He: (Shey) (Modern Classics (Penguin)) (9 page)

Pupu-didi smiled sagely. ‘I know everything.’

‘And I don’t, I suppose?’

‘Tell me what you know,’ challenged Pupu-didi.

‘They never touch the flesh of farmers of the kaibarta caste, especially those who live on the western banks of the Ganga. Their scriptures forbid it.’

‘And what about those who live on the eastern bank?’

‘If they happen to be kaibarta fishermen, their flesh is sacred. Tigers are supposed to eat them by tearing off chunks of flesh with the left paw.’

‘Why the left paw?’

‘That’s the correct ritual. Their pandits maintain that the right paw is dirty. Mind you, Didi, barbers’ wives disgust them. You see, barbers’ wives paint women’s feet red with alta.’
⁴²

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well, the pandits say that alta is a mere imitation of blood. It isn’t real blood drawn by scratching or biting or tearing flesh. Therefore, it’s a dishonest thing to put on. They despise such shady dealings. Once, a tiger entered a turban-seller’s house. There was a tub of magenta dye in a corner. Mistaking it for blood, he happily plunged his face into it. It was fast dye, if nothing else. The tiger’s cheeks and whiskers came up bright red. He went to the densest part of the forest, the region where the tiger-pandits lived. Seeing him, the head tiger, the best mauler among them, exclaimed, ‘What on earth! Why’s your whole face scarlet?’

‘Ashamed, the tiger lied, “I’ve just polished off a rhino, it must be the blood I’ve drunk.” His lie was found out. The pandit declared, “I don’t see a trace of blood on his claws.” He sniffed at his mouth and announced he could smell no blood. Everyone

chorused, “How disgraceful! This is neither blood nor bile nor brain nor marrow—he must have gone to some human settlement and drunk unholy
vegetarian
blood.” A committee debated the issue. The biting expert among the tigers roared, “He must perform a penance!” And so he did.’

‘What if he had refused?’

‘Oh, that would have been a disaster! He has five daughters, all keen-clawed and of marriageable age. Even if he tucked his tail beneath his belly, and offered a dowry of twenty-eight buffaloes, do you think he’d ever find them suitors? And then there would be an even greater punishment.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When he died, no priest would agree to perform the funeral rites. In the end, perhaps, they’d have to call in a wolf-priest from the cane jungles. That would be a terrible disgrace, seven generations of descendants would be unable to hold up their heads for shame.’

‘Why have a funeral at all?’

‘Just listen to that! Why, his ghost would starve to death.’

‘But he’s already dead, how could he die again?’

‘It’s even worse, you see! Death by starvation is permissible, but starvation after death is a fearful calamity.’

This cast Pupu-didi into deep thought. After a while, she asked, frowning, ‘In that case, what does an Englishman’s ghost eat?’

‘What he ate while alive lasts him seven lives. But our bellies start rumbling long before we’ve even crossed the Baitarani
⁴³
at the mouth of the underworld.’

This doubt cleared, Pupu-didi immediately asked, ‘What sort of penance did he have to perform?’

‘A tiger learned in the rites of roaring and other tigerish customs decreed he would have to remain in the south-west corner of the square where the shrine of the tiger-goddess stands, from the beginning of the dark lunar fortnight to the middle of the moonless night of Amavasya, feeding only on a shoulder of jackal. Furthermore, the kill could be made by none other than his paternal aunt’s daughter or the second son of his wife’s maternal cousin. Even worse, the tiger could only use his right hind-paw to tear off the flesh. When he heard this awful sentence passed, the tiger’s insides churned. Clasping his four paws in entreaty, he began to howl piteously.’

‘Why, what was so awful about it?’

‘Good heavens, jackal’s meat! It’s as profane as meat can be! The tiger swore never to repeat his crime. He whimpered, “Feed me a mongoose’s tail, if you will, but not a shoulder of jackal flesh!” ’

‘Did he have to eat it in the end?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Dadamashai, tigers must be very orthodox in matters of religion!’

