Trust

I am stepping, softly now, through the dense undergrowth. An eerie quiet has come over the forest and, like it, I am unnerved. All of my senses are on high alert. I stop and look around, probing everywhere for the slightest movement while I hold my father’s ex-army rifle ready. The only sounds are the slight rustling of the breeze through the treetops and a distant hawk-cuckoo trilling its persistent call to climax in a familiar manic crescendo.

To my left, the silence is broken with an explosion of red, brown and blue feathers as a junglefowl careers out from the bush. Wings flapping crazily, it gains as much height as any flightless bird may ever have managed. But that bird has saved my life for, as I raise the rifle to my shoulder, an orange and black blur of teeth and claws thunders straight towards me. I fire just as the tiger launches itself for the kill. My lucky shot sends the bullet straight into its gaping maw and through its hunter’s brain, killing it stone dead, even before it crashes to the ground at my feet. The rifle shot sends every bird for a mile straight, screeching, into the air and monkeys screaming through the treetops. Then, the only sound in my ears is my racing heart as it tries to burst from my chest. I stay alert scanning for a second tiger but they usually hunt alone. So, after a minute I plonk down, shaking where I am until I can recover. I am the hunter.

I live north of Chandrapur in India and I have been hiking for three days in the forests of Tadoba-Andhari. It’s a remote area dominated by the elephant, the leopard, and the tiger. I am not welcome here but I have come anyway.

I have left my wife, my baby daughter, and my elephant to be here and I have not been able to explain to them why? I will return, Ganesha willing, with a story that will be shared beyond my life. If what I have in mind comes true then the death of a tiger is only the beginning.

The British left last year and good riddance. I would have thought that the defeat of the Japanese, at the end of the war, would have strengthened the Raj in India but wiser, and more powerful, people decided otherwise, and off they went leaving India without its northwest, or the Great Indus Valley, which is now called Pakistan. Since they left there has been less work for me and my elephant, but we get enough to live. There is always food on the table for my family but, my need for challenge, has led me to seize a week or so to go on a hunter’s adventure and here I am.

I have walked, in the dappled sunshine, through an unchanging forest of thick undergrowth and tall trees accompanied by tree-swinging monkeys and shy grazing deer. Always accompanied by the bleakly melodious sounds of peafowl, hawk-cuckoos and woodpeckers. I have eaten well thanks to my father’s trustee rifle and an abundance of junglefowl. And that’s what I’m eating now as I collect myself, after the shock of the tiger, before I continue my quest.

It's late afternoon and I come across a small clearing that will be a good spot to spend the night. I am gathering wood for a fire when I look up and see it, about a hundred feet away, watching me from the bushes. It is the most magnificent creature that I have ever seen, or ever will see. It is a cat but not a tiger. It is smaller than a tiger, but still big. It is black, no, almost black, with barely visible dark grey stripes. I have found the fabled crossbreed that, in India, we call dogla. There have been very rare examples of tigers and leopards cross-breeding before but only ever rumours of a tiger and a black leopard. I may be the first person to ever see one. In that fleeting moment, its intense stare seems to convey cunning and intelligence. Never far from me, I grab my rifle, but before I can even raise it, it’s gone. Just the flash of its long black tail disappearing into the undergrowth.

I am the hunter, I have come to kill this beast and return with its head as a trophy and proof. But that regal head atop its strong neck and dark broad chest took my breath away. It is a great strong cat but unlike any tiger. As it disappeared into the bush, it possessed the fluid grace of a leopard combined with the raw power of a tiger. And those eyes seemed to drill into the very depth of my soul. It had no fear. It was inquisitive and it was studying me. Would it be an insult to kill this animal? So rare and so beautiful. And anyway, it’s gone now. I may never see it again, but I will continue. It may return before I leave. If I can gain its trust I might yet win my prize.

I make camp, build a fire and keep enough fuel to keep it burning throughout the night. I have a spare uncooked junglefowl and I leave it near the spot where the dogla emerged and I wait. Darkness falls as the cries of the daytime birds subside and give way to the nighttime sounds of crickets, nightjars, and the rustling of unknown animals foraging in the forest. As I sit the hypnotic sounds consume me, my mind closes for the day, I lay back, rifle across my chest, and drift off to sleep.

I wake, groggy, just as dawn pushes new branches of light through the trees. The junglefowl is gone and the dogla is sitting there, erect, near the edge of the clearing, watching me. As I sit up it stands and takes a few paces forward. I grab my rifle and it just turns away and walks back into the undergrowth. No hurry.

She came back. I’m sure it was a female, with a leopard for a father and a tiger for a mother, its scientific name is leoger. As with all hybrids, she will be sterile which, combined with the fact that they are usually stillborn, is why they are so rare. Almost to the point of mythical. I eat some food and make some tea while formulating a loose plan. But then what? Should I kill a creature

that is so splendid and so rare? If I don’t who’s going to believe me?

With the intent of staying here just a few more nights, I go hunting for more junglefowl but luck is on my side. I come across a deer grazing and it has not seen me. My father’s rifle does not let me down as the deer falls to the ground while the birds take to the air.

