To the Elephant Graveyard. Tarquin Hall
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half an hour to reach the cremation site, positioned on the edge of a stream, down-wind from the village and its thatched roofs. Here, the stretcher was placed on a pile of wood five or six feet high that had been coated in ghee. Nearly a hundred people gathered in a semicircle around this edifice and, as the priest recited more prayers and the family wept more tears, the eldest son, carrying a flaming torch, circled the pyramid. Then he stooped down and, holding out the torch with one trembling hand, lit the kindling at the base of his father’s funeral pyre.
Smoke rose up around the body, encircling it in a ghostly haze as flames licked their way up the branches, the clarified butter hissing and spitting like a pit full of snakes. The bamboo stretcher turned black, the flower blossoms shrivelled into nothing, and soon the shroud was alight. Sparks shot up into the air, flames reaching towards the sky, and while the rogue’s latest victim was consumed in a blistering conflagration, his widow sobbed and wailed, the sounds of her grief barely audible above the roaring blaze.
As a final act, the eldest son took a wooden club in both hands and, raising it above his head, brought it down on his father’s skull. There was a decisive crack and then, and only then, was the man’s spirit finally released.
Back at the Forest Department headquarters, I caught up on some sleep in the guesthouse bungalow while Mr Choudhury and Mole went into town to stock up on supplies.
An hour or so later, I was woken by a strange noise coming from outside my door. It sounded like a young boy learning to play the trumpet. The notes, which were mostly spit and wind, were out of tune. Still half asleep, I pulled on my trousers and opened the door. Walking cautiously out on to the grass and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I took a step forward and bumped straight into the backside of an elephant.
After everything I had seen and heard in the past twentyfour hours, my first instinct was to race back inside the bungalow, slam the door, fasten the latch and hide in the bathroom. I was certain that at any moment the animal would smash down the wall and tear me limb from limb. Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. Even the trumpeting stopped. I crept out of the bathroom and over to the window and very slowly pulled back the curtains to see if the coast was clear.
The elephant was still standing near my door. Now that I had got over my initial shock, I could see that she meant me no harm. Indeed, she was holding a pathetic-looking deflated football in her trunk and I got the distinct impression that she was looking for a playmate.
She was a beautiful, graceful, well-proportioned creature and there was no doubt that when she walked through the jungle, male elephants would look her way. She had lustrous brown eyes and long black eyelashes which she fluttered like a catwalk model. Her forehead and ears were speckled with pink freckles. Nature had also endowed her with a petite tail that swished flirtatiously, perfect ears the shape of India, and a little tuft of coquettish curly hair on the top of her sculpted forehead.
As this was the first elephant I had ever met, I was naturally nervous. My new acquaintance, however, was not lacking in confidence. Spotting me emerging from the bungalow, she strode straight over to the door and, without a moment’s hesitation, extended her trunk in my direction as if she was offering to shake my hand. The end of her trunk hung before me, its spongy nostrils twitching. The proboscis then moved down over my chest, stomach and thigh. I felt it brush against my leg and, before I knew it, she had reached inside my pocket and pulled out a packet of strawberry-flavoured Fruitella sweets that I had been saving for later. As quick as a flash, she threw the whole lot, wrappers and all, into her mouth and began to chew, squinting at me and making satisfied gurgling noises.
‘I see you’ve met Jasmine,’ said Mr Choudhury, approaching us from the other side of the compound, having just arrived back from the shopping trip.
I chuckled.
‘Yes, she just robbed me and ate the evidence!’
Mr Choudhury ran his hands down Jasmine’s trunk. She stomped her feet lightly, apparently pleased to see him. The hunter patted her cheeks and she drooped her trunk over his shoulder affectionately, giving him a hug. Digging into his pockets, the hunter produced a handful of peanuts which Jasmine picked up with the end of her trunk and dropped into her mouth.
‘Sometimes she’s a very naughty elephant, especially when she meets someone new and she knows she can take advantage,’ said Mr Choudhury.
‘Is she trained?’
‘Yes, she’s a kunki, a domesticated elephant.’
‘Domesticated?’ He made it sound as if Jasmine was qualified to do the housework and eat with a knife and fork.
‘She was caught in the wild when she was a calf,’ he explained, patting her forehead. ‘Now she’s employed by the Forest Department.’
Jasmine belched quietly to herself as her digestive juices got to work on my Fruitellas and the peanuts.
‘Go ahead and touch her,’ said Mr Choudhury. ‘Don’t worry, she won’t bite.’
I reached out with my right hand and, like one of the blind men in the story of the Elephant in the Dark, ran my palm over her trunk. I had expected the skin to be smooth but it was coarse and covered in prickly black hairs. Jasmine seemed to enjoy human contact and made a satisfied rumbling noise deep inside her chest that sounded like a cat purring.
‘She’s a new member of my elephant squad,’ said the hunter. ‘Come and meet the others. They’ve just got back from gathering fodder. They’re over there.’
He pointed towards the banyan tree where one or two figures were busy cooking over a log fire.
‘Who are the elephant squad?’
‘They’re the SAS of the elephant world.’
‘The SAS?’
‘My specially trained team. We work together during the winter when the herds come down from the hills looking for food.’
The elephant squad, he explained, was employed by the Forest Department to patrol the district and prevent wild elephants from straying into the fields and destroying the farmers’ crops.
‘The herds come every year and we have to drive them back,’ he said. ‘There’s not enough food left for them up in the hills and the jungle. Down here, there’s a lot on offer. For the elephants, it’s like going to the supermarket – only the food is all free.’
Mr Choudhury took hold of one of Jasmine’s ears and led her over to where the elephant squad was camped near the banyan tree. As I followed, watching Jasmine’s sagging bottom bob up and down, another elephant strode through the compound’s main entrance carrying a load of freshly cut banana trees. He was a gigantic animal, almost twice the size of Jasmine, with a great arching spine and a gigantic cranium crowned by two prominent frontal lobes. His ears, which flapped and beat continuously against his sides, were frayed and torn around the edges like pieces of worn leather. His tail, which was covered in porcupine-like hairs, swung from side to side as rhythmically as the pendulum of a clock.
‘That’s Raja,’ said Mr Choudhury.
I stared at him transfixed, suddenly feeling incredibly small.
‘He’s what we call a makhna, a tuskless male. Isn’t he magnificent?’
A mahout sat astride Raja’s thick neck, gently rocking back and forth in time with the elephant’s stride. The mahout’s back was erect and his feet were lodged behind the animal’s ears. He was a short man with rock-hard calf muscles. Chunky blue veins ran across the length of his arms like the roots of a well-nourished plant. With an apricot complexion, slanting eyes and a wispy beard, he could easily have been mistaken for a Turkoman from Central Asia. His clothes – a rough tunic, old shirt and fatigues – were scruffy and marked with dirt and grease stains. He went barefoot and his toes were like bits of gnarled ginger. His hands were filthy and the palms had the texture of sandpaper. And yet, despite his slovenly appearance, his face exuded character. Like a piece of antique furniture, it had a worn, mellow finish, the grain and lines of his skin adding depth and substance.
Raja