Travelers' Tales India Page 28

  Then I moved too soon. For one long minute, with my foot on top of Michael’s, neither of us able to move, I thought I’d fall and drown. I started to panic. I tried not to look down, but I was morbidly fascinated. Would the current bash me against the rocks, or could I paddle to shore? Could I even paddle wearing a backpack? It must have been about this place that Dervla Murphy wrote: “I wondered whether my imminent death would come from a broken neck on the rocks or through drowning…” Tears of fear and self-pity smarted my eyes. Then I remembered to breathe slowly and I imagined I was on solid ground. I lifted my boot, freeing Michael’s trapped foot. As I hung over the seething river by just one foot and three fingers, I experienced the greatest concentration of sheer terror I’ve ever felt.

  On the other side of the rock the path started up nonchalantly, almost innocently. We didn’t know whether to congratulate ourselves for our daring or to chastise ourselves for our poor judgment, but there was time for neither. For a moment we stared at the river thundering hungrily down its bed of boulders and felt strangely part of it. We raced toward Jari in the half-light, following Ratna Guest House signs. Along the path, we almost stumbled over a party of Malanis, sensibly bedded down for the night. I jumped back, indicating that I understood the rules about touch. Only then did the significance of my first encounter with a Malani dawn on me.

  I had offered the shepherd girl biscuits. She had accepted. Both times my hand had brushed hers.

  Mary Orr was raised in the wilds of northern Canada. At different times in her life she has worked as a waitress, construction worker, mill worker, radio producer, and at a shelter for battered women. She has been a vegetarian for twenty years and wrote the India Handbook for Moon Publications. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

  …It is karma that brings joy or sorrow,

  Willing or unwilling, we live by our karma.

  Observe the potter shaping his pots:

  Some break on the wheel,

  Some crack after removal from the wheel,

  Some spoil when wet, some when dry,

  Some burst while being fired

  Some after removal from the kiln,

  Some shatter in use…

  So some of us die in the womb,

  Some immediately after birth,

  Some a day later,

  Some a fortnight later, some a month,

  Some after one year, some after two,

  Some in youth, some in middle age, some in old.

  Their karma determines it all.

  This is the way the world is—

  So what is the point of grieving?

  Swimmers dive,

  then emerge from the water;

  So creatures sink into,

  and emerge from the stream of life.

  —The Mahabharata of Vyasa (The Eleventh Book: The Women), as quoted by Mala Sen in India’s Bandit Queen: The True Story of Phoolan Devi

  Elephant Man

  MARK SHAND

  The author, having earned his place in the fraternity of mahouts by riding eight hundred miles on his own elephant, Tara, arrives at the Sonepur Mela, the world’s largest animal fair. His presence causes quite a stir.

  THE CAVALCADE CAME TO AN ABRUPT HALT. IN FRONT OF US stretched a mile of mela traffic, waiting for the signal to proceed, as the oncoming vehicles inched across the narrow bridge. Bellowing cattle stamped impatiently against the wooden floors of their trucks. More were filled with horses neighing nervously, poking their heads out of the slatted sides. Some vehicles were unrecognisable under gigantic mounds of fodder, spilling over the back, the front and the sides. Business was brisk for the hawkers. They patrolled up and down the armies of bicyclists, selling fruit, ice-cream, newspapers and bags of sticky ludoos. We gained a few yards as the traffic was stopped on the far side and with a crunching of gears and hiss of air brakes, the procession would move forward. Tara was becoming impossible. One moment she would be swiping food from the hawkers, the next vibrating in panic at the horses, forcing me to use the ankush. Aditya swung down impatiently from Tara’s back.

  “We’ll be here all day. I’ll see what I can sort out.”

  Half an hour later I caught sight of him signalling to me frantically to come forward. I bulldozed my way through, closely followed by the other elephants who were not going to miss this chance. At the entrance Aditya was standing with a smiling policeman who saluted smartly and waved us on to an empty bridge.

  “How on earth did you manage that?” I asked Aditya incredulously, as we lumbered across.

