New Year Message

[Guest guest]

Dear everyone,

As the old year comes to a close and the New Year

beckons, I wanted to share with you on this occasion a poem written by the

Indian author Vikram Seth on wildlife protection. It is one of my favourite

animal poems and Vikram Seth is a superb writer. His novel 'The Golden Gate'

is a 307 page book, entirely in the form of a sonnet and is unparalleled in

the history of modern English literature. He has a special place in his

heart for animals as evident in this verse as also in his libretto, Arion

and The Dolphin.

 

Mr Seth says this is a tale without a moral but I find very poignant

references to real life situations in the environmental movement in this

writing. Each one can find his own moral here and can even identify with the

characters depicted.(I see John Wedderburn in the role of the moderator

elephant, for example.)

 

For me, the poem vividly illustrates the dangers of smug exercises of group

thinking in this movement because in most cases such endeavours amount to no

thinking at all due to sheer peer pressure. It is a long poem but well worth

reading in its entirety for it is as subtle as it is sweet with animals

being gifted the power of human speech. It is a reflection of what animals

would say about humans if given the opportunity. It is based in India but

could be applicable anywhere in the world wherever animals are struggling to

survive.

 

The following stanza I find particularly amusing and relevant for AAPN

rs :

 

" The arguments grew sharp and heated.

Some views advanced, and some retreated.

Some feared to starve, and some to drown.

Some said they should attack the town.

The trout said they were unconcerned

If the whole bamboo forest burned

So long as they had space to swim.

The mynahs joked, the boars looked grim.

They talked for hours, and at the close

At last the elephant arose,

And with a modest trumpet-call

Drew the attention of them all: 'O Beasts of Bingle gathered round,

Though in our search for common ground

I would not dream of unanimity

I hope our views may reach proximity.' "

 

Hope you like reading it and I wish you and yours a very happy, productive

and prosperous New Year.

Thank you.

Best wishes and warm regards,

 

Yours sincerely,

 

The Elephant and The Tragopan

 

<http://oldcontent.northeastplus.in/dams/the-ecologist/>

The Elephant and the Tragopan appears in Vikram Seth's book *Beastly Tales

From Here And There* and has been reproduced free with the poet's

permission. The poem was inspired by work done by his brother Shantum Seth

(through the Seven Sisters environmental group) in 1991 on the conservation

of the Dzukou Valley in Nagaland and Manipur and to highlight the adverse

effects of a proposed dam there. The group carried out a preliminary study

of the biodiversity and possible environmental consequences of proposed

development projects in the region. The Elephant and the Tragopan is an

ecological fable that has a resonance much beyond Dzukou, in so many of the

anti-dam struggles within and outside India.

 

In Bingle Valley, broad and green,

Where neither hut nor field is seen,

Where bamboo, like a distant lawn,

Is gold at dusk and flushed at dawn,

Where rhododendron forests crown

The hills, and wander halfway down

In scarlet blossom, where each year

A dozen shy black bears appear,

Where a cold river, filmed with ice,

Sustains a minor paradise,

An elephant and tragopan

Discussed their fellow creature, man.

 

The tragopan last week had heard

The rumour from another bird

– Most probably a quail or sparrow:

Such birds have gossip in their marrow –

That man had hatched a crazy scheme

To mar their land and dam their stream,

To flood the earth on which they stood,

And cut the woods down for their wood.

The tragopan, good-natured pheasant,

A trifle shocked by this unpleasant

Even if quite unlikely news

Had scurried off to test the views

Of his urbane and patient friend,

The elephant, who in the end

Had swung his trunk from side to side

With gravitas, and thus replied:

'Who told you? Ah, the quail – oh well,

I rather doubt – but who can tell?

I would suggest we wait and see.

Now would you care to have some tea?'

'Gnau! Gnau!' the tragopan agreed.

'That is exactly what I need.

And if you have a bamboo shoot

Or fresh oak-leaves or ginseng-root –

Something that's crunchy but not prickly …

I feel like biting something quickly.'

The elephant first brewed the tea

In silence, then said carefully:

'Now let me think what I can get you.

I fear this rumour has upset you.

Your breast looks redder than before.

Do ruffle down. Here, let me pour.'

