Читать книгу No Beast So Fierce - Dane Huckelbridge - Страница 12
ОглавлениеLong before an emboldened Champawat Tiger was terrorizing villages and snatching farmers from their fields, it was a wounded animal convalescing deep in the lowland jungles of western Nepal, agitated, aggressive, and wracked with hunger. And it is a safe bet that its first attack occurred there, in the rich flora of the terai floodplain, the preferred habitat of the northern Bengal tiger. The terai once was—and still is, I discovered, in some isolated areas—a place of enormous biodiversity and commanding beauty. Dense groves of sal are interspersed with silk cotton and peepal, imposing trees that look as old as time. Islands of timber are encircled by lakes of rippling grasses, their stalks twice as high as the height of any man. Chital deer gather at dusk along the rivers, wild pigs root and trundle through the leaves, and even the odd gaur buffalo can make an appearance, guiding its young come twilight toward the marshes to feed. But there are people who make their home here as well: the Tharu, the indigenous inhabitants of the region who lived in the terai then as some still do today, in close proximity and harmony with the forest. Residing in small villages composed of mud-walled, grass-thatched structures, and combining low-impact agriculture with hunting and gathering, the Tharu are experts not just at surviving but thriving in a wilderness where few others can. The spirits of the animals they live beside are worshipped, and the largest of their trees are as sacred as temples. In short, they are a people with tremendous respect for and knowledge of the natural world. And the Champawat Tiger’s first victim was almost certainly one of them.
A woodcutter, possibly, or someone harvesting grass for livestock. A worker whose stooped posture resembled an animal more than a human. Perhaps he was a hattisare—a Tharu working in the royal elephant stables, on his way into the land’s bosky depths to harvest the long grasses upon which the elephants fed. It is a scene still repeated in the forest reserves of Nepal to this day, and instantly retrievable. We can imagine it: the air spiced by the curried lentil dal bhat simmering on the fire, and rich with the tang of fresh elephant dung. Our hattisare rides through these aromas atop a lumbering tusker, ducking his turbaned head to clear the low-hanging branches of trees, guiding his tremendous mount with gentle prods of his feet away from the stables toward the dense jungle and grasslands beyond.
The forest is still a wild place here, despite the farmland and pastures being cleared on its fringes, despite the outsiders from the hills who are beginning to buy up the land. But he has committed his puja for the week, making offerings to both the appropriate Hindu gods and Tharu spirits, and besides, he has lived and worked here all of his life—he is a phanet, a senior elephant handler with decades of experience. The terai has been good to him, he has nothing to fear. He loves the creatures here, and he respects their power, always granting them the wide berth that is their due. Respect, yes, but fear? No, that has never been necessary.
His elephant rumbles beneath him, still content from the dana of rice and molasses that composed its last meal. He scratches it behind the ear affectionately, and directs it with a grunted command across a shallow river, toward the plains of high elephant grass beyond. Normally, the harvesting of grass is done with his mahout, but today he let the boy sleep in. He likes being alone with his elephant on mornings such as this, riding up front just behind its head, plodding through the blankets of steam that rise from the marshes and cling to the banyan trees. There is something relaxing, almost hypnotic in the slow, seismic gait of the elephant. From his perch atop its neck, he takes great pleasure in watching the swamp deer graze at the water’s edge, or catching a passing glimpse of a rhino calf—or, on rarer occasions still, a fleeing tiger. They, like him, call the forest home, and in that he finds no small sense of kinship.
When they arrive at the spot, he gives the elephant the signal to stop and gathers his sickle. He dismounts, with a little help from the animal’s forelimb, and steps gingerly over the swampy ground. At the choicest stalks, he stoops over and begins cutting the tough grass with short, hasping strokes, humming as he works. When he has harvested enough for his first batch, he takes a thin rope from his dhoti cloth and begins to tie up the shock, squatting as he knots the twine.
It’s the elephant that senses it first—even though the man cannot see his old friend through the tall grass, he hears his uneasy snort and sudden grumble, deep, resonant, and ominous. He knows that sound well, and all too well what it implies. Perhaps it is best to hurry with his task. The last thing he would want is to stumble upon a fresh kill at the wrong moment, although he does not recall any warning calls of chital deer or flocks of waiting vultures.
But then there is another sound. One with which he is also well acquainted, although he has never heard it so close before. A roar, nearer than he ever thought possible. Close enough to make the grass stalks tremble. Heart seizing, his thoughts clarified by fear, he drops the shock, stands upright—and mounts a lightning-quick debate between the competing instincts of fight and flight. But in the end, there is time to do neither, as the realization comes to him with a stark limpidity that he is the fresh kill. He has essentially stumbled upon his own death. With a snarl and a snap and a bold rash of stripes, the tiger is upon him. It has attacked, just as it would a boar or a deer. To the wounded predator, the unknown creature it has caught is so slow and so soft, it barely has to try. It is a revelation of sorts, in whatever shape it is that such things are revealed to the mind of a tiger. A quick bite to the throat, and it’s all over. There is no struggle. The nearby elephant trumpets hysterically, but there’s nothing to be done—the famished tiger is vanishing back into the tall and rattling grasses, to gorge on its feast, its senses galvanized into a frenzy by this entirely new and imminently available class of prey . . .
