July had come and gone with only a few clouds and a sprinkle or two. Two weeks more and not a drop fell. The local Tharu farmers began offering sacrifices of chickens and goats. Some approached my father, the shaman, pleading for him to reason with Ban Devi to release the rain over the Borderlands.
But it was not raining anywhere, not in northern India or in Nepal.
The rice crop was ruined.
Ganesh Lal went out again in July, this time with one of the new drivers on Jun Kali. I was to accompany him, but Rita needed help with the little jumbos so I stayed back. It had rained for two days, not in the Borderlands, but high in the mountains. Ganesh Lal reported that the river level rose quickly and it was too high to take the same route we had traversed in mid-June. He could not get to all the places where we found the rhinos before. So he stayed high on the bank and this time only counted twenty-five. We would search again for our rhinos in August.
he tall Tharu mailman carrying the spear waved to me. I waved to him from the back of Hira Prashad.
“Young driver, I have a letter for you.”
I was amazed. I had never received a letter before. It was addressed to Nanda Singh, the Royal Elephant Breeding Center, Thakurdwara, Nepal. The sender was Father Autry.
July 4th, Little Rock, Arkansas
Dear Nandu, I will be heading back to Nepal at the end of July. By the time you receive this letter, I imagine, I may already be back in Thakurdwara. I am excited to be coming home. I hope the monsoon has started by now and all is well at the center.
Your trusted friend,
Father Robert Autry
When Father Autry returned from America on the first of August, my father said to him, “Father-sahib, you must have taken the wet winds home with you.”
“Subba-sahib, you may be right. It poured cats and dogs every day back in Arkansas. We had flooding. I wish I could have sent some of it your way.”
It soon seemed he had brought the rains back with him. On the second day of his return, I visited my tutor at his bungalow. The sky was dark and threatening rain. We sat on his veranda, watching great thunderheads stack like bulging gray balloons ready to burst. Jagged fingers of lightning spread across the sky. A howling wind bent the tree branches and blew dust into our eyes. Minutes later, at last, sheets of rain began to fall.
“Nandu, the drought is over.”
“You are a shaman and a Jesuit, Father-sahib,” I said.
“That is a useful combination, Nandu.” We laughed in relief.
The rains poured down for two weeks, bringing the jungle back to life. Our new mother elephants stuffed themselves full of green grass, which made our little jumbos grow even faster. Our favorite pastime became watching the jumbos frolic in the mud wallow with the Ancient Babies.
Then, just as suddenly as they started, the rains stopped. The wind shifted to the east, and the shortest monsoon in memory was over. At least the jungle was green again. The sun came out, the temperature dropped, and every creature emerged to dry out in the gentle warmth of the early September sun—every creature, that is, except the Baba’s tiger.
The next time we visited the Baba, Father Autry and I could sense that he had news, but he waited until we were done exchanging greetings and Father Autry had shared his news from America. I could see from the way his hands shook as he picked up the slate to write that he was very upset. He wrote the word Baagh in Devanagari.
“What is it about your tiger, Baba?” I asked.
The Baba shook his head, put his hand over his eyes, and held up two fingers.
“He’s been gone for two weeks?” Father Autry asked, immediately interpreting the Baba’s gestures.
I was impressed. Holy men really must understand each other.
“Perhaps the male is off looking for a mate. Cherchez la femme, as the French say,” Father Autry continued, cocking his head and raising his thick white eyebrows.
“Baba, I read in National Geographic that male tigers have territories of twenty to two hundred square kilometers. He is probably out patrolling his borders,” I said, proud to have remembered this fact.
I could tell the Baba appreciated our concern and effort to explain where the tiger might be. He touched the base of his throat, which to me, said that he was worried. I know that when I am worried, my throat seems to tighten.
I was almost afraid to ask. “Baba, have you found any more snares about your temple?”
He pretended to be staring about left and right and then shook his hand as if to say no. At least those poachers were no longer here.
“I will go look for any signs of him in the area beyond your temple, Baba,” I offered. The Baba nodded enthusiastically.
