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- Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
With the help of a Maratha nobleman, Mark Shand bought an elephant named Tara and rode her over six hundred miles across India to the Sonepur Mela, the world's oldest elephant market. From Bhim, a drink-racked mahout, Shand learned to ride and care for her. From his friend Aditya Patankar he learned Indian ways. And with Tara, his new companion, he fell in love. Travels on My Elephant is the story of their epic journey across India, from packed highways to dusty back roads where communities have remained unchanged for millennia. It is also a memorable, touching account of Tara's transformation from scrawny beggar elephant to star attraction. In this new edition Mark Shand explains how what began as an adventurous whim has developed, decades later, into a life of campaigning to provide vital migratory corridors for these magnificent creatures, whose habitat is under constant assault from man.
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Travels On My Elephant
MARK SHAND
For Clio and Tara, one small, one big, both loved
This reprint is dedicated to my wonderful daughter Ayesha
Contents
Prologue
‘AM I RIGHT in assuming that you want to buy an elephant?’ the voice from New Delhi shouted down the telephone to me in London. Even through the hiss and static of the long-distance connection I could detect the apprehension in the voice.
‘Yes,’ I shouted back.
I was restless again. The last time I had been restless, I ended up being pursued by cannibals in Indonesia. This time, I had decided on a quiet jaunt across India on an elephant. This idea evolved from a drawing I had discovered while clearing out my grandmother’s house after she had died. The drawing was of an infuriated male elephant about to charge a little Indian mahout or elephant driver. I took it with me and forgot about it – at least I thought I had.
A few days later I opened a book on India. Staring jovially at me from the page was a bewhiskered gentleman, wearing a dashing plumed hat, sitting nonchalantly astride an elephant. It was Tom Coryat, the eccentric Englishman who travelled to India overland in 1615, on foot, on twopence a day. When he reached the court of the great Moghul Emperor Jahangir, he wrote: ‘I have rid upon an elephant since I came to this court, determining one day (by God’s leave) to have my picture expressed in my next booke sitting upon an elephant.’ I was now obsessed. With or without God’s leave I was determined to have my picture expressed in my next book sitting upon an elephant.
I rushed to the library where I read a few classics on elephants. From the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, I received sound information:
The great elephant has by nature qualities which rarely occur among men, namely probity, prudence and a sense of justice. They are mild in disposition and are conscious of dangers. If one of them should come upon a man alone who has lost his way, he puts him back peacefully in the path from which he has wandered. It is so peaceable that its nature does not allow it willingly to injure creatures less powerful than itself. If it should chance to meet a drove or flock of sheep, it puts them aside with its trunk so as to avoid trampling upon them with its feet; and it never injures others unless it is provoked. They have a great dread of the grunting of pigs and they delight in rivers. They hate rats. Flies are much attracted by their smell and as they settle on their backs they wrinkle up their skin deepening its tight folds and so kill them.
How could I go wrong? It seemed I had chosen a most practical and agreeable travelling companion.
Now I was telephoning a friend in New Delhi. ‘Yes, I want to buy an elephant,’ I shouted to him, as if this was the most usual of requests.
‘You must be mad,’ his voice echoed. ‘Still, I suppose it’s possible. India is full of elephants, but what are you going to do with it when you leave? I don’t see your parents taking kindly to it residing in Sussex. Think of their beautiful garden. Why don’t you rent an elephant?’
‘Rent one?’ I yelled. ‘It’s not a car.’
‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’ I could hear the resignation in his voice. ‘Meanwhile I suggest you contact Pepita. I think she has an elephant.’
‘Thank you so much. Goodbye.’
‘Mark,’ he shouted frantically. ‘There’s just one other thing. Where are you going to go on it?’
‘Well, um … er …’ I stuttered feebly. ‘To be frank, I haven’t really given it much thought yet.’ In fact, I had not thought about it at all. I just imagined myself climbing aboard and setting off.
Pepita Seth is an unconventional English woman, married to one of India’s finest actors. A scholar and talented photographer, she spent ten years in Kerala documenting the religious rituals of southern India. There she became obsessed with the elephant that so enriches Kerala’s ceremonies and festivals. Now she lives in Delhi. I wrote asking if I could buy her elephant. Pepita replied promptly. Her writing paper ‘ELEPHANT OWNERS’ ASSOCIATION’ announced what surely must be the most exclusive club in the world: No, I could not buy her elephant, she wrote indignantly. ‘On the other hand I know where you can get one. The Sonepur Mela in Bihar, the world’s largest animal fair. Elephants, cattle and horses have been sold there for centuries. I went three years ago and must have seen three hundred elephants. It happens sometime at the end of November, depending on the full moon.’
