For the love of Chai

Nearly nine years ago, somewhere in the Himalayas, a hawker handed me a steaming cup of tea as I stood, shivering in the biting- cold. As the hot, sweet, ginger-infused brew coursed down my throat, I knew that very instant that no matter how many cups of tea I’d glug in the years to come, nothing would ever come close to the feeling of absolute tea-induced nirvana I felt on that day. That was the day when my eternal love affair with the humble chai began.

Enjoying a hot cup of my favorite brew

Back in the old days, chai was something that was consumed during exams so that you could stay up late and cram as much as your sleep-deprived brain permitted. It was also something that my father consumed ( and still does) in gallons, cup after cup, while I watched in amazement, wondering if we needed to enroll him into some sort of chai de-addiction program.  Needless to say, my attitude towards tea could be best described as indifferent…until that memorable day in the Himalayas. 

Of course, my husband’s devotion to the brew further fueled my nascent addiction.  Now my day begins with a mug of this heavenly brew and ends with a one. 

My fondest travel memories are peppered with various instances involving chai. After  sampling everything from ginger tea, tea flavored with cardamom, and lemon tea, to the  watery cups brewed by those who have no idea that tea making is an art, I have come to the  conclusion that the tea prepared above the Deccan Plateau outranks the ones I have tasted  in the Southern parts of the country. I’m not surprised, considering a large portion of  Southern India comprises coffee connoisseurs. 

A couple of years ago, during my trip to Pench National Park, I remember how surprised I  was by the brutality of the weather. It was towards the end of November, and the  Bangalorean in me didn’t cope well. Had it not been for steaming hot cup of tea doled out by an enterprising hawker at 6 in the morning, I probably would’ve had to pick my constantly chattering teeth off the ground!  That said, irrespective of the weather, I ’ve seen tea lovers like me head to the closest chai-wallah for a cuppa.

Sometimes, it’s not such much about a great tasting brew, as much as it’s about the circumstances in which it’s consumed. 

I was in the Kutta side of Nagarahole National Park one afternoon, bored and tired of waiting for the safari vehicle that was monopolized by a local politician and his extended family. An hour passed and there was no sign of my ride. The unrelenting April heat did little to keep my annoyance in check, and I soon found myself in a rather irritable mood. 

“Madam, tea beka ( would you like a cup of tea)?” 

Those magic words! 

I turned around to see a smiling chai-wallah standing with a small steel tumbler of steaming tea. I accepted it immediately, feeling better already. The flavor, though slightly bitter from the over brewing, was infused with a hint of cardamom. Not the one to complain, I glugged it down, paid the guy, and prepared for the long wait. The vehicle, of course, never turned up. Somehow, it seemed that a cup of tea lightened the disappointment marginally. 

Not surprisingly, this unassuming cuppa has come to my rescue not just when I’m cold or tired, but also during uncomfortable social gatherings that demand unnecessary conversation. 

“So beta, what’s your salary?” a vaguely familiar lady at a boring wedding once questioned, between mouthfuls of rasgulla.

I watched the syrup trickle from the corner of her crimson mouth before finally responding in the best possible manner under the circumstances.

 “Hmmm… slurrrrp!” was my response, as I took an extra loud and long sip of tea, before pretending to find a biscuit to go with it. 

Speaking of uncomfortable social situations, here’s something that my extended family uses to fill the awkward silence between conversations when they’re entertaining guests. This incident dates back to the time when I was barely fourteen. 

My cousins and I, as was practice before the days of the internet, spent our summer holidays together, either at an aunt’s house or sometimes at my place. One such summer, while we were glued to a popular Bollywood flick playing on the rented VCR, one of the cousins suggested I make them some tea. The closest to anything kitchen related I had accomplished back then was spreading jam on toast. 

“But, how difficult is it to make tea, right?” 

The prospect of experimenting in the kitchen, with the older people safely tucked away at one of the numerous weddings they attended, seemed too good to pass up. 

I enthusiastically made my way to the kitchen, picked the nearest vessel, added the mixture of water, milk, tea leaves, and sugar, and proceeded to let it brew. So far so good right?

Well, I’d almost nailed it, except that no one told me that a pressure cooker does not qualify as the right utensil to make chai. In my defense, it was an unfamiliar kitchen, and I had no idea where my aunt stored the pots and pans, and therefore I picked something that could hold and cook the concoction. 

The shrill whistle from the cooker brought my cousins to the kitchen. Dumbfounded, one of them quickly turned off the stove and started to clean some of the tea sprayed on the tiles. Needless to say, I was not allowed into the kitchen, any kitchen for that matter, for several years following the incident. Of course, the brave cousin who’d requested tea that fateful afternoon did consume a couple of sips, not out of respect for my feelings, but mostly because he was curious about the pressure cooked chai. 

My family still uses this story as a conversation filler, much to my embarrassment.

I could wax eloquence about the time in Bandhavgarh when I washed down scores of paneer pakoras with several cups of hot, sweet tea, or the time when my husband and I hailed down a chai-wallah on MG Road, just for a quick cuppa after a late night movie; but I don’t think I’d do justice to this delightful drink. 

Whether it’s weddings, funerals, business meetings, or the expression of a weary and tired traveler as he enjoys a steaming cup; whether it’s the buttery, salty Kashmiri chai, or the sweet, spiced tea prepared in the Northern parts of the country, I believe that the humble chai, coupled with some bhajjis or crunchy biscuits is the glue that binds our beautiful and diverse country together. 

