To the Elephant Graveyard. Tarquin Hall

Mr Choudhury put his arm around him and whispered a few kind words, while other members of the family stepped forward to console him. It took the old man some time to regain his composure.

      ‘The elephant swung him against that tree until there was hardly anything left,’ he continued, his voice now barely audible. ‘Finally, it dropped him on the ground . . .’ The old man paused for a moment to hold back his tears and then continued. ‘The animal raised one foot and brought it down on my son’s head.’

      A sudden silence fell over the place, broken intermittently by sobs. I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, uneasily digesting this story, trying to reconcile the image of the mad, murdering rogue with my own mental picture of elephants gently grazing and splashing in watering-holes.

      Save for a few details, the old man’s story was very similar to that told by Monimoy in Das’s Guwahati office. It seemed the farmer had been telling the truth.

      Mr Choudhury was once again kneeling on the ground, examining the footprints in the soil.

      ‘The rogue escaped that way,’ he said to me, pointing to the north. ‘See where the fence is broken again over there. He stayed here for some time before leaving. His tracks move over here.’

      He followed the footprints around the compound like Sherlock Holmes on the trail of a promising clue. Mole and I tagged along behind him like a couple of confused and ignorant Watsons. At length, he stopped in front of an overturned plastic barrel lying by a fence.

      ‘Well, what do we have here? Hmm, let’s look at this.’ He gestured for us to come closer.

      I helped him lift the barrel and place it the right way up. Near its base, we could see that the thick plastic was punctured by a large round hole.

      ‘Yes, just as I thought,’ said the hunter. ‘There’s no doubt about it. This shows that this elephant is an alcoholic tusker.’

      ‘An alcoholic? What on earth do you mean?’ I asked.

      Mr Choudhury paused and his face broke into a smile. Patiently, he explained that the villagers had been making bootleg liquor.

      ‘That’s what was in the barrel. Look at the hole. He’s pierced it with his tusk.’

      Mole and I examined the container again more carefully.

      ‘This elephant is a heavy drinker, amongst other things,’ concluded Mr Choudhury. ‘Elephants love alcohol, particularly the rice wine these people make. They can smell it from miles away and they often break down houses to steal it.’

      I learned later that such raids are extremely common. Every year across the subcontinent marauding elephants regularly go out for a night on the razzle, consuming hundreds of gallons of home-made booze. In Bengal, a wild herd recently invaded a military base, tearing down electric fences to get at the soldiers’ supply of rum. As the distraught troops looked on, the elephants broke off the tops of dozens of bottles and guzzled the contents. While in southern India, a wild elephant attacked an off-licence, and was seen heading into the jungle with a case of whisky tucked under his trunk.

      As with humans, drink seems to influence the animals in a variety of ways, depending on their character. Some turn rowdy, most simply stagger around belching, and many have been seen nursing hangovers. The experts cannot tell whether elephants drink for the taste or for the effect. But bootleg liquor, which is often laced with methyl alcohol, does the animals little good, causing severe damage to their internal organs.

      Mr Choudhury was now back on the trail, reconstructing the crime and muttering to himself as he scanned the ground for signs and clues.

      ‘He got hold of the barrel, punctured it with a tusk and drank its contents. This is a very clever and dangerous elephant. But why kill the man? There has to be something more.’

      Before I could say anything, he was off again, walking briskly along the elephant’s trail. He climbed over the broken fence and into the paddy-field beyond, surveying the ground. Mole and I followed. After a mile or so, he suddenly stopped.

      ‘Yes, look at his tracks. Do you see?’

      The earth was soft and the huge round footprints were clearly defined.

      ‘Sure, we see them,’ said Mole.

      ‘No, look very closely,’ said Mr Choudhury. ‘Usually an elephant’s back feet fall where the front feet have already walked. See his prints. His back foot falls off to the side.’

      ‘So he’s lame,’ guessed Mole.

      ‘Perhaps,’ concluded the hunter. ‘Most probably, he has been wounded, maybe by an arrow. That helps explain why he’s so angry.’

      ‘You can tell all that by just looking at some footprints?’ I asked.

      Mole looked equally impressed by his colleague’s deductive powers. But the hunter didn’t acknowledge my question. Instead he muttered, ‘I have to check one more thing,’ and knelt down on the ground in front of one of the deepest footprints. Taking a measuring tape from his jacket, he laid it around the circumference of the impression.

      ‘You can calculate an elephant’s height by doubling the circumference of its foot, man,’ explained Mole, pleased to show off some of his knowledge.

      Mr Choudhury read from the tape. It was four and a half feet long which made the animal about nine foot tall. He took the proclamation order printed with the elephant’s description from his shirt pocket. A quick glance confirmed that the height matched that of the wanted rogue.

      ‘That seems proof enough that this is our man, or rather our elephant,’ he said as he cast his eye along the tracks that led over the fields to distant green jungle. ‘And I believe I have a very good idea where we are likely to find him.’

      With that, he turned and headed back towards the scene of the crime, deep in thought. I hurried after him.

      ‘What kind of elephant is this?’ I asked. ‘Why has he done all these terrible things?’

      ‘He’s definitely dangerous. There’s no question about it. But we must find out whether he’s a genuine rogue or not,’ said Mr Choudhury. ‘Some of the elephants sanctioned for execution by the government are just bad-tempered, sick or injured animals. If you give them time, they’ll eventually calm down and go back into the jungle.’

      The hunter explained that elephants periodically suffer from a strange and little-understood condition called musth, a period of psychological disturbance associated with sexual maturity and desire. During this time, they excrete a sticky substance from their temporal glands which runs down their cheeks.

      ‘Many elephants turn dangerous and disobedient,’ said Mr Choudhury. ‘It lasts about three months. Then they calm down and become quite placid again.’

      According to the hunter, a genuine rogue was an elephant turned man-killer. Although rare, the Assamese have a name for such an animal – goonda.

      ‘Once in a while, a real goonda comes along,’ he said. ‘If we are dealing with such an elephant, then nothing can be done for him.’

      ‘Surely, he could be put in a zoo or a wildlife sanctuary,’ I said.

      ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said the hunter. ‘It would be too dangerous for the general public. Killing him would be the only humane thing to do.’

      Preparations were soon underway for the funeral of the crushed victim. The body was carried into the cottage where it was washed and prepared for cremation. An hour or so later, wrapped in a white cotton cloth, it was placed on a stretcher constructed from bamboo and carried into the front garden where the rituals began.

      In front of the cottage, I stood by the gate, watching a Hindu pandit, or priest, recite holy mantras while the family scattered rose petals over the shrouded body. Six male relatives then picked up the stretcher, lifted it up on to their shoulders and carried it into the lane. With the priest in the lead, the solemn procession wound its way through the village past kindly