Back at the clearing I cook some venison for dinner and leave the hindleg and rump of the deer in the clearing but closer to my fire. Eventually, the dogla emerges from the clearing edge. She looks only at me but glances at my rifle. Its beauty takes my breath away as I get my longest look yet. With easy graceful strides, she walks confidently to the deer. With those dark penetrating eyes, focusing only on me, she picks up the leg in her strong jaws and backs slowly towards the edge of the clearing. Within a few paces of the brush, she turns her back to me and disappears into the trees. Did she trust me? She did turn her back to me? Does she think I am no threat but an easy source of food? So perhaps I am on the right track.

These scenes repeat themselves for three days and nights. Every morning I awaken to the sight of the dogla sitting watching me and every day, each time a little closer, she comes to take away the fresh meat. Each time she stays a little longer. And each time I see her I become more and more preoccupied with her beauty and power, and I am more convinced that I should not end her precious life. But I never forget that this is a wild and powerful creature and I always keep my rifle close at hand.

By the end of the third day and with little sleep, I am running out of supplies. My water is very low and I know it’s a day’s walk to the nearest river so I must act, I must be bold. I have heard stories of people who raise tigers from cubs to adulthood and then sell them to the Chinese for their bones. Do they become friends? Do they trust one another? Maybe? But if they do it’s very unfortunate for the tigers who end up in Chinese medicine.

This creature seems so intelligent and so interested. Maybe I can try one more thing to help her remember and trust me and then, possibly, I can return with one of the cameras that I hear the British left behind? Something this unique has to be shared with the world.

I don’t have any food to leave out overnight but the next morning, my last, I wake to the now familiar sight of the dolgla sitting watching me. She doesn’t look like she’s going to leave anytime soon. As I smile, she glances at my rifle so I push it away with my foot and then beckon with my hands. She very slowly starts to move towards me. I marvel at the exquisiteness and strength before me and at the connection we have made. She keeps her head down and now she’s so close I can touch her. I hold out my hand and the world stands still. Tears stream down my face and my heart dances with the joy Ganesha has bestowed upon me as she licks my fingers.

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I have heard that sound before. It’s not a sound of the forest and every other creature knows that too. But I know that it kills. I decide to investigate. I arrive unseen and, through the scrub, I see one of those strange, rare creatures sitting on the ground next to a dead tiger. Even I would not take on a tiger but this puny creature has somehow killed it with that loud kill stick it has. I watch and it leaves without eating any of the dead tiger. Oh well, that will be a nice treat for the vultures or maybe a leopard. 

As it makes its way clumsily through the forest it’s completely unaware that I am not far behind. Then, when the shadows lengthen on the ground it stops in a clearing and starts searching around on the ground. I am engrossed by its dark furless skin and the odd coloured things covering its body. It looks up at me. I have exposed myself and although it has seen me, it’s too slow and I’m gone before it can make its kill stick work. Then darkness comes and it has a fire next to it. It has put sticks together, somehow made them come alight and now it’s burning some meat. And that smell, the meat burning, the juice sizzling. It binds me to it and I cannot leave, but neither can I attack.

It has left a dead bird near where I am. I am hungry but I sit and wait and watch. Finally, never letting go of its kill stick, it falls asleep and I come out and eat the bird. How can it sleep through all of the noise and smells around it? It’s a pretty helpless thing. If it didn’t have that stick it wouldn’t survive.

From a safe distance, I watch it wake up. It looks directly at me but does not point its stick. It just looks at me and I just look at it. I can’t see hunger; I can’t see fear. It’s just looking at me and I need to know why. I take a few steps forward and it touches its stick. Time for the safety of the trees and bushes.

Later, I watch it go walking in that really peculiar way. Like a bird but it has no wings and its front legs can make things stay attached, similar to the way the monkeys swing through the trees. We both spot a deer. I stay crouched ready to give chase but its kill stick makes that awful noise and, just like that, the dear drops dead. It’s a small dear and it drags it back to the clearing where, with one huge claw, that it can attach to a front leg, it cuts the thing up into pieces. 

The dark is similar to before. It burns some of the deer but leaves a large portion of it in the clearing. Is that for me? Eventually, hunger gets the better of me and I step out into view. It doesn’t move. Just looks at me and it seems to be studying me. It’s not scared, it’s curious just like me. I don’t hurry. I just go and get the deer.

Through both light and dark I watch it from the shadows and it does the same things. It burns some food for itself then leaves some out for me. And each time it trusts me a little more and leaves the food closer to itself. How much will it trust me?

Then, the dark comes and it doesn’t leave any food so I wait until light, dozing in the moonlight and watching. When it wakes up, I’m there as usual. Not far from it now. I am ready to bolt if it should attach its kill stick but it doesn’t. Looking at me its face makes a strange shape. Its mouth goes wide and it shows me its teeth. But those are not the teeth of a hunter. It pushes the kill stick away with a hind leg and holds its front legs out to me. Intrigued I walk slowly forward sniffing its scent as I go. How much does it trust me now?

I move forward very slowly, head down, keeping one eye on that kill stick. All is quiet. No bird sounds and no breeze in the trees. It does look scared but it doesn’t try and run away. As I approach it reaches out one front leg even further to touch my nose. I lick its slender clawless paw. It pulls that face again showing its teeth only its mouth goes even wider and its face is wet as its eyes leak. I swiftly and effortlessly lean forward and lock my powerful jaws around its neck, my teeth sinking easily into its soft throat. It’s been a long time since I have experienced the intense joyous taste of eating one of these creatures. I had to wait for this one because of the kill stick but, just as with the others, the hunter always prevails.