TITLE: MEMORIES
OF MY FATHER: THE STORY OF HUNTER SAHEB
My father passed away in 1977, but his memory is everlasting
for me. I remember every facet of his
expressions. He was a man of great personality: very disciplined and
authoritative. He did not tolerate violation of punctuality, procrastination
and failure to keep promise. For a long time he was just next to god for me. He
was very much pro-British…
”Look at this Nation, why they are at the top of the world
in spite of being a small country; ---only because of their character!
disciplined, hardworking, punctual and ‘man of word;’ keep promise up to the
last breath!”
My father’s word was
the rule of our house : ‘Early to bed
and early to rise ’was natural rule of the house. Morning tea was before
6A.M,breakfast within8- to 8.15,lunch within 12to 1 pm, tea at 4 /4.15,[ but in winter 3-to 3.30pm], dinner
at 8-to 9. The house was dark and silent within 10.o’clock. The routine was
more or less like the boarding school for us. But we were convinced to think it as right t.
He ruled not
only the home but also the office –staff. They feared as well as adored him.
They trusted him blindly; they knew he would shelter them like banyan tree, if
it was needed. But during social interaction, he was a different person; he was
famous for his warm, open-hearted loud lough which had the magic power to
enliven the environment He was an avid lover of education, sports, music
and gourmet food.
He worked for the
Indian Railways. In his early life wherever he got posting, he used to
establish a railway club and institute of library and organized annual sports,
picnic in X-mas holiday, and Durgapuja, (The biggest festival of the
Bengalees) along with cultural function.
In those days, it was not easy to organize all those things
in small town. His ideas gave new life to the colony He was encouraged greatly
by the people around him.
I heard many
interesting stories of his life. I am going to narrate one of them.
Just before
the second world war he was posted as A.S.M. in Hazaribagh, situated in the
eastern part of India. This region was rich in flora, fauna and minerals.
Hazaribag was important as it was a
sub-division Of Bihar and had military
base. Between Hazaribag and Gomoh station there was a particular spot near a long tunnel where frequent fatal train accident used to happen. Those trains were mainly superfast mail
train (special military train) with
few stops. This region was full of
forests and hills and had a very rugged terrain. There was an emergency board meeting among
the Railway heads under the GM for solving the issue. Under their supervision a
halting station was constructed within a short period for giving
alert to control the speed of the
train from a safe distance.
The station was built
along with a residential quarter
adjacent to the railway platform.
But the problem arose as nobody agreed to be posted there in
fear of being eaten by tiger. The first employee who was appointed there, was
taken by a tiger when he was coming for duty from his quarter to the adjacent
station.
Then emergency meeting was summoned among the British
Railway officers; They took decision of
roster duty instead of any
permanent posting. So all A.S.M. posted
in Hazaribag, were liable to do duty on that inauspicious newly built station
for two days a week throughout the year.
So there was no way of refusal.
Thus when my father’s turn came, my mother who was quite young, got worried. She cooked a lot for two
days and packed them in two big tiffin-boxes including drinking water also for
my father. The place was not habitable at all. Those who escaped from being
victim of the tiger, often suffered from diarrhea or malaria from
mosquitoes-biting. My father was too adventurous to go there for the first time.
The place was really
pristine. A small but well done office room with crystal-clear glassy window
and brick platform under the lap of surrounding hills covered with lush green
jungle. There were three more tribal people appointed as staff by Railway. One
of them, Raghu, was my father’s attendant and the other two were signal men for
doing duties in day shift and night
shift in turn. There was enough leisure time in the morning half, as
neither passenger nor any goods train had any stops there. So my father spent
hearing stories from those tribal ( adivasi, Santhal) signal men about their
lives. One of the signal man, named Bonda, had only one hand but robust body. My father asked
him,
“How did you lose your hand?
And manage this job in spite of that?
Bonda, who looked
like a robust statue made of black stone with one hand, answered “That’s a terrible
story!
Light and shade
flashed across his face as he started narrating, as if, beyond the yonder
of the past,
“We live in our small tribe
for a long time , not far from this station. We have grown up with these
tigers , jaguars and foxes. They are afraid of us as much as we are of them.
Almost everyday my father used to take my brother and me with our axes to cut
and collect woods from the jungle. We sell
them in the village near by to earn our livelihood, after saving a
portion of them for our own use. But wherever we go, we always come back to our
nest at mid-noon for safety, as we know darkness spreads its wings over the jungles
quicker than the plains. In the evening we fire woods surrounding our
neighborhood for protection and bang drums to keep away the ferocious animals.
Fire and drum beat are alarming to them.”
Bonda sighed and
after little pause ,resumed,
”One
morning I could not go for I had fever; my father went with my brother to the forest; but they did not returned in
usual time. My mother became worried and restless as the sun was leaning to the
west . No longer the news spread; worried people of the tribe thronged in front
of our hut. The leader of the tribe
consoled my mother to have patience; and promised that they would try
their best for searching in the
early morning.”
Next morning, the
tribal people found my brother’s axe in the darkest spot of the mid tunnel they
swarmed the jungle in search of my
father, while some were beating drums
with eerie noises from voices. I was the first to recognize the axe of
my father lying in the jungle but no trace of my father! I then cried out.
