THE TIGER SWAMI
“I have discovered the Tiger Swami’s address. Let us visit him
tomorrow.”
This welcome suggestion came from Chandi, one of my high school
friends. I was eager to meet the saint who, in his premonastic
life, had caught and fought tigers with his naked hands. A boyish
enthusiasm over such remarkable feats was strong within me.
The next day dawned wintry cold, but Chandi and I sallied forth
gaily. After much vain hunting in Bhowanipur, outside Calcutta, we
arrived at the right house. The door held two iron rings, which I
sounded piercingly. Notwithstanding the clamor, a servant approached
with leisurely gait. His ironical smile implied that visitors,
despite their noise, were powerless to disturb the calmness of a
saint’s home.
Feeling the silent rebuke, my companion and I were thankful to be
invited into the parlor. Our long wait there caused uncomfortable
misgivings. India’s unwritten law for the truth seeker is patience;
a master may purposely make a test of one’s eagerness to meet him.
This psychological ruse is freely employed in the West by doctors
and dentists!
Finally summoned by the servant, Chandi and I entered a sleeping
apartment. The famous Sohong {FN6-1} Swami was seated on his bed.
The sight of his tremendous body affected us strangely. With bulging
eyes, we stood speechless. We had never before seen such a chest or
such football-like biceps. On an immense neck, the swami’s fierce
yet calm face was adorned with flowing locks, beard and moustache.
A hint of dovelike and tigerlike qualities shone in his dark eyes.
He was unclothed, save for a tiger skin about his muscular waist.
Finding our voices, my friend and I greeted the monk, expressing
our admiration for his prowess in the extraordinary feline arena.
“Will you not tell us, please, how it is possible to subdue with
bare fists the most ferocious of jungle beasts, the royal Bengals?”
“My sons, it is nothing to me to fight tigers. I could do it today
if necessary.” He gave a childlike laugh. “You look upon tigers as
tigers; I know them as pussycats.”
“Swamiji, I think I could impress my subconsciousness with the
thought that tigers are pussycats, but could I make tigers believe
it?”
“Of course strength also is necessary! One cannot expect victory
from a baby who imagines a tiger to be a house cat! Powerful hands
are my sufficient weapon.”
He asked us to follow him to the patio, where he struck the edge
of a wall. A brick crashed to the floor; the sky peered boldly
through the gaping lost tooth of the wall. I fairly staggered in
astonishment; he who can remove mortared bricks from a solid wall
with one blow, I thought, must surely be able to displace the teeth
of tigers!
“A number of men have physical power such as mine, but still lack
in cool confidence. Those who are bodily but not mentally stalwart
may find themselves fainting at mere sight of a wild beast bounding
freely in the jungle. The tiger in its natural ferocity and habitat
is vastly different from the opium-fed circus animal!
“Many a man with herculean strength has nonetheless been terrorized
into abject helplessness before the onslaught of a royal Bengal.
Thus the tiger has converted the man, in his own mind, to a state
as nerveless as the pussycat’s. It is possible for a man, owning a
fairly strong body and an immensely strong determination, to turn
the tables on the tiger, and force it to a conviction of pussycat
defenselessness. How often I have done just that!”
I was quite willing to believe that the titan before me was able to
perform the tiger-pussycat metamorphosis. He seemed in a didactic
mood; Chandi and I listened respectfully.
“Mind is the wielder of muscles. The force of a hammer blow depends
on the energy applied; the power expressed by a man’s bodily instrument
depends on his aggressive will and courage. The body is literally
manufactured and sustained by mind. Through pressure of instincts
from past lives, strengths or weaknesses percolate gradually into
human consciousness. They express as habits, which in turn ossify
into a desirable or an undesirable body. Outward frailty has
mental origin; in a vicious circle, the habit-bound body thwarts
the mind. If the master allows himself to be commanded by a servant,
the latter becomes autocratic; the mind is similarly enslaved by
submitting to bodily dictation.”
At our entreaty, the impressive swami consented to tell us something
of his own life.
“My earliest ambition was to fight tigers. My will was mighty, but
my body was feeble.”