He drew a lukewarm gallon up

His trunk, and poured his friend a cup.

 

A week passed, and the tragopan

One morning read the news and ran

In panic down the forest floor

To meet the elephant once more.

A cub-reporter bison calf

Who wrote for Bingle Telegraph

Had just confirmed the frightful fact

In language chilling and exact.

'Here, read it!' said the tragopan,

And so the elephant began:

'Bingle. 5th April. Saturday.

Reliable informants say

That the Great Bigshot Number One

Shri Padma Bhushan Gobardhun

And the Man-Council of this state,

Intending to alleviate

The water shortage in the town

Across our ridge and ten miles down,

Have spent three cartloads of rupees

So far upon consultants' fees –

Whose task is swiftly to appraise

Efficient, cheap and speedy ways

To dam our stream, create a lake,

And blast a tunnel through to take

Sufficient water to supply

The houses that men occupy.'

 

'What do you think,' the tragopan

Burst out, 'about this wicked plan

To turn our valley blue and brown?

I will not take this lying down.

I'll cluck at them. I'll flap my wings.

I tell you, I will do such things –

What they are yet I do not know,

But, take my word, I mean to show

Those odious humans what I feel.

And the Great Partridge will reveal

– That Partridge, dwelling in the sky,

Who looks down on us from on high –

He will reveal to us the way –

So kneel with me and let us pray. "

 

The elephant said, 'Let me think.

Before we pray, let's have a drink.

Some bamboo wine – perhaps some tea?'

'No, no.' the bird said angrily,

'I will not give in to distraction.

This isn't time for tea but action.'

The wattled horns upon his head

Stood upright in an angry red.

The elephant said nothing; he

Surveyed the landscape thoughtfully

And flapped his ears like a great fan

To cool the angry tragopan.

 

'It's infamous, I know,' he said,

'But we have got to use our head.

Praying may help us – who can tell? –

But they, of course, have gods as well.

I would endeavour to maintain

Our plans on a terrestrial plane.

What I suggest is we convoke

The Beastly Board of Forest Folk

For a full meeting to discuss

The worst that can occur to us.'

And so, that evening, all the creatures

– With tusks or gills or other features –

Met at the river's edge to plan

How they might outmanoeuvre man.

Gibbons and squirrels, snakes, wild dogs,

Deer and macaques, three types of frogs,

Porcupines, eagles, trout, wagtails,

Civet cats, sparrows, bears and quails,

Bloodsucking leeches, mild-eyed newts,

And leopards in their spotted suits –

Stated their stances, asked their questions,

And made their manifold suggestions.

Some predators drooled at the sight,

But did not act on appetite.

The leopards did not kill the deer.

The smaller birds evinced no fear.

Each eagle claw sat in its glove.

The mood was truce, if not quite love.

At meetings of the Beastly Board

Eating each other was outlawed.

 

The arguments grew sharp and heated.

Some views advanced, and some retreated.

Some feared to starve, and some to drown.

Some said they should attack the town.

The trout said they were unconcerned

If the whole bamboo forest burned

So long as they had space to swim.

The mynahs joked, the boars looked grim.

They talked for hours, and at the close

At last the elephant arose,

And with a modest trumpet-call

Drew the attention of them all:

 

'O Beasts of Bingle gathered round,

Though in our search for common ground

I would not dream of unanimity

I hope our views may reach proximity.

I speak to you as one whose clan

Has served and therefore studied man.

He is a creature mild and vicious,

Practical-minded and capricious,

Loving and brutal, sane and mad,

The good as puzzling as the bad.

The sticky centre of this mess

Is an uneasy selfishness.

He rips our flesh and tears our skin

For cloth without, for food within.

The leopard's spots are his to wear.

Our ivory unknots his hair.

The tragopan falls to his gun.

He shoots the flying fox for fun.

The black bear dances to his whim.

My own tame cousins slave for him.

Yet we who give him work and food

Have never earned his gratitude.

He grasps our substance as of right

To quench and spur his appetite,

Nor will he grant us truce or grace

To rest secure in any place.

Sometimes he worships us as Gods

Or sings of us at Eisteddfods,

Or fashions fables, myths, and stories

To celebrate our deeds and glories.