The Champawat’s first taste of human flesh almost certainly began with some such scenario, probably around the year 1899 or 1900, although the details of its initial kills, before it arrived in India, are likely to stay murky. Jim Corbett, one of the few primary sources for the early exploits of the tiger, gives nothing in his account beyond the number of its Nepalese victims. And even in the present day, documenting tiger attacks in the remote frontier of western Nepal is difficult at best—many attacks go unreported, and problem tigers only gain recognition in the press when they’ve claimed unusually large numbers of victims. Not surprisingly, finding tangible evidence of specific tiger attacks more than a century old in the region is next to impossible. Unlike the United Provinces, just across the border in India, there was no colonial government to publish eyewitness accounts or squirrel away records in faraway archives.
As for the Tharu, who constituted the bulk of the population in the lowland terai at that time, they possessed a culture that, although abundant in tradition and nuance, was primarily oral—literacy, except among a privileged few, was all but unknown. Traditionally, tigers were considered royal property, and only relevant to the government when it came to sport hunting. A man-eater, unlike a sport tiger, was greeted with relative indifference, and official “documentation” would have consisted simply of a tiger skin gifted to the village shikari who killed it. In the Panjiar Collection—one of the few historical archives available of communications between the Nepalese government and Tharu communities—problem tigers are only mentioned twice over the course of fifty royal documents. And in both cases, the responsibility to “protect the lives of villagers from the threat of tigers” was delegated to the local authorities, with the warning that “if you cannot settle and protect this area from these disturbances, you cannot take its produce.” Essentially, to the Nepalese government, man-eating tigers were the Tharu’s problem—not theirs. Rather than send in hunters, they preferred to let the locals handle it.
There is another reason tiger attacks may have gone unpublicized, though, and that was the cultural stigmas that often attended them. Predation upon man, conducted by a tiger, was almost cosmically aberrant to the Tharu people, whose syncretic belief system represented a melding of both Hindu and older animistic beliefs. Such attacks represented the unintended overlap of two separate spiritual spheres, in the unholiest of fashions. Tigers were regarded as the physical manifestation of the power and grace of the natural world—more specifically, of the forest, upon which the Tharu depended above all else. Under normal conditions, the tigers of the forest were seen as benevolent guardians, even protectors. But if their forest decided to send in a tiger to attack a village, then something in the spiritual health of the community was gravely out of order. A problem with its puja offering, a broken spiritual promise, or some other affront to the gods of the natural world grave enough to summon a distinctly striped form of punishment. Accordingly, it was common belief that the spirit of a tiger victim was doomed, at least in some unfortunate cases, to haunt the earthly realm as a bhut—a malevolent poltergeist of sorts capable of causing bad luck, illness, and even death. And since tiger victims were often totally devoured, the essential and extremely complex Tharu funeral rites of cremation and riverine release became difficult to perform, ensuring further spiritual calamity enacted by the bhut. These destructive spirits could take two forms, that of a churaini for women, or a martuki for men, and only the help of a shaman, or gurau, could keep them at bay. So feared were these specters, it was not uncommon for Tharu widows to pass a torch over the mouth of their departed husbands, to invoke their spirit not to return as a bhut, but instead continue on its path toward becoming a protective pitri, or ancestor spirit. And another complex ritual, involving head shaving, ceremonial rings of kus grass, and branches of the peepal tree, would be enacted thirteen days later to ensure that the proper progression had taken place. These funeral rites needed to be performed to create sacred balance in the village, and in the case of many tiger attacks where victims were partially or completely devoured, this was not always possible—resulting in a spiritual hurdle that put the entire community at risk. With this in mind, one can easily imagine a general reluctance among the families of tiger victims to call attention to the attacks, and risk being blamed for any communal misfortune down the line.
These kinds of stigmas have declined somewhat in the terai of Nepal and northern India in recent years, as the presence of bhut has slowly transformed from practiced religion to old-fashioned superstition, and man-eating tigers have faded—although not vanished entirely, as we shall see—from cultural memory. When talking to Tharu guraus in present-day Chitwan, I found that the perception of tiger attacks as a form of divine punishment does still exist, although they don’t attach any bad luck or ill will to the families of the victims, and they would never deny a funeral service if asked. In fact, they believe that the offended god or spirit will often deposit tiger whiskers on the ground around the village as a form of warning, to give the community the chance to come together and mend its ways before another attack occurs. In the Sundarbans of West Bengal, however, where village men still go into the forest to fish and collect honey, and where tiger predation is still a daily threat, the stigma against tiger victims is very much alive and relevant. Many locals refuse to even speak of tigers or utter their name, as they believe words alone are enough to summon snarls and stripes from the mangrove forests. And when tigers actually materialize and do attack, relatives of the victims are often similarly avoided. “Tiger-widows,” as they’re unceremoniously known, can be considered unholy or tainted, and at times face abuse from in-laws as well as general ostracism in the community. They are frequently treated as a source of bad luck and forced to live in isolation, where they can wear only white saris and must eschew all forms of decoration, including jewelry or bangles. They are barred from most ceremonies and festivals, and allowed to travel roads only under certain hours. Such shunning may sound cruel—particularly when imposed on a person who has already had a loved one killed by a tiger—but it stems from the very real fears of people who are totally reliant on the forest for their livelihood, and who cannot afford to associate with anyone who may have incurred the forest’s clawed wrath. The people of the Sundarbans pray and make offerings to essentially the same forest goddess as the Tharu do in Nepal and northern India—although they call her Bonbibi instead of Ban Dhevi—and they rely on her favor for protection from tigers. When that protection fails, they, just like the Tharu, know that something grievous must have happened to have lost her favor. And this is not something one would want to broadcast in any way.
