Preface: No one ever believed me when I told them. It never entered their minds that so much could happen to one person in one lifetime. So now I’m writing these things down in hopes that the memory of them will not escape the earth. - These are the chronicles of my life, back when I was young. When I was an adventure for hire. - Reginald Cockburn, 1953

India. Seldom has a country garnered such immortalization. From the fanciful works of Kipling to the military essays written during the occupation, it has been recognized, (and rightfully so,) as a country of both charm and majesty.

I removed to Bombay by sheer happenstance in 1925, following a messy discharge from Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. The whole affair, the very thought of which I still find infuriating, left a deep bitterness in me; this sentiment was doubled when I arrived home and found my sweetheart married to a dentist and living in Surrey. Feeling quite alone in the world, I sold my few belongings, vacated the small house I was renting in lower Bristol, and boarded the first ship out of the country, not knowing or caring whither it was bound.

You can imagine my annoyance when I heard the sailors say that our destination was India. After doing my best to get away from England, I was immensely frustrated to find that I was sailing to a country which, albeit not under entire occupation, was still under heavy British influence. But simultaneously, I was somewhat excited by the idea of starting a new life in a country with such a rich and assorted culture, though I never would have admitted this at the time. My old brothers in arms had often talked of their adventures in the jungles and their experiences with the colorful residents: ranging from elephants to women of free and easy character. I had always counted it as my loss that my ship never went there.

Resisting the temptation to alight in one of our African ports of call, I stepped onto the Indian shore on May 23^rd; a day which I shall never forget. It was hot that day; the humid air laced with bouquet of spices being loaded onto the competing trade ships. The whole aura was one of damnable heaviness, which was quite disagreeable to one who had spent most of his life either in the mild summers of England or on the open sea.

Hoisting my small pack over my shoulder, and having naught else to do, I decided to take a constitutional and experience the frenzy of the bazaars that I had heard so much about. A short walk took me to the center of the town, and I immediately found myself immersed in the hustle and bustle. The streets were jammed from side to side with people, many of them carrying their purchases home on their heads.

I held my pack close in case I met a pickpocket and shoved my way to the outer edge of the throng; but there was no relief there. As soon as they saw me, vendors of all countenances began hawking their wares to the foreigner. There were old men, weaving rugs and making clever things out of rattan wood; women fashioning baskets and beaded ornaments, and entire families working behind carts full of exotic fruits; shouting all the while. Quite ready to get out of the entire general area, I hastily bought a mango and a few bananas for dinner and inquired as to whether or not there were traveling accommodations nearby. Receiving only a quizzical look and a short burst of Hindustani, I left.

Feeling a slope in the ground, I started going uphill, reasoning that the better areas of the town, and consequently some decent English-speaking folks’ businesses, would be built on higher ground. As quickly as I had been enveloped by the mass of humanity in the bazaar, I suddenly broke free from it and found myself on a quaint street, graced with shops of all sorts. Seeing a tailor’s shop that had a sign in both Hindi and English, I went inside and expediently received directions to a reputable inn that stood only a couple of streets away.

Later that evening, as I was laying my head down on my pillow, I listened to the myriad of sounds coming through my room’s lattice-work window. Bats rustled by periodically, chirping in a most subtly irritating manner. On the outer fringes of the city, a laborer’s elephant trumpeted. Down the street I heard boisterous singing coming from what we Englishmen may call a tavern. The noises blended together to form a most wakeful symphony, keeping me up far longer than I liked.

Such was my introduction to India.

The next morning I arose early. Foremost in my mind was finding a vocation, for my dwindling money supply was an incessant nag to my mind. Consuming the previous day’s bananas as my morning victuals, I set out towards the British quarter in search of the consulate’s office. Having come to India in search of fulfillment, I didn’t relish the thought of a conventional living. I had high hopes for a job that would take me into the wondrous jungles that loomed on the horizon. Despite being a seafaring man all my days, the jungle seemed to call to me, inviting me to become a part of it. I unashamedly admit that Kipling was a deciding factor in this feel; for his writings of the grand Indian jungles, filled with noble beasts and invisible governments, lent an enchanting mystique to the far-off scene.

Sighting a large Union Jack rising above the stucco buildings, I wound my way through the streets until I came to it. My suspicion proved correct, it was the British consulate’s office. Surrounded by gardens filled with exotic flora, it was a most welcoming sight.

Within a half-hour’s time I was sipping morning tea with the consul. I’m not sure exactly what he made of me, and for the first time since arriving I was aware of my unkempt appearance. I felt painfully self-conscious off his gaze as I handed him my citizenship papers; he took them slowly, using the time to study my wrinkled sleeve all the way up to my half-shaven face through his monocle.

