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DOWN MEMORY LANE

One of the preoccupations of my cousins was hunting in the neighbouring hills and a forest area called Shenbaga Thoppu. We were avid readers of Jim Corbett and had read ‘Maneaters of Kumaon’ several times. So the moment we neared the forest we imagined maneating tigers lurking behind every bush.

But actually in all the years of our roaming about in the forests we never once saw a tiger or even a leopard. One day a lot of women who had gone into the deeper forest to pick wood, came rushing back yelling that there was a tiger there. We retreated back to civilisation as fast as we could. That was the closest we came to seeing a tiger. But that didn’t stop us from making up stories about our close encounters with the striped terror.

One cousin in particular was an expert in making up suspenseful narratives about tigers. In one of these he comes across a tiger taking its siesta on a bed of grass. Sensing his presence the tiger wakes up with a low growl. They look at each other; he wants to lift the gun and fire, but is frozen with fear. The tiger then grunts “mmph” and majestically walks off into the thick bushes and vanishes. I must have heard this story over a hundred times. Anyway, he had only an air gun. Good thing he didn’t try to kill the tiger with it.

Some of our older cousins and uncles carried real guns and went into the forest. Even they managed to kill only birds or small animals. We tried to accompany them on these trips, but usually they chased us back. Sometimes on rare occasions they allowed us to go with them.

On one such occasion when we were enthusiastically following our mighty seniors, someone spotted a bird sitting on a hedge nearby. The person carrying the gun was a dashingly handsome guy whom we hero-worshipped. He took careful aim and fired. The bird fell dead. And then there was a shriek and a man stood up on the other side of the hedge where he obviously had been answering a call of nature. He made a bigger fuss than was warranted, perhaps with the idea of getting some money out of the young men.

Our hero, sensing this, went up to the noise maker and said, “The bullet will not touch you, don’t worry. See, I’ll show you, I can shoot between your legs without hitting you. Just move your legs a little more apart.” And he aimed the gun between the man’s ankles. The yelling of the man turned to scared gibberish and he took off in awkward leaps and bounds and vanished from sight.

One Sunday afternoon we were out hunting or at least going through the motions when we spotted an elderly man having a bath by drawing water from a well. He obviously recognized some of the boys with us. “Hey!” he shouted. “How dare you go hunting on a Sunday?” “Did you go to church this morning?” Some of the boys said that they had. “What was the sermon about?” They answered that too correctly. “All right” said the gent. “Now go home and read some good book. No hunting on Sundays”. We slunk away from there. Some of the boys told us that the old gentleman was a senior member of the local church.

As we were walking away we spotted a fat waterbird sitting on a low branch, offering a prospect of a sure shot. The boy carrying the gun couldn’t resist the temptation. He quickly took aim and fired and the bird fell dead. The old gentleman came yelling and gesticulating. “We shot this for you only, Sir” said the boy handing over the bird to him.

The righteous indignation vanished into thin air and the old gent beamed at us. “Very kind of you, very kind” he said and went off home with the bird.

So much for piety!

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