But problem tigers have not vanished from the Nepalese terai. They still exist today. And to re-create what the first, harrowing manhunts of the Champawat must have been like, one need not journey far into the past at all.
When untangling the skein of information regarding the Champawat, the unavoidable point of entry is the sheer number of its victims.* The tiger is alleged to have claimed 200 victims in Nepal, and then later another 236 victims once it crossed into India. That’s 436 human lives taken by a single animal. To put that grisly number into contemporary perspective, the entire roster of the National Basketball Association evens out at around 450 players. So essentially—according to most published accounts—the Champawat very nearly consumed the entire NBA. While comparing its statistics with modern-day professional sports teams’ numbers may border on the whimsical, the horror and trauma it would go on to cause for the inhabitants of western Nepal and the Kumaon division of northern India at the turn of the twentieth century was viscerally and painfully real.
But if the number seems wholly beyond the realm of possibility, there are some other man-eaters bounding across the pages of history that clearly demonstrate that large-scale human predation is not beyond the capacity of many apex predators. In France, for example, between the years 1764 and 1767, a wolf—or possibly a wolf–dog hybrid—known as the Beast of Gévaudan reputedly killed some 113 people before Jean Chastel, a local hunter, finally shot it and ended its spree. It is a shocking number, but also one that is fairly well documented, thanks to ecclesiastic funerary records from the Gévaudan region. In 1898, a pair of lions known as the Tsavo Man-Eaters temporarily put a massive British railway project in Kenya on hold when they began pulling workers from their tents at night. Accounts vary as to the total number of victims, with some going as high as 135, although scientific tests conducted by the Chicago Field Museum, which has the taxidermied lions on display, has indicated that they probably didn’t actually consume more than thirty-five of their victims. And while its own total tally isn’t remarkable in size, the rapidity of the infamous shark that terrorized the Jersey Shore in 1916 has earned its status as the original “Jaws.” As to whether it was a great white or a bull shark is still debated—but either way, the deadly fish attacked 5 people and killed 4 in less than 2 weeks. And then of course there is “Gustave,” a Nile crocodile from Burundi with a reported length of more than twenty feet, a hide pocked with bullet scars, and an apparent taste for human flesh. In addition to the wildebeest and hippopotamus that comprise its diet, it is said by locals to have eaten as many as three hundred people. These may be some of the more publicized examples, but history abounds with similar predators that have taken humans as prey, in numbers that frequently extend into the dozens, and sometimes even the hundreds. Leopards, brown bears, alligators, even Komodo dragons—they all can and occasionally do attack and eat human beings. It’s not common, but it does happen.
That tigers are capable of attacking human beings, under the right circumstances, is beyond dispute. We may not be their preferred, or even usual prey, but that hardly means humans never serve as a source of nutrition. We are made of meat, after all. But is the tally for the Champawat Tiger, a number recorded under less-than-optimal circumstances for fact-checking, and larger than that of any other man-eater on record, actually realistic?
The number of two hundred victims in Nepal—as well as the overall tally of 436 victims—is generally cited in most scholarly works as a credible figure. Perhaps not exact, but reasonably close. This is the number cited later by Jim Corbett, the number evidently certified, tacitly or otherwise, by the colonial British government at that time, and this tally, or similar figures, are repeated by modern-day tiger researchers and tiger hunters alike. Nevertheless, there are some who initially greet the number with a fair and understandable dose of skepticism, the author of this book included. After all, few things beget exaggeration like fearsome beasts, and the Champawat Tiger’s alleged butcher bill does certainly test the limits of credulity. A few pundits have even cast doubt on whether an adult tiger could survive on a diet of humans over such an extended period of time, as the Champawat appears to have done. But even with the rough numbers at hand, the math at least does seem to check out. According to the eminent Indian tiger specialist K. Ullas Karanth, a fully grown tiger needs to kill at least one animal weighing 125 to 135 pounds every week to survive. For normal tigers, this would obviously mean a moderately sized ungulate, like a boar or a deer, every seven days at minimum. Given that the average weight of the humans the Champawat Tiger preyed upon was probably close to that range, then it is fair to say that a fully grown man-eating tiger, so long as it maintained its weekly kill schedule, could readily substitute its ungulate diet with a human one and hunt at the same rate. And if we accept that the Champawat Man-Eater was probably active for the 8 or 9 odd years Jim Corbett’s account would later suggest, then that would come out to roughly 52 kills a year over the period—resulting in a hypothetical total of between 416 and 468 human victims, a range that the purported total of 436 human victims falls easily into. It goes without saying that such figures are anything but precise—and it’s quite plausible that the Champawat still included livestock and smaller wild ungulates in its diet as well, even while feasting upon humans. But the figures do, at the very least, show that its total victim tally from Nepal and India is not at all beyond the realm of possibility for a tiger that has adopted a primarily human diet, at least from a purely statistical point of view.
