To the Elephant Graveyard Read online

  Bodo and Sanjay produced a plastic bag full of rust-coloured sandalwood paste which they proceeded to rub on to the elephants’ foreheads, creating two marks or spots.

  “These things, they called tilaks,” explained Churchill as I admired the apprentices’ handiwork. “It is for good luck, no?”

  I knew that Hindus traditionally place a dot or symbol in the middle of the forehead to mark the spot where the spiritual centre of a human being is believed to reside. The tilak also serves as a mark distinguishing caste or sect, although in twentieth-century India it is worn by many young urban women as a mere fashion accessory. However, this was the first time I had seen an animal sporting one. What’s more, I was confused as to why Churchill, a self-professed Presbyterian, was participating in such rituals and even praying before a Hindu deity. Surely for a Christian such behaviour was sacrilegious?

  “Better to be safer than sorrier, no?” he said when I asked him about it.

  “How do you mean?”

  Churchill pulled me aside out of earshot of the others.

  “One or two prayers, some puja, it not hurt,” he whispered. “Anyway, worship hathi not Hindu thing only. Tribal people, they pray to hathi. Going long, long back in past.”

  I read later in my trusty Elephant Gold that long before the Aryans arrived in India and the elephant-headed god became an established part of the Hindu pantheon, India’s aboriginals worshipped pachyderm deities and totems. To this day, most Indian villagers believe that living elephants are manifestations of the god.

  “Ganesha is like father. We ask for safety from him. Protection also,” continued Churchill. “We ask it’s okay to kill rogue, otherwise Ganesha be angry. Then big problem for mahout.”

  “Really? Do you believe any of this, being a Christian? Isn’t it just superstition?”

  As he considered my question, the mahout said nothing but picked up a leaf from the ground. He let it fall back to earth.

  “I am believing.”

  He raised a finger in caution and suddenly his usual jovial tone and benign expression vanished. He became deadly serious.

  “You don’t believe. Okay, but be careful. Hathi all-knowing aneemal. He look into man’s mind and read like book. He hear, see all thing. Rogue hathi, he know we come. He know.”

  “If that’s true, won’t that mean that he’ll simply run away and you won’t be able to find him?”

  Churchill was still chewing on a slice of coconut. He bit off a piece and spat it out. Behind him Raja stood staring at me and winking knowingly.

  “If rogue hathi run, that is fate. If he killed, that is fate. If we killed, that is fate,” answered the mahout sagely. “Everything is fate, no?”

  ♦

  The fire in the elephant squad’s camp was extinguished. Tents were taken down, rolled up and squeezed into their polythene pouches. Bedrolls were tied up with lengths of twine. Pots and pans, ladles and spoons were packed into potato sacks, together with cans of cooking oil and tins of salt and mango pickle. All this was loaded into the back of a jeep which was due to meet the squad later at a prearranged rendezvous point.

  Next, the apprentices prepared the kunkis for the journey. Bodo and Sanjay gave them numerous buckets of water to drink. Chander and Prat draped potato sacking over the animals’ backs which they secured with ropes drawn around the kunkis’ necks and under their bellies and tails, creating crude saddles. Finally, wicker baskets packed with essentials such as tea, sugar and tin mugs were loaded on to the kunkis together with two kerosene lamps, four torches and half a dozen boxes of spare batteries. Once loaded, the beasts looked like Hannibal’s elephants setting out for their epic journey across the Alps.

  By the time the squad was ready to depart, it was past eleven o’clock and it had turned bitterly cold. To keep warm, Chander and the others wrapped themselves in blankets which they tied around their chests with rope. Churchill put on a Border Security Force jacket trimmed with fur which he claimed to have been given by an officer whose life he had saved some years earlier. He unlocked the chain around Raja’s foot and prepared to mount him.

  “Ganapati protect us,” he called out to his squad, quickly adding, half under his breath, “and our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Standing to the side of his elephant, he called out a single word in Assamese. Responding immediately, the kunki thrust out his trunk. Churchill stepped up on the extended proboscis, took hold of the ears and pulled himself up, quickly taking his position astride Raja’s neck. The mahout shouted out another order and the pachyderm, with the dexterity and grace of a ballet dancer, turned 180 degrees. Behind him I watched as Chander mounted Jasmine in much the same way. The younger mahout then rode the female elephant around the compound, turning periodically and checking her steering.

