MY SHIKARI'S WIFE

Saros Cowasjee
I was then living in the Professor's Colony in Agra. I owned a small Sports car which
got me out of the city and into the forest within twenty minutes. I am told you find
nothing in that forest now, but then it was full of game. There were plenty of
partridges. I often brought down a couple of them, but more often I missed. All
that I cared for was an outing with a gun, and the forest provided me with that.
Besides partridges, there were rabbits and deer. There were also wild boars. A
wild boar was a thing I had always wanted to kill. One had to kill a wild boar to be
a real shikari.
Once while I was roaming in this forest, a young villager walked up and began
staring at me in his rude, rustic way. 'Ram-Ram, Sahib,' he said.
I replied to his greetings and wondered how best I could rid myself of this
unpleasant fellow.
'Sahib, big boar" in the forest! Would you like to kill a big boar?'
'Of course,' I said, joyfully.
'But Sahib,' he said, 'I will take half of the animals you kill as my share.'
'Damn it,' I cried. 'You can take the whole of it. I only want to kill a boar.'
Early next morning I drove to his village. It consisted of six huts in the middle of a
few acres of cultivated land. As soon as I got down, Summera-that was his name-
and the Village Patwari came forward. The Patwari was a nice, old man with a
splendid beard and a good deal of natural dignity about him. Summera led me to
his hut and introduced me to his wife, Indira. She was an unsophisticated village
girl clad in bright red ghagra with a yellow dupatta. She seemed so delicate that I
wondered how she could live with the big brute that Summera was, and suffer the
hardships of village life.
While I was occupied with such thoughts, Summera asked her to get me some milk.
I protested, for I don't care for milk. But when Indira pressed the tumbler in my
hands and looked at me straight in the face, I drank it all.
After a little rest, Summera and I set off for the forest I walking behind him. We
walked briskly for well over an hour: jumping over the boulders, running the slopes
and winding through the ravines. The sun was blazing hot, and there was no sign of
life anywhere. At last I asked Summera: 'Where are we going?' He did not bother to
reply, which made me feel a little silly.
We walked on for another hour. The forest seemed absolutely lifeless. I could not
hear even the chirping of birds. 'Where are you taking me to?' I demanded again.
'Shh,' he said, and pointed towards a bush. 'Look, there they are--sleeping. '
I could not see anything in the thick bush save some brown boulder-like objects. It
mattered little at what I fired, so long as it was not a human being. I brought the
shotgun to my shoulder and without much aim pressed the two triggers in quick
succession. Two boars ran past me-but two, to my utter surprise, lay dead in the
bush.
I did not feel half the joy I had expected on getting my first boar. To steal upon a
sleeping animal and to fire at it at point blank range was hardly sporting.
Summera, however, thought differently. He called me a real shikari and praised
my aim. When we returned to his hut, Indira had a smile for me. If she thought I
had done well, then perhaps I had really done well and there was nothing to be
sorry for.
As time passed, Summera and I became friends. Whenever I found time, I would
drive down to the village, and either we would go hunting or sit down on the string
bed and talk. All social and intellectual barriers were cast aside. I promised him
that I would always help him and that he should look to me if he ever were in
difficulty.
We talked about many things-particularly love. Summera had strong views on the
subject and believed that the highest virtue in a woman was chastity. Indira would
sit a little distance away from us, pretending to work, but all the while listening to
our conversation. She always gave me something to eat or drink. At times I would
ask her for water. I would cup my palms to my lips and she would pour down the
cool, well water in a steady stream. I was sometimes astonished at the quantity I
could drink when she was pouring it. I had not the will to say, 'bas'. Once I told
Summera that if I found a girl like Indira I would marry her. He only laughed.
Winter and spring went by. Every time while returning home from the village, I
would stop the car on a bend from where I could see Summera's hut-and ponder.
There lived the brutish Summera and his frail and lovely wife, Indira. Were they
happy? I began to envy Summera and a horrible thought passed my mind that I
could steal Indira from him. I tried to dismiss the notion, but the harder I tried the
stronger it became. I felt so ashamed of myself that for a long while I did not go to
the village.
The monsoons arrived. For days and nights the water poured down in an endless
stream. I sat for long hours in the verandah asking myself: Will this ever stop? How
must Summera be? and Indira? They must be wanting to see me, I have not been to
their home for months.
At last it stopped raining. The sun broke through the clouds, promising a bright
afternoon. I got into my car and drove down to the village. As I neared my
destination, the old village Patwari called out tome.
'How are you, Patwari Sahib?' I asked. 'It's been ages since I last saw you!'
'Hard times, Sahib,' he lamented. 'The rains have done us much harm.'
'That I can well see,' I said. 'Come over to Summera's hut.
It's time we shot a few more boars to make up for the loss.'
'He did not reply, but leered at me in an unfriendly way and walked away. I felt
uneasy and wanted to ask him why he had behaved in that manner. But one does
not ask a person why he has stared at you, least of all if he happens to be a
villager. So I drove on.
As I was keen on giving Summera a surprise, I parked my car a little distance away
from his hut and entered quietly without knocking. I found Indira sitting alone on
the floor, her elbows resting on her knees and her face buried between her palms.
On seeing me, she stood up and welcomed me with a faint smile.
'Come in, Sahib,' she said. 'We have been waiting for you all these days. You have
not forgotten us, Sahib?'
'No, no,' I protested. 'Many times I thought of coming, but for the rains. The roads
get so bad at this time of the year.' 'Yes, Sahib,' she said, taking a deep breath.
'The roads are bad and it is not easy to travel in this world.'
This was not the sort of a reply I had expected from a village girl, and then it
suddenly occurred to me that I had never spoken to her before. I looked into her
face. There was some thing wrong with her. I could see it in her dim, moist eyes.
'What's the matter, Indira?' I asked. 'Are you not well?' 'No. Sahib,' she sighed. 'Why
should I be unwell when 'I have your blessings?'
'You don't look too good. Where is Summera?' Summera? Ah!' And a glow lit her face
and slowly faded.
'Summera now lives at the ghat. He went there when it started I raining. Every
evening I go to him and beg him to return home, but he does not listen to me.'
'What does he say,' I asked.
'Nothing. He keeps quiet as if he has not heard me. I feel so frightened. Sahib, ask
him to come back to his home. I am so lonely here,' and there were tears in her
eyes.
'Take me to him immediately,' I said.
She blushed, took a little sindhoor and applied it at the parting of her hair. She
covered her head with her dupatta and begged me to follow her. Once again I
wondered why this gentle spirit had cast her lot with a crude peasant like
Summera. It must be an unhappy marriage. Indira was too good for Summera, too
good for any stolid villager devoid of feelings.
I must have walked a good half a mile with Indira, when I heard sound of footsteps
behind me. I turned round and was surprised to see the Patwari clumsily striding
towards us as fast as he could.
'What is the matter, Patwari Sahib?' I asked.
He did not reply, but gestured to me to stop. I stood still, but Indira walked on-she
did not as much as glance back.
When the Patwari came up, he was breathless. 'Where are you going, Sahib?' he
asked.
'To the river, to meet Summera' I replied.
'Ah, then you don't know. Summera is no more in this world.
He died of pneumonia a fortnight ago.' 'Impossible!' I blurted out.
'What is so impossible about death, Huzoor? He complained of some pain in his
chest. He then ran high temperature for a few days, sank into a coma and died. His
last wish was to see you; his last words were that you alone could save
him.
'Why did you not tell this to me when we met on the road?' I asked.
'Sahib, it was Indira's wish. Perhaps she felt that you would not visit her hut if you
knew Summera was dead. Perhaps she thought of something else-'

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