Tiger My Dost

On the left bank of the river Ganges, where it flows out from the Himalayan

foothills, is a long stretch of heavy forest. There are villages on the fringe of the

forest, inhabited by farmers and herdsmen. Big-game hunters came to the area for many

years, and as a result the animals had been getting fewer. The trees, too, had been

disappearing slowly; and as the animals lost their food and shelter, they moved further

into the foothills.

There was a time when this forest had provided a home for some thirty to forty

tigers, but men in search of skins and trophies had shot them all, and now there

remained only one old tiger in the jungle. The hunters had tried to get him, too, but he

was a wise and crafty tiger, who knew the ways of man, and so far he had survived all

attempts on his life.

Although the tiger had passed the prime of his life, he had lost none of his majesty.

His muscles rippled beneath the golden yellow of his coat, and he walked through the

long grass with the confidence of one who knew that he was still a king, although his

subjects were fewer. His great head pushed through the foliage, and it was only his tail,

swinging high, that sometimes showed above the sea of grass.

He was heading for water, the water of a large marsh, where he sometimes went to

drink or cool off. The marsh was usually deserted except when the buffaloes from a

nearby village were brought there to bathe or wallow in the muddy water.

The tiger waited in the shelter of a rock, his ears pricked for any unfamiliar sound.

He knew that it was here that hunters sometimes waited for him with guns.

He walked into the water, amongst the water-lilies, and drank slowly. He was

seldom in a hurry when he ate or drank.

He raised his head and listened, one paw suspended in the air.

A strange sound had come to him on the breeze, and he was wary of strange sounds.

So he moved swiftly into the shelter of the tall grass that bordered the marsh, and

climbed a hillock until he reached his favourite rock. This rock was big enough to hide

him and to give him shade.

The sound he had heard was only a flute, sounding thin and reedy in the forest. It

belonged to Nandu, a slim brown boy who rode a buffalo. Nandu played vigorously on

the flute. Chottu, a slightly smaller boy, riding another buffalo, brought up the rear of the

herd.

There were eight buffaloes in the herd, which belonged to the families of Nandu and

Chottu, who were cousins. Their fathers sold buffalo-milk and butter in villages further

down the river.

The tiger had often seen them at the marsh, and he was not bothered by their

presence. He knew the village folk would leave him alone as long as he did not attack

their buffaloes. And as long as there were deer in the jungle, he would not be interested

in other prey.

He decided to move on and find a cool shady place in the heart of the jungle, where

he could rest during the hot afternoon and be free of the flies and mosquitoes that

swarmed around the marsh. At night he would hunt.

With a lazy grunt that was half a roar, ‘A-oonh!’ – he got off his haunches and

sauntered off into the jungle.

The gentlest of tigers’ roars can be heard a mile away, and the boys, who were

barely fifty yards distant, looked up immediately.

‘There he goes!’ said Nandu, taking the flute from his lips and pointing with it

towards the hillock. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I saw his tail, just before he disappeared. He’s a big tiger!’

‘Don’t’ call him tiger. Call him Uncle.’

‘Why?’ asked Chottu.

‘Because it’s unlucky to call a tiger a tiger. My father told me so. But if you meet a

tiger, and call him Uncle, he will leave you alone.’

‘I see,’ said Chottu. ‘You have to make him a relative. I’ll try and remember that.’

The buffaloes were now well into the march, and some of them were lying down in

the mud. Buffaloes love soft wet mud and will wallow in it for hours. Nandu and Chottu

were not so fond of the mud, so they went swimming in deeper water. Later, they rested

in the shade of an old silk-cotton tree.

It was evening, and the twilight fading fast, when the buffalo herd finally made its

way homeward, to be greeted outside the village by the barking of dogs, the gurgle of

hookah-pipes, and the homely smell of cow-dung smoke.The following evening, when Nandu and Chottu came home with the buffalo herd, they

found a crowd of curious villagers surrounding a jeep in which sat three strangers with

guns. They were hunters, and they were accompanied by servants and a large store of

provisions.

They had heard that there was a tiger in the area, and they wanted to shoot it.

These men had money to spend; and, as most of the villagers were poor, they were

prepared to go into the forest to make a machaan or tree-platform for the hunters. The

platform, big enough to take the three men, was put up in the branches of a tall

mahogany tree.

Nandu was told by his father to tie a goat at the foot of the tree. While these

preparations were being made, Chottu slipped off and circled the area, with a plan of

his own in mind. He had no wish to see the tiger killed and he had decided to give it

some sort of warning. So he tied up bits and pieces of old clothing on small trees and

bushes. He knew the wily old king of the jungle would keep well away from the area if

he saw the bits of clothing – for where there were men’s clothes, there would be men.

