by Ruskin Bond
The next summer I got a second panther in very nearly the same place, only a hundred feet up the far side of the valley. It was a bold panther this time, so the shikari told me, and it would not keep me waiting long. It had, it seemed, early that morning rushed past a herdsman, pulled down one of his young cows in spite of his loudly vocal protests. The other herdsmen had come up and had driven the robber off his prey and word had been sent to Mahableshwar. I received the news from my shikari and again I went down two thousand feet and up two thousand feet and down two thousand feet and then up a hundred feet the other side. The kill lay out in the open and the trees round were villagers squatting like vultures. They had had a hard time keeping the panther off the kill.
I got into my machan, loaded my rifle and settled myself comfortably. Then I looked round. It was the wildest spot that I had ever been in. Rough, low scrub covered the hill side and hid the coarse grass beneath. There was not a sign of human dwelling visible, although there must have been huts somewhere in which the herdsmen lived. I felt thankful that good actions done in some former life had saved me from a life spent in such a valley. Then I looked at the kill and at the bushes round it. As I did so, a beautifully marked panther walked fearlessly into the open. It stood still and looked to see if the herdsmen, who had previously driven it off its prey were still there. Seeing and hearing nothing, it turned to take a step nearer the kill. I put up my rifle and aimed. As I did so, my sight protector came off the barrel and fell to the ground. I passed an agonising moment. If the sight protector had struck a rock, the noise would have startled the panther and I should never have been seen again. Happily the sight protector fell in the grass and made no sound. A second later I had fired and the panther was dead. It was a beautiful beast and I was delighted to get the skin. The tramp back was severe, but less so than on the previous occasion. It was much earlier in the day and I was back for dinner.
I went several times afterwards into the Krishna and adjoining valleys, but without any fortune. One day, however, I had an interesting experience. I had climbed down into the Krishna valley and up the other side and there I sat over the kill. It was a young bull that had been slain that morning by a panther, said by the villagers to have developed man-eating tendencies. I waited until it was dark and then got out of the machan. To light us homewards, one of the beaters carried a lantern. Just before we got to the edge of the plateau and were about to descend into the Krishna valley, the lantern bearer stopped and pointed to the ground. We came up and looked. Over the footprints that we had left as we walked towards the machan were the footprints of the panther. As we stalked it, it had stalked us, and had we not been such a large party, it might have tried to carry one of us off. It was very interesting and I was almost consoled for my blank day. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for that panther. We did each other no injury; we parted as friends. I did not get the panther and better still it did not get me.
(1928)
An Adventure with a Tigress
By N.B. Mehta
alking of lions reminds me of a remarkable experience I had with a tigress in the forests of the Central Provinces. "Remarkable", inasmuch as I am still a piece of humanity journeying on with the great caravan—obviously for some important mission—and not stray molecules floating in the flesh and blood of a Berar man-eater. Every man has a few notable reminiscences to narrate in company when the conversation lags or when some youthful spirit in the style of Falstaff—may his soul rest in peace—narrates how single-handed he( withstood, nay frustrated, the onslaught of half a dozen warriors, or how he measured in dust a wily panther in a dark deep Indian forest. This is my modest tale of adventure.
It came about in this wise. I, in company of two other officers was deputed to survey the traffic prospects of a railway line in the Central Provinces and had meandered into Akot, a station on the proposed railway, and a considerable cotton centre, twenty-eight miles to the north of Akola. We had halted at the dak bungalow, that oasis in the Indian countryside, when we were informed that the great attraction thereabouts was a hill fortress, Narnala, fourteen miles northward to be reached by car. We were no tourists and yet, as the next official move-on was to take place the next afternoon, we decided—a companion and I—to visit the fort and appreciate the best mediaeval Afghan architecture thereon. Strange is human wanderlust!