It was now the beginning of August and the Mela was not for another four months. I couldn’t wait that long. I decided to leave for India immediately certain that I would find an elephant once I got there. After all, I now had a goal – a place to sell it. I just had to find one and ride to the fair.
1
Elephant Headquarters
INDIA SHOWS WHAT she wants to show, as if her secrets are guarded by a wall of infinite height. You try to climb the wall – you fall; you fetch a ladder – it is too short; but if you are patient a brick will loosen and then another. Once through, India embraces you, but that was something I had yet to learn.
When I arrived in Delhi it was my ladder that was too short. I wanted everything immediately. The monsoons had broken. Black, swollen clouds brought the usual rain, humidity and chaos. Roads were awash, taxis broke down, peacocks screamed. I perspired, worried and developed prickly heat – and I had only been there a few days.
Inevitably I consulted a fortune-teller. ‘You are married, yes,’ he stated wisely.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘But you are having a companion, I think.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are most fortunate, sir. Soon you will be having another one. I am seeing many problems. But do not worry, sir,’ he added brightly. ‘They will only be getting worse.’
With characteristic generosity my friend had put his house at my disposal. It was to become ‘elephant headquarters’ and the mantle of co-ordinator had settled, however unwillingly, upon his shoulders. In the following week his elegant dining-room was converted into an operations area fit for a world war. Maps and papers littered the table, kit bags, medical supplies, mosquito nets, tents and food rations occupied corners. People dropped in and out. The telephone never stopped ringing and his staff worked overtime producing a continuous chain of refreshments. Game wardens, wildlife officials and forest officers, retired shikaris, politicians, journalists, government servants, ministers and just plain friends were contacted – all important people with tight schedules who went out of their way to help. Undeservedly, however, the bricks had already been loosened for me.
‘Everybody’s so kind,’ I remarked to my friend incredulously.
‘It is not you that they’re worried about, it’s the elephant.’
In this merry-go-round of madness I sloshed from office to office pestering people. I spent a morning discussing the reproduction cycles of the gharial, the Indian freshwater crocodile, and another looking at slides of seabirds. I was offered a camel and found myself buying a jade green parrot from a mobile bird seller, which promptly bit me. I listened carefully to mercurial advice on ancient routes and less carefully to lectures about pilgrimages and migrations affected by lunar and solar cycles. I heard about the great temples and festivals I would see, the jungles I would travel through and the tribals that I would encounter. ‘And elephants?’ I would eventually enquire hopefully.
‘India is like an elephant,’ I was told. ‘She moves slowly.’
At last a vital brick fell out. Through my friend I met an important bureaucrat who had a deep knowledge of wildlife and, more important, was an expert on elephants.
‘Orissa, the old kingdom of Kalinga,’ he said, studying the map I had spread before him, ‘is where you should go. For centuries the rulers paid their tributes in elephants. They were known as Gajpati, the Lords of Elephants. In fact,’ he continued, ‘you will almost certainly be retracing some ancient elephant route. You tell me that you are ending the journey at the Sonepur Mela in Bihar.’
‘It was just an idea …’
‘Well, where did those elephant tributes go? To Pataliputra, the old capital of India, or Patna as it is known today. Sonepur is a few miles north of Patna, across the Ganga. Now,’ he paused for a moment. ‘In India every great pilgrimage or journey begins or ends at a temple or place of worship.’ He smiled. ‘In your case particularly an auspicious start would be of great importance. You might consider the great Sun temple at Konarak, the Black Pagoda. The main structure is supported by a carved frieze of two thousand elephants and the north side is guarded by two colossal war elephants which are so lifelike that, on moonlit nights, visitors often mistake them for the real thing.’
I now had a complete journey more or less mapped out, but still no vehicle. ‘And an elephant, sir?’ I enquired with diffidence.
‘Your best bet is the zoo. I’ll give you a letter of introduction to the director of the Nandankanan Biological Park. He’s a helpful man and runs one of our better establishments. If anyone can find you an elephant, he will. Now, whatever you do, don’t buy a Muckna.’