"Your papers state that you were discharged without honor, is that so?" said he, scowling through his eyepiece more than I thought necessary. I doubted not that this blight on my life’s record made him somewhat averse to helping me.

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Would you care to disclose the reason?"

"I will only say that partiality on a certain officer’s part was the cause for my lack of honor in leaving."

"I see." He settled forward again and looked at me squarely. "And just what do you want me to do for you?"

"I only want information. I need work; pretty badly you might say. I’d much like to have a job that would take me into the jungle, deep and often. Are there any employers of this nature who would take on an Englishman?"

The paunchy man scoffed at this. "Not unless you want to forsake all semblance of protocol and be a simple pack bearer for some guide. With the advances being made in science, more and more men of books are coming in to study this country. They all hope to find a new plant or some such rot, and the archeologists all come hoping for a lost city of gold or something foolish like that. ‘Bosh’ I say, certainly nothing an Englishman should stoop his back for as a human pack mule. But each man’s business is his own. If you want to take extended junkets in the wild, that profession would be the quickest way."

Taking my hat, I thanked him and left. Stepping out into the warming air of the streets, I mulled over the thought of being a "human pack mule." Did I really want to enter the jungle that badly? I couldn’t decide. I started walking, with no definite destination. I needed space to think, away from the throngs, away from the noise.

My feet seemed to have minds of their own: guiding me through the streets in a fairly straight line to the outskirts of town while my higher brain ran over a series of thoughts and contradictions. A vocation wasn’t the only thing weighing on me; I also wondered whether or not I truly wanted to make my home in India. One part of my mind was saying that naught but tea trading or facilitation was a job for an Englishman in this country. It was hot, humid, the language seemed to have no decided order or rhythm, and my hand was already swelling from a mosquito bite.

In answer to that, the other half of my mind reminded me that I had scarce been in the country for eighteen hours. I needed to wait, to give it the same chance I had given the Navy. But the Navy was different, the former half of my mind was speaking again, they were English-speaking men.

Did you know the language of the boson’s whistle on your first day aboard ship? The latter half retorted.

"The sea has none of this god-forsaken humidity or damnable insects." Now my mind was becoming audible, I found myself speaking to the air as I cleared the last street of houses.

Does scurvy and lice sound better to you? This fresh side of my personality was making a good case.

"The only decent food around here is fruit."

"Touché."

At this point, before I could return with another argument, I was jarred out of my new-found schizophrenia by a prolonged howl. Deep-throated and steady, it echoed off rock and tree. The sudden sound scared me to death, and I dove behind a rock, groping for a stick or a stone to defend myself from whatever menace that might present itself. I stayed low for almost a minute, long after it had died out. Later, I found out that what I had heard was no more than the territorial call of a howler monkey. That is probably the most embarrassing of my experiences with India’s wildlife.

Once I had recovered my wits, I stood up straight and looked around, though I still clutched a tree branch. I saw to my amazement that I was within thirty yards of the jungle itself. Now that I was close to it, it loomed larger than I had ever imagined over my head. The lush green leaves on the trees formed a natural lace, behind which birds of all colors moved about their business. The beauty of it all stopped me in my tracks.

Then I saw something that to this day sends freezing chills down my spine. As I was watching the kaleidoscope of feathers in the tree branches, my attention was drawn to a rustling in the underbrush level to me. Before I could think of a response, the bushes parted and the most beautiful creature I had ever seen stepped out.

It was a tiger, a shere khan, the likes of which I have never seen since. Standing a full three feet at the shoulder, it was bigger than any on current record. It stepped calmly out of the growth, fully displaying his lithe body, resplendent with colour. The dark orange and black of its coat contrasted perfectly with its cream-coloured underside. Once clear of the brush, the dazzling animal stopped and stared at me coolly. His complete confidence, coupled with the bulging muscles rippling beneath his skin, made me painfully aware of how frivolous my rotten stick would be against him.

But then something happened that I swear was not natural. The feline raised its head and looked me square in the eye. I looked back, not knowing whether that was wise or not. To this day I don’t know if it was, but when I looked into those eyes, all fear left me. His simple gaze seemed to impart to me some of his own strength. The eyes of the tiger were like wells of liquid amber, brimming with wisdom, mystery, and the pride of his race.

I don’t know how long we stared into each other’s eyes, but finally the tiger seemed to have seen enough of me, or perhaps he had found out enough, I honestly don’t know. He took a deep breath and sighed. Then he turned around and walked majestically back into the jungle. As his striped tail faded from view, I raised my eyes to the sky. A new energy coursed through my veins, surging with emotion. I wanted to follow the tiger, to see what wonders lay in his domain, to see what it was that made him so revered among men and beasts, to find out what made those eyes so wise.

