That Dialy Star article is an interesting read. Love the penultimate paragraph!

Quote:

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On a Shikari and an Ode on an Ode
Waqar A. Khan, Bangladesh Forum for Heritage Studies.
Published On: 2007-09-15
I was riveted by the publication (The Daily Star literature page, July 28th), of an excerpt from a long-forgotten book, Man-eaters of Sunderbans, (1961), by the then renowned Pakistani shikari, Tahawar Ali Khan, along with an article by Khaleel Mahmood, a Pakistani expatriate in New York.


I met Tahawar Ali Khan when he came to Dhaka from Lahore in 1967, at the onset of the Arab-Israeli war. He had come to the Sundarbans to shoot a man-eater, and had just succeeded in doing so.


The National Institute of Public Administration (NIPA) was planning on holding a program to introduce East Pakistan's culture and people to foreigners then in Dacca. My father was one of the main organizers of the event. He invited Tahawar Ali Khan to give a talk/slide-show presentation on the Sundarbans and share his exploits as a hunter. One morning, as the war raged on in the Middle East, we drove to Shahbagh Hotel to meet him.


Contrary to my boyhood expectation, I saw a rather stocky man of medium build, sporting a beret waving at us in the hotel lobby. My perception then of a big game hunter was of a much larger man. As Tahawar walked up to us, I observed that he had big, expressive eyes and a huge, disarming smile. He was glued to a small transistor radio. "Mr. Khan," he greeted my father loudly, "the Arabs are finally giving those bloody Israelis a good lesson, isn't it? I hear they are only a few miles from Tel Aviv!" My father merely smiled.


Pleasantries exchanged, Tahawar patted me on the head and grinned, "Shot your first tiger yet?" Seeing my embarrassed smile, he quipped, "Don't you worry, we will soon shoot one together." We sat for a while in the lobby as my father explained the scheduled program for the coming day. Tahawar confided that most people here mispronounced his name and called him 'Talwar Sahib' instead. He laughed and said that he actually took it as a compliment since it rhymed perfectly with Hazrat Ali's legendary sword - Zulfiqar! He presented us with an autographed copy of his book, Man-eaters of Sunderbans. Sadly, after decades of safekeeping it has now been lost.


On the appointed day, Tahawar showed up at the venue immaculately attired in an English tweed jacket, a silk cravat and still sporting a beret. He looked very much like an army officer of the colonial vintage. He spoke impressively in English to a captive audience of diplomats and transient visitors. There were also Bengali and Pakistani participants. The exotic and picturesque slide-show on the Sundarbans went down very well with the audience the flora, fauna, rivers, creeks and, of course, the dead tigers! Tahawar demonstrated the full-throated call of the tiger, the distress call of the cheetal (spotted deer) and the guttural noise of a prey in the vice-grip of the tiger. As a grand finale he made the repeated plaintive calls of a deer in the throes of death. Amplified by loudspeakers it sent a chill down my spine. In the end many eager hands went up and Tahawar was only too pleased to oblige.


The day Tahawar Ali Khan left Dhaka news filtered in of the humiliating defeat of the Arab forces at the hands of the Israelis. Initial jubilation had given way to collective gloom. Father and I went up to Tahawar's hotel room. He greeted us with a faint smile and a limp handshake. He was only half packed and looked crestfallen. “Khan Sahab,” he told my father with a grimace, “these bloody Arabs are no fighters, just big mouths!” There was silence. My father quoted to him the famous Suhrawardy one-liner on Arabs, that “zero plus zero always equals to zero.”


During small talk over tea and biscuits I looked at a stack of Sundarban pictures, including of dead man-eaters. Tahawar read my mind. With a flourish he selected some photographs, autographed them, and said “These are for you, son.” I was simply too elated and thanked him profusely. “Please come back and see us again,” I said. “I surely will,” he replied.


We would never meet again. Those coveted photographs are still with me forty years on.

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