“Is
anyone up?”, I query despite knowing full well the answer would be. There is
WhatsApp silence and the doors of the other rooms in the guesthouse stay locked.
I am relieved. Now, no one can denounce me, yet again, for wandering off on my
own ‘without even asking’. A WhatsApp group message may not sound like an ideal
way to get folks up and about but knowing my company well enough - years of
12-hour days cooped up together in office cubicles help you do that - I am sure
that if they are not responding to my message, they are offline in the way only
sleep can cause them to be.
As
it happens, we are quite far away from our air-conditioned 9-to-9 jails in
Calcutta. While they may want to enjoy their vacation by sleeping in, I have
other plans. It’s not like that I frequently get a chance to observe the grey
of a new day spread over the compound of a forest bungalow and hear the murmur
of the Kameng river in the distance. It’s early May and this is still in the plains
but hints of the hills beyond ride in on the breeze. I shiver just a little as
I squeeze through the half-chained gate and set out for the riverbank.
This
walk to the river is already 10 hours too late. Our group of seven had just stepped
out for a night walk yesterday when the gatekeeper at the guesthouse played
spoilsport, calling out from behind us to return – elephants were active in the
area, he said. Yeah right, we thought. At the border of Assam and Arunachal, in
the town of Bhalukpong where this PWD guesthouse was located, we had crossed a
crush of humanity in its commercial area, only a few hundred metres before the
guesthouse. The only elephants here, we assumed, were the ones that government
staff made up to keep footloose city tourists indoors. Grudgingly, we had come
back inside the compound and immersed ourselves in the quiet pleasures of a
quiet evening in.
But
that was yesterday… today is a new day. A couple of leaps take me off the
concrete certainty of the PWD babu’s
holiday home. The sun still appears to be a little indecisive about getting out
of bed as I wind a couple of loops down to the level of the very first channel.
Boulder size pebbles, smoothened by millions of years of action, help me hop,
skip and jump over the consistent but low levels of water there. Here the first
bits of riverine grasslands begin, with scrub and grass closing in on the sandy
walking path with occasional tweets of unnamed, unseen birds floating through
the soundscape. I feel terribly happy and could sing for joy but for my utter
lack of skill in that department.
Basking
in this mental sunshine, as its real counterpart slowly starts highlighting the
silhouettes of distant hills, I come across another shallow channel of water.
It is a sort of younger brother to the one I have crossed a minute ago and in
my euphoric state, I stage to Carl Lewis across it. It is then that I spot something
not insignificant plopped at the geometric centre of the path beyond.
Speculation
is a tremendous waste of time but I like to imagine that the Asian elephant was
named Elephas maximus as a bit of
inside joke. Not that the animal’s size is insignificant, quite the opposite in
fact, but what could have also been the origin of its name is what I see on the
trail ahead - the unmistakable gooey bowling balls pinned with bits of turf
that scream maximus! Nothing else can
manufacture that amount of poop.
By
its fresh moist gleam, it is easy to tell that being called off our night walk
yesterday was one of the kinder interventions of destiny. It seems that there
are indeed elephants here and only a few hours ago, one of them has ambled
along the same route I am headed down, onward to the banks of the Kameng.
The
scrub around me is now alive with possibilities. Emotions of decidedly opposite
natures duke it out within me – the thrill of knowing that wild elephants
ignore the ruckus of nearby Bhalukpong town to come here for a quick slurp of
water and fearful visions of those very same elephants tip-toeing (as wildlife
books describe their elephantine style of walking to be) into my present path.
For once, curiosity trumps panic as I can now clearly hear the rush of the main
body of water of the Kameng ahead of me. I proceed ahead but with more than a
modicum of caution.
The
sun reaches the Kameng at the same time as I. In the golden reflection of its
clearly long jump proof expanse, it is evident that the elephant/elephants have
long retreated into the night whose darkness affords them the cover they need to
make forays as “intruders” into areas which were for long theirs. Being the species
responsible for why elephants are no longer welcome to wander their own homes,
I take off my mud caked footwear to sit and ponder - on a suitable rock,
dangling my feet into the rippling river.
Soon
I realize that I am not alone. Squinting into the sun and following the curve
of the river eastwards, I find a silhouette making its meandering way towards
me - fellow homo sapiens like me but
of the child variant. As it comes closer, it resolves into a boy, all of 10. He
appears to stepping in and out of the edge of the water with a sieve in his
hand, as if panning the water for gold.
I
go closer to examine what he is up to. It’s silver actually. Using balls of dough
as bait, he is scooping up tiny fish from the river which he tosses into a
water filled dalda container.
“What
are you doing?”
“Can’t
you see… catching fish”, is the no-nonsense reply complemented by a severe
frown.
I
want to let him be, this serious boy with serious responsibilities. Yet
something makes me inadvertently ask another question - even more obvious and
quite non-sequitur - which I regret even as it rolls off my tongue.
“That
huge pile of tatti… near the naala before the river… whose is it?”
I
brace myself for yet another withering reply from his severe tongue, but it
never comes. Instead I see his eyes light up, his mask of duty fall off and a
smile restore the 10 year old into him. With a quiver that seems to shake up
his entire being and radiate through his voice with delight, he says “Haathi!”