Tigers, however, have never been ones to pay much heed to statistics, and in order to lend some legitimate credibility to the Champawat’s tally, particularly the more obscure Nepalese portion of it, more tangible evidence than that is needed. Indeed, there are analogous and better-documented situations we can use to show that such prolific man-eating is not quite as implausible as it sounds. Plenty of prolific man-eaters are recorded throughout the recent history of South Asia, although to find the most relevant cases, one need not stray far from the Champawat’s original hunting grounds. As recently as 1997, a 250-pound female tiger terrorized villages in the Baitadi District of Nepal, just a short drive north of the Champawat’s home turf. By the end of January of that year, the cat had already killed some 35 people; by July, that number had climbed to 50. And by November, it had added another 50 on top of that. In total, in a mere 10 months, this lone tiger was able to kill over 100 people before the government finally dispatched it. Many of its victims, sadly, happened to be juveniles and adolescents, which most likely accounts for its accelerated hunting schedule of an average of 2.5 kills per week. (One can only imagine the all but impossible challenge of trying to promote tiger conservation in a place where two to three children are being devoured by a tiger on a weekly basis.) Were this Baitadi man-eater to have continued its spree uncontested for as long as the Champawat did, haunting the edges of villages and the fringes of the forest, snatching young goatherds and women gathering firewood for the better part of a decade, it is not implausible to think that its total count could have approached a thousand.
And just across the border in India, in 2014, a tiger escaped from Jim Corbett National Park and killed ten people during a six-week rampage. That’s an average of 1.67 victims a week, over an extended period of time, in roughly the same geographic region where the Champawat once did prowl. And if there’s anything more haunting than the sheer number of victims claimed in such a short span by this contemporary cat, it’s the disarming similarity between its attacks and those of the Champawat more than a hundred years before. The first victim, a farmer in Uttar Pradesh named Shiv Kumar Singh, was found mauled in a sugarcane field, the tiger having almost certainly mistaken him for more conventional prey while he was stooped over cutting cane. The next, a young woman taking a walk at dusk—her name is not mentioned in the records—was grabbed by the neck and carried off into the trees. Not long after that, a laborer named Ram Charan went to the edge of the woods to relieve himself, only to be snatched by the tiger and dragged away, screaming for his life. His friends heard his shouts for help and discovered him lying on the ground with the flesh stripped from his thighs—he died not long after. And following the first three or four kills, which seemed to be cases of mistaken identity as the bodies were not actually eaten, the tiger finally figured out that our clawless, weak-limbed species was a fine source of protein, readily available. From then on, the tiger began eating its new prey, culminating with its final victim, an older man who was out collecting firewood in the forest when he was attacked. The tiger managed to consume part of his legs and most of his abdomen before a band of appalled shovel-wielding villagers scared it away. And in an almost eerie instance of déjà vu, this tiger too was female, it too was injured, and its appetite for human flesh also provoked a veritable whirlwind of hired hunters, elephant parties, and distraught locals—which only seemed to provoke it further.
And in both of these modern examples—the man-eater of Baitadi and the man-eater of Corbett National Park—the tigers began preying on humans for essentially the same reasons: loss of habitat, loss of prey, and injuries to their teeth or paws. Strong evidence, clearly, that a compromised tiger with a relatively dense population of vulnerable humans within its territory can and occasionally will feed on them for as long as it is able, and at a terrifying rate.
For modern examples of the actual quotidian challenges that a serial man-eater like the Champawat must have posed to nearby villages, one need not look further than Chitwan National Park—currently Nepal’s largest tiger reserve, as well as the home of rare one-horned rhinoceroses, slightly less rare leopards, and a trumpeting bevy of wild Asian elephants. Chitwan, like the vast majority of national parks and tiger reserves in Nepal and India, was once a royal hunting ground, used by the Shah and Rana dynasties over the centuries for its natural supply of tigers and elephants—both of which were considered, to varying degrees, royal property. It received national park status in 1973, when the rulers of Nepal first began diverting their efforts away from killing the once-plentiful tigers toward saving the few that still remained. Its status as hunting reserve aside, however, not a whole lot has changed over the last hundred years or so—at least not within the park itself. True, the local elephant stable, or hattisar, shuttles far more foreign tourists atop elephants these days than royal hunting parties, and tigers tend to be shot with telephoto lenses rather than Martini-Henry rifles. But beyond that, much is the same. Tharu settlements still dot the edges of the forest, villagers still graze their cattle in the trees and go into the brush seeking fodder and firewood (although not always legally), and the elephant handlers still perform puja offerings to the forest goddess before venturing into her domain. And, as one would expect in a patch of tiger forest hemmed in on all sides by people and livestock, man-eaters do occasionally appear. The methods of dealing with such tigers are nearly identical to those implemented by the Nepalese authorities of yore, complete with beaters, armed shikaris on elephant back, and even a nineteenth-century method for corralling the cats using long bolts of fabric known as the vhit-cloth technique, pioneered by the first Rana rulers—the only major difference being that tranquilizer guns are preferred to actual firearms whenever possible. If a tiger can be captured alive, the Nepalese authorities try to do so, condemning the guilty man-eater to a life sentence at the Kathmandu zoo rather than an execution. But in some cases, bullets do become a necessity, with mandates for termination coming—at least until recently—from the royal family itself.
