A Story of War

On Christmas Eve had a few drinks with Kenwoods down the road. Christmas they came here for supper. Uncle Stan opens a bottle of wine and there is laughter and much ado about nothing.

I spend my time shooting vultures, or so it seems, and they always seem to roost in the same trees so after learning where the trees are, it’s too easy. Yesterday went down to the only patch of jungle round here, a few acres and too thick to penetrate, and shot a monkey, there being no other inhabitants. This morning went out on a vulture parade and observed two jackals eating a vulture’s corpse, so shot them on the spot. On finishing them off I thought their heads didn’t quite resemble pukka jacks, and then some Assamese villagers turned out, and I gathered I had shot someone’s chowhidurs (guard dogs), they wanted 500/- compensation, and would fetch a policeman from Jorhat. Though I can’t understand Assamese, or the language which the coolies speak – akin to Urdu.

A magnificent sunset yesterday – blood red, orange – and reflected on the Naga hills, which had low lying fleecy clouds on ‘em, and golden ones above. But impossible to describe. Damn cold at night, but the sun is just warming and no topee required. A pity there’s no jungle and big game.