One morning, when the canes were springing up fresh and green, he found that wild pigs from the jungle had broken in and eaten nearly a quarter of his crop in spite of the thorn hedge.
He strengthened the hedge with some more thorns, and in the evening he sat in the branches of a tall tree which marked the boundary of his land, to watch for the pigs. A little after sundown he saw a sounder of pigs, headed by a big, dangerous-looking boar, come out of the jungle, and after pushing in vain for some time against his hedge, break through into his neighbour’s field. Hussein shouted, and threw the stones which he had carried up with him; then he leapt down from the tree and ran to Rustum Singh’s house, where he told the old Sikh what had happened. They roused Hurri Singh, and ran down to the edge of the jungle with lathis in their hands; the old boar was still there, and seemed disinclined to move for anyone. Hussein threw a stone at him, hitting him in the side, and he trotted out of the sugar-cane to have a look at them. For some time he seemed in two minds whether to attack them or not. The boar would have been a very ugly customer to deal with had he charged, but he did not; he just grunted once or twice, and rooted at a particularly succulent sugar-cane. Rustum Singh trembled with rage; his beard seemed to bristle, but still caution held him back; then the boar scratched up two or three roots quite wantonly. With a shout of ‘Khalsa ki jai’ Rustum Singh whirled up his lathi and rushed at the boar; he hit it very hard on the head, and it turned and ran.
It was a long time since wild pigs had troubled the village, for there were many leopards in the jungle. The next evening Hussein, Rustum Singh and Hurri Singh all watched for the pigs, but they went to bed when the moon set without having seen any.
In the morning, however, they found that the pigs had broken through after they had left, and had ruined much of the young sugar-cane. The next night the same thing happened in fields some distance from Hussein’s; these fields were held communally by the whole village, and everyone did a share of the work on them. In the open space where they met in the evening the men of Laghat discussed the matter. At length it was decided that the pigs should all be allowed to get into one field, where they could be surrounded by the villagers armed with sticks and ancient swords, for there were no firearms in the village. Then there arose a great discussion as to whose field should be used for the purpose. No one would willingly allow his crops to be trampled, either by pigs or men, much less by both.
The argument grew very hot, and Rustum Singh plucked several hairs from the beard of a man who opposed him. For several days no solution could be reached, and everyone guarded his own crops with rattles and stones as well as he could. Hussein, Rustum Singh and Hurri Singh, however, took it in turns to keep the pigs out.
At length the problem solved itself, for a tiger made its appearance, and it carried off the pigs at the rate of one every other day.
Within a month the raids on the crops had practically ceased.
One night, however, there was a terrific bellowing in the place where the village buffaloes were kept, and in the morning it was found that the tiger had carried off a calf. All the villagers, with the exception of the owner of the calf, agreed that this was only a fair exchange for the tiger’s removal of the pigs. They even smiled tolerantly when the tiger took a goat, but when another young buffalo disappeared it seemed to everyone that the tiger was getting the best of the bargain.
One evening, as the buffaloes were being led back from their grazing, the tiger tried to take another calf, but its mother charged the tiger, and wounded it severely. The tiger lay up in a dense bamboo grove for some time, recovering from its wounds. When it was whole again it changed its hunting ground for a time, and harried the deer in the jungle. But very soon it perceived that its spring was not so quick, nor was its strength so great. The tiger was getting old. Its beautiful coat grew matted, and lost its sheen.
For two days, some time after this, the tiger felt very sick, and it lay up, but on the third day its appetite returned, and it went out on the trail of a sambhur. For three hours the tiger hunted the deer, until at last it brought its quarry to bay; twice the tiger circled round the sambhur, and then it leapt, but its spring was a little too short, and its hold broke. The great deer lashed out with its hind feet, breaking two of the tiger’s long canine teeth.
One evening, as he was talking with Rustum Singh in his fields, Hussein heard the tiger roar in the jungle, and he knew that it was back again.