From a statistical perspective, the research of Nepalese tiger expert Bhim Bahadur Gurung provides what is perhaps the most complete picture of how and why the Champawat began to kill humans more than a century ago. By carefully documenting and researching tiger attacks in Chitwan National Park over the course of several decades, he has essentially created an FBI-worthy profile of how wild, elusive tigers can transform under the right circumstances into serial killers. Between 1979 and 2006, 36 tigers attacked a total of 88 people. The average age of the victims was 36, although the range was wide, from a 70-year-old man killed while collecting wild grasses near the forest, to a 4-year-old girl who was attacked in her own home. Among these victims, more than half were cutting animal fodder of some kind—an activity that involved venturing into forested areas and initiating a stooped posture—and 66 percent were killed while within one kilometer of the forest’s edge, indicating that tigers were venturing out of the deep forest and hunting on the marginal zones around human settlements. Attacks increased dramatically from an average of 1.2 persons killed per year between 1979 and 1998, to 7.2 killed per year between 1998 and 2006. This rise was due largely to dramatic growth in the human population in Chitwan, from virtually zero in 1973 when the park was established (the families who had lived there were forced to resettle elsewhere), to the nearly 223,260 people living within the park’s new, expanded buffer zone by 1999.† The problem was only exacerbated by grazing restrictions that limited use of communal land, and resulted in more frequent human incursions—often illegal—into forested zones for the collection of grass and leaves to feed livestock. This is all strong evidence of the correlation between the collection of forest resources and tiger attacks, with the majority occurring in the transitional zone where human and tiger habitation overlap, inflicted upon a growing human population actively seeking feed for animals or firewood for their homes.
Even more interesting, however, is what we learn about the tigers. Sixty-one percent of the documented man-eaters occupied severely degraded habitats with low prey densities. Of the 18 problem tigers that researchers were able to examine, 10 had physical impairments like missing teeth or injured paws, with 90 percent of these impaired man-eaters also living in degraded habitats. And of the man-eating tigers that left the forest’s edge and ventured into villages—the sort of desperate behavior the Champawat too would eventually exhibit—virtually all came from degraded habitats, and all were physically impaired. Unusually aggressive non-hunting behavior was also recorded in some of these tigers, meaning they were unwilling to leave a kill even when confronted by humans atop elephants, conduct almost unheard of among normal, wild tigers in healthy habitats. Gurung attributes this aggressiveness to increased competition between tigers for limited territory, and to previous negative encounters with humans, who most likely attempted to chase tigers away from livestock kills so they could salvage the fresh meat for themselves. One of these ultra-aggressive tigers killed five people within a few minutes, and then sat beneath a tree for several hours where a sixth person was hiding, roaring and waiting for them to come down—not the sort of performance one would expect from a famously shy and elusive predator.
But this was the kind of behavior exhibited by the Champawat—an animal that was impaired, coping with a changing environment, and that had very fair reasons for being aggressive toward humans. Its pattern of killing almost certainly followed those of Chitwan’s most aggressive tigers today, as it became accustomed to hunting humans, first on its own territory in the grassy marshes and sal forests, and then later on ours, among grass-thatched huts and mud-walled houses. It would have progressed over time from chance encounters in the deep forest with woodcutters and foragers, to semi-deliberate confrontations on the forest’s edge with grass-cutters and herders, to intentioned kills on the outskirts of villages as farmers worked in their fields or walked into the brush to relieve themselves. As the research shows, the most problematic tigers—those with degraded habitats, physical impairments, and aggressive dispositions—seem to lose their fear of people altogether, and this is precisely what happened in the case of the Champawat. The human settlements that dotted the lowland terai ceased to be places of uncertainty and danger, as they were for most tigers, and instead became a veritable smorgasbord. And once that happened, a slaughter of unprecedented proportions commenced.
While statistical analysis of tiger attacks may provide a solid understanding of the underlying causes, data alone does a poor job of communicating their attendant horrors. Attacks by man-eating tigers, though rare, are exceedingly traumatic, in almost every sense of the word. The death of a loved one is always challenging for families and communities, but it becomes far more so when that cherished individual has been mauled or even completely devoured by a striped, fanged, quarter-ton cat. And again, there are contemporary examples of tiger attacks in India and Nepal that provide some idea—albeit a very unpleasant one—of what the aftermath of a wild tiger attack entails.