‘Certainly. Do you think they’d abide by as many rules if they weren’t? That’s why jackals hold them in such respect. If they find a tiger’s half-eaten prasad, it becomes a family heirloom! If the thirteenth day of the month of Magh
⁴⁴
happens to be a Tuesday, many jackals make a pilgrimage to lick the feet of an old tiger in the depths of the night
.
They believe this wins them religious merit. Innumerable jackals have laid down their lives in the effort.’

Pupu-didi found this hard to swallow. ‘If tigers are so very religious, how can they bring themselves to kill for meat? And eat it raw, for that matter?’

‘Oh, that’s not just any old meat. It’s been sanctified by chanting mantras.’

‘What kind of mantras?’

‘Their very holy snarl-spell. They utter it before they make each kill. You couldn’t call that killing, could you?’

‘And what if they forget to chant the spell?’

‘The most revered tiger-pandit maintains that if a tiger forgets to chant the spell before it makes a kill, it’ll be reborn as the beast it has killed. All the tigers are scared stiff of being reborn as humans.’

‘Why?’

‘In their opinion, the human body is entirely bald, and quite grotesque. Men can’t even boast of tails! They need wives just to whisk the flies off their backs. They look like clowns, toddling about on two legs—the sight makes the tigers laugh till they cry. The most renowned contemporary tiger-expert on the history and habits of his race says that when Lord Vishwakarma
⁴⁵
had nearly finished making the world and was running low on materials, he felt a sudden urge to create humans. Let alone paws, he couldn’t even muster a few hooves for the poor creatures—they hide the shame of their naked feet with shoes and of their bodies with clothes. Humankind is the only form of life that suffers from embarrassment. No other creature on earth feels such shame.’

‘Tigers must be very haughty creatures.’

‘Oh, they are. That’s why they’re so anxious to preserve their caste. Why, a human girl once put a tiger quite off its food by hinting it would lose caste if it ate her. Our He has composed a poem about it.’

‘I’m sure He can’t write poems like you do.’

‘Well, he thinks he can, and it’s not a case you can call in the police to solve.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘All right.’

A black-striped tiger, huge and hulking,

Into a mansion one day skulking

After a footman—O toothsome delight!—

Encountered a mirror, and got quite a fright.

The footman fled in a single bound

And the beast in the mirror his own image found.

His fur stood on end; he shouted, ‘Alack!

My body is branded with stripes of black!’

With the rice-paddle Putu stood husking some rice:

The tiger arrived at the spot in a trice.

He puffed out his whiskers (his only hope!)

And fiercely demanded some glycerine soap.

Putu was puzzled. ‘Now what was that word?

It isn’t one I can claim to have heard.

Of high-flown learning I’ve suffered a dearth,

The sad result of my lowly birth.’

‘Lies!’ the tiger exclaimed with a scowl.

‘D’you think I’m blind?’ he began to growl.

‘The glycerine soap must be all-effacing:

‘What else could remove the stripes from your casing?’

Putu was vexed. ‘I’m dark!’ she moped.

Nobody’s seen me glycerine-soap’d.

You’re joking: I’m not a memsahib’s aunt.

Supply you with soap, therefore, I can’t.’

‘Aren’t you ashamed?’ hear the tiger shout.

’I’ll crunch up your bones and your flesh, you lout!’

Putu exclaimed, ‘You shameless old sinner!

You’re doomed if you try to devour me for dinner!

Of humble caste am I, don’t you know?

Mahatma Gandhi loves my tribe so!
⁴⁶

Calm down, don’t lose your temper, I pray.’

Yelled the tiger in fright, ‘Don’t touch me, I say!

Oh, fie upon me! Oh, woe and disgrace!

In Tiger-Town what scorn I’ll face!

My name will be sunk; full of daughters my house—

Not one of the girls will find her a spouse.