Half-past-five the next morning found us starting for Narnala. We disdained to wait for the guide kindly arranged for by the local Vahivatdar. We could see the hill and the faint outlines of the fortress from the dak bungalow. And what is visible dispels fear. Again had we not tramped twelve miles through a trackless forest in the Melaghat under a blazing sun, crossing the Tapti barefooted and brought back in four hours information and statistics concerning the traffic potentialities of a jungle station? So we left with confidence. The car stopped at the foot of the hill and alighting we strode briskly towards our destination, which loomed high above. It was an April morning, cool and bracing, and we had no doubt but that in an hour's time we would scale the hill and reach the fortress, although we had no guide and we had but a hazy notion of the way up. Two miles we raced thus treading lightly on the crisp forest leaves. Once or twice we felt we were not going in the right direction, but we were undaunted and hoped to reach our goal somehow. Then the thing happened. We were approaching an open space with a miserable bush to the right and a few bare silver birch-like trees to the left when, with a repeating growl, a huge Bengal tigress leaped barely eight yards in front of us. It was a beautiful clean jump and we should have applauded it in a circus show. But what was still more surprising was the repeating snarling noise which she emitted. No, it was not a roar that reverberates in a forest and I don't know why she preferred this method of welcoming us except that we looked, armed as we were with a cane and a camera, meek and modest, and she thought it better to reserve her loud speaker for a more fitting occasion. Then instead of leaping on us and giving us the coup de grace she described a semi-circle with her snarling face towards us and disappeared in the same bush. We were nonplussed at this uncalled for visitation and acting on the instinct of self-preservation, we picked up a few stones and started to run in the opposite direction. This was just the thing not to do; for on her return visit she could have caught us in a couple of leaps. Luckily I remembered having read that tigers don't climb trees and acting upon this, I instructed my companion to climb one of the small slender trees that were about us. I also lost no time in swinging up on one.
Hardly had we done so before the tigress with the same old semi-humorous growl rushed at us through the thicket and stared at us with surprise. But she was now frustrated. Why she did not knock us down when we were on terra firma quietly walking towards her is to me an unsolved riddle. It may be that she was afraid of the safety of her two cubs, who, we subsequently learnt, were with her, and went back into the thicket to assure herself of their safety. Whatever the cause of her clumsy mistake at our first meeting, at the second we were safely perched on the branches of two trees beyond her reach and contemplating her exasperation with good humour.
Once temporarily safe, we began to consider the means we should take to escape the attention of the beast who was all the time hiding in the thicket and waiting for us to come down. One thing was certain: we must escape and reach the village where our car was awaiting us and that before darkness set in. And we realised that as we were surrounded by tall hills on all sides it would be dark by 4 p.m. It was not particularly cold but it was blowing frightfully. Starvation was not our dread as we had stuffed our pockets with biscuits.
The nearest village was two miles away and as we had strayed off the beaten track the chances of people coming in our direction were remote. I then resorted to shouting at intervals of ten minutes in the hope of drawing the attention of some passer-by. We were on the tree for quite an hour before my shout received a reply. Two shikaris with guns and our chauffeur then turned up and we knew we were saved- The shikaris heard our story and ask
ed us the direction in which the beast had gone. We followed her footsteps but evidently she had taken a fortified position among the rocks and we thought it best to turn back to the village. We followed the footprints of the tigress towards the village where she had gone the previous evening and we came across stray limbs of a buffalo, a tell-tale evidence of the beast's previous meal. The shikaris also pointed out to us the smaller footprints of the two cubs. We certainly thanked our gods that the fate of the buffalo did not befall us. I suspect it was the sumptuous meal which the tigress and her cubs had had on the buffalo which made our visitor reluctant to draw the blood of such ignoble adversaries, as we were.
(1928)
The Midnight Visitor
By C.A. Renny
ll day long the air had glowed with a shimmering, unbearable heat. Long since the Christmas rains had departed and none other had fallen, the grassy levels of the plain surrounding my temporary abode and coolie lines were scorched and yellow, while gaping cracks, cleft in the ground by days of pitiless heat, were a menace to cattle by day and roving animals at night. The mango, sal and simul stood covered with hot dust hurled up by an occasional whirlwind, their dry and tired leaves drooping and thirsty, waiting for the rain that would not come.