The vigil kept by the hunters lasted all through the night, but the tiger did not come

near the tree. Perhaps he’d got Chottu’s warning; or perhaps he wasn’t hungry.

It was a cold night, and it wasn’t long before the hunters opened their flasks of rum.

Soon they were whispering among themselves; then they were chattering so loudly that

no wild animal would have come anywhere near them. By morning they were fast

asleep.

They looked grumpy and shamefaced as they trudged back to the village.

‘Wrong time of the year for tiger,’ said the first hunter.

‘Nothing left in these parts,’ said the second.

‘I think I’ve caught a cold,’ said the third. And they drove away in disgust.

It was not until the beginning of the summer that something happened to alter the hunting

habits of the tiger and bring him into conflict with the villagers.

There had been no rain for almost two months, and the tall jungle grass had become

a sea of billowy dry yellow. Some city-dwellers, camping near the forest, had been

careless while cooking and had started a forest fire. Slowly it spread into the interior,

from where the acrid fumes smoked the tiger out towards the edge of the jungle. As

night came on, the flames grew more vivid, the smell stronger. The tiger turned and

made for the marsh, where he knew he would be safe provided he swam across to the

little island in the centre.

Next morning he was on the island, which was untouched by the fire. But his

surroundings had changed. The slopes of the hills were black with burnt grass, and most

of the tall bamboo had disappeared. The deer and the wild pig, finding that their natural

cover had gone, moved further east.

When the fire had died down and the smoke had cleared, the tiger prowled through

the forest again but found no game. He drank at the marsh and settled down in a shady

spot to sleep the day away.

The tiger spent four days looking for game. By that time he was so hungry that he

even resorted to rooting among the dead leaves and burnt-out stumps of trees, searching

for worms and beetles. This was a sad comedown for the king of the jungle. But even

now he hesitated to leave the area in search of new hunting grounds, for he had a deep

fear and suspicion of the unknown forests further east – forests that were fast being

swept away by human habitation. He could have gone north, into the high mountains, but they did not provide him with the long grass he needed for cover.

At break of day he came to the marsh. The water was now shallow and muddy, and a

green scum had spread over the top. He drank, and then lay down across his favourite

rock, hoping for a deer; but none came. He was about to get up and lope away when he

heard an animal approach.

The tiger at once slipped off his rock and flattened himself on the ground, his tawny

stripes merging with the dry grass.

A buffalo emerged from the jungle and came to the water. The buffalo was alone. He

was a big male, and his long curved horns lay right back across his shoulders. He

moved leisurely towards the water, completely unaware of the tiger’s presence.

The tiger hesitated before making his charge.

It was a long time – many years – since he had killed a buffalo, and he knew

instinctively that the villagers would be angry. But the pangs of hunger overcame his

caution. There was no morning breeze, everything was still, and the smell of the tiger

did not reach the buffalo. A monkey chattered on a nearby tree, but his warning went

unheeded.

Crawling stealthily on his stomach, the tiger skirted the edge of the marsh and

approached the buffalo from behind. The buffalo was standing in shallow water,

drinking, when the tiger charged from the side and sank his teeth into his victim’s thigh.

The buffalo staggered, but turned to fight. He snorted and lowered his horns at the

tiger. But the big cat was too fast for the brave buffalo. He bit into the other leg and the

buffalo crashed to the ground. Then the tiger moved in for the kill.

After resting, he began to eat. Although he had been starving for days, he could not

finish the huge carcass. And so he quenched his thirst at the marsh and dragged the

remains of the buffalo into the bushes, to conceal it from jackals and vultures; then he

went off to find a place to sleep. The herdsmen were naturally very upset when they discovered that a buffalo was

missing. And next day, when Nandu and Chottu came running home to say that they had

found the half-eaten carcass near the marsh, the men of the village grew angry. They

knew that once the tiger realised how easy it was to kill their animals, he would make a

habit of doing so.

Kundan Singh, Nandu’s father, who owned the buffalo, said he would go after the

tiger himself.

‘It’s too late now,’ said his wife. ‘You should never have let the buffalo roam on its

own.’

‘He had been on his own before. This is the first time the tiger has attacked one of

our animals.’

‘He must have been hungry,’ said Chottu.

‘Well, we are hungry too,’ said Kundan Singh. ‘Our best buffalo – the only male in

the herd. It will cost me at least two thousand rupees to buy another.’

‘The tiger will kill again,’ said Chottu’s father. ‘Many years ago there was a tiger

who did the same thing. He became a cattle-killer.’

‘Should we send for the hunters?’

