A Circle of Elephants

by Eric Dinerstein

  We crossed the Belgadi River south of the stable, where the river borders the outskirts of Thakurdwara. At the edge of the trees, the village fields began, or what was left of them. In a normal year, the maize would be a foot high, but we passed only fields full of withered stalks. The lentil crop had vanished. Only where the Tharu farmers had dug an irrigation canal bringing water from the Belgadi River to their fields was there a narrow ribbon of green rice paddies slicing through the brown landscape.

  I heard a noise like a rhino about to attack. It was only the Budghar, the village headman in the seat of his tractor, the only one in the Borderlands. Perched on the wheel well was his eldest son, Hala Ram. They both waved. The Budghar shut off the tractor and they walked over to me.

  Last year, Dilly and I had been riding back from the Gularia market in the oxcarts belonging to the Budghar and Hala Ram and his uncle. We were held up on the way by a gang of Maroons who almost killed Hala Ram. My friend was struck by a dagger thrown by a Maroon with a beard. I shot the robber in the head with my slingshot and he fell from his horse. I rushed Hala Ram back to the health post in Gularia. Thankfully, he survived. The robber did not.

  The Budghar smiled broadly at me. I was his favorite, ever since we saved his son’s life. He was a big man, who put clarified butter on his rice, something no one else could afford. It is said that he ate one duck or chicken at every meal. That made him the heaviest person in the Borderlands.

  “Ram, Ram, Nandu. Why are you out in this cursed heat wave?”

  I told him about being in Bichia and needing to clear my head.

  “You didn’t run into any more Maroons along the way there, did you?” He laughed. I told him what Mr. Dhungel had told us about the leader of the group and the rest of the gang. “Good riddance to them.” He spat on the ground.

  The Budghar swept his meaty arm across the barren fields. “The gods are very angry with us, Nandu. First the earthquake and now this drought. Can Subba-sahib talk to Ban Devi and make it rain?”

  “I will make inquiries, Budghar-sahib,” and then we all broke into laughter with a bitter edge. What else could we do? The drought would end when it would end. We had to endure.

  o you know how if you bring an umbrella with you it never rains, and when you forget one, you get drenched in a downpour? We tried that trick, too. Drivers always carry umbrellas to shield them from the sun or the rain. Ramji, our anti-shaman, said around the campfire the other night, “Maybe if we forget our umbrellas when we take the elephants out to graze, it will be looked on as a sign to the gods and the June rains will start.” We decided to give it a try.

  I thought Ramji’s reverse advice was working immediately. Gray clouds drifted into camp. But within a few minutes, I realized it was just haze. Smoke from a grassland fire had settled over the stable. We were still in the grip of the worst drought in a century. That is what they said on the radio. How they knew this exactly, I did not know.

  Please, Ban Devi, let it rain.

  Indra took Hira Prashad out to graze while I helped Rita store the boxes of powdered milk Father Autry and I had brought back from Bichia. There was hardly enough room on the shelves to hold them all. My father stood by with a cup of tea in his hand.

  “Nandu, you should have not let Father Autry pay for the milk supplies,” he said.

  “He refused to let me pay one penny for it, Subba-sahib.”

  “We must find a way to thank him, then.”

  Just then Indra came across the sparse grass in the open area of camp. “Subba-sahib, Nandu!”

  Indra was so upset the words barely came out.

  “Pradhan,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “What is it, Indra?”

  “Pradhan is dead, Subba-sahib. Shot in the great grassland. They took his horn!”

  Anger and shock hung like a storm cloud over the line of six elephants marching to Pradhan’s body. Subba-sahib and Mr. Dhungel were at the lead followed by Ganesh Lal, the game scout. The inquest into Pradhan’s death would be a serious investigation—more serious than if a person had been killed. Rhinos were property of the king. To steal a rhino’s horn was to steal from King Birendra himself.

  Vultures circled and swarmed in the sky—an eerie marker of our destination. Vultures or no, it was hard to miss Pradhan lying on his side in the trampled, bloody grass. His armored plates were cut and scarred from recent fights. Wounds that would never heal. The great Pradhan, mayor of the Borderlands, had died at the small hands of men. Tears sprang to my eyes at the sight of my old friend Pradhan. Murdered.

