At first , it was the village madwoman .
No one knew where she came from , or what name she responded to . She was just the " pagalniya " . People took pity on her and fed her scraps and leftovers from their kitchen .
Sometimes she slept in the doorway of the chaudhary (the village chief) household . On others , she would be shooed away like a pariah dog . She wore rags and muttered curses beneath her breath . She terrified kids and made the adults uncomfortable .
Then she took to sleeping in the temple courtyard . God had given her refuge . No one could chase her from there . In fact , she grew fatter there , fed on temple offerings of sweetmeats . The pundit gave her the old saffron clothes of the "lalla"( baby Krishna) . So she would sit cross legged on the cool marble floor, clad in holy clothes , swaying to a Bhajan only audible to her . People became obsequious, instead of insulting . It became the ritual to offer her food before entering the temple . People prostrated before her , and burnt incense sticks for her , which she picked up and stuck into her wild hair , playfully .
Then , one day , she disappeared .
People weren't much perturbed . Holy saints and fakirs were known to come and go on a whim . They knew she would return , someday . It was their firm belief .
Then kallu , the cobbler , lost his calf . A fresh newborn , male calf , one week old . The mother of the calf , tethered to a post with strong ropes , as she was milking and thereby precious , mooed the whole night , heartbreakingly , that night and many more nights to come .
Not until Sanjay , the village clerk , discovered their mangled remains , a few kilometres from the village, on the jungle path . First , the "pagalniya's blood soaked saffron robes , then the calf . The disappearances started scaring the village .
A barricade was built , forest officials informed and gunmen invited. People kept their movements to minimum , and walked in groups . Nighttime , a deathly silence descended on the village . All waited with bated breath behind closed doors .
But the tiger never struck again . If it was indeed the tiger . Of which there seemed doubts . As no one ever saw the tiger .
Two years passed . It was monsoon again . That time of the year , when you are running to escape the rain , then wishing for rain , when it stops raining . People had lost their fears somewhat , and the two deaths were almost forgotten .
Then , one night , chaudhary was returning from the city in his Jeep . The jeep got stuck in the mud , around half a kilometre from the village . The driver had kept the headlamps on , it was raining torrentially , and darkness had swiftly fallen . Chaudhary himself and one of his flunkies were trying very hard to dislodge the jeep from the squelchy mud ,in the blinding rain , the driver was revving up the engine , when something or someone came , almost silently and stood on the road watching them . It stood for a split second, paw raised , a shimmering curtain of yellow ,eyes gleaming . Then it , silently, crossed the road .
"It was dark . It was raining . It was definitely your eyes playing tricks on your weary mind "
People told the driver.
Again and again.
He simply muttered " I know what I saw on the jungle path ."
There were no pug marks to back him up , thanks to the downpour.
Then , there were more sightings .
Sanjay , the clerk , confessed to feel being watched , as bushes rustled next to the jungle path . A streak of orange there , a flight of startled birds here.
People were on the edge .
It was like earlier times. The forest was scoured , gunmen posted to the village. Barricades built. Nocturnal movements limited.
Nothing yielded any result . No tiger . Nowhere .
People were just beginning to relax when they saw it.
Here , my grandmother would fall silent. Her fanning hands would slow down. Then we would whisper into the dark
" Saw what dadi? "
The pundit came one morning, as he always did , bustling to the temple . Carrying his basket of fresh flowers ,his black umbrella tucked under his arm , singing a Bhajan.
The tiger sat in the shade of the verandah, on the cool marble floor, it's long tail trailing into the tulsi bed . Resplendent. Silent . Watching.
The pundit stood transfixed , mouth agape , silent .
Both regarded each other silently for what seemed an eternity.
Then ,the flower basket slipped , and the umbrella fell. Spell broken, the pundit ran pell mell , screaming for his dear life.
A motley crowd gathered and came up to the temple carrying lathis and rusty swords. Someone had informed the gunman. He too came .
But the verandah was empty .
But there were plenty of fresh pug marks. Validating the priest's story.
"It is a young female, roughly two years old ," announced the tiger experts after examining the pug marks.
My grandmother fell silent again . This time her eyes were moist .
"What happened dadi?" We all clamoured , gathering around her , concerned .