‘Of course not,’ I replied firmly, assuming more knowledge than I possessed. Obviously he did not believe me. He explained that a Muckna is a male elephant without tusks that suffers from a kind of inferiority complex and is usually exceedingly dangerous.
‘Like a sort of eunuch,’ I suggested brightly.
‘Well, yes,’ he replied, looking at me oddly. ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Of course, you will need a mahout and a charkaatiya.’
I must have looked perplexed.
‘A charkaatiya,’ he explained patiently, ‘is a man who cuts fodder for the elephant. Its daily consumption can be as much as two hundred kilos. In certain areas, fodder will not be available, so you will have to buy it. It will be expensive. And,’ he continued, ‘it might be a good idea to get hold of a jeep. You can probably hire one in Orissa. You’ll need back up.’
I swallowed hard. My entourage was growing. The idea of climbing on and setting off vanished. I would now command a small army.
His information was limitless. He advised me on the different types of howdahs, the price of elephants, their feeding habits, medical care, emergency tactics, mahouts and elephant commands (alarmingly there were eighty-four of them). Before I left, he gave me the letter and told me that when one is buying an elephant, there are five points to look for that one doesn’t look for when buying a wife, and vice versa. Unfortunately, he could not remember what they were.
Back at the house I found my friend pacing the garden nervously.
‘I’m off to Orissa,’ I announced happily.
‘I know,’ he sighed. He was born in Orissa and had spent his childhood there.
‘Well, don’t look so miserable. You are about to get rid of me. Anyway you should be happy I am going to visit your home.’
‘That’s what I am worried about,’ he retorted testily. ‘You are bound to get into trouble, or else get lost. You must take somebody with you. What about the language? How on earth are you going to understand anything?’
I had become so obsessed with finding an elephant that I had not given this a thought. Two or three months of sign language could become confusing, in fact, unbearable. ‘What should I do?’ I asked anxiously.
‘I think I know a man. He is a photographer. This kind of folly will appeal to him.’
‘When can I meet him?’
‘In about ten minutes,’ he announced smugly. ‘I have invited him for lunch.’
Ten minutes later a distinguished, well-built man, sporting a full moustache and wearing Rayban sunglasses, loped into the garden. He took off his glasses. ‘You!’ he barked fiercely. Puzzled I looked around me. The garden was empty. He then roared with laughter and held out his hand. ‘I’m Aditya Patankar. We have met before – at Holi. But I do not think that you would remember me.’
I cringed at the mention of the Spring Festival of Holi, a wild, bacchanalian affair where people smear each other with coloured powders. Pulverised by traditional opium concoctions I had passed out in a fountain. He won’t want to come, I thought.
‘I don’t know much about elephants,’ Aditya said, to my surprise. ‘As a child I was taken by my father to see the elephants in the stables at my cousin’s palace in Gwalior. These elephants were used for ceremonial occasions and for the tiger shoots. About one hundred years ago the ruling Maharaja hoisted two of the great beasts on to the roof of the palace to ensure that the ceiling would withstand the stupendous weight of two Venetian chandeliers he wished to install. But tell me about your journey …’
Over lunch I weaved a beguiling tale of a well-planned expedition.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he said with a smile, ‘but I will come. There is another reason. You see I’m a Maratha – my ancestors, of whom I’m intensely proud, formed a superb fighting force, and were reputed to have invented guerrilla warfare. Their barbaric reputation alone was enough to strike terror into the heart of India. Both Orissa and Bihar suffered from their swords. It will be interesting to retrace some of their exploits.’
I realised I was extremely fortunate. Already I liked this straightforward man with his loud voice and laughing eyes. We were an unlikely pair, I thought to myself – an Indian nobleman and an errant Englishman, thrown together by a whim, like some mad nineteenth-century expedition, except the quest was not for a lost city or a hidden treasure, but for an elephant.
Two days later we flew to Bhubaneshwar, the capital of Orissa.
2
An Original Elephant
THE LONG ARM of coincidence, in which travellers are often held, found the director of the zoo – the very man for whom I had been given a letter of introduction – travelling on the same flight. There were no elephants that he knew of for sale in Orissa, he told us sympathetically. In fact he himself was looking for elephants both for his own establishment and for a temple. He then suggested we try Madras. ‘In the meantime visit my zoo. See the white tigers and the kangaroos that have just arrived from Australia.’
