When a young elephant is brutally orphaned by poachers, it is only a matter of time before he begins terrorizing the countryside, earning his malevolent name from the humans he kills and then tenderly buries with leaves. Manu, the studious son of a rice farmer, loses his cousin to the Gravedigger and is drawn into the alluring world of ivory hunting.
Emma is working on a documentary set in a Kerala wildlife park with her best friend. Her work leads her to witness the porous boundary between conservation and corruption and she finds herself caught up in her own betrayal.
What the Elephant saw:
Elephant Sabu required three pappans per elephant. For the third pappan, Old Man wanted a younger lad, someone malleable and curious about the work. Before Old Man had even begun his search, Romeo dragged in the dregs of his family: his brother and his brother’s son, a baggy-eyed boy who had failed eighth standard for three straight years and kept his eyes on his feet. The boy had the shape of an urn, burly and broad shouldered, bereft of a neck. For all his apparent strength, he flinched like a chicken in his father’s presence. His father called him a dolt, said the boy never listened to his parents no matter how they striped his backside. Wouldn’t Old Man please take the dolt under wing and tame him the way he’d tamed so many uncivilized beasts?
Your name? Old Man asked the boy.
Mathai.
Do you have an interest in elephants?
Don’t know. Never met one.
His father smacked the back of his head. What kind of answer is that? (A reasonable one, Old Man felt.)
Mathai, said Old Man, weighing the name. We will call you Mani.
A Hindu name? the boy asked. You trying to convert me?
No, idiot, said Romeo, though he’d asked the same question on his own first day. It’s so when we take the elephant to temple, those swamis won’t think you a swine-eating Nasrani.
Mani-Mathai cracked a shy smile. Only Catholics eat swine.
So the poo towing and food gathering fell to Mani-Mathai, who took the job and sponged up whatever knowledge Old Man had to offer: that an elephant always rinses its own feet before drink- ing water, proper as a Brahmin; that an elephant can hold ten litres of water in its trunk; that one should never bend to pick up anything that falls at an elephant’s feet, lest one’s head be used as a step stool.
Old Man was pleased with Mani-Mathai, who more than made up for the toothless drunk that was his uncle. Romeo bought the loyalty of other pappans through a steady supply of dirty jokes and bidis, an argot of girlie magazines. When not slinging abuse at his nephew, he ignored the boy, who kept to himself.
Over time, Old Man began to realize that Mani-Mathai was no dolt. His father mistook his quiet for stupidity, his mindfulness for laziness. Whereas most boys his age were as fidgety as leaves in a breeze, Mani-Mathai had a steadiness about him. For hours, he could sit with the elephants, neither bored nor drowsy, simply watching them eat.
Behind his reticence, the boy harboured strange ideas. He once described to Old Man a sound he felt, when in the company of Parthasarathi and the Gravedigger. A kind of throbbing in the air, a shifting hum he could feel in his marrow. “Not all the time,” Mani-Mathai qualified, risking a glance at Old Man. “Only sometimes.”
Old Man had never felt such a thing, but he wondered.
As soon as Romeo caught wind of Mani-Mathai’s “throbbing,” he suggested that the sensation was likely located in the boy’s chaddi pant. The other pappans joined in the ridicule. “Feel this?” said Romeo and pitched a rock at his nephew’s crotch.
Early the next morning, Mani-Mathai ran away. Early the same evening, his father restored him to Old Man’s door, clamped by the nape. There was a plum-coloured bulge at the boy’s temple.
The days went rainless. Teak leaves scrolled up and fell, hard as turtle shells, dragging themselves over dry earth.
At last a storm pounded through the drought, ransacking the trees of old leaves. Rain clattered against the roof of the pap- pan shed. A window shutter slammed the sill, waking Old Man, who pulled the shutters closed and slid the rusty hook into place. Romeo lay asleep on his belly, facedown, arms spread in a pose of drowning. As useful in sleep as he was at work.
Mani-Mathai usually slept on a pallet between their beds, but that night, the pallet lay empty. Another escape, no doubt, which would result in another beating. Old Man heaved himself up, sure it was too late, that the boy was just another shadow between the trees by now.
He found Mani-Mathai on the front step, arms around his big knees, staring into the dark. Old Man spoke the boy’s true name, Mathai, but the boy turned his face away. Were those tears on his cheeks, or rain?
Come inside, Old Man said loudly, to be heard over the weather.
Coming, said the boy, without moving.
Old Man imagined himself in bed, sliding down a swift tunnel toward the few hours of sleep that remained. Instead he settled onto the step beside Mani-Mathai and watched the rain thin to needles.
I do hear them, said the boy. I feel the elephants talking.
I believe you, said Old Man.
The boy sucked his teeth. Old people don’t believe in anything. They think they know everything.
Who said I am old?
The boy glanced at Old Man and wiped a thick finger under his nose. You look old.