A Boat ride in Bhadra

The rain pelted the windscreen as we drove on, determined to make it in time for some hot lunch and rest. We were driving down from Jog Falls to a resort by the Bhadra River and were exhausted by the journey that took longer than expected. This was because of a large tree that came crashing down en route, just before our car passed. We thanked Providence and prepared for a long wait until the branches were sawed off and the road cleared. All the while, I alternated between admiring the lush vegetation and cringing at the sight of some enterprising travelers emptying their bursting bladders on either side of the road.

The harrowing journey was far from over. We were nearly there but had one last, and rather unexpected stretch to negotiate. A left here and a right there, and soon we found ourselves on a what resembled a bridge across the Lakkavalli Dam. Nearly 250 meters of brown slush, followed by a steep, muddy incline separated us from the resort. I stared at the mess in disbelief, convinced that our 14-year-old sedan wasn’t up to the challenge. To make matters worse, it started to rain once again, hampering visibility and rendering the task almost impossible.

“Isn’t there another way to get there,?” I asked my husband.

He shook his head and urged me to get moving before the weather changed from bad to worse. I took a deep breath, shifted the stick into first and attempted to drive through the muck.  Every time I pressed the gas pedal, I could feel the car shimmy and slide a couple of inches. Finally, ten minutes, numerous attempts and a very dirty car later, we were on the asphalt, albeit pockmarked road once again, the signs welcoming us to the resort. 

Why in heaven's name did we make travel plans in the monsoon, I don’t know. Although, we did manage to strike Jog Falls off our “must visit” list. I thought that the journey so far was rather adventurous; and how mistaken was I, for the adventure, and a rather unpleasant one was right around the corner.

It was a dull morning, the sky laden with angry, grey clouds when we hopped onto the motorboat for a boat safari. My fear of rivers ( read my blog, The River Rafting Misadventure), coupled with the crabby mood brought on by the depressing weather meant we were off to an inauspicious start. 

Osprey

There were eight other people on the boat, including the boatman and the naturalist, as we sailed down the monstrous Bhadravati river. The water seemed mildly turbulent when we set off and I tried to convince myself that I simply had to get over this fear, and this was a good time to start.

The boat swayed mildly as the wind picked up speed. I looked at the faces of the other occupants, and much to my chagrin, I seemed to be the only one on the brink of a nervous breakdown. The others were enjoying the rise and fall of the boat, and my husband, well, he was busy photographing the River Terns and Ospreys perched on the dead trees. I was too nervous to pick up my camera, sure that I’d drop it into the water.  An uneventful 30 minutes followed and I finally began to relax, even managing to get some good shots of Cormorants and an occasional Oriental Darter.

A little drizzle, followed by strong breeze rendered any attempts to photograph the birds useless. I sat down, hoping the drizzle would slacken. This, of course, was not to be, as it was no longer drizzling. The rain came down in full force, the sheets of cold water painfully jabbing my arm.

The boatman, who figured the downpour would abate in a couple of minutes, started the motor, proceeding at full speed. The vast river assumed the color of lead, the angry, grey waves tossing the boat up and down like a ping pong ball. My nervousness developed into full-blown panic, as I watched the boatman struggling to steer against the howling wind. I observed the anxious expressions around me, including my husband’s.  His grim appearance and quiet demeanor told me all I needed to know. If we didn’t turn around now, we were going to be in a lot of trouble. 

“Splat!” went the boat, as the boatman tried his best to turn around and head back to camp. Battling against the furious winds and torrential rains requires a certain level of skill and composure, something I prayed the boatman possessed. One of the women onboard had her head bowed down either in prayer or in fear, I wasn’t sure. She gripped the steel rod on the sides so tightly her hands seemed to turn grey. Once again, I found myself at the mercy of a river. That’s when I vowed I’d not set foot inside a boat, no matter how calm or serene the water appeared...if we managed to get out of this pickle in one piece first. 

“We’re heading back now due to the sudden change in weather,” announced the naturalist to a rather distressed audience.

“About time,” I heard my husband mumble under his breath.

The boat titled precariously as the motor propelled us forward, engaged in a fierce battle with mother nature. The helplessness of the situation dawned on all of us and I’m certain that we were praying for the same thing at that moment; to feel the ground beneath our feet. I could barely see ahead, so heavy was the downpour so I cannot imagine how the boatman finally managed to maneuver through the choppy waters. Steering deftly, he managed to get the boat, which was dangerously bobbing up and down, to the safety of the shore.

The adrenaline rush ebbed and I found myself shivering violently as my husband helped me get off, the relief apparent on his pasty white face. Some of the guests laughed nervously, while one lady simply threw up as the shock wore off. Needless to say, we were humbled by the fury of nature. 

The nightmare sometimes returns to haunt me, and I find myself slowing down instinctively when I drive over bridges or looking away when the airplane flies over a waterbody.

That said, there’s something that hair-raising situations often do to you. Once they pass and you manage to get out unscathed, you feel absolutely alive! I suppose that’s what drives the adrenaline junkies to lust after danger; the reawakening of the senses and that compulsive desire for adventure.

A hailstorm in BR Hills

The onset of monsoon in Bangalore usually fills me with dread. I shudder at the thought of the waterlogged streets, the craters that are otherwise referred to as potholes, and the murky waters bubbling up from the beneath the sewers, threatening to spread disease all around.

A waterhole filled to the brim

In the jungle though, it’s a different story altogether. The fragrance of the earth following a downpour, the fresh burst of green and the tiny pearls of water that roll down the leaves, the jungle envelopes you in its enchanting spell.