  “I told him you were related to the Queen of England and that royalty did not expect to be kept waiting.”

  “Really?” I said, impressed by his ingenuity.

  “No, of course I didn’t,” he replied. “I gave him a hundred rupees.”

  To our right, a steam engine clanked across the new railway bridge. To our left, a vast shady grove of mango trees stretched out parallel with the river under which I could see a few elephants standing. “Haathi Bazaar!” shouted one of the old mahouts.

  Urging Tara into a lumbering trot, with Bhim and Gokul running alongside, we reached the end of the bridge and, swinging left, thundered down into the “Garden of Raja Man Singh.” We jumped off Tara, and to the amazement of incredulous onlookers the four of us danced a jig around her. Opening a bottle of rum, I poured half the contents down her throat. Each of us then took a swig and yelled “Jai Mata Sonepur!” We had made it.

  It was as well that we had arrived early. As newcomers, we needed to check the lie of the land and to learn the rules. The area between each mango tree, in front of which the elephants would be staked, belonged to a different landlord. We made our way slowly through the orchard, passing fodder stacked like giant teepees. Each landlord tried to interest us in his plot, offering discounts and special favours, knowing that Tara would almost certainly attract a large crowd. We settled on a site at the far end of the orchard which gave easy access to the Gandak River some fifty yards behind and close to one of the main bathing ghats. Situated amongst the nearest row of trees to the river we would not be hemmed in. Elephants would stand in front and to the side of us, but not behind.

  Our landlord, Lallan Singh, a delightful, wise old man, a veteran of fifty melas, took us under his wing, bustling and fussing over us like a kindly matron on our first day at school. I paid him one hundred rupees, the traditional mela rent for the use of his land. (If the elephant was sold, the buyer reimbursed this amount.) Two large wooden stakes were driven deep into the ground and one of Tara’s front and back legs were chained to each. An “account” was opened with the fodder and firewood suppliers, who delivered in the morning and the evening of each day. To ensure some kind of privacy, Lallan Singh organised a large colourful kanat (a rectangular canvas wall) to surround our camp. Between the two mango trees we draped Tara’s caparison, the Union Jack, which hung grandly like a war standard. Tables and chairs were produced and by the time the tents were erected and a fire lit, we could have been guests in some maharaja’s grand shikar camp, lacking only uniformed attendants, popping corks from champagne bottles and a floor covered in richly embroidered carpets.

  To ensure good luck and a good sale, our landlord performed the Aarti, a special puja. He circled our camp holding a terracotta owl in which a holy flare burned. Then, standing in front of Tara, he raised the flame to her like a toast master, chanting a few solemn prayers.

  Lallan Singh then sat down with us and explained mela etiquette. “When your elephant is sold, everything on the back legs belongs to the seller, the chain, ropes, etc. It is customary to give the buyer the gudda (the saddle), the girth ropes, the bell, and any other decoration on the elephant, like silk cords and tassles. It is most important that your elephant is never unattended at any time, during the day or night. Accidents can and have happened frequently at the mela and a loose elephant can cause terrible carnage amongst “five lakhs” of people. Be very careful,” he warned us,“to keep your money hidden, as the mela will be f
ull of thieves. When your deal takes place, it must be done quietly, out of the sight of prying eyes and, if possible, in the presence of a few members of your entourage. A showing of people,” he explained, “means power and wealth,” as we were to discover when approached by the local zamindars, who never went anywhere without a large armed bodyguard.

  By now a few more elephants had arrived. In front of us was a large tusker. To our right, attended by two mahouts, stood an old female with two terrible wounds in her flanks oozing a greenish pus. The owner, an overly helpful man from Orissa, explained that she had received these injuries while working in his cement factory. He was here to sell or exchange her for another. Looking at the suffering of this friendly, docile elephant I vowed again that I would never let Tara be maltreated.