In the case of lethal maulings—attacks where the tiger succeeds in killing the victim, but either changes its mind or is chased away before it can feed—there is a small but extant body of medical literature on what those wounds involve. When tigers attack a human not out of self-defense, but as potential food, they generally approach the victim much as they would their usual prey of four-legged ungulates. A hunting tiger is stealthy—it approaches its target crouched low to the ground on silent, padded feet, and it waits with twitching tail until the right moment to strike. When that instant arrives, the ambush is lightning fast, and usually conducted from the side or the rear. There is sometimes an accompanying roar coincident with the initial strike—and at 114 decibels, roughly twenty-five times louder than a gas-powered lawn mower, what a roar it is. The tiger will generally use its ample claws to latch on to the prey around the flanks or shoulders, and then seek to kill it with a bite to the neck. On smaller prey, the tiger is more than capable of severing or damaging the spinal cord—its teeth are well designed to wedge between vertebrae and inflict catastrophic damage on the tender nerve tissue beneath, which it usually accomplishes quickly, and from the nape. On larger prey, tigers will knock over the animal first, then strangulate it with a choking bite to the trachea, possibly severing a jugular vein in the process. Humans generally fall into the first category, and when a tiger hunts our kind, it goes straight for the spine, although it will sometimes knock over the victim with a blow from its paws or the momentum of its body.
Such was the case of an attack that occurred in the Nagpur Division of India, and was subsequently described in Forensic Science International in 2013; an event that bears a striking resemblance to those attributed to the Champawat. The victim, a thirty-five-year-old woman, was foraging for tendu leaves in the forest with her husband and a few companions. The woman was left briefly alone while her husband scaled a tree to pluck leaves right off the branches, when shouts of “tiger, tiger” rang out through the brush. Her husband reached her just a few seconds later, and he was able to scare away the tiger by shouting and hurling stones, but it was too late—she was already dead. When her blood-soaked sari was later removed, and an autopsy performed, the examination revealed “four deep puncture wounds” on the nape of the neck resulting in a “complete laceration of the right jugulocarotid vessel” as well as “compound fractures of the C3 and C6 vertebral bodies due to through and through penetration by the canines of the tiger as a result of enormous bite force used in the killing bite at the canines.” The spinal cord at these points was “completely lacerated with multiple foci of hemorrhages.” In addition to the severed jugular and broken spine, the victim also suffered multiple deep puncture wounds from the tiger’s claws on the arms, shoulders, and torso—some almost two inches wide—as well as a fractured right clavicle and a fracture dislocation of the left sternoclavicular joint from the sheer force of the initial blow. In this case, the death was classified as “accidental,” which although true in a legal sense, doesn’t capture the purposeful nature of a tiger attack. When one sees the heart-wrenching autopsy photo of the four perfectly spaced, quarter-sized holes on the back of the victim’s broken neck, one can’t help but feel tremendous pity for the family of the unfortunate woman, and shudder at the expertise with which a tiger does its deadly work. Not malevolently, as man so often does, but naturally, with the grace and ease that 2 million years of predator evolution have bestowed upon it.
As to how the tiger can kill so effectively and quickly, we need only remind ourselves of the considerable toolkit with which the tiger is equipped. As we already know, tigers have four canine teeth that can reach close to four inches, and they have a total of ten claws on their forepaws of comparable length. This means that in the first milliseconds of a full-speed tiger attack, a human body must not only cope with a bone-fracturing impact comparable to that of a charging Spanish fighting bull, but also absorb fourteen simultaneous stiletto-deep stab wounds—four of which are usually inflicted on the back of the head or the nape of the neck. And that’s just the initial attack. If there’s any fight left in the grievously injured victim, it can usually be obliterated almost instantly with a fierce, spine-snapping shake of the head, or further flaying with all those bladed claws. Not surprisingly, survivors of actual tiger attacks are few and far between.
But they do exist. Oftentimes, victims of tiger attacks survive either because the tiger is scared away before it can finish the job, or because it is acting in a defensive manner and not a predatory one—in which case the attack is geared more toward deterrence than nutrition (although tigers have been known to eat victims even when the attack was defensive in nature). Both were likely mitigating factors in the 1974 mauling, though luckily not death, of one tiger researcher in Chitwan, Dr. Kirti Man Tamang. At the time, he was perched some fifteen to eighteen feet up in a tree—a distance considered to be safe from tiger attack—to monitor signals from a radio-collared mother tiger dubbed “Number One” by the team. What he didn’t reckon on, however, was just how protective a mother tiger can be. Fellow researchers Fiona and Mel Sunquist, who were working in Chitwan at the time of the attack, describe it in the following passage from Tiger Moon, as witnessed from atop a nearby elephant:
Kirti was moving around in the tree, pointing with the long aluminum antenna. He began to speak; then everyone heard the miaow of a young cub . . . Number One exploded out of the grass with a shattering roar. She made one leap up the tree and in a split second was on top of Kirti. He saw her coming and tried to ward her off with the antenna, but she flung it aside without noticing. She sank her claws into his thighs and buttocks and bit deeply into his leg. The force of her acceleration ripped Kirti off the branch and they both tumbled to the ground fifteen feet below . . . No one could believe what was happening. Kirti’s wife Pat repeated “Oh, my God,” over and over again, her voice rising in hysteria, but everyone else was dumb with shock. Before anyone could move the tigress charged again, her roars blasting through the silence. The elephants spun on their heels and bolted in blind panic ahead of the enraged tigress. Nothing could stop them. Equipment flew everywhere in a wild confusion of screaming and trumpeting. People clung to ropes or whatever they could find, trying not to be swept off the elephants in the headlong dash through the bushes.
