He had already informed Stevenson. The General Manager had granted him a week’s leave and had spread the word that no one else was to interfere. Kannan wished he’d remembered to borrow Freddie’s massive elephant gun before his friend left on vacation, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He got on his motorcycle and drove to the coolie lines on Connemara Estate, a largish plantation owned by the McCracken Tea Company, whose estates extended right up to the boundaries of Glenclare Estate.
He had never visited the coolie quarters on any of the estates since his orientation tour when he had first arrived. As then, the sight of the buildings depressed him: rows of long, low mud-and-plaster buildings roofed with tin, a dozen families to a building, a family to a room. Small, raggedly dressed children, their faces liberally plastered with mucus and dirt, were playing in the beaten earth before the houses. At the sight of him, the children ran screaming into the houses and the women hastily covered their heads with their sari pallus. Most of the men were back at work, at least some of the time, guarded by men with guns, either the managers themselves or local poachers with their fearsome weapons.
Kannan walked up to an old woman and asked where he might find Harrison. Lowering her head, she pointed to a one-roomed cottage perched on a slight rise near the lines. As he neared it, he saw that it was constructed in the same way as the other buildings in the quarter, except that it was roofed by country tiles.
In the open patch of beaten earth surrounding the cottage, four children were playing. They ranged in age from four to fifteen and all of them had the pale brown skins of mixed breeds. An enormously fat woman, dressed in a garish pink sari, gold bright against her nose and wrists, pounded grain in a stone quern, oblivious to the shrieking children who seethed around her. The children grew quiet as he approached and their mother looked up from her pounding and gazed at him with interest.
‘Are you Mrs Harrison? I wish to see your husband,’ Kannan shouted above the sound of wood on stone.
‘Never married me, but yes, he’s here. I’ll see if I can get him.’
She stopped what she was doing, heaved herself to her feet, the sari slipping momentarily and affording him a glimpse of huge breasts. She waddled off towards the house. Over her shoulder she yelled at the children to go and play, then disappeared into the cottage. As he waited for her to emerge, he reviewed the little he knew of Richard Harrison.
He had never met the man, but then he’d gone native twenty years ago. After being fired for his excessive bouts with the bottle and pluckers, it was said that Harrison had simply packed all his worldly belongings into two empty kerosene tins and gone off to live with the coolie woman he had been sleeping with at the time. Since then, nobody had seen anything of him. This suited Kannan. All he needed was for the man to agree to what he had in mind.
The fat woman reappeared and told Kannan to go in. As he climbed up the steps to the house, he could hear the pounding start up again.
The first thing that struck him as he entered the room was the smell: the thick stench of unwashed bodies, stale food and drink, dung smoke and urine. When his eyes adjusted to the meagre light that filtered through the single dust- and smoke-stained window, he saw a gaunt old man sitting on a string cot, dressed in a lungi and a singlet. His disproportionately large head, which was totally bald and covered with liver spots, drew Kannan’s attention. Realizing he was staring, he averted his eyes. He needn’t have bothered, for Harrison did not acknowledge his presence but continued to sip from the brass tumbler in his hand.
Kannan took a quick look around. Pots and pans hung from pegs driven into the mud wall, as did saris and other clothes. Sleeping mats were rolled up in an untidy heap in one corner and there was a tin trunk and several empty kerosene tins along the walls. Harrison still ignored him, so he cleared his throat and began to speak, anxiously and fast.
‘Mr Harrison, I’d like your help, sir. There’s a man-eating tiger on the estate, and I hope you can help me get rid of it. The whole district’s being terrorized by the animal and . . .’
‘Why me?’ The voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant.
‘Well, I thought . . .’
Harrison didn’t let him finish. ‘Why don’t you get those fancy bloody planters and their expensive rifles to get rid of your problem, Mr Dorai?’
Kannan was astonished that Harrison knew his name.
The old man laughed and took a swig of whatever he was drinking.
‘Sir, I’ve heard you’re one of the best shikaris in the district . . .’