  My friend John Hatt had visited the great annual fair at Sonepur, just across the Ganges from Patna, in which many hundreds of elephants change hands, most of them being bought by zamindars—the feudal landlords who outside of industrial areas or cities are in reality in control of the state. John took tea with one of these, who had an elephant for sale. “Two gunmen attended him on either side,” he wrote in Harpers & Queens. “When being photographed, he insisted on adjusting his dress in order to ensure a clear view of the pistol at his waist. When I asked my host if his elephant had ever killed anyone, he replied, ‘Only three mahouts and a labourer.’ One notorious animal is known to have dispatched eight of its ma-houts.... at last year’s fair one of these killed a visitor. Life in Bihar is cheap indeed.”

  —Norman Lewis, A Goddess in the Stones: Travels in India

  Behind us, carpenters and builders were busily erecting marquees, fenced in by impregnable bamboo enclosures. These were for the different sects of religious sadhus who would soon be arriving. Our little set-up was somewhat dwarfed by the opulence of these encampments, particularly the kitchen facilities. Huge cauldrons and stacks of tin platters were being unloaded and carried inside, in readiness for the great feast on Kartik Purnima, which would feed thousands of devotees.

  Further down the Haathi Bazaar rich zamindars had been allocated the prime sites, where entire canvas villages had been set up, in front of which stood their richly caparisoned elephants. Behind, surrounded by armed chauffeurs, their cars were parked, highly polished vehicles with blacked out windows; so the arrival of Don and Indrajit in the minibus added a certain cachet to our humble enclosure.

  Already our presence had caused a stir and groups of people had started to gather outside. It was easy to discern between those who were merely curious and the professionals. The curious, straining on tiptoes, peered over the kanat to catch a glimpse of the firinghee mahout. The professionals, tough, bow-legged men with sun-blackened faces and shrewd eyes, sauntered casually past Tara inspecting her with a well-assumed air of indifference. They would stop to have a few words with Bhim, hoping to glean a few tidbits of information on pedigree and price. They would then report back to their bosses. These momentary inspections would take place continuously over the next few days. Unlike the hustling West, where fast decisions are the name of the game, a hasty deal is considered undignified in the East, and a strict etiquette is adhered to.

  Aditya and I were worried about Bhim. He was not his usual pragmatic, cheerful self. His spirit had left him and he wandered around lackadaisically. Worst of all, he seemed to have lost all interest in Tara. Perhaps it was due to exhaustion or to thinking that once he had reached the mela his duties would be less arduous and he would have time to enjoy the fun. In fact, we eventually realised, he was simply overawed. Used to the relative quietness and routine of a zoo, he had suddenly been thrown into the lions’ den, the “Newmarket” of the elephant world, where true professionalism counted and one’s knowledge was put to the ultimate test and carefully scrutinised. He was out of his depth and had lost his confidence.

  Tara too, was affected. Whereas she should have been in her element, as carts drawn by white bullocks continuously replenished her larder, she stood listlessly, a look of total resignation on her face. I began to think this was all too familiar to her. She had been here before, I realised, and my heart stopped.

  At Gau-Dhuli (the hour of the cow dust) that quiet magic moment just after sunset when the sky shimmered gold between the branches of the mango trees through the dust thrown up by the elephants, a group of men entered our encampment. Their faces showed a certain relief as they spotted me. The spokesman stepped forward and formally introduced himself.

  The traveler’s mantra, recited as one is about to embark on a journey by crossing the threshold of the main entrance of a house, pays homage to Ganesh and Vishnu. The verse invokes Vishnu, the lotus-eyed, rider of the Garuda, to give the supplicant blessings, prosperity, auspiciousness. The first line invokes Ganesh because he is always worshipped before any other gods or goddesses in Hindu pujas, his consolation for having his head chopped off and replaced by the head of an elephant.

