20 minute read
The Tiger Hunt
I woke up on the margin of the morning, that liminal space between the night before and the day to come. The morning was suffused in the rose light of the perfect, still and scented dawn. Today was the day. Stomach churning, eyes leaden, awash with nausea and yet… I’d never felt more alive. They say the day a boy kills his first tiger is the day he becomes a man. Full. Warm. Blood. Breath. Stretch. Paw. Fresh meat.
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“The buffalo! The buffalo!” one of the beaters came screeching in a frenzy into the clearing. One of the buffalos which had been laid as bait for the tiger had been killed! Tiger tracks had been discerned in the dirt and we were hot on their trail. Hot. The morning air hung pendulously, thick and heavy. Sweat trickled down my neck and my legs stuck to the saddle. This was to be a morning of firsts; my first-time riding solo on an elephant, my first tiger hunt, my first kill (hopefully). The Mahout, the elephant wrangler, fussed over my giant steed like a mother on their child’s first day of school. The relationship between a Mahout and an elephant is incredibly close – elephants live as long as we do and a Mahout may care for just one creature in their lifetime. My elephant had been carefully selected, according to an array of sacred and silly superstitions. The number of hairs in her tail was just right. The colour and position of her toenails was just so. The roughness of her skin was just perfect. “Chaliye!” called someone up ahead. The hunt began. Scent. Strange. Man. Sprint. The sun rose, turmeric yellow through vibrant purple hues like the mangosteen I had seen in the market. I was cast in the pomegranate crimson flecks dotted amongst the canopy of gold. Gifts of divine magic. Looking around the widespreading mango trees, I caught a glimpse of the game beginning to come, beautiful grey jungle fowl, their long colourful tails undulating to the rhythmical pulsations of their wings. Shades of elephant greys glimmered and blurred in the heat haze between golden grasses. Seemingly tired, heavy footsteps silently plodded, throwing up puffs of dry sand. Needles of white ivory contrasted against the greys as they huddled and grouped together, each
determined step driven by their need for water. Finally, the Yamuna river. The clear smooth-running river – infested with crocodiles and tiny birds at the lower end of the food chain. It always amazed me how the watering hole is the hub of their community, yet all the animals risk their lives to drink surrounded by their predators. It is a fragile peace, but in this moment, all was harmony…for now. Game. Play. Chase. During the hot summer months, there's nothing quite like a nice refreshing and cooling dip in a pool, and it would seem that my elephant agreed. All of a sudden, Cinnamon, named due to her gorgeous light brown colour and her sweet but slightly spicy attitude, showered me and the Mahout with blasts of icy water with her trunk. “Daalacheenee!” He scolded her affectionately. They really were like an old married couple. I marvelled at her trunk; this incredible organ has the ability to gently pluck the smallest flower, pick up a coin or a blade of grass; yet is strong enough to rip branches off trees, lift huge logs and even elephant calves. I must say, even though I was absolutely drenched, I found it extremely refreshing under the blazing heat of the fiery sun. Now that it was already midday and the sun was above us, the sun’s rays were almost hugging me, scorching my skin. Sweat was dancing off me, mixed with the invigorating water droplets, cooling me down from the intense heat. Once we were dry again, we were on the move. Approaching. Fast. Hide. Here. Kill? Through the tall grass blades, I heard a low rumbling growl. Immediately, a heavy silence fell upon the grassland. Not even the birds were chirping. There, I saw it! The magnificent creature was the brightest orange streaked with jet black. I could tell it was an older tiger; it had a scar slicing through its eye, telling its tale of previous battles. Without warning, I saw a blur of tangerine and ebony flash through the grass blades that rippled as the beast darted faster than any horse could gallop. As soon as he left, he appeared again. With incredible strength, he picked up his fresh kill, a bison, like a cat picks up a mouse. You could tell that he was hungry by the way he heartily chomped down and consumed his prey. Tigers will not eat fully dead meat and they hunt for pleasure. Something tigers have in common with us humans, the desire to kill for sport.
Content. Taste. Thrill. More?
The tiger began to circle Cinnamon in the tall grass blades. That was the moment I really felt that I was on a hunt. My heart began beating out of my chest. Suddenly, the tiger growled and my heart skipped a beat. In the spur of the moment, I decided to take my shot. I had my 20-gauge shotgun and number 6 shots at the ready and I knew that it was now or never. The shotgun’s incessant firing had made hearing anything else, indeed even rational thought, impossible. The deafening crack of thunder filled the clearing as I pulled the trigger once… twice… dropping the tiger to the ground. Then I saw it. His face plainly depicting rage. As soon as I saw the fearlessness combined with the agonizing pain in his eyes, I instantly realised what I had done. My formidable adversary heaved his last breath, slumping with begrudging defeat. Ha.
