The Beast Tamer Read online

  The Beast Tamer

  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and now has over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of short stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys Prize in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award.

  Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.

  The Beast Tamer

  Selected and Compiled by

  RUSKIN BOND

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2016

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978—81—291—×××—××

  First impression 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Some Panthers

  C.A. Kincaid

  Hunters of Souls

  Augustus Somerville

  Mustela of the Lone Hand

  C.G.D. Roberts

  The Leopard

  Ruskin Bond

  The Man-eater of Mundali

  B.B. Osmaston

  Beckwith’s Case

  Maurice Hewlett

  Pendlebury’s Trophy

  John Eyton

  The Great Retreat

  Aubrey Wade

  Escape From a Sunken Submarine

  T.C. Bridges and H. Hessell Tiltman

  Adventure Underground

  Sylvia Green

  The Beast Tamer

  Nikolai S. Leskov

  Introduction

  Explorers, hunters, officers lost in the wilderness, soldiers in extreme danger—they have many characteristics in common, including a certain amount of foolhardiness, luck and the stories they have put down about their adventures. Searching for wild animals in the depths of jungles or coming across terrible rituals in out-of-the-way places, some of these writers have narrated their stories that remain bloodcurdling reads even today.

  Of course, not all stories are accounts of what happened to an adventurer; some come from the imagination of extremely skilled writers. ‘The Beast Tamer’ by the Russian writer Nikolai Leskov is one such. Leskov’s stories vividly portray the Russian countryside and people. In this particular story, the cruel landowner and his eccentric and strange rules that the people dependent on him have to live by, ends up putting in danger the life of a captive bear. The description of the bear hunt, the feeling of companionship that the poor creature has for its keeper and the bloodthirsty atmosphere in the forest, where the bear trap has been laid, will remain in the mind even long after one has finished reading the story.

  ‘Hunters of Souls’ too carries an imminent sense of doom and danger as the British visitor to the forests around Daltonganj loses his Indian companions while he faces off with dangerous animals. His companions are not dead though, for he stumbles upon a ritual carried out by soul hunters where the companions play a crucial role. As he watches on in horror, wondering when he may step in for the rescue, he witnesses a hidden ceremony and a messy secret of those who remained outside the control of the British Raj.

  This sense of wonder and amazement on finding oneself in an alien land, where the travellers are unable to quickly come to grasp with the unwritten rules and floundering in a sea of outlandish situations, happens in a few stories in this collection. There are also tales of shikar, where the writer has described tracking and coming upon panthers and man-eating tigers. The rules of the forest are as inflexible as that of human society, and to successfully negotiate them and emerge unscathed is an achievement for these narrators.

  Danger lurks not only in lesser known places or in the deeps of the forests, but in obvious places like battlefields and in the theatre of war. There are stories here of soldiers in wars who have stared death in the face and known that they can escape only by outwitting the enemy. Some manage to do so, and these stories of bravery and enterprise make for remarkable reading. I found I was quite breathless as I read ‘The Great Retreat’ and ‘Escape from a Sunken Submarine’ and therefore both of these are a part of this collection.

  Some among us may enjoy the thrill of staring at danger. Some of us may rather meet them only in the pages of a book as we sit and read in the comfort of our homes. This book is for both these kind of readers.

  Ruskin Bond

  Some Panthers

  C.A. Kincaid

  I cannot pretend to be in any sense of the word a big game shot; but I have been out a good many times after panthers. Since some of my experiences with them were rather exciting, I think that they might interest the readers of the Indian State Railways Magazine.

  Kathiawar, when I first knew it thirty years ago, simply swarmed with panthers. There was a panther to be found on every hill and in almost every thicket. It was no uncommon occurrence to go out after black buck and to come back with a couple of buck and a panther lying dead in the same bullock cart. Colonel Fenton, while in Kathiawar, killed over eighty of them and several men whom I knew had speared them as if they had been pigs. The cause of the multitude of these dipras was no doubt the disordered state of the country. Only a few years before I was posted to Kathiawar, the province was overrun with bands of dacoits. They were generally led by some unfortunate landowner, who had been dispossessed of his estate by a none too scrupulous overlord. If he could escape capture long enough, he generally got his claims settled. If he was captured, he was shot out of hand. But as every small landowner in Kathiawar was in danger immediate or remote of dispossession, his sympathy and his secret help were always given to the man who had ‘left the path’ as the Gujarati phrase went and had become a bahirwatia or outlaw. The bands of dacoits levied blackmail everywhere and robbed unfortunate shopkeepers or merchants or even rich cultivators whom they caught, mercilessly. The result was that village after village was deserted and left untilled; and panthers made their homes in what had once been cultivated areas.

