Nature keeps the balance, even among the flies. The patient observer will find the balance. That is what Father Autry taught me today: to stop and notice. I would share this new knowledge with Dilly and Rita the next time a horsefly bit into them.
Speaking of insects . . . I returned to camp after my lesson and spotted the new game warden walking into the gazebo followed by a taller man who I did not know. The warden was the chief government officer in the Borderlands, reporting only to the forest conservator for western Nepal. We relied on the warden as the voice of the Borderlands to the conservator. He was very important to us—and to all the wildlife in the jungle.
That man’s name was Mr. Dhungel, our new warden. He was a small man in his fifties. His hair was dyed jet black, the same color of a dung beetle. He wore thick black glasses that slipped down his nose. The warden sat with my father in the gazebo, drinking black pepper tea, the kind we serve to special guests—the kind that makes me want to spit. The other man stood rather than sit in a chair.
I bowed, with a namaste gesture to the warden. My father had told me that a new man had been assigned to the Borderlands to replace the old warden, Mr. Joshi, who had been transferred to another district. The old warden who did nothing when the Maroons, the outlaws in the Borderlands, terrorized our villages.
“Nandu, please meet our new game warden, Mr. Dhungel. He brings us important news from Birganj. And I have not been introduced to your colleague yet,” my father said, nodding to the taller man standing behind the warden.
Dhungel, dung beetle, all the same to me.
“Subba-sahib, this is Ganesh Lal,” said Mr. Dhungel. “He has just joined our staff. He will be assisting me. He knows a lot about the wildlife. He comes from a hunting family in the hills.”
Ganesh Lal nodded to us and gave me a half smile.
I bowed again to the new warden and his game scout.
“Subba-sahib, I have some news about the Baba and his tiger.”
“Nandu, I will first share the warden’s news. Sit.”
This sounded ominous.
“I do not think there is cause for concern,” my father began. “Dhungel-sahib says that Birganj was hit hard by the earthquake. Several buildings collapsed. The police were needed for the search-and-rescue, and the jail was left guarded by a single janitor.” My father paused here to look me closely in the eye. “Someone entered the jail, Nandu. He knocked the janitor unconscious, and released the prisoners.”
“Did they find them?” I asked.
“Yes, Nandu, most of them were caught,” Mr. Dhungel answered. “But two got away. They were Maroons. They were last seen on a freight train headed to India.”
“Why were we not told sooner?” Fear gripped at my throat. “It has been more than a week since the earthquake!”
The warden looked at me and swept the thumb and forefinger of both hands in the air. That is our national gesture that means something like, What can I do?
“But we captured the Maroons!” I said, my voice rising. “They will come back for revenge. Subba-sahib, what if they try to burn down the stable?”
I could not believe such bad luck. Maybe the old drivers were right. Maybe the earthquake was a terrible sign of things to come.
Subba-sahib raised his hand to calm me. “Nandu has had a bad experience with the Maroons,” he explained to the warden. Subba-sahib went on to tell the warden of my discovery of the Maroons’ hideout, the terror Kalomutu and his gang had inflicted on the Borderlands, and my run-in with the Maroons on the road to Gularia.
My father then turned to me. “Nandu, there is good news, too. Kalomutu is in prison in Kathmandu,” he said. “His sentence has been handed down by the high court. For robbing so many villages in the Borderlands and killing several people, he will spend the rest of his life behind bars.”
My father read the concern in my eyes.
I did not believe this was the last we would see of the Maroons. I saw the face of the Maroon I shot with my slingshot. The men who escaped would return—to find me.
he hind end of a baby rhino stuck out of the cookhouse door. I was not sure if it was Ritu or Rona waiting for her morning bottle of milk. I walked toward the cookhouse to visit the Ancient Babies and play with the fawn, Nani.
“Ritu and Rona get fed first or there will be trouble,” Rita cooed to the tiny deer as she held a bottle in each hand for the rhinos. “And we do not want trouble from these big babies,” she whispered.
