The Rotting Pinecones

“…And the last puff of the day wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of damp wood-smoke, hot cakes, dripping undergrowth, and rotting pinecones. That is the true smell of the Himalayas and if it once creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die.”

                                                          – Rudyard Kipling

For my brother Sebastian

 

INTRODUCTION

 

I was thirteen, studying in a boarding school in Nainital, a hill station in the northern state of Uttaranchal in India, when I first came across a copy of Man-Eaters of Kumaon by Jim Corbett. I was riveted. Jim Corbett, the legendary hunter-turned-conservationist, had a summer home which had been turned into a museum after his death, a short walk up the hill from my school. Corbett’s autobiographical stories transported me to a lush, vividly described world, a world of incredible suspense and beauty. Through the stories I became fascinated with tigers, the Himalayan flora and fauna, the British Raj and most importantly the hardy, generous people of our hills.

I have always been very interested in studying wild life. As an avid amateur-Ornithologist, my favorite memories from my childhood are the forest trips and the long treks I went on, in Almora and Kumaon region of the Himalayas. I find myself returning again and again to the hills of India; physically, emotionally and now, through my stories. I have always wanted to tell stories from this region, of the place and the people, of the culture, of the joy and the grief of everyday life.

 A few years back I was backpacking across the Himalayan foothills. People in the small hill towns and villages I visited, opened their homes and their hearts to me. I came out of the experience feeling deeply moved and sensing a strong connection with my roots. I wanted to set a story in this world. A story which, like the lives of the people I met on my journey, would be both uplifting and tragic. During my travels I came across an old man in a dhaba, a tiny restaurant, who told me about his life and about his memories of living in a remote Almora village. He talked about the time of the Raj, living in an isolated settlement surrounded by dense forests. Adi and Avar (our two central characters) are based on my own memories of the old man’s stories.

 

1905

ALMORA DISTRICT

(UNITED PROVINCES OF BRTISH INDIA)

The region was situated in the Himalayan foothills; the terrain was spectacular but harsh with steep slopes, large swathes of forests and small patches of arable land. The village of Pauni, an isolated settlement with a dozen huts, many cowsheds and a small temple was nestled on a hillside under a sharp ridge. Emerald green shimmering rice terraces, cut into the hill years ago, stretched out below the village. A fast flowing stream, coming from the higher reaches of the Himalayas, full of mahseer, rohu and trout, divided the village into two parts. Cedar, pine and rhododendron forests surrounded the village on all sides.

A narrow forest track started from the village and rounded the hill as it meandered its way through the thick forests to the town of Almora, the district headquarters of the region, fifty miles away. Adi was an eight year old boy who lived in a tiny hamlet, consisting of two small huts, near the forest track, at a small distance from the village. He has never seen the town of Almora but has heard fascinating stories of the cobbled streets, the bustling bazaar and the neat, decorated bungalows of the Englishmen, the sahibs. Adi has never traveled far from his hamlet but fervently desired to do so. He dreamt of faraway lands and strange people.

Adi’s parents had long been dead. He lived with his elder brother Avar in one of the huts while his uncle, aunt and cousin sister lived in the second hut.

The family belonged to the depressed Untouchable caste. They had to abide by the strict rules of segregation that been imposed on their family for generations. They were not allowed to go inside the village. They were required to keep twenty paces from the villagers.

Adi sometimes went to the hilltop that overlooked the village and gazed at the village life unfolding before him, hidden among the flowering Mehal trees. The life in the village, which he could not participate in, fascinated him. He used to observe children his own age playing together, women collecting firewood and gossiping in groups; the men hard at work in the fields. He had given names to many of the villagers and knew them by sight. He was even familiar with their individual quirks and habits. The village dogs barked ferociously whenever they saw or smelled him, even at a distance from the village. But he wanted to keep a dog desperately and hoped that one of the village puppies would wander away into the forest.

Adi’s family had a lone milch cow. During the rainy season, the cow was tethered inside a make-shift shed made of large branches and thorn bushes. Adi and his brother Avar wold have to go out in the rain to find fodder. Adi sometimes felt sad thinking about how their cow might be lonely. He wished the cow could make friends with the large herd of village cattle. But because of his caste he knew he was not allowed to bring the cow close to the village cattle.

