Excerpt from Tiger Country
by Norah Burke
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Forestry Man in India

He had been born of a long line of jungle men, his work was turning him into one of them, and here was Sonabagh, whose forests held every creature of the Indian wilderness – whose rivers carried diluted gold-dust down from Tibet, and left it in the sands along their courses. Here was shooting, fishing, the very land of his ancestors. Perhaps, too, their own white tigers.

He had got the use of a forest rest-house (dak bungalow) for his stay, a small bungalow which echoed, with no furniture in it, and smelt of the whitewashed rooms that ought to have been aired more often than they ever were. He had travelled fast and had arrived early, so the chowkidar in charge of the place was not at hand to welcome him. The bungalow was not locked, though he walked through, throwing open doors and windows to let the sun-warmed air blow away the tainted coldness. He broke down a mud tunnel that had been made by termites up one wall, aiming at the roof. He killed a scorpion. These little imperfections had somehow escaped the chowkidar.

Anyone who used this house was expected to provide his own camp equipment, including even beds, so his men who had already met him, as arranged, now carried his things in and set up the few bits of folding furniture which they had brought with them. At once the place began to look familiar. He drew a firm breath, and glanced about him cheerfully.

Dry grass, hacked off short, made the compound of this dak bungalow, and a wire fence marked the place where the jungle was supposed to begin, but trees and animals sometimes came inside. A troop of inquisitive grey langur monkeys was at this moment edging up to the bungalow to see what was happening. He could hear them commenting on what they saw. He could hear birds too in the fine simal tree which had been allowed to stay for ornament in the compound. The tree had been in bloom, and now the new leaf was beginning to appear, but sunbirds and flower-peckers were still examining the remains of the showy red flowers for food. Their glistening plumage shot rays of purple, green and crimson into his eyes. Feathers more yellow than sun – bluer than the sky – flicked about, but the fleshy petals had almost been finished by squirrels and monkeys. He watched the birds probing for nectar and, like bees, pollinating the wrecked flowers. He wondered whether they were spreading also the tree parasite, loranthus, which did so much harm.

Some of the branches of this simal had been cut, to be pushed into the earth no doubt, to take root and make forest boundaries. Cuttings established themselves easily, and soon formed dwarf trees that proved more durable than any wooden post, which was subject to attack by parasites or elephants.

Beyond the compound, one cart-road, a dusty path printed with animal tracks, cut through grass jungle towards wooded hills. He could hear the satisfying sound of a big river rushing along, not far off, while all around lay the lovely sunlit forest, his for these few days.

The chowkidar in charge of this bungalow had been instructed in advance to make all local arrangements for food and sport. So, leaving word for the man to report to him as soon as he appeared, he took his fishing tackle and made towards the sound of the river.

Walking through the blue smoke of cooking fires lit already by his men to prepare their evening meals, he could smell burning dung, and something lying dead somewhere, and it was all part of the sun and heat and dryness of this happy life.

He skirted the vegetable garden belonging to the bungalow. Although raided by everything from deer and wild pig to porcupines, things were growing there – potatoes, brinjal, bindi, a small grove of lime trees – for Englishmen make gardens wherever they go: and though the mangoes, chillies, and other things were of the soil, the impulse to have a garden at all, attached to this bare camping bungalow, was English. Fierce spices that attack the tongue, big watery fruit with turpentine in them – these might live here anyway, so might the marigolds and the gourds, but stock and roses came from the west.

Soon he reached the river. Great waters and great boulders were making pools and rapids. These rocks had been dried by many suns; they were whitened by flycatchers and kingfishers. Two crows were pulling about a fishbone that had been left, perhaps by otters.

Knowing himself alone, he spread his arms to it all, recognising a return. The flawless sky, dark overhead but paling towards all horizons – the trees shaken by those grey langur monkeys – a kite so high that only young brilliant eyes could identify the forked tail – even one feather missing in a struggle perhaps with some other flesh-eater over a tiger's leavings – the screech and scatter of the green parakeets – he raised his face to it all in home-coming.

This was the end of winter, but here already was sun that warmed you to the bone, flowing water to keep you cool, wind on bare knees, rivers full of fighting fish, forests in which every moment you could watch plant, tree, bird, animal until daily you could only marvel how little you knew, and how much there was in the world to learn – too much for one brain or one lifetime to take in, yet the unknown ever demanding of you to attempt just that.

He walked into the river, and began to cast.

River terns were fishing too, working always head to wind, as they glanced forward and down, forward and down all the time until they plunged into the radiant water to rise again immediately with a shining minnow.

Upon the bleached wreck of a tree, around which flood carried grass had tangled and dried, sat an osprey. Four hours ago, this fishing hawk had captured a trout so large that he was still eating it. It stood upon its prey, and lazily pulled off a mouthful, or turned with a fierce suspicious stare.

In spite of these other hunters, and many more besides, there was plenty for everyone. He landed twelve mahseer in an hour – one and two pounders – and carried them home on a grass through the gills, while stale old gold rainbows stiffened on them as they dried.

He had worked his way up a large pool where muggers had been lying out on the other side until his arrival; and up long rapids where he could hear how shallow the water was, and where the trout rolled in the current.

Now, returning, he studied the sand, water-cut into shelves and ridges as the river shrank In places it was still firm, not dried to that loose whiteness in which even tracks get blurred. He was able to identify the slots left by chital, the smaller ones of barking deer, and the triangles of wild duck. His own footprints were fresh upon all last night's happenings. He saw his invisible past-self walking towards him.

But not alone. Large tracks, even fresher than those he had made within the last hour, smudged his own. A big tiger had walked here, perhaps only a minute or two behind him and might still be at hand, for he could not trace its movements beyond a gravel ridge that went up to meet the trees.

He scanned the belt of forest. Silence. At his stopping and looking, a golden-backed woodpecker in sudden nervousness left a tree, close to, and dipped away. He watched it going in deep, through glade after dark glade until extinguished by distance.

Perhaps the tiger was in there too? Perhaps, after placing his tracks upon those of his, during his first day in the jungle they both claimed, the tiger had gone up there to watch this enemy from the west? There was nothing to be seen, but something inside him could feel the yellow glare.