The Right Hand of God

Of all Good family folklore, the story of the Chital and the tiger is greatest.

It begins with great grandfather being asked to track and kill an injured tiger that, given its condition, had started to attack field workers.

After attempting to track the tiger in the area with little success he decided the best chance of subduing it was to kill a Chital and place it in a clearing that the tiger was known to frequent.

So for maybe a week that’s what he did. But keeping awake through the night was both a struggle and highly dangerous. So he decided to enlist the help of my Grandfather and one of my Great Uncle’s whose job it would be to climb a tree and wait out of sight - and awake.

Great grandfather knew that the scent of humans was considerable, so cut the belly of the Chital to release its blood and offal hoping it would distract the tiger long enough to get a shot off.

So there one night they were. The Chital in the clearing, great grandfather sitting at the base of the tree, and grandfather and my great uncle up in the tree. As the hours passed my great grandfather told his sons to stay awake so that he could hopefully get a few hours himself. And this is where the story truly unfolds.

While great grandfather dozed in and out of consciousness at the base of the tree, both my grandfather and great uncle had completely fallen asleep. By early dawn the tiger had caught the scent of the Chital and eventually started circling it. Great grandfather, opening his eyes slightly, saw the tiger and positioned his gun slowly between his legs.

And then it happened.

When my great grandfather moved, the tiger immediately noticed, and despite being interested in the Chital, thought Great grandfather a threat. It was then, within seconds, that one of the greatest occurrences in family history happened.

The tiger leapt for my great grandfather from some 15 feet away wholly in the air. He could only watch as 3 metres and 240 kilograms came flying at him in one of the most terrifying displays of nature.

Everything froze as if in slow motion. Great grandfather pulled the trigger of the gun between his legs and the tiger’s right paw struck him on the side of the head. He would be thrown some 20 feet to his left, the tiger would lay slumped at the base of the tree, a bullet through its throat.

Despite being mauled by a tiger, great grandfather’s first reaction was to lambaste my grandfather and great uncle. After that he had to be taken back to the house out of his senses and mauled, some two hours away.

My grandfather never knew how his dad got that shot away, but I’ve always contended that it was sublime timing. No skill or mastery, just luck.

Or so the story goes.