  “Baith! Baith!” bawled Churchill. “Baith!”

  Again, without any hesitation or sign of reluctance, Raja responded to his master’s voice, sinking to his knees, tucking his back legs underneath his enormous frame, and sweeping his trunk across the ground like an anaconda.

  Meanwhile, I sat under the banyan tree, watching the squad and sulking. Although I had toyed with the idea of disobeying Mr Choudhury’s orders and following on foot, it seemed too risky. I didn’t know the terrain, didn’t speak any of the local languages and had no guide. There were probably dangerous insurgents in the area who would be only too happy to kidnap me and hold me for ransom. And there was the rogue to consider. The last thing I wanted to do was run into him in the dark.

  I had little choice but to stay in the compound, but that didn’t mean I was happy about it. In fact, I was livid. Mr Choudhury might well track down the elephant in the middle of the night and shoot the poor creature, and then I would have lost the whole story. I slumped back against the tree, cursing my fate and wondering whether I hadn’t wasted my time.

  In the event, I needn’t have worried.

  “Tar-win,” bawled Churchill, “you come. Come, get on Raja.”

  I scrambled up from the base of the tree. Had I heard the mahout correctly? Was he inviting me along? Hadn’t he heard Mr Choudhury tell me to remain in the camp?

  “I was told to stay here,” I said, playing it safe.

  The mahout shook his head.

  “No, no. You part of eley-phant squad. We look after you. Come. You must.”

  “But Mr Choudhury will be angry. He wants me to stay here,” I said, nervous that I might jeopardize our agreement and find myself packed off back to Guwahati.

  “No worry. I talk with Shikari. Make all okay, no?” he continued. “I look after you, Tar-win. No problem. Yes, yes. Come.”

  The mahout motioned for me to climb on to the kunki. I dithered for all of a second and then made up my mind. If Mr Choudhury got angry, Churchill and the others would back me up. And even if they didn’t…well, it was worth the risk. I ran into the bungalow, grabbed my bags, put them in the back of the jeep and prepared to mount the elephant.

  I had ridden broncos in Texas, buz-kashi stallions in Afghanistan, camels in northern Kenya and one or two donkeys in Wales. I had even been on the back of a few cows at an Arizona rodeo. But I had never ridden an elephant. Now the moment of truth had finally arrived, I faltered. Raja was a giant. Even when he crouched on his knees, he towered above me. His stomach alone was ten times my size. How on earth was I meant to mount this thing? There weren’t any stirrups, there wasn’t even a ladder. I looked up at Churchill despairingly.

  “Er, how do I do this?”

  “You come up side. Put one foot on leg, grab rope, pull,” instructed Churchill.

  I stepped up on Raja’s thigh. The flesh wobbled underneath my boots like jelly. I grabbed hold of one of the ropes with both hands and prepared to climb up on to the elephant’s back. But just then, Raja suddenly decided to stand up. In one surprisingly quick and agile movement, he rose to his feet. The rope snapped tight against my fingers, the support beneath me jerked away, and I found myself hanging from the elephant’s side lik
e a stranded mountain climber. Desperately, I tried to free my trapped hands as the elephant’s abrasive skin rubbed against my knuckles like coarse sandpaper. Whimpering with pain, I kicked out helplessly. It felt as if iny fingers were being wrenched from their sockets.

  “Baith! Baith!” shouted Churchill, reaching back and slapping his mount hard on his side. “Down! Down!”

  Grudgingly, Raja sank to his knees, trumpeting an irritated staccato note. The rope slackened, my fingers came loose and I jumped to the ground, hopping around in little circles and nursing my injured fingers. The apprentices laughed so hard the tears began to roll down their faces.

  “Firang! Get up on hathi!” scolded Churchill. “Raja not like this. I don’t like! Hurry!”

  “What about my hands?”

