COCHIN TO SHILLONG - FOR THE PRICE OF A PITH HELMET.

So come April and the Cochin box was opened…initially I bristled and
struggled somewhat, ascertaining from their skin colour that these Runners
were again foreigners, worse yet - ‘Englishmen’. Exactly the same type who had hunted, killed and stuffed my great great great grandfather Manisattam Maharaj Sherji and killed and made a rug out of my great great great great grandaunt Maneka Durgeshwar Sher-rani. To put it mildly, I had several bones to pick. But I didn’t want to act straight away. There was an adventure afoot, after all.

The bad old days.

So anyway, a few days later and there I was tied to the top of this rickshaw
called the ‘Great Balls of Fur’ and I had no option but to listen to their prattle and
chattering. I soon found out that they were driving that ridiculous noisy thing
all the way to Shillong. My ears perked right up. For it had always been my
dream to journey to the east, to see for myself the vast territories inhabited by
distant cousins in the Sunderbans and other mighty jungles. This Shillong was
roughly in that neck of woods – so ‘Ahoy!’. Or do they say that only on ships?

All furred up - just what you need in the tropics.

Now to let you in on big secret. The team members of ‘Great Balls of Fur’ on Day
Two began to discuss something that might have thrown a big spanner in my
works. Turns out that they were greatly concerned about my welfare (me being
king of jungle and liking my own space – lots and lots of it, in fact – and they
were concerned if I could quite cope with the noise and busyness of Indian roads,
towns and cities). They even untied my knots in an attempt to release me back
in the wilds. This wouldn’t do, of course. I simply HAD to go to Shillong. I HAD to satisfy that wanderlust.

All the gear for a spot of adventuring.
So then, how did I go from being tentative member of team ‘Great Balls of Fur’ to sure shot mascot? Simple. Bribery. Late at night I got off from the top of the shaw and ran the miles back to Ranthambore. Buried under a banyan tree was a treasure that my great, great grand uncle stole from the Englishman who had
come to hunt him down (and who he subsequently mauled and ate – but that again is an aside). I took it out and took it back to the rickshaw. The next day they found it. The smile stayed on their faces for days to come. One of them wore it all through the Rickshaw Run – an original pith Helmet with maker’s label, Size 6, Wheathampstead 1941 with Broad Arrow stamp. He may not have looked as
cute as the chewed up British general who owned it first – but that’s something
he’d never know – and just as well, because we all know none of our family can
resist a tasty morsel.