Old Man didn’t know how to respond. What would comfort the boy? A hand on the shoulder? A hand on the head? Old Man was still debating shoulder versus head when Mani-Mathai said, Could I have a day off?
Yes. One.
My father says I only get a day off when you do.
I get a day off when the elephant does.
The boy sighed into the night, his face a study. Was he born in chains?
He was taken as a calf. His mother was shot by poachers. When the forest guards found him, he was by her side.
Do you think he remembers her?
He remembers everything. That is the elephant’s great gift.
After a pause in which it seemed the boy’s mind had drifted else- where, Mani-Mathai said, Terrible gift.
Old Man was taken with the simple truth of those words, laid side by side. For someone so young, so simple, the boy had depths.
The elephant takes to you, said Old Man.
I feel that too.
Old Man let pass a few moments of silence, then said: Did I ever tell you about the time the elephant saved my life?
The boy looked over, wary, and shook his head.
Once we were at a temple, and people were coming up closer and closer to touch his tusk and feed him bananas and get a blessing. I could see he was nervous, the way he stuck his trunk tip in his mouth. I tried to push the people back. I spread my arms, but they pressed in, shouting at me to get out of the way. Next thing I know I am rising through the air. The elephant had plucked me up by the waist and planted me on his back.
What did the people say?
Nothing at all! Like a school of gaping smelt down below. Like a god in flesh had landed among them and me on his back with my rump in the air.
Mani-Mathai gazed off in the direction of the elephant stalls, where eight beasts slept on their sides, eight awesome pumping hearts the size of jackfruits. Do you believe he is a god? the boy asked.
Old Man stopped short of the truth, that there were times when he feared the elephant more than he feared anyone’s god. That he sensed something cloudy behind those honey-clear eyes. That, as he was being whisked through the air, coiled up in the trunk, Old Man had thought his moment had come, that the elephant had turned on him: every pappan’s deepest fear. What he also felt in that airborne second was the prickling sensation of epiphany: So this is what he felt for me all along.
Come, said Old Man. Still a few hours of sleep left.
Not yet. Mani-Mathai looked at him pleadingly. Tell another story. A long one.
Old Man remembered a similar hunger for stories, his father’s low voice wrapping around him like a shawl, restoring magic to the drudgery of their days. Even if no one valued the insights of a pappan anymore, the stories told of a time when they had. To pass these stories along was to hope for better. And Old Man had no son, only this boy with hope-starved eyes.
So Old Man told the story his father had told him so many times, with so many different endings, it seemed to knit itself anew each time he spoke it aloud.
Excerpted with permission from The Tusk That Did The Damage, Tania James, Random House India
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Emma is working on a documentary set in a Kerala wildlife park with her best friend. Her work leads her to witness the porous boundary between conservation and corruption and she finds herself caught up in her own betrayal.
What the Elephant saw:
Elephant Sabu required three pappans per elephant. For the third pappan, Old Man wanted a younger lad, someone malleable and curious about the work. Before Old Man had even begun his search, Romeo dragged in the dregs of his family: his brother and his brother’s son, a baggy-eyed boy who had failed eighth standard for three straight years and kept his eyes on his feet. The boy had the shape of an urn, burly and broad shouldered, bereft of a neck. For all his apparent strength, he flinched like a chicken in his father’s presence. His father called him a dolt, said the boy never listened to his parents no matter how they striped his backside. Wouldn’t Old Man please take the dolt under wing and tame him the way he’d tamed so many uncivilized beasts?
Your name? Old Man asked the boy.
Mathai.
Do you have an interest in elephants?
Don’t know. Never met one.
His father smacked the back of his head. What kind of answer is that? (A reasonable one, Old Man felt.)
Mathai, said Old Man, weighing the name. We will call you Mani.
A Hindu name? the boy asked. You trying to convert me?
No, idiot, said Romeo, though he’d asked the same question on his own first day. It’s so when we take the elephant to temple, those swamis won’t think you a swine-eating Nasrani.
Mani-Mathai cracked a shy smile. Only Catholics eat swine.
So the poo towing and food gathering fell to Mani-Mathai, who took the job and sponged up whatever knowledge Old Man had to offer: that an elephant always rinses its own feet before drink- ing water, proper as a Brahmin; that an elephant can hold ten litres of water in its trunk; that one should never bend to pick up anything that falls at an elephant’s feet, lest one’s head be used as a step stool.
Old Man was pleased with Mani-Mathai, who more than made up for the toothless drunk that was his uncle. Romeo bought the loyalty of other pappans through a steady supply of dirty jokes and bidis, an argot of girlie magazines. When not slinging abuse at his nephew, he ignored the boy, who kept to himself.
Over time, Old Man began to realize that Mani-Mathai was no dolt. His father mistook his quiet for stupidity, his mindfulness for laziness. Whereas most boys his age were as fidgety as leaves in a breeze, Mani-Mathai had a steadiness about him. For hours, he could sit with the elephants, neither bored nor drowsy, simply watching them eat.
