Last week when I was returning to the sizzle of the plains from Nainital, the car broke down. Thankfully we were in Kaladungi, the village where Jim Corbett once lived. Although it was a far cry from the chilly hills, there were groves of mango, litchi and jackfruit all around. It could have been worse, I mused as I ducked into an empty dhaba for an early lunch. It was run by a young boy who said that the menu had many items but he made great puri-sabzi. Just then some tourists walked in, took one look at the rather basic amenities and noisily decided to drive on until they hit a McDonald's. Then one of them stopped short.
"Wait," he said. "Is that a rifle behind the counter?" The owner nodded: "It is my grandfather's." The group wanted to know why he would need a rifle here anyway. The owner, having correctly assessed the extent of their urbanised gullibility, said, "We're in the heart of Corbett's jungle here. Who knows when a firearm might come handy?" He then pointed to some green cover just behind the dhaba: "the buffer zone begins just beyond there. And my grandfather has taught me that animals neither understand nor respect these man-made boundaries."
The group was impressed, muttering among themselves that maybe they should spend the weekend in Corbett instead of Nainital. "I've always wanted to see a tiger," said one of the girls. The owner quickly asserted that his grandfather had seen one right here in Kaladungi. As for elephants, monkeys and bears, they came for all the fruit on the trees in the village, he added. "Whenever my grandfather and I walked through the mango orchard and forests around the village, he was quick to spot fresh tiger pugmarks. There is a small village pond close by; animals come to drink water, especially now that the summer is here!"
He really did have as much flair for storytelling as he did for making puris, I mused as I finished my excellent meal. Meanwhile, he was telling more tales about his courageous grandfather, who was always the first to volunteer his services for hunting parties out to nab maneaters. "This rifle, my grandfather always said, has helped him out of many a tight spot in the jungle."
Then, with an adroit sleight of hand, he slipped them his menu and mentioned how good his puris were. Having secured his clientele with his tall stories, the owner disappeared into the kitchen to cook. The tourists ate and left, thrilled that they had eaten in a dhaba in the middle of the jungles that was frequented by tigers.
My car was still not ready so I asked him if I could go for a walk in the orchard, unless, I asked sceptically, he felt it was too dangerous. He had the grace to look abashed and offered to show me around as he had no more customers. Where was his grandfather, I asked, eager to meet the intrepid gent himself. "He died 10 years ago," said he. So all the tales he'd told the tourists were of another age altogether, I exclaimed. The young boy nodded. "They were going to go off to a McDonald's - I did what I could to make them stay," said he. "All stories I told them were true. I just conveniently left out the fact that they'd been narrated to me by my grandfather." As we finished our walk in silence, I couldn't help but wonder at the disconnect between people like him and people like them - for him to tell such tall tales about the jungle, and for them to believe every word!
Disclaimer: These are personal views of the writer. They do not necessarily reflect the opinion of www.business-standard.com or the Business Standard newspaper
