The Tiger's Whiskers

Shanta Bahadur Malla looked at his only son with a sternness that hid the pride he felt.

“You have got to be attentive to what society will say about you,” he said.  “You will be known as an idle bum.”

Sher Bahadur was tempted to tell his father what he thought about society in rather blunt terms, but curbed himself and replied, “I don’t care about what society says.”

“And what about us, your parents?” his father wanted to know.  “We will earn a bad name for having brought you up wrongly.”

“There is nothing wrong with me.  I don’t think we need to prove anything to anyone,” protested Sher Bahadur.

“But I do, and your mother does,” his father came back.  “We will not discuss this matter any further.  You will go to town tomorrow and join my brother.  I am too old, and it is time you took over.”

Sher Bahadur recognized the finality in his father’s tone, and knew better than to argue any more.  His parents had been hounding him for months to go join his uncle, who was running a jungle resort.  Shanta Bahadur and his younger brother had been partners in the business for several years.  Shanta Bahadur had decided he wanted to slow down and pass on the mantle to his son after his recent sixtieth birthday.  He was supported strongly in this decision by his wife, a woman of small build and soft hands, mild manners and gentle words, and a titanium backbone.  She strongly felt that it was time her husband finally gave her some quality time.  She also hoped that her son would find a suitable bride when he was away.  She had been nagging him about it—subtly, she imagined—for some time now.

A defeated Sher Bahadur strode off into the dense forest carpeting the mountains behind his family estate in western Nepal.  Bhaladmi, his loyal Tibetan mastiff, trotted out behind him.  Bhaladmi was always eager for a chance to go out and mix it up with some worthy opponent if the opportunity presented itself.

Sher Bahadur was hot and steaming; the early-morning December weather was cold and clammy.  He walked briskly at first, but the cold crept into him in an insidious way, slithering into his body and his soul and his mood. He had regained much of his equanimity—which was not anything to writ to Guinness about anyway—by the time he reached his favorite spot on the banks of the foaming Karnali River.  He sat down at the base of a tree and stretched out his legs.  Bhaladmi lay down with his head on his master’s lap and Sher Bahadur scratched him behind the ears.

They were an odd couple—this man and his dog.  Sher Bahadur translates from Nepali as “tiger brave”: this he was, reasonably so.  Bhaladmi means “gentleman” and he was anything but.  In his early twenties, Sher Bahadur was a sturdy man, tall for a Nepali—about five feet eleven inches.  He had a fleshy face with slit eyes under curly hair that was not amenable to administrations with gel, cream, oil, comb or brush.  He had a thin mouth under a thin moustache.  He was quick to smile and quick to anger, and when in a temper feared no man—except his father.

Bhaladmi was typical of his breed—huge of body, with black fur except for brown rings around his eyes and brown splashes under his maw, on his legs, and on his rump.  The five-year-old dog had a head the size of a modest pumpkin, and a lack of equanimity that was probably worth writing to Guinness about.  Tibetan mastiffs are known to be fearless, but Bhaladmi was made of even sterner stuff.  He feared neither god nor man—except his master.

He had been gifted as a month-old pup to the Mallas by a wandering Tibetan monk, who had been so gentle of manner that the Mallas named the dog Bhaladmi to honor him.  The dog had grown up to make a mockery of the name.  It was like giving the name Daffodil to the Incredible Hulk.

Sher Bahadur ran his fingers along a hole in the dog’s right ear.  It was a memento from a scrap with a leopard two years ago.  The canine had fought the feline to a standstill; the feline had retired out of sheer bafflement, like Dracula withdrawing from a piece of garlic stuck in the throat he had just bit into.

“I suppose I will have to go tomorrow, Bhaladmi,” said Sher Bahadur.  The dog raised his head and lazily moved his bushy tail.

“You will be happy when I am gone, I guess,” teased Sher Bahadur.  The dog wagged his tail harder.

“Well, let’s go back,” sighed Sher Bahadur.

The next day, he was driven to his uncle’s house in town by Rudra, his father’s ancient Man Friday.  Rudra’s tired old limbs creaked when he moved.  It was a three-hour drive in their ancient Land Cruiser.  All the tired old parts of the Land Cruiser creaked.  His uncle was away at the resort; his aunt and her two daughters gave him a warm welcome.

Sher Bahadur went out for a walk after an hour of catch-up-on-the-latest-news and a hearty lunch. 

In the main market square of the town, his attention was caught by a man on a horse who was making an announcement through a megaphone.  He edged nearer to the man on the horse.

“Hear, folks,“ yelled the man, “Bhajange Raja Rudra Bikram Singh announces his intention to marry off his daughter.  If you are an unmarried Thakuri of sound body and mind, of age between 25 and 30, you are invited to the palace.  The first Thakuri to pass three tests at the Raja’s palace will win the princess’s hand.”

Bhajange Raja means king of Bajhang, Sher Bahadur’s district in Nepal.  Thakuris are semi-aristocratic, feudal landlords and warriors.  They are very touchy about their heritage, honor, and valor.  Sher Bahadur Malla was a Thakuri.
         
Sher Bahadur ruminated for a while.  He thought of his mother.  Even as he was leaving home that morning, she had advised him to keep an eye out for a suitable girl. 

“Remember,” she had said.  “She must be of the right caste and from the right family.”

He thought he would surprise his mother, and he went over to the “palace”, actually a very large mansion that had probably been grand and lively a century ago.  He was led into a small room full of mirrors, chandeliers, and antique furniture, and given a seat at a table facing an imposing old man in a resplendent uniform of indeterminable affiliation.  The old man had a lean craggy face, deeply wrinkled and browned. He questioned Sher Bahadur at length about his family lineage and other issues.

