Tusker Tales

by Ruskin Bond

  From The Jungle Book

  In the Jaws of a Lion

  A True Incident

  Over a hundred years ago, lions roamed the deserts of

  Haryana and Rajasthan. An elephant comes face-to-face

  with the jungle king. . .

  t was in the olden days,' said the Colonel, 'when lions were still X found in the great Harriana Desert, to the north-west of Delhi, that we had sport of which you youngsters know nothing.

  'The lion gave far more exciting sport than the tiger. He haunted a country less favourable for beating a retreat than the thick, swampy morasses frequented by the tiger, and being, moreover, possessed of a more noble nature, the jungle king would charge with great courage and ferocity.

  'Ah! You know nothing of the excitement of such sport. Mounted on picked elephants we would go forth to drive the king of the beasts from his lair. But even the bravest of elephants would often turn when the critical moment came. Many that would boldly face the tiger turned tail before the lion, and one cannot wonder at it. With flowing mane and bristling hair, the lion looked much larger than he really was, as he rushed with incredible speed in an impetuous charge. None but the bravest of the brave amongst trained elephants would face that onslaught, and many were the occasions that arose for showing coolness and presence of mind.'

  'I remember an experience of a friend of mine, which illustrates the dangers faced by those who engaged in hunting the lion,' continued the old sportsman, his eye lighting up with fire. 'I remember an adventure that nearly ended fatally. My friend was mounted on an elephant of proved courage and undaunted bravery. Well, it was for him that it was so, else had his life paid forfeit for his zeal in chasing the jungle king.

  'They found a lion, and as it charged upon them my friend fired. He hit the beast, but the wound only served to redouble its fury, and in no way to check its charge. The sportsman leaned over the edge of the howdah, hoping to stop it with the second barrel, but unfortunately the howdah was insecurely fastened, and when his weight was upon it, it gave way, and he was precipitated over the head of the elephant into the very jaws of the lion!

  'In an instant the great feline, though severely wounded, was upon him, and as the sportsman strove to rise he was again hurled to the ground, and the cruel fangs were embedded in his flesh, breaking the bones of his arm, while the sharp, curved claws tore through his garments and lacerated his body.

  'Another instant would have terminated the struggle in a tragic manner. But the mahout, seated on the neck of the elephant, was a plucky fellow, who did not lose his presence of mind, and his mount was as obedient as he was sagacious.

  'Urged by the cries of the driver, the noble elephant stepped forward and planted his foot, with care, so that he might not trample on the body of the prostrate man. Then, seizing the top of a small tree with his trunk he bent it down over the loins of the lion. At the advance of the elephant the lion had ceased its cruel maltreatment of my friend, and now as it found itself pinned to the ground its whole efforts were directed to freeing itself, and the sportsman succeeded in crawling away. But, despite its efforts, the lion found itself squeezed more firmly each moment as its gigantic antagonist exerted his full strength. In vain the tortured animal writhed and struggled; in vain it sought to reach the elephant with its ponderous paws. Its end had come. A bullet through its brain put an end to the conflict, and my friend's life was saved.

  'His arm was, it is true, broken in two places, and he was severely clawed on the breast and shoulders, but time cured these injuries, and he lived to point in triumph to his trophy—the skin of the lion with great gaping jaws out of which he had been rescued.'

  1894

  The Elephant and the Cassowary

  Ruskin Bond

  he baby elephant wasn't out of place in our home in north India because India is where elephants belong, and in any case our house was full of pets brought home by Grandfather, who was in the Forest Service. But the cassowary bird was different. No one had ever seen such a bird before—not in India, atleast. Grandfather had picked it up on a voyage to Singapore, where he'd been given the bird by a rubber planter who'd got it from a Dutch trader who'd got it from a man in Indonesia.

  Anyway, it ended up, at our home in Dehra, seemed to do quite well in the sub-tropical climate. It looked like a cross between a turkey and an ostrich, but bigger than the former, and smaller than the latter—about five feet in height. It was not a beautiful bird, nor even a friendly one, but it had come to stay, and everyone was curious about it especially the baby elephants.