Near the village were rice fields that had run out of cultivation and had turned into grasslands. Whenever Adi grazed their cow in the grasslands, he had to wear a string with a tiny bell on it to warn the villagers of his presence. This string was handed down to Adi from his father, who got it from Adi’s grandfather. Adi kept the string with the bell close to him at all times, it served as a family heirloom, a relic from the past, a memory of his dead parents.

Adi was a cheerful, hardy, hill boy. He woke up at first light to go into the forest in search of dry branches. He climbed onto trees with his old sickle to hack at the low-level branches. After collecting a sufficient amount, he used to tie the stack up and carry the large bundle of firewood home to his aunt. The firewood was used for their cooking needs and to keep them warm in the cold winter months.

After collecting firewood, Adi accompanied by Avar, would walk three miles through dense forest, with empty pails, to get fresh water from a stream. His family was not allowed to use the water from the rivulet that flowed next to the village because the villagers believed they would ‘pollute’ it. Adi enjoyed these long walks with his brother along the narrow forest track. During these walks, Avar told him stories told by their father, of distant lands, of Almora, of Tibet, of demons and of Gods. Avar also liked to sing about the various folktales he knew. Although the region they lived in was remote, they would sometimes happen upon other travelers going further up the hills towards Tibet. Adi desperately wished for this human contact, which happened few and far between. Avar often repeated the fascinating story of how he and his father had once seen an Englishman, a Magistrate from Almora, passing along the track with his large retinue.

On both sides of the track Adi and Avar used to go to the distant stream were Chir and blue pine trees that towered into the sky. The landscape was spectacular. The valleys would be a riot of color with chrysanthemums and wild roses in full bloom. Bordering the flower beds would be wild pomegranate, Oleander and evergreen Olive trees. Adi liked to sometimes lie down in the grass, the pail next to him, looking at the sky. He used to often day dream while he was out getting water or firewood, which would cause his aunt to complain bitterly. Adi liked to surprise flocks of khalege pheasants and mountain quails by stalking them and suddenly jumping out at them. He had learnt to identify the various types of Himalayan birds. He could watch the hornbills, thrushes, magpies, snow pigeons and partridges for hours. He could climb pine trees, as agilely as the Himalayan langur. From the top of the dangerously swaying pine trees, the view of the massive snowcapped Himalayan peaks in Tibet would be exhilarating.

The forests around the village had an abundance of spotted deer, black bears, wild cats, mountain goats, hill foxes, jackals and sambhar. Adi liked to collect porcupine quills, eggs of various birds from their nests, peacock feathers and pinecones. He could imitate the call of various animals, including leopards and langurs. Adi and Avar sometimes made the call of a leopard near the village at night that would send the village dogs into a barking frenzy and made the villagers hastily light pine torches and beat drums to ensure that their cattle was protected.

Adi would occasionally meet a tiger on his forest walks. The tiger would usually move into the thick undergrowth when it saw him, looking at him curiously, keeping a wary distance. Avar had taught Adi to stand perfectly still when in the presence of carnivora. Adi felt that there was an inexplicable bond between the tigers and him.

Sometimes when the brothers were collecting firewood, fetching water or grazing their cow Avar would disappear for long hours. There was something furtive in Avar’s behavior before and after these disappearances. During these times, Adi noticed that Avar was either moody and taciturn or absolutely ecstatic. Adi wondered about this but never asked his elder brother where he was going off to. Adi thought of following Avar but sensed that it was better to leave the matter, unspoken of and uninvestigated. As the disappearances continued unabated, an unsettling feeling of dread crept into Adi. Avar was the only immediate family he had.

One night, Avar woke Adi and took him near the village promising him a surprise. They climbed across the hill, through the moonlit pine trees, to get to a vantage point overlooking the village. As they walked along the thick undergrowth, Adi heard distant singing and drumming. Excited but guilty, he quickened his pace.

From a distance the brothers saw a dance ritual. The village was celebrating the annual harvest festival. Old women sang hoarsely of lovers, parrots, demons and nature. Rice and jaggery was passed around in plates. Young men were beating on drums made of tree barks. Children were running around carrying flaming pine cones. Young girls were strewing petals outside the huts in the village. Around a bonfire, the village women danced in bright red, yellow and orange saris, with demonic intensity and passion. The swirling clothes, flaming torches and the provocative figures left the brothers breathless.