And then all was still.
Upon seeing the tiger stretched out at full length, I understood the futility of hunting yet at the same time, it was a proud moment of mine. I felt the excitement tingle through my fingertips. I counted the luck marks on my first kill. Tiger bones are for good fortune along with tiger whiskers. Tiger teeth are for medicinal use and tiger claws represent strength. Mine was a mighty specimen. I grazed my hand against Cinnamon, revelling in my relationship with her. And then it hit me, how bizarre it was to be hunting and killing one animal, when another was my unwitting accomplice. The proximity of people and animals, wild creatures, all of us, we crave community and so do they. Panthers, jaguars, elephants, were drawn to the warm lights of the villages, like weary travellers craving rest. On one hand, cows are sacred. On the other, tigers are always viewed as a scourge. The tiger is danger, the tiger is death, but the hunt? The hunt is sport for both of us. This might be an evening of ‘lasts’. I would never hunt again. I look back on that day, through a narrow squint of shame and pride. I’ve taken my first and last baagh through my life. He reminds me of my youthful strength and vigour and how quickly all that can be taken away, stolen by two
shots from a 20-gauge shotgun. As an old man now, I look at the skin on my wall and I feel… I feel.
--Alina Halstenberg
‘Analysis of Estella from ‘Great Expectations’
Pip’s adoration for the cold-hearted beauty Estella is one of the principal themes presented in ‘Great Expectations’, and Pip’s main incentive for becoming a ‘gentleman’. Throughout the novel, Estella is omnipresent in Pip’s mind, and influences his decisions even when he is not with her. His expectations and desires all stem from his infatuation with Estella. Estella, meaning star or love, is ambiguous because it denotes several things. She is the ‘theme that so long filled [Pip’s] heart’, and his thoughts and actions are continuously orbiting around her, as if she is his star. However, stars not only illuminate beauty, but are also inwardly destructive and furious forces of energy. Externally, Estella is beauteous, but inwardly she is catastrophically and psychologically destructive. There is bitter irony that her name connotes love, as she is unable to feel love, or any emotion for that matter. Pip is habitually mistreated, and comfortable being abused by Estella. She brands him ‘a common labouring boy’, and her careless and condescending attitude towards him makes him feel inferior and ashamed of being ‘common’. This in turn heightens his feelings of powerlessness and embarrassment of his own domestic surroundings. Estella was raised from the age of three by Miss Havisham to torment men and ‘break their hearts’. It is by practising this deliberate cruelty that she wins Pip’s deepest love, demonstrating her cold, cynical and manipulative nature. Estella has two mothers: Molly, a murderer, and the vengeful Miss Havisham. Although these women differ greatly in terms of social status and personal history, they are equally ruthless. Estella is brought up in a ‘large and dismal house’, that has been set up as a shrine to Miss Havisham’s betrayal by Compeyson. The house is decaying and melancholy, and for the entirety of her childhood, Estella is isolated and shut off from the outside world. Growing up in this hostile environment and being robbed of the ability to love, has resulted in Estella developing a deep-rooted indifference towards other people’s feelings. Despite her cold behaviour and exposure to the damaging influence of Miss Havisham, Estella is still a somewhat sympathetic character, and underneath the rigid unemotional surface, does, in fact, possess the passion and emotional fury of her parents. The reader explores the inner turmoil that has arisen from her failure to identify her own feelings. She repeatedly warns Pip that she has
‘no heart’, and displays a sort of loyalty towards him when she professes that she will toy with all men, but him. After a long and painful marriage to Bentley Drummle, Estella learns to rely on and trust her own inner feelings, rather than those instilled in her by Miss Havisham. In the final scene, she attests that: ‘Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching…I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.’ The presentation of Estella as a girl who takes pleasure in inflicting pain upon others is surprising to contemporary readers. In her youth, Estella was cruelly stifled by Miss Havisham, who influenced her negatively with persistent and malicious advice. Over time, however, we grow to sympathise with her character, regarding her as a victim of Miss Havisham, and pitying her emotional unavailability. Her damaging upbringing oppressed her natural instincts of self-discovery, and this oppression has been detrimental to her as a woman. Nonetheless, by the end of the novel, readers are left with tentative hope that Estella will grow to develop some semblance of emotion, and recover from the cruelty practised upon her as a child.
--Anya Vaghani
It is the work of those who saw a brighter future even when shrouded in darkness. Those who dreamt of a better place, not just in their sleep. Those who freed us from the iron grip of our oppressors by keeping faith. Those who believed in life when death was at their fingertips. Those who knew they must keep fighting, even with no fight left in them. It is the work of these people that allowed me to roam free, That allowed my every thought to be of happiness My every day fresh with the taste of adventure. I must not let their work go to waste. For although today may seem bright Anything is brighter than total darkness. And I know there is a future out there Shining with the light of a thousand suns. We must follow in the footsteps of our ancestors, We must shape the future as they knew we would And pave the way to a world In which every step is taken willingly And every breath is blushed with new beginnings.