The tiger was still an immensely powerful brute, and very dangerous, although it no longer felt equal to tackling a buffalo.
That same evening it took a child who had wandered to the edge of the jungle. None dared follow the tiger in the darkness. It would have been almost certain death to have attacked it without a rifle, and there was nothing of the kind in the village.
The tiger did not particularly like human flesh; it was somewhat too coarse and ape-like; but the extreme ease with which the meal had been obtained made it disinclined to take the greater trouble that was necessary to stalk down a deer, so three days later the tiger took a woman who had stayed behind the others at the stream where the pitchers were filled, which was a little way out of the village.
The panic-stricken villagers no longer left their houses after sun-down, and the women kept the children within doors all day.
Now it happened that Hurri Singh, who had been a widower for five years, had been negotiating for some time with one Ram Das of Surendranath for his daughter, whom he wished to take to wife. Her name was Diwana, and she was surpassingly beautiful.
As the villagers did not come out of the safety of their houses in the dark now that the tiger was about, it became increasingly bold, and in the full light of the day it took Diwana at the stream, and carried her into the jungle. There had been about twenty women filling their pitchers at the same time, but it had all happened so quickly that they had not been able to help, even if they had not been so frightened.
When Hurri Singh heard the news his heart was black, and he rent his clothes. Then he called Hussein and Rustum Singh and said that he was going out into the jungle to see whether by chance he might catch up with the tiger before it had killed the girl. They sought to dissuade him at first, but seeing that it was useless, Hussein called Jehangir to him, and they set off as fast as they could. They carried lathis and two old tulwars. They found the tiger’s trail easily enough near the stream, but after a while it became very slight, for the animal had gone over stony ground and had then crossed the stream. For the whole of the rest of the day they searched, and a little before sunset they found the remains of the tiger’s meal. The remains were very dreadful to see, and they went back to Laghat sick at heart.
The next day a deputation from the village went to the District Magistrate, one Chetwynd, and they asked him to come and shoot the tiger. Chetwynd came as soon as he was able, but not before the tiger had taken a travelling pedlar who was passing through the jungle.
Chetwynd stayed in Rustum Singh’s house, which was the largest in the village. In the evening he discussed the plan of campaign with the villagers in the open space where they usually congregated. Most of the villagers were in favour of digging a pit which would be lightly covered over, and into which the tiger would, if all went well, fall, and be impaled on concealed spikes.
But the Englishman, the Sikhs, and Hussein agreed that there would be no honour in hunting that way. Hussein suggested sitting in a machan over some kill of the tiger’s, and shooting it when it came to eat again. But Rustum Singh said that there would be more izzat to be gained by going to the tiger than by waiting for it. So it was decided that the whole village would turn out as beaters, while the sahib rode on Jehangir to shoot the tiger. In this way it would be more like a rajah’s tiger hunt than anything else.
Next day it was ascertained that the tiger was lying up in a thick patch of elephant grass, so the villagers, armed with sticks and drums, with which to make a noise, formed up in a line behind the elephant grass, and, at a given
signal, moved forward; they hoped to drive the tiger along to the clear place where Chetwynd was waiting on Jehangir. If Chetwynd had had more experience he would have known that a thin line of inexperienced beaters is worse than none at all, but this was his first tiger.
They started the tiger from his deep grass with some Chinese crackers, and in time it came bounding out into the clearing where Chetwynd was waiting on Jehangir. His heart was thumping almost audibly with excitement as he raised his rifle. The tiger paused at the edge of the clearing: Chetwynd fired, scratching the tiger’s ribs. Turning, the tiger dashed through the advancing line of beaters. Two old men were in its way; it knocked them flat, wounding one seriously. In a few moments it was out of sight, and Chetwynd was left cursing his own stupidity.
They went back to Laghat, carrying the injured beater.
