by Ruskin Bond
Some fifteen yards back, in the field, stood the only tree available for a machan; but it would have involved a long and very sketchy shot at a tangent, as it were, over the edge of the field. On the other hand, a large tree stump on the edge of the field provided a convenient base for a good bower on the ground and I decided to use it thus. Moreover, it was only some eighteen feet from the kill.
The shikari had certainly made a good job of it by the time I went back and I settled down in my "synthetic bush" at a quarter to seven. There was no need to get in earlier. A good deal of traffic passed along the road—bullock carts, men from fields near by, and even occasional motors. About a hundred yards away, on some open ground at the foot of the nullah, lay an encampment of picturesque men from far-off Bashahr State who had brought their herds of long-haired goats down into these foothills for winter grazing. These men moved about their evening tasks talking and singing without restraint while their very large and woolly dog bayed intermittently against the chafe of his chain. Life was altogether a noisome affair.
Patient and motionless did I sit, watching the sky change from blue to grey and then into that "faded" black, the herald of true night. Sounds of traffic grew more and more infrequent and by half-past seven I had begun to stay really vigilant. The moon had risen and, while it cast a brilliant band of light on about two-thirds of the distance between me and the kill, it failed to pierce the thicket over the kill. It became quite a game to try to see anything in there. I had to give it up after a time as I found I was unduly straining my eyes in the effort. I had, in consequence, to depend on my ears which I attuned to the silence around me to enable me to pick up any sound that arose.
How time can drag when one is sitting still! At eight-fifteen I heard a slight and distant purr.
"Hello! Spots coming?" I wondered.
Not a bit of it. My companion in the Dak Bungalow (as I learnt later) had returned unexpectedly from his inspections of roads and bridges, heard that I had gone out for a panther and came out to verify the information. Blighter! How I mentally swore at the glare of his headlights and the hum of his engine as he made his inquiries from my men on the road before he swung back again. This was the approaching purr which, for a few glad seconds, I had hoped was that of a cheerful big cat approaching his dinner.
When would I get my dinner that night? I had confidently laid down that I would sit till at least midnight because I quite agreed with the shikari that if the panther returned at all he would most probably come long after sunset. Now, however, as 9 p.m. drew near the heartening effects of a substantial tea were beginning to . . . er! . . . wear off! Nor could I tighten my belt—I was wearing braces!
That Bashahr dog, too, was beginning to annoy me. "Whoof-whoof-whoof' he kept on at the strange sounds of night which had now replaced the hush of late evening.
Would he never stop for more than ten seconds at a time? Could it be that the panther was about and that the dog had sensed its proximity? A wretched buffalo, tethered apparently somewhere below on my left, had now joined forces with the baying dog.
"Ugh-h-h-h" softly grunted the buffalo in the brief intervals that the dog allowed the silence I so much desired. "Whoof-whoof-whoof" gaily responded the dog!
My resolutions about midnight wavered. What was the use of so protracted a vigil? I would make it eleven o'clock and call it a night.
9-30 now and a deep hush prevailed—save for that infernal dog and the low grunts of the buffalo. Would I make it 11 or just 10-30—or perhaps even 10? Yes, perhaps 10 only!
9-45 and not a sign of the panther .... Stay! Surely that was the light crackle of a dry leaf below me? No. There were too many dry leaves about and a panther would make much more noise. It must be a jackal or a wild cat. Anyhow, I would look and furnish myself with a perfectly sound excuse for getting back, for if a jackal came on the kill it meant that the panther was not about and not likely to come for hours—if at all.
Taking the precaution to align my gun in the direction of the kill I pressed the button of my torch.
Heavens! The panther himself—above the kill and broadside on!
How his yellow fur with its dark rosettes gleamed in the brilliant light! I had time to notice how he strove in vain to peer into the flood of light which fell on him from fifteen feet.
In much less time than it takes to narrate I sighted and my finger curved lovingly around the trigger. The crash of my shot danced into a pandemonium which ensured for a few seconds.
"Whoof! Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa!" and the stricken animal tore through the undergrowth—forwards and down the nallah.
Silence. Then a flurry of leaves—his death-struggle, as we saw later, but which got me switching on my torch again in a fevered hurry lest he were coming up to investigate the cause of his downfall! Then complete silence—even on the part of the probably awed dog and the buffalo.
My men came from the road to my whistle, we gathered up my belongings and, giving the panther time to settle down to his last sleep, I went back to dinner.
Half an hour later I returned and with torches going and each step taken after a very cautious look around, we found the great cat already growing cold. He must have died immediately and so the distance he had travelled amazed me the more. The shot, moreover, seemed a good one.
I was interested to learn also that no buffalo had been in the neighbourhood that night and that I had been listening to Felis pardus himself swearing softly at the dog's incessant challenge.
The main question was lost sight of as we recognised the identity of the dog, confirmed on inquiry from the owner.
"Yes, Huzoor," said the bania, "as you know she was given to wandering a lot and I missed her in the morning. She must have run out at night at the panther and so been carried off. Oh, she was a very good chowkidar and I am sorry to lose her but we shall all bless you for ridding us of this pest, the panther."
