The pink sheet slipped through the letter hole in the front door; and the chowkidar coughed loud enough to draw our attention to it. It was a bitterly cold December night, and four of us kids were snuggled up near the fireplace in the drawing room, as Dad regaled us with shikar stories, and Mum rustled up the dinner. I rushed to the door to pick up the pink slip. The telegram, addressed to Dad, read “MANEATING TIGER GETS SIXTH VICTIM STOP ASK WILLIE COME IMMDTLY TO DESTROY IT STOP VILLAGERS TERRIFIED STOP RAM ASREY DISTRICT MAGISTRATE LAKHIMPUR”.
Ram Asrey had earlier been posted as the Additional District Magistrate in our hometown Kanpur, and knew of my Uncle Willie’s shooting prowess. Dad immediately called up his younger brother Willie. But Uncle Willie was hard of hearing, so his wife Mae took the phone. She called back later to say that they would leave for Lakhimpur, about 200 miles away, the day after. I was tickled pink, and begged Dad to allow me to join the hunting party, to which he reluctantly agreed.
The road from Kanpur to Lucknow was fine. But onwards to Sitapur and Lakhimpur, and then the jungle track, would be jolting. All the shikar equipment and khana peena had to go along, together with the retinue of servants and gun bearers. So Uncle Willie opted for two vehicles, the Willys Jeep for the jungle track, and his trusted V8 Chevrolet Fleetmaster, that could cruise effortlessly at 100 mph. The Fleetmaster was the type of car used by Chicago’s mafia dons in Hollywood movies.
The hunting party, besides the driver, cook and bearer, included Lal Khan, one of Uncle Willie’s most loyal hunting aides. Lal Khan brought along his weathered English 12 bore double barrel breach loading (DBBL) gun, gifted to him by a British officer going “home” to Blighty. The DBBL had hammerheads, not firing pins, which most old timers considered more reliable, though cumbersome. Uncle Willie chose to take his 500-bore elephant gun, and the sleek 375 Magnum 6 shot bolt action rifle. Aunty Mae had her 410 shotgun, and I had my diminutive Winchester short barrel .22 rifle. Aunty Mae looked benevolently at my .22 and asked if I was going to kill a huge man-eating tiger with that toy.
I had read a story about a young boy in a tea garden in Assam. A leopard was chasing his pet bull terrier. He somehow managed to scramble up a slanting tree, dragging his dog along. The leopard came after them, and was in striking distance, when the boy shoved the rifle barrel down the throat of the leopard, and fired, killing it on the spot. So I was not to be cowed down.
We reached Lakhimpur early in the evening, only to find that the District Magistrate (DM) had gone on tour to Dudhwa Block. It was nightfall when we reached there. The DM had pitched his camp in a forest clearing, and had an inviting log fire burning. He had arranged for two tents for our hunting party. He jumped out of his folding canvas chair to greet us. Uncle Willie had brought along his choicest Scotch whisky, which was more than welcome in the cold, despite the dancing flames of the log fire. Red liveried chaprasis (a vestige of the British Raj) hovered around to minister to the sahab log, while the lesser mortals contented themselves with shots of rum in the shadows.
The elders huddled together against the cold, and planned the hunt. The tiger was reportedly a magnificent 12-year-old male. Tracking of its pugmarks had indicated an injury to its right front paw, as this pugmark was lighter than the others. This is because the tiger was not putting its full weight on it, said Mangaloo, the expert tracker from the forest department. It was probably this injury that had prevented the tiger from chasing its natural prey, and made it turn to soft targets like domestic cattle or human beings.
Mangaloo also reported that earlier that evening the tiger had killed a zebu milch cow. It would return to the carcass the second day, relax on the third day, and as it felt hungry again, would make its next kill on the fourth day. So we had just two days to put our plans together.
