusion of all else.
It was a mistake easily rectified. I had one lethal ball cartridge with me; so breaking the gun, I took out the number six and fished about in my pocket until I found the case I wanted.
Then, without any warning at all, everything happened at once. There was a shattering roar from the high ground a little to my right, and I heard the
tigress crashing towards me through rough teak-leaves under the cover of the trees. The next second she came into view, and, with one mighty bound, landed in the clearing about thirty paces in front of me.
The shock was so complete that I was temporarily paralysed, and the ball cartridge dropped from my fingers as I was putting it in the chamber. This folly, I believe now, undoubtedly saved my life; for if the gun had been properly loaded, I am sure I should have used it in the next few confused minutes.
Because, for a second or two, I failed to appreciate the situation: then, when I did, it came as another, stunning shock. The animal before me now was not the tigress – but a very large and most aggressive tiger! And he was obviously bent on mischief: there was little doubt about that; for as soon as he landed on his feet, he whipped about to face me – and then began weaving quickly from side to side across my front. At the same time he threw up his head and rent the air with a series of shaking, bellowing roars. More alarming still were the lightning-quick, feint attacks he began to make – all at once crouching low to the ground, hindquarters slightly raised, and ears laid back hard against his head, the lips mouthing a vicious snarl that rumbled out between gleaming fangs. Then, confidently, like a cat with a mouse in its power, he broke off his pantomime with a great sideways leap, to frisk off again – weaving and roaring.
At any second that tiger could come in: each time he threatened, my eyes were focussed on the end of his tail. The moment that flickered – he would spring.