  I stifled the scream that choked my throat.

  My father climbed off his elephant and knelt down next to Pradhan’s face to examine the bullet holes. “Two shots fired into the skull from close range,” he said to the warden. He turned his body toward the grass thicket nearby. “The poachers must have crawled on their bellies to get this close,” he added. “I see no footprints.”

  Mr. Dhungel was busy filling out his official forms, which would be sent directly to the king’s secretary. “Subba-sahib, I am writing that this male was very old,” said the warden. “That is what I will put in my report. And you will confirm this. He probably would not have lived out the year anyway.”

  But no excuse could cover up the bullet holes or replace the stolen horn. My father replied with a clear fact: “A horn of that size is worth three million rupees, Warden-sahib.”

  Dhungel-sahib winced. Ganesh Lal stared at the ground.

  When the call was given by the warden, the men lifted their kukhris, the sharp knife every Nepali man carries, over their heads. They were required by law to send the hooves and the skin to Kathmandu. The horn, which was normally sent to the Royal Palace, was probably somewhere in India by now.

  I could not bear to look. Who can watch this happen to a member of your family?

  I joined Subba-sahib on the ground, where he was tracking the criminals’ path. I had to continually will myself not to cry in front of the other drivers.

  “Subba-sahib, when the warden and Ganesh Lal are done, can we bury Pradhan here, in his own kingdom?”

  “Yes, Nandu, but first let us try to find out more from these tracks. Look here.” He pointed. There were human footprints on the dirt track that led to the Great Sand Bar River. “And look here.” The barefoot prints changed to shoeprints. “They put down their load and put on their shoes.”

  We followed the shoeprints along the trail heading toward the river.

  Then we saw the footprint of a large male tiger merging onto the dirt track and behind the human footprints. “Look. They ran here. Two of them. They must have seen the tiger.”

  I scanned the area ahead of us while my father bent close to the ground. He was a skilled tracker, with an elephant’s sixth sense of what tracks tell us.

  A few feet up the dirt trail, one set of tracks changed. “Ah, one of his shoes fell off running from the tiger,” my father said. In the bushes, I saw a burst of color against the dull, dry leaves. It was blue. A blue canvas sneaker.

  I crumpled to the ground. My chest heaved without getting any air. My father knelt down and placed his arm across my shoulders to steady me. “We will catch them, Nandu. We will catch them.”

  I could not tell my father about my agony. Pradhan was dead because of me. I had threatened the boy. This was his retribution. My anger, my stupidity, had killed one of the greatest creatures to ever live.

  ona and Ritu dipped their lips into my vest pockets. They knew where to find the dried sugarcane pieces I had hidden away. Our Ancient Babies curled the treats into their mouths, smacking their lips with joy. I rubbed my hands over their thick warm skin. I kept rubbing and they kept leaning into me for more. The young rhinos made the loss of Pradhan easier to bear. If only slightly.

  “Nandu, remember these may be Pradhan’s daughters,” Subba-sahib said. “And let us concentrate on the arrivals of the elephant calves. Come, I need you to help me lay out where we will tether the new elephants to thei
r poles.” Subba-sahib was right. He always was. The new elephant calves were the reason our lives could continue at the stable. They were our hope.

  The morning finally came, on June 15, when we met the elephant drivers from Kanchanpur at the banks of the Great Sand Bar River. The drivers, with four mother elephants and their calves, were waiting on the other side of the river when we arrived. It had been a long three-day walk from their stable in western Nepal.

  From the back of Hira Prashad, Rita and I waved to the drivers. They returned our greeting with wildly flailing arms. The river between us was low and would not start rising until the snow melted in the Himalayas.

  “Why don’t they let the mothers and calves swim across?” Rita asked.

  “There is a deep part, in the middle, that is over the calves’ heads. Subba-sahib does not want to take the risk,” I said. Instead, a barge would carry the new elephants across the open water. Through my binoculars, I could clearly see the drivers from Kanchanpur guiding the four adult females onto the boat.