  Right from the start the baby elephant took a great interest in the cassowary, a bird unlike any found in the Indian jungles. 'He would circle round the odd creature and diffidently examine with his trunk the texture of its stumpy wings; of course, he suspected no evil, and his childlike curiosity encouraged him to take liberties which resulted in an unpleasant experience.

  'Noticing the baby elephant's attempts to make friends with the rather morose cassowary, we felt a- bit apprehensive. Self-contained and sullen, the big bird responded only by slowly and slyly raising one of its powerful legs, in the meantime gazing into space with an innocent air. We knew what the gesture meant; we had seen that treacherous leg raised on many an occasion, and suddenly shooting out with a force that would have done credit to a vicious camel. In fact, camel and cassowary kicks are delivered in the same way, except that the camel kicks backward like a horse and the bird forward.

  We wished to spare our baby elephant a painful experience, and led him away from the bird. But he persisted in his friendly overtures, and one morning he received an ugly reward. Rapid as lightning, the cassowary hit straight from the hip and knee joints, and the elephant ran squealing to Grandmother.

  For several days he avoided the cassowary, and we thought he had learnt his lesson. He crossed and recrossed the compound and the garden, swinging his trunk, thinking furiously. Then, about a week later, he appeared on the verandah at breakfast-time in his usual cheery, childlike fashion, sidling up to the cassowary as if nothing had happened.

  We were struck with amazement at this and so, it seemed, was the bird. Had the painful lesson already been forgotten, and by a member of the elephant tribe noted for its ability never to forget? Another dose of the same medicine would serve the booby right.

  The cassowary once more began to draw up its fighting leg with sinister determination. It was nearing the true position for the master-kick, kung-fu style, when all of a sudden the baby elephant seized with his trunk the cassowary's other leg and pulled it down. There was a clumsy flapping of wings, a tremendous swelling of the bird's wattle, and an undignified getting up, as if it were a floored boxer doing his best to beat the count of ten. The bird then marched off with an attempt to look stately and unconcerned, while we at the breakfast-table were convulsed with laughter.

  After this the cassowary bird gave the baby elephant as wide a berth as possible. But they were not forced to co-exist for very long. The baby elephant, getting bulky and cumbersome, was sold and now lives in a zoological garden where he is a favourite with young visitors who love to take rides on his back.

  As for the cassowary, he continued to grace our verandah for many years, gaped at, but not made much of, while entering on a rather friendless old age.

  The Hindu, April 1993

  The Vengeance of Kurnail Jarn

  Jan Kinnsale

  f dubious pedigree but undoubted courage, he was a bull-terrier of some forty muscular pounds. He was known as Kurnail Jarn simply because that was the nearest the 'syces' and 'shikaris' could get to enunciating the name of his original owner, Colonel John Sherer.

  Broad-chested, slim-flanked, wedge-headed, cock-eared, he was a menacingly silent animal, and the only things that made him give tongue were new-baked chappatis and the moon coming up over the ricefields.

  He was, as are all his breed, a one-man dog, and when, together with the British Raj, Colonel Sherer went home, Kurnail Jarn, left behind th
rough force of many circumstances, mourned his master from the depths of his canine heart.

  However, he took his new owner—Donaldson, a mineralogist prospecting for uranium for the Indian Government—on approval, already being acquainted with him by virtue of occasional shikars Donaldson had been on with Colonel Sherer.

  The realisation that Donaldson was synonymous with the hunting of cheetul and tahr and other exciting things, coupled with the fact that a dog needs somebody on whom to lavish its affection, made Kurnail Jarn in the fulness of time, go out of mourning and transfer his allegiance wholeheartedly to his new master.

  In camp somewhere between the Chinkara River and the Gilgit Mountains (that 'between' is a thousand miles, but it is necessary to be vague as the Indian Government still hopes to find uranium there), Donaldson, in the intervals of prospecting, kept his Mannlicher rifle oiled and his eye in practice.

  He had hunted most things from muntjac to man-eaters, and now he was in the process of achieving his ambition of shooting a gaur, one of the huge wild cattle of India.