 Of all the reserve jungles in South India, the Biligiriranga Hills or BR Hills Tiger Reserve is my favorite place to visit in monsoon. A lofty hill range in Karnataka, this picturesque piece of heaven is a crucial wildlife corridor that connects the Eastern with the Western Ghats. 

One of my most memorable trips to this place was in 2015. We entered the jungle roughly three hours before sunset. The clouds had cleared after a light afternoon drizzle, and the jungle was abuzz with melodious bird songs and the comforting croaking of frogs. The sturdy 4X4, driven by an experienced naturalist, tackled the precarious and slushy terrain with aplomb.

Although we’d not seen anything more than spotted deer and curious langur monkeys, the drive was turning out to be a rather delightful experience. The small pockets of water bodies with the mist rising off the surface and the water dripping down from the leaves added to the heady combination of the high-pitched cicada sounds that seemed to reach a crescendo before dying down. Needless to say, I was enjoying myself thoroughly. 

That said, the best was yet to come. 

Rains in the jungles are unpredictable, and that’s the beauty of it. The clear blue skies give way to dark, angry clouds in a matter of minutes. We experienced this phenomenon as we drove deeper into the jungle, the clouds blocking the sun until the whole area was under the dark shadow of monsoon clouds. We had just enough time to roll down the tarpaulin, as the skies unloaded their fury, the sheets of water coming down hard. The water seemed to hit us from all directions, and we found ourselves partially soaked, despite the tarpaulin, which now flapped helplessly in the wind.

An elephant walks away after a satisfying drink

That’s when it began, the “pok, pok” of hailstones. As if on cue, the ground beneath us rumbled and I was astonished to see a huge mass of grey rush past. 

It was a herd of elephants running pel mel as the hard bits of ice hit their backs. I stuck my face out to get a better view, only to hastily draw it back in after a volley of hailstones smacked my face.

It was a sight to behold. The hailstorm in the jungle, the hum of water as it ran down the hill, and the thundering of the earth as the elephants rushed past. Thrilling as it was, we were grateful not to be in the herd’s way when pandemonium broke loose.

We resumed the safari after the storm subsided and the clouds cleared once more. Our progress, however, was slow despite improved visibility. The rain had loosened the earth in many places, and the soft, red earth, combined with water meant we had a rather slippery and dangerous terrain to negotiate.

We still had an hour’s daylight with us, so the naturalist dexterously drove through the slushy trail, many times revving the 4X4 until squishy clods of earth flew all around, some of it finding its way onto our clothes and arms. Soon, the precarious slopes were behind us, and we found ourselves in a part of the jungle that wasn’t as difficult to drive; or so I thought. I believed I jinxed it with this very thought.

Sturdy as it was, the Bolero met its match when it landed softly into a quagmire. No amount of revving seemed to help. In fact, it only drove one of the rear and front wheels deeper into the earth, while the other wheels rose gradually until our ride was at a comical 30-degree angle. I found myself sliding to one side, and the naturalist thought it was best we disembark, while he figured out a solution; and we needed a solution fast, for dusk was fast approaching and we were in a jungle that housed a fairly large population of wild elephants.

Now that the occupants were off the vehicle, the naturalist wasted no time in dislodging the Bolero, albeit with some difficulty. We were back in business, a relieved lot heading back to camp, thinking of the hot tea and potato fritters that would be doled out shortly.

Sitting by the tent that evening, my husband and I watched the birds as they retired for the day, chirping noisily, flying in large and small flocks. Twilight enveloped the cloudy skies and a light drizzle began. At that moment I leaned towards my husband and whispered, “There’s a scorpion on one of your shoes… must have climbed on during the safari!”

  

  

Secrets of the Jungles

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, or at least a significant portion of it, the jungles delight you with a new revelation. The many secrets and treasures of Indian jungles, shrouded deep within the dense foliage, hold a mysterious charm; one that allures and excites its visitors with the promise of something new each time. 

The Elusive Mouse Deer

It was during one of those trips to a tiger reserve in South India that the spirits of the forest decided to shower me with their generosity. Following an impressive safari where we spotted a tigress with her cubs, some elephants, and the usual ungulates that throng the Bandipur Tiger Reserve, it was almost time to exit the park. 

I rested my camera on the seat and figured I’d watch the sunset. It was our last safari for the trip, and I wanted to take in as much of the sights and sounds of the jungle as possible. Just as we drove past a curve, our naturalist hurriedly signaled for the driver to stop. I picked up my camera that very instant and squinted hard to see what had caught the naturalist's attention. 

“There, by the bush!” he motioned excitedly. 

Sure enough, by the clearing, something the size of a house cat or a small, domestic pig, emerged from within a bush. It was like nothing I’d see before. Dwarfish stature, short legs, a mouse-like face, the animal was simply adorable! 

“Madam, it is a mouse-deer,” whispered the naturalist, as I got busy clicking. 

The fading light and the considerable distance between the mouse deer and the vehicle presented a challenge. It was not the ideal setting from a photographer’s point of view. But that’s the thing about wildlife photography; you cannot plan every shot, or position the subject where the light is good. You can either take the shot or leave it. I decided on the former. In the obsession to get that perfect picture, I didn’t want to risk missing out on this rare opportunity to not just see a mouse deer in the wild but also photograph it. It was an exciting moment indeed!  