  To return, however, to the subject of my article, my first panther is the one that I shall always remember most vividly. No doubt because it was my first, but also because it gave me more trouble than any other. I had obtained permission to shoot a panther in the Gir forest from the Junagadh authorities and, armed with a new 400 Jeffery high-velocity rifle that I just had built for me, I went off gaily to the Gir. I first tried Tellala, a favourite spot for panthers, but my chief, Colonel Kennedy, had just bagged a brace there and there were no others for the moment. The Junagadh authorities, who were always kindness itself to British officers, arranged that I should go to another part of Gir, a village known, so far as I remember, as Gurmukhwadi.

  ‘When I arrive
d at my camp at my destination, I found tents in great numbers and furnished with every regard to my comfort. My servants were highly excited, because they had passed lions on the way from Tellala. However, no damage had been done and after listening to their highly varnished tale, I asked whether there had been a kill. A tall shikari, who had been listening to the servants’ tale with some contempt, stepped forward and said that a panther had killed a peasant’s goat early that morning and would probably return that afternoon to feed on it. Would the sahib sit up for it? The sahib said with much eagerness that he would sit up for it. Then the shikari said with perfect frankness: ‘Shooting panthers, sahib, is different from shooting hares. Will the sahib kindly shoot at a mark and show me whether he can hit anything?’ It was impossible to take offence at the man’s words. He spoke with such dignity. I accordingly fired at a mark and apparently satisfied him; for he went away saying he would return at four and take me to the kill.

  The hours passed very slowly, but at last four struck and the shikari appeared. We rode about two miles, dismounted near a small woodland village and walked a few hundred yards to where a machan or stand had been built over the remains of the unfortunate goat. It was not long before the shikari gave me a nudge to let me know that the panther was somewhere about. I do not know what he had seen, nor did I dare ask him, for I was too excited. He must have caught a glimpse of the panther, for a few minutes later a female panther stepped out of some undergrowth and sitting down like a dog began to call. My shikari wanted me to wait; but it was my first panther and I could not wait. What if the brute should bolt while I waited for it to come nearer. Regardless of the shikari, I put up my rifle and although I was very awkwardly placed for my aim, I fired. The high velocity bullet missed the panther’s chest and struck it in the hindleg. It swung round twice in a circle and vanished in the undergrowth instantly.

  The next question was what was to be done. Before I had left India, several persons, who had shot in other parts of India, had warned me against the danger of following a wounded tiger or panther on foot. ‘Always wait for your elephant,’ they said. But in the Bombay Presidency there are no elephants. For that contingency my mentors had not provided; and as it is impossible to leave a wounded panther at large to kill the villagers, I had to descend sadly from my tree and start following the wounded beast on foot. I must confess that as I walked, I wondered why I had ever been so foolish as to go out panther shooting. I was not only concerned about myself, but about the villagers too. They had come out in great numbers and armed, as all villagers in native states are with swords, they threw caution to the winds. One man got on to the panther’s trail and shouting out ‘Am avyo’ (He has come this way), he ran off at full speed on the panther’s tracks.

  Unhappily, the villager was on the right trail and, while I ran after him as quickly as I could, he came to where the wounded panther lay. It charged straight at him and knocking him over, tried to get at his throat. He held it off long enough for a young Rajput to draw his sword and give it a tremendous cut across the head. It left its intended victim and ran into a little bush close by. I had by this time come up and was shewn the wounded panther. It was lying down, but was wagging its tail like an angry cat. Again wondering why I had ever had the foolish wish to go out panther shooting, I drew a bead on the back of the wounded beast’s neck. It was the most visible part of its body. The high velocity bullet this time hit its mark fair and square. The tail wagging ceased and the panther was dead. Much of my pleasure at my first panther was spoilt by the injury to the rash villager. Fortunately it was not serious. I had the man sent to the nearest hospital. In a few days he was perfectly well again; but I fancy that he treated panthers in future with more respect.

  The most daring panther that I remember was one I shot some years later in the same Gir forest. My wife and I were camped by the seaside at Verawal, when a forester came and complained that there was a very bold panther near where he lived, would the sahib come and shoot it. We were going into the Gir just then after lions, so I could do nothing at the time; but while camped in the Gir, I found a day to attend to the bold panther. One afternoon my wife and I started out on horseback followed by a shikari leading a wretched she-goat. Near the machan, we had to dismount and cross some very wild country. Once we arrived at the machan, events moved very quickly. We climbed into our tree, the beaters tied up the goat and, as they left, called to it. As the form of the last man moved round a rock, the head of a panther came round a rock, on the other side. The brute was not in the least afraid of men and, so we heard afterwards, had several times carried off goats on a lead.