--Emma Gower
As I stepped off the train onto the platform, a wave of panic seized me. In my periphery, I could see this middle-aged, rugged-looking man who had gotten off the train after me, and positioned himself beside a news stand. He was wrong if he thought he was out of sight. This strange man had been following me ever since the first term of my second year at Glendale University. I had seen him countless times, simply lurking, always watching. What did he want from me? If he was planning on killing me, then surely he would have done so two terms ago. I clutched the handle of my brown leather-bound suitcase, mentally swatting away the fearful thought of being murdered. A few metres ahead of me stood a taxi stand with cars flocked around it. This was my means of getting home and also my chance to lose the man who had been tailing me in a not-so subtle manner. I approached the nearest taxi in which its driver sat watching something on his phone in a language that sounded like Russian. He looked up at me through the half-open window and asked, "Where to?". "72 Elm Street, please. It's just off the corner of that big shopping complex." I responded. I placed my suitcase in the trunk and made my way to the passenger side of the car. I stole a look behind me to see if my pursuer was still there, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The inside of the car was neat and uncluttered, and I was overcome with an immediate sense of comfort as I leaned into the passenger-seat. In the background, the radio hummed, and raindrops slid down my window. The familiarity of my hometown comforted me; these innocent streets had shaped me.
As we passed the West-side Shopping Complex I realised I was not so far from home.
Just as we reached the corner of the road, I spotted a sign which read, ‘ROAD WORK AHEAD. DELAYS EXPECTED’. The driver seemed to notice it the moment I did, and told me it would probably take up to an hour to reach home.
Mum would be awaiting me and my phone was about to die; I could not wait so long. I suddenly remembered a shortcut that led from this shopping complex to a lane beside my house. “I’ll be getting off here, thank you!” I turned to the driver, and took out some smooth notes from my wallet. I got out of the car and was hit by a flurry of crisp air. With my suitcase in hand, and my other hand dug into my coat pockets seeking warmth, I headed home. My mind wandered as I reminisced about my younger years in this town. Lost in the clouds, I did not notice the person approaching me. A voice called out my name and to my horror, it had come from that same man who had been following me these past few weeks. This unexpected confrontation brought a flood of nausea and fear over me. I felt unsteady. Thoughts, plans, and strategies whirled around my head as I deliberated what to do.
My name was repeated, and I had no choice but to respond. I met his eyes hesitantly and braced myself for what was coming. The stranger stood a short distance away, slightly hunched over, empty-handed. Close-up, he did not look so frightening – he had kind eyes and I could tell he was older than he appeared to be upon first glance. My heart was in my mouth as he reached into his coat pocket. Unexpectedly, he retrieved a photo and inspected it with a hint of a smile. He looked up at me thoughtfully and cleared his throat to speak, “You probably don’t recognise me, but…” he paused. “I don’t know how to say this,”. He looked back down at the photo. I took a deep breath, which was a poor attempt at preparing myself for what he was about to say. “You are my son.” It can’t be. My father is dead. “I’m sorry sir, you must be mistaken.” My heart was beating violently against my ribs. The man gave a sad sigh and shook his head. He turned the photo he was holding so that I could see it.
The picture showed a little boy in a flannel shirt, sat in the lap of an older man his father. My father. That was me in the picture so that meant… he wasn’t lying. How was this possible? He must have seen the glimpse of recognition in my eyes because he promptly smiled. “I know this is unexpected and I don’t mean to startle you or anything,”. My heart rate had not eased; it was still pounding in the confines of my chest. I felt a tide of blood rush to my head and suddenly the trees and buildings were spinning. I sensed a damp, solid surface against my face and hands and could hear a distorted voice in my ear telling me to breathe. I was a child again, balled in a foetal position at the feet of my father. A distant memory, but vivid. How had I forgotten his face? My senses gradually came back to me and I could see my father crouched beside me and my suitcase, leaning against the brick wall. We sat side by side below the awning, shielded from the soft drizzle. “I’m sorry,” his head was hung low. My mind was overflowing with questions, but not a single one of them seemed a fit place to start. The man – my father – sighed heavily, “I’ve missed you more than you know. I hope you understand that this was not my choice.”. I glanced at the figure beside me. There is always a choice. All my life I had wondered why I didn’t have a father and everyone else did. Why mine was taken away. All I knew was the distant shadow of a father. Now, this shadow wished to be illuminated. Fourteen years. I had survived fourteen years without him. What use would he be now? At the end of the day he was still a stranger. Taking one last look at him, I picked myself up, along with my leather-bound suitcase, and trundled down the road without a word.
