The name itself was exciting enough for me to stay glued for next few weeks. I am talking about 2000 April-May. I just finished up appearing my CBSE board exams, I had ample time as an unemployed ledhkhor !!! My Mother was literally sich about me hovering around the house doing nothing other than, spying on my sis (she was dating my jiju then). Every evening, there would be a tremendous chaos between my Ma-Baba-Didi, everyone had their own point of view as to how could they keep me engaged till the time my results were out.
Just then, my amazing Didi came up with a brilliant idea, send Phulki (thats my nick name) to Boro Dada's place, Balurghat. I had no clue where this place was. I dont exactly remember how I reached there with my Jethu, but the next 5 days that I was there, turned out to be excellent.
My Dada, a WBCS Officer,was posted in Balurghat. This is located in Dakshin Dinajpur district of West Bengal. Dada was staying in a Govt Quarter Housing, my niece was then only 3 years old. All the day, I was literally doing nothing but lazing around the housing complex, and feeling disgusted with my Didi's AMAZING Plan. On the 2nd day, my Dada gave me book to read. Now he knew that I was not keen in reading books, but somehow I didnt say no. After having a Pet-full breakfast, courtesy my Boudi's Kitchen, I sat down with the book named“The Man-eaters of Kumaon” . Hungrily, I raced through it and pestered my Dada for more. He readily obliged and it wasn’t too long till I finished reading the whole lot, up to “The Temple tiger”, which - sadly for me - was the last of the books that Corbett wrote. I was fascinated by the real-life exploits of this man, where he took on the most dangerous creatures in the Indian jungles. The obvious danger, the jungle lore, the fascinating methods, all appealed to me. It took me to a land that I never knew.
What brought this back now? I was watching this programme on Discovery today early morning. It featured decreasing numbers of tigers in India. The director had spaced out 5min tribute to Corbett.
Jim Corbett (1875 – 1955) is one of those authors who are much more than mere word-slinger. This review, unlike others will be equally about the man as well as the book. The two are inextricably interwoven. Born in Kumaon, at the foothills of the Himalayas, his stories are all set in the picturesque countryside. It is obvious from every description that he makes; this man is in love with the land. An adept shikari, Major Corbett was often called when the going got tough. That was when man-eaters had made life difficult for the inhabitants of countless villages and hamlets in the mountainous Northeastern part of the then British Empire. The names themselves are captivating: Dhabidhura, Dhunaghat, Dalkania, Chamoli, Laholi… The lifestyle too, is so evocative. No running water or electricity. Runners carrying messages. Messages from village to village being passed by villagers standing at elevated positions and hallooing to each other over vast distances. Machans, tethered live baits, beaters flushing tigers out of the jungle…Written as most autobiographies are, in the first person singular, the style of prose is very modest, self-effacing even. The sequencing of events, gradual build-up of tension, rich description of physical context, word play are all hallmarks of a natural story teller.
Corbett had his own code of conduct, which roughly defined what was ‘not cricket’. He would take on the job only under specific conditions. He was only interested in habitual man-killers and consented to come only after two conditions had been met: that all offers of a reward were withdrawn, and that all other hunters had to leave the area. He wrote, "I am sure all sportsmen share my aversion to being classed as a reward-hunter and are as anxious as I to avoid being shot." We are introduced to other small habits as we go through the book. He also believed in giving his quarry a fair chance. He dispels many false theories about man-eaters. Like the popular notion that tigers turn man-eaters because they develop a taste for human flesh. That, once they have tasted it, they only want to eat humans to the exclusion of all else. He shows, instead, that tigers turn man-eaters only as a last resort, when injury or age renders them incapable of hunting other prey.
The first story is riveting enough to set the tone for the rest of the book. ‘The Champawat Man-eater’, an animal that had been responsible for over 400 human kills. When he finally tracked and killed the tiger, there is a touching interlude. Corbett takes the tiger skin to the hut of a woman. She had been struck dumb over a year ago, when the tiger had attacked her and her sister. The woman had actually chased after the tiger with a sickle in her hand, displaying incredible bravery, but couldn’t save her sister. Corbett spread the skin in front of her hut and called the lady to see it. The lady sees the dreaded man-eater dead, goes into paroxysms of delight and actually begins to speak again. It is details like this that give a human face to a narrative that could have so easily meandered into maudlin paeans of heroism. This is one book by an Englishman that does not have an iota of condescension or a glimmer of racism. Nowhere does he play the Gora Saheb. He describes their everyday life in such loving detail, that one can actually picture them in the mind’s eye. There are so many acts of unbelievable heroism that are mentioned blithely, both his own as well as that of the villagers. Maybe all this was a way of life for the simple people of the hills, but reading it today makes one’s hair stand on end.
Cosseted as we are, in our urban jungles, Corbett’s world seems so far away, magical almost. He was well versed in the ways of the jungle, had vast knowledge of the flora and fauna, habits of the animals, and was adept at making animal calls and tracking them through impenetrable jungle. An avid hunter, he soon realized that man’s intervention was causing untold damage to a way of life that was too precious. Appalled at the increased and often wanton hunting and tree felling, slowly he turned to photography in his later years. He also became a champion for the cause and went around drumming up support for it.
After 1947, Corbett and his sister Maggie retired to Kenya, where he continued to write and sound the alarm about declining numbers of tigers and other wildlife. Jim Corbett died of a heart attack in 1955 and is buried in Africa. The national park he fought to establish in India was renamed in his honor later. A fitting tribute to a great man.
And what about his lifelong muse, the magnificent tiger?
Post Corbett’s exit from India and later, this world, the fate of the incomparable feline has nose-dived. What the Englishmen and erstwhile Maharajas began has gone further with highly organized poachers and a succesion of Governments that couldn’t care less. Token impetus was given in the early seventies with ‘Project Tiger’, but the statistics today belie all this. Our national animal is all set to join his forefather, the Saber-tooth tiger on the extinct list.
His Majesty, the Tiger will no longer pad noiselessly through the jungles of the sub-continent. The ultimate predator will have met his match in man. What took Nature so many millennia to evolve will have been wiped out in a matter of decades.
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