An Anglo-Indian friend and his dad were out hunting one night in one of India's famous jungle reserves. Yes, they had high powered rifles and licence to shoot man-eaters. They waited several hours to catch sight of their prey, but alas after litres of flask coffee and a few sandwiches, desperation and swear words started to fly incessantly from their gobbies.

It was almost dusk when they noticed three pairs of lights appear over yonder hill. The lights disappeared momentarily and reappeared again after a few moments. They thought that their tired eyes were playing tricks on them, so they advanced towards the lights.

When almost within a hundred yards, it immediately dawned on them that they were in fact looking down the throats of three tigers. So friend and dad immediately took aim, each picking a cub in their rifle sights and fired. The cubs dropped straight away, but they had no time to reload for another shot at mother. Mother tiger leapt into the air and charged at the two men. In the melee and the darkness, rifles were strewn into the bushes and the men had to take flight to escape the jaws of mother.

Anglo-Indians are known to be fleet-footed and since for generations they had been railway folk, instinct and superior intelligence drew their fleety legs to the railway tracks. Both men reached the tracks with mother hot on their heels. It was a single track, broad gauge, I understand, so they were able to run shoulder to shoulder, panting and striving for oxygen to fill their lungs and hoping that, just maybe, providence would this one more time come to their aid.

Yes, their prayers were answered, they were approaching a break in the tracks, in sight was the points and signal system. With great gusto and determination Dad pulled the points lever and lo and behold they took off down one track and the mother tiger was diverted down the other track.

And so my friends, they lived to tell this story of courage and they didn't have to boast about it at all.

Cjheere, long Live the Anglo-Indians!