Its small frame, nocturnal habit, and secretive nature make it a very difficult subject to capture on camera. The mouse-deer, considered to be the smallest ungulate, is also known as the Chevrotain. The Indian Spotted Chevrotain, a species of even-toed ungulate in the family Tragulidae,  faces a severe threat from poachers and destruction of habit. In fact, this diminutive ungulate was spotted in Chhattisgarh after a long hiatus of 112 years, in 2017. It was also bred in captivity and then reintroduced into the Amrabad Tiger Reserve in Telangana state. These statistics, although grim, should give you an idea of how challenging it is to be able to actually spot one in the wild. 

As I watched the mouse deer dart around like Alice’s White Rabbit, it occurred to me that this little fellow could be a tasty appetizer for a predator’s palate. I shared this thought with the naturalist. 

“It’s small stature and mottled markings provide excellent camouflage from predators, especially if they stay immobile. I’m sure many safari vehicles, in their pursuit of a tiger or leopard, have driven right past one! ” he quipped.

It was something to ponder over. Not only is it difficult to see the Spotted Chevrotain in its natural habitat, but it’s amazing how little we know of this elusive animal. It may lack the tiger’s royal presence or a leopard’s delicate grace, but the mouse deer is a charming little creature that deserves its rightful place in our jungles. Protecting this Tragulidae species not only requires focus on increasing their numbers in the wild, but also educating people about their behavior, habitat, and their importance in maintaining ecological balance. 

All in the Family: Deciphering Tiger Behavior in the Wild

My tryst with tigers began almost 10 years ago when I first laid eyes on the erstwhile Prince, the alpha-male of the Bandipur Tiger Reserve in Karnataka. Little did I know back then that a chance encounter with a hazy mobile camera would grow into a full-blown love affair; one that would awaken in me an insatiable thirst for the jungles and its denizens. This desire to observe, photograph, and understand more about tigers in the wild gradually saw me evolve from a mere tourist to an eager learner. What delights me the most about studying these majestic cats is the fact that every encounter, sometimes with different tigers and many times with the same ones, allows me to learn something completely new about them. 

Mahadesha with his mate

“There are more ways than one to observe tigers in the wild,” an ex-forest department official once told me. 

“It’s all about perspective rather than just ‘seeing’ tigers,” he said. 

Intrigued, I asked what he meant. 

“Scat analysis, for instance, is a good indicator of the tiger’s diet and health, while scent-marking, clawing, cheek rubbing and vegetation flattening tell you a lot about their territories, time spent in certain areas and reproductive readiness. It’s also a non-verbal form of communication.”

“Meanwhile, the pug marks denote the age, sex, and overall health of a tiger,” he continued. “So you see, it’s not always about looking at tigers, as much it is about observing their behavior in a natural environment.” 

The wisdom of his words and immense love for the jungles reminded me of one of my favorite modern-day writers and conservationists, Valmik Thapar. Thapar, in his books, narrates the observations made over the years while tracking tigers in Ranthambore. He talks about some rare and thrilling experiences recorded during safaris; the kind that give you gooseflesh just by reading about them. So you can imagine my delight when one of Thapar’s experiences unfolded before my very eyes. 

It’s often believed that the male tigers rarely have a role to play in the upbringing of their cubs. Some of them are even believed to be rather aggressive and nasty towards their cubs. This myth was debunked by Thapar, who witnessed resident males in Ranthambore play an active role in raising their offspring. While reading about this was enlightening, to be able to observe and photograph this fascinating phenomenon is an absolutely unmatched experience. 

I was in Bandipur when the present day alpha-male, locally called the Basavankatte male or Mahadesha, was expected to arrive at a particular watering hole that he frequented. We also knew that he had fathered cubs some months ago, and the likelihood of spotting his cubs and mate was high. Soon we found ourselves near the said watering hole, cameras ready, hearts beating hard in anticipation. 

Soon enough, he made a grand appearance, walking leisurely towards the water body. Lowering his hind legs first ( tigers dislike getting water in their eyes and face), followed by the rest of his body, he made himself comfortable, giving us plenty of opportunity for some great shots. That’s when things got exciting. 

The tigress, his mate, sauntered in a few minutes after, swishing her tail gracefully. Emulating her partner, she dipped her body into the water, settling down less than 3 feet away.  We couldn’t believe our good fortune, for not only did we get to see a tiger, but we also managed to capture him with his mate in a single frame! 

The tigress, by now, slowly inched towards her mate. To me, it appeared that she was trying to ascertain his mood. A couple of tail swishing and nudging moments later, she rose and walked boldly towards him. Then, she gently nuzzled him, rubbing her cheeks against his. Mahadesha, in the meanwhile, seemed to enjoy the pampering and nuzzled back, without lifting his lazy backside from the cool water. 

Mahadesha with his cubs

Following this display of affection, things got intense. We detected a movement in the shrub by the pond. Out popped a small, furry head, followed by another, and a third one! The occupants of our safari vehicle were giddy with excitement. I’m surprised I managed to hang on to my camera, for the sight of this perfect feline family seemed to overwhelm and enthrall me simultaneously. 

The cubs, almost 11 months old, rushed to their mother at first, keeping a safe distance from their father. However, the female ignored her cubs as they bounded off her rump and tried to lick her. The cubs were now hungry for affection; if they weren’t getting it from their mother, they decided to try their luck with their father. 

It was a tense few seconds for the occupants of our vehicle, as we watched the cubs move playfully towards the big male. The familiarity with their father and his tender behavior towards the cubs made us realize that the tiny furballs were extremely comfortable with him. That’s when it dawned on us that this probably wasn’t the first time they were playing with him. They poked him with their tiny paws, licked, and nuzzled against his enormous body before plonking themselves beside him, thereby quashing the belief that the male tigers don’t play an important role in bringing up their cubs. This family was a picture of love and devotion, sharing not just territory, but also food. The overpowering smell of a decaying carcass and their tiny bellies bulging from a recent feast proved that they’d dug into Mahadesha’s prized gaur kill.