I mounted Hira Prashad and told him we were looking for signs of the tiger. Hira Prashad is an excellent tracker, too, and when he smells a tiger, he alerts me by slapping his trunk against the ground and rumbling in a certain way.
We made wide circles, moving through the forest methodically, as my father had taught me, but we found nothing. I wished we could ask the birds, which flitted about, or the shrieking peacocks if they had seen the tiger. He was probably having a nap in the green grass somewhere, or curling the tip of his tail while he waited for prey.
I returned to pick up Father Autry and to say our good-byes to the Baba.
“I am sure your tiger will return soon,” I said to the Baba. “It is his sanctuary, too!”
The Baba touched the center of his chest with two fingers, which he does when he has received both the words and the spirit of my message. It always makes me feel special when he does this.
The smell of brewing tea wafted across from the cookhouse. I headed over to join Rita for a mid-morning cup and to bring a pot to my father. I loved these lazy mornings in the beginning of September when the monsoon had ended. But our relaxing tea break was interrupted when Dilly came wheeling into camp on his bicycle. He had gone to Thakurdwara for supplies, but was empty-handed. He jumped from his bike before it had even stopped, his bare feet thumping on the grass.
“Nandu, get the Subba-sahib! A herder was attacked last night and a cow has been killed. They found a trail of blood leading into the Khata jungle. The villagers are sure it was a tiger. They are on their way to set fire to it and burn the tiger alive!”
A small, wiry man with his head down came heaving up the trail. I did not recognize him at first: I had never seen the Baba run before. He began waving his arms frantically when he saw me. I quickly understood that he thought that the villagers were after his tiger.
I told my father what I interpreted from the Baba’s urgent arm waving.
“Dear Baba,” my father said. “Tiger attacks on humans are rare in the Borderlands. Often it is a tiger that can no longer hunt. Either it is wounded, or stuck full of porcupine quills, or a surprised tigress with cubs. Are you certain it is your tiger they are after?”
The Baba nodded his head and waved his arms. He looked at me pleadingly.
“Where are you going, Nandu?” my father asked.
“To saddle Hira Prashad. I am sure the Baba speaks the truth. We must save his tiger from being burned alive.”
“Let us all go. Bring the darting kit, too.”
Soon Hira Prashad was at the loading platform, so the Baba could easily climb on, and we were ready to head out.
Father Autry’s car rolled into camp piloted by Dhan Bahadur. Word had traveled fast about the tiger attack. Father Autry jumped from the Land Rover and hurried to my father.
“Subba-sahib, there is no time to lose. We must save this animal,” he said. He bowed to the Baba, and the Baba blessed him from atop Hira Prashad.
In twenty minutes, our elephants stood in a broad circle around a dense area of scrub. A ring of nearly two hundred village men surrounded us, armed with whatever they could carry. There were no Tharu men among them. These men had settled here from the hills, years ago.
“They know little about tigers and they have one purpose—to kill the tiger. If the elephants fail to d
rive the tiger out of the scrub, the villagers will set fire to it. Either way, they will get the Baba’s tiger.”
My father reached for the tranquilizer gun. He maneuvered his elephant so that Ramji could step onto a tree branch and move into position to dart the tiger. Then my father headed off to silently direct the movements of the other elephants to where we thought the tiger was hiding. I was on Hira Prashad; Dilly was on Man Kali; and my father was on Bhim Prashad. It was good to have tuskers and a brave female in the lead.
A tiger’s growl stopped the five elephants behind us in their tracks. They were afraid that the tiger would jump them. “Agat! Agat!” I commanded Hira Prashad, pushing my fearless tusker into the dense thornbushes.
The hidden tiger roared at our approach. The young elephants started to panic. They trumpeted, and a few turned around and ran. The villagers were also fleeing. The Baba, Father Autry, and Dhan Bahadur all scrambled to the roof of the Land Rover, leaving just one person sitting inside the car: Rita.
We kept pushing our elephants through the dense thorny scrub. A tiger could easily hide in here. All of a sudden, Hira Prashad lowered his head, his tusks almost touching a male tiger crouched on the ground. I had not even seen it. The tiger rose to his feet and limped toward the tree, where Ramji was perched.