The Tiger-Goddess will with curses assail me:

No glycerine soap—I’m off to bewail me!

‘You know, Pupu-didi, there’s a great to-do among the tigers now in the name of progress. The speakers for the movement are going around telling everyone that rejecting certain kinds of flesh as profane is disrespectful to the blessed spirit of the dead animal. They declare, “From now on, we’ll eat whatever we can kill; we’ll eat with both right paw and left paw, fore-paw and hind-paw; we’ll eat whether we’ve chanted the snarl-spell or not.” They’ve gone to the extent of resolving to claw their prey on Thursdays and bite it on Saturdays—such enlightened emancipation! These tigers are great ones for arguments, and make a great show of respect for all forms of life. They’re so noble-minded that they want to eat even the kaibarta farmers on the west bank of the Ganga. They’ve got into a huge row about all this. The puritan tigers have dubbed them
“
Kaibarta-Clawers”. They’ve come in for a lot of chaffing, as a result.’

Pupe asked, ‘Dadamashai, have you ever written a poem about tigers?’

Loath to admit defeat, I said I had.

‘Do let me hear it.’

Gravely, I began to recite:

O God our Maker, you have not belittled might,

But with powerful hand bestowed it as right

In him that is strongest—amazing your grace!

An awesome predator, keen-clawed, with face

As fearsome as comely; a frame like a streak

Of lightning—crashing down to wreak

Splendid havoc—Lord Shiva’s passion
⁴⁷

Rages in the creature you have fashioned.

The storm unstemmed by creation’s decree,

Reared hood of froth in the foaming sea,

The raging lion that your mercy defies,

The awful thunder of giants’ war cries,

The tongues of hungry fire that dart

Through rock and soil, to brand the heart

Of the stormy sky, and the drunken flood

Cruel, unashamed, revolt in its blood—

All these are rebels, immortal, unbroken:

Through them the voice of terror has spoken.

Your creature belongs to this awesome race:

No power dares mock his terrible grace.

Pupu was silent. ‘Well, Didi?’ I asked. ‘You didn’t seem to like it.’

Abashed, she replied, ‘No, no, of course I liked it. It’s just that I can’t quite find a tiger in it.’

‘Where else should he be but hiding in the bushes? You can’t see him, but he’s there all the same, all the more terrible because he’s hidden.’

‘You told me about the glycerine-seeking tiger long ago,’ mused Pupu. ‘How did He come to hear of him?’

‘He steals all my stories and puts them on his own lips.’

‘But—’

‘ “But” just about sums it up. Not that he made too bad a job of the poem.’

‘But—’

‘Quite correct. I don’t write that way, perhaps I can’t. But this isn’t the first time he’s pinched my material and polished it up a bit. Once that’s done, it’s hard to recognize again. Take that other rhyme of his—very like the first one—’

‘I want to hear it.’

‘Very well, listen:

There lived a fat tiger, the forest his home.

Day after day

In search of prey

His stripy frame would roam.

But he’d throw a fit

If he chanced to hit

With whisker-puffing heat

Upon the fact

His dinner lacked

A pound or two of meat.

One day he snarled

At Baturam gnarled

And bald as a pink-faced baby,

‘Go wake your wife:

Ten lambs or your life!

Lay the table, you gormless old gaby!’

Cried Batu, ‘What’s this?

There’s much that’s amiss

In your manners as well as your breeding.

It’s late at night,

But you’ll pick a fight

Whenever your tum needs feeding!

‘You chose to stumble

Upon my hearth humble—

But think of the tigress you’ve wed!

Into space she scowls

While her stomach growls,

But she’ll only eat when you’re fed.

‘At home you’ve stored

The iguana you gored,

And the shrivelled corpse of a toad,

A rabbit stale

With a stink to regale—

It’s waiting for you down the road.

‘Or else you’ll find that the papers

Are raising Cain over your capers—’

‘Oh Lord Almighty!

Your talk is too flighty