I put my down my camera and simply watched them, trying to imprint this scene in my memory. If good fortune prevails, I know I will see many more tigers and tigresses in the future, and possibly tigresses with cubs too; but I realized that an experience like this, where I’d observe and photograph the whole family together, was perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

Spending time with these magnificent cats in the jungles of India has changed my outlook and perception about tigers. It’s made me understand the strong familial bond that exists between these otherwise solitary hunters, and that they are, under normal circumstances, tolerant to human presence. That said, it would be half-witted and foolhardy to take their instinctive, predatory disposition for granted. 

Of course, in today’s age of convenience, it’s easy to read more about tigers from the comfort of your home or drive to the closest zoo to look at them pace restlessly in miserable little enclosures; but the thrill of the wait, the excitement that the first glimpse of the tail or the rich coat in the sun-kissed jungle, and the call of the tigress as she looks for her cubs, is a matchless experience. 

Tiger Tales from Corbett

Sometimes you drive into the jungle for hours without so much as a glimpse of the big cats, elephants, or the nervous ungulates. There are times when your luck runs out and the birds, which would otherwise fill the air with a cacophony of calls, decide not to make an appearance either. In times like this, the naturalist or driver accompanying you tries to drive the boredom away and keeps you interested by recounting thrilling experiences or jungle lore.

The breathtaking landscape of Corbett

I returned from my trip to Corbett Tiger Reserve with not only a memory card full of wildlife pictures, but also with some exciting, and sometimes frightening and tragic stories from the jungles. Perhaps some of the stories that I recount here are true, perhaps some peppered with exaggeration from the narrators; there’s no way for me to corroborate. That said,I do believe that those who narrated these tales had no reason to spin a yarn, for I have read about experiences such as these in several books. They certainly don’t sound far-fetched to me.

Our driver Dilsher was a man of few words. He spoke when spoken to, and refrained from what he considered an unnecessary use of the vocal cords. It was only towards the tail end of our safaris, as he got to know us better, did he open up, narrating some gripping tales about the tigers that walk this jungle. 

“I was a young boy when this happened,” began Dilsher. 

“My uncle gathered twigs, dead wood, and dry leaves from the forest floor. A friend of his usually accompanied him during these trips, and they would go deep into the woods, mounted on elephants. We wouldn’t worry so much about their safety, because tigers, as a rule, don’t bother humans unless provoked or if they’re physically incapacitated to hunt. Moreover, the elephants acted as deterrents to the big cats. That fateful day, he gathered enough twigs and wood and decided to call it a day when he noticed one piece that he’d missed. As he bent over to pick it up, a terrible roar reverberated through the jungle and a big male tiger pounced on him, its powerful claws gripping his skull.”

Dilsher closed his eyes, trying to recollect what must have been a painful memory.

“His loyal elephant, hearing his master’s screams struggled to break the chain that bound its legs while precious seconds ticked by. His friend, who was not too far away when this happened, heard the commotion and rushed to his aid, thankfully riding on his elephant. Meanwhile, the chained elephant managed to break free and rushed to his master’s rescue. The disturbance annoyed the tiger, who mercifully failed to break its victim’s neck as tigers usually do, and the shaitaan scampered into the thicket. His friend brought my uncle back, profusely bleeding, but alive. Despite the multiple reconstructive surgeries, he lacks one ear and has a fleshy mess for a scalp,” finished Dilsher, as we drove into the forest rest house premises for the night. 

The Gairal Guest house 

I’d like to believe that providence kept Dilsher’s uncle alive. Perhaps it was the crouching position assumed by the man as he bent down to gather firewood that led the tiger to attack, mistaking the human to be one of the four-legged herbivores that are part of a tiger’s natural diet. However, when it comes to wild animals, there are no rules that apply. Just like there are people among us who exhibit deviant behavior for no reason whatsoever, sometimes perfectly healthy tigers also resort to behavior that’s unbecoming for their species. 

The following day, after a good night’s sleep at the forest guest house, we set off on what was to be our last safari in the Dhikala zone. We drove around for a while before coming to a halt at a spot that was said to be frequented by a particular tiger. To our right was a small, albeit picturesque waterhole, carefully covered by trees and shrubs. To our left were the sal trees casting their long shadows across the jungle floor.  

"Let’s wait here," said Dilsher, turning off the engine. 

We waited in silence, enjoying the cool morning breeze that gently caressed the leaves. A couple of minutes had passed with no sign of the tiger, when Dilsher, uncharacteristically, started to narrate another tale involving the same tiger that we were waiting for. This time the incident involved him and another tourist. 

“Last summer, we halted at the same spot, waiting for the tiger to make an appearance. It was after lunch, and the combination of the summer heat and the occasional jungle breeze lulled me to sleep. I’d turned off the engine, and after waiting for almost 30 minutes, dozed off. A couple of minutes later, I woke briefly and turned around to see that my guest, a lady was also asleep. The tiger wasn’t coming, and the heat was oppressive. I thought another short snooze would be nice. Soon, the two of us were fast asleep, when all of a sudden, I felt an inexplicable sense of danger. I opened my eyes slowly at first, and then wide in shock, as I saw before me a fully grown tiger, its forelegs outstretched on the bonnet. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Avoiding all eye contact, I lowered my head, hoping it would go away. The lady, in the meanwhile, also awoke and let out an audible gasp. I suppose I was relieved she didn’t scream. The tiger, its curiosity aroused, decided to investigate and circled the vehicle, sniffing it with great interest. My body felt like ice, and I am sure the lady felt the same too, for there wasn’t the slightest movement from us.”