‘And a drunkard and a bedder of a black woman to boot. Oh no, mister, you’ll have to do better than that.’ He laughed again, a disagreeable sound in the little room, and then his laughter was broken by a fit of coughing so prolonged that Kannan didn’t know whether to go to his assistance or flee. When the cough finally subsided, Harrison wiped his face with a dirty rag, and said, ‘Shall I tell you why you are here, Mr Dorai? It’s because the white men think you are behind the killings. And you want to redeem yourself by killing the phantom tiger of Pulimed.’
Kannan said nothing.
‘Let me tell you, mister, news travels in many ways here. And the answer to your request is, no. I have no desire whatsoever to help you or your masters.’
When Kannan spoke, there was a pleading note in his voice, to his disgust. But he kept on anyway. ‘Please, Mr Harrison, I shall make this worth your while. Whether we shoot the tiger or not, I shall pay you a hundred rupees, no, two hundred,’ realizing even as he spoke that it was over half his monthly salary.
The old man made no reply and seemed to have forgotten about him. Kannan was turning to go, when he heard him say, ‘Your money does not interest me, mister.’ This time when Harrison lapsed into silence it was evident that the interview was over.
Kannan had almost reached his motorcycle when he heard a child hailing him in Tamil. It was one of the older children he had seen playing around Harrison’s house. The message the boy delivered was brief: his father wanted Kannan to visit him in the evening, when he would let him have a final decision. Kannan had no idea why the old man was reconsidering but he suddenly felt less dejected.
102
There were still a couple of hours left to sundown when Kannan and Harrison reached the kill. Harrison carried an old model .275 Rigby rifle, obviously well cared for, the metal parts oiled and gleaming, the worn stock lovingly polished, and Kannan shouldered his Mannlicher.
As they looked down at the remains of the victim, Kannan asked, ‘Are you sure this is a tiger kill? I mean, this one’s eaten a bit, but most of the victims weren’t even touched. And not one of the shikaris has even seen it, let alone managed to get a shot at it.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Harrison said drily. ‘But if I were a bloody self-respecting tiger, I wouldn’t show up with a bunch of bumbling jackasses crashing about with bloody great guns around me.’ He walked across to the machan, seemed satisfied with what he saw, and said to Kannan, ‘I’ll scout around a bit, see what I can find. Looks like we have a couple of hours of light left. Go home, get a couple of blankets and a good torch and be back within an hour. If you don’t see me around, go straight to the machan and sit on it. I don’t think the tiger is around yet, but if he’s going to show up, I don’t want anything spooking him.’ As Kannan turned to go, he said, ‘Oh, and bring a bottle of brandy with you.’
Kannan was at the machan at half past five. Soon after he had settled himself, he saw Harrison walking towards him. He wondered if the old man had watched him arrive; perhaps he’d had his rifle trained on him. He was suddenly nervous. He decided to watch the man carefully, try not to be caught unawares. Harrison nodded to him and climbed up into the machan. There was no conversation between them except for Harrison asking Kannan whether he’d brought the brandy. Kannan passed him the bottle and Harrison took a long swig. Then, capping the bottle, he settled himself more comfortably.
As the light began to leach from a sky crumpled and barred
with cloud, the jungle around them came alive with sound. Cicadas whirred, birds chattered and rustled and once they heard a large animal crashing away through the undergrowth. The sound of a man singing eddied up to them. When there was barely enough light to see, they heard a log being struck rapidly with a stick. ‘Barking deer,’ Kannan heard Harrison say. ‘The tiger’s moving. In this direction.’
Excitement coursed through him. He forgot the pain of the past few days. He was alive only to the thrill of the moment. A man-eating tiger, the most dangerous animal alive, was approaching them . . . The barking deer stopped calling. Night fell abruptly and slowly the excitement left him.
‘Is the tiger still around?’ he whispered to Harrison.
The old man’s whispered reply was angry. ‘Not one more bloody word out of you tonight. Comes of having bloody amateurs on a tiger shoot.’
‘Look, Mr Harrison, this is not the first shoot I’ve been on . . .’
‘One more word out of you,’ Harrison hissed, ‘and I take no further part in this hunt, is that understood?’
Kannan clamped back the angry retort that rose to his lips and subsided into a sullen silence.