My mind was now made up: India would be my new home. And the jungle would be my haunt, no matter what it took to be in it. I wrenched my eyes away from the jungle walls and started the trek back to town.

I made some more inquiries about the city, asking for the names and locations of well-known guides. After being supplied with them from an English-speaking local in a metalwork shop, I trudged down the streets in search of the men, stopping often to ask directions.

The first guide I was to call on had a reputation for tenacity as well as skill, and I was looking forward to meeting him. His home was a small, well-kept bungalow on the far side of Bombay, overshadowed by banana trees. I knocked on his door, and it was promptly opened. He was a short, solidly-built fellow, with a broad face and heavy eyebrows. I began to state my business, but he interrupted me with broken English. "Leave. Now!" His voice was coarse, almost venomous.

I quickly retreated, not quite sure what I had done to warrant such disagreement. I later found out that his ancestors had been part of the Kali cult years before, and killed during the uprising. In his mind, they had been massacred rather than rightfully swept away by British forces. I wondered how he made a living in a profession that dealt with so many English clients.

The second potential was out of town at the moment, but after seeing the condition of his home and yard animals, I was relieved to have missed him. After bidding adieu to his wife, this being about the lunch hour, I struggled back to my hostel to finish off what was left of my fruit. I say ‘struggled’ because the streets looked terribly alike, and a miscommunication with a certain water woman sent me at least a half mile off track, making my total time thirty minutes later than my stomach preferred.

Once finished eating, I set out again and spoke to several more professional woodsmen before finally finding one who was in need of a strong back. I engaged to start with him on a two week expedition on the 25^th, at the rate of ten rupees a day; not a bad sum considering the jungle would provide my room and board for the duration of the trip.

My first journey through the wild was a mixture of highs and lows. On the one hand, I cursed the heat, the humidity, the leeches, and almost everything in between. My pack was heavier than I expected, and I soon found that Kipling had entirely omitted the roughness of the terrain from his literature. But on the other hand, I found myself captivated by the natural beauty of it all, and more than once I held my breath as a graceful panther or a crew of chattering monkeys made an appearance. I always held out for another glimpse of that magical tiger, but he never showed himself. Overall, I was enthralled by the jungle’s wonders.

Throughout the next few years, I persevered with my employer. Early on, he had perceived the value an "ed’cated Eng’shman" would be in promoting himself, and I was quickly advanced into a co-guide position with him instead of a mere burden-bearer. My child-like wonder evolved into a deep love and respect for the jungle, and by the spring of 1929, I had grown to know it almost as well as my guide. From him I learned Hindustani, the names and habits of all the wildlife, and how to plot the soundest courses through the maze of trees. I absorbed it all eagerly, like one starved, and the man was soon confessing that I had a better head for it than he did.

The only real riff that ever came between us was our opinions of impatient treasure hunters who tried to pass themselves as archeologists. I saw no harm in guiding them to their personal places of interest, seeing as how the bounty they sought would only sit as an idle home for cobras if not found. My employer on the other hand, God rest his soul, saw them as dastards who desecrated holy ruins in their plundering.

It was this difference of opinion that drove me to break off from him and set up my own business in 1930. Being, and perhaps unrighteously so, a bit of a mercenary, I saw value in escorting treasure seekers to the alleged sites of lost hoards. In addition to the standard rates charged to guide them, a ten percent share of all profits from a find was quite attractive. I certainly had nothing to lose by it.

And that is how it was. I made a name for myself from Bombay to Calcutta as an able guide who would lead any expedition. I found myself guiding scientists of all fields, treasure hunters, big-game hunters, real archeologists, and even serving as an advisor to military excursions. More often than not we were assaulted by wild animals, treacherous natives, feudal rajahs, and sickness. I was witness to both satisfying and disappointing finds when leading seekers of wealth, and I don’t mind saying that the satisfying ones set me well off compared to most in my field.

But the bulk of these stories are not the focus of this narrative. They are mere folk tales in comparison to the chronicle that which follows this prologue. I chose to write this one first because today, August 15^th, 1953, marks the twentieth anniversary of its beginning. I am beginning to feel my age, and the phrase "twentieth anniversary" throws my procrastination into even sharper relief. I have put this off for far too long.

So before any more detail fades from my memories, I, Reginald "Reggie" Cockburn, aged fifty-five years, hereby recount my grandest adventure, one that has been pondered and scoffed at since its first telling.

A high school student from northwest Florida, Steven divides his time fairly evenly between school work and writing; with some martial arts on the side. He plans to go on to study journalism and photography; and one day visit the exotic places he writes about in person. Updates on his project can be found at http://adventurerforhire.blogspot.com.