The Man Who Accidentally Rode a Man-Eating Tiger

The Accidental Tiger Hunter

BY: Khan

An
Khalil Jabbar had built a hunting platform high on a towering tree deep inside the forest. The height was necessary—no wild animal could leap that far up. Sitting on the wooden planks, Mirza Wahid Baig looked more excited than ever. He kept checking his rifle again and again, almost lovingly. Since childhood he had devoured adventure stories about hunting, and now he believed destiny had finally called him.

Mirza was visiting a neighboring country for a month, meeting relatives scattered across small towns and villages. The village where he was staying had been living in terror for weeks: a man-eating tiger prowled the area, killing livestock and humans alike. When Mirza learned that his cousin, Mullah Habibi, planned to hunt the beast, he insisted on joining him.

Mullah Habibi tried his best to stop him. “Stay home. When the tiger is dead, I’ll bring you for a photograph,” he said repeatedly. But Mirza was stubborn. At last, Habibi sighed and took along his nervous, overly enthusiastic companion.

Habibi was an expert hunter. He built the machan at a location where the tiger had been sighted before. A goat was tied nearby as bait. As night fell, the forest grew silent. Suddenly, the soft crunch of leaves echoed through the darkness. Habibi signaled everyone to stay quiet. A tiger emerged, cautiously approaching the goat. Habibi took aim and fired one clean shot. The bullet struck the tiger’s skull—it collapsed instantly.

Mirza, witnessing a tiger being killed for the first time, was stunned. Everything had looked so easy. When the others climbed down to inspect the body, Mirza hesitated. But not wanting to look cowardly, he eventually followed, trembling as he approached the dead animal. Even lifeless, it terrified him.

Yet, once they returned home, his fears vanished, replaced by pride. By the next day, he was telling exaggerated tales of the hunt to relatives in the district of Nainital, especially in the village of Ramnagar. People listened in awe. Some believed he had personally slain multiple man-eaters. Their admiration made Mirza’s chest swell.

In truth, Mirza had no hunting experience. He only knew what he had read in adventure novels. But the more he repeated his stories, the more he began to believe them himself. He even dreamed of African jungles where he single-handedly killed lions, leopards, and rhinos with heroic ease.

And then fate nudged him.

The same region had been terrorized for months by another man-eating tiger—one far more dangerous than the last. Hearing Mirza’s exaggerated stories, the villagers begged him to hunt it. Mirza wanted exactly this kind of flattery, so he proudly agreed. This was his chance to become a legendary hunter—at least in his in-laws’ eyes.

Mirza selected the location after inspecting the tiger’s previous kill sites. A new machan was built. A goat was tied as bait. Several villagers sat on the platform with him, leaving very little room, but Mirza didn’t mind. He imagined the headlines already.

Late at night, leaves rustled again. Something was approaching. But nothing appeared. The rustling stopped. The silence felt eerie.

“Maybe it’s a spirit,” one villager whispered.

“Spirits roam these forests,” another added confidently.

“A-a spirit? Here?” Mirza whispered in terror.

“Of course. If not spirits, do you think humans roam at night?” someone replied.

Mirza’s heart pounded. He wished he could jump off and flee, but the thought of meeting the man-eater on the ground froze him in place.

Then the sound returned—soft at first, then louder. A tigress slowly emerged from behind a patch of bushes.

“A tigress!” someone whispered.

“Quiet,” Mirza said, trying to imitate a brave hunter. But his hands shook uncontrollably as he lifted the rifle. When he fired, the bullet completely missed. The tigress bolted into the darkness.

Before anyone could react, the overloaded platform snapped. The wooden planks gave way. Mirza fell first—straight onto something soft and moving.

Terrified, he tried to understand what he had landed on. When it ran forward into the moonlight, he saw it clearly.

He was riding the man-eating tiger.

The tiger, startled by a human falling on its back, sprinted wildly. Mirza clung desperately to its fur. Letting go meant instant death. Tears streamed down his face as he silently cursed the moment he ever wanted to be a hunter. He vowed never to harm even a chicken again if he survived.

Ahead, the river glimmered in the moonlight. Just as the tiger neared it, dozens of villagers armed with sticks and axes appeared from hiding. They had planned to corner the tiger if it fled toward the water. When they saw Mirza riding on its back, they froze in shock.

“By God—he has captured it alive!”

The shout gave Mirza courage. His grip loosened and he fell onto soft grass. The villagers surrounded the tiger. It tried to escape but was too confused, too frightened, and too injured from earlier encounters. Within minutes, the villagers killed it.

They lifted Mirza onto their shoulders, chanting his name in triumph. In the village, his legend grew instantly. People declared him a fearless hero. Only Mirza knew the truth—that his so-called bravery was pure luck and sheer accident.

But he stayed quiet. After all, heroes rarely explain their miracles