It was the end of June, yet there were no signs of the approach of the monsoon. Nightly to south-westward, the sky was lit up by occasional flashes of summer lightning. All day, the work of transplanting went on with no sign of pleasure, the usual songs of the coolies as they worked, a sure sign of contentment, were hushed; all were contriving to complete the task set them as soon as possible to get home under the shelter of their thatched roofs.
The thermometer for days now had registered a hundred degrees, and the humid atmosphere of the Darjeeling Tarai made life as unbearable and uncomfortable as it could possibly be.
Extra work in the evening was out of the question, to expect it was inhumane.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, the neighbouring garden assistant rode over for a chat and a cup of tea. "Gee whizz," he exclaimed as he slid out of his saddle. "Today beats all other days and if tomorrow beats today, no work in the hot sun for this child." He climbed up the steps leading to the front verandah, threw his topee and came into a corner and selecting a Singapore cane chair, made himself comfortable. The "boy" brought out tea and other drinks and left them on the table, and placing the soda-water under the table, carefully balanced the opener on top of one of them.
Evidently Long John understood what was said and began pouring out the tea. He asked me if I wanted something, but I was engaged watching a Santal funeral passing the house towards the Sal jungle, a man walking in front was scattering rice to left and to right. The funeral had also attracted the young gardener, who turning to Long John asked what the rice-scattering meant.
"These be jungle people and have strange manners and customs we know nothing of." Meanwhile the funeral had crossed the Government road and entered the Sal forest.
Ten minutes after, the Chota Saheb, as he was familiarly termed, for I had none to help me, got astride his stud and galloped off towards his own garden, two miles to the north to issue orders for the following day's work.
An hour after, the sun dipped behind the Nepal hills and shortly after, the disc of a brilliant full moon could be distinguished through the foliage of the Sal forest. A breeze had sprung up— a breeze welcome by all. Everyone seemed to take an interest in life again.
The hours dragged on, seven o'clock had given place to eight o'clock when Long John stepped out to announce dinner. Not to disappoint him I went in, sat down and played with my food. In spite of the breeze, it was really too hot to eat.
The bright moon had topped the trees while I dined, and on stepping into the verandah, I found the whole country bathed in its brilliant light. The silent coolie lines had become animated and from all sides the sound of Santal fiddles and flutes and the sound of the Nagpuri drums could be heard as they accompanied the songs of the dancers.
Beyond the northern coolie lines, on an abandoned tea estate. facetiously named Awl, a term signifying, "the deadly malarial fever," singing, dancing and drumming was being carried on with greater vigour. I had been informed that in a solitary hut a little inland from the left bank of the stream running through the estate, a marriage was to take place. The rice-beer usually supplied at all marriages on the tea garden had been copiously partaken of, hence the drumming and singing rising above all others.
Nine o'clock struck on a distant gong. Tired of sitting idle in the verandah, I went inside to finish a sketch. I soon found the centre room where I usually worked was a veritable oven. Throwing open every door and window I sat down to the drawing I had in hand; five minutes after I gave it up perspiring profusely. There was a make-shift punkah in the adjoining bed room, I went inside, undressed and went to bed, and was soon fast asleep. A ghastly sound, resembling nothing on earth, rent the air. I jumped out of bed wondering if I had heard it in my dream. Another and yet another unearthly shriek rent the stillness. I could not place the sound at all. I hastily donned some clothes, loaded every rifle and gun I had, and lit every lamp in the bungalow. The punkah had long ceased to function, the reason was obvious. Seizing the guns, I carried them into the small dining-room on the north side of the bungalow; for it was from this direction the sound had come. It was midnight by the clock. Peering through the window panes, which I had hastily closed, I tried to find some reason for the ghastly sound. Every coolie hut was barred, every line as silent as night, not even the dogs attempted to give vent to their feelings. From beyond the northern lines again that ghastly shriek pierced the stillness. Chaos now reigned. The Chinamen Carpenters, who lived fifty yards to the south of my abode, on the fringe of the Sal forest, frightened out of their wits, had collected all waste timber and pouring half a tin of kerosene oil on it had set it alight. Another man inside their house, suddenly blessed with a brain wave, set a Chinese record on their gramophone and started it going. Where peace had reigned, the beat of drums, the lighting of flares, the beating of anything that could make a noise, accompanied the shrieks of a frightened woman.