An ejaculation of surprise broke from me. It appeared incredible
that this man, now “with Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear,” could
ever have known weakness.
“It was by indomitable persistency in thoughts of health and
strength that I overcame my handicap. I have every reason to extol
the compelling mental vigor which I found to be the real subduer
of royal Bengals.”
“Do you think, revered swami, that I could ever fight tigers?” This
was the first, and the last, time that the bizarre ambition ever
visited my mind!
“Yes.” He was smiling. “But there are many kinds of tigers; some
roam in jungles of human desires. No spiritual benefit accrues
by knocking beasts unconscious. Rather be victor over the inner
prowlers.”
“May we hear, sir, how you changed from a tamer of wild tigers to
a tamer of wild passions?”
The Tiger Swami fell into silence. Remoteness came into his gaze,
summoning visions of bygone years. I discerned his slight mental
struggle to decide whether to grant my request. Finally he smiled
in acquiescence.
“When my fame reached a zenith, it brought the intoxication of
pride. I decided not only to fight tigers but to display them in
various tricks. My ambition was to force savage beasts to behave
like domesticated ones. I began to perform my feats publicly, with
gratifying success.
“One evening my father entered my room in pensive mood.
“‘Son, I have words of warning. I would save you from coming ills,
produced by the grinding wheels of cause and effect.’
“‘Are you a fatalist, Father? Should superstition be allowed to
discolor the powerful waters or my activities?’
“‘I am no fatalist, son. But I believe in the just law of retribution,
as taught in the holy scriptures. There is resentment against you
in the jungle family; sometime it may act to your cost.’
“‘Father, you astonish me! You well know what tigers are-beautiful
but merciless! Even immediately after an enormous meal of some
hapless creature, a tiger is fired with fresh lust at sight of new
prey. It may be a joyous gazelle, frisking over the jungle grass.
Capturing it and biting an opening in the soft throat, the malevolent
beast tastes only a little of the mutely crying blood, and goes
its wanton way.
“‘Tigers are the most contemptible of the jungle breed! Who knows?
my blows may inject some slight sanity of consideration into their
thick heads. I am headmaster in a forest finishing school, to teach
them gentle manners!
“‘Please, Father, think of me as tiger tamer and never as tiger
killer. How could my good actions bring ill upon me? I beg you not
to impose any command that I change my way of life.’”
Chandi and I were all attention, understanding the past dilemma.
In India a child does not lightly disobey his parents’ wishes.
“In stoic silence Father listened to my explanation. He followed
it with a disclosure which he uttered gravely.
“‘Son, you compel me to relate an ominous prediction from the lips
of a saint. He approached me yesterday as I sat on the veranda in
my daily meditation.
“’“Dear friend, I come with a message for your belligerent son. Let
him cease his savage activities. Otherwise, his next tiger-encounter
shall result in his severe wounds, followed by six months of deathly
sickness. He shall then forsake his former ways and become a monk.”’
“This tale did not impress me. I considered that Father had been
the credulous victim of a deluded fanatic.”
The Tiger Swami made this confession with an impatient gesture, as
though at some stupidity. Grimly silent for a long time, he seemed
oblivious of our presence. When he took up the dangling thread of
his narrative, it was suddenly, with subdued voice.
“Not long after Father’s warning, I visited the capital city of
Cooch Behar. The picturesque territory was new to me, and I expected
a restful change. As usual everywhere, a curious crowd followed me
on the streets. I would catch bits of whispered comment:
“‘This is the man who fights wild tigers.’
“‘Has he legs, or tree-trunks?’
“‘Look at his face! He must be an incarnation of the king of tigers
himself!’
“You know how village urchins function like final editions of a
newspaper! With what speed do the even-later speech-bulletins of
the women circulate from house to house! Within a few hours, the
whole city was in a state of excitement over my presence.
“I was relaxing quietly in the evening, when I heard the hoofbeats
of galloping horses. They stopped in front of my dwelling place.
In came a number of tall, turbaned policemen.
“I was taken aback. ‘All things are possible unto these creatures
of human law,’ I thought. ‘I wonder if they are going to take me to
task about matters utterly unknown to me.’ But the officers bowed
with unwonted courtesy.