  The local ryots, or farmers, had complained to him that an old bull gaur, one of the most dangerous animals in the world, had been playing havoc in their ricefields and begged him to shoot it.

  They showed him the waterhole the bull frequented, and Donaldson, accompanied by Kurnail Jarn, duly ensconced himself in a tangle of rocks at the base of a bulbul tree overlooking the waterhole, hoping to catch the gaur in the early morning light.

  In that glorious, brittle hour before the sun comes up, when the whole world seems to have been created anew, that exciting hour when the night-hunters steal home to their jungle lairs and the day-hunters arc just stirring, Donaldson waited.

  Tense, but utterly immobile, knowing that he was only there as a great privilege, Kurnail Jarn sat hidden twenty yards below him.

  Away in the jungle a sounder of wild boar grunted on their way home from a good night's foraging; a deer barked. . . .

  A jungle-cock began its shrill crowing; a flock of minivets, brilliantly scarlet and yellow, worked through the trees; high overhead a lammergeyer passed on vast wings. . . .

  Somewhere a cheetul belled anxiously. . . .

  Enured by a hundred shikars, Donaldson waited for the culmination of his vigil, alert to every sound and movement, and praying that the wind would stay where it was.

  Nearby, Kurnail Jarn swallowed the saliva in his mouth which he longed to open but dared not.

  Suddenly, from the direction of the camp, which lay a mile or two away through the jungle, came a ponderous crashing.

  Donaldson frowned in surprise, for he had expected the gaur to appear on his left along the little nullah, or ravine, that led to the water-hole. However, you never could tell and he imperceptibly shifted his grip on the Mannlicher; Kurnail Jarn twitched unbearably.

  Through the trees beyond the waterhole a vast mud-grey shape appeared, with great flapping ears and a swaying trunk, while at its side, ludicrous in its small plodding solemnity, marched a miniature replica of the giant: it was Mollie the camp elephant and her three-month-old calf, Dumbell.

  Mollie, a maid of all work, as you might say, employed on various heavyweight chores, made a habit of breaking out of her corral to go in search of jungle titbits, which her mahout, Parkash Singh, did not always supply her with, and now she had come to the waterhole to give herself a good plastering of mud before the heat of the day.

  Donaldson relaxed and muttered uncomplimentary remarks about elephants in general.

  But he did not stir: there might still be a chance of the gaur putting in an appearance.

  Meanwhile, Mollie despoiled herself titanically. Dumbell wandered off up the nullah until he was some seventy yards away, contenting himself with sucking up water in his trunk and, like a small boy blowing bubbles, found turgid delight in squirting liquid mud at random.

  Distracted by this nonsense, Donaldson did not notice the approach of another visitor to the waterhole. Along the nullah a lithe, striped form had appeared, moving in that typical silken glide which made a wonder of the fact that it was of flesh and bone rather than gorgeous shadow.

  The tiger had genuinely come to the waterhole to drink, but seeing the calf-elephant it paused, and other ideas came into its head.

  Nine times out of ten the tiger would have left the calf alone; perhaps it had had a poor night's hunting; perhaps it acted on the impulse of the moment. Be that as it may, it crouched and bellied its way towards the innocent Dumbell.

  Kurnail Jarn caught sight of the tiger a split second before Donaldson. The tiger gathered itself for the steel-muscled spring. Breaking all the rules, but aware that the elephants were part of the camp and therefore to be protected, Kurnail Jarn bounded down the almost precipitous side of the nullah and hurled himself at the tiger at the very moment the latter sprang at the panic-stricken Dumbell.

  Diverted by this flank attack, the tiger hesitated in his leap, clawed superficially at the calf-elephant and turned with a lunging blow on Kurnail Jarn, who was flung a dozen yards away by the vicious sweep.

  While the air shrilled with the strident trumpeting of Mollie as she shepherded her squealing, lacerated calf away, Donaldson fired.

  The tiger reared up high on its hind legs, clawed the air as if trying to grapple with some unseen foe, gurgled spasmodically, and fell over backwards.

  'The heart shot!' said Donaldson to himself and got up stiffly from his rocky hide.