“Rita, I can help,” I said. I took a third bottle from the stove and offered it to Nani, but she backed away and hid between Rita’s legs. Rita was so tall and thin there was not much to hide behind.
“She has already found a new mother,” I said.
Rita laughed. “She is perfect, no? But I love you two girls, too,” she added, looking at her rhinos, who had finished their breakfast. She put their bottles aside and took the third one from me to feed Nani. The rhinos bleated at her, begging for more milk, but she pushed them out of the cookhouse. They galloped over to the shade of a kadam tree and plopped down below it, ready to nap. The fawn joined them once she had finished her bottle, sprawling out next to Rona.
“They have become such good friends so quickly!” Rita exclaimed, proud of her brood.
“I must bring Father Autry by to see them,” I told her. “He will want pictures of this.”
“Oh, yes, he will!” agreed Rita. She suddenly grew serious. “Nandu, we are running so low on powdered milk for Rona and Ritu. Do you think Subba-sahib can send for more from the bazaar? I checked at the teahouse in Thakurdwara. They were completely out.”
“No need. I will take Dilly’s bike to the next village. They will have some.”
But when I got to the village beyond Thakurdwara, they were out, too. I kept going farther and farther, to the next village, then the next. By the time I was done, I was halfway to the Indian border. The powdered milk we wanted was nowhere to be found. I returned at midday to tell my father.
“We must send someone across the border to the bazaar at Bichia to purchase a month’s supply,” he said. “Right now, I need everyone here to prepare for the arrival of the new elephants.”
“Subba-sahib, I can ask Father Autry. He said he wanted to make a supply run this week. Maybe he can move his trip up two days.”
I walked to Father Autry’s bungalow and found him on his veranda, deep in a book about praying mantids and walking sticks. In ten minutes, we were in his Land Rover and on our way to India. An hour later we approached the border checkpoint. Father Autry’s driver, Dhan Bahadur, would stay with the car on the Nepal side, because my tutor did not have the proper permit to bring his vehicle across the border. We would have to cross on foot to the town of Bichia.
Bichia means scorpion in Hindi, and this border town was full of them. The brown scorpion has a sting that burns like fire. The black scorpion’s sting feels more like a bee’s. Bichia is also slang for pickpockets, who were as common here as the scorpions.
Bicycle rickshaw drivers honked at us offering a ride. “Come, Nandu, let’s walk. It will do me good,” said Father Autry.
“This heat can kill an American,” I warned, half-jokingly. There was no stopping Father Autry, though.
Father’s Autry’s face did turn a shade pinker on the walk to the market. He wiped a lot of sweat from his forehead as we ordered twenty-four boxes of milk formula at a small stall. Next to us, a man was placing an order at the same time. He could not suppress his smile as he looked at Father Autry and me. “A Jesuit and a Tibetan. That is a pairing we do not see around here much. And hoarding so much milk formula, one would think you were feeding an orphanage.”
We all laughed at our peculiar circumstances. I liked that the man immediately understood my heritage, even though I knew so little about it myself. I was proud to be called a Tibetan.
“Not quite, sir,” I said. “The milk is for the baby rhinos we are raising in our camp. They are orphans, though.”
We intro
duced ourselves properly then while the shop owner climbed up a ladder to reach the boxes of formula. “It is an honor to meet you both. I am Dr. Aziz, the local physician here in Bichia. Welcome, friends,” he said. “Please tell me more about your unusual orphans.”
I told Dr. Aziz how we called them the Ancient Babies because they looked so prehistoric but that they nursed from a baby bottle. I also told him about Nani and the new baby elephants we were expecting soon. Dr. Aziz laughed at the image of so many babies under our care. “I should like to come to your stable and see these young animals for myself one day.”
“You would be most welcome, Dr. Aziz,” Father Autry said.
“And may I offer you an invitation to share a meal next time you are in Bichia?”
Father Autry and I each most heartily accepted. It was such a good feeling of friendship. We waved good-bye and headed to the square to look for a bicycle rickshaw to transport our supplies back to the border.