The same night the tiger broke through the mud wall of an outlying hut and took a boy. Chetwynd, in the morning, decided to follow up the tiger on foot, tracking it as best he could. Hussein was the best shikar in the village, so he went as gun-bearer.
At dawn they set out on Jehangir, whom they were going to leave as soon as the trail grew so slight as to have to be followed on foot. A boy went with them to take the elephant back. At first the tiger’s path was clearly visible; a broad swathe of grass showed where it had rushed through without a thought of picking its way. Soon it was obvious that the tiger had slackened its pace, and although at intervals the broad pug-marks were visible in the mud, the track became harder to follow. Suddenly they came upon a place where the undergrowth was all trampled, and where there were splashes of dried blood. Hussein tapped Jehangir’s head and whispered to him, the elephant knelt down, and the two men dismounted.
A faint cry from a tree made them look up. Wedged between the bole of a tree and a branch some fifty feet up was the boy whom the tiger had carried off. As soon as it had broken through the mud wall of the hut the tiger had seized him by the arm, flung him on its back, and made off into the jungle. The boy had been paralysed with terror at first, but when the tiger had paused to change its grip, he had snatched at a hanging branch. The tiger had been too surprised to leap up at him for a moment, and he had been able to scramble to safety in spite of his badly lacerated arm. For some time the tiger had stayed at the bottom of the tree, but it went away a little before dawn. They sent the boy back on Jehangir to Laghat, and set out again.
They were able to follow the trail quite easily for a good way beyond the tree, but at length they came to a place where it became slighter and more confused. For some time it was possible to see the tiger’s pug-marks here and there in the mud left by the rain which had fallen in the night, but soon the sun rose higher, and its heat began to pour through the thick greenery of the jungle, so that although it grew much lighter, the steam which arose from the ground made it much more difficult to see.
While they followed up the tiger’s trail, Jehangir took the injured boy to Laghat. When he saw Hussein’s elephant, Rustum Singh thought that he had better take him to Hussein’s house, but the elephant thought otherwise, and gently pushing Rustum Singh aside, he went back into the jungle.
The elephant’s swinging pace took him quickly along the path to the tree where Hussein had left him. Here he picked up the scent of the men, and followed it. On his padded feet the elephant moved silently, and soon he came within sight of the men. He followed them slowly, moving so quietly that they had no suspicion that he was near. He did not want to show himself, for Hussein had told him to go home, and he knew perfectly well that he should have stayed in the village. Soon the men came to a thick patch of tall grass where the tiger was resting. Before it had pushed its way into the elephant grass, the tiger had gone round it, so its tracks ran on for some way past the place where it was lying. It was obvious to Chetwynd from the freshness of the pug-marks that they were quite near the tiger now, but he did not think that they were quite so near as they were. A jungle fowl which started up from under Hussein’s feet awoke the tiger. It crept to the edge of the elephant grass, and crouched there, watching the men intently. It was intensely still; only the tip of its tail moved, twitching nervously from side to side. The men were walking slowly up a broad path: the tiger watched them on the one side, and Jehangir on the other.
Very quietly the elephant raised his trunk and sniffed the still air. He caught the heavy musty scent of the tiger: by the strength of it he knew that the tiger must be very near, and he looked anxiously about with his little eyes. The tiger’s stripes blended perfectly with the elephant grass. It was practically invisible, but Jehangir caught the movement of the tip of its tail.