‘Well that’s that,’ I said glumly after we returned to our seats. ‘We might as well catch the next flight back to Delhi.’ I turned to Aditya, trying to stay calm. ‘What on earth are we going to do?’ He was fast asleep.
Bhubaneshwar – the city of a thousand temples – was draped in thick black cloud, glistening from the wet kiss of the monsoons. A steamy heat hung in the air. Even the sparrows, those lively occupants of Indian airports, were silent, wilting on top of the announcement speakers.
At the hotel the receptionist asked politely, ‘Sands, that is your good name?’
‘No, it’s Shand.’
‘Welcome to the Prachi Hotel, Mr Sands. How long will you be staying?’
‘Until I find an elephant.’
‘First class,’ he said encouragingly, with a slight inclination of his head.
We had barely reached the stairs when a room-boy approached us. ‘You are looking for elephants, sir? I have one friend who has many. All sizes. Shall I call him?’
A few moments later there came a knock at my door, which I flung open to the surprise of an elderly man wearing a smart two-piece polyester safari suit. Behind him the room-boy struggled with a large suitcase.
‘My name is Fakir Charan Tripathy,’ the man said recovering his composure, ‘I have elephants.’
‘When can we see them?’
‘Now, of course, sirs,’ the man replied, opening the suitcase. Inside were rows of elephants made from ivory, ebony and sandalwood.
‘Please be making a selection. Finest quality. Most reasonable.’
Aditya camouflaged his mouth by pulling on his moustache and explained that these would not meet our requirements. The man seemed confused. Then an expression of wonder crept across his face. ‘Aah! You are wanting an o-r-i-g-i-n-a-l elephant.’
The room-boy said suddenly, ‘I’ve seen many elephants.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside my house, sir. Often they are passing. My children love to see them.’ He looked down at his hands in shame. ‘I try to keep my family inside. We are very poor and I cannot afford to give away money or food. Only last week three …’
‘Saddhus!’ Aditya exclaimed. ‘They must be saddhus, and they can’t have gone far. They will be stopping at every village and it shouldn’t be difficult to follow their route.’ He turned to me. ‘You see, Mark, the elephant is revered in most parts of India. It represents the elephant-headed deity, Ganesh, our Hindu God of Protection. These elephants are usually ridden by con men masquerading as saddhus, or holy men – a powerful and very lucrative combination. They criss-cross the country, begging, living off the consciences of people much worse off than themselves. Now, you are to stay here. If they see that face of yours the price of an elephant will double. Mr Tripathy, will you come with me?’
‘With pleasure. For a small fee. But there is just one other thing. Why is the gentleman wanting an elephant?’
Aditya whispered something into his ear. With a broad smile Mr Tripathy shook my hand before leaving the room.
‘What did you tell him?’ I demanded crossly.
‘That you are an Englishman.’
‘Well, so what?’
‘Everybody knows that the English are mad.’
At three o’clock in the morning Aditya returned, tired but elated. They had located the elephants about sixty miles west of Bhubaneshwar in a small town called Daspalla. They were indeed begging elephants owned by saddhus.
‘Did they want to sell?’ I asked anxiously.
‘We can take our pick. There are two females and one tusker. The tusker comes from Nepal and is a good elephant, or so they tell me. But what the hell do we know about elephants? We must get some expert advice …’
‘What were they like?’
‘Oh, devious buggers, they …’
‘No, no, not the saddhus, the elephants.’
‘Big. Like any elephant. I didn’t really see them properly. Now let’s get some sleep. You’ll have plenty of time to look at them tomorrow.’
I found I couldn’t sleep. All night everything I looked at became an elephant – the shadow of a swaying branch, the moon-filled clouds or even the television set. My obsession had indeed turned to madness.
It took most of the day to locate the zoo director who kindly agreed to lend the services of his chief mahout, Bhim. Our party had grown. There were now four of us. Myself, Aditya, Mr Tripathy, with his suitcase of elephants, and a young taxi driver called Indrajit, who had impressed Aditya with his driving skills the previous night. He was a handsome, courteous young man, who radiated energy and had dark fierce eyes – the kind of eyes that remain fierce even in jest. But I wasn’t thinking about a chauffeur, I was eagerly waiting to set eyes on my first mahout.
