True Shikar Stories by a Woman

The word shikār शिकार meaning hunting, gam, prey etc is a Persian origin word in Hindi and other Indian languages. This story comes from the January 21st, 1899 issue of Country Life Illustrated—a British magazine dedicated to country living and pursuits, published in London. Written by a woman who signed her work with the initials D.F., it recounts her experiences hunting in central India alongside her husband.
Throughout the text, I have provided some explanation in parenthesis of some vernacular/unusual words found in this story. – AA

Shikar stories by women are by no means common nowadays, and when I think of the many stirring and telling experiences that have been published, I wonder if my simple jungle anecdotes are worth printing. I have no tale of armies of beaters with a line of elephants in well-known sporting centres, of merry starts after cheery early breakfasts, and then of six, aye, even a dozen, tigers brought home at dusk. No, mine are unassuming experiences told by an inexperienced pen.

It was a glad day when we studied our poor bank-book and found we were on the right side of the fence at last, and with furlough due to us. “Well, little woman, where shall we go, and what shall we do?” asked my husband.

An unnecessary question this; for as each little instalment had gone to the bank, we had whispered to each other that it was so much more towards our great goal. Now the hour had come and we were really going. I had lived in and loved the Indian jungles nearly all my life, and my husband was a keen sportsman, but he had only been able to get some big game in Cashmere (Kahsmir), and the usual subaltern’s bag of a panther over a goat in his salad days.

Now we were off. All the furry fun of packing and getting together our camp-kit, etc., was over. Our short string of staff and servants had done many marches, and we were now rejoiced to hear that the next halt was to be a final one.

About noon on a November day, we rode into a small village on the banks of one of the prettiest rivers in the Central Provinces. We were shown the orthodox P.W.D. bungalow, which, before the railway had tapped the district, must have given shelter to many weary official folk; now it was occupied by a medical Baboo (Indian doctor) and used as a kind of “lean-to” by half-starved cattle. We refused to encamp there; nor were we lured into pitching camp on the regular camping ground with its herds of goats, pigs, and most of the village beggars. We rode on a few hundred yards and found a nice little spur on the very bank of the river, and there we camped.

By the time afternoon tea was served, our camp was pitched, ponies bedded down, and the “doggies” were having a great romp in the sand in spite of their fifteen-mile march. It was a pretty though very unpretentious picture, for we had determined to spend every hard-earned rupee in pursuit of shikar and, so to speak, “rough it” otherwise. A single-fly servant’s “pal” (tent < Hindi तिरपाल tirpāl = Tarpaulin ) did duty as a dining-room, and we each had a tiny “80 LB” tent (a tent weighing 80 pounds) to sleep and dress in, with two small 7 feet by 7 feet tents for the servants. After tea, we sauntered up to the village to inquire about the shooting in the neighborhood and were met, of course, by the usual number of lies.

“Not a tiger has been heard of for years; wild buffaloes sometimes came to a spot twelve miles down the river,” and so on.

We then produced the magic wand, that “open sesame” of the Central Provinces, our “parwana,” or letter of introduction, so to speak, our permit from the Deputy Commissioner, and there was nothing that could not be got for the asking, provided the good airy Deputy Commissioner gave permission.

We engaged two local shikaris (Hindi शिकारी shikārī = hunter), Roop Singh and his brother or fag (servant/assistant), and went to bed with that hope springing as it only can in the sportsman’s breast.

But not even our hope was as bright as the realization.

At eleven the next morning, we heard excited voices, and on coming to inquire, found Roop Singh with khubber (Hindi ख़बर Khabar = news) of buffaloes, two miles off, feeding in the open jungle. Knowing well the necessity of the absolute quiet and caution required for stalking buffalo or bison, I decided to let Bob go alone, and in less than half an hour, I saw him off, armed with his “500 express,” (a rifle for hunting large animals popular among colonial officials) which he was going to try for the first time on really big game.

I prepared myself for a long, quiet afternoon under the trees with books and letters, but in less than two hours, I heard wild shouts of joy from Bob as he galloped home to tell me how he had stalked the big bull, and had crept on his stomach to the brow of the rise, then taken a calm and deliberate aim, with the result that he saw the mighty brute plunge forward into a bit of marshy grass and lie struggling.

Truly a fine shot, just behind the shoulder. The soft-nosed “500” bullet had done its work well. The second shot, this time from a standing position, was not needed. This successful start, of course, inspired Roop Singh with confidence, and the men now thought it worthwhile to find game for a sahib who had not bungled his first effort.

The rest of the day was devoted to admiring the magnificent head and horns being cleaned by the local Roland Ward (reference to British Taxidermist Roland Ward). The measurement from tip to tip of the horns was 112 inches. The next day, at noon, we were again disturbed by the excited arrival of an old villager with khubber (Hindi ख़बर Khabar = news) of a tiger’s kill, five miles off. This time there was no need for me to remain behind. I had seen many tigers shot and knew much more about it than Bob; so, with a small basket of food and a couple of rugs, in case we were obliged to sleep up a tree all night, off we went. Arriving at a clump of four or five huts, we were told by Roop Singh to dismount, as the kill was close by; but how close we did not realize until we had walked on to the dead white cow, not 200 yards from the village. If we had arranged the spot, things could not have been more favorable—a grassy glade with an occasional big tree, small clumps of plum and other bushes, dense jungle at the foot of a hill to our right, and overlooking the dead cow, two fairly strong saplings, into which our light “machân charpoy” (a platform for hunters created on trees; Hindi मचान macān < Sanskrit mañca = stage) was hoisted and tied.

