Chapter XVII: Of Beast Fights

All nature fights. We are nowadays familiar with false phrases such as "unnatural strife" and the like, used in denunciation of one of the central instincts of life, but at heart we acknowledge that war is always natural to man and beast. The next best thing to fighting is to see others fight, says the experience of the world, and India has travelled a well-worn track in its enjoyment of fighting as a spectacle. English readers are already familiar with accounts of the gladiatorial displays and beast fights of the Emperor Akbar and of the Nawab Hyder Ali and Tippoo Sahib. There are many allusions in popular sayings and legends, and in the chronicles of native states, to wager fights between man and man, man and beast, and beast and beast, which show how popular and widespread the practice was. In a comparison between the arenas of old Rome and those of India the latter would come poorly off by reason of the inferiority of Orientals in the faculty of organisation, but in spite of details left to chance and an imperfect _mise en scène_, the Indian shows had much in common with the Roman displays, and the spirit and intention were the same. Wild animals are easily obtained here, and both Princes and people are greedy of sensations, so that it is natural that an arena for beast fights should become a regular appanage of a princely court. Lut'f'ullah in his interesting autobiography describes the populace of Baroda regularly spending its large leisure in the well-known animal yard there, and its wondering interest in the rhinoceros, familiarly known as the "_janwar_," _the_ beast _par excellence_. These arenas are still haunted by the people, and will probably change gradually into Zoological gardens, but there can be no doubt that the beast fight is popular to-day. You may call it brutal if you please, and organise a brand new society for its suppression, but it should be remembered that only yesterday the populations of whole towns (like Birmingham) swarmed to the British bull-ring, and that nature herself set the fashion.

There are indeed beast fights, promoted by men, which are simply developments of the beneficent principle described by modern science as the survival of the fittest. Of these are the spring-time buffalo bull fights treated as solemnities by Indian herdsmen. Once diversions of the pastoral prime, these conflicts are still annually brought off, even in Bombay, within sight of railways and telegraph posts. The men say--and doubtless with truth--that they are useful in showing decisively which animal is best fitted to be a sire. Such fights are not always brought about by the herdsmen. One of the most impressive pictures of defeat I ever saw was one evening on a lonely road in the Western Ghauts, when a buffalo bull suddenly appeared against the sunset in labouring flight, rolling as he staggered along like a rudderless ship, his mouth and nostrils foaming, a horn broken, and his black flanks stained with blood. A long way behind him came the conqueror, bearing marks of the fight, but lumbering easily forward, half minded to stop; content that his foe was beaten and flying.

Sportsmen in pursuit of the black-buck antelope have occasionally seen a pair of these beautiful creatures so fiercely engaged in fighting as to take no notice of the intruder with a gun, and the skulls of deer with horns firmly interlocked have often been found as proofs of a fatal struggle.

Whether it is wrong to pit men against beasts, or to employ the natural, noble rage of male animals for conquest to make a holiday for a populace, are questions that may be easily answered, but the reprobation to be meted for the offence depends in some measure upon one's standpoint. From that of civilised Europe nothing could be more reprehensible, but it is not the populace of Europe that gives this answer; else why does the Midland or Northern mechanic lose a day's wage for a dog-fight, why are there bull fights in Spain, imitations of them in Paris, and everywhere an inclination to enjoy similar spectacles which breaks through the illusory crust we describe as civilisation and progress? In India, also, you may find thousands who would agree with the humanitarians of the West, but they keep their moral teaching for their own caste-fellows, and do not incline to damn the sins they have no mind to. In other words, though the natives of India are, as a mass, indifferent to the sufferings of creatures, it is doubtful whether they are intrinsically worse in this respect than the rest of the world. At the same time the age-long popularity of beast-fights shows that they are no better, and that the religious prescriptions of mercy to animals are, like most Levitical ordinances, merely local and ritual in their effect, taking no deep hold on the mind and life.

If it were desirable to pile up horrors, nothing is easier than to tell authentic stories of the cruelties formerly wrought for the pleasure of Indian Princes and their subjects in the arenas where beasts were made to fight. The accessories and accompaniments of these performances are more abhorrent than the fights themselves, for they show a loathsome and cold-blooded persistence in cruelty on the part of the men employed which told in any detail would be revolting. Bishop Heber in his admirable Indian journals has, however, given a description that may be quoted without offence: "We were shown five or six elephants in training for a fight. Each was separately kept in a small paved court, with a little litter, but very dirty. They were all what is called _must_, that is, fed on stimulating substances to make them furious, and all showed in their eyes, their gaping mouths, and the constant motion of their trunks, signs of fever and restlessness. Their mahouts seemed to approach them with great caution, and, on hearing a step, they turned round as far as their chains would allow, and lashed fiercely with their trunks. I was moved and disgusted at the sight of so noble creatures, thus maddened and diseased by the absurd cruelty of man, in order that they might, for his diversion, inflict fresh pain and injuries on each other."

This is an ancient practice; the manner of it is still a part of the mahouts' science, and full of mysteries and absurdities. Among other things they firmly believe that the wax of the human ear is an infallible agent when duly combined with other nasty messes. But it is unnecessary to rake very deeply in this unpleasing subject. Moreover, the worst features of the old fights are now seldom presented. The lives of men are not now lightly risked to please a populace. The elephant, rhinoceros, buffalo, horse, ass, tiger, leopard, camel, dog, wolf, and ram have all been made to fight to death in their time, but even this is seldom now permitted. The encounters between elephants, indeed, are often of a half friendly nature, like those of American boxers; for it is not easy, without setting up a functional disturbance, to get an elephant into a rage. At the word of command he will drub another elephant, much as he would roll a log or lift a cart-wheel, but he has too sweet and amiable a nature to make a real fighter.