The research team’s elephants may have bolted, but a battle-scarred old tusker was on hand that had participated in royal tiger hunts years ago, before they were banned. It had been trained to be fearless around tigers and had few hesitations about going back into the jungle to recover the fallen researcher before it was too late. Dr. Tamang was found to be in shock but still alive, with a “grapefruit-sized” chunk taken out of his thigh and deep claw marks raking his legs and buttocks. By tiger standards, this was a relatively mild attack—a defensive swat by a mother to deter an over-curious researcher—and yet it still cost the poor man an emergency medical flight to Kathmandu, multiple skin grafts, a nasty bacterial infection, and five full months of painful recovery.
The attack may have involved an outside researcher, but the vast majority of human–tiger conflict occurs among local populations, in the tight-knit rural communities that tend to border tiger territory. And when they do occur, there is a considerable and understandable amount of confusion, heartache, sadness, and anger. A regrettable human tragedy, no matter how you look at it. Hemanta Mishra, a Nepalese biologist with a focus on tiger conservation, was responsible for capturing a number of man-killers in Chitwan National Park, and encountered the sites of recent attacks on multiple occasions. One incident, which occurred in 1979 in the Nepalese village of Madanpur, involved a beloved local schoolteacher who was killed by a predatory bite to the neck. A crowd of villagers was able to scare the tiger away, however, and the schoolteacher’s body was saved from being carried off and eaten. After finally assuring a furious mob that he would deal with the problem—after all, the protected tigers were technically still considered government property in Nepal, just as they had been a century before—Hemanta Mishra describes the following scene:
The disfigured body of the schoolteacher was lying flat on the ground, facing upward. His mutilated face was covered with dried blood. A group of the dead man’s relatives squatted around his body, mourning the unprecedented tragedy. They were surrounded by a large crowd of villagers, silently lamenting the tragic loss of their only schoolteacher. The scene was somber, sorrowful, and silent. The aura of death hovered in the air. From a nearby hut, the wailing of the schoolteacher’s wife weeping in pain with her two children periodically broke the silence. A white blanket of cotton and a freshly cut green bamboo bier were laid next to the body. The dead man was a Hindu. His death ritual demanded that he be wrapped in the shroud of white cotton, fastened to the bamboo bier, and transported to the cremation site on the banks of a river. The scene [was] both heart wrenching and gruesome—reminiscent of a nightmarish movie.
Though shaken by what he had witnessed, and uncertain of his ability to actually capture the man-eater, Hemanta Mishra did keep his promise to the people of Madanpur—he eventually shot the responsible tiger with a tranquilizer dart and carried it via elephant to a waiting transport cage, and later, an enclosure at the Kathmandu zoo, where it lived out the rest of its days eating goat legs and chickens instead of human beings.
As disturbing as such attacks can be, the above are not the worst cases. The results can be far more gruesome when a man-eater is not scared away or interrupted before it has begun to feed. The tiger’s preferred method of feeding is to drag its fresh kill into a secluded part of the forest, feast on the meat until it can stomach no more, rest for a spell nearby, drink water, and then return to the carcass to continue feeding. It is this behavior that enables trackers to find tigers with bait—once the cat has made the kill, it will generally linger around its prey for several days—but it also means that once a body has been taken into the forest by a man-eater, it is very seldom recovered anywhere near intact. Take, for example, another of Hemanta Mishra’s accounts of surveying a kill site following a man-eater attack in Nepal in 1980, involving a cat dubbed “Tiger 118”:
Except for the skull and part of the victim’s lower leg, the tigress had eaten almost all of the man. An iron sickle glowed in the bright sun next to the victim’s toes. A Nepali topi—a kind of cap—and some bloody rags of clothing were scattered all over the kill site. With a wrenching heart, I watched the two villagers collect the remains of their relative and put them in a jute sac.
Far from being an extreme and unusually disturbing outcome, this scene is fairly typical of a full-scale man-eating event. In a scenario that bears an unsettling resemblance to the aftermath of a suicide-vest bombing, it is often only the human head and extremities that remain, scattered about a welter of blood and shredded clothing where the tiger has been feeding. And in some cases, not even that much is left. In one Amur tiger attack that occurred in the Russian Far East in 1997, virtually all that remained after a young hunter was killed in the forest was a pile of bloody clothing, a pair of empty boots, a watch, and a crucifix. The actual physical remains—a few splinters of bone and bits of flesh—could have fit in a coat pocket. One can only imagine what it is like for friends and family having to contend with the fact that their loved one is not only dead, but actually ingested by an oversized predator still at loose in the forest. And as already mentioned, in western Nepal and northern India, where both Hindu and Tharu funerary rites were closely observed, the lack of an intact body served as a spiritual sort of insult to injury, making the catastrophe that much more traumatic.