The introductions over, his interrogator sat back in his chair and looked at him keenly.  “Are you ready for the tests?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Sher Bahadur nervously.  “What are the three tests?”

“Well,” said the old man.  “You will first be led to a room where there is a large jug of local brew on a table.  You have to empty the jug, without spilling a drop, in five minutes.  You have to wait half an hour, then you will be led to a second room.”

Sher Bahadur gaped at the old man.  “The second room?” he stammered.

“Yes, the second room.  You go through the first into the second room.  It contains an old tiger, well past his prime.  He has very few teeth or claws left.  You will have to approach him and pluck out his whiskers.”

“What?” Stunned, Sher Bahadur stared at the old man.  “A live tiger?”

“Yes, a live tiger,” said the old man, looking offended.  “What’s the matter, are you afraid?  I thought you were a Thakuri?”

Sher Bahadur drew himself up immediately.  “Of course I am a Thakuri, and of course I am not afraid of an old tiger.  What is the third test?”

“After you are finished with the tiger, you go on to a third room, where you will find an old woman, much older than the tiger.  She has absolutely no teeth and no claws.  You must have sex with her.”

Sher Bahadur was speechless.  He was not sure which sounded worse, the tiger or the old woman.  He fancied the tiger, though.  He was an experienced hunter, but a virgin.

“I warn you, though,” said the old man.  “We have had many aspirants.  Most of them ran away after hearing about the tests.  Some of them went through the first test.  A very few ventured into the tiger’s room, and none lasted more than a minute there.  Do you think you are up to it?  If you don’t think so, you can leave now.”

Sher Bahadur hesitated for a nanosecond, and then asserted himself.  “Well, I am game,” he said firmly.

The old man nodded and rose.  He led Sher Bahadur out of the room and down a long corridor to the rear of the palace.  He opened a door and stood aside.

Sher Bahadur entered.  There was an old table with a large covered jug on it.  A single stool stood to the side.

The old man pointed at the jug.  “You must drink it all in five minutes.  Half an hour after you finish, you will be told to enter that door there.”  He pointed at another door in the wall to the right and continued, “You will find a tiger inside.  You must pull out his whiskers.  There is another door on the opposite wall in that room.  You must enter that door after you have finished with the tiger.  You will find an old woman, and you must have intercourse with her.

Is there anything you wish to say before I leave?”

Sher Bahadur shook his head.  He desperately wished Bhaladmi was with him.

The old man said, “I remind you once again.  Get whiskers of tiger in the next room.  Have sex with the old woman in the third room.  I wish you good luck,” and left, closing the door behind him.

Sher Bahadur decided he wanted to get this over with fast.  He strode to the table and took the lid off the jug.  He hefted it.  He sniffed at the transparent, viscous hooch in it.  A strong aroma that was suggestive of pungent fermented rice made his eyes water.

He moved over to the stool and sat on it.  He closed his eyes and took a tentative gulp of the jug’s contents.  The hooch trickled down his throat like fire along a petrol trail, working its way down, and settled in his belly like a load of glowing embers.

He decided that hesitation meant failure.  He took down several gulps, and waited a while for the lava flow down his throat to subside, then gulped down the jug’s contents.

As he sat there on the stool, he felt the brew getting to him.  He could feel the heat from the embers in his belly spread all over him.  He began to sweat.  He could feel the heat engulf his brain in a befuddling fog, and he began to think about the tiger that awaited him.  Just a little tiger, an overgrown cat, he told himself.  I can tear off his balls if I need to, so what is the big deal about … what do I have to do?  Yeah, just pull out his whiskers.  I don’t need Bhaladmi for this.  And after that there is the old woman.  She will be no problem at all.  I have to…

The door leading out of the room opened, and the old man peeped in.  “Your half hour is up, and it is time for you to move,” he said.

Sher Bahadur got to his feet and moved toward the inner door with the precise steps of a drink—maybe more than one—too many.  He opened the door, and looked into a bare room, at the far corner of which he could make out an old tiger, which seemed to be startled to see him.  He whistled at it, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The old man stood outside the open door to the first room in the company of four sturdy guards.  He expected Sher Bahadur’s shout for help any instant, and his men were ready to rush in and rescue the young man.  Over the last several days, they had bailed out several young men—none of whom, fortunately, had been more than scratched.

The old man raised his eyebrows as five minutes went by, then ten.  He was beginning to get seriously worried, and was about to command his men to go in, when they heard small sounds coming from the inner room.  It sounded like the tiger was snarling, and Sher Bahadur was saying something to it.

The noise built up fast.  Soon the tiger was roaring; to their surprise, it sounded also like it was whimpering every so often.  Sher Bahadur’s was also yelling, but they could not make out what he was saying: if indeed he was saying anything coherent.  Every now and then, he seemed to be making distinct cooing noises.

The racket peaked to some kind of crescendo. There were several heavy thumps and grunts.  After almost forty minutes, the noise slowly died down.  The silence that followed was deafening in its contrast.

The door to the inner room opened.  Sher Bahadur, scratched and bleeding all over, staggered out.  His clothes were in rags, and he looked like he had been absorbed into a vacuum cleaner and spit out.  He was buttoning up his pants as he came out.

They could see the tiger through the open door behind him.  It lay supine on the floor; they wondered if it was dead until they saw it twitch its tail.

Sher Bahadur stared blearily at them, and slurred a question.

“Where is the old woman whose whiskers I have to pull out?”