And yet, despite this fertile fuss,

When has he truly cared for us?

He sees the planet as his fief

Where every hair or drop or leaf

Or seed or blade or grain of sand

Is destined for his mouth or hand.

If he is thirsty, we must thirst –

For of all creatures, man comes first.

If he needs room, then we must fly;

And if he hungers, we must die.

 

Think what will happen, when his scheme

To tame our valley and our stream

Begins to thrust its way across

These gentle slopes of fern and moss

With axe, explosive, and machine.

Since rhododendron logs burn green

They'll all be chopped for firewood –

Or logged and smuggled out for good.

As every bird and mammal knows,

When the road comes, the forest goes.

And let me say this to the trout –

The bamboo will be slashed, no doubt,

And what the tragopan and I

Delight to eat, will burn and die.

But what will happen to your stream?

Before the reservoir, your dream

Of endless space, can come about,

The soot and filth will snuff you out.

What tolls for us is your own bell.

And similarly let me tell

The leopards who may fancy here

A forestful of fleeing deer –

After your happy, passing slaughter,

You too will have to flee from water.

You will all be homeless, like us all.

It is this fate we must forestall.

So let me say to every single

Endangered denizen of Bingle:

We must unite in fur and feather –

For we will live or die together.'

 

All this made such enormous sense

That all except the rather dense

Grey peacock-pheasants burst out cheering.

The peacock-pheasants, after hearing

The riotous applause die down,

Asked, with an idiotic frown:

'But what is it we plan to do?'

A bison calf remarked: 'I knew

Those peacock-pheasants were half-witted.'

And everybody joshed and twitted

The silly birds till they were dumb.

'How typical! How troublesome!'

A monkey said: 'What awful taste!

How graceless and how brazen-faced,

When all of us are clapping paws,

To undermine our joint applause.'

Oddly, the elephant was the beast

Who of them all was put out least.

He flapped his ears and bowed his head.

'The pheasants have a point,' he said.

 

'Unfortunately,' he went on,

'The days of beastly strength are gone.

We don't have mankind on the run.

That's why he's done what he has done.

We can't, as someone here suggested,

Burn down the town. We'd be arrested.

Or maimed or shot or even eaten.

But I will not accept we're beaten.

Someone suggested that we flee

And set up our community

In some far valley where no man

Has ever trod – or ever can.

Sweet to the mind though this may seem,

This is, alas, an idle dream –

For nowhere lies beyond man's reach

To mar and burn and flood and leach.

 

A distant valley is indeed

No sanctuary from his greed.

Besides, the beasts already there

Will fight with us for food and air.

No, we must struggle for this land

Where we have stood and where we stand.

What I suggest is that we go

To the Great Bighsot down below

And show him how self-interest

And what his conscience says is best

Both tell him, " Let the valley be. "

Who knows – perhaps he may agree,

If nothing else, to hear us out.

But we must take, without a doubt,

Firm data to support our prayer –

And in addition must prepare

Some other scheme by which he can

Ensure more water gets to man –

For, by the twitching of my trunk,

Without that we'll be truly sunk.'

 

And so it happened that a rally

Meandered forth from Bingle Valley

A few days later, up and down

The hills towards the human town.

With trumpet, cackle, grunt and hoot

They harmonized along their route,

And 'Long Live Bingladesh' was heard

From snout of beast and beak of bird.

'Protect our spots,' the leopards growled;

While the wild dogs and gibbons howled:

'Redress our sad and sorry tale,

The tragedy of Bingle Vale.'

And there, red-breasted in the van,

Cluck-clucked the gallant tragopan –

Raised high upon the elephant's neck,

And guiding him by prod and peck.

The only absentees, the trout,

Were much relieved to slither out.

They asked: 'How can we wet our gills

Clambering up and down those hills?

The journey will be far too taxing;

We'd rather spend the time relaxing.

We'll guard the valley while you plead.'

'All right,' the other beasts agreed.

Meanwhile from fields and gates and doors

The villagers came out in scores

To see the cavalcade go by.

Some held their children shoulder-high

While others clutched a bow or gun

And dreamed of pork or venison –

But none had seen or even heard

Of such a horde of beast and bird,

And not a bullet or an arrow

Touched the least feather of a sparrow.