“The tiger, by now, was bored, and just as suddenly as it had appeared, it walked away nonchalantly. We thanked our maker as we watched the beast vanish into the thicket. I asked the madam if she’d like to finish the rest of the safari. She told me to forget it and head to the nearest forest rest house, as she had to use the bathroom. Truth be told, so did I. I’ve never been more terrified in my life as I was that day,” he finished. 

I’m not sure how I’d react, should something like that happen to me. I looked around, imagining the tiger stretching itself on the bonnet. Something between excitement and fear ran down my spine as I replayed the story in my mind.

We did see a tigress that day, but from a reasonably safe distance. That was our last safari with Dilsher, but we did have one more in the Bijrani zone and one in the Jhirna zone. I hoped that the other driver had more stories for us. I wasn’t disappointed. 

The following morning, we met Jalees, a cheerful young man, who was to be our driver for the next two days. Jalees, it turned out, enjoyed conversing with guests, and regaled us with interesting stories and trivia during his tenure at the Corbett National Park. Of all the narratives we heard, one stands out from the rest. It’s the story of his unfortunate neighbor. 

There are some parts of Ramnagar town that borders the Tiger Reserve. In one place, I observed the human habitation is demarcated by a concrete wall that overlooks the jungle. It was apparently here that this incident took place. 

“Summer in North India is merciless,” began Jalees, warming up to the subject.

“Sometimes on an unbearably hot day, some people sleep with the front door open, although that’s not the smartest thing to do. This happened many years ago to the man who lived opposite my house.”

“We awoke to the sound of someone screaming in the middle of the night. My father and I rushed outside, and what we saw chilled us to the bone. Our neighbor, on a particularly hot night, had left his front door partially open. A wandering tigress, her curiously aroused, peeked in and grabbed the sleeping man by his ankle, yanking him like a rag doll. Dragging her surprised victim, she managed to pull him out into the open, while his family screamed in terror. The village was up, and soon, some of the brave men pelted the tigress with stones, hoping she’d let go of her prospective dinner and bound back into the jungle.”

“The tigress,  brave as she was, stood her ground. While she let go of her grip on the man’s ankle, she didn’t flee from the spot. Instead, she just sat down, possessively guarding my neighbor, who by now, had gone into shock.”

“Then what happened?” I asked anxiously. 

“A forest officer, whose residence was close by, was alerted. It was only when he shot twice in the air did she make a hasty exit,” said Jalees.

“My neighbor, though, did not survive. The trauma and loss of blood killed him,” he concluded sadly.

As we drove back through the Bijrani zone that evening, I noticed several hutments and small homes within the reserve, just a couple of meters from the exit gate. I saw women gathering leaves, and children playing with gay abandon. I am certain that if I had the opportunity to talk to some of the people who lived here, I’d return with many more stories, some perhaps unfortunate and alarming. Why do these people choose to live in such dangerous proximity to wild animals? 

“We understand wild animals. They seldom attack without provocation. If a tiger chooses to maul and kill one of us, it’s because we’ve occupied their homes; but where else do we go? We do not understand why people molest, loot, and kill each other. It’s complicated. This jungle has been our home for generations, and if sharing the space means skirmishes with wildlife, then it’s kismet,” a naturalist employed from a tribal village once told me. 

The simplicity and wisdom of his thought made me realize that human-animal conflict has been and will continue to be an unavoidable part of the lives of those who share their living space with animals. Yet, these wild animals, including tigers, are noble beasts that bear no malice towards the two-legged creatures that walk these jungles with their rifles cocked, their chests puffed up, and senses alert for the slightest movement or sound. 

The Pachyderms of Jim Corbett National Park

The journey from paperback editions of various books penned by the legendary hunter-turned-conservationist Edward James Corbett, or Jim Corbett, as h's popularly known, to actually driving through the very place he once walked, was nothing short of exhilarating. During my growing years, I devoured his books, often closing my eyes between chapters to imagine what it must have been like to cover mile after mile, letting the jungle sounds course through his senses.

The matriarch warns us to stay away - Dhikala zone, Corbett National Park

You can imagine then, how it must have felt for someone who’s dreamed of this moment their whole life, to breathe the very air that Corbett once breathed, to drink in the beauty of the varied landscape that was until a short while ago, just a place that existed in my mind. 

I could wax eloquent about the park, and still not do justice to the breathtaking landscape that includes a diversity of flora and fauna.  Perhaps I’ll save this for another time.  Although the vast grasslands, riverine beds, and the towering Sal trees seduced me completely, what blew me over was the sheer density of elephants that roamed these jungles. The pachyderms were everywhere. Almost every turn, every patch in the grasslands had large herds or lone tuskers eating their way through the jungle. What amazes me about elephants, irrespective of the topography or location, is their ability to hide. A creature as large and noisy as the elephant can melt into the vegetation or stay absolutely silent if it wants to. I have encountered this behavior several times, whether it’s the dry, deciduous forests of  Bandipur, the dense, hilly terrain of B R Hills or the diverse jungles of Corbett, the elephant emerges from behind a shrub or the lantana, swiftly and silently, taking you by complete surprise. 