Even more traumatic still, however, is the possibility that a man-eater might return—that such a tiger may have acquired a taste for its new prey and actually begin seeking humans out on a reoccurring basis. In these instances, attacks change from chance encounters in the forest to the deliberate stalking of villagers and even predation within their homes. Man-eating leopards are more famous in India and Nepal for dragging victims from their houses, but tigers have been known to do it as well. In addition to the previously mentioned tiger attacks, Hemanta Mishra also relates in his memoirs an attack that occurred in the Madi Valley of Nepal, by a man-eating tigress known as Jogi Pothi. Like the Champawat, this tigress had ceased being an elusive, nocturnal predator and began conducting raids on the edges of villages in broad daylight. And also like the Champawat, this tiger proved extremely difficult to find or catch, as it had a knack for concealing itself immediately after a kill in nearby ravines. The houses of the villagers tended to be simple mud, wood, and thatch structures, economical but not terribly sturdy, which meant that a tiger could break in and drag its victims from their homes. This was very nearly what occurred in the village of Bankatta in 1988. A local yogi—an ostensibly celibate holy man—happened to be furtively entertaining feminine company in the wee hours of the morning when he thought he heard a knock at the door. His “guest” made the mistake of answering said door, as described in the following account:
Upon hearing the knocking sound, the jogi’s lady friend peeked through a hole in the wooden door. Shocked to see a huge tiger, she shrieked “Bagh! Bagh!” (“Tiger! Tiger!”) in terror at the top of her lungs. Her jogi consort jumped out of his bed and joined her, banging pots and pans in the hut and yelling for help. Their cries rang across the forest to the village. Equipped with axes and khukuris, Nepalese machetes, villagers rushed toward the jogi’s hut, causing the tiger to flee into a nearby ravine.
The yogi’s reputation as a holy man may have been ruined, but both his own life and that of his guest were preserved, and the tiger was scared away before it could force its way into the house and complete the kill.
If the thought of a man-eating tiger bursting through wooden doors or mud walls to drag away a sleeping victim isn’t sobering enough, there are stories of Bengal tigers braving water and currents to carry off people from their boats. In the aforementioned Sundarbans, a region famous for its unusually aggressive tigers, the cats have been known to swim out and snatch people from their vessels. Despite the mangroves being officially off-limits, locals still do enter into the protected forests to cut firewood and poach animals, activities that put them at risk from a dense population of environmentally isolated tigers with a limited food supply. Inevitably, human–tiger conflict follows. That was precisely what happened in 2014, when a sixty-two-year-old man from the village of Lahiripur set off in a boat with his two children to catch crabs on a small river in the forests of Kholakhali. In this instance, the stalking tiger leapt from the bank of the river, over the water, and into the boat, where it immediately attacked the father. The man’s son remembered the tragic attack vividly, as reported by The Times of India:
Suddenly, my sister cried out: ‘Dada, bagh (tiger)’. I was stunned, and my body froze. All I saw [was] a flash of yellow. It took me a moment to register the gruesome sight before me. My father was completely buried under the beast. I could only see his legs thrashing about. I shook off my numbness and grabbed a stick. Molina, too, took out a long cutter we use to clear foliage in the jungle. Together, we poked and battered the tiger, but it refused to give up . . . It jumped off and landed on the bank in one giant leap. We saw it disappear into the jungle with my father still in its jaws.
Indeed, tigers do not share the common house cat’s fear of water, and at times, they can even incorporate it into an attack strategy. The renowned filmmaker and tiger expert Valmik Thapar took note of how one tiger he observed in India’s Ranthambore tiger reserve had mastered the technique of chasing sambar deer into a lake, where, once they were hampered by the water, it would drag them under and kill them beneath the surface. Something similar may have occurred on a human target in the Sundarbans in 1997, when a man named Jamal Mohumad narrowly escaped a watery death. This is his version of the attack, which occurred while he was fishing:
The tiger lunged at me with its paws. It dug its claws into my legs and dragged me under the water. I struggled under the water and dived down about 10 feet under the water. The tiger let go of me. I swam deep under water as fast as I could. After a while, when I reached the surface of the water, I couldn’t see the tiger. I swam down the river for a bit and saw a boat and cried out for help.
Jamal became something of a local legend in the Sundarbans, as he was perhaps the only person on earth who had survived three—yes, three—separate predatory attacks by tigers. Despite his harrowing encounters with the animals, he would continue to venture into the forest, driven by the same need for food, firewood, and animal fodder that would have compelled the Tharu people a century before. But in the case of the Champawat, this tiger was no longer content waiting for humans to come passing by. It had begun, by the first few years of the 1900s, to leave the protection of the forest and go out looking for them, undergoing as it did so the transformation from a killer of men, to an eater of men, to an active hunter of them. And in its quest for fresh kills, it would eventually travel away from the marshy grasslands and dense sal jungles of its birth, and begin wandering northward and ever upward, into the populated hills that lay beyond.
* For those interested in a more detailed examination of documentary evidence, there is an epilogue at the end of the book which lists the various colonial records, newspaper articles, and physical artifacts that specifically mention the Champawat and provide insight into its attacks.
† While generally lauded as a landmark event in tiger conservation, the creation of Chitwan National Park involved the forced displacement of dozens of indigenous Tharu families who had called the central forest home—a traumatic event that continues to haunt the Tharu communities that live today on the edge of Chitwan’s buffer zone. There has been some progress in terms of giving the Tharu access to the central forest for the traditional gathering of food, fodder, and building materials, although it is highly restricted, and continues to be a source of friction between the Tharu community and park officials.
