Some years back, on a visit to Dooars, we booked an accommodation near Chalsa that stood on the periphery of a sprawling teagarden inside what was once a plywood factory.
Our rooms were basically part of erstwhile staff quarters, refurbished to accommodate occasional tourists. It was monsoon and rains, when it happened, would be nothing less than heavy downpour.
In most evenings, we would have quick dinner in another building, a short walk from our place, and retire soon after, not having much to do, and also because the pitch darkness outside wouldn’t appear too inviting.
One such evening was decidedly gloomy. It was raining for hours at stretch, and though the dinner was served hot and tasty, we felt it best to quicken our steps to bed as early as 8 on the clock.
About 2 it was in the early hours next day when I woke up, and it seemed to me that perhaps I had heard some sound. It was complete silence save the sounds by night insects. I checked the watch and rolled over for a comfortable position when indeed that sound came again. There was no mistake now.
It seemed so close that for a moment I though it was coming from under the bed. I stayed motionless on bed as if struck by a sudden blow, listening intently. The sound now started coming in a steady pitch and I could feel it originated from just outside our room.
It was a strange sound, unmistakably that of some animals, a mixture of constant shuffling and a suppressed glee. I left the bed and tiptoed to the window that was kept partially closed because of rain the night before.
Pushing the window open, I was greeted with breathtaking scene. The sky was clear, and the teagarden ahead was awash with moonlight, leaves glistening and waving under the spell of a gentle breeze.
Quickly, following the sound that was now louder than before, I peered hard at a collection of moving shadows near the jackfruit tree close to the edge of small pathway leading from our rooms.
The shadows moved constantly in a circle, dipping every now and then in their middle. It took me a while to understand what was going on.
A group of jackals, some 5 or 6 of them, had congregated around something that obviously they were eating with great relish and pleasure. I couldn’t make it out then, and short of courage to venture out to find the reason in the dead of the night I slid back in the bed relieved that after all it was just some jackals.
Next morning, the first thing I did was to check out the spot of jackals’ feast the night before. There laid a couple of jackfruits thoroughly cleared out, swarmed now by bees. A strong smell of ripened jackfruit hung heavy in the air.
The caretaker told me later that not only jackals, even elephants would come at times to eat jackfruits, drawn by their typical odor.
The thoughts rush in as I read the news (ABP, June 15) that elephants are raiding households in both north and south Bengal at night in search of jackfruits. The pachyderms anyway come visiting in the winter when the water in the canals is low.
And now they are here even in summer. Soon may be the entire countryside will see hordes of them all the time of the year.
Also read: The pachyderm mess
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