I remember the time when we were following fresh pug marks, our jeep hurtling through the jungle track, when all of a sudden, from around a bend came a loud crash. This happened just as the jeep passed the bend. An extremely annoyed female elephant emerged from the thicket, startling all of us completely, for there wasn't the slightest sound until moments ago. We were even more surprised when she was followed by a small herd of five or six females, including a calf. Of course, we left from there in a hurry, relieved that the matriarch decided to make her presence felt after we’d passed. Had it been a few seconds earlier, the consequences could’ve been disastrous. 

Besides the fact that the herds I spotted in the Dhikala zone of the national park were enormous in number, the other unique trait I noticed was the size of the elephants. Now, before you jump to counter my observation, let me clarify that this is purely a subjective pronouncement. Somehow, the elephants here appeared marginally larger than their South Indian cousins, especially the males. 

Speaking of male elephants or tuskers as they’re popularly referred, I had the opportunity to observe and photograph two large, lone tuskers on different occasions. The first one, a  handsome, albeit full grown male, blocked our path on the Dhikala-Gairal road.  At first, he ignored us, feasting on the succulent leaves from a tree. Then things got interesting when another safari vehicle blocked his path from the opposite direction. I expected him to lose his temper and express his annoyance. Our tusker though, remained calm, composed and in no rush to get anywhere. He continued on his way forward, while we followed slowly. The other vehicle had no choice but to back up as the elephant ambled along, stopping on and off to grab a tasty snack from the infinite jungle pantry. My husband and I clicked away furiously, hoping to somehow get some good headshots. 

“Headshots? Why didn’t you say so before?” ...is what I think the fellow thought, as he stepped into the thicket for the briefest moment, allowing us to pass. Once we drove past, he got back on the jungle track, now following our vehicle as we managed to get some excellent headshots. After a while, I put down the camera and simply gazed at this attention-seeking tusker. I could’ve sworn he enjoyed every minute of it. 

That’s when things changed from interesting to exciting. A tigress, clearly disturbed by the elephant’s presence, emerged from the undergrowth and walked right between our jeep and the elephant! Awestruck by the unexpected appearance of the tigress, I missed the chance to get both animals in one frame. It would’ve made such an excellent picture! Quickly regaining my composure, I did manage to get her on film before she slinked away from her nemesis.

If the Dhikala zone was teeming with herds as large as 40, the Bijrani zone had some formidable tuskers of its own. Considered to be the best zone to spot tigers, after Dhikala of course, this zone has an ethereal beauty that leaves visitors mesmerized. Boasting sky-high Sal trees, small water bodies that run through rather hilly terrain, the Bijrani zone is marked by unexpected curves that hold the promise of something exciting right around the corner. This was where we saw the second tusker. If his Dhikala cousin was large, this was one bulky. His trunk was thick and his beautiful, but deadly, tusks gleamed as he walked, rapidly and purposefully towards our vehicle. I was sure he would charge, for he was in the state of “musth”, a condition where a mature bull has up to 60 times its normal testosterone levels. It’s highly dangerous to approach bull elephants during this time. Their aggression levels rise to a great extent, so much that they attack with the intent to kill. It’s not uncommon for elephants, both wild and tame, in musth to attack and sometimes kill one of their own. 

I noticed the telltale temporal discharge close to its eyes, right in front of the large ears. The determined gait with which it marched towards us and the fact that 4 other safari jeeps blocked our path in front, naturally made me very nervous. The driver left the engine on, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of trouble. This one, strangely, didn’t display the typical aggressive behavior of an elephant in musth;  although we weren’t sure what he’d do if he got too close to us. Well, we didn’t wait to find out.

Our naturalist was a man who’d worked with the forest department for nearly 20 years. His experience told him not to take any chances with the formidable battle-tank forging towards the jeeps. Gesturing the other drivers to move ahead, he instructed our driver to step on the gas. Once the jeep was at a safe distance and my adrenaline subsided, I realized how fortunate I was to be able to photograph these intelligent, temperamental creatures in the wild.

Sure, the Jim Corbett National Park’s biggest attraction is its tigers; but the highlight of my trip was the elephant encounters. From the endless herds feeding placidly and the little calves indulging in juvenile games, to the testosterone-charged handsome bulls, the pachyderms of Corbett stole my heart. 

The Christening of Tigers in India

Wildlife photography aside, a well-informed naturalist can make all the difference between a good safari and a mediocre one. A well informed as well as communicative naturalist ensures you don’t just enjoy the safari, but also return with a profusion of interesting trivia. Fortunately, we’ve had the well informed and the communicative kind accompanying us on most of our safaris. Their vast knowledge of every plant, animal, and even insect species never ceases to amaze me. Of all the trivia and tidbits of information that I’ve picked up over the years if there’s one thing I derive great pleasure from, is understanding how a tiger was christened. There’s always an interesting and sometimes amusing story behind this.

The famous Spotty scent marks a tree

Tigers, once identified, are given unique IDs by the forest department. You have the usual T series such as T - 31, T-2 and so on, which are used for official purposes such as tiger census and record maintenance. That said, the naturalists and forest guards usually christen the resident cats with names that are assigned either because of an incident, a unique personality trait, or sometimes because they think it’s endearing to call a tiger by a particular name. This blog is the story of these tigers and how they earned their names. While I’ve had the privilege of photographing some of these big cats, there are others I wish to see very soon and some others I can no longer hope to see because they’re now dead.