It was
assumed that, perhaps, all on a sudden the sly tiger caught my brother in the
dark spot of the tunnel ; My father
chased the tiger madly up to the deep forest and became victim to another
hungry tiger.
“ Once the
tiger becomes man –eater, they are a big threat for the surroundings. Within
two/three months, it happened I was passing through this tunnel for cutting
woods. Suddenly I noticed two prowling eyes glaring in the dark. It was too
near to escape. So I jumped and attacked the tiger first impulsively with my sharp axe. I killed the
tiger but it bit my hand tightly. I was admitted in hospital The hand started to
gangrene so the doctor operated the hand up to my arm."
Within a short period of this, construction of this station started. A
team of the British officers came to survey the area before starting the
construction work ; all the labors
taken, were tribal people. Bonda was one of them. The British team-leader interviewed Bonda. He was amazed to hear the incredible
story of bravery, killing the tiger with an axe! On his recommendation, Bonda
was given the job of permanent post of
signalman since the inauguration of the station.
My father asked,
“ What happened to poor Mr.Dutta, the first appointed officer here?
Bonda replied,”Raghu
knows that better.”
Raghu was attendant
cum cook cum sweeper/cleaner/everything.
He studied up to standard three and could sign his name. That was great!
He lived in the village just on the outskirt of the forest.
My father heard from
Raghu what actually happened to previous officer.
Mr.Dutta was extra-adventurous. Everyday he used to go to
the quarter for taking shower and nap. Though there was nothing to do in the
station, still Raghu fetched him to the station –office for safety within
2 P.M.; he warned him repeatedly to stay in closed door inside the office room. First
to watch through the glass window before coming outside. One day at the same
time Mr.Dutta was coming to the station
through narrow path escorted by Raghu .Raghu heard him whistling in a good romantic
mood just behind him.
Raghu turned back ,as
whistling stopped, but no trace of Mr. Dutta. It was a clear bright day. Raghu noticed the door
was locked from outside as before. Immediately it flashed in his mind that he
was surely taken by the tiger. The tiger was surely tracking Mr. Dutta and
waiting for opportunity. He must have watched and noticed the time of leaving the house and was waiting for opportunity.
After hearing this story my father became very careful and
alert. He never left the office-room for taking shower or nap . He spent his two days’ duty stuck to the station
room with sufficient food in two tiffin
carriers which he shared with Raghu also.
Other officers also followed my father’s decision to come back
home safely.
But the tiger
menace still lingered in the area.
Many amateur British hunters came, stayed to watch and hunt
but all in vain; the tigers were too clever to step when they smell any danger.
At last one reputed ,skilled British hunter who won many awards, came with the challenge
to put an end to the ferocious creature.
Hunting was his passion. He was better known as “Hunter sahib’ than his actual name, by the tribal people. He stayed whole month waiting
for the tiger on a high watch-tower erected for this specific purpose.
With his telescope he saw the tiger was huge in size. So he made the tower a
bit higher for security and hid himself there camouflaging himself with straw
and branches but targeting the gun towards the corner of the jungle where he
spotted the tiger. As soon as the bullet shot hit the tiger ,it jumped
unexpectedly high up to
the watch-tower
attempting the hunter but its huge lifeless body fell on the ground with a loud
thud, embracing Mr Hunter under its arms, as if, hugging each
other.
Mr Hunter was taken
to the hospital of Hazaribagh. There he survived six months. Falling from the
high watch-tower with the huge weight of the tiger upon him caused severe
damage to his spine and hip bones. All the tribal and village people visited
him often in gratitude.
The tribal and
the villagers had sigh of relief from the deadly man-eater for the valour of the brave
Mr.Hunter. Until his death, Mr Hunter was seen always in high spirit and joyful at saving many more
lives. My father used to spend time with him and chat regularly to keep him
cheerful. He loved to tell many more hair raising hunting stories from
his memoires.
But the body of Mr. Hunter failed to bear the tiger’s deadly
hug. His body began to gangrene. In spite of the sincere effort of doctors,
Hunter-sahib passed away.
In his memory, the name of “Hunter-Point” was
sculptured on a concrete slab with a stand. It was erected right at the spot
where Hunter’s body fell from the watch –tower.
A consensus decision was taken that the station will be renamed as
HUNTER_POINT.”
In 1987 I was
going to Benaras by train. When the train was passing on the north-eastern line, I was sitting by the window eagerly, to see
Hazaribagh where my father spent several
years. After Hazaribagh the running train had an unscheduled stop for some reason,
but not known to us. As I was looking at the hilly beauty outside through the
window, to my surprise, just opposite to the last rail-line the concrete slab
inscribed “HUNTER POINT” stood in the jungle with a slant (as if,
unwilling to be buried or to be lost from viewer’s sight.). I became very emotional and felt I had a
personal connection to that concrete slab.
”Is
this the spot my father told about?”
So, no station was named as HUNTER POINT
in 47 years to acknowledge the bravery of a foreigner who came far from the overseas to this land with insatiable passion of
hunting and sacrificed his own life to
save the helpless villagers! Within
few years the HUNTER POINT which had
then reduced to look like a mere milestone along the railway track, would be
buried under jungle with no trace in memory of
a young British hunter!!
