Not So Stories

Richard III. The Wicked Witch of the West. The first Mrs. Rochester.

They’ve all had their day, the retelling of their stories. No longer unadulterated villains thanks to sympathetic authors, these figures have overcome the prejudices of history to revel in the spotlight of understanding.

Now it is my turn to right a terrible wrong. My name is Satya, Bringer of Truth, and I am one of that most noble of creatures, a Bengal tiger. Many years ago my great-great grandfather happened upon an ailing tiger in our jungle. His name was Shere Khan, and thanks to that bastard Kipling and those mealy-mouthed humans at Disney, it is a name that lives in infamy to this day.

What were his crimes, you ask? Being a tiger, evidently, and caring about his fellow creatures, no more than that. Yet here he was, burned, crippled, and dying. He spent his last few hours relating his story to my ancestor, who has passed it down through the generations in the hope that one day the truth would be told about this most virtuous feline.

So here is Khan’s story in his own words, starting from the beginning, because that is where all the best stories start.

**

I was born with a lame foot. In the jungle, this generally means death, as a lame tiger cannot hunt or protect itself. (There’s good reason the phrase ‘It’s a jungle out there’ isn’t meant to imply the place is full of soft, cuddly creatures.)

My parents could not hide their disappointment at my infirmity and my father soon left, as is the way with our species. My mother continued to nurture me for a while, thought she nicknamed me ‘Lungri’, the Lame One. Eventually, I learned to use my hated foot well enough to hobble around and run for short bursts, but I could not keep up with my brothers and sisters, who ignored me as someone they knew was not long for this world.

One morning I woke from a deep, pain-filled sleep to find I was utterly alone. My family had stolen off quietly to find better hunting ground, leaving me to fend for myself, knowing it was very likely I would die. Even my own mother had finally abandoned me.

In the following days I found that by staying incredibly still I could lull small rodents into close enough proximity for me to grasp them in my powerful front paws, and for a while this was the only food I had. But it was not enough to sustain me indefinitely. I could feel myself weakening day by day, until at last I simply gave in to sleep most of the time rather than contemplate my impending demise.

But on a particularly sultry night I was awakened by an unusual noise. It was unpleasant, like a cacophony of buzzards cawing simultaneously, and I smelled fear. Then I saw a flickering reddish-orange light approaching my lair, reflected along the underside of the jungle canopy.

Although I’d been shunned by the other cubs, I’d overheard my mother telling them about a dread intruder known as ‘man’. This ‘man’ brought loud exploding sticks, she said, and they killed our kind for pleasure; not to eat or to survive, but simply to brag of their bravery and wear our magnificent skins in arrogant pride. They were aided by a horrific ‘red flower’, which had been known to swallow whole jungles and leave only blackened ash in its wake. Mother warned her cubs to keep far from this creature as it was proven to be vengeful and vindictive.

Now, though, it looked as if I had no choice in the matter as the red light came ever nearer. I scrunched backwards, terrified, into the shelter of a bush as the chattering, cawing sounds grew louder, until suddenly the red flower was there, right in front of my eyes, and the man thing attached to it was making deafening, drawn-out noises. I lashed out in desperation to save my life, and my claws sunk deep into the man’s chest, quieting it instantly. Behind him was another, with a longer mane and more red flower, so I clawed at that one as well, until it also was quiet.

I lay there panting heavily, and that was when I saw the man cub, hiding in the trees at the edge of clearing. I could smell that this was where the fear was strongest. It turned suddenly and ran, and I was simply too exhausted and slow to follow. I looked down at the two still creatures in front of me, and as my panic receded I realised that I would finally be able to fill my belly for the first time in weeks. But the loss of the young one continued to trouble me, and the next days were filled with unease even though my hunger was finally assuaged.

After a week, my strength renewed, I groomed myself as best I could and set out in the direction the man cub had run, which I knew led toward the den of the local wolf pack. When I reached the cave, the wolf guards froze as I approached, and I felt my own touch of pride. The tiger is the acknowledged master of the jungle, and I attempted to walk more evenly so they would not note my lameness.