In order to give an accurate picture of what takes place at an Indian beast fight to-day, of the slip-shod arrangements and the quaint way in which folk and animals are mingled together, I quote a description of one of these entertainments given at the installation of His Highness the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, done from the life by my son for the Lahore paper in 1886:--

"Two huge water-buffaloes with ropes on their feet and a
dozen men at each rope were introduced to each other; the
crowd closing round them to within a few feet. Neither
animal required any urging, but put his head down at once
and butted. The shock of the opposing skulls rang like the
sound of a hatchet on wood across the arena. Then both
brutes laid head to head, and pushed and grunted and pawed
and sweated for five minutes; the crowd yelling madly
meanwhile. The lighter weight was forced back into the
crowd, recovered himself, butted again, turned sideways,
and was again forced back. After a few minutes more, when
each animal was setting down to his work with whole-hearted
earnestness, the order was given to separate them; and very
reluctantly the gigantic creatures were hauled in opposite
directions. Then a curious thing happened. A little child
ran forward out of the press, and standing on tip-toe,
reached up and embraced with both arms the hairy jowl of the
beast who had borne himself the most savagely in the fray.
It was a pretty little picture--spoilt by the other buffalo
suddenly breaking loose and charging down anew. A second
shock and yet another struggle followed, and both beasts
were eventually led off snorting and capering in uncouth
fashion to express their disgust at not being allowed to go
on. Two fresh bulls advanced gravely into the middle of the
arena, gazed at each other politely, and as politely
retired. They must have shared the same wallow together, for
fight they would not.

"Next came the fighting rams, spotted and shaven beasts,
with Roman noses and rowdy visages straining away from their
owners and all apparently 'spoiling for a fight.' Two or
three couples were let go together, ran back to gather way,
came on and met, ran back, charged again, and repeated the
performance till the sound of their foolish colliding heads
was almost continuous.

"After the first few minutes, when you begin to realise that
neither animal is likely to fall down dead, ram fighting is
monotonous. Sometimes a ram runs back for his charge
valiantly enough, but midway in his onset loses heart, turns
a fat tail to his antagonist, and flees to his master. The
adversary, being a beast of honour, immediately pulls up and
trots back to _his_ master. One light-limbed _dūmba_ (the
fat-tailed variety) with red spots seems to be the champion
of Jummu. His charge generally upsets his antagonist at
once, and few care to stand a second.

"As soon as all the rams had been disposed of, certain
vicious shrieks and squeals gave evidence that the horses
were being got ready, and the police set about widening the
ring. Presently a bay galloway and a black pony danced out,
dragging their attendants after them at the end of a long
rope. The instant they were let go, they ran open-mouthed at
each other, then turned tail to tail and kicked savagely for
five minutes; the black suffering most. Then, after the
manner of horses all the world over, they turned round and
closed, each striking with his fore-feet and striving to fix
his teeth in the other's crest. They squealed shrilly as
they boxed, and finally rose on end, a magnificent sight,
locked in each other's arms. The bay loosening his hold on
the black's poll, made a snatch at the black's near
fore-leg, which was at once withdrawn. Both horses then
dropped to the ground together and kicked and bit at close
quarters till the bay fled, with the black after him,
through the crowd. The men at the end of the drag ropes were
knocked over, scrambled up, and caught at the ropes again,
while the two maddened brutes plunged and struggled among
the people. About half a dozen were knocked over and shaken,
but no one was seriously hurt; and after wild clamour and
much running hither and thither both bay and black were
caught, blindfolded, and led away to reappear no more.
Buffaloes fight like men, and rams like fools; but horses
fight like demons, with keen enjoyment and much skill.

"And now twilight had fallen; the wrestlers, who tumbled
about regardless of the excitement round them, had all put
their man down or had their own shoulders mired. The mob on
the double tiers of the amphitheatre dropped down into the
arena and flooded the centre till the elephants could
scarcely wade through the press.

"Just at this time an unrehearsed and most impressive scene
followed. The biggest of the elephants, a huge beast with
gold-bound tusks, gold 'broidered jhool and six-foot
earrings, had been ordered to sit down for his riders to
mount. Before the ladder could be adjusted, he sprang up
with a trumpet, turned round towards the palace, uphill,
that is to say, and knocked a man over. Then he wheeled
round, the mahout pounding at his forehead with his iron
goad, to the other end of the arena, where another elephant
was going down the incline towards the lower part of the
city. He raced across the space, full of people, scattering
the crowd in every direction, butted the retreating elephant
in the rear, making him stagger heavily; ran back, butted
him again, and threw him on his knees near the stone
revetment of the earth-work terrace of the palace. Here the
mahout re-established some sort of control, swung him round,
and brought him back to be taken off roped and chained, in
deep disgrace.

"The man thrown down at the beginning was brought up into
the palace verandah. He was naturally knocked out of breath
and desperately frightened, for the elephant had set a foot
on the loose folds of his paejamas. An old woman, overthrown
in the charge after the other elephant, lay on the ground
for a few minutes, and then hobbled off with the help of a
stick. That was the extent of the damage, inconceivably
small as it may appear, caused by a vicious elephant rushing
through a crowd of some thousands of people. The murmur of
fright and astonishment that went up from the crowd after it
was seen that the brute was out of hand, was curious to
listen to; being a long-drawn A--a--a--hoo which chilled the
blood. The sight of the crowd flying in deadly fear of their
lives was even more curious and impressive. Most impressive
of all was the bulk of the beast in the twilight, and the
clang of the silver earrings as it darted,--elephants can
dart when they like,--across the ground in search of its
enemy.

"With this unique spectacle the sports of the evening
closed."