To the Elephant Graveyard. Tarquin Hall

and I would hate to put you in a difficult position,’ I said. ‘At the very least, I’d like to come up to Sonitpur. After all, I have come all the way from Delhi to be here.’

      The hunter nodded his head in agreement.

      ‘By all means come,’ he replied. ‘It will be very educational for you. I must warn you, though, that it will be rough. You’ll be sleeping outside, the food will be basic and you’ll have to help out in the camp. Everyone mucks in. You will be required to cook and clean up, and you may even have to do some hard manual labour.’

      Though Mr Choudhury didn’t know it, this was exactly the kind of experience I was looking for. After years of eating junk food and sitting at a desk, some honest physical work would do me good. But I was taken aback when he asked me if I smoked.

      ‘Just a few a day,’ I said casually. ‘I’ve cut down a lot recently and . . .’

      The hunter was shaking his head in disapproval.

      ‘No smoking. Elephants have an acute sense of smell. They don’t like cigarettes.’

      ‘Right, no smoking,’ I said, wondering how I would survive.

      Did I drink?

      ‘Well, one or two . . . you know, just sometimes . . . the odd glass of beer . . .’ I felt almost apologetic.

      One look told me that I would be off the sauce for a while.

      ‘Right, no drinking,’ I sighed out loud.

      ‘And one last thing, from now on, don’t use any deodorant.’

      No deodorant? Banning fags and booze was one thing, but surely my Right Guard was harmless stuff? Or perhaps he found my brand offensive. Did he, like an elephant, have an acute sense of smell?

      ‘It’s a small detail, but it could be your undoing. An elephant will pick up its scent a mile off,’ he added. ‘And it might attract the unwanted attention of the rogue. He would be less than friendly.’

      Then Mr Choudhury stood up, muttering that he had lots to organize before his departure.

      ‘That settles it then. I will pick you up at your hotel at eight o’clock tonight. Please bring as few belongings as possible.’

      I thanked him for his time and turned towards the door. But just then, he called me back. Reaching into the drawer of his desk he pulled out a book, a reprint of P. D. Stracey’s Elephant Gold, the standard work on the Asian elephant in Assam.

      ‘Here, I would like to give you this,’ he said, and with that, taking up his fountain pen, he wrote an inscription on the title page, which he attributed to the legendary fifth-century Assamese sage Palakapya, who is said to have been born from an elephant.

      It read:

      Where there is duty, there is nobility.

      Where there are elephants, there is victory.

      On my way back to the hotel, my head was spinning. How could someone like Mr Choudhury, who seemed so kindly, shoot elephants? Had he grown so used to hunting animals that one more didn’t make any difference? Or did he just need the money? Judging by the state of his shop, the rifle and ammunition business was hardly booming. The bounty of 50,000 rupees, the equivalent of roughly six hundred pounds, would go a long way in Assam. And there was the ivory to consider. The two tusks would be worth a fortune on the world market if they could be smuggled out of India – enough to set someone up for life.

      It took less than twenty minutes to reach my hotel. The foyer was packed with Congress Party politicians and workers holding their annual regional meeting. The bigwigs, those who professed to be carrying on the work of the Mahatma, were all dressed in white homespun pyjamas, a uniform that had once stood for humility in the days when India’s freedom fighters had identified with the common man. Now, it was synonymous with corruption and was worn by pot-bellied men with generous double chins. Somehow, I found it hard to imagine these individuals putting the Mahatma’s example of abstinence into practice.

      The Congressmen jostled for the attention of the lone man behind the reception desk. He had been landed with the jobs of telephone operator, receptionist, concierge, occasional bellboy – he had helped me with my bags – and cashier. Looming over the Congressmen I successfully caught his attention. His name was Rishi. It said so on his name-tag.

      ‘You had a call, sir,’ he said, beaming at me as he pushed my room key over the counter and tried to grapple with two telephones at the same time.

      ‘Oh really, who from?’

      He rummaged behind the desk, getting the lines twisted, and handed me a message. It was from a ‘Mr Banerjee, Ministry of Sports’.

      I licked my top lip as I studied the slip of paper, noticing that my first name had been spelt ‘Fartquin’.

      ‘What does he want, this Mr Banerjee?’ I asked Rishi, as he tried to fend off an irate Congressman who was complaining that he didn’t have a room with a view.

      ‘He’s heard that you are a professional goalkeeper and is coming to meet with you.’

      ‘A goalkeeper!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m not a . . .’

      Then, with a sinking feeling, I suddenly remembered what had happened that morning.

      Upon my arrival at Guwahati airport, I had been required to register myself at Passport Control. The aggressive bureaucrat behind the desk had handed me a form to complete that asked for all the usual details: passport number, date of birth, country of origin and so on.

      As a foreigner in a land that thrives on paperwork and bureaucracy, I was forever filling in such forms. Indian hotels always wanted to know everything about me, usually in triplicate. Sometimes, to amuse myself, I would give a false name, and I often added an out-of-the-way occupation like ‘Brain Surgeon’ or ‘Concert Pianist’ for good measure.

      On this occasion I had scrawled ‘Goalkeeper’ and had handed the completed form back to the man. He had examined it carefully, checking the facts with those in my passport.

      ‘Goalkeeper?’ he exclaimed. ‘That is no occupation.’

      I shrugged my shoulders.

      ‘Yes it is. I’m a goalkeeper,’ I replied, deadpan.

      ‘You mean you are a player of soccer?’

      ‘Yes,’ I confirmed, and then I overstepped the mark. ‘I play for Manchester United.’

      He returned his attention to the form, crossed out ‘Goalkeeper’ and inserted ‘Soccer Player, Manchester Unlimited’.

      In the end, all the fuss was worth it. He soon produced an ink pad and banged an Assam entry stamp on to an empty page in my passport. This was an unexpected and welcome bonus and I thanked him heartily, leaving the airport delighted. I had a new addition to my visa collection, and a rare one at that.

      Nevertheless, it seemed as if my bluff had been called. The bureaucrat at the airport had obviously rung the Ministry of Sports and tipped them off. Now this Mr Banerjee was coming to the hotel.

      Perhaps the airport official was still suspicious and wanted someone to check my credentials. I imagined myself having to prove my mettle against an Assamese striker on some Guwahati football pitch. Or perhaps Mr Banerjee wanted me to come and coach his team or even play in a game. If that were to happen, I would be unmasked as a fraud and, in such a sensitive part of India, rife with insurgency and drug smuggling, my innocent joke might be interpreted as something more sinister.

      Whatever the case, I felt certain of one thing: Mr Banerjee would want to talk about soccer and all I knew about the game was that England had only once won the World Cup. I couldn’t even remember in which year.

      Up in my room, I tried to decide the best course of action. I had three hours to kill. If I remained in the hotel, I was a sitting duck. After a quick shower I slipped out. With any luck, Mr Banerjee would call while I was out, and later