--Prachi Saraf
Untitled Sonnet
This tender passion threatens to purloin My a-beating chest of its dearest breath Was this God’s purpose for the creation of life The delightful fluttering in my heart As my gaze pursues the curve of bosom Titian himself marvels at her beauty The fair maiden’s glowing locks tumble I could compare her to a fiery blaze All tumult and chaos but deny the Softest part of her glorious nature If she would ever allow me an ounce Of affection, I should know His meaning An iota of hope will destroy me But perhaps soon my wish will set me free
--Anonymous
Coronavirus: A pandemic, Like wildfire round the world. Cases flying every day, People dying every which way. Shops were closed, gyms were dark, Theatres were no more. Eventually our PM said That schools must shut their doors.
It was March. Lockdown began. People were at a loss. Stuck at home, nowhere to go, The one household rule enforced. The weeks went by with cases rising, Hospitals full to burst. And yet somehow, through everything, Britain made the best of the worst.
There was online school for students (And they could wake up at nine!) And those with younger children Strove to teach them all the time. Every Thursday evening, The neighbours at their porches Were clapping for the NHS To show they were supported. One walk a day, or exercise. We couldn’t see our friends. But never fear, ‘cause zoom is here With a mic and camera lens. Grandparents and family We weren’t allowed to meet. We stood behind their driveway wall To see them every week.
Hats are out. Masks are in. Plastic, blue surgical mitts. Visors muffling everyone’s voice. Together we’ll stop this pandemic. Each week families all sat down To watch as Boris spoke: ‘Stay at home, hands face space’, Work if you can but if you can’t... don’t. Time went by. We watched Sir Tom Make history on his grass. He helped us remember the lights in our lives, And all the little things that last. Squirrels in trees, leaves on the wind, Ladybirds and butterflies. Reflections in rivers like slow moving glass, And rainbows that light up the sky. While it has been tough there are silver linings; There’s one in every cloud. Time with family will be treasured forever. We’ve learned to live in the now.
--Tammy Berman
I lay back high up in the sky and I looked down upon the earth below, I wanted to nurture all the things below me so that they could grow, I made the sand sparkle like tiny little jewels, While the little girl played in the whirlpools. I smiled hard and my cheeks were glowing, While all the time the waves were flowing. The girl was having a whale of a time, And I wanted it to always be daytime. I often like to play hide-and-seek, And from the clouds I had a peek. Such happiness and joy the world was giving her, And I was in the back to her just a blur. She rolled around like a puppy in the sand, And I was getting her rather tanned. I am the largest star, But to her I was somewhat bizarre! She splashed all day in the sea, And I was hotter than a hundred degrees. I didn’t mean to make her skin burn, What if she will never return? Then it all went dark and I fell to sleep, Behind the moon until morning creeps. I arose to find not the girl smiling, But the empty beach alone lying.
--Poppy Mann
Now I am false and at fault - I who always have dreaded treachery and lies’ (line 2382) -Sir Gawain (Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ‘The Gawain Poet’) She’s joined by suppressed, internalised tears. My brain – she’s suffocating. Please don’t drown, I’m sorry. Head Dropping and neck Curling, mind blank and eyes Shaking –Shaking, quivering under weak eyelids. Furrowed eyebrows try to hide them In vain. Eyelids heavy, and heavier still. Dewy eyelashes finally give way, Salty sequences processing down my cheek Slowly, slowly Like aggrieved souls in mourning. I am broken and breaking. Oh, how I am jealous of melted candlewax: Though it drips Down, outside of the comfort of its glass embrace, it Settles, it solidifies. Because at present, I feel as if these tears will Never Settle. This regret will never solidify. I will never be at rest.
But this is not a new feeling. For the resilient person of confidence they all claim to see me as As if I am a chivalrous knight, as if I have emerged from battles victorious–No! That is not me! I am not faultless
Rather, they do not see that I truly long to be at fault less. The girl they claim to see – what’s she like? This girl they think I am – who is she? For I do not know her (Perhaps I knew her once, but no more). Because I have suffered and am suffering The greatest loss, my greatest fear. The biggest mistake But this time no apology can be accepted. This fault cannot be annulled.
For I betrayed myself. And there’s a short pause for futile self-apologies before the Grey makes an entrance into my body; it ricochets around my bones, it torments my every organ. I have lost and am losing myself. Now, even surrounded by people who claim to still love me, I feel alone. The burden of receiving love is so complex for something so supposedly warm. I feel cold. But my sadness and regret – they keep me warm still.