So stunned and stupefied were they,

They even cheered them on the way

Or joined them on the route to town –

Where the Great Bigshot with a frown

Said to his Ministers, 'Look here!

What is this thing that's drawing near?

What is this beastly ragtag army –

Have I gone blind? Or am I barmy?'

 

'Yes, yes, Sir –' said the Number Two.

'I mean, no, no, Sir – what to do?

They've not gone through the proper channels.

The Protocol Protection Panels

Have no idea who they are.

Nor does the Riffraff Registrar.

It's possible they don't exist.'

 

'Well,' said the Bigshot, getting pissed,

'Exist or not, they're getting near.

And you'll be Number Twelve, I fear,

Unless you find out what the fuss

Is all about, and tender us

Advice on what to say and do.

And think. And be. Now off with you.'

The Number Two was almost crying.

He rushed off with his shirt-tails flying,

Without a cummerbund or hat,

And flew back in a minute flat.

'Oh, Bigshot, Sir, thanks to your grace,

By which I'm here in second place,

Thanks to your wisdom and your power

Which grows in glory by the hour,

Thanks to the faith you've placed in me,

Which gives me strength to hear and see,

Thanks to –' 'Yes, yes,' the Bigshot said,

'Thanks to my power to cut you dead,

What is it you have come to learn?'

'Sir, Sir, they plan to overturn

Your orders, Sir, to dam up Bingle.

And, Sir, I saw some pressmen mingle

With the parade to interview

A clouded leopard and a shrew.

The beasts are all against your plan.

The worst of them's the tragopan.

His eyes are fierce, his breast is red.

He wears a wattle on his head.

He looks so angry I've a hunch

That he's the leader of the bunch.

And when I met them, they weren't far –

Oh Sir – oh no, Sir – here they are!'

 

For now a hoolock gibbon's paw

Was battering on the Bigshot's door

And animals from far and wide

Were crowding in on every side.

'Save Bingle Valley!' rose the cry;

'For Bingle let us do or die.'

'Wait!' screamed the Bigshot in a tizzy.

'Wait! Wait! You can't come in. I'm busy.

I'm the Great Bigshot Number One,

Shri Padma Bhushan Gobardhun.

I rule by popular anointment.

You have to meet me by appointment.'

'What nonsense!' cried the tragopan:

'You try to stop us if you can.'

The Bigshot sensed their resolution,

And turned from awe to elocution.

'Dear friends,' he said, 'regretfully,

The matter isn't up to me.

What the Man-Council has decreed

Is not for me to supersede.

It's true I, so to speak, presided.

But all – and none – of us decided.

This is the doctrine, don't you see,

Of joint responsibility.

But if next year in early fall

You fill, in seven copies, all

The forms that deal with such a case

And bring them over to my place

Together with the filing fees

And three translations in Chinese,

The Council, at my instigation,

May give them due consideration.

Meanwhile, my friends, since you are here

A little early in the year

– No fault of yours, of course, but still,

It's not the best of times – I will

Invite you to a mighty feast

Where every bird and every beast

Will sup on simply super food;

And later, if you're in the mood,

Please come to hear the speech I'm due

To give this evening at the zoo.'

 

At this pathetic tactless bribe

A sound rose from the beastly tribe

So threatening that the Bigshot trembled

And said to all who were assembled:

'My beastly comrades, bear with me.

You are upset, as I can see.

I meant the stadium, not the zoo.'

He gestured to his Number Two

Who scrawled a memo in his diary.

Perhaps an innocent inquiry,'

The elephant said, 'may clear the air.

Please tell us all, were you aware,

Sir Bigshot, when you spoke just now,

That even if we did somehow

Fill out your forms and pay your fees,

Your cure would postdate our disease?

Before next fall our valley would

Have disappeared for ill or good.

The remedy that you suggest,

It might be thought, is not the best.'

 

A crafty look appeared upon

The Bigshot's face, and then was gone.

'Of course, my friends, it slipped my mind.

But then, these days, I often find

I have so many files to read,

So many seminars to lead,

So many meetings to attend,

So many talks, that in the end

A minor fact or two slips by.

