Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

The Shikar* - gone wrong

September 1786.  Monsoons had just retreated.  The forests in the BR hills of Mysore looked like a freshly painted canvas, splashed with shades of green, visible from afar.  The sound of parakeets cavorting on the branches of the Sandalwood trees was like piped music to the ears of the inmates of the Mysore Palace – the royals, their guests and guards alike. The ideal time for the royals to indulge in their favourite sport, hunting. The Maharaja of Mysore, His Highness Krishnaraja Wodeyar III, felt this was the opportune moment to host one of his famous royal hunting parties in honour of his distinguished European guests, Lord Macintosh and his enthusiastic wife, Lady Margaret Macintosh, from Stirling, Scotland.

The hunting party set out at dusk with the Maharaja, on horseback, leading the entourage.  The Maharani rode an elephant, looking radiant in a yellow silk saree, fanning herself with a handheld fan made from sandalwood shavings.  

“Your Lordship,” the Maharaja said to Lord Macintosh with a smile, “we hope you find our sandalwood forests exciting.”

“I’m sure I shall, Maharaja,” replied the Lord, sniffing the air. “Though I hope there’s more action than fragrance.”

“Oh, there will be action,” chimed in Lady Margaret, leaning forward in her saddle with excitement. “And fragrance too! The forests smell divine! Wrapped in the cloud of perfume!”

The camp was set up on the periphery of the forest, with royal extravagance - replete with embroidered tents, chefs stirring large pots of biryani, dancers, and astrologers debating the stars. But everyone’s mind was preoccupied with how best to corner the tiger spotted at the southern edge of the B R Hills, Mysore’s famous tiger reserve.  They hardly slept.

The calm of early dawn was interrupted by the clippity-clop sound of hooves and the trumpeting of elephants. The party rushed through the sandalwood groves, riders in turbans and pith helmets, beaters with drums and sticks, and elephants trumpeting warnings to all creatures. The Maharaja, splendid on a white stallion, holding a flag, with the royal emblem, led the group. Lord Macintosh struggled to keep up, red-faced, bouncing like a rubber ball on his saddle.

Lady Margaret, on the other hand, galloped as if she had done this all her life.

“Steady, Margaret dear!” Lord Macintosh shouted. “This is not the Derby!”

But Margaret was already several horse-lengths ahead, her borrowed musket slung across her back, her eyes sparkling with wild delight.

Suddenly, the tiger came into view, walking down to the riverbank, the watering hole for the animals in the forest.  A magnificent creature, full of strength and menace, snarling through the underbrush. The beaters scattered. Horses reared. Lord Macintosh dropped his monocle.

“Good heavens!” he gasped. “It’s monstrous!”

Margaret grinned, spurred her horse, and raised her weapon. The Maharaja, watching with quiet amusement, leaned toward the Maharani. “I believe the English Memsahib may eclipse our guest.”

The tiger leapt across a clearing, its golden hide catching the morning sun. Lady Margaret stood in her stirrups like a circus performer, aimed, and with a sharp crack, fired.

The beast collapsed mid-leap, letting out a final, shuddering growl.

The forest fell silent.

Cheers erupted from the local attendants, and even the royal guards clapped in admiration. Lord Macintosh trotted into the clearing a few moments later, his face a mix of admiration, disbelief, and mild horror.

“You—you shot it?” he stammered.

“I did!” Margaret beamed, dismounting with grace. “Wasn’t it spectacular?”

The Maharaja dismounted smoothly and approached the fallen tiger. “A clean shot through the heart,” he noted. “Very impressive, Lady Macintosh.”

The Maharani added with a smile, “Our men spend years in the forest and rarely manage such a feat.”

Lord Macintosh adjusted his collar, trying to save face. “Well, I was going to shoot. I was just... giving it a sporting chance.”

Lady Margaret laughed. “It’s dead, darling, not promoted.”

Seeing the tension between the husband and the victorious wife, the Maharaja clapped his hands. “Let us celebrate this great adventure with a photograph! A souvenir for the brave Macintosh family!”

A large wooden box camera appeared, the kind that required a person to duck beneath a cloth. “Let us frame you both for generations to admire”, said the Maharaja.  

Lord Macintosh was guided to sit proudly like a war hero, before a log of sandalwood, struck with a pickaxe for picture effect.  Lady Margaret was told to stand behind him, holding the musket with which she had claimed her first win. To ease his discomfort, she held a parasol over his head with her other hand to prevent the camera from catching the look of disappointment on his face. The ever-supportive wifely act.

The Maharani whispered to Margaret, “This way, milady. Let the world believe what it must.”

Margaret winked. “I suppose it’s only fair. Let him have the glory. I’ve got the memory.”

The camera flashed. The moment was captured.

Epilogue

Years later, in a gloomy castle hall in Stirling, the skin of that tiger hung on the wall, its mouth gaping in silent roar.  Glorious and terrifying. Next to it, a sepia-toned photograph of the Lord and Lady told a story entirely different from the actual events.  

Guests admired both the photograph and the skin, while Lord Macintosh modestly remarked, “Yes, yes... a tricky shot, but someone had to do it.”

Lady Margaret, sipping her tea, would reply, “Indeed, darling. Indeed.” Taking the thunder away from his feet would be unbecoming of a wife.

Only the royals of Mysore and the tiger, wherever it prowled in the afterlife, knew the true story. 

*Shikar – hunting of game for sport

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Setu, August 2025