In Delhi I had been lent a book on elephants entitled The Elephant-Lore of the Hindus, which had detailed the essential qualities required in an elephant driver:
The supervisor of elephants should be intelligent, king-like, righteous, devoted to his Lord, pure, true to his undertakings, free from vice, controlling his senses, well behaved, vigorous, tried by practice, delighting in kind words, his science learnt from a good teacher, clever, firm, affording protection, renowned for curing disease, fearless, all-knowing.
The mahout was waiting at the gates of the zoo. Bhim was a man of indeterminate age, the colour of a walnut, bandy-legged and carried himself like a wounded soldier. As we got out of the car he executed a shaky salute, his arm and leg not quite in co-ordination. From the state of his bloodshot eyes, he was clearly suffering from a hangover. He climbed into the car and yawned, exposing the remains of three yellow teeth which wobbled when he spoke. ‘Sleep now, sah. Very good. Haathi later.’ He then passed out.
Aditya was not wrong about Indrajit. He drove with a cunning recklessness, the tropical landscape passing in a blur outside the window. We had only one accident when he swerved to avoid a bullock cart, clipping the back side-window against one of the animal’s enormous horns. The glass exploded like a hand grenade with some of the fragments embedding themselves in Aditya’s face. ‘Lucky it wasn’t my eyes,’ he shrugged stoically, picking the glass out of his cheek.
It was late at night by the time we reached Daspalla. The town was deserted. There was no sign of the elephants. I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. ‘Jesus!’ I shouted, ‘I just can’t believe this. We’ve lost them. They could be anywhere …’
‘No sir,’ Mr Tripathy announced calmly, pointing to large mounds like loaves of bread that decorated the road. ‘Now we follow shit.’
We pushed on deeper into the night, our eyes glued to the black surface of the road, illuminated in the taxi’s headlights, searching for the tell-tale signs. At intervals the trail would run dry and Mr Tripathy and Indrajit would make enquiries. Villagers, rudely awoken by the urgent shouting, would appear in their doorways, cocooned in blankets, looking bewildered and frightened. Reports regarding sightings of the elephants became equally bewildering – anywhere between two hours and six days. We reached a toll gate, where we received more accurate information. The elephants, we were told by the sleepy toll keeper, had definitely passed through. Did he perhaps know how long ago, we asked. No. Unfortunately his watch was not in working order. But he assured us it was not yesterday.
We were closer. The droppings were fresher and, as if on cue, Bhim woke up. ‘Haathi close,’ he said quietly, rubbing his bloodshot eyes, as he poked his nose out of the window. ‘Can smell.’
We rounded the next bend. Three massive shapes loomed out of the night, their shadows dancing over the glow of a small roadside fire, around which lay bundles of vermilion and saffron rags.
‘We’ll pretend you’re a tourist who has never seen an elephant,’ Aditya whispered to me. ‘Just stare in astonishment.’
As I got out of the car the rags suddenly billowed upwards and I found myself transfixed by three pairs of hot eyes that flashed like cash registers, curtained by matted tresses of long black oily hair. I forgot the necessity of our charade. As if drawn by a magnet, I was already moving towards the elephants.
Then I saw her. My mouth went dry. I felt giddy, breathless. In that moment the ancient wall crumbled and I walked through. With one hind leg crossed over the other, she was leaning nonchalantly against a tree, the charms of her perfectly rounded posterior in full view, like a prostitute on a street corner. I knew then that I had to have her. Suddenly, nothing else mattered and I realised with some surprise that I had fallen in love with a female Asian elephant.
As luck would have it, I had become enamoured with a perfect elephant, an elephant, even Bhim said, that made his heart flutter. She was young, between twenty-five and thirty years old and although in poor condition, due to mishandling and starvation, would in fourteen days in his care, turn into a lovely riding elephant. She had all the attributes – a healthy pink tongue unblemished by black spots, brown kindly eyes with no traces of white, the right amount of toenails, eighteen, five each on the front feet, four on the back, strong and sturdy joints and a perfect arc to her back. The other two elephants, he warned, were dangerous, and would quite likely kill somebody soon if they hadn’t done so already. Take her, he advised me, it would be impossible to find better.
Anywhere between 10,000 rupees and 2 lakhs, I was told in Delhi when researching the price of elephants. A tusker is usually more expensive due to its ivory and prestige, yet a female is sometimes more desirable due to its temperament.