‘No, they are clumsy fools. The tiger will return to the carcass for another meal. You

have a gun?’

Kundan Singh smiled proudly and, going to a cupboard, brought out a doublebarrelled

gun. It looked ancient!

‘My father bought it from an Englishman,’ he said.

‘How long ago was that?’

‘About the time I was born.’

‘And have you ever used it?’ asked Chottu’s father, looking at the old gun with

distrust.

‘A few years ago I let it off at some bandits. Don’t you remember? When I fired,

they did not stop running until they had crossed the river.’

‘Yes, but did you hit anyone?’

‘I would have, if someone’s goat hadn’t got in the way.’

‘We had roast meat that night,’ said Nandu.

Accompanied by Chottu’s father and several others, Kundan set out for the marsh,

where, without shifting the buffalo’s carcass – for they knew the tiger would not come

near them if he suspected a trap – they made another tree-platform in the branches of a

tall tree some thirty feet from the kill.

Late that evening, Kundan Singh and Chottu’s father settled down for the night on

their rough platform.

Several hours passed and nothing but a jackal was seen by the watchers. And then,

just as the moon came up over the distant hills, the two men were startled by a low ‘Aoonh’,

followed by a suppressed, rumbling growl.

Kundan tightened his grip on the old gun. There was complete silence for a minute

or two, then the sound of stealthy footfalls on the dead leaves beneath the tree.

A moment later the tiger walked out into the moonlight and stood over his kill.

At first Kundan could do nothing. He was completely taken aback by the size of the

tiger. Chottu’s father had to nudge him, and then Kundan quickly put the gun to his

shoulder, aimed at the tiger’s head, and pressed the trigger.

The gun went off with a flash and two loud bangs, as Kundan fired both barrels.

There was a tremendous roar. The tiger rushed at the tree and tried to leap into the

branches. Fortunately, the platform had been built at a good height, and the tiger was He roared again and then bounded off into the forest.

‘What a tiger!’ exclaimed Kundan, half in fear and half in admiration.

‘You missed him completely,’ said Chottu’s father.

‘I did not,’ said Kundan. ‘You heard him roar! Would he have been so angry if he

had not been hit?’

‘Well, if you have only wounded him, he will turn into a man-eater – and where will

that leave us?’

‘He won’t be back,’ said Kundan. ‘He will leave this area.’

During the next few days the tiger lay low. He did not go near the marsh except when

it was very dark and he was very thirsty. The herdsmen and villagers decided that the

tiger had gone away. Nandu and Chottu – usually accompanied by other village youths,

and always carrying their small hand-axes – began bringing the buffaloes to the marsh

again during the day; they were careful not to let any of them stray far from the herd.

But one day, while the boys were taking the herd home, one of the buffaloes lagged

behind. Nandu did not realise that an animal was missing until he heard an agonised

bellow behind him. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the tiger dragging

the buffalo into a clump of bamboo. The herd sensed the danger, and the buffaloes

snorted with fear as they hurried along the forest path. To urge them forward and to

warn his friends, Nandu cupped his hands to his mouth and gave a yodelling call.

The buffaloes bellowed, the boys shouted, and the birds flew shrieking from the

trees. Together they stampeded out of the forest. The villagers heard the thunder of

hoofs, and saw the herd coming home amidst clouds of dust.

‘The tiger!’ called Nandu. ‘He is back! He has taken another buffalo!’

‘He is afraid of us no longer,’ thought Chottu. And now everyone will hate him and

do their best to kill him.

‘Did you see where he went?’ asked Kundan Singh, hurrying up to them.

‘I remember the place,’ said Nandu.

‘Then there is no time to lose,’ said Kundan. ‘I will take my gun and a few men, and

wait near the bridge. The rest of you must beat the jungle from this side and drive the

tiger towards me. He will not escape this time, unless he swims across the river!’

4

Kundan took his men and headed for the suspension bridge over the river, while the

others, guided by Nandu and Chottu, went to the spot where the tiger had seized the

buffalo.

The tiger was still eating when he heard the men coming. He had not expected to be

disturbed so soon. With an angry ‘Whoof!’ he bounded into the jungle, and watched the

men – there were some twenty of them – through a screen of leaves and tall grass.

The men carried hand drums slung from their shoulders, and some carried sticks

unable to reach it.

He would return to the kill when he was hungry. spears. After a hurried consultation, they strung out in a line and entered the jungle

beating their drums.

The tiger did not like the noise. He went deeper into the jungle. But the men came

after him, banging away on their drums and shouting at the top of their voices. They

advanced singly or in pairs, but nowhere were they more than fifteen yards apart.