At the edge of the wooden stalls, vegetable and fruit sellers squatted on the dusty ground, their produce laid out before them on sheets. The greens and cucumbers had wilted in the heat. Down the alley were other traders, selling knives, pots, pans, and tools. Off to the side, I heard a familiar grating voice call “Nandooo. . . .”
I recognized him at once with his long, crooked nose and dirty fingernails. It was the peddler they called the Birdman, who sold parakeets and talking mynahs and any other bird he could catch or kill. He was a regular in the Gularia bazaar in the Borderlands. Arranged in front of the Birdman were the casques of hornbills and a few barking deer antlers. He had several live birds for sale as well.
“What are you doing in Bichia, Birdman?” I asked.
“Ah, young elephant driver. The drought is even worse in the Borderlands than here in India. None of the wild parakeets laid eggs this year. This drought will ruin my business. Look, I only have a few birds here. Will you buy a very smart mynah?” The mynah looked woozy and miserable from the heat. So did the Birdman. I looked closely at his sunken cheeks and wrinkled face. The drought was sucking him dry.
Other peddlers began shouting at us. “Come buy our treasures! Drink from this bottle, you will live to be ninety! Chew this bark every day for strong teeth!” I guided Father Autry along and whispered, “Do not make eye contact, Father-sahib, it only encourages them.” He dropped his gaze to the dusty road. We were nearly out of the open area when a dark-skinned man with a long moustache ran up to us and tugged on Father Autry’s sleeve. The peddler quickly pulled out a velvet satchel with bracelets and necklaces of stones. My tutor shook his head no. The man whispered, “Special carvings. For holy man, I have a good price.”
He held up a handful of small carved rhinos for Father Autry to see. From a pocket, he pulled two ivory-colored necklaces. “Feel them,” he said. “They are beautiful.”
They were not beautiful. They were made from ivory. Elephant tusk ivory.
I followed, angry, after Father Autry. “Why do people treat animals like objects to trade?” I asked. “Why kill an elephant to make silly necklaces and stupid carvings?”
“I know, Nandu. It looks like he is not having much luck. And what he is doing is not legal. At least no elephants in the Borderlands have been poached in some time.”
I wanted to remind him that this was almost not true. The Python would have made off with Hira Prashad’s tusks had Dilly and I not stopped him. But I said nothing. Three more men approached, one trying to sell us his pet rhesus monkey and another holding scorpions in his palm and offering them as powerful medicine. The mascot of Bichia. I wanted to get away as fast as I could.
Up ahead in the open field, a crowd of villagers had formed a circle. People were laughing and cheering. We waded into the crowd to see what was causing the ruckus. A wiry man dressed in a blue shirt and red-and-gold-striped trousers was singing to a sloth bear. The bear was wearing a chain collar attached to a heavy weight to keep him from lunging at anyone. When the man shouted, “Dance, my talented bear!” the bear stood up on his hind legs and shuffled this way and that. “Smile, smile, my friend! Your adoring fans will throw money at you!”
The bear broke into a grin that broke my heart. This was so humiliating. I wanted to rush in and free the bear.
My sadness gave way to rage, but Father Autry pulled me away before I could act. “Come, Nandu, let’s leave this awful scene behind and bring the milk formula for your Ancient Babies. We don’t want them to go hungry tonight.”
In an hour we were bundled into a rickshaw and headed back to the border and then home. Father Autry insisted on paying for the rhinos’ formula, and now we had two months’ worth.
“Thank you, Father-sahib,” I said. “I only hope my father will accept your kindness. We have little money to feed our growing orphanage.”
Silence filled the Land Rover on our trip home. I thought about my own behavior when I threatened the boy in the jungle. I regretted it now. Maybe that is how these peddlers of animal parts got started. Someone was very cruel to them as young children. How else could they grow up to make a living causing such suffering to animals?
“Father-sahib?” I ventured.
“Yes, Nandu.”
“I would like to make a confession.” I had heard that Catholics speak to their priests in this way.
“Carry on, then, Nandu, if you feel the need.”
