I’ve flown all the way from Delhi to find you. In fact I’ve been travelling for several days to get here,’ I began, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.
‘And you are a journalist. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, realizing that Das must have tipped him off. Either that or he had made a calculated guess. Whatever the case, hacks have a bad name the world over and I was keen to present myself in an altogether different light.
‘My main interest in life is travel writing,’ I explained, taking a copy of my first book from my backpack and handing it to him.
He inspected the bright cover, glancing at the publisher’s blurb. Then, thumbing through the pages, he paused to look at some of the photographs. Encouraged by his apparent interest, I continued: ‘That book’s about some journeys I made when I was younger. In one chapter, I go rattlesnake-hunting in Texas,’ I added, hoping to strike a chord.
‘Very interesting,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘You’ve done a lot of things for someone so young – is it not so?’
My attempt to engage his interest was working, I thought. Now that he was primed, I felt confident of tackling him on the subject of the elephant hunt. Would he be leaving soon?
‘Yes, I think so. Probably tonight.’
‘Ah, right,’ I said, feeling a tingle in my stomach as I formulated the next question in my mind. ‘Well, I was wondering if you would allow me to tag along, so that I might write about it later?’ I paused. ‘I think it would make a fascinating book.’
‘Yes, yes, sure,’ replied the hunter. ‘I’m quite happy for you to come up to Sonitpur.’
A wave of relief and excitement swept over me.
‘Oh great! Thank you very much,’ I said, amazed at how easy this was proving.
But then Mr Choudhury raised a finger and added the word ‘However’. He crossed his arms and stiffened.
‘However,’ he repeated, sitting back in his chair and frowning, ‘you understand that you will not be able to come with us when we hunt the elephant. You will have to stay in the camp.’
My skin went clammy and my stomach started to churn. Had I heard him correctly? He wasn’t going to allow me on the hunt? Did that mean he suspected my motives? That he feared I wanted to expose him and the elephant-shooting racket? Was he being friendly just to lead me on?
All I could say was, ‘Why can’t I come?’ in a feeble, childlike whine.
‘Well, the tusker has already killed thirty-eight people,’ explained Mr Choudhury. ‘That makes him a formidable opponent and very dangerous. Also, we will be travelling in areas where there are insurgents who are fighting for an independent Assam. I couldn’t be responsible for your safety.’
My chance of a great adventure was fading fast. I had not come all the way from Delhi to sit around in some crummy camp. For a split second, I felt like arguing my case but then thought better of it. The only thing to do was to accept Mr Choudhury’s offer, drive up to Sonitpur, spend some time with him and try to wangle my way on to the hunt later. With this in mind, I took a deep breath and changed tack.
‘I completely understand the dangers and I would hate to put you in a difficult position,’ I said. ‘At the very least, I’d like to come up to Sonitpur. After all, I have come all the way from Delhi to be here.’
The hunter nodded his head in agreement.
‘By all means come,’ he replied. ‘It will be very educational for you. I must warn you, though, that it will be rough. You’ll be sleeping outside, the food will be basic and you’ll have to help out in the camp. Everyone mucks in. You will be required to cook and clean up, and you may even have to do some hard manual labour.’
Though Mr Choudhury didn’t know it, this was exactly the kind of experience I was looking for. After years of eating junk food and sitting at a desk, some honest physical work would do me good. But I was taken aback when he asked me if I smoked.
‘Just a few a day,’ I said casually. ‘I’ve cut down a lot recently and . . .’
The hunter was shaking his head in disapproval.
‘No smoking. Elephants have an acute sense of smell. They don’t like cigarettes.’
‘Right, no smoking,’ I said, wondering how I would survive.
Did I drink?
‘Well, one or two . . . you know, just sometimes . . . the odd glass of beer . . .’ I felt almost apologetic.
One look told me that I would be off the sauce for a while.
‘Right, no drinking,’ I sighed out loud.
‘And one last thing, from now on, don’t use any deodorant.’
No deodorant? Banning fags and booze was one thing, but surely my Right Guard was harmless stuff? Or perhaps he found my brand offensive. Did he, like an elephant, have an acute sense of smell?
‘It’s a small detail, but it could be your undoing. An elephant will pick up its scent a mile off,’ he added. ‘And it might attract the unwanted attention of the rogue. He would be less than friendly.’
Then Mr Choudhury stood up, muttering that he had lots to organize before his departure.
‘That settles it then. I will pick you up at your hotel at eight o’clock tonight. Please bring as few belongings as possible.’
I thanked him for his time and turned towards the door. But just then, he called me back. Reaching into the drawer of his desk he pulled out a book, a reprint of P. D. Stracey’s Elephant Gold, the standard work on the Asian elephant in Assam.
‘Here, I would like to give you this,’ he said, and with that, taking up his fountain pen, he wrote an inscription on the title page, which he attributed to the legendary fifth-century Assamese sage Palakapya, who is said to have been born from an elephant.
It read:
Where there is duty, there is nobility.
Where there are elephants, there is victory.
On my way back to the hotel, my head was spinning. How could someone like Mr Choudhury, who seemed so kindly, shoot elephants? Had he grown so used to hunting animals that one more didn’t make any difference? Or did he just need the money? Judging by the state of his shop, the rifle and ammunition business was hardly booming. The bounty of 50,000 rupees, the equivalent of roughly six hundred pounds, would go a long way in Assam. And there was the ivory to consider. The two tusks would be worth a fortune on the world market if they could be smuggled out of India – enough to set someone up for life.
It took less than twenty minutes to reach my hotel. The foyer was packed with Congress Party politicians and workers holding their annual regional meeting. The bigwigs, those who professed to be carrying on the work of the Mahatma, were all dressed in white homespun pyjamas, a uniform that had once stood for humility in the days when India’s freedom fighters had identified with the common man. Now, it was synonymous with corruption and was worn by pot-bellied men with generous double