  “You like old woman! No complains!”

  Not wanting to be left behind, I tried again, stepping up on to Raja’s leg and taking hold of the rope. This time, with a helping hand from Prat who had to give me a push from behind, I managed to reach the summit, albeit with my dignity in tatters. I had just enough time to grip the elephant’s sides with my legs and take hold of the ‘saddle’ when Raja surged upwards, his powerful muscles moving like great pistons beneath me.

  “Hathi play. He joke,” laughed Prat and Bodo, who were now sitting behind me. “Hathi joke.”

  “Yes, very funny,” I said, nursing my bleeding knuckles.

  One of my little fingers was throbbing terribly and looked as if it had been put through a mangle. But Churchill was quick to dismiss my injuries.

  “Not bad. Worse to come. Mahout need strong skin, no?”

  With this, he swung Raja around and made for the main gate. Jasmine followed behind, carrying Chander and Sanjay. Two armed forest guards marched beside us, machine guns slung prominently over their shoulders.

  ♦

  Exhilarating as it was to be on my first elephant, it was also extremely uncomfortable. Apart from the sacking, there was no seat or cushion, and the animal’s enormous shoulder blades jostled to and fro, giving me the sensation of being at sea. The rough sacking scoured my backside like wire wool, and Raja’s prickly hairs and Jurassic-like hide rubbed against my calf muscles and ankles, soon shaving away my hairs as well as some of my skin. To make matters worse, the kunki smelt of dung and the stench quickly rubbed off on my clothes, leaving me reeking of manure.

  “Don’t you have a howdah?” I asked.

  My godfather Charles had always ridden on a howdah. It said so in his letters. But Churchill scoffed at the very idea. Howdahs, in his view, were for wimps.

  “No seat. No pillow. This is best way. You must be relaxed,” advised Churchill. “Don’t make legs tight, no?”

  “Right.”

  I looked to see how he was sitting. His back was perpendicular, his legs were hanging down either side of Raja’s neck, and his hands rested on top of the animal’s head.

  “So, how do you drive this thing?” I asked.

  “Hathi is best trained aneemal,” said the mahout proudly. “He never forget.”

  “Is it really true that elephants never forget?” I asked.

  “Hathi never forget. If I go today, return ten years, he remember.”

  We moved off the sandy lane and took a shortcut through waterlogged rice-fields. Jasmine followed behind, her feet making slurping noises as she splashed through thick mud. In her trunk, she clutched a clump of grass which she bashed against her front legs to shake off the dirt and then shoved into her mouth. Somewhere off in the darkness there was a sudden squawking and screeching. Bodo switched on a torch and turned it on some bushes to our right. Jackals glared at us from beneath thickets, rows of fluorescent eyes catching the light like mini bicycle reflectors. Insects chirped in the grass. Fireflies blinked as they zigzagged past like microscopic space ships.

  I leaned over to watch Raja’s legs. The skin hung down in sagging folds, like baggy grey trousers. As they plodded along, never missing a step despite their clumsy appearance, his trunk swung from side to side, occasionally reaching out and pulling up a clump of grass. From the rope around his neck hung a metal object. It was an ominous-looking weapon, essentially a metal rod with a sharp point at one end and a hook welded to the other, the kind of object a gladiator might have used to carve up his opponents in a Roman arena. Churchill called it an ankush, a tool that has been carried by Indian mahouts for thousands of years.

  “This for emergency only. Many mahout, they use all the times. Not right, no? These mens not good,” scoffed Churchill.

  He demonstrated how, nowadays, many elephant drivers jab the metal spike into a sensitive spot on the top of the head in order to enforce a command. They also use the hook behind the ears to bring the elephant to an abrupt halt. This causes the animal considerable pain and explains why elephants are increasingly turning on their mahouts and frequently killing them.

  “Hathi like camel,” continued my self-appointed guru. “If you treat bad, he run away. One thing different. Hathi will kill mahout. Camel not doing this.”