  “Look, Rita, the mothers are herding their calves onto the barge!” I said.

  Their ears flared while they gently swept the babies on board with their trunks. I thought of Devi Kali then and what a mother she had been to me. I rubbed the top of Hira Prashad’s head, knowing he might be thinking of her, too.

  Behind me, Rita would not stop fidgeting. I was used to her restlessness when we went out into the jungle, but today it annoyed me.

  “Let me look, Nandu!” she said. I scanned the whole length of the river, taking my time, before I handed the binoculars to her. I was looking for the old female elephant I had seen just before the earthquake. But she was not there.

  Everyone watched closely, in silence, as the bargemen slowly poled the four elephants, three calves, and their drivers across the river. At one point, the raft tipped, and a mother scrambled a bit. Another of the elephants let out a soft trumpet.

  The barge slid onto the sandy bank on our side. We cheered and our elephants rumbled. Our new arrivals carefully disembarked, the mothers keeping their calves close to them.

  Subba-sahib barked out his orders to us. “Ten elephants from our stable into two lines of five each. I will lead one side on Bhim Prashad. Nandu, you lead the other on your tusker.” In between we put Punti Kali, the pregnant twenty-year-old, who walked next to Hira Prashad, followed by the three females with their calves.

  “Drivers from Kanchanpur, stay close to your assigned calf. Drivers on elephants, be on the lookout for tigers. They will take a straggler calf, so we must not take our eyes off them.”

  Our caravan traveled slowly, adjusting to the pace of the exhausted calves. We stopped twice when one or the other dropped to the ground for a short nap. It would take us more than four hours to cover the same distance that our older elephants could do in thirty minutes.

  “These poor little jumbos, they cannot walk much more today,” said Rita. As we traveled, the elephants never stopped rumbling. I imagined they had a lot to talk about.

  We entered the giant grassland before the Belgadi. It was here where we used to see Pradhan grazing and tending his three female rhinos. They were here still, but Pradhan was not. In his place was another large male rhino.

  “Pradhan’s rival has taken over, Rita.” The male rhino faced us and snorted loudly. He probably had never seen so many elephants before. I wished that Pradhan would have been replaced the natural way, by losing a fight and being pushed out of his territory. That would have been honorable, the way of the jungle. And even though I would not have seen Pradhan after his loss, I would know that he was still alive until he met his natural death.

  The roars, whistles, moans, and rumbles from the fifteen elephants left behind greeted us as we came closer to the stable. They were as excited as we were for the new arrivals. Chained to their tethering posts, they raised their trunks to inhale the scent of the newcomers. We crossed under the marigold-covered arch over the gate at the entrance to the stable. The noise from all the elephants was deafening.

  “Nandu,” said Rita, “our elephants are saying hello.”

  Even the tired calves had begun squeaking to the others . . . squeaking, I hoped, with delight. But was this a good life to be born into? For the first time, I saw the tethering chains on the waiting elephants like the chains on prisoners. But these elephants were not criminals. They were part of our family. Yet still, there were chains. Was this the life these baby calves deserved? My cheeks grew hot, and I felt the anguish I had felt seeing Pradhan’s lifeless body. I did not know what to think.

  After our entire breeding center staff gathered round, Subba-sahib welcomed the head of the Kanchanpur stable. Tonight would be a small feast, washed down with lots of raksi. The new conservator-sahib would arrive tomorrow for the formal ceremony and inspection. Everything needed to be perfect for his report to the royal palace.

  The new females were led to their tethering posts flanking Prem Kali. Subba-sahib wanted them to feel safe under the watch of the oldest and wisest female in our stable. Once the mothers were secured with their calves nearby, my father walked over to us. Rita and I were still atop Hira Prashad, who had not stopped rumbling to the new elephants. I wished he could tell me how they felt about their new home.

  “Rita, you will have to keep the rhino calves away from the little elephants for a few days. If they come too close, the mothers may panic and charge them.”