The tiger could easily have broken through this slowly advancing semi-circle of men

– one swift blow from his paw would have felled the strongest of them – but his main

object was to get away from the noise. He hated and feared the noise made by humans.

He was not a man-eater and he would not attack a man unless he was very angry or

very frightened; and as yet he was neither. He had eaten well, and he would have liked

to rest – but there would be no rest for him until the men ceased their tremendous clatter

and din.

Nandu and Chottu kept close to their elders, knowing it wouldn’t be safe to go back

on their own. Chottu felt sorry for the tiger.

‘Do they have to kill the tiger?’ he asked. ‘If they drive him across the river he

won’t come back, will he?’

‘Who knows?’ said Nandu. ‘He has found it’s easy to kill our buffaloes, and when

he’s hungry he’ll come again. We have to live too.’

Chottu was silent. He could see no way out for the tiger.

For an hour the villagers beat the jungle, shouting, drumming, and trampling the

undergrowth.

The tiger had no rest. Whenever he was able to put some distance between himself

and the men, he would sink down in some shady spot to rest; but, within a few minutes,

the trampling and drumming would come nearer, and with an angry snarl he would get

up again and pad northwards, along the narrowing strip of jungle, towards the bridge

across the river.

It was about noon when the tiger finally came into the open. The boys had a clear

view of him as he moved slowly along, now in the open with the sun glinting on his

glossy side, now in the shade or passing through the shorter grass. He was still out of

range of Kundan Singh’s gun, but there was no way in which he could retreat.

He disappeared among some bushes but soon reappeared to retrace his steps. The

beaters had done their work well. The tiger was now only about a-hundred-and-fifty

yards from the place where Kundan Singh waited.

The beat had closed in, the men were now bunched together. They were making a

great noise, but nothing moved.

Chottu, watching from a distance, wondered: Has he slipped through the beaters?

And in his heart he hoped so.

Tins clashed, drums beat, and some of the men poked into the reeds along the river

bank with their spears or bamboo sticks. Perhaps one of these thrusts found its mark,

because at last the tiger was roused, and with an angry, desperate snarl he charged out of the reeds, splashing his way through an inlet of mud and water.

Kundan Singh fired and missed.

The tiger rushed forward, making straight for the only way across the river – the

suspension bridge that crossed it, providing a route into the hills beyond.

The suspension bridge swayed and trembled as the big tiger lurched across it.

Kundan fired again, and this time the bullet grazed the tiger’s shoulder.

The tiger bounded forward, lost his footing on the unfamiliar, slippery planks of the

swaying bridge, and went over the side, falling headlong into the swirling water of the

river.

He rose to the surface once, but the current took him under and away, and before

long he was lost to view.

5

At first the villagers were glad – they felt their buffaloes were safe. Then they began to

feel that something had gone out of their lives, out of the life of the forest. The forest

had been shrinking year by year, as more people had moved into the area; but as long as

the tiger had been there and they had heard him roar at night, they had known there was

still some distance between them and the ever-spreading towns and cities. Now that the

tiger had gone, it was as though a protector had gone.

The boys lay flat on their stomachs on their little mud island, and watched the

monsoon clouds gathering overhead.

‘The king of the jungle is dead,’ said Nandu. ‘There are no more tigers.’

‘There have to be tigers,’ said Chottu. ‘Can there be an India without tigers?’

The river had carried the tiger many miles away from his old home, from the forest he

had always known, and brought him ashore on the opposite bank of the river, on a strip

of warm yellow sand. Here he lay in the sun, quite still, breathing slowly.

Vultures gathered and waited at a distance, some of them perching on the branches of

nearby trees. But the tiger was more drowned than hurt, and as the river water oozed

out of his mouth, and the warm sun made new life throb through his body, he stirred and

stretched, and his glazed eyes came into focus. Raising his head, he saw trees and tall

grass.

Slowly he heaved himself off the ground and moved at a crouch to where the tall

grass waved in the afternoon breeze. Would he be hunted again, and shot at? There was

no smell of man. The tiger moved forward with greater confidence.

There was, however, another smell in the air, a smell that reached back to the time

when he was young and fresh and full of vigour; a smell that he had almost forgotten but

could never really forget – the smell of a tigress.

He lifted his head, and new life surged through his limbs. He gave a deep roar, ‘ oonh!’ and moved purposefully through the tall grass. And the roar came back to him,

calling him, urging him forward; a roar that meant there would be more tigers in the

land!

That night, half asleep on his cot, Chottu heard the tigers roaring to each other across

the river, and he recognised the roar of his own tiger. And from the vigour of its roar he

knew that it was alive and safe; and he was glad.

‘Let there be tigers forever,’ he whispered into the darkness before he fell asleep