I was close enough to the tiger to see the black-and-white porcupine quills stuck in his face. At my urging, slowly, carefully, Hira Prashad kept driving the tiger closer and closer to the clearing near the base of the tree. The wounded cat roared at us, but Hira Prashad did not flinch. He kept driving it forward.
The tiger was now in range. Ramji fired the dart.
It hit the tiger in the flank. He curled back toward the dart and snarled in anger. But he was in too much pain to move. He just stood there and growled. When the villagers saw the darting happen, they stayed back to wait for a sign. Ten minutes later, the drug had done its work and the tiger’s rear end started to sink to the ground. I directed Hira Prashad to the tree to fetch Ramji from his perch.
The tiger has dropped, I signaled to my father, who was still behind in the thornbushes. He rode Bhim Prashad to the tiger and joined Ramji next to him.
The villagers started running toward us led by three men in front. They would not give way. My father stayed put as they crowded around. “Move aside,” the local headman snarled. “This tiger attacked a herder. He must be killed now.”
“If you want to kill today, kill me!” A raspy, straining voice took our attention. It was the Baba walking through the crowd of villagers. It seemed he had floated over from the Land Rover. Because he had not spoken for so long, his voice was difficult to hear. “If you want revenge for the attack on this poor herder and the death of a cow, kill me instead, but spare this creature. He is the creation of God, and no man will touch him.”
“Stand back, Baba, or you will get hurt,” the second man warned. That was enough for me. I jumped off Hira Prashad and stood in front of the Baba.
The Baba knelt down and draped his arms around the sleeping tiger. “He is protected by the Baba, and he will not be harmed,” I yelled. “He has been injured by a porcupine, look at his paws and his face. He cannot hunt. I know this tiger. He will not harm anyone again if we tend to his wounds.”
The men ignored me and my pleas and moved in closer. The third hill tribesman in the lead group approached with his spear, ready to thrust it into the tiger. I stood in front of him and his hand came down and slapped me across my face.
It was all a blur what happened next. My tusker rushed forward and charged the man who had raised his spear and hit me. Hira Prashad trumpeted so loudly the villager dropped it and the men scattered in all directions. “Raa!” I shouted, and Hira Prashad stopped chasing them. The villagers were lucky my elephant listened to me.
Meanwhile, Dilly had grabbed the pliers from the darting kit and begun to pull porcupine quills from the tiger’s paws. Some had lodged in and broken off. Skillfully, Dilly grabbed the end of each quill and pulled them out cleanly. Soon the tiger’s paws were free of quills. But there were still the ones embedded in his muzzle. If the tiger had been gone for two weeks from the Baba’s refuge, it was probably because of the quills and his pain. Two weeks would make any animal feel like it was starving, especially a tiger. I wished I could explain this to these angry men who stood glowering fifty feet away, watching our every move. But I knew they would not listen to me.
“What do we do now, Subba-sahib?” I asked. My face still stung where the man had slapped me.
“He will be out for a good three hours with the dose I gave him. We could bring him to camp and put him in the crate we have made to catch leopards. Then we could send him to the Kathmandu Zoo.”
“He will not reach Kathmandu with these angry villagers all around us,” Dilly said.
“Then let us treat him and release him back into the jungle.” I spoke loudly, because I was sure no one would listen to me, the youngest person in the group.
“I agree with your idea, Nandu,” said Subba-sahib. “We can put him in Father-sahib’s Land Rover and drive him across the river. We can remove the rest of the quills when we get there.”
We all nodded.
“But let us stop at the stable first. I have some powders and salves. We must treat all his wounds,” said my father.
My father put his head to the tiger’s chest. Father Autry did the same. “I can hear the beating of his heart. It is very strong.” I put my hand on the tiger’s chest, too. I felt the power from touching so magical a creature run through me. Rita was suddenly there, too, stroking the tiger’s soft fur. The Baba smiled and made a gesture for us to make haste. If we were to save his tiger, we had to move quickly, away from the angry mob.
The vehicle carrying the Baba’s tiger reached the Belgadi River. The water level was low, so the Land Rover crossed easily.