Meanwhile, I made some tea on my small spirit stove, sitting on the grass, for I knew only too well that sitting in a machân for twelve hours or so on an empty stomach was not good enough and was apt to make one drowsy. We had our tea in silent excitement, and were up and settled in our machân by half-past four. The shikaris and coolies went off to the village with orders not to venture near us until my husband’s whistle went. As silence once more reigned around, we began to strain our eyes, thinking each moving leaf was the tiger. Bob sat facing the kill, and I arranged myself so as to keep watch on all sides by merely turning my head. Oh, the joyous excitement, the exquisite strain of such moments. Both our rifles loaded and at full cock. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, then half an hour passed on my wristlet watch (British English for wristwatch), which is the greatest comfort out shooting, necessitating no movement, and one watches the hours so anxiously.

Five o’clock, and the winter sun was casting long shadows. We could actually hear the villagers talking in the village, and the herdsmen driving their cattle home, short of the one which lay at our feet, killed by the tiger we were waiting for. Presently a “sounder” of wild pigs sneaked out, sniffed the air, and dashed away, alarmed at something or other. Almost on their heels, a pair of jackals cautiously crept towards the kill, looking scared and frightened. Then they too bolted, and I felt convinced the “stripes” were not far off. I had seen these pilot jackals so often before. Again silence for some minutes, and suddenly a deep sniff under our tree to my right. I merely craned my head over my right shoulder and looked down, and there, standing on the very spot where we had had our tea, stood a tigress. I held my breath, and only touched Bob’s arm, which was the signal agreed upon.

I was anxious about Bob; he had never shot or even seen a tiger before this. But there were no signs of excitement. He nodded and very slowly put his rifle to his shoulder. I never took my eyes off the tigress. As she walked right under our machân, I lost sight of her for a moment. I took this opportunity of pointing out to Bob the direction she would appear from. It seemed an age before I saw the gleam of yellow behind the bush in front of which was the kill. Then she stalked out, facing us, with her head stretched down, looking at the tempting morsel before her. A second more, and bang went the “500 express.” Then Bob’s calmness gave way, and I felt myself being simply shaken in the machân to the words, “Dead as mutton, dead as mutton.” We waited to see if there was any sign of life, and then, descending, walked up to her with our rifles at the “ready.” Not a move, not a breath. One tiny hole far back in the neck, where it joins the shoulder. It was dark ere (before) we got back to the village, so we laid down on some straw and slept alongside Bob’s first tiger.

At last, we stood by the stump to which the calf had been tied. There were all the familiar signs—broken rope end, and that unmistakable path of crushed jungle, which showed too plainly in which direction the kill had been dragged. Now came the supreme moment, and I feel a tingle in my veins even now, as I sit here months afterwards and write of it: Bob and Roop Singh, and ten paces behind them came I. Here a stone turned over, there crushed fern and grass, here a splash of blood, there a broken-down bush. But halt! I saw the shikari clasp his little axe tighter and the “500 express” go up to Bob’s shoulder. All in the same twinkle of the eye I heard a report and saw a yellow heap leap into the air not twenty paces off. Then a rush and a second report. Bob pointed frantically up the nearest tree, bidding me climb it, which I did as nimbly as an ape, and was able to see the grass bending and moving up the tiny ravine as the wounded tiger crawled off.

On! foolish sportsman! Of what use to tell you the madness of following up a wounded tiger on foot and in broken ground. Bob and Roop Singh went off. Big English heart and beefy pluck! But what of the gaunt, half-naked shikari, with no weapon but a light ghond axe (reference to the traditional axe of Gond community of central India) in his hand! Truly, the native shikari is a man of iron nerve. It was an anxious hour for me, as I sat perched up in that tree, looking down at the half-eaten calf hidden away under the rock on which the lord of the jungle had been lying asleep, guarding his prey, and as I strained my eyes and ears to catch any signs or sounds of Bob and Roop Singh.

As the sun began to dip, I was glad to see them return up the stream, having tracked the tiger into a cave, where Roop Singh swore he would lie up, being badly hit. They had found great chunks of flesh and splashes of blood on his trail. Back to the little village we went, and arranged to sleep. Ghond (Gond) huts offer no attractions as a resting place, so we agreed that our bed should be on the raised mud platform under the solitary tree in the center of the village. A frugal supper, and then sleep. Dawn found us astir, and very shortly we were well on our way, accompanied by eight or ten village buffaloes and about fifteen men. The former are infallible trackers of a tiger and will, herding together, dislodge the veriest cattle-eater from any spot in which he may be skulking.

Bob and I fixed ourselves on a rock about 10 feet high; to our left, about 150 yards off, was a sheer cliff rising to over 200 feet. The ground sloped up from where we sat to the base of the cliff, and was covered with thin ringall bamboo jungle (Ringal is one of the bamboo species), which at that season was yellow with its leaves fallen to make a noisy carpet to move over. We heard a distant shout from where our beaters were, and then we began to watch intently. Either “stripes” would appear with an angry rush, or crawl past like a mouse, according to whether he was slightly or hard hit. Presently, those faithful pilots, the monkeys, began to chatter, and soon afterwards, straight above us again, at the brown cliff, we saw the great yellow body and angry head, looking us right in the face. 120 yards at least, but such a perfect mark. I heard the bang, and saw the huge brute bound towards us with a bright red star on his forehead. The death-rush was grand, the last roar was thunder. We climbed down off our rock, and as we stood over the great monarch of the forest lying at our feet, Bob and I asked for no greater happiness, and I don’t think we shall ever have a greater one.

D. F.