“That boy who had caught the spotted deer fawn in the snare? I did not turn the other cheek. Before I warned him never to return to the Borderlands and let him go, I threatened to beat him with a stick.”
“I see.”
“I apologize for lying to you and the Baba. I should have told the truth.”
“Well, you did now, and that is what counts. And, to be completely honest, if I were in your place, I might have been tempted to give him a good thwack myself.”
I smiled.
Then my tutor grew serious. “But now, I hope you see that such retaliations come from the same place that drives people to do wrong. The boy hurt the fawn, and you threatened to hurt him. We can only hope to make a real difference by meeting ugliness with goodness.”
I stayed silent, but inside I was not sure it was this simple. Even if I had hit that boy, he would have been back setting snares the next day.
Father Autry continued, “I look forward to meeting this lucky fawn. Remember, you saved her life, too. That is something to be proud of, Nandu.”
Father Autry’s words lifted my spirits, as they often do. I had not slept well since the news of the Maroons’ escape, but that night I dreamed of riding Hira Prashad across the Great Sand Bar River to meet Devi Kali, our mother, to tell her we are doing fine. And that we miss her.
We miss her. . . .
had felt like an ant amidst the human crush in the Bichia bazaar. That feeling evaporated the moment I rode Hira Prashad into the great grassland across the Belgadi River. In a patch of green grass, one of the few left, I saw the mayor, Pradhan, tending his females. I preferred this mayor to any human one in any town. I realized I would not last a week in Bichia. There had to be a reason why my parents left me in a jungle rather than abandon me in an Indian border town. They must have known something about what was inside me, waiting to come out when I grew up, my love of this wildness all around me.
Hira Prashad moved across the grassland and grabbed handfuls of wild sugarcane wherever he could find it still green. Everything was drying up. We had been out most of the day and I realized I had finished all the water in my canteen over two hours ago. My throat was parched, and my voice was raspy.
“Look, Hira Prashad, there is an amala tree,” I said. I steered him next to a spindly tree in the middle of the grassland. I grabbed some of the ripe hard green fruits from the leafless branches. I remembered my father’s words to me when we had been out all day in the hot sun: “Suck on these, Nandu, when you are without water to drink and deep in the jungle. Take the amala fruit. Its sour taste will quench your thirst.”
I poppe
d three in my mouth at one time. I had forgotten how sour the fruit was! My craving for water was gone, though. I loved how the jungle provided all that we needed.
Even though it was an hour before sunset it was still terribly hot. I turned Hira Prashad toward the Belgadi so he could drink his fill. We came upon rhesus monkeys near the river; they seemed too exhausted to notice us. Near the banks of the Belgadi, gray langur monkeys were licking the salt from the rocks in the receding riverbed. A blue bull bent low to drink from one of the last pools of water in the river, which was now flowing like a trickle.
A flash of silver caught my eye and then more. I steered my tusker closer and saw them: a whole school of fish trapped in a puddle only a few inches deep. In this drought, the puddle would dry out by tomorrow and they would all die if a mongoose or otter did not eat them first. The National Geographic images, and the man with the moustache selling the elephant ivory popped back into my head. I jumped off my tusker and tried scooping the fish out of the puddle and into the main channel, where they could swim away from danger. But they were hard to catch in my cupped hands and there were hundreds. I would be at it all night at the meager rate I was capturing them and carrying them to the main channel.
I called Hira Prashad and told him to dig with his trunk. “Kun, Kun!” I shouted, digging with him to show what I wanted. In fifteen minutes we had dug a deep trench and it began to fill with water. Some of the fish shot off into the main stream but others still lingered. I went to the end of the puddle and shuffled my bare feet to herd the fish out of the eddy. They were free.
I mounted my elephant and we headed to the edge of the forest two miles south of the crossing to our camp. Here the rosewoods were thick and the young saplings had been bent in all directions, trampled by hungry rhinos. It was their favorite food. Three rhinos trotted across the floodplain, alarmed by our approach. I loved to watch them canter, making huffing noises with each step of their funny three-toed feet. It was time to head back to camp.
A Circle of Elephants Page 4