HARRY BOY!
Harry boy, ek pony ka glass jaldi lao. Ham ko gallay may pyaaz hona lagta hither. I have onions in my throat here. Pony zarroor mangta. Tumara country may too much pyaaz hota. The onions are getting hotter and hotter. Onions to the left of me, onions to the right of me, if I see any more onions, I’ll go off my onions. Aur mera sola topi bee lao. Heatstroke hona mangta hamara upar se. I’m dying of heatstroke in my upper storey, for goodness’ sake. Ek jigger thanda bee leke aao jaldi quick. Hamara dill aur jigger dono burn injuries se goyal hai. Dill and jiggery!
This is too much, for Gawd’s sake. Bhoot hai, Bogvann ke vastey. I didn’t bargain for so much sun. Bhoot dupe hai. I’ve lost every drop of moisture in my bloomin’ body, for heaven’s sake! Dehydrated. Bay-pony ho gaya. No wonder we don’t hardly see any sun back home. All of it’s here, by Jove! Call the bhistis. Pony mangta. Sheesh and Jeremy!
I suppose you know the Dumka jungle? You do? Well, just the other day not too far back, I was there in the blessed jungle, by Hukum. I hadn’t gone too far inside, though, before I realised I had forgotten my sodden sola topi at the Dawk Bungalow. Och! Had to hike right back, pick it up and find my blinkin' way in again but while doing so, left my blasted elephant gun behind on the table, the same bloomin’ gun with which I shoot everything from mosquitoes to mangoes and even the beastly pictures that you see hanging on the wall! Low down trickery by the topi! Foosh and Pigmy!
When on Company service, His Majesty’s humble servants never turn their backs on jungles even if they happen to find themselves without the trusted elephant gun tucked into the waistband. They carry on, irregardless. So I did. The old legs were shaking a little owing to the chill in the undergrowth and the sola topi was soaking on account of the junglee humidity. Beads of perspiration dotted my brow and began to destarch the old collar. Foof and frangipani!
I detached the collar to ease my neck, quelled the shivers with a tot of the stuff I carry in a hip flask for just such occasions and waded in fearlessly. Not for nothing do they call me Fearless Freddie. I sent the chokra boy ahead as an advance scout, just in case. And do you know what he did? The young whippersnapper, son of a native gun, blast him, came back with a tiger, can you believe it? No? Well, I had to bloody well believe it because I saw the tiger right behind him, matching step with him to maintain a military beat. Roar and raspberry!
Without further ado and not even waiting to shake my hand, Chokra Boy quickly shinnied up the tamarind tree behind me, leaving the tiger panting, with no one else to confront but me. Nonplussed by a breathless native. Lung and langoty!
Thorny bush to the left of me, slushy swamp to the right of me, tiger to the front of me, no elephant gun to the support of me. I did not have any tamarind tree climbing skills, there having been no tamarind trees back home in Old Blighty to practice on. I did some quick mental calisthenics while the tiger was catching his breath and came up with a stunning solution. I signalled “strategic time out” and the tiger, ever an IPL fan, had to agree. He gave a frustrated roar and, indicating by pointing to his left wrist with his right that he would be back in ninety seconds, slunk away to the nearest waterhole. I sniggered. Let him go and drink water. Tiger pony pisi. Sher O’ Shayari!
Indicating to Chokra Boy by hand signals that in ninety seconds I would be far, far away, I unsheathed my wings and flew to the Dawk Bungalow, living to fight another day. Whoosh and vamoose!
Daai Tiger, nee vaada, paarkkalaam!
Veni, vidi, vici. We’ll see.
- Shivaugh Coomaar
- © Shiva Kumar, July 2018