The landscape lightened as the moon came up. Beside him the old man sat so still and unmoving, Kannan wondered if he was alive. The pressure of the rough wood of the machan was uncomfortable, but he dared not move in case he provoked another outburst from Harrison. He craned his head to look at his watch. They had been almost two hours on the machan. Christ, it was uncomfortable! He could feel his legs beginning to cramp; the whine of mosquitoes increased in intensity and he felt a couple settle on his face. He itched to slap them, but his fear of Harrison stayed his hand. As time passed, the strain and the discomfort spurred him to anger. What the hell am I doing in this place? he thought. I should just leave it to mad tigers, renegade Englishmen and bloody malarial mosquitoes. It’s no place for normal people. He flexed his thighs unobtrusively and tried to ignore the mosquitoes. The anger leaked away of its own accord and a sense of resignation took over. He wondered whether he should tell Helen about his decision to resign. Would it make any difference to them, to their future together? Probably not.
His immediate priority was to show these damned white planters their place. He would try and link up with Murthy when he left the estates; he wanted to be part of the action when Gandhi, and the rest of them, sent the British hurtling back to their rain-ringed islands. He wondered what someone like Harrison would do if his countrymen were kicked out. Nothing, he suspected. Just stay in his cottage with his fat coolie woman and drink himself to death with arrack. God, he hoped the old soak would be able to shoot the tiger. Assuming there was a tiger. What if it was a ghost, would Harrison die of fright? Would he? He fought the urge to giggle, then every sense snapped alert as he felt Harrison’s warning hand on his knee. The moon had gone behind a cloud and he could see nothing, but he knew that the old man had the stock of his rifle screwed to his shoulder. He held his own rifle aslant his chest but dared not move it. Now, even his untrained ears could pick up the sound of something moving cautiously towards them. The moon began to ease from behind the clouds and they could make out the shape of a large tiger astride the kill. The light grew in intensity as the moon sailed free of the cloud, and then Harrison’s rifle crashed into the night. Instantly, the animal bounded up and away into the undergrowth. ‘Don’t know if I hit him, but I think I might have. He gave me a splendid shot and I don’t usually miss at thirty yards. At least we know it’s a tiger. Get some rest, we’ll track him in the morning.’
Harrison sounded pleased and Kannan found that reassuring. The almost unbearable excitement that had enveloped him when they had first spotted the tiger began to fade, and their uncomfortable perch, the mosquitoes and the cold began to make themselves felt. But the tension and irritation were gone now. He laid his rifle down carefully, stretched, scratched luxuriously, folded himself into his blanket as best he could. As he dropped off he heard the bottle of brandy being uncapped.
103
A wounded man-eater is the most dangerous animal in the jungle. Where a normal tiger probably will not charge its tracker a day or so after it has been shot, especially if the wound is a surface one, and the pain and shock have subsided, there is no telling what a man-eater will do. The likelihood is high that it will go for the hunter. Mindful of this, Harrison and Kannan proceeded very slowly on the trail of the Pulimed Tiger.
At first light they had gone over to the spot where they’d seen the animal and the old man spotted the tell-tale cut hairs and splashes of blood that showed the bullet had gone home. Instructing Kannan to bring him a hat, sandwiches, coffee and a few other necessities, he had set about examining the blood trail. When Kannan returned, they set off at once.
At first they moved slowly, constantly checking every boulder, shrub or natural formation that was capable of concealing a wounded tiger. Wherever the trail wound through thick forest, Harrison sent Kannan ahead, for tigers do not like to charge head-on. They would inch along the jungle, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign. His every sense straining with the excitement he felt, but without the knowledge that enabled the old hunter to read the jungle with ease, Kannan saw the tiger everywhere – in a patch of grass dappled with sunlight, peering through a lantana bush, creeping over a carpet of dry leaves. Inevitably, this watchfulness took its toll and in less than an hour he was tired and was starting a headache. His body ached and spots swam before his eyes. He didn’t see the root protruding a little above the path. His foot caught on it, and his tired body fell. He had the presence of mind to hold his rifle clear as he crashed to the ground. Harrison, who was leading, was back immediately.