Don't you see? It was the pagalniya. She had returned to her favourite haunt . Reborn .
Sometimes she slept in the doorway of the chaudhary (the village chief) household . On others , she would be shooed away like a pariah dog . She wore rags and muttered curses beneath her breath . She terrified kids and made the adults uncomfortable .
Then she took to sleeping in the temple courtyard . God had given her refuge . No one could chase her from there . In fact , she grew fatter there , fed on temple offerings of sweetmeats . The pundit gave her the old saffron clothes of the "lalla"( baby Krishna) . So she would sit cross legged on the cool marble floor, clad in holy clothes , swaying to a Bhajan only audible to her . People became obsequious, instead of insulting . It became the ritual to offer her food before entering the temple . People prostrated before her , and burnt incense sticks for her , which she picked up and stuck into her wild hair , playfully .
Then , one day , she disappeared .
People weren't much perturbed . Holy saints and fakirs were known to come and go on a whim . They knew she would return , someday . It was their firm belief .
Then kallu , the cobbler , lost his calf . A fresh newborn , male calf , one week old . The mother of the calf , tethered to a post with strong ropes , as she was milking and thereby precious , mooed the whole night , heartbreakingly , that night and many more nights to come .
Not until Sanjay , the village clerk , discovered their mangled remains , a few kilometres from the village, on the jungle path . First , the "pagalniya's blood soaked saffron robes , then the calf . The disappearances started scaring the village .
A barricade was built , forest officials informed and gunmen invited. People kept their movements to minimum , and walked in groups . Nighttime , a deathly silence descended on the village . All waited with bated breath behind closed doors .
But the tiger never struck again . If it was indeed the tiger . Of which there seemed doubts . As no one ever saw the tiger .
Two years passed . It was monsoon again . That time of the year , when you are running to escape the rain , then wishing for rain , when it stops raining . People had lost their fears somewhat , and the two deaths were almost forgotten .
Then , one night , chaudhary was returning from the city in his Jeep . The jeep got stuck in the mud , around half a kilometre from the village . The driver had kept the headlamps on , it was raining torrentially , and darkness had swiftly fallen . Chaudhary himself and one of his flunkies were trying very hard to dislodge the jeep from the squelchy mud ,in the blinding rain , the driver was revving up the engine , when something or someone came , almost silently and stood on the road watching them . It stood for a split second, paw raised , a shimmering curtain of yellow ,eyes gleaming . Then it , silently, crossed the road .
"It was dark . It was raining . It was definitely your eyes playing tricks on your weary mind "
People told the driver.
Again and again.
He simply muttered " I know what I saw on the jungle path ."
There were no pug marks to back him up , thanks to the downpour.
Then , there were more sightings .
Sanjay , the clerk , confessed to feel being watched , as bushes rustled next to the jungle path . A streak of orange there , a flight of startled birds here.
People were on the edge .
It was like earlier times. The forest was scoured , gunmen posted to the village. Barricades built. Nocturnal movements limited.
Nothing yielded any result . No tiger . Nowhere .
People were just beginning to relax when they saw it.
Here , my grandmother would fall silent. Her fanning hands would slow down. Then we would whisper into the dark
" Saw what dadi? "
The pundit came one morning, as he always did , bustling to the temple . Carrying his basket of fresh flowers ,his black umbrella tucked under his arm , singing a Bhajan.
The tiger sat in the shade of the verandah, on the cool marble floor, it's long tail trailing into the tulsi bed . Resplendent. Silent . Watching.
The pundit stood transfixed , mouth agape , silent .
Both regarded each other silently for what seemed an eternity.
Then ,the flower basket slipped , and the umbrella fell. Spell broken, the pundit ran pell mell , screaming for his dear life.
A motley crowd gathered and came up to the temple carrying lathis and rusty swords. Someone had informed the gunman. He too came .
But the verandah was empty .
But there were plenty of fresh pug marks. Validating the priest's story.
"It is a young female, roughly two years old ," announced the tiger experts after examining the pug marks.
My grandmother fell silent again . This time her eyes were moist .
"What happened dadi?" We all clamoured , gathering around her , concerned .
Don't you see? It was the pagalniya. She had returned to her favourite haunt . Reborn .
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