Tiger Hills (7 page)

It twirled slowly in the eddies by the bank for a few moments. Devi bit her lip anxiously, watching. Then, as if following the shafts of sunlight piercing through the clouds, the raft, twisting back and forth, began merrily to pull away downstream.

Devi watched raptly as it sailed away, watching until the last bit of silk cotton shroud disappeared over the horizon. It was then that she turned toward Devanna.

He would never the forget the way she smiled at him, her face luminous, seeming to be lit from within by one, twenty, a thousand golden suns.

Chapter 4

T
he miniature raft that the children had set adrift spun down the stream intact, belying its flimsy construction. It sped past the village boundaries, ferrying its fragile cargo through the rolling hills that surrounded it, through groves of timber bamboo and open glades dotted with pink touch-me-nots, into and beyond the next village, neatly avoiding the pigs rooting by the banks. On it floated, past elegant knots of silver oak and rosewood, as the sun set and the stars came out. Through the night and into the dawn it journeyed, by herds of grazing bison and spotted deer, past sweet-scented bushes of wild rose and seven-layered jasmine, and down over a waterfall where the stream poured into a fast flowing river. It swirled through the green waters, gathering speed as it turned sharply into the jungle abutting the Kambeymada village. Here a stray eddy caught it and it was swept down one of the tributaries, finally coming to rest against the far side of a watering hole.

The tiger crouching by the edge of the water let out a low growl. It watched for a while as the raft continued to bob and then, sniffing the air suspiciously, the tiger slowly approached. It hooked the raft with one massive paw and nosed the stiff chicks. Losing interest, it sneezed, and splashing across the stream, made its way into the silent, gently steaming jungle. Its stomach distended from the hunt of the previous night, the tiger padded
toward a patch of ferns sprouting under a shady pipal tree. It rubbed its face against the tree trunk, raising a muscular leg to further mark its territory with a jet of urine. Satisfied, it settled itself upon the ferns, and soon fell asleep.

Some distance away, in the neighboring village, the hunting party was preparing to set off. The trackers had returned earlier that morning, bearing good tidings. The ground was covered with hoof marks, the jungle flush with game. Each man checked once more the knives slung in his cummerbund—the short, sharp peechekathi at the waist and the heavier, broad-bladed odikathi at the back. The marksmen gathered up their guns as the village priest raised his hands to indicate the auspicious hour was upon them, and with a great cheering and banging of drums, the party set off.

Kambeymada Machaiah was near the head of the now-silent column, maintaining a steady pace as he hacked through the underbrush with easy strokes of his odikathi. The site of the hunt was still some furlongs away, but they were making good time. How he had waited for the hunting season to begin. All through the transplanting season and the monsoon he had bided his time, itching to try out the percussion cap rifle he had bought in Mercara earlier that year. It hadn't taken the trader long to convince him. The gun had belonged to an English soldier, he claimed, who, having finished his commission, was returning to England. Machu had picked up the rifle, gauged its heft in his hands, held it to his shoulder, and lined up the sight. It was unquestionably a fine weapon, but no, it was entirely too expensive. Come, come, said the seller, this little thing? And what was money for the Kambeymadas anyway? This was a mighty weapon, meant for a mighty marksman. Who more worthy than Kambeymada Machaiah, winner of no fewer than five shooting contests in his village although he was no more than—twenty? Twenty-one? Ah, this gun was destined for him, it was almost as if it had been made for him and him alone. Hold it close to your ear and you could almost hear the barrel thrumming his name.

Machu had laughed out loud at such blatant oiliness, but
pleased by the flattery and carried away by the gleam of its barrel, he had bought the gun, quite forgetting even to bargain. It had lived up to its promise at the coconut-shooting contest earlier that week, just as he had known it would—a single shot, the coconut had exploded, and Machu had fortified his standing as one of the most redoubtable shots in the village.

It would be a good hunt today, he could feel it in his bones.

The party split up at a gently sloping hillock, the drummers and the dog bearers pushing on to skirt the base and a section of the forest beyond. The marksmen, meanwhile, spread out in a line around the summit, each man within sight of his neighbor to avoid being caught in the crossfire. They crouched silently in the damp grass waiting for the drums to start. Machu was stationed under a nandi tree, amid a cluster of wild cardamom.

The trackers had chosen well, he thought, picking at a cardamom pod, crushing its seeds between his fingers and releasing their warm scent into the air. There was a natural clearing in the tree cover just beneath where he sat, offering him a prime view of any game that might head his way. He squinted up at the sun. Another fifteen minutes or so, he calculated, for the drummers to reach their positions. The morning drizzle had ended, revealing a clear, beautiful sky. He shifted restlessly in the grass, feeling the warmth of the sun drifting across his shoulders.

He glanced at the tree above him, scanning its branches for pythons. “Nothing, thank Ayappa,” not that he had really expected any, but … and then he froze. He shut his eyes and slowly opened them again, but no, it was no mistake. He stood up and, motioning to the tracker behind him, pointed silently at the tree. On its trunk, several feet above, were ten gouge marks.

A tiger had stood exactly here, not long ago, rearing up on its hind legs to sharpen its claws on the bark.

The tracker shook his head in wonder at the height of the marks, the span of the claws. The beast must be huge. He dropped on all fours, peering at the underbrush. “It must have moved later this morning,” he whispered to Machu. “We didn't see its spoor during our scout.” Machu's heart began to pound. A tiger. It had
been years since a tiger was last hunted in Coorg. Ayappa Swami, let it come his way. A tiger, felled by his bullet—he would be a hero forever.