But, elephant, both you and I

Appear to understand the world.'

And here the Bighsot's fingers curled

Around a little golden ring.

'This vast unwieldy gathering,

Dear Elephant, is not the place

Where we can reason, face to face,

About what can or should be done.

We should discuss this one on one.

To be quite frank, your deputation

Has not filled me with fond elation.

Tell them to leave; I'll close the door,

And we'll continue as before.'

 

Although the other beasts agreed,

The elephant declared: 'I need

My secretary and mahout

To help me sort this matter out.

Like all the rest, he's left the room,

But he can come back, I presume.

There's two of you and one of me –

So I expect that you'll agree.'

The Bigshot nodded: 'Call the man.'

Quick as a quack the tragopan

Opened the door and strutted in

To greet his buddy with a grin.

The Bighsot and his Number Two

Scowled as they murmured, 'How d'you do?'

 

Tea came; the Bigshot looked benign.

'Milk?' 'Thanks.' 'And sugar?' 'One is fine.'

'It's not too strong?' 'I like mine weak.'

At last the moment came to speak.

'You see, good beasts,' the Bigshot said,

'We need your water – or we're dead.

It's for the people that I act.

The town must have drink, and that's a fact.

Believe me, all your agitation

Will only lead to worse frustration.

Go back, dear beasts, to Bingle now.

We'll relocate you all somehow

In quarters of a certain size.'

He yawned, and rolled his little eyes.

 

Immediately, the tragopan

Pulled out his papers, and began,

With fact and query and suggestion,

To give the Bigshot indigestion.

'You say the town is short of water,

Yet at the wedding of your daughter

The whole municipal supply

Was poured upon your lawns. Well, why?

And why is it that Minister's Hill

And Babu's Barrow drink their fill

Through every season, dry or wet,

When all the common people get

Is water on alternate days?

At least, that's what my data says,

And every figure has been checked.

So, Bigshot, wouldn't you expect

A radical redistribution

Would help provide a just solution?'

 

The Bigshot's placid face grew red.

He turned to Number Two and said

In a low voice: 'This agitator

Is dangerous. Deal with him later.'

Then, turning to the elephant,

He murmured sweetly, 'I'll be blunt.

Your friend's suggestion is quite charming,

But his naïveté's alarming.

Redistribute it night and day,

Redistribute it all away,

Ration each drop, and you'll still find

Demand will leave supply behind.'

 

The elephant first sipped his tea,

Then ate a biscuit leisuredly,

Then shook his head from side to side,

And, having cleared his trunk, replied:

'Well, even as regards supply,

I do not see the reason why

You do not use what lies to hand

Before you try to dam our land.

Even my short walk through this town

Shows me how everything's run down

During your long administration.

Your pipes cry out for renovation.

Your storage tanks corrode and leak;

The valves are loose, the washers weak.

I've seen the water gushing out

From every reservoir and spout.

Repair them: it will cost far less

Than driving us to homelessness

By blasting tunnels through our hills

And bloating your construction bills.

But that's just one of many things:

Plant trees; revive your wells and springs.

Guide from your roofs the monsoon rain

Into great tanks to use again.

Reduce your runoff and your waste

Rather than with unholy haste

Destroying beauty which, once gone,

The world will never look upon.'

The elephant, now overcome

With deep emotion, brushed a crumb

Of chocolate biscuit off his brow.

 

'Dear chap,' the Bigshot said, 'Somehow

I think you fail to comprehend

What really matters in the end.

The operative word is Votes,

And next to that comes Rupee-notes.

Your plans do not appeal to me

Because, dear chap, I fail to see

How they will help me gather either.'

He giggled, then continued: 'Neither

The charming cheques that generous firms

With whom the Council comes to terms

– Who wish to dam or log or clear

Or build – will come to me, I fear,

Nor votes from those who think my schemes

Will satisfy their thirsty dreams.

It's not just water that must funnel

Out of the hills through Bingle Tunnel.

Do animals have funds or votes –

Or anything but vocal throats?

Will you help me get re-elected?

You're speechless? Just as I suspected.

I've tried to talk things out with you.

Now I will tell you what to do:

Lift up your stupid trunk and sign

This waiver on the dotted line.

