The Trogon of Creekpore - A Short Story

The Trogon of Creekpore is a short story about the journey of a bird-watcher, looking for the Malabar Trogon, into the wild forest of Creekpore, and his encounters therein.

I have reproduced, in the post below, only the first section of the story. 

You can read the full story by downloading the pdf document from here.

The Trogon of Creekpore - A Short Story

"Tomorrow, early morning, you must go inside the forest, sir. You will get to see rainbow birds," the owner of the lodge, Tiptop Forest Villa, said to me. I was peering through my binoculars at eventide, standing on the lodge's veranda, hoping to snatch glimpses of a few native birds.

"Rainbow birds?? What are these rainbow birds, Suhas?"

"Oh, I mean, birds of all colours of the rainbow. Birds with many colours of the rainbow - each body part, from beak to plumage to tail, of a different colour. And you'll find them as happy as the rainbow smiling in its reflection in the pond. And twittering as cheerfully as the young lover sitting under a rainbow and singing an ode to the beloved."

Damn this poor man's William Wordsworth. "Will I get to see the Malabar Trogon, Suhas? I am quite keen to see it."

"Why not, sir? Not only the Trogon, you will also get to see the Pied Hornbill, Tawny Eagle, Heart-spotted Woodpecker, Pied Kingfisher, White-rumped Shama and numerous other birds. Birds here are not shy. You will find them foraging, preening, calling and generally going about their chores, all on the most easily visible branches. The privacy of foliage is not for the birds of Creekpore."

"Quite unabashed, eh?"

"Very much, sir."

I am not an ornithologist, but I am no mug either. I had done enough bird-watching in life to know that Suhas was talking through his hat. An inveterate marketer of Creekpore that he was. I didn't let my thoughts manifest themselves through my body language. Travelling teaches you that. On every journey I have encountered fraudsters and blatherers, importuning me to shell out hard cash for all kinds of experiences. Sometimes they get the better of me. Well, we live and we learn. And we travel to learn, don't we? 

"Does the forest department provide guides, Suhas?"

"Ramesh is there. But he is a scoundrel. He is often found in the ditches, drunk. There are also murmurs that he leads villagers looking for fine wood to the best groves and also steals eggs from the nests of endangered species to sell them."

"Appalling, Suhas. That's appalling. Is there no other fellow? Why doesn't the forest department take action against this rascal?"

"Sir, this place is still being discovered. Not many bird-watchers come here to justify having more than one full-time guide on the rolls. As for taking action against Ramesh, sir, he has never been caught red-handed nor has anybody formally complained against him."

"So, I will have to wander in this wild forest with a crook? No, Suhas, no." I shook my head. "You come with me."

"Ramesh is good as a guide. He knows the forest and avifauna well. Never harmed or gypped a tourist. Well, at least, not yet, sir." He smiled impishly. "Besides, I cannot leave the property tomorrow. Most of the staff will be attending an election rally in a village thirteen miles from here. The local politician has paid them well. So I could not deny them permission, sir. They will be leaving early morning."

"Good Lord! What a place this is. Where have I come?"

"It's a tip-top place, sir." He smiled and left to make arrangements for tea.

I had made my acquaintance of Suhas on an online travel forum. He pestered me for over six months to visit his lodge. He would rhapsodise about the fecundity of the jungle and how effortless the sightings at Creekpore were. It was my avarice for sighting and photographing exotic birds that made me accept his offer. And there I was, meeting Suhas for the first time in person and already wondering whether I had acted wisely.

Creekpore is a hamlet at the edge of the eponymous forest. Twenty-five years ago it was deep within the forest. Today, it is outside it - without having moved an inch! When you drive from the nearest railhead, a bust of Sir Anthony Creek is all that exists to announce the arrival of the hamlet. Tiptop Forest Villa was once the official residence of Sir Anthony Creek, a naturalist and an officer in the Imperial Forestry Services.

After dinner, the staff lit a bonfire, under a sky that resembled a sequinned black-saree. Suhas came up to me, beaming. "I have spoken to Ramesh, sir. Have sternly warned him not to drink tonight. He promised he would be here at 6:30 AM, fresh as the morning dew." 

"All right, Suhas, I take your word. But if this blighter does not turn up or should I find him tipsy, I shall wander into the yonder forest all by myself. If I am not back by the lunch hour, do send a search party. I may get lost, become a leopard's lunch or die of a snakebite. Whatever fate befalls me, inform my wife of it, will you?"

"The resident Devi of Creekpore will protect you, sir. People of all religions in these sylvan parts revere the Goddess. No harm will come. Trust me. Not in my fifteen years of living here have I seen or heard of any disturbing incident. Well, at least, not yet, sir!" Another impish smile.

I snorted and left shaking my head.

#

You can read the rest of the story by downloading the pdf document from here.

Copyright © Maneesh Goal. All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: This story is entirely a piece of fiction. All names, characters, places, descriptions and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Resemblance to any actual person, place or incident is mere happenstance.

Hullabaloo in Mulund

This is an interesting story, inspired by a real-life incident, which I was narrating to a few friends yesterday. The incident occurred in a place where yours truly has roosted all his life - Mulund, a suburb in north-east Mumbai, and which abuts the Sanjay Gandhi National Park, a place pullulating with wildlife - including leopards (panthera pardus). 

Many summers ago, a leopard, bored with his quotidian life, blithely sauntered into the main bazaar area of Mulund and took up residence inside a shop in the dead of night - managing to steal in to the premises through a gap in the roofing. Next morning when the shopkeeper arrived, he saw that the jumble of cotton sheets he had placed in a corner the previous day was alive and heaving. Thinking that the thing alive underneath was a domestic cat, that regular trespasser on his premises, he pulled the sheets and screamed 'Ho!' at the denuded animal. In two shakes of a lamb's tail the hapless fellow was out on the street, all of a doodah - his breathing stertorous, eyes about to fall off their sockets, and limbs flailing like a semaphore to catch the public's attention. Shortly the leopard presented himself before the public, looking amused as he tried to ascertain the reason for the commotion. Being an intelligent animal, he surmised that, perhaps, the public was expecting him to perform some acrobatic feats. Always eager to oblige discerning viewers, he started leaping from roof to roof, pausing only to snarl and display the immaculate dental architecture inside his mouth. A pandemonium ensued in the bazaar, some people clutched at their throats like stage actors and screamed, others simply ran for their lives. One chappie, however, demonstrating admirable presence of mind, rang for the forest officials. The party of forest guards & officials arrived half an hour later, and it took them another five hours to trap the leopard.

The shopkeeper, I am told, was never the same man again. After a few weeks of the incident, he folded his tent and retired to his ancestral village to ponder over the meaning of life.