  Now, there is a humorous saying to the effect that an elephant never forgets, and though this always evokes mirth, it is nonetheless true. Apart from its phenomenal memory for ordinary things, an elephant never forgets an act of kindness or, conversely, an act of cruelty. There are elephants who after years of absence will recognise an old friend; there are others who will harbour just as long a smouldering hatred against some mahout who has wronged them in the past.

  Altogether, the elephant comes of a mysterious race.

  Mollie never forgot that it was Kurnail Jarn who had saved her calf.

  Kurnail Jarn never recovered fully from the effect of his act of gallantry. He bore with customary fortitude his wounds and the painful stitching and unstitching thereof, and these wounds healed slowly; but Kurnail Jarn's worst hurt was in his back, the muscles of which had been damaged beyond repair by the tiger's strike.

  Long after his outward hurts had mended, Kurnail Jarn dragged himself about with difficulty, a shadow of his former robust self.

  Not even fresh-baked chappatis made him give tongue now, though he got his fill of them, for Gujar Singh, Donaldson's cook, spoiled him unstintedly.

  As for Mollie, she never missed an opportunity of enquiring, in her own peculiar way, for Kurnail Jarn's welfare. If, in her stately progress, she saw Kurnail Jarn taking the sun on the verandah of Donaldson's bungalow, she would put her trunk through the rails and snuff him gently, and sometimes, when the bull-terrier had hobbled out into the compound, Mollie would pick him up with tender care in that same sensitive trunk and place him on her back in front of Parkash Singh, and Kurnail Jarn would ride in state.

  As bravely as ever the prick-ears were cocked, the pink tongue lolled eagerly, and you would never have thought from the confident way in which Kurnail Jarn surveyed the jungle from his gently swaying vantage point that his hindquarters were crippled irreparably.

  But poor Kurnail Jarn was marked out for tragedy.

  He slept by night in a basket at the foot of Donaldson's bed, and while his master snored in exhaustion after another steamy day in the jungle Kurnail Jarn whimpered in his dreams of better days.

  One night, soon after Donaldson had turned in, something heavy landed with a thud on the verandah. A long, dark shape bounded through an open door and a brief but violent turmoil ensued in Donaldson's room.

  Donaldson, emerging from a tangle of mosquito netting, seized his rifle and his torch. Bhandari Ram, his bearer, rushed in with a lamp.

  The first thing they realised was that Kurnail J
arn had vanished and it was obvious that he had not done so under his own propulsion.

  'Tiger,' opined Bhandari Ram, sick at the thought of how close the marauder had passed by him.

  'Panther,' contradicted Donaldson, and he was right.

  The panther has a peculiar and notorious taste for dog-flesh: it is an obsession, a passion, a must, that will often prompt it to reckless action. It was a panther that had seized Kurnail Jarn.

  Hurriedly throwing on some clothes, Donaldson, accompanied by Bhandari Ram and the rest of the household which had been roused from their godowns by the hullabaloo, set off on a vain search in the moonlit night.

  He soon realised it was hopeless and called off the search.

  'Sahib, send for Mahl-ee,' suggested the mahout. 'She smell him out.'

  'I wonder,' speculated Donaldson. 'All right; wheel her in.'

  It was well known that Mollie, like all her race, had a remarkable sense of smell. One of the servants' favourite games in happier days was to hide a chappattie and hold bets on whether Mollie or Kurnail Jarn would find it first.

  Stately and vast in the moonlight, Mollie padded on the scene. Prompted by Bhandari Ram she cast round the bungalow.

  Presently, she thumped the ground with her trunk and made steadily off into the jungle, followed by Donaldson and the rest half-running to keep up.

  With hardly a check, Mollie followed up the line she had found, only pausing every now and then to give an emphatic thump with her trunk.

  A furlong or more from the camp she came to an abrupt halt in front of a tree and would not go on.

  'Kurnail Jarn stuck in tree, sahib,' the mahout called back from his perch on Mollie's back.

  Donaldson, catching up, caught sight of a tell-tale patch of white in the fork of the tree.

  'Poor old Kurnail Jarn,' he murmured. 'He's had it right enough. That's a panther's work beyond all peradventure of a doubt.'