Poor old mother pi-dog! She had, in death, given me a trophy far more handsome and more valued than even a first cheetal head. She had also, through my agency, encompassed the downfall of a public enemy.
She was now wholly and unequivocally forgiven because of this, her share in the completion of the cycle of jungle tragedies.
(1929)
Hunters of Souls
By Augustus Somerville
uring a long period of service in the Survey Department of the Government of India, I have had occasion to visit many of the remotest parts of India, away from the beaten tracks and devoid of those forms and amenities of civilization that the average traveller learns to expect.
It was on one of these excursions that I came across an extraordinary tribe living in the heart of the mountain fastnesses of Chhota Nagpur. These people who call themselves Bhills, but who, I have reason to suspect from their colour, language and facial expressions, are closely related to the Sontal and Ghond tribes, are a nomadic, semi-barbaric race living exclusively on wild animals, in the snaring and trapping of which they are experts, and also on their reputation as "Soul Catchers." In this last extraordinary avocation I was most interested, but could glean no information from the natives themselves until one day I had an opportunity of watching a "Soul Catcher" at work.
Early in October. 1908, I received orders to survey a large section of forest land in the Palamu District. Certain wise-acres had discovered traces of minerals, such as mica, coal, etc., in the neighbourhood and were making tentative offers for the purchase of a large tract of this land, with mining rights thrown in. A wide awake Government hearing that I had a miring engineer's certificate attached to the many credentials that secured me this position, decided to send me down to survey the land, and incidentally report on its possibilities as a mining area.
I will hasten over the first part of journey as uninteresting but once at Daltonganj, a small station on the extreme end of the only decent motoring road in the district, I found myself on the brink of the unknown.
Next morning I procured a hand-cart for the transport of my tent, gu
ns, ammunition, etc., and with two servants and a native guide, set out for the interior.
The only road was a rough cart track, which after we had followed for about six miles, disappeared in the impenetrable undergrowth through which we were compelled to travel; abandoning the cart, we bundled the tent and accessories into three packs, which my two servants and the guide carried, and shouldering my rifle myself, set out on the 30-mile trek that would eventually bring us to the village of the Soul Catchers.
That night we camped on the edge of the jungle, near the banks of a small stream. In a short time we had the tent erected and a good fire blazing merrily. Dangerous animals were numerous in the district and after a good dinner I turned in, with my rifle fully loaded on the cot besides me.
Nothing untoward occurred that night, but in the early hours of the morning the servants awoke me with the disquieting information that our guide had disappeared.
Needless to say I took this information very seriously. To be without a guide in that wilderness of unchartered forest and impenetrable bush was alarming enough, but what worried me most was that I had supplies only for a couple of days, and the possibilities of locating the village without a guide was remote enough to depress the most sanguine of explorers.
I will never forget the three days we wandered in that forest. It was one of the most awful experiences I have ever had.
From the onset I had determined to travel light and so abandoned the tent and other heavy accessories. My survey instruments, I buried securely in the vicinity of a large pepul tree, marking the spot with several heavy boulders from the adjoining stream, then carrying only our food, guns and ammunition, set out for the nearest human habitation.
Directing myself solely with my pocket compass I travelled due south-east the direction we were taking prior to the guide's disappearance. Of beaten tracks there were none, but hitherto we had managed to avoid the worst sections of the forest fairly successfully. Bereft of the experience and woodcraft of our guide we blundered into all manner of pitfalls, and on several occasions found ourselves in thick masses of undergrowth composed almost entirely of stunted plum bushes fairly bristling with thorns, that tore our clothes and lacerated our hands and legs fearfully. All that day we trekked through a waterless section of the forest and suffered agonies from heat and thirst. Towards evening, however, we emerged on an open plain on the edge of a vast swamp. My two servants were advancing slightly ahead of me, and as they left the forest and saw the cold water ahead, they threw down their burdens and raced towards the marsh. At this instant I also broke from the entangling bushes on the edge of the swamp and all but followed their example, so parched was I, when I beheld a sight that for a moment kept me spellbound. As the natives reached the water-edge, two huge black forms rose, and with a snort of rage made for the unfortunate men. In a moment I had recognised the animals for the powerful fearless wild buffalo of the Chhota Nagpur plateau. Unslinging my rifle from my shoulder, I fired at the animal nearest to me but in my haste aimed too low, so that the bullet, intended for the shoulder, penetrating the animal's knee. The buffalo went down with a crash and as I turned to fire at its mate, I realised with a thrill of horror, that I was too late. The second unfortunate Indian in his haste to leave the water had slipped on the marshy banks and lay floundering in the mire. In a moment the buffalo was on him and with one mighty sweep of its huge horns hurled his body through the air to land a mangled mass of bones and flesh some ten feet from the bank. At this moment it spotted me, and with a snort of rage charged in my direction. I am afraid I let no sporting sentiments interfere with my shooting. Working the bolt of my rifle steadily from my shoulder—my rifle being of the magazine pattern—put four successive shots into the huge brue in as many seconds, so that it went down as if pollaxed.