The odds were already stacked heavily in favour of the saddhus. To make matters worse a crowd had mysteriously assembled and was excitedly denouncing the saddhus as robbers and urging the ‘rich firinghee’ to buy all three elephants. My diary entry for the negotiations reads as follows: ‘Their first price was 2 lakh. Our first price: 60,000 rupees. Their second price: 1 lakh 50,000 rupees. Our second price: 80,000 rupees. Their third price: 1 lakh. Our third price: 85,000 rupees. Their final price: 1 lakh. Problem. Stalemate. Holy men will not budge. Crowd now very excited. Go away and have urgent discussions over cup of tea. Tea delicious. Tripathy, Indrajit and Bhim advise stick to our price otherwise loss of face. Aditya says loss of elephant more likely. Return and offer 1 lakh. Holy men now refuse. Why? Holy men never go back on word and have hurt feelings. Aditya tells them will bring cash tomorrow. Holy men go back on word and forget about feelings but now want more. How much? 1,000 rupees. Why? In India, even numbers inauspicious, odd numbers auspicious. Bloody crooks. Agree. Crowd very disappointed.’ (£1 sterling is approximately 26 rupees, give or take a little depending on fluctuations in the rate of exchange. 1 lakh equals 100,000 rupees, or £4,000.)
The mendicants, or beggars, told us that they would bring the elephant back to Daspalla. There they were more likely to find a suitable place to load her on to the truck that we would be bringing the next day. Before leaving I went to see her. I watched her flapping her huge ears, the ends of which were splotched with the palest of pink dots, as if somebody had flicked a paintbrush. I felt ashamed that I had bargained for her at all. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but found I couldn’t, terrified that she might reject me. In the car on the way back I realised I didn’t even know her name.
Mr Tripathy had forgotten about his suitcase full of elephants and now seemed as obsessed with acquiring an original elephant as we were. The next morning he and Indrajit went to organise a truck, while Aditya and I set off to find the zoo director to ask him whether we could keep the elephant there until we departed on our journey, and also if he would allow Bhim to act as mahout. We had reached the decision last night after three bottles of rum. Tripathy and Indrajit had vehemently opposed the idea, saying that he was too old, too weak and too drunk. Whether it was the alcohol or emotion I will never know, but the way that Bhim had accepted his position removed my doubts. ‘Sah,’ he said proudly, drawing himself up to his full five feet and executing another shaky salute, ‘Raja-sahib, Daddy, Mummy, my family now. Bhim look after.’
The director was somewhat surprised and sceptical at the speed of our success. He readily agreed to let the elephant reside at the zoo, but wanted it outside the main park due to the quarantine regulations. The place he was suggesting was next to Bhim’s house, which suited us perfectly. But, he warned us, although he had no doubts about Bhim’s capabilities with elephants, he did have a drink problem. However, if we were prepared to take the risk, he would not stand in our way.
We found our transport was waiting for us at the hotel. The truck was a machine of magnificent chaos. It was difficult to ascertain on first inspection which was the front and which the back. It was the hippies’ ultimate chariot, a relic of the Sixties and flower power, bedecked with garlands of flowers, effigies of gods, good luck charms and strings of fairy-lights that twinkled on and off prettily on application of the brakes. On the back was written, ‘USE HORN PLEASE, OK’ and underneath, ‘TATA’ which I thought was a message of farewell, but was in fact the make of the vehicle.
We set off to Daspalla stopping for a ‘sharpener’ in a bottle shop on the way. The proprietor, an ex-serviceman, excited by our visit, took out two bottles of beer and three glasses from a cupboard. The name of the beer was printed over a picture of Mohammed Ali standing over a fallen victim with his arms outstretched – KNOCK OUT, HIGH PUNCH, STRONG BEER, BREWED IN BANGALORE. ‘On the houses, gentlemen,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘To England, India, elephants. God bless and the best of British luck.’
‘That makes me proud to be an Indian,’ Aditya said as we walked back to the truck. ‘You have just witnessed something quite unique. In all my travels across this country, that is the first time I have been offered a free drink. It bodes well for our journey, my friend.’
‘Luckily he didn’t know you are a Maratha,’ I remarked, ‘otherwise his hospitality might have been of a different nature in view of the depredations committed by your ancestors in Orissa two hundred years ago.’
‘Ah, the sword of the Marathas. Those were the days,’ he said dreamily. ‘You know, Mark, it was probably right here, on this very spot that my ancestors won yet another brilliant victory.’
