Such Dreadful Paws

The Quiet Tiger Stalks

I was inspired to write this story based on the quite old-fashioned writings of early British macabre. I wanted to invoke two men trapped in the accouterments of Colonialism, while at the same time living in injustice of their own creation. I would like to think that both got what they deserved at the end of the story.

Mr. Ahmed sipped his excellent chai and looked over at his friend. As always, Mr. Khan was the picture of prosperity and neatness, the very image of a successful Bengali businessman. He was dapper, and spared no expense in dressing. His Punjab was of a thick heavy silk and his trousers were expertly tailored. Mr. Ahmed and Mr. Khan had been friends for thirty years. It was a well-worn habit of friendship, with each year between them passing faster and faster, a blur of half-remembered events. As Mr. Ahmed grew older, sometimes, he had trouble remembering if he was talking to the Kahn of present day or the Kahn of thirty years ago.

            Mr. Ahmed carefully smoothed down the front of his shirt. He could see faint curry stains, and the striped pattern was threadbare in spots. His teacher’s salary was too meager to cover new clothes often, and his wife struggled and pinched each taka. They were past their early days of only eating dal and rice, but not so far either, and both Mr. Ahmed and his wife, Shara, remembered the days well. 

            Today, the friends sat in companionable silence. Mr. Kahn was telling Mr. Ahmed about the newest piece of furniture he was going to buy for his house. Mr. Ahmed was nodding, not paying particular attention to the conversation. He felt like Mr. Khan could go on and on talking forever, with the assurance that only the very rich could sustain. Still, the tea was a bright spot of luxury in his life, and Mr. Ahmed enjoyed, maybe too much, his daily chai indulgence. Listening to his friend was not too high a price to partake of such fine snacks. Mr. Khan took pride in owning only the best money could buy, he served only the best tea, and the finest sweets. As always, a plate of Gulab Jamuns sat ready for them on the table. They glistened in the morning sun, moist, fresh, and syrupy. The colonial teacups were delicate and milky white and gleamed translucently in the sun. Mr. Khan’s office, too, was a picture of luxury. No expense had been spared to cast an air of prosperity. The furniture, desk, chairs, and bookcase were carved in intricate teak and mahogany. The soft silk rug was imported from Iran, and the red velvet sofa came from France. Stretched out behind the desk was a mounted tiger skin glowing a vivid orange and black. 

            Mr. Ahmed always felt a great sense of sorrow when he looked at the sad tiger skin. In his mind, it was a travesty to mount of symbol of their brave little county on the wall. However, he had learned too long ago that even among friends, there is such a thing as power. Criticism of wealth was a line he could not cross. It was an uncomfortable thought, but he soothed it away with many years of practice. 

            In theory, he had no quarrel with the accouterments of wealth. While no saint, Mr. Khan was not the worst sinner either, and had been quite brave and fierce in his youth. It was the nature of wealth in Bangladesh, that there was always someone hungry to take what you had, but again, Mr. Khan, had no more enemies than others of his class. Recently, there had been a bit of trouble concerning his garment factory, but the correct bribes had been paid and the correct trouble makers taken care of. There were still rumors of hartals and unrest regarding Mr. Khan, but no more than usual. 

            Mr. Ahmed took a nibble of Gulab and a sip of his tea. He thought the sweets tasted odd today but nothing that remarkable. Perhaps they were a bit off in the heat. Suddenly, a needle of pain scratched his mouth, and he clutched his throat in terror. Through streaming eyes, he could see Mr. Khan similarly scream out in pain. “Poison,” he thought in horror, and his belly clutched in pain and fire. He could do nothing more than lay on the flood and groan. Mr. Khan, stumbled across the room before collapsing right before the closed door. Mr. Ahmed’s vision blurred at the edges, and he violently coughed bloody sputum on the rug. With horror and fear, he knew that help might not come. Would the servants even hear them? Perhaps they even had a hand in the poisoning, and they were standing outside with glee while listening to their master choke and die. His body screamed for air, and he clawed at his throat. At a distance, he could see Mr. Khan laying on the rug with foam gathering on his lips. A strange peace went thought Mr. Ahmed’s mind, thoughts of sadness and thoughts of life remembrance. Now the world seemed different in some strange way, like he was seeing the room thought a haze of mist. The edges of the office boiled and rolled with darkness. 

            On the wall the tiger skin seemed to glow, filling the office with a light like the sun. Through half-closed eyes, Mr. Ahmed observed the tiger skin assemble into a whole tiger. Somehow the skin was off the wall, and the tiger’s legs and head were moving and plump. The tiger yawned and stretched like a house cat. It was magnificent in orange and black, with orange stripes like flames of fire, and black stripes as dark as the darkest night skies. Its eyes were shining orbs of blue and green, in their depths he could see the glow of many universes. Beside him, Mr. Khan groaned in terror.

            The tiger grinned, sharp fangs gleaming in the dim light. “Little men, there is no Yuma, there are no Jinn, no angel of death”, he rumbled. “There is only me. I see, I judge. Let’s see, little men, the measure of you. First, he snuffled Mr. Khan. A long deep breath wafted from the tiger’s mouth, smelling of fire, blood, and war. The tiger circled Mr. Khan with slow, quiet steps, stepping quicker and quicker, and tighter and tighter. Soon, Mr. Ahmed could not see where the tiger’s tail ended, and the tiger’s head began. With a puff of smoke and a flash of green light, Mr. Khan disappeared. 

            The tiger uncoiled. “Now,” the tiger said as he turned to Mr. Ahmed. He padded towards him and Mr. Ahmed stared into the tiger’s otherworldly eyes. Strangely, the smell of fresh rice fields filled his nose. Again, the tiger circled, and dizzying stripes filled Mr. Ahmed’s dimming eyes. The tiger’s stripes swayed in front of his eyes like the tall grass surrounding his father’s village home. From a distance, he heard his mother calling him in from play. His eyes closed for the last time, enveloped by the tiger.