It has been almost six months of being in Germany, and the call of the Indian jungle gets stronger as time passes by. One way to feel in touch is to read the books by the great men of the Indian forests. Last year I read through the collection by Kenneth Anderson, and now it’s the Jim Corbett Omnibus that keeps me occupied.
I know I read Jim Corbett’s books as a child – but I do not remember whether I enjoyed the books or not. I remember reading several books by Enid Blyton, James Herriot and the likes over and over but I have no recollection whatsoever of being addicted to Corbett’s books. I think I always omitted the part where a hunt actually happened, and only possibly read the parts in between where one can get a feel of the jungle. I managed to get a set of the books recently, and decided to read them again, to see what I think of them now.
Kenneth Anderson was a hunter turned conservationist, and in every book he regrets his years when he hunted for sport. He was especially careful never to shoot a wild cat, unless he was sure it was the man-eater he was looking for. By the end of each story, one can only feel sorry for the man-eater, which was forced to get into its man-killing habit thanks to some or the other human interference – be it a trap laid for the tiger or a badly aimed bullet from a pseudo -macho hunter. I enjoyed the books, and to a large extent agreed with Anderson’s thoughts and opinions – I disliked his son, Donald, who continued to hunt for sport and never seemed to come around.
I was hoping for a similar experience while reading Corbett, but found to my discomfort that Corbett was quite the sportsman, as he himself calls it, right through the days that he hunted man-eaters. I still haven’t reached the end of the collection, but his cold blooded narrative of each kill, several times quite unnecessary, leaves me squirming that our country could have its largest national park named after him! An encounter with a bear, which he chased and hacked to death using an axe, particularly sends shivers down my spine. I find myself blaming him to a large extent for the depleting tiger population we have in our country today.
All the “great” hunters always talk about the local people of the forest – every story has an incident about a villager and his incredible human spirit. A few visits to the jungle have also given me a chance to come across some such personalities – although in a more modern setup. Every jungle always has the veteran guide who has been around for years, and has experiences with every possible kind of animal behaviour. Of course, there are the few of them, who pride themselves on the fact that there couldn’t be a single jungle moment that wouldn’t miss their keen eyes. These are the entertainers, the PR representatives of the jungle – they take each day as it comes, and each tourist at face value, and are happy and easy going as long as you don’t hurt their pride. There is also the hardworking, earnest naturalist, always waiting to know more than he already does, who can rattle off the sub-species of every mammal, reptile of bird that comes his way. The simpleton, who typically works in the background like in the kitchen, who smiles easily every time you take notice of him, because he isn’t used to being spoken to, as most tourist these days are much too occupied with themselves to even acknowledge the fact that another person is serving them all the while. And then there are the men whose expressions are full of character, hardened with difficult stories, be it being mauled by a wild animal or due to severe financial hardships, who just do their jobs as well as they can so that they can and go to bed each night with a clean conscience. There is of course the rogue in every place – the slacker, the pervert, the person who will do anything to make a quick buck, with no qualms whatsoever.
The truth is, the jungle experience hasn’t changed that much from the times of Kenneth Anderson and Jim Corbett as far as the people in the jungle go – modern settings and tourist setups may give a place a different face, but the people always remain the same. The same goes for the corrupt officials, and the so-called honest forester – who has a clean and savvy look to him, and manages to get good reputation amongst the educated middle class, although his intentions or actions are either down-right criminal, or simply negligent. The few good men, who struggle through their lives to consistently do their best for nature and wildlife are mostly taken for granted, or even called crazy. It seems that it is only with the right mix of bad blood that one can ever be successful!
The only thing that has changed, to a large extent, is the frequency with which one could see the majestic inhabitants of the jungle. Jim Corbett came across a new tiger every day – Kenneth Anderson needed about a week to come across a tiger, and today we sometimes need years before we first see our first wild tiger! How can it be, that the jungle has changed so much, and yet our people and attitudes remain exactly the same! Many years ago, the most successful hunter of the North earned the right to have a National Park named after him – and today, each corrupt, scheming forester, with houses built of teak wood and marble, earns his promotions with equal ease. I would think it is time to introspect about who really is the rare good man.