  Mr Choudhury told me later that, until relatively recently, communities of mahouts were to be found across India wherever there were elephants. Even states like Rajasthan, which has been reduced to desert, once had their own elephant populations. Yet with the rapid depletion of the forests and jungles, seventy per cent of the country’s elephants have been wiped out. With them have vanished the mahouts and much of their expertise and experience. Today’s apprentices often learn shoddy habits from their trainers, and India’s domesticated elephants are too often badly treated and abused.

  “No need for ankush. Hathi intelligent animal,” said Churchill, petting his mount’s ears. “He is knowing many thing.”

  Raja had been caught as a calf not far from Guwahati. His captors intended to sell him to the timber trade and he might have spent a lifetime lifting and dragging felled trees. But the makhna proved too intelligent for such mundane work and he was sold to Assam’s Forest Department.

  He responded to more than forty-three words, all of them derived from Sanskrit and traditionally used by mahouts throughout India, except for distant Kerala and the Western Ghats. In this vocabulary to stand was ‘mile’, to go forward ‘ageit’, and to lie down ‘terre’. He could be instructed to pick up something and hold it in his trunk. And there was even a command to get the animal to suck up water and blow it over his back.

  Usually, Raja obeyed these commands to the letter. On the rare occasions when he turned stubborn, Churchill applied pressure to certain points on the backs of the kunki’s ears to bring him into line. Only in an emergency, if he required the elephant to charge or to come to an abrupt stop, would the mahout use the ankush, and then with much reluctance.

  While we continued through the night, I asked Churchill how he rated Mr Choudhury as an elephant man.

  “He is number one,” said the mahout without hesitation. “He know all thing about hathi. All thing.”

  This was high praise indeed, for the mahouts were often scathing of other half-baked ‘experts’ who they had to work with from time to time.

  “He is having special power,” continued Churchill. “He is having extra sense, no? He is knowing hathi’s mind. Rogue hathi is very scared of Shikari.”

  The mahout believed that in a past life, Mr Choudhury had been an elephant. At any rate, that was how he explained his affinity with the animals.

  I asked the mahout what form he himself had taken in his past life.

  “I was movie star. Very famous, no? All women, they liked me too much!”

  We had been travelling for nearly two hours when Churchill called a halt next to a stream where the elephants drank. The apprentices set up a camping-stove and boiled a pot of water for tea, while I climbed down from Raja and nursed my sore legs. Bodo and Prat cut some banana trees with their machetes for the kunkis to eat. The others adjusted the ‘saddles’ and checked the pads of the animals’ feet for any cuts or sores.

  Churchill and I
stood in front of the camping-stove as the mahout continued my initiation. Elephants, he said, are different to most animals in that their brains expand during their lifetime, usually by sixty-five per cent. This renders them curious and gives them a natural ability to learn.

  “Hathi is doing so many tricks, no? Like play piano, use calculator, juggle ball, all things,” he elaborated.

  According to the experts, these are but crude examples of a deeper, hidden elephantine intelligence. Stories abound of extraordinary, ‘almost human’, feats demonstrated by these animals. Many elephants held in captivity respond to whole sentences and not just key command words. An Asian elephant called Ruby who resides in the Phoenix Zoo, Arizona, paints on canvas and can differentiate between colours. Another in Assam stands by the roadside blocking traffic and extorts food from passing drivers. Researchers at Cornell University have discovered that herds communicate over distances of up to twelve miles using low-frequency calls inaudible to the human ear.

  During my time in Assam, I was to hear dozens of stories illustrating just how smart and intuitive – as well as vengeful – elephants can be. Churchill’s favourite story, which he told me more than once, was about a tusker wounded by poachers in 1996.

  “He was intelli-gent hathi,” began the mahout. “He was escape from hunters. They want tusks. So he hide in courtyard of house of one old lady. Hathi knows she is good lady.”

  The woman awoke in the morning to find the elephant lying in the courtyard of her house. He was bleeding badly from a wound to the leg. Cautiously, the woman approached the animal and, much to her surprise, found that the tusker allowed her to tend to his wound, which she cleaned and bandaged. Several days passed during which she nursed the animal back to health. Then, one night, the elephant rose and, finding that he could walk, limped off into the forest.