Behind his reticence, the boy harboured strange ideas. He once described to Old Man a sound he felt, when in the company of Parthasarathi and the Gravedigger. A kind of throbbing in the air, a shifting hum he could feel in his marrow. “Not all the time,” Mani-Mathai qualified, risking a glance at Old Man. “Only sometimes.”
Old Man had never felt such a thing, but he wondered.
As soon as Romeo caught wind of Mani-Mathai’s “throbbing,” he suggested that the sensation was likely located in the boy’s chaddi pant. The other pappans joined in the ridicule. “Feel this?” said Romeo and pitched a rock at his nephew’s crotch.
Early the next morning, Mani-Mathai ran away. Early the same evening, his father restored him to Old Man’s door, clamped by the nape. There was a plum-coloured bulge at the boy’s temple.
The days went rainless. Teak leaves scrolled up and fell, hard as turtle shells, dragging themselves over dry earth.
At last a storm pounded through the drought, ransacking the trees of old leaves. Rain clattered against the roof of the pap- pan shed. A window shutter slammed the sill, waking Old Man, who pulled the shutters closed and slid the rusty hook into place. Romeo lay asleep on his belly, facedown, arms spread in a pose of drowning. As useful in sleep as he was at work.
Mani-Mathai usually slept on a pallet between their beds, but that night, the pallet lay empty. Another escape, no doubt, which would result in another beating. Old Man heaved himself up, sure it was too late, that the boy was just another shadow between the trees by now.
He found Mani-Mathai on the front step, arms around his big knees, staring into the dark. Old Man spoke the boy’s true name, Mathai, but the boy turned his face away. Were those tears on his cheeks, or rain?
Come inside, Old Man said loudly, to be heard over the weather.
Coming, said the boy, without moving.
Old Man imagined himself in bed, sliding down a swift tunnel toward the few hours of sleep that remained. Instead he settled onto the step beside Mani-Mathai and watched the rain thin to needles.
I do hear them, said the boy. I feel the elephants talking.
I believe you, said Old Man.
The boy sucked his teeth. Old people don’t believe in anything. They think they know everything.
Who said I am old?
The boy glanced at Old Man and wiped a thick finger under his nose. You look old.
Old Man didn’t know how to respond. What would comfort the boy? A hand on the shoulder? A hand on the head? Old Man was still debating shoulder versus head when Mani-Mathai said, Could I have a day off?
Yes. One.
My father says I only get a day off when you do.
I get a day off when the elephant does.
The boy sighed into the night, his face a study. Was he born in chains?
He was taken as a calf. His mother was shot by poachers. When the forest guards found him, he was by her side.
Do you think he remembers her?
He remembers everything. That is the elephant’s great gift.
After a pause in which it seemed the boy’s mind had drifted else- where, Mani-Mathai said, Terrible gift.
Old Man was taken with the simple truth of those words, laid side by side. For someone so young, so simple, the boy had depths.
The elephant takes to you, said Old Man.
I feel that too.
Old Man let pass a few moments of silence, then said: Did I ever tell you about the time the elephant saved my life?
The boy looked over, wary, and shook his head.
Once we were at a temple, and people were coming up closer and closer to touch his tusk and feed him bananas and get a blessing. I could see he was nervous, the way he stuck his trunk tip in his mouth. I tried to push the people back. I spread my arms, but they pressed in, shouting at me to get out of the way. Next thing I know I am rising through the air. The elephant had plucked me up by the waist and planted me on his back.
What did the people say?
Nothing at all! Like a school of gaping smelt down below. Like a god in flesh had landed among them and me on his back with my rump in the air.
Mani-Mathai gazed off in the direction of the elephant stalls, where eight beasts slept on their sides, eight awesome pumping hearts the size of jackfruits. Do you believe he is a god? the boy asked.
Old Man stopped short of the truth, that there were times when he feared the elephant more than he feared anyone’s god. That he sensed something cloudy behind those honey-clear eyes. That, as he was being whisked through the air, coiled up in the trunk, Old Man had thought his moment had come, that the elephant had turned on him: every pappan’s deepest fear. What he also felt in that airborne second was the prickling sensation of epiphany: So this is what he felt for me all along.
Come, said Old Man. Still a few hours of sleep left.
Not yet. Mani-Mathai looked at him pleadingly. Tell another story. A long one.
Old Man remembered a similar hunger for stories, his father’s low voice wrapping around him like a shawl, restoring magic to the drudgery of their days. Even if no one valued the insights of a pappan anymore, the stories told of a time when they had. To pass these stories along was to hope for better. And Old Man had no son, only this boy with hope-starved eyes.
So Old Man told the story his father had told him so many times, with so many different endings, it seemed to knit itself anew each time he spoke it aloud.
Excerpted with permission from The Tusk That Did The Damage, Tania James, Random House India