“‘Honored Sir, we are sent to welcome you on behalf of the Prince
of Cooch Behar. He is pleased to invite you to his palace tomorrow
morning.’
“I speculated awhile on the prospect. For some obscure reason I
felt sharp regret at this interruption in my quiet trip. But the
suppliant manner of the policemen moved me; I agreed to go.
“I was bewildered the next day to be obsequiously escorted from my
door into a magnificent coach drawn by four horses. A servant held
an ornate umbrella to protect me from the scorching sunlight. I
enjoyed the pleasant ride through the city and its woodland outskirts.
The royal scion himself was at the palace door to welcome me. He
proffered his own gold-brocaded seat, smilingly placing himself in
a chair of simpler design.
“‘All this politeness is certainly going to cost me something!’ I
thought in mounting astonishment. The prince’s motive emerged after
a few casual remarks.
“‘My city is filled with the rumor that you can fight wild tigers
with nothing more than your naked hands. Is it a fact?’
“‘It is quite true.’
“‘I can scarcely believe it! You are a Calcutta Bengali, nurtured
on the white rice of city folk. Be frank, please; have you not been
fighting only spineless, opium-fed animals?’ His voice was loud
and sarcastic, tinged with provincial accent.
“I vouchsafed no reply to his insulting question.
“‘I challenge you to fight my newly-caught tiger, Raja Begum.
{FN6-2} If you can successfully resist him, bind him with a chain,
and leave his cage in a conscious state, you shall have this royal
Bengal! Several thousand rupees and many other gifts shall also be
bestowed. If you refuse to meet him in combat, I shall blazon your
name throughout the state as an impostor!’
“His insolent words struck me like a volley of bullets. I shot an
angry acceptance. Half risen from the chair in his excitement, the
prince sank back with a sadistic smile. I was reminded of the Roman
emperors who delighted in setting Christians in bestial arenas.
“‘The match will be set for a week hence. I regret that I cannot
give you permission to view the tiger in advance.’
“Whether the prince feared I might seek to hypnotize the beast, or
secretly feed him opium, I know not!
“I left the palace, noting with amusement that the royal umbrella
and panoplied coach were now missing.
“The following week I methodically prepared my mind and body for
the coming ordeal. Through my servant I learned of fantastic tales.
The saint’s direful prediction to my father had somehow got abroad,
enlarging as it ran. Many simple villagers believed that an evil
spirit, cursed by the gods, had reincarnated as a tiger which took
various demoniac forms at night, but remained a striped animal
during the day. This demon-tiger was supposed to be the one sent
to humble me.
“Another imaginative version was that animal prayers to Tiger
Heaven had achieved a response in the shape of Raja Begum. He was
to be the instrument to punish me-the audacious biped, so insulting
to the entire tiger species! A furless, fangless man daring
to challenge a claw-armed, sturdy-limbed tiger! The concentrated
venom of all humiliated tigers-the villagers declared-had gathered
momentum sufficient to operate hidden laws and bring about the fall
of the proud tiger tamer.
“My servant further apprized me that the prince was in his element
as manager of the bout between man and beast. He had supervised
the erection of a storm-proof pavilion, designed to accommodate
thousands. Its center held Raja Begum in an enormous iron cage,
surrounded by an outer safety room. The captive emitted a ceaseless
series of blood-curdling roars. He was fed sparingly, to kindle a
wrathful appetite. Perhaps the prince expected me to be the meal
of reward!
“Crowds from the city and suburbs bought tickets eagerly in response
to the beat of drums announcing the unique contest. The day of
battle saw hundreds turned away for lack of seats. Many men broke
through the tent openings, or crowded any space below the galleries.”
As the Tiger Swami’s story approached a climax, my excitement
mounted with it; Chandi also was raptly mute.
“Amidst piercing sound-explosions from Raja Begum, and the hubbub
of the somewhat terrified crowd, I quietly made my appearance. Scantily
clad around the waist, I was otherwise unprotected by clothing. I
opened the bolt on the door of the safety room and calmly locked
it behind me. The tiger sensed blood. Leaping with a thunderous
crash on his bars, he sent forth a fearsome welcome. The audience
was hushed with pitiful fear; I seemed a meek lamb before the raging
beast.