 Adi stared with wonder. Catching his scent, the village dogs barked in his direction, breaking his trance. Adi suddenly realized that Avar was not with him. Adi searched for Avar in the forest, a sense of dread growing inside him. He felt that they had trespassed on a sacred ritual that they were not supposed to witness. Adi started to walk towards the village, some deep instinct telling him that Avar was in its vicinity.

As Adi tip-toed along in the thick undergrowth, he heard light rustling noises. Following the sound with bated breath, he found his brother on the ground with one of the dancing girls, entwined and naked, in a passionate embrace, her sari lightly covering them both. Confused and frightened, Adi stepped back into the shadows. He was seized with a tremendous fear and ran back home. Although he didn’t understand what he saw, he sensed that something very wrong had happened. Their family was supposed to keep twenty paces from the higher caste villagers. Speaking or touching was strictly forbidden and invited grave consequences.

Adi never mentioned what he saw to Avar. The days passed by. It was September. It was the season of ripening wild apples and strawberries. Avar knew where to find these scattered fruit trees. They also knew of a few orange and pomegranate trees near the stream they used to get water from. The brothers spend all the time they could collecting fruits. The stream had plenty of mahseer and rohu. Avar taught Adi how to fish with a strong branch sharpened to a spike. The fish was a delicacy for the family. Their aunt would cook it over a slow flame and the family would sit outside eating it under the yellow-red autumn leaves. 

Once every few months, a Bhutiya trader passed by the village with his herd of huge Argali sheep. He came down from the higher reaches of the Tibetan mountains. He was on his way to the foothills below. The trader, a hardy Tibetan, knew no caste. Adi and Avar would wait impatiently for him. He would bring stories from up and down the mountains, from Tibet and Kumaon and Garhwal. The boys were wary of the massive sheepdogs the trader had. The trader gave them jaggery in exchange for a basket of wild apples. Adi and Avar were ecstatic. Sugar was a luxury. Now, for a month, their family would be able to have sweetened milk.  

It was a cold, misty evening. Adi and Avar were about to walk back from the grasslands near the village with their cow when they heard screams break out near the village. They were shocked. They were standing across a cattle track bordering the grasslands. They heard a rustling sound coming down the hill. They stared in the direction of the noise, frightened, as it came closer and closer to them. The next moment, a massive tiger crossed the cattle track a few feet in front of them, carrying a bloody human body. Pools of blood were smeared across the track, broken up by the pugmarks of the tiger. They saw the blood trail going off down the hill. Their cow stampeded into the forest. As the boys stared, shocked and unable to move, a group of men hurrying from the village arrived breathlessly. In that moment of abject fear, caste distinctions were momentarily forgotten. The men told the boys to run home. There was a man-eating tiger in the vicinity. Adi and Avar had to first find their cow. After a short panic-stricken search they found the cow and dragged it home.

Terror struck the region.

The boys didn’t go out for a couple of days. Since their huts had no door, Adi and Avar, assisted by their uncle, cut down the nearest thicket of thorn bushes and covered the doorway with it to keep the tiger out. But a thorn bush was poor protection and the boys knew it. Avar who was always protective of his younger brother slept between Adi and the doorway. If the tiger came it would be Avar that the tiger would carry off. Two days passed. There was no sign of the man-eater. There were chores to be done. Firewood and water was needed. Their cow had to be milked. After the initial terror of seeing the tiger so close with its human kill subsided, the boys started doing their household chores.

Adi found that even the most mundane tasks suddenly had a tremendous import to them. They stopped grazing their cow and had to start bringing fodder for it. Adi worried constantly about the cow, which was in an open shed, unprotected. Bringing water home was what they were most frightened of. Their long walk through thick forests, with every tree, every rock and every hill potentially concealing a danger for them, was very taxing on their nerves. They didn’t talk when they went out fearing that any noise they make might attract the man-eater. Avar accompanied Adi everywhere now. They kept a careful watch around for the tiger’s pugmarks or scratch marks on trees.

For a week, the villagers had taken careful precautions. But there was no sign of the tiger. The villagers felt that the tiger had left the locality. Slowly the precautions weakened. People started moving about again. One day, a woman who was collecting firewood near her hut was carried off by the man-eater. The half-eaten body was left on a rice field in full view of the village. After this, village life came to a standstill. Nobody wanted to undertake the dangerous journey through the forest track to Almora to request help from the Government.