  —Rajendra S. Khadka, “Hindu Flash Cards”

  “Mr. Shand,” he said, “we are the proprietors of the Shoba Nautanki [the folk theatre]. Thanking goodness we have found you in time. Would you do us the honour of inaugurating our first show tomorrow? Already we have sent out this gentleman in a jeep to find you”—he pointed to a man who looked both exhausted and exasperated—“and he has been travelling for five days. You will enjoy the show. There are many girls. Our theatre,” he continued proudly, “has the reputation of the most beautiful women. But first we would like you to garland the statue of our local freedom fighter and then we will proceed to the theatre. Our last guest of honor was a famous dacoit [bandit]. Now it is appropriate that the first English mahout should open the show. We will collect you tomorrow afternoon.”

  That evening, when the muddy water was turning crimson from the rays of the setting sun, we bathed Tara in the Gandak, approached from a steep muddy bank, down which she slid on her bottom, like a child on a toboggan. She then proceeded to queue-barge into the elephant-filled shallows, much to the annoyance of the other mahouts, who were waiting their turn patiently. It was dark by the time Tara finished her ablutions. Beneath us, elephants lay motionless, like giant prehistoric boulders. Then, as if infused suddenly by some unseen force, they erupted out of the water and lumbered toward the bank. Under the stars, we joined a silent cavalcade of returning elephants, this silence only broken by the soft shuffle of their feet, the swish of their tails and the flapping of their ears. An old mahout, riding the lead tusker, broke into song, swelling louder and louder as others joined in, then echoing quietly away into the blackness of the Gandak running swiftly beside us. I was by now so much part of this ancient brotherhood that my other world seemed like a dream as I felt the coolness of Tara’s back beneath me.

  Indrajit had built a blazing fire against the chill of the November night. We huddled round it, drinking with the owner of a big tusker. He was a landowner, but unlike most of the other zamindars, he himself rode and looked after his elephants. He was an honest straightforward man whom I felt we could trust, with a vast knowledge and love of elephants that bordered on passion. His family had always kept elephants. He remembered, as a child coming to the mela with his father and counting over a thousand. The bridge is always closed on the day of Kartik Purnima and he remembered the latecomers trying to swim across the river. Due to the strong current, they had been washed away, mahouts and elephants drowning.

  He admitted quite openly that his tusker was dangerous and only he could control it. However, unlike almost all the owners in the mela, he did not use drugs to quieten his elephant. There were now over a hundred elephants here, but he told us that Tara was the best he had seen so far. To an expert, she was obviously naturally fed and of a good temperament. He was not surprised that we were thinking of asking two lakhs for her.

  “Bide your time,” he advised us, “for her that is not an exorbitant price”—adding that if we needed any assistance he would be glad to give it.

  In the middle of the ni
ght I was woken by the fierce shouts of “Mahout!! Mahout!!”—and running outside our encampment I found Tara, her stakes uprooted, about to escape. Bhim, who was supposed to be on watch, was fast asleep in a pile of sugar cane at the side of the kanat. I shook and reprimanded him. He apologised sheepishly and promised it would not happen again. But it was too late, the incident had been noticed. An unattended elephant, as we had been told, is an unforgivable crime in the strict mahout law of the mela and we had, as it were, lost face.

  Awoken early by the urgent shouts of mahouts and the chanting of sadhus, I walked to the side of the kanat and peered over. Though relatively empty last night, it was now as if an army had moved in quietly during the night and surrounded our encampment. The orchard was alive with elephants, swaying, feeding, and dusting, while mahouts, wrapped in blankets, squatted beside fires, watching them carefully over rims of little terracotta bowls containing their morning tea. Arcades of hastily constructed stalls, like mini-bazaars, had mysteriously sprung up, selling paan, spices, food, cheap jewellery, clothing, and medicines.

  Behind us, like flowers in a desert, huddled little groups of families. When the sun rose, the women stretched languidly, turning bejewelled arms, ankles, and tips of noses and ears bright gold as the first rays filtered through the smoke-filled air. Elephants ridden proudly by young, well-muscled mahouts, their teeth a brilliant white against the black of their faces, raced each other down to the river. Like picadors, holding an ankush in both hands behind their elephants’ ears, they showed off their skills and their mounts to the best effect. To the casual observer it would seem like a game but it was, in fact, in deadly earnest. Prospective buyers would be watching carefully.