The next morning we visited the spot of the “kill”. The tiger had dragged the carcass into the thick lantana undergrowth. It was partially eaten, so the tiger would definitely return to the carcass before going down to the nearby stream to quench its thirst. However, there were no convenient trees in the vicinity of the kill, to set up a machaan. So it was decided to erect three machaans on trees in a clearing about 500 yards away, half way between the carcass and the stream. The tiger was bound to come that way. Tigers mark their territory by standing on their hind legs and clawing the bark of the trees. Seeing the claw marks on a sal tree Mangaloo said that the tiger would be atleast 10 feet from nose to tail, a huge specimen.
The machaans would have to be erected bearing in mind the direction of the moonlight. If the moonlight silhouetted the shikaris, or glistened off their gun barrels, the ever-wary tiger would fight shy and disappear. Three machaans were erected at a height of 15 feet. Uncle Willie and Aunty Mae would be on the centre one, Lal Khan and myself on the left, and Mangaloo with another tracker on the right, in the direction from which the tiger would be expected.
On the fourth evening a male buffalo calf was tied under another tree in the moonlit portion of the clearing. We took up our positions. Uncle Willie left behind the 500 bore, as it was too heavy to hold in a machaan. It was powerful enough to pierce an elephant’s skull or a rhinoceros’ armour, but its recoil would have thrown one off a flimsy machaan. Uncle Willie sadly recalled how his son Johnny had drowned while duck shooting in a jheel three years earlier, because he had fallen into the water with a recoil. So he opted for the lighter and more accurate 375 Magnum. He loaded it with hard-nosed bullets that had more piercing power, as against the soft nosed dumdum bullets that would have shattered and splayed their target. And Uncle Willie hoped to preserve the skin. Mangaloo and his companion carried sharpened spears.
By 7 p.m. we were all in place. There was a downwind from the clearing that would carry our scent to the stream. But tigers have hardly any sense of smell, so that didn’t matter. Tigers have a very sharp sense of sight and hearing, so it was crucial that we remained well camouflaged and silent. After about two hours there was a rustling in the undergrowth as a herd of kakar (barking deer) scurried away. Then the langurs shrieked out a warning, followed by the miaowing of the peacocks. The tiger was on its way.
Rifles, guns and spears were lowered at the ready, in the direction of the tiger’s approach. Safety catches were released. The buffalo calf became restless and began tugging at its rope. It sensed danger and death, and let out a plaintive cry. It was an open invitation to the tiger. About 100 yards away, the tiger stopped on the jungle trail and slipped into the dense lantana bushes. We waited with baited breath. So did the unfortunate bait below! Sensing no danger, the tiger emerged half an hour later and halted again about 20 yards from the calf. Its tail twitched, an indication that it was about to strike. After a final furtive look around, the tiger charged. The calf screamed with fear. With one fell stroke of its left paw, as its right was injured, the tiger broke the neck of the calf. It then went for the jugular, to draw first blood. It then paused to look up, the white patch on its chest glowing softly in the moonlight.
Just as softly, Uncle Willie squeezed the trigger of the Magnum. A red squirt emerged from the patch of white. The tiger let out a blood-curdling roar that reverberated through the jungle and the neighbouring villages. As it rose to its full height, in shock and pain, it exposed its flank and a second bullet entered just below its shoulder blade, piercing its heart. The magnificent king of the Indian jungle rolled over, with just a twitch in its tail; this time it was the twitch of death.
The DM and the villagers were extremely grateful to Uncle Willie for destroying the menace that threatened their lives and livestock. The next morning we returned to Kanpur with the body of the tiger draped over the bonnet of the jeep. It was indeed a triumphant return.
Note:- This essay was originally written in December 1965 in St Joseph’s College Nainital, when the writer was 14 years of age. It was written for his Senior Cambridge exam, that earned him a distinction in English Language. He has tried to reproduce it from memory and reduced it to writing before it fades into the twilight. The writer came fifth in Trap Shooting in the U.P. State Shooting Championships in 1969. He laid down arms several years ago, and now shoots wildlife with a camera.
Photo Titles:
1. The writer with the man-eater of Lakhimpur shot in 1958. It is now preserved in his home.
2. The writer in 1969 with his first “kill”, a chinkara (Indian Gazelle).
May 2010
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