  Rita’s face grew downcast. She could not hide any emotion. She loved taking care of Ritu and Rona and now Nani the spotted deer fawn. They followed her everywhere. But she also wanted to be the leader in caring for the new elephants.

  Subba-sahib sensed her disappointment. “Tomorrow morning, after you feed the rhino calves and Nani, you can help the new drivers brush and bathe the baby elephants.”

  In an instant, her face was lit up like the sun. If we hadn’t been riding Hira Prashad, I think she would have started turning cartwheels.

  “Thank you, Subba-sahib!”

  Dilly had finished making kuchis for Mel Kali, and Indra had done the same for Hira Prashad. Kuchis were what kept the elephants wanting to return to the stable every night: a packet holding a meal of unhusked rice, rock salt, and hardened molasses wrapped in elephant grass.

  We left my elephant, and then the four of us backed fifty feet away from the babies and their mothers so we could watch them. The babies lifted their trunks and squealed in our direction. “Dilly,” I said. “We will have to hold Rita back or she will be over there in a flash.” Rita threw a kuchi at me.

  “I will hug them tomorrow,” she declared.

  We stayed until it grew dark and they had finished nursing. Then the young calves one by one dropped to the ground for a sound night’s sleep.

  “Look how they snuggle next to their mothers,” she said. “So safe in their new home.” I looked at Rita’s face and her eyes were tearing up. We could not wait for tomorrow morning.

  I woke several times to check on the elephants from the front porch of the barracks. Elephants hardly need much sleep, only about four hours each night. But all three times I checked, the other elephants were lying on their sides and breathing deeply. Only one was standing. Hira Prashad’s tusks gleamed in the light of the waning moon as he stood guard over his herd.

  I was proud of my tusker.

  he mahouts, single file, led the elephants to the river. They entered the forest that hung at the edge of camp like a green velvet curtain. A few hours of rain had given us hope that our fortune was changing and the monsoon would arrive on time. Even a short downpour had made the trees around camp, barren until now, send out new leaves. But it was just a temporary relief. We were still in the thick of the drought. We had to make sure the tiny elephant calves drank lots of water.

  Indra, my mahout, urged Hira Prashad to move out with the herd, but he refused to budge. I walked up and shouted “Agat! Agat!” but he did not listen to me, either. Still chained to their poles were Punti Kali and the three
mothers and their calves. It was no use. Our tusker would not leave their side, choosing hunger rather than desertion of the new elephants. The other drivers would bring back the grass fodder for the new arrivals. Now they would have to cut fodder for our tusker, too.

  Indra looked back at Subba-sahib and me and shrugged as if to say, What can I do?

  My father chuckled. I think he was happy to see Hira Prashad’s protectiveness.

  “Hira Prashad is ready to adopt every calf that arrives,” I said proudly.

  “He has the character of a great leader,” my father said. “And I want to let him lead. I also need to maintain the routine of the stable. It is a difficult path to walk, Nandu, being in charge of the fate of spirits greater than your own.”

  I wanted to ask my father if being in charge of those spirits was right. Did Ban Devi approve? But this was not the time to ask such questions. “Do you think the mothers feel safe enough?”

  “Yes, life in a stable is what they know, but we must gradually introduce the newcomers to our schedule,” he continued. “You must trust me on this.”

  “Of course, Subba-sahib,” I said.

  Tulsi had spent the morning in the kitchen, preparing a feast for the arrival of the new conservator-sahib. Father Autry had sent over three chickens and several ducks for the meal. The Baba would join us, too, though he drank only the tea he brought himself. He never ate meat.

  By two in the afternoon, it was time to bathe the elephants, before our guests arrived. It would be the first chance we had to get close to the new calves.

  Baghu, the Subba-sahib from Kanchanpur, introduced us to our youngest arrivals, as the elephants got lined up for the walk to the river. “The one with the longest trunk and big head is Laxmi Kali. She is the most mischievous. If there is trouble to look for in the stable she will find it first. Keep her out of the cookhouse. She will knock things over. And when you are fixing kuchis, be alert. She will try to sneak into the sacks of unhusked rice.”