As a former Indian Forest Service officer, my father, S.E.H. Kazmi, is a treasure trove of anecdotes and stories from his days as a conservator.
On his way to a routine forest inspection with an Assistant Conservator of Forests (ACF), a Range Officer and Bahadur, the driver, he suddenly saw this Birhor man — he can recognise them anywhere in the world with their incredibly swift and yet acutely alert walk — walking hurriedly on one side of the kutcha road, a hapless jungle fowl hanging upside down on his shoulder.
The foresters pulled over and stopped him to inquire where exactly was he headed to and what plans he had for that fowl. “I’m going to the weekly market to sell this jungle fowl for some rice,” he said.
Before my father could ask another question, the ACF butted in with a terse, “Do you even know who the sahab is? He is the DFO [Divisional Forest Officer]. Don’t you know that hunting a jungle fowl is illegal? Do you want me now to put you in jail for killing this jungle fowl?”
The Birhor looked them up and down for a few seconds, thoroughly unimpressed with the ACF’s proclamation of the so-called high official status.
Then, with an absolute look of contempt and disbelief followed by a short sigh, he said: “And do you know who I am? My tribe here is dying out, and your government is putting in so many efforts to save us, building us houses so that we prosper [referring to the Indira Awas and later Birsa Awas Yojana]. There are already so few of us left and you want to put such a threatened man in jail and that too for a damned fowl.”
The ACF and the RO were red-faced, as the Birhor’s astute comeback had left them dumbfounded. My father couldn’t help but let out a laugh, the ingenuity of his reply and the look of exasperation and disapproval on his face as he blurted it out was hilarious and poignant at the same time. He gestured to the officers to get back, and with a smile he put his arm around this man. “Ok, tell me, how much do you plan to sell this fowl for,” he asked.
“I will get 35-40 rupees for it.”
My father pulled out a ₹50 note from his pocket, gave it to him and said, “In that case, here, I am buying the fowl from you. Now, release this fowl here in the jungle itself and you go and buy yourself the rice from the market.”
The Birhor took the money, gave my father a perplexed look, pulled down the fowl from his shoulder and freed it.
The forest team got back into the vehicle, with my father’s colleagues grumpy at how the entire thing had come to pass.
Bahadur, a chirpy man who had surprisingly been quiet until now, finally muttered: “That damned man, he took the money from us, and now he will go and again catch that fowl.” My father smiled, as they drove on.
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