Some of us are Going on a Bear Hunt

Kamala was beautiful on the inside and, she hoped—reflecting innate confidence rather than conceitedness—beautiful on the outside to boot. She had a welcoming smile, eyes that showed an interest in others, a radiance.

Not everybody agreed. She could see the looks of a particular few when she lolloped from photocopier to cubicle: such a beautiful girl to be born with a clubfoot.

Whilst she happily helped with such prosaic administrative tasks, it wasn’t what she was there to do. Look on the back of many packed foodstuffs and you’ll see invitations to discuss gravy browning or offering help with pancake mix. Ever wondered where those numbers take you? Well, on occasion to Kamala, who was as beautiful to listen to as she was nice as a person.

But she had developed the distinct impression that Samavart, her supervisor, was making a game of it, creating tasks to pull her away from the telephone, then wheezily criticizing her call-handling figures. She wondered whether he had her going from floor to floor simply because he was overweight. Or perhaps it was medical. She tried to think the best of people but could not avoid concluding she’d become the butt of his personal joke.

“Kamala, a word,” Samavart called to her one day.

Expecting to be weighed down with files, she smiled as he dabbed handkerchief to face, sweat patches already in his shirt armpits. It wasn’t even summer yet.

“Kamala, a group of us are going on an expedition this weekend. Into the woods. Camping. Hiking. That sort of thing.”

“I really…”

“It’s a work thing,” he said with finality.

A work thing. She knew what that meant. Non-negotiable.

It didn’t seem to be much of a ‘work thing’ when the minivan collected her. There were four already inside, all men, all at Samavart’s junior management level. Advik, who managed complaints from wholesalers and the catering trade, drove. The other two, never introduced, weren’t even from her department. Samavart drank beer with them and, glancing at her clubfoot, muttered coded in-jokes—about her, but never for her. His companions laughed, taking in her foot, never once catching her eye. As Advik drove from the city, through the fields and farmland, and into the hills, Kamala’s mind began to fill with dark thoughts. What did they have planned for her? She’d tried to dismiss what she’d heard around the watercooler… but that hadn’t stopped her from taking precautions.

“Mint?” she asked, thrusting an open pack at No-name#1.

Having just cracked open his third beer of the journey, he considered the sweet with suspicion, but Kamala’s smile won him over.

“Take the pack,” she charmed, shaking the box like a maraca. Similar offers went to Samavart and No-name#2. The snide comments stopped, although snide comments are harder to make whilst mint-sucking.

From her daypack, Kamala extracted a tub, the sort her fellow office drones brought their sandwiches in. Settling it on her lap, she popped the lid. The effect was instantaneous.

“What the fuck is that smell,” Samavart complained, wincing. “It smells like a grandmother died in her own shit.”

His nameless friends pulled faces and turned away. One put his head between his legs, dry retching. The other desperately opened a window and sucked the outside air. Clutching his mouth and nose whilst driving, Advik swerved.

Unperturbed, Kamala began to smear the buttery balm on to her face.

Samavart was aghast. “Why are you doing that?”

“It is neem balm, very good for the skin.”

“It’s disgusting,” Samavart choked.

“We’re almost there,” called Advik, clearly struggling.

Kamala shrugged, whilst struggling to remain nonchalant. Whereas she would normally only make her neem balm with one part neem oil to twenty of other ingredients—shea butter, cocoa butter, and sunflower oil—this was more like a quarter active ingredient. Unable to ignore it, she tried, like a master wine-taster, to mentally disaggregate the odors, to convince herself of the presence of garlic, licorice, diesel, and sulfur. But, on balance, she agreed with Samavart: dead grandmother in her own feces.

“What now?” Samavart howled as Kamala extracted a neem oil spray and began to douse her clothes, the stink of neem somehow gaining an additional dimension.

“Insect repellent.” She made it sound like a simple answer to a stupid question. “We are going to the woods, yes? Mosquitos.” She turned the nozzle toward her fellow passengers, but they shrunk even further back. “It’s alright, I’ve brought an alternative.”

“What does that smell of? Rotting dog?”

“No. Pine,” she said, dousing him in ordinary household cleaner.

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They had been walking for two hours when the bear attacked.

Kamala’s congenital condition slowed her only marginally more than the beer in the men’s packs and bellies. Smelling as she did, they were in no mood to slow to her pace, but politely kept her in their backward-glancing sight.

The 500-pound black bear lolloped out of the woods, grunting, whining, roaring, Kamala in its sights. Raising itself on its hind legs, revealing its white chest chevron and waving murderous paws, its glassy black eyes met Kamala’s. It pulled back its lips revealing a sliver of bright pink tongue and creamy teeth. It stopped and sniffed, its pale stubbly nose twitching. Kamala could feel its hot sour breath on her face. But she could also see doubt in the animal’s eyes, revulsion even, as they flicked towards her three companions further up the path.

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Moral one: When walking in woods where bears live, whilst it helps to be the fastest, all that’s required is not being the slowest. If needs be, find someone slower than you to bring along as insurance.

Moral two: But if you know you’re going to be the slowest and have been brought along as a sacrificial insurance policy, don’t be the dumbest. Make sure you know in advance which smells bears love. And which they hate.

END