I pushed Hira Prashad along as fast as he could go. We would reach the site in about ten minutes. All the while I talked to him.
“Hira Prashad, thank you for coming to my rescue once again. You are my brother. I can always count on you.” My elephant rumbled back and lifted his trunk to touch my hand with the tip.
“I wish I had a kuchi to give you now, but I will make five extra for you when we return to camp.”
I saw the parked Land Rover up ahead, and Hira Prashad, without any urging from me, broke into a run.
“Nandu, your tusker can practically fly. How did you make it here so quickly?” Father Autry asked. “And how on earth did Hira Prashad decide on his own to charge that man with the spear without a command?”
“Father-sahib, I do not know, truly. Maybe he was reading my mind. Maybe he saw him strike me and threaten the Baba.”
Five of us lifted the tiger out of the vehicle and laid it on the riverbank. Indra was the strongest boy in the Borderlands. Without him, I do not think we could have lifted the heavy male. Indra headed to the riverbank and returned carrying two buckets of water. While Dilly continued removing quills from the tiger’s muzzle, Rita filled cup after cup and poured the cool river water on the tiger’s body. The sun was climbing and we had to prevent the tiger from overheating.
Once the quills were out, my father spread a yellow powder in the tiger’s wounds. To do the same inside the tiger’s cheeks, Subba-sahib told us to hold up the tiger’s head and open its jaws again. Dilly and I grabbed from each side and Indra lifted from below. Even then, it took all three of us to hold its massive head steady.
“He must weigh over five hundred pounds,” said Father Autry.
“Maybe closer to six hundred,” my father said.
“Baba, you did something only a holy man can do, to protect this tiger from the mob. We are grateful to you. We will release your tiger here. Let us hope he recovers and stays away from people,” said my father.
“Let us hope he also learns to stay away from porcupines. Stick with deer and the wild pig, my friend. They are much tastier,” said Father Autry.
We
all laughed, except for the Baba. He had stepped back behind his wall of silence.
The tiger was now beginning to stir. Quickly, our team moved back behind Hira Prashad. The tiger tried twice to stand up but staggered and sank back to the ground. Twenty minutes later, though, he was on his feet, walking off into the grassland and stiffly waving his tail.
he routine of an elephant driver—cutting grass, grazing your animal, bathing your jumbo in the stream—has a rhythm that soothes my mind. And nothing calms me more than to ride alone in the jungle with Hira Prashad. We headed deep into the forest so I could think and calm my nerves.
I had not slept well, fearing that the villagers would come for us with their spears and shovels. If only they knew that the escaped Maroons were the real enemy. When I thought of those bandits, especially the one whose eye I had destroyed with my slingshot, my chest tightened, and it was hard to breathe. Could the poacher who killed Pradhan be one of the escaped Maroons? Could those hill tribesmen who wanted to burn the Baba’s tiger be working for them? Then there was the Birdman and that other fellow who tried to sell us the elephant ivory. Could they be in the poaching ring, too, and helping the gang to smuggle out the horns and tusks?
Maybe far from our stable across the most remote parts of the Borderlands, poaching had been going on during the summer. When the rains finally started, Ganesh Lal had taken another tour of the reserve. He did not see many of the rhinos that live between our camp and the gorge. Where had they gone?
Hira Prashad and I rode to visit our favorite view, the ridge that overlooks the sea of elephant grass bordering the Great Sand Bar River. It was now mid-September, when the Himalayan breezes blow south from Tibet, the tall grass catches the air and rolls like endless waves over the vast floodplain. The earthquake had changed the view a little. Hira Prashad and I now stood farther back, but that was the only evidence of the event. The jagged edge where the rock gave way had begun to grow over with vegetation, and the wall creepers and bee-eaters were flitting in and out of the new nest holes they had made in the clay walls. Nature’s way was to keep flowing, to keep growing. I would have to do the same, but it was harder for me to do when it was humans who had disturbed the natural flow. Pradhan should not be dead. But then again, should the tiger have attacked a man and killed a village cow? Must there always be a boundary between what is wild and what is human?
A Circle of Elephants Page 7