The drums started up, shattering the quiet, joined a moment later by the frenzied barking of the dogs. The jungle stirred. There was a rustling in the underbrush and the marksmen took aim. A wild dog shot out and then another, yelping in fright. The hunters lowered their guns and waited. There was a distant thundering of hooves, getting closer and closer, so loud now it almost drowned out the drums. The marksmen lifted their guns in anticipation, but just as suddenly the sound swerved off into the distance. The herd had wisely turned aside. The men cursed and spat into the grass, but Machu remained silent. He wasn't even watching the clearing, his eyes glued to the trees instead. A wild boar hurtled into sight. Machu saw his cousin take aim; out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of gunpowder and heard the squeal of the boar as it fell. He noted with a strange detachment the men racing toward the animal to claim first privilege. The drums grew steadily louder but he stayed still. And then there it was.

A bone-jarring, spine-crushing roar, shocking the marksmen, silencing even the drums for a terrifying instant.

The jungle erupted. Animals scurried through the underbrush, monkeys gibbering in fright as they bounced up and down the vines. The drums started again, tentatively, as masses of parrots and mynahs burst from the trees, shrieking their warnings. Machu's pulse quickened. This was what he had been waiting for.
The tiger was on the move.
The birds were flying frantically away from the slope, which could mean only one thing: the tiger was headed directly toward the hunters. Let the beast be caught in his crosshairs. “Bless me, Ayappa Swami, let it be
my
bullet alone that downs it.”

He raised the gun to his shoulder, staring into the jungle. The drums grew louder still. Another deafening roar, making the hairs stand up on Machu's neck, raising gooseflesh all along his forearms. And there it was, a liquid pour of orange and black, moving swiftly, gaining ground in vast leaps and bounds as it charged into the clearing.

Praise be to you, Ayappa,
was Machu's first thought.
What a magnificent creature.
He dropped to one knee, the tiger firmly in his sights.
Hold, hold, stay steady, NOW.
The gun coughed ineffectually, thudding against his shoulder.
Son of a whore! Not now, don't fail me now.
He slammed back the breech and fired again. The bullet flew out of the gun this time, but the stuck breech had shifted the focus of the weapon. The bullet sped, off by a fraction of a millimeter, sailing left past the tiger's ear to slam into its shoulder instead. The beast stumbled, righted itself, then raced on. Machu knelt, frozen in horror.
He had missed.
Kambeymada Machaiah, ace shot of the village, had missed. They would whip his legs with thorned branches as penalty for missing his target, whip him like a rank amateur.

The drums filled his ears, or was it his heartbeat? He heard guns being reloaded all around him, saw a barrel being raised to his right. Another second and the tiger would pass by, be lost to him forever. “AYY,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and pounding after it. His odikathi was in his hand, although he had no memory of sliding it from his cummerbund. He dashed down the slope, gravel flying under his feet. “Son of a whore, where are you running, AYY.” The tiger whirled around to face him, eyes ablaze.
What perfection,
Machu thought again. Time slowed. The jungle was a green blur; he was vaguely aware of the other hunters trying to take aim, but he was now in their sights. It was only him and the big cat.

The wounded tiger crouched, muscles rippling beneath striped, massive shoulders. For an instant they stared straight at one another, man and beast. Machu was filled with a wild, primeval fury. The sky above, the ground below, seeming to meld together as the blood rushed to his head. The past, the future, name, identity, all falling away unimportant, his energies, his very being locked in on one elemental equation: the hunter and the hunted.

The tiger roared again, deafeningly loud, and then, almost before he saw it move, it sprang. Machu moved with an ancient instinct, the blood of his ancestors in his veins, the veera singing
in his ears. “Swami Ayappa!” He leaped, too, in that very instant,
toward
the cat, coming up just under its breast.

Massive paws the size of his head. Long, pointed teeth, Swami Ayappa, he had not known they could be this long. Fetid, foul-smelling breath. Orange, such a vivid orange, the color of the sun as it rose above the fields, smeared with the soot of the night. Clutching the rifle by its barrel, he smashed its butt upward against the tiger's jaw. The beast swerved slightly in midair. Machu dropped to his knee, unnoticing as it smashed into a rock. The tiger was going to fall on top of him.
Those claws.
His other hand rose, the same graceful motion with which he cored the colocasia plants that sometimes clotted the fields. The sun, glinting from the blade of the odikathi; the fur, such a bright orange, of the tiger. Past skin, through flesh, his blade sinking deep. “Mine!” Machu gasped. “You are mine!” The warm gush of blood, the weight of the animal, pushing down on his blade. The splatter of putrid stomach juices across his face, those paws swinging toward him, and still he dug the odikathi in, deep, deep into the tiger's guts.
You are mine.
They crashed to the ground, the tiger falling across his chest.

The jungle came sharply into focus for an instant, and then everything was dark.

Chapter 5

T
he day after the tiger hunt, much to Devanna's consternation, Pallada Nayak paid a visit to the mission. He sailed into the classroom, oblivious to the Reverend's purse-lipped disapproval. “Ayy, Devanna, there you are, monae,” the Nayak called cheerfully. “Why are you sitting like a nervous mouse, at the edge of your chair, on only half your buttocks?”