‘Clumsy bloody amateur,’ he muttered. Without bothering to help Kannan up, he took his rifle, unloaded it, and handed it back.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘Take my chances barehanded with a man-eater any day before I’d have some idiot shoot me in the back.’
Kannan felt the anger take hold of him and he fought it. Today, for as long it took, he would hold his temper. He needed Harrison. Wearily, he got to his feet and followed the old shikari. He tried to shake off his tiredness, it was important to keep going. He was sure Harrison would leave him behind if he felt Kannan was slowing him down.
Some time later, the blood trail was beginning to fade. At the first rest halt, Kannan asked whether that meant the wound was closing. The hunter shook his head and uncharacteristically volunteered additional information. He explained that as an animal’s coat only loosely covered the flesh, when it was in motion the wound in the skin and the wound in the flesh did not match. As a result there was little blood spilled so long as the animal kept going. When it stopped, the blood would spill out as the skin aligned with the flesh. Fifteen minutes later, he proved his theory by pointing to a big splash of blood in a clearing where the tiger had paused to rest. ‘Not a mortal wound. But not a superficial one either,’ he said to himself, and then grew alert. Away to their left, a troop of black-faced langurs which had been feeding quietly suddenly began to call, khok, khok, khok, khokorrorr . . . ‘They’ve seen the tiger, it’s on the move, come on, let’s get going.’ Kannan, who was sitting on the ground, his rifle propped between his knees, reluctantly got up. His calves, his thighs, even his shins ached. The sun was well up, and sweat sprung out on his body, further adding to his discomfort.
The tiger was moving faster now, judging by the punishing pace Harrison set. On they went, hour upon hour, under the mighty flail of the sun, through tea and eucalyptus thickets, dense sholas, up steep escarpments. Kannan staggered along, every step an effort. His rifle was monstrously heavy in his hands, his rucksack seemed full of rocks, and his thighs, calves and feet screamed with pain. Still Harrison kept on.
Towards noon they stopped by a small mountain stream. The clear cold water pooled in a natural grotto fringed with maidenhair fern and moss. Gratefully Kannan collapsed on the ground. Harrison carefully placed his rif
le next to him, then removed his hat and splashed water on his face and arms. Idly Kannan watched the little silver and blue fish in the shallows scattering in panic as the old man washed, then ventured a question: ‘Do you think we’ll get him, Mr Harrison?’
He seemed not to hear. Kannan was about to repeat himself when Harrison said, ‘The wound isn’t bothering him too much. I’ll have to try something else.’
They finished the sandwiches and coffee, and set off again. Around four o’clock, as they approached a spreading thicket of lantana, Kannan’s tiredness suddenly fell away, to be replaced by a sense of terror. There was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see, but he knew that the thicket contained something terrible. Harrison had stopped dead, his rifle up and pointing at the bushes. The minutes stretched by and then the thicket erupted with roar upon stomach-turning roar. Kannan had his rifle to his shoulder in an instant, then, realizing it was unloaded, panicked. What would he do if the old man missed or was killed? Should he take the bullets out of the rucksack and load the rifle, or would that be unwise? Harrison had given him no instructions. The jungle echoed and thundered with the tiger’s fury, then abruptly it was gone.
‘It was waiting for us,’ was all the old man said.
‘Should I load my rifle?’
‘No.’
‘Look, Mr Harrison, I know that this is just a precaution that you’re taking, but if the tiger stalks us again . . .’
‘I said, no. You said you would follow my instructions exactly, so do not argue with me! Now let’s get going.’
About half an hour later, they entered a clearing in the forest. The sunlight slanted down through tall forest trees festooned with creepers. A lush carpet of grass was neatly bisected by a stream that flowed clear and with barely a ripple over a bed of smoothly rounded pebbles. Various birds that Kannan couldn’t identify called through the green light of the glade. Jungle babblers rustled in the undergrowth. The old man, after pausing for the briefest moment to survey the scene in front of him, had gone across to a little isthmus of clear white sand by the stream. He studied the patch of sand for a long time, then beckoned Kannan over. ‘We have a very hungry animal on our hands.’ He pointed with his rifle. ‘Here’s where he stalked a sambhar doe, sprang, missed, and those tracks show how the deer got away.’
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 50