When they were almost opposite the tiger the men stopped, and Hussein ran back to pick up something that Chetwynd had dropped. Chetwynd stooped to brush a mosquito from his knee, and at the same moment Jehangir saw the great muscles in the tiger’s back rise and tense themselves as the tiger prepared to charge. The next second the tiger shot out of its hiding-place: Chetwynd was knocked flat, and the tiger stood over him, roaring very deeply. At once the elephant stepped from his side of the path, and stood for a moment with his broad ears standing out stiffly; the tiger looked at the elephant; its attention was distracted from Chetwynd, who lay quite still. All this happened in a few seconds, and Hussein, who was carrying the rifle, ran up without any hesitation, seized the tiger’s tail with one hand, while with the other he hit it with the clubbed rifle. In his excitement he had quite forgotten how to fire it. The tiger, amazed, leapt round to meet this new enemy, and then Jehangir charged. With incredible nimbleness the elephant avoided the men, and threw the tiger about ten feet, where it lay for a second, sprawling on its back. Hussein dragged Chetwynd out of the way. Jehangir darted forward before the tiger had time to recover, and knelt on it, driving his blunted tusks through and through the striped body, quite pinning it to the earth, so great was the force of his charge. The tiger died with a roar that ended in a scream as the elephant’s weight crushed in its ribs. Then Jehangir twitched it up into the air with his trunk, and flung it into the grass, following it with the intention of trampling it into a thin paste, but Hussein ran to call him off, for he did not want the skin spoiled. Then he turned to Chetwynd, who had scrambled to his feet. He was not even scratched, for he had instinctively dodged as the tiger sprang, and he had only been knocked down by the tiger’s body — the terrible claws had missed him altogether. Hussein pushed into the grass and cut the tiger’s whiskers off — they are a very potent charm — for that was his due as a shikari. Chetwynd came over to the tiger’s body with his hand stretched out, and they shook over it: a trifle melodramatically perhaps, but perfectly sincerely. Then they mounted on Jehangir again, and went back to Laghat, whence half the village turned out to bring in the skin.
There was a tremendous feast that night, at which Hussein told the whole episode in the form of a tale, most wondrous to hear — the same tale that one may hear to this day — with variations — in all the villages for fifty miles round Laghat.
Then the District Magistrate went his way rejoicing, for he, too, had a tale to tell in his old age, and life resumed its even tenor.
Thirteen
After the tiger had gone the pigs did not come back; a blessing for which the priest at the village temple grew fat and oily. However, as time went on, another misfortune befell Laghat: a great drought began, and the early crops shrivelled in the iron-hard ground. At first they were able to preserve them with the water from the primitive irrigation system, but presently water became too precious for that, as the stream shrank to a mere trickle flowing between great cracking spaces of dried yellow mud. There was not enough for the people, let alone the crops. They were reaped early, and they were poorer than the gloomiest prophets had foretold. Hussein saw the prospect of Sashiya coming to his house that year fading.
The whole village, after the failure of the early crops, planted their faith firmly in the success of the later harvest, which was to get the benefit of the tremendous ra
ins of the monsoon.
The time for the breaking of the monsoon came, but although the whole land prayed for it, the rains did not come. Day after day the great cloud-banks swept northwards across the sky, and day after day the villagers did poojah in the temple of the Hindu gods; even the Sikhs and Hussein sent gifts to the gods so that the rain might come.
But the clouds swept on over the parched earth, and let loose not a drop of their burden.
At length, as if in answer to the innumerable prayers, the stream waxed a little, and thin trickles ran through the irrigation ditches: none knew why the stream increased, for no rain fell, but they were content with the miracle. But it did not last long, although the water was strictly rationed, and men fought furiously in the fields, each saying that the other took more than his share. Weeks passed, and the stream shrank again, but still the monsoon did not break. There was no water for the buffaloes to wallow in. Their hides became hard, and they could not work. Every day seemed full of the promise of rain: thunder rumbled about the hills, and lightning flickered across the sky, but always the rain held off. Hussein found himself dreaming of rain — warm sheets of rain, soaking the whole earth.
The crops waited as long as they could for the rain, but as it did not come, they withered where they stood.
Then Purun Dass, the Brahmin and priest of the temple, took out his fat, brass-bound account book, and lent a rupee here and a rupee there, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always he made a bond on a little piece of land, or a bedstead, or the produce of next year’s crops. His rate of interest was 60 per cent, but that is quite moderate for India, and the villagers had to borrow or starve.