I approached the leader, Akela, and politely demanded to know if he had seen the man cub. When he asked why, I explained what had happened, and that I thought it would be best to dispose of the man cub to prevent him from returning with reinforcements to destroy our home.

To my shock, Akela admitted to harboring the creature, and refused to give it up! Here I was, trying to save all of us, and being thwarted by this upstart dog.

I may have spoken some harsh words in my dismay at this behavior. But being a lone tiger amongst a pack of wolves, I decided it was not the time to challenge Akela, so I turned around as gracefully as I could and headed back toward the jungle. After some distance I was conscious of being followed, and looked back to see some of the younger wolves from the pack. I growled at them and was pleased when they cowered from my majesty. One approached and asked me to repeat my story to them. Upon hearing it, they gathered together in some sort of discussion, which sounded merely like much yipping to my ears, and then thanked me graciously before heading home.

I heard later that they challenged Akela, but I am not cognizant of the details and it was frankly none of my business. I was on my way to see Kaa, the eyes of the jungle, to ask for his assistance in spotting the man cub.

Kaa is a slippery fellow and one with whom I would not ordinarily want to do business, but he is a useful scout, and he agreed to help as long as I sent any extra live, embraceable food his way.

I returned to my clearing to find one of those wretched jackals eating my kill. He was a mangy thing and ran for cover at the first site of me. I settled down for a nap, but the jackal kept trying to creep closer, obviously desperate for sustenance.

Having experienced starvation myself and being in a rare giving mood, I eventually gave the unfortunate creature permission to eat, which he did after approaching with some trepidation. Once sated, he retreated to a safe distance and nodded his thanks. I blinked my acknowledgement, which was apparently enough to encourage the jackal to tell me his life story. His name was Tabaqui and he became the only friend I would ever have, bringing me small offerings of food, sharing my own kills in return, and relieving my loneliness, although heaven knows there were times when peace would have been much preferred. How that jackal could talk! But though tigers are solitary as a rule, particularly the males of my species, there are few of us who revel in constant isolation, and eventually I came to trust him with my innermost thoughts. Tabaqui was also a useful messenger between myself and the other inhabitants of the jungle.

It was through Tabaqui that Kaa notified me when the wolves decided to send the man cub, who they had named Mowgli, back to its man village, and so began my long and tortuous journey to prevent it from reaching home and gathering reinforcements. It was a massive undertaking and there were skirmishes against many a misguided foe including a panther, a daft bear, and an insane monkey tribe. But I never wavered in my duty to protect the jungle and those within it, even when the wolves cruelly killed my faithful Tabaqui, leaving me bereft once again.

It is to my eternal shame that I failed in that duty, and soon I will be no more thanks to the inevitable return of the man creature with his red flower, just as I predicted would happen. I have done my best, but have fallen short. All I ask is that you share my story as a warning to others, for I can do more.

***

Satya here, again. Shere Khan died soon after he’d finished relating his sad tale to my great-great-grandfather. Lame, injured, and abandoned by all, he had nevertheless sacrificed his life to try and save his fellow creatures and the jungle that was his home.

Worse still, time has proven his actions more than justified. Man has thrived, and now regularly brings the red flower to the forest to destroy us. My kind have nearly been wiped from the face of the planet, where once we ruled with grace and majesty. To this day we continue to be killed for our handsome skins, and others of us are forced to live humiliating lives in ‘wildlife parks’ where small, drooling man cubs watch while we despairingly prowl our tiny enclosures.

Yet over and over the name of Khan is vilified by dishonorable ‘man’ through its books and films in an attempt to rewrite history in its favor. Khan is credited with unwholesome deeds in which he played no part. This paragon who, if he was a human, would have been coddled and protected, is instead presented as sly, vindictive, overly proud, and a killer for pleasure. It is a masterwork of projection.

But now that you have heard his story, gentle reader, I will leave you with the final judgement. Shere Khan: Villain…or Visionary?