He (Shey)

by Rabindranath Tagore

  ‘Oh, that’s not just any old meat. It’s been sanctified by chanting mantras.’

  ‘What kind of mantras?’

  ‘Their very holy snarl-spell. They utter it before they make each kill. You couldn’t call that killing, could you?’

  ‘And what if they forget to chant the spell?’

  ‘The most revered tiger-pandit maintains that if a tiger forgets to chant the spell before it makes a kill, it’ll be reborn as the beast it has killed. All the tigers are scared stiff of being reborn as humans.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In their opinion, the human body is entirely bald, and quite grotesque. Men can’t even boast of tails! They need wives just to whisk the flies off their backs. They look like clowns, toddling about on two legs—the sight makes the tigers laugh till they cry. The most renowned contemporary tiger-expert on the history and habits of his race says that when Lord Vishwakarma45 had nearly finished making the world and was running low on materials, he felt a sudden urge to create humans. Let alone paws, he couldn’t even muster a few hooves for the poor creatures—they hide the shame of their naked feet with shoes and of their bodies with clothes. Humankind is the only form of life that suffers from embarrassment. No other creature on earth feels such shame.’

  ‘Tigers must be very haughty creatures.’

  ‘Oh, they are. That’s why they’re so anxious to preserve their caste. Why, a human girl once put a tiger quite off its food by hinting it would lose caste if it ate her. Our He has composed a poem about it.’

  ‘I’m sure He can’t write poems like you do.’

  ‘Well, he thinks he can, and it’s not a case you can call in the police to solve.’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘All right.’

  A black-striped tiger, huge and hulking,

  Into a mansion one day skulking

  After a footman—O toothsome delight!—

  Encountered a mirror, and got quite a fright.

  The footman fled in a single bound

  And the beast in the mirror his own image found.

  His fur stood on end; he shouted, ‘Alack!

  My body is branded with stripes of black!’

  With the rice-paddle Putu stood husking some rice:

  The tiger arrived at the spot in a trice.

  He puffed out his whiskers (his only hope!)

  And fiercely demanded some glycerine soap.

  Putu was puzzled. ‘Now what was that word?

  It isn’t one I can claim to have heard.

  Of high-flown learning I’ve suffered a dearth,

  The sad result of my lowly birth.’

  ‘Lies!’ the tiger exclaimed with a scowl.

  ‘D’you think I’m blind?’ he began to growl.

  ‘The glycerine soap must be all-effacing:

  ‘What else could remove the stripes from your casing?’

  Putu was vexed. ‘I’m dark!’ she moped.

  Nobody’s seen me glycerine-soap’d.

  You’re joking: I’m not a memsahib’s aunt.

  Supply you with soap, therefore, I can’t.’

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed?’ hear the tiger shout.

  ’I’ll crunch up your bones and your flesh, you lout!’

  Putu exclaimed, ‘You shameless old sinner!

  You’re doomed if you try to devour me for dinner!

  Of humble caste am I, don’t you know?

  Mahatma Gandhi loves my tribe so!46

  Calm down, don’t lose your temper, I pray.’

  Yelled the tiger in fright, ‘Don’t touch me, I say!

  Oh, fie upon me! Oh, woe and disgrace!

  In Tiger-Town what scorn I’ll face!

  My name will be sunk; full of daughters my house—

  Not one of the girls will find her a spouse.

  The Tiger-Goddess will with curses assail me:

  No glycerine soap—I’m off to bewail me!

  ‘You know, Pupu-didi, there’s a great to-do among the tigers now in the name of progress. The speakers for the movement are going around telling everyone that rejecting certain kinds of flesh as profane is disrespectful to the blessed spirit of the dead animal. They declare, “From now on, we’ll eat whatever we can kill; we’ll eat with both right paw and left paw, fore-paw and hind-paw; we’ll eat whether we’ve chanted the snarl-spell or not.” They’ve gone to the extent of resolving to claw their prey on Thursdays and bite it on Saturdays—such enlightened emancipation! These tigers are great ones for arguments, and make a great show of respect for all forms of life. They’re so noble-minded that they want to eat even the kaibarta farmers on the west bank of the Ganga. They’ve got into a huge row about all this. The puritan tigers have dubbed them “Kaibarta-Clawers”. They’ve come in for a lot of chaffing, as a result.’

