Waiting for Shere Khan

Picture this – tall, dry grass beckoning languidly, clear blue cloudless skies, and the wind gently caressing you, as you wait patiently, ears attuned to every little sound.

Welcome to the Pench National Park, the jungle that inspired Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book. Named after the Pench River that divides the forest into nearly two equal halves, the Project Tiger Reserve is located in the Seoni and Chhindwara Districts of Madhya Pradesh. Unlike the jungles in South India, the topography of this tiger reserve is distinguished by grassy meadows, with large tree species like teak, amaltas, dhora, and conspicuous white kulu trees, popularly known as "ghost trees". Treated like the step-sister of the popular Kanha and Bandhavgarh Tiger Reserves (also in MP), Pench (among others) had been on my checklist for as long as I can remember.

Like a middle-aged couple, comfortable in our marriage, the jungles and I have grown to love and respect each other over the years. But every marriage has experiences that awaken you from the deep slumber of domestic bliss; similarly, every once-in-a-while the jungles offer an experience that remains etched in my memory until something better comes along.
What distinguishes Pench from all the other jungle safaris I’ve embarked on so far, is the fact that this time around, I learned to listen; keenly, and patiently for the innumerable sounds made by the various denizens that reside here. The high-pitched "meow" of the peacock, the noisy crescendo of the cicadas, the "whoomph" of the langurs as they leap effortlessly from one tree to another – these are the sounds that bring contentment to my heart and a smile to my lips. Until now, I’d only “heard” these sounds, never actually listened. The "whoomph" of the langur, for instance, varies in crescendo when it’s in a state of sheer panic, quickly transforming into high-pitched shrieks of sheer terror when one of the jungle cats is on the move.

But when the King calls, the jungle listens; all the other sounds fade into the distance.
Our jeep was parked at a "chauraha", the Hindi word for intersection or crossroad, in the jungle. Following the panic-stricken calls of the Sambar with our ears, we waited in complete silence for the reason of the Sambar's alarm to materialize. Surrounded by thick vegetation on three sides, and tall, dry grass that concealed any animal that moved through it on the other, we depended heavily on audioception to determine the direction of the animal’s movement.
The "oongh" was unmistakable. The grass, at a distance, ruffled with every "oongh". I could barely conceal my excitement. If you've heard a tiger call, you'll know what I mean when I say that it's mesmerizing. It transfixes every other creature in its tracks. It's a call that announces the arrival of a creature that’s so beautiful that it's terrifying. Even today, when I close my eyes and think about that day, I can hear the "oongh" coming closer and closer to our jeep. We stared intently, straining our eyes to catch one glimpse of the jungle cat, cameras ready. The screams of the Sambar faded away, as the grass parted finally. I stopped breathing.

Quick as lightning, the tiger bolted and leaped onto the opposite side of the fire-line, vanishing into the wilderness, even before any of us could react or move a muscle. We were aghast. The jungle seemed to have swallowed this beautiful creature whole, leaving us feeling cheated. The driver assigned to our jeep seemed apologetic, like a parent covering up for his favorite child’s mistake. "It isn't just the tiger we've come to see," we told him. "It's the jungle we want to experience."
And what an unforgettable experience it was, as we drove into the fading twilight, watching the stars twinkling brightly in the velvety night sky, as the creatures of the night woke from their long slumber. For their watch had begun, and they wouldn't rest until the first rays of the sun touched the dew-kissed grass once again.