Give up all rights in Bingle Vale

For fur or feather, tusk or tail.

Sadly, since you're now in the know,

I can't afford to let you go.

Your friend will never leave this room.

The tragopan has found his tomb.

As for yourself, my Number Two

Will soon escort you to the zoo.

From this the other beasts will learn

Your lands are ours to slash and burn

And anyone defying man

Will be a second tragopan.'

He giggled with delight, and padded

 

His cheeks with air, and gently added:

'But if you go cahoots with me

I'll spare your friend and set you free.'

He stroked his ring. 'And I'll make sure

You'll be – let's say – provided for.'

Before you could say 'Pheasant stew'

the servile hands of Number Two

Grasped the bird's collar in a vice.

The elephant went cold as ice

To see his friend cry out in terror.

He would have signed the form in error

Had not the tragopan cried out:

'Don't sign. Gock, Gock.' And at his shout

The Bigshot's son came running in

And struck the henchman on the chin.

While the foiled killer squealed and glared,

For a long time the Smallfry stared

With indignation at his father.

'Papa –' he said, 'I would much rather

Give up my place as Number Three

Than countenance such treachery.

Why can't we let the valley live?

Those who succeed us won't forgive

The Rape of Bingle. I recall,'

The Smallfry sighed, 'when I was small

You used to take me walking there

With Mama in the open air.

For me, a dusty city boy,

It was a dream of peace and joy.

Along safe paths we'd walk; a deer

Might unexpectedly appear

Among the bamboos and the moss

And raise its velvet ears and toss

Its startled head and bound away.

Once I saw leopard cubs at play

And heard the mother's warning cough

Before you quickly marched me off.

Until this day there's not a single

House or hut or field in Bingle.

How many worlds like this remain

To free our hearts from noise and pain?

And is this lovely fragile vision

To be destroyed by your decision?

And do you now propose to make

A tunnel, dam, and pleasure lake

With caravans and motorboats

And tourists at each others' throats,

Loudspeakers, shops, high-tension wires,

And ferris wheels and forest fires?

As the roads come, the trees will go.

 

Do villagers round Bingle know

What's going to happen to their lands?

Are they too eating from your hands?

I had gone snorkelling on the day

The Council met and signed away

The Bingle Bills. I know you signed –

But why can you not change your mind?

You talk of sacrifice and glory.

Your actions tell a different story.

Do you expect me to respect you –

Or decent folk not to detect you?

Where you have crept, must mankind crawl,

Feared, hated, and despised by all?

Don't sign, dear Elephant, don't sign.

Don't toe my wretched father's line.

Dear Tragopan, do not despair.

Don't yield the struggle in mid-air.

I'll help your cause. And as for you –'

(He turned towards the Number Two)

'This time your chin, next time your head – ,'

Rubbing his fists, the Smallfry said.

 

The Number Two lay on the ground.

A snivelling, grovelling, snarling sound

Oozed from his throat. The Bighsot stood

As rigid as a block of wood.

He tried to speak; no words came out.

Then with an eerie strangled shout

He uttered: 'You malignant pup!

Is the way I've brought you up?

Where did you learn your blubbery blabbering?

Your jelly-livered jungle-jabbering?

Your education's made you weak –

A no-good, nattering nature-freak

Who's snorkelled half his life away.

Who asked you to go off that day?

You've been brought up in privilege

With Coca Cola in your fridge

And litchis in and out of season.

How dare you now descend to treason?

One day all this would have been yours –

These antlers and these heads of boars,

This office and these silver plates,

These luminous glass paperweights,

My voting bank, my Number Game,

My files, my fortune, and my fame.

I had a dream my only son

Would follow me as Number One.

I had been grooming you to be

A Bigger Bigshot after me.

You might have been a higher hero

And risen to be Number Zero –

But now, get out! You're in disgrace,'

He said, and struck the Smallfry's face.

 

The Smallfry, bleeding from the nose,

Fell, and the Number Two arose,

And slobbering over the Bigshot's hand

Called him the saviour of the land.

At this, the elephant got mad

And, putting down the pen he had

Clasped in his trunk to sign, instead

Poured the whole teapot on their head.

The water in a boiling arc

Splashed down upon its double-mark.