By this time my remaining servant, trembling with the shock of his recent experience, had reached my side and reloading, I went towards the wounded buffalo. Although handicapped with its broken legs the animal was nevertheless, making a gallant effort to get out of the deep mire that hampered its movements. As we approached the beast, it glared at us and with a savage bellow attempted to charge. Awaiting till it had approached sufficiently close, one well-directed shot put an end to its miseries, and we were safe to attend to our unfortunate comrade.
Poor fellow, he must have been killed instantaneously; covering up the body with a piece of cloth, we dug a shallow grave and buried him as decently as possible. By this time it was getting dark, so we built a fire and camped a short distance away.
That night I slept badly. The excitement of the evening and the strangeness of the situation kept me continuously awake. Towards morning the cold became intense and unable to sleep, I determined to rise, replenish the fire and if possible boil some water for an early cup of tea.
Leaving the shelter of the bush in which I lay, I walked briskly towards the place where I had seen Mohamed Ali stock our small store of edibles. Unable to find them I was first under the impression that I had mistaken the spot, but a closer inspection showed a few remaining packages containing flour and sugar.
Shouting loudly to Mohamed Ali to wake up, I started a feverish search in the surrounding bushes for further signs of the stores but although I wandered far into the forest, not a single trace of food could I find. Incensed with Mohamed Ali for his carelessness and blaming myself bitterly for not carefully attending to the storing of this essential part of our equipment more carefully, I awaited the arrival of my servant impatiently determined to give him a bit of my mind.
I must have waited fully half an hour still searching round in the hope of finding part of the missing stores before I was aware that no Mohamed Ali had turned up.
"What on earth is the matter with the fellow", I wondered. "He surely cannot be still asleep."
Returning to the camp, I looked all round for him. His blanket lay in a ruffled heap on the spot where he had slept, but of the man himself there was no trace.
All that morning I waited, searching the surrounding forest and even firing my rifle occasionally in the hope of attracting his attention if the poor fellow had wandered into the forest and lost his direction, but to no avail and at last I was compelled to admit that henceforth I would have to travel alone.
Imagine my position. One of my servants killed, two mysteriously spirited away in the dead of night and no provision of any sort except a little flour and sugar to sustain me till I reached a human habitation of some type.
To say I was depressed, is to put it mildly. Candidly I was more than depressed, I was scared. The vision of myself parched with thirst, faint from starvation, wandering through the dense forest, a prey to any wild animal I chanced to meet, filled me with the gravest apprehensions.
Keep on I knew I had to. To stay where I Was, would only diminish my chances of reaching civilisation, so that while I had the strength and ability I determined to push on depending on my good fortune to strike some village.
Cutting first a generous supply of meat from the carcass of one of the buffaloes, I had shot the evening previous, I packed the few things I needed and with as much ammunition as I could carry, set out on my lonely trek.
All that day I worked steadily south-east, but although I kept a sharp lookout, I failed to detect any signs of human habitation.
That night, fearing to sleep on the ground alone, I looked around for a convenient tree and after singeing a portion of the meat over a small fire, I ate a frugal meal, and climbed to the topmost branches.
The evening was still light and I scanned the forest in every direction. On every side was an unending vista of green and yellow leaves broken here and there by small clearings, put of villages no sign existed.
The night fell quickly, and soon a glorious moon sailed over the tree tops flooding the rustling, billowy sea of green below me, with a soft translucent light. It was a night, which in spite of my precarious position, I recall with the keenest delight.
Scarcely had the darkness fallen when a s
ambur belled in a thicket nearby and soon the forest awoke to its nocturnal life of mystery and movement.
From my lofty perch, I watched a herd of spotted deer troop past my tree, pursued by a stealthy yellow form which I instantly recognised for a huge leopard. I could have shot the beast easily, so unaware was he of any human presence, but I refrained from firing and later was thankful for this forbearance.
As the night wore on, I settled myself more comfortably in the deep fork of the tree and was soon asleep.
I may have slept a couple of hours, perhaps less, when I was awakened by a peculiar throbbing sound that seemed to fill the forest.
I roused myself and looking round eagerly soon detected the direction from which the sound was proceeding. As it approached, I recognised the low droaning of the large drums the Sontals in this district use and I must confess the thought of human beings filled me with a strange sensation of joy and relief.
Fortunately a natural prudence restrained me from springing from my perch and hastening in the direction of the drums. Waiting till the first of the drummers emerged from the thick forest I raised myself and was about to call out when I noticed that the leading natives, bearing huge flaming torches, were nude, except for a single loin cloth and grotesquely decorated in yellow and vermillion. The torch-bearers were followed by others hideously painted in white and black representing skeletons. These extraordinary beings were executing a wired type of dance and chanting a solemn dirge, while immediately behind them, slung from bamboo poles, were the bodies of two men. The vanguard of this strange procession was formed of a large crowd of Sontals armed with spears, bows and arrows and various other crude weapons.
The procession passed immediately under my tree and as the bearers of the two corpses, (as I took them to be) were beneath me, I looked down and received quite a shock—the bodies were those of our guide and my servant Mohamed Ali.