  Pupe asked, ‘Dadamashai, have you ever written a poem about tigers?’

  Loath to admit defeat, I said I had.

  ‘Do let me hear it.’

  Gravely, I began to recite:

  O God our Maker, you have not belittled might,

  But with powerful hand bestowed it as right

  In him that is strongest—amazing your grace!

  An awesome predator, keen-clawed, with face

  As fearsome as comely; a frame like a streak

  Of lightning—crashing down to wreak

  Splendid havoc—Lord Shiva’s passion47

  Rages in the creature you have fashioned.

  The storm unstemmed by creation’s decree,

  Reared hood of froth in the foaming sea,

  The raging lion that your mercy defies,

  The awful thunder of giants’ war cries,

  The tongues of hungry fire that dart

  Through rock and soil, to brand the heart

  Of the stormy sky, and the drunken flood

  Cruel, unashamed, revolt in its blood—

  All these are rebels, immortal, unbroken:

  Through them the voice of terror has spoken.

  Your creature belongs to this awesome race:

  No power dares mock his terrible grace.

  Pupu was silent. ‘Well, Didi?’ I asked. ‘You didn’t seem to like it.’

  Abashed, she replied, ‘No, no, of course I liked it. It’s just that I can’t quite find a tiger in it.’

  ‘Where else should he be but hiding in the bushes? You can’t see him, but he’s there all the same, all the more terrible because he’s hidden.’

  ‘You told me about the glycerine-seeking tiger long ago,’ mused Pupu. ‘How did He come to hear of him?’

  ‘He steals all my stories and puts them on his own lips.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘ “But” just about sums it up. Not that he made too bad a job of the poem.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Quite correct. I don’t write that way, perhaps I can’t. But this isn’t the first time he’s pinched my material and polished it up a bit. Once that’s done, it’s hard to recognize again. Take that other rhyme of his—very like the first one—’

  ‘I want to hear it.’

  ‘Very well, listen:

  There lived a fat tiger, the forest his home.

  Day after day

  In search of prey

  His stripy frame would roam.

  But he’d throw a fit

  If he chanced to hit

  With whisker-puffing heat

  Upon the fact

  His dinner lacked

  A pound or two of meat.

  One day he snarled

  At Baturam gnarled

  And bald as a pink-faced baby,

  ‘Go wake your wife:

  Ten lambs or your life!

  Lay the table, you gormless old gaby!’

  Cried Batu, ‘What’s this?

  There’s much that’s amiss

  In your manners as well as your breeding.

  It’s late at night,

  But you’ll pick a fight

  Whenever your tum needs feeding!


  ‘You chose to stumble

  Upon my hearth humble—

  But think of the tigress you’ve wed!

  Into space she scowls

  While her stomach growls,

  But she’ll only eat when you’re fed.

  ‘At home you’ve stored

  The iguana you gored,

  And the shrivelled corpse of a toad,

  A rabbit stale

  With a stink to regale—

  It’s waiting for you down the road.

  ‘Or else you’ll find that the papers

  Are raising Cain over your capers—’

  ‘Oh Lord Almighty!

  Your talk is too flighty

  My head’s in a whirl with your scolding.

  My brain’s all a-clatter

  With your foolish chatter,

  But meanwhile, my meal you’re withholding!

  ‘Your hairless pate

  Will meet a grim fate

  Unless you come out and drop guard.

  To save your skin

  You must give in,

  And show me the goats in your yard.’

  Then Baturam swore

  To fall at the four

  Huge feet of the stripy old glutton,

  But said, ‘It’s a sin

  To do someone in,

  And worse to steal all his mutton!’