There was a knock on the door leading into the back verandah and an unrecognisable voice prayed to be let in. I opened the door hurriedly to find Long John, shivering with fright. He hurried inside, barred the door, and collapsed in a corner, calling on Allah.
Again that awful sound came to us louder than the din created by frightened coolies. It sounded nearer. Grasping a rifle, I went to the window to have a shot.
"Huzoor, don't fire, lest it come here and wreck the bungalow." Pleaded Long John.
"What is it? Come, let me know quickly."
"Huzoor, it is the pagla hati—a mad elephant. Some say, huzoor, it is Saitan himself."
"Saitan or no Saitan, make me a cup of tea."
Again that blood-curdling shriek broke the stillness of the night. Regardless of Long John's advice, I fired in the direction of the noise and waited. Evidently the shot had either killed or had frightened the beast, for as the minutes went by, the flares died down, the drumming and the hubbub ceased, and a silence fraught with fright settled down on the estate.
I went out into my front verandah with the cup of tea in my hand and was greeted by Achong, the head Chinaman, with these words:
"Your nursery gone to hell."
"What John?"
"Do tho' tha" (There were two.)
"Humra ghar tor dia." (They have broken my house.)
"Alright, John."
Alright, going," and John went off.
Half an hour went by. The dawn was breaking. The coolies having recovered from their fright, were talking excitedly. I lit a cigarette, shouted for more tea and when Long John brought it, I found he too was his normal self again.
"Here, Long John, what has happened? What does Achong, Chinaman, mean by saying 'there were two'?"
"Huzoor, when that pagla hati shrieked, there were two wild elephants wandering in the Sal forest
. These took fright and in running past the Chinaman's house, knocked their cook-room over. I was with the Chinaman at the time and saw them cross the stream, run through your gotibari (nursery) and disappear towards the Mechi river." Saying which he went inside.
"I wonder what damage has been done? Well, we can tell in the morning," I murmured to myself.
Gradually the light strengthened and as the burning orb appeared over the Dalka Forest and lit the tops of the near Sal trees, the jungli murghis hailed the appearance with crow after crow. A solitary figure from the nearest coolie lines crept towards my bungalow and reaching the steps, gazed up at me mutely, with frightened eyes.
It was Sani Sirdar, head of the Kharia coolies.
"What is it, Sani?"
There was no answer. Fright had effectually sealed his lips. I knew the remedy in cases of this sort. Shouting to Long John, I ordered him to bring the whisky bottle. When he brought it, I poured out a stiff peg and handing it to him, told him to give it to Sani.
"Well, Sani?" I asked as the last drop vanished down his throat.
"Huzoor, a terrible thing has happened."
"What thing?"
"Huzoor, I cannot speak even of it. Come and see."
Other sirdars had joined him.
"Alright. I'll be with you in five minutes." I went inside, hastily donned a coat and taking my topee from the verandah peg, went down the steps.
I followed the sirdars who led me past Sani Sirdar's lines, where several women were standing in a group. I chaffed them, but there was no answer. Poor creatures, I thought, they seem dumb with fright.
The sirdars walked on. We passed the northern lines and came to the hut where the marriage had taken place. It had fallen to the ground.
"Hullo, this was standing yesterday, how did it fall?"