  The panther was a little far off for a perfectly safe shot, so I waited. The goat had been calling cheerfully to its human friends when it suddenly saw the panther a few yards away. It became petrified with terror and made no further sound. It walked to the end of its cord and gazed as if hypnotized at the monster, whose dinner it was to provide. The panther did not seem hungry. It slowly sat down like a huge tomcat and watched with quiet enjoyment the emotions it was rousing in the goat’s breast. I, on the other hand, was growing more and more excited. I felt that if I waited much longer, my hand would tremble, and I would not be able to aim straight. I drew a bead on the brute’s chest, as it faced me. I pulled the trigger and the panther rolled over growling helplessly. My second barrel hit it in the body and all motion stopped. I had hardly fired my second barrel, when my men came running back very much surprised to hear the shots so soon. We descended and found that my first bullet had hit the panther higher than I had intended. The bullet had struck it straight between the eyes. To use the expression of my shikari, I had given it a chanllo or sect mark. No other incident followed save the almost unendurable swagger of the unharmed goat on the return journey. It was clear to the beast’s mind at any rate that it alone ‘had won the War’.

  Another very bold panther came into my tents when I was in Mahableshwar. Our bull-terrier bitch had presented us with a litter of puppies, which would have served admirably for a healthy panther’s supper. The mother had the courage of her race and although chained to one of the tentpoles, kept up so fierce a growling that the servants heard her and drove away the panther in time. The same day I learnt that the panther had been seen in the Blue Valley Road, which was quite close. At the suggestion of a local shikari, I went the same evening with a goat in the hope of getting a shot. On the way we met the panther. It was in no way disconcerted, but just stepped aside to let us pass. I could see it faintly in the undergrowth, but not clearly enough to fire. We decided to go on and sit up just off the Blue Valley Road. We tied up our goat and waited for an hour or so. It was now so dark that it was useless to wait any longer, so we decided to go back, leaving the goat there. Next morning the shikari reported that the goat had been killed and advised my sitting up for the panther the same afternoon. My wife insisted on coming too; and at five o’clock we were in the machan. We had a longish wait, for carriages were passing along the road; and last of all an idiotic Member of Council who had never done any shooting himself, passed by with his wife. Seeing the goat, he went up to it and not seeing us began to tell his wife all about the shoot that would shortly take place. We condemned him to all sorts of hot places while he talked and we sighed with relief when he passed on. The panther, who had probably been as bored by the Member’s talk as we had been, waited only a few minutes longer. Suddenly, it galloped across an open space almost noiselessly, looked up and down the road to see if any more carriages were coming, and then walked with leisurely step to the kill. I fired between its shoulders and it sank without a struggle.

  On another occasion at Mahableshwar, I had an experience that I had some difficulty in getting my friends to believe. A panther-kill was reported about three miles beyond the Robbers’ Cave. I rode out there, reaching the spot about half past four, as the panther was expected to return early. When I reached the spot, I found the men, who were watching the kill in some excitement. The panther had already returned, and
they had had some difficulty in chasing it back into the woods. After this tale, I hardly expected to see the animal again. But the country was very wild. The lords of the jungle had no fear of man; and I had hardly seated myself comfortably in the machan, when the shikari nudged me. Looking in the direction where he pointed, I could just make out through the undergrowth a panther lying like a cat and switching away flies with its tail. There was no chance of a safe shot for the moment, so with a heart hammering with excitement, I waited on events. Suddenly the brute vanished and I wondered where it had gone. I looked towards the kill, but it had not gone there. I turned to the shikari and saw him shaking with terror. ‘He is coming to attack us,’ he whispered. I could see nothing whatever of the animal and wondered whence the attack would be launched. For some time I could get no sense out of the man. At last he pointed to a branch of the next tree and above our heads. There, like a cat on the back of an armchair, was the panther. It had apparently climbed up the tree and in doing so had scared the shikari. Quite ignorant of our presence it was looking at the kill, waiting for its appetite to improve. I at first hesitated to shoot, for I feared that I might knock the panther on the top of us. Then I calculated that it would miss us and aiming carefully, fired. Instantaneously the animal slid down its own tree and missed us with a good deal to spare. It was only about ten feet off when I fired and it was dead before it reached the ground.

  Sometimes one had to go very far afield at Mahableshwar for one’s panther. One day in the second week in June when the rains begin to fall, I got khabar of a panther in the valley beyond the Krishna. There was a drop of two thousand feet into the Krishna valley, a climb of two thousand feet the other side and then a drop of two thousand feet into the valley next to it. I started at two in the afternoon from my bungalow. As we reached the brow of the plateau and began to descend, we passed a little image of Ganpati and the hillmen all salaamed to it, because Ganpati is the God who blesses all beginnings. The author who begins to write a new book, the banker who opens a new ledger, the traveller who starts on a voyage, all invoke the kindly help of Ganpati. Then we dropped down the steep path amid pouring rain, then up the other side and then down the hill again. Fortunately, the rain stopped and I climbed into my machan. I was wet to the skin, but my clothes dried rapidly in the sun and I was cheered by the sound of a panther calling a few hundred yards away. I wanted a drink badly, but the shikari had no pity and made me settle in my machan. ‘There will be lots of time to drink, sahib,’ he said, ‘when you have killed the panther.’ To this austere view I had to agree, as there was always the danger, that the panther, near as it was, might see us.