Every six months, the patwari, the district representative of the British Raj, visited the village for census and reports. The terrified villagers waited for him to arrive. No one ventured out, unless it was out of absolute necessity, and even then only in large groups. But five days later, Avar rushed home with the news that the tiger has killed the village priest while he was sitting on the temple steps in the evening, alone, offering prayers. Adi’s family felt that it is no tiger that was doing the killing but a demon that had no fear of man or God.

Adi and Avar were now too fearful to walk the three miles to their stream. Avar convinced a very hesitant Adi to accompany him to the village stream. Very carefully, they went downstream, a little away from the village and got their water. One day though a few villagers saw the boys taking water from their stream but strangely there was no reaction or punishment. Then a few days later when they had taken their cow out to graze, they ventured closer to the village cattle for protection and a sense of safety. The village boys taking care of the cattle glared at Adi and Avar but didn’t say anything. The atmosphere of fear seemed to bring Adi a certain freedom. Avar insisted that Adi remove his bell-string when venturing out, for fear of the sound attracting the man-eater. But this Adi refused to do. 

Avar told Adi a story about their great-grandfather who had once been employed by an English sahib and had gone with him on a shikar, a hunt. Tigers it seemed never ran down their prey but preferred to stalk the prey and kill it in a single spring. So as long as they kept away from the dense undergrowth and the large rocks and kept a careful look around, the tiger would not be able to harm them. Adi was greatly relieved on hearing this.

The rice in the family’s tiny plot was ripening and it attracted spotted deer, wild pigs and parakeets. A large scarecrow, made from the bark of pine trees and some hay, kept the birds away but the family had to guard it from the animals day and night, so that their crop wouldn’t be destroyed. The brothers took the night watch while his aunt and uncle guarded the plot during the day.

The nights were now freezing cold. The darkness was frightening. Although the snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas reflected the bright moonlight, the night fog kept the visibility low. Adi wished more than ever that he had a dog. A dog could warn them of the tiger’s presence. He planned on asking the packman for a sheepdog puppy the next time he came.

Around a small fire, huddled under thin blankets, Avar told a shivering Adi stories of evil spirits. They kept long bamboo sticks next to them. Avar also had an axe ready. If one of them dozed off, the other poked him with the stick. But Adi sometimes let Avar sleep. He would then walk around the rice plot with a flaming log. He knew that if the crop was lost, the family would not have food for months. He also knew that the flaming log was no weapon against the man-eater. If the tiger showed up, either he or his brother would die.

Soon the rice was harvested and the family was deeply relieved. Despite living in an ever-present state of terror because of the man-eater, Adi found that fear was a great equalizer. The villagers feared the tiger as much as he did. The rigid caste system seemed to be breaking down. Adi had a strange feeling that the tiger would do him no harm.

One night, as the boys were having their rice and lentil soup for dinner, Adi noticed that Avar seemed very thoughtful. In the middle of the night, Adi saw Avar sneaking out of the hut. Perturbed, Adi stayed awake all night waiting for his brother to come home. 

When Avar didn’t return at dawn, the family went out in search of him. He was nowhere to be found. Adi walked around the village, hoping to see Avar. A few men from the village cooed to attract Adi’s attention. The men walked up close to him disregarding the twenty pace rule. Adi was surprised. They told him that Avar was killed in the night by the man-eater. That after killing Avar, the man-eater carried off his body. There was a hint of kindness and a furtive look in their eyes. For someone who had been despised ever since he was born, the gentleness on the villagers’ part was a brutal confession. Avar was not killed by the man-eater. He had paid the price for committing the ultimate caste crime. Making love to a higher caste girl.

A sense of absolute desolation and loneliness settled on Adi. With his brother gone, he was alone in the world now. He wandered around during the night, hoping the tiger would find him. Two days after Avar’s death, the patwari arrived with a small, armed escort. He gave the village the very welcome news. The tiger was killed a week back by an English sportsman. The village erupted in celebration. No one mentioned Avar’s death to the patwari.

Adi’s family didn’t react to this news.

Adi was crying. But he kept silent.

THE END