  The tiger said,

  ‘What if I die instead?

  That’ll rouse the Creator’s ire!

  And then my missus

  Deprived of my kisses

  Will die on my funeral pyre.

  ‘So out with my meat,

  Or it’s you that I’ll eat.’—

  He raised his paw for a clout.

  Batu said in a flap,

  ‘Don’t be hasty, old chap:

  Let’s see if my goats are about.’

  The tiger was led

  By his host to a shed.

  Batu said, ‘Here endeth your quest!’

  He did not hesitate

  To fasten the gate

  And bar it upon his guest.

  Then wondered the beast,

  ‘I don’t see my feast—

  Can it be that Batu is cheating?

  There’s nor hide nor hair

  Of my promised fare,

  Nor sound of its agonized bleating.

  ‘Batu seems bent

  With savage intent

  On having a fellow-beast die.

  I’ll collar the hound,

  Pin him to the ground

  And suck out his blood till he’s dry.

  This filthy shed—’

  ‘It’s for coal,’ Batu said.

  ‘It was once the dairyman’s nest.

  The God of the Dead

  Now sleeps here instead,

  And he’ll guide your soul unto rest.’

  The tiger puffed out his whiskers:

  ‘What’s become of the bleating friskers?’

  Said Batu in glee,

  ‘They’re all within me!

  Go search the whole town if you must,

  You won’t find a trace

  Of them in the place—

  I’ve crunched all their bones into dust!’

  'Did you like it?'

  'Whatever you might say, Dadamashai, I think He writes beautiful tiger-poems.'

  I replied, 'Well, that's as it may be. But wait another ten years before you venture to judge whether he writes better than I do.'

  Pupu changed the subject. ‘But my tiger doesn’t come to eat me.’

  ‘Since I can see you right before me, I should say he doesn’t. What does your tiger do?’

  ‘At night, when I’m in bed, he comes and scratches at the windowpane. When I open it, he giggles.’

  ‘That’s perfectly possible. Tigers are great ones for laughing— what they call “humorous” in English. They bare their gums at the slightest provocation.’

  * * *

  41Chowringhee: an area in central Calcutta, the chief thoroughfare of the old ‘white town’.

  42alta: a red dye used by women to paint their feet.

  43Baitarani: the river dead souls cross to enter the underworld.

  44Magh: the tenth month in the Bengali calendar (mid-January to mid-February).

  45Lord Vishwakarma: the craftsman among the Hindu gods. The Vedas say Vishwakarma created the universe.

  46 Mahatma Gandhi protested against caste-based social injustice and worked for the uplift of the so-called lower castes and untouchables.

  47Lord Shiva’s passion: destructive frenzy. Shiva is the god of destruction.

  7

  PUPU CAME TO ME AND ASKED, ‘DADAMASHAI, DIDN’T YOU SAY YOU’D invited He here on Saturday? What happened?’

  ‘It went off very well. Haji Mian had made some of his sheekh kebabs—delicious!’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I ate three-quarters of them, and gave that urchin Kalu the rest. Kalu said, “Dada, this tastes better than our plantain dumplings!” ’

  ‘Didn’t He eat anything?’

  ‘He didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘Didn’t he even come?’

  ‘How could he?’

  ‘Well then, where is he?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘At home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gone back to his village?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Abroad, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You told me it was almost arranged that He should go to the Andaman Islands. Is that where he’s gone?’

  ‘He didn’t need to go.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you telling me what’s actually happened?’

  ‘Because you’ll be either frightened or grieved.’