Our guide and driver Sultan, who accompanied us on 6 safaris in Bandhavgarh, was a man of few words and many years of experience, first as a forest guard, then a mahout, and finally as the driver of safari jeeps. That said, a little persuasion and small talk later, he opened up with some rather amusing anecdotes about the popular tigers at Bandhavgarh.

Charger, the dominant male that breathed its last in September 2000, earned its name because of his aggressive disposition and penchant for charging at safari jeeps and elephants. Before you jump to any conclusions, let me make it clear that he did not, in the 17 years that he lived, harm any humans.

“Charger would silently await the unsuspecting jeeps to come close before jumping out from behind the tall grass and rushing forward. He always stopped short a few meters from the vehicle, growling menacingly at the terrified tourists. He was a large, handsome male, albeit a ferocious one,” explained Sultan.

Once familiar with Charger’s antics, the guides and drivers were extra vigilant when they drove into his territory, always on the lookout for an impending charge or an unexpected roar. It is said that this fearless beast didn’t refrain from charging at elephants either. I wonder how I’d have reacted if I were in the jeep that ran into Charger. Would my hands shake with fear, would I manage to take photographs? Sadly, I’ll never know the answers to this questions, for the legendary Charger, after the death of his mate Sita, the matriarch of Bandhavgarh, met his end too.

Hungry for more, we requested Sultan for more stories. He grunted incoherently, before clearing his throat.

“Then there’s Pannalal…” he began.

“Pannalal?” I quipped, intrigued and amused by the personification of the animals.

He threw me an annoyed glance before continuing.

“We named him Pannalal because he wandered from the Panna Tiger Reserve into Bandhavgarh.”   

Well, so much for creativity, I thought, disappointed because Sultan settled into one of his long silences again. Traversing a distance of almost 210 kilometers is a bit too much for a tiger, whose territory normally ranges from 60 to 100 square kilometers. Was he in search of a mate? Was it the lack of prey? Or was he driven out by another more dominant male? No one really knows, for not much has been documented about the reason behind Pannalal’s migration from Panna to Bandhavgarh.  

While Pannalal and Charger were two tigers I haven't photographed, the former because I haven’t been fortunate enough to see him yet, there’s one rather popular tigress I did see and capture on camera - Spotty, a tigress I have written about in detail previously. Now, it makes sense if a leopard were to be named Spotty, evidently because of the rosettes that adorn its sinewy body. But Spotty, the tigress?

Spotty, along with one of her daughters

“There’s a ‘T’ shaped spot on her forehead,” explained Sultan, “hence she’s Spotty!”

I barely managed to suppress a smile. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out the so-called T shape, but I wasn’t about to argue with the expert.

“Spotty has a sister, Dotty. It rhymes,” he shrugged.

That evening, as we huddled by the bonfire, munching delicious paneer fritters and sipping some piping hot ginger tea, I thought a chat with the resort manager might throw some light on the tigers of Bandhavgarh.

“We’ve known and track these tigers right from birth. The naturalists coin unique names for the big cats, and the most popular ones stick,” he explained, the tea having loosened his tongue.

“For instance, there’s ‘Bhagodi’...she bolts into the nearest thicket every time she hears a jeep and Solo… no prizes for guessing why it’s called Solo,” he guffawed. Clearly, the person who christened these animals wasn’t having a very good day.

Closer to home, the Nagarhole and Bandipur Tiger Reserves boast a very healthy population of tigers. The Tiger Tank Tigress and her cubs, as well as the Powerline cubs, enjoy a celebrity status in Nagarhole and it’s safe to assume that almost no photographer who spends a couple of days patiently waiting to capture them on camera goes home disappointed. Celebrity status aside, their names elicited not more than a yawn from me. Unlike the naming of the dominant male in Bandipur, the naming of the Nagarahole Tigers that I photographed didn’t have a story that interested me.

Speaking of the dominant Bandipur male, after the passing of Prince, the famous tiger that attracted photographers from far and wide, another male soon acquired his predecessor’s territory. Such is the way of nature. He was the Basavanna Katte male, also addressed as Mahadesha.  

When I first laid eyes on Mahadesha, I was astonished by his size. He was handsome and big for a six-year-old tiger and very confident in his stride. Mahadesha settled down behind a bund, giving us ample time to admire and photograph him. Satiated, we drove back to camp, my head full of questions about his rather interesting name.

"There was a forest officer, who’d decided to name his son Mahadesha. However, when he had a daughter instead, he christened this cub ‘Mahadesha’, which coincidentally, was born around the same time. Mahadesha is like his son," one of the naturalists explained when I enquired. A delightful story indeed!

Although I’ve had the good fortune to spend time and photograph some of these tigers, I wish I could travel back in time to observe this one tigress that Valmik Thapar discusses in great detail in his book, The Secret Life of Tigers. She was the tigress, Noon.

Noon walked the jungles of Ranthambore in the 80s before she was killed by poachers. Her diurnal hunting nature earned her the name, as she mainly hunted during the day, especially between mid-morning and noon, a behavior unlike the rest of her kind. Trained by their mother, Noon’s cubs emulated similar hunting techniques, stalking and killing their prey during the day. Perhaps it was Noon’s bold and trusting nature that led to her unnatural demise, robbing many wildlife lovers and conservationists of their chance to spend time with her.

Compared to the numbers in the 80s and the 90s, there are many more tigers that walk the jungles of India today. Some like the late Noon, Prince, Charger, Machali and Genghis Khan were famous, while there were others who were born and lived in anonymity. I only hope that I’m fortunate enough to observe, photograph, and write about these majestic cats in time to come.