“In a trice I was within the cage; but as I slammed the door, Raja
Begum was headlong upon me. My right hand was desperately torn.
Human blood, the greatest treat a tiger can know, fell in appalling
streams. The prophecy of the saint seemed about to be fulfilled.
“I rallied instantly from the shock of the first serious injury
I had ever received. Banishing the sight of my gory fingers by
thrusting them beneath my waist cloth, I swung my left arm in a
bone-cracking blow. The beast reeled back, swirled around the rear
of the cage, and sprang forward convulsively. My famous fistic
punishment rained on his head.
“But Raja Begum’s taste of blood had acted like the maddening first
sip of wine to a dipsomaniac long-deprived. Punctuated by deafening
roar, the brute’s assaults grew in fury. My inadequate defense
of only one hand left me vulnerable before claws and fangs. But I
dealt out dazing retribution. Mutually ensanguined, we struggled
as to the death. The cage was pandemonium, as blood splashed in
all directions, and blasts of pain and lethal lust came from the
bestial throat.
“‘Shoot him!’ ‘Kill the tiger!’ Shrieks arose from the audience.
So fast did man and beast move, that a guard’s bullet went amiss.
I mustered all my will force, bellowed fiercely, and landed a final
concussive blow. The tiger collapsed and lay quietly.
“Like a pussycat!” I interjected.
The swami laughed in hearty appreciation, then continued the
engrossing tale.
“Raja Begum was vanquished at last. His royal pride was further
humbled: with my lacerated hands, I audaciously forced open his
jaws. For a dramatic moment, I held my head within the yawning
deathtrap. I looked around for a chain. Pulling one from a pile
on the floor, I bound the tiger by his neck to the cage bars. In
triumph I moved toward the door.
“But that fiend incarnate, Raja Begum, had stamina worthy of his
supposed demoniac origin. With an incredible lunge, he snapped
the chain and leaped on my back. My shoulder fast in his jaws, I
fell violently. But in a trice I had him pinned beneath me. Under
merciless blows, the treacherous animal sank into semiconsciousness.
This time I secured him more carefully. Slowly I left the cage.
“I found myself in a new uproar, this time one of delight. The crowd’s
cheer broke as though from a single gigantic throat. Disastrously
mauled, I had yet fulfilled the three conditions of the fight-stunning
the tiger, binding him with a chain, and leaving him without
requiring assistance for myself. In addition, I had so drastically
injured and frightened the aggressive beast that he had been content
to overlook the opportune prize of my head in his mouth!
“After my wounds were treated, I was honored and garlanded; hundreds of
gold pieces showered at my feet. The whole city entered a holiday
period. Endless discussions were heard on all sides about my
victory over one of the largest and most savage tigers ever seen.
Raja Begum was presented to me, as promised, but I felt no elation.
A spiritual change had entered my heart. It seemed that with my
final exit from the cage I had also closed the door on my worldly
ambitions.
“A woeful period followed. For six months I lay near death from
blood poisoning. As soon as I was well enough to leave Cooch Behar,
I returned to my native town.
“‘I know now that my teacher is the holy man who gave the wise
warning.’ I humbly made this confession to my father. ‘Oh, if I
could only find him!’ My longing was sincere, for one day the saint
arrived unheralded.
“‘Enough of tiger taming.’ He spoke with calm assurance. ‘Come with
me; I will teach you to subdue the beasts of ignorance roaming in
jungles of the human mind. You are used to an audience: let it be
a galaxy of angels, entertained by your thrilling mastery of yoga!’
“I was initiated into the spiritual path by my saintly guru. He
opened my soul-doors, rusty and resistant with long disuse. Hand
in hand, we soon set out for my training in the Himalayas.”
Chandi and I bowed at the swami’s feet, grateful for his vivid
outline of a life truly cyclonic. I felt amply repaid for the long
probationary wait in the cold parlor!
{FN6-1} SOHONG was his monastic name. He was popularly known as
the “Tiger Swami.”
{FN6-2} “Prince Princess”-so named to indicate that this beast
possessed the combined ferocity of tiger and tigress.