  ‘I don’t care. You’ll have to tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Very well then, listen—’

  The other day, having a class to teach, I was supposed to read the learned text Bidagdhamukhamandan.48 After a while, I suddenly discovered that The History of Panchu Pakrashi’s Aunt-in-Law had found its way into my hands. I must have dozed off as I read; it was then half past two in the morning. I dreamt that our cook Kini had had her face badly burnt when some boiling oil blazed into flame. Having performed penance for seven days and seven nights, she was granted two tins of Lahiri’s Moonlight Snow. She scoured her face with it, but I told her, ‘That won’t do any good; go get some skin from the cheek of a buffalo-calf and have it sewn on your face—nothing else will match your complexion.’ The words were scarcely out of my mouth when she borrowed three and a quarter rupees from me and rushed off to Dharmatala market to buy a calf. At this point, I heard a strange whooshing noise in the room. It sounded as if someone was dragging his feet, clad in shoes of wind, all over the floor. I started up and hurriedly turned up the flame of my lantern. It was clear there was someone in the room, but I couldn’t make out who or what it was, or even what it looked like. My heart was thudding, but I called out as sternly as I could, ‘Who are you? Shall I call the police?’

  The intruder replied in strange hoarse tones, ‘Now then, Dada, don't you recognize me? I'm your Pupu-didi's He! Don't you remember inviting me here?'

  'Don't talk nonsense,' I retorted. 'You look like nothing on earth!'

  'That's just it, you see,' he answered. 'I've lost my body.'

  'Lost it? What do you mean?'

  ‘I’ll tell you what I mean. Knowing I was invited to a feast at Pupu-didi’s, I went off to bathe bright and early. It was just half past one in the afternoon. Sitting on the steps of Telenipara Ghat, I was scrubbing vigorously at my face with a pumice stone. It was so soothing that, before I knew it, I was lost to the world in a comfortable drowse. I slumped right over and fell headlong into the water. I don’t know what happened after that. I couldn’t tell if I was on dry land, or still in the water. All I knew was that I wasn’t there any more.’

  ‘Not there!’

  ‘I swear on your life—’

/>   ‘You needn’t bother about my life, just go on.’

  ‘I was itching and tried to scratch myself, but couldn’t find the itchy place nor the fingernails to scratch it with. I felt so miserable that I began to blubber. But even the blubbering that I had enjoyed freely since childhood failed me now. The louder I howled, the less it sounded as if I were howling: you couldn’t hear a single wail. I wanted to knock my head against the old banyan tree, but I couldn’t even find my holy hair-tuft. But my most painful experience was wandering about by the poolside, even as the clock struck twelve, crying, “Where’s my hunger? Where’s my hunger?” But that monkey of an appetite evaded me entirely.’

  ‘I can’t make head or tail of your story. Stop a minute.’

  ‘I beg of you, Dada, don’t ask me to stop. An unstopped being like you can never imagine the agony of being stopped. I won’t stop, I won’t stop, I’ll go on for as long as I possibly can!’

  So saying, he began to caper around the room, making a series of loud thuds and winding up with a display of the most astonishing gymnastics on my carpet. His antics reminded me of the gambols of a happy porpoise.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Dada, after that royal finale of mine, you’ll never find me stopping again. I’ll be pleased if you resort to violence. When I discovered the absence of a back worthy of a few sound blows, I remembered my old teacher Satkari and felt as if my heart would burst with agony—only I didn’t have a heart either. If such a fate were to befall a carp, it would implore the cook to toss it into a cauldron of boiling oil and fry it to a crisp. Ah me, that back I’ve now lost—the number of cuffs my old teacher showered on it! I swallowed them like sweetmeats made of brick. Today, it seems as if—oh, Dada, do pummel my back just once, as hard as you can—’

  He came over and presented his back to me.

  ‘Go away!’ I shrieked.

  ‘Let me finish,’ said He. ‘I traipsed from village to village, searching high and low for a body. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon. The hotter the sun grew, the less it bothered me. My misery was almost complete, when I came upon old Uncle Patu, who had been smoking ganja in the shade of a banyan tree, and had fallen fast asleep. I seemed to see the life within him gather itself into a single, vital point and rise pulsing to the very crown of his head. I saw a golden opportunity before me. Without the slightest hesitation, I squeezed my invisible spirit through the nostrils of his inert form, just as one might thrust one’s feet into a new pair of nagra shoes. Patu’s inner man wheezed to life.