The Bigshot and his henchman howled.

The tragopan gock-gocked and scowled:

'You wanted water; here's your share.'

Then guards came in from everywhere –

And animals came in as well –

All was confusion and pell-mell

While news-reporters clicked and whirred

At limb of man and wing of bird.

The elephant stayed very still.

The tragopan rushed round – until,

Provoked by a pernicious peck,

The Bigshot wrung its little neck.

 

The tragopan collapsed and cried

'Gock, gock!' and rolled his eyes and died.

He died before he comprehended

His transient span on earth had ended –

Nor could he raise a plaintive cry

To the Great Partridge in the sky

Whose head is wrapped in golden gauze

To take his spirit in His claws.

 

What happened happened very fast.

The mêlée was put down at last.

The Smallfry cried out when he found

The pheasant stretched out on the ground.

The Bigshot too began repenting

When he saw everyone lamenting

The martyr's selfless sacrifice.

He had the body laid on ice,

Draped in the state flag, and arrayed

With chevron, scutcheon, and cockade –

And all the townsfolk came to scan

The features of the tragopan.

Four bugler's played 'Abide with Me';

Four matrons wept on a settee;

Four brigadiers with visage grim

Threw cornflakes and puffed rice on him;

Four schoolgirls robbed the tragopan

Of feathers for a talisman;

And everyone stood round and kept

Long vigil while the hero slept.

 

A long, alas, a final sleep!

O, Elephant, long may you weep.

O, Elephant, long may you mourn.

This is a night that knows no dawn.

Ah! Every Bingle eye is blurred

With sorrow for its hero-bird

And every Bingle heart in grief

Turns to its fellow for relief.

Alas for Bingle! Who will lead

The struggle in its hour of need?

Is it the grief-bowed elephant

Who now must bear the beastly brunt?

Or will the gallant martyr-bird

In death, if not in life, be heard?

Dare the egregious Bigshot mock

The cry, 'Save Bingle! Gock, gock, gock!'

And can a ghostly Tragopan

Help to attain a Bingle Ban?

 

For it undoubtedly was true

That suddenly the whole state knew

Of Bingle Valley and the trek

That ended in the fatal peck,

And panegyrics to the pheasant

In prose and verse were omnipresent.

Suggestions for a cenotaph

Appeared in Bingle Telegraph;

And several human papers too

Discussed the matter through and through.

The water problem in the state

Became a topic for debate.

The Bigshot, struggling with the flood,

Was splashed with editorial mud.

Then intellectuals began

To analyse the tragopan.

Was he a hothead or a martyr?

A compromiser or a tartar?

A balanced and strategic planner

Or an unthinking project-banner?

It seemed that nobody could tell.

And maybe that was just as well –

For mystery matched with eccentricity

Provides the grist for great publicity,

And myths of flexible dimension

Are apt to call forth less dissension.

 

This is a tale without a moral.

I hope the reader will not quarrel

About this minor missing link.

But if he likes them, he can think

Of five or seven that will do

As quasi-morals; here are two:

The first is that you never know

Just when your luck may break, and so

You may as well work for your cause

Even without overt applause;

You might, in time, achieve your ends.

The second is that you'll find friends

In the most unexpected places,

Hidden among unfriendly faces –

For Smallfry swim in every pond,

Even the Doldrums of Despond.

 

And so I'll end the story here.

What is to come is still unclear.

Whether the fates will smile or frown,

And Bingle Vale survive or drown,

I do not know and cannot say;

Indeed, perhaps, I never may.

I hope, of course, the beasts we've met

Will save their hidden valley, yet

The resolution of their plight

Is for the world, not me, to write.

 

The author, Vikram Seth, directed

 

By Anne Freedgood, his editor,

 

To draft a vita, has selected, The following salient facts for her :

 

In 1952, born in Calcutta :

 

8lb 1 oz. Was heard to utter

 

First Rhymes(“cat”, “mat”) at age of three

 

A student of demography

 

And economics, he has written

 

From Heaven Lake, a travel book,

 

Based on a journey he once took,

 

Through Sinkiang and Tibet.

 

Unbitten at last by wanderlust and time,

 

He keeps Pacific Standard Time.