‘Actually it was at a place called Barmul Gorge which is somewhere near here. It was your last stand in Orissa. The English army, led by Marquis Wellesley, wiped you out.’
The mendicants were already sleeping by the time we found them in a deserted schoolhouse on the outskirts of Daspalla. I couldn’t see the elephants but I could hear them feeding; sharp cracks of breaking branches punctured the still night air like pistol shots. Aditya squatted down beside one of the sleeping forms and I overheard a short, muffled conversation. The mendicant pulled his blanket further over his head, rolled over and went back to sleep. Odd behaviour I thought for a man who is about to receive nearly £4,000. Aditya stood up, his face registering a mixture of anger and disbelief.
‘They won’t sell. They’ve changed their minds.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I am not bloody well joking,’ he hissed. ‘You know what this bastard told me when I pointed out that he had gone back on his word and put us to a great deal of expense. He said it is our right to give people trouble. We do it all the time.’
Indrajit and Tripathy had now joined us. When Aditya explained the situation we had to restrain them forcibly from attacking the mendicants, who were now fully awake clutching an assortment of crude axes and spears, which I realised with horror they had probably used on the elephants.
‘We are wasting our time,’ Aditya said. ‘There’s only one solution. We will go to the police.’
The police station was empty apart from a bat circling a ceiling fan. From the back of the building we heard the sound of snoring. Indrajit disappeared. A few minutes later he returned followed by a disgruntled man with tousled hair, hastily tucking a khaki shirt into a crumpled lunghi. He waved us to a couple of chairs and slid behind a desk. He looked at me, as if he had just awakened from one nightmare and was now about to enter another.
Aditya explained the situation. The policeman blinked owlishly and painstakingly scratched out a report.
‘In my opinion,’ he announced finally, pushing back his chair and yawning, ‘there is not seeming to be a crime committed.’
‘There bloody well has been,’ I shouted, losing the last vestige of self-control. ‘They’ve got my elephant!’ I threw down a visiting-card I had been given by a senior bureaucrat in the Orissa government.
To my astonishment, the policeman’s eyes widened noticeably. In a matter of moments the entire garrison of the Daspalla Police Force were lined up in front of the desk and ordered to fetch the beggars. The posse returned with the man to whom Aditya had spoken. It would have given us some satisfaction if he had been driven at the point of a bayonet, or at least in handcuffs, but he seemed to be on excellent terms with his captors. He entered the station, helped himself to a cigarette from a packet lying on the desk, lit it from a match proffered by one of the policemen, and squatted down unconcernedly in a corner. A crowd had assembled outside the station. The majority were on our side, but a faction became demonstrative when a local quack told them I was buying the elephant in order to kill it. I would then, with the aid of a huge syringe, extract some magic potion which I would sell as an aphrodisiac. The police chief, sensing a riot, dispersed the crowd.
Up until now the mendicant had only revealed his name as Rajpath but when one of the police advanced upon him with a bamboo cane, he broke down in a well-rehearsed fit of histrionics, and whimpered that the elephant did not belong to him but to his boss who lived in a village near Benares in the state of Uttar Pradesh.
‘Why in hell didn’t he tell us that in the first place?’ I asked Aditya incredulously.
For the next two hours a strange negotiation took place, during which the police acted as go-betweens. At one moment they would be deep in conversation with Aditya, Tripathy and Indrajit, the next with Rajpath through the bars of the station cell, behind which he now reclined. Meanwhile I waited outside and spent a pleasant night discussing the merits of the English and Indian cricket teams with one of the junior policemen.
In the early hours of the morning a solution was found. Mysteriously, Rajpath could now sell the elephant. Empowered by the owner, its destiny lay entirely in Rajpath’s hands. He would be prepared to sign an affidavit to the effect as well as the sale deeds which we had brought from Bhubaneshwar. Both these documents would be witnessed officially by the police, and Rajpath would then set out immediately for Benares to deliver the money to the owner.
The deal was seemingly foolproof, except, I pointed out, for one salient point. In view of his previous attitude how could we trust Rajpath to deliver the money?
It was decided that Aditya would accompany him to Benares and conclude the negotiations with the owner personally. I had to fly to Delhi to sort out some visa extension problems. In the meantime, Mr Tripathy and Indrajit would keep watch over the elephant and we would meet back in Bhubaneshwar in a few days.
