When it rained leopards

Donald Anderson, the son of the once-famous hunter turned conservationist, Kenneth Anderson, in his book, The Last White Hunter, spoke about his love for the jungles and how he’d grab every possible opportunity to take a break from city life and disappear into the wilderness. When someone asked him if he wasn’t bored already, looking at the same trees, driving down the same roads, and often, tracking the same animals, he said that they wouldn’t understand the fondness he had for the wild.

Peek-a-boo!

I felt like Don was speaking to me from beyond the grave when I read this portion of the book. I’ve been asked time and again, why I make a beeline for the jungles at the drop of the hat? 

It’s the same trees, the same jungle tracks, even the same species of wildlife. Why then, like an addict drawn to her fix, do I find myself in the midst of the jungles every now and then?

This is because it’s a refreshing new experience every single time, in addition to the pollution-free air, the melodious bird and animal sounds that replace the honking that I have to endure in the city, and the feeling of exhilaration that comes from being amidst nature. The absence of predictability in the jungles is what differentiates one day from another.

In fact, this point was driven home during one of my trips to the Bandipur Tiger Reserve.

I’ve seen several leopards, though nearly not enough, across various reserves in India. I’ve seen them catch forty winks on a comfortable branch high above the ground, and I have seen them quake with fear when its fearsome cousin, the tiger walks below the tree they’re resting on. I’ve seen them saunter boldly along the fire line, and I have seen them when they’re almost impossibly camouflaged within the thicket. Yet, every experience is distinct from the other.

Coming back to the Bandipur trip; the evening safari had just started, and the naturalist received a message that another vehicle had just spotted a large male leopard. We headed straight to the spot, hardly feeling the bumps as our vehicle hurtled along the track. The monsoon was a long way off and the earth was bone dry, the dust covering our clothes and faces. No one seemed to care, for all we just had one thing on our mind… tracking down the leopard.

To a safari junkie, a leopard resting on a tree branch or on the ground amid the lantana is a textbook sighting. Make no mistake, it gets the pulse racing every time.

Cameras out, I strained hard to spot the rosettes, the lantana and the dry shrubbery obscuring the handsome cat.

“Madam, it’s right there, straight ahead,” the impatient naturalist said, probably convinced that I was going blind.

I squinted, trying hard to follow his instructions when I finally saw it lounging lazily, although brilliantly camouflaged. It was a fine specimen with beautiful rosettes glistening in the sunlight. Awestruck, we got busy photographing the leopard, when another safari vehicle joined us from the opposite side. Now, to understand what happened next, it is important that I describe our respective positions.

To our left was the leopard, at a distance of roughly 300 meters. The other vehicle, which comprised the driver, naturalist and three guests, faced our vehicle, the leopard on their right. Like us, they whipped out their cameras and got busy clicking, the lot of us completely engrossed in the leopard’s antics.

“Oh my God… leopard..leopard!” yelled one of the guests from the other jeep suddenly.

“Of course lady, we know it’s a leopard,” I thought drily, rolling my eyes at the delayed outburst.

“There, there!” she exclaimed, pointing in the direction behind us.

We turned in unison, awestruck by what ensued in the next couple of seconds.

Out jumped a fully grown female, followed by three sub-adult leopard cubs, in quick succession.

I gasped aloud, the camera forgotten, staring at this rare sight of a leopard family on one side, and a male leopard on the other opposite side.

Although the excitement among the guests was palpable, we knew better than to make sudden movements that would scare these wonderful beasts away and deprive us of this unusual opportunity.

We watched intently, as the male grew increasingly agitated. The clump of lantana between the family and the lone male prevented them from seeing each other. They could, however, catch each other’s scent, and that was sufficient for the male, who stood absolutely still for a few seconds, then bolted deep into the jungle.

It seemed that the female and the cubs had won this round. They relaxed and melted into the vegetation as we watched, forgetting to breathe during those intoxicating few minutes.

We got back to camp that evening, our faces flushed, hearts hammering in excitement, when someone commented that the leopard quota for this year was done. I nodded in excitement, not knowing that this couldn’t be further from the truth.

A rather groggy bunch left for the safari the following morning.

I yawned, fighting off sleep as the vehicle rumbled on, the cool morning breeze caressing my face, urging me to nod off, just for a little bit.

Every once in a while, there comes a time during the safari, when not a bird nor an animal is seen. The jungle is almost silent, except for the comfortable hum of the engine and the squeaking of the rexine seats every time one of the vehicle’s restless occupants shifts their posterior. This, coupled with the morning sun, can be the perfect setting for a quick nap. So you can’t blame me for nodding off after about 2 hours into the jungle, without having to lift my camera once.

We traversed along the jungle track, making a turn towards the familiar Mangala dam area. I drifted in and out of my nap, while we drove on, until I was awakened by a sudden jolt. The driver had braked suddenly, pointing at the small pug marks along the track.

Shaken from my reverie, I gaped at what seemed to be a leopard’s pugmarks. They were fresh, which means the animal had just walked past.

Gunning the engine gently, the driver and the naturalist assumed the air of two men on a mission, scanning the scrubs and treetops for signs of the leopard. The tracks continued for a couple of meters before disappearing abruptly. A collective sigh escaped our lips as the realization hit us that the elusive animal had probably taken off at the sound of the vehicle.

Well, there was nothing more to be done other than head back to camp, for we were nearly out of time. I sat back and relaxed, staring absently at the dry grass that grew tall alongside the jungle track.

Then, I saw something move, stealthily, gracefully between the grass.

“Oh.. oh…” was all I managed, pointing excitedly at the crouching cat.

Her face, partially hidden behind a shrub, was beautiful in the morning light. The sinewy, golden body was tense, alert for the smallest signs of trouble. Time stood still, as she stared back, her gaze not leaving us for a second.

Then, she stood abruptly, turned around, and retreated into the jungle.

The spell was broken and our time was up; but I knew that as far as leopards are concerned, elusive as they may be, we were just getting started.

The bus ride to Manali

Stopping by the highway for a refreshing drink of coconut water on a hot summer day, or a cup of tea no matter what the season; watching the lush, green paddy fields roll by, the miles disappearing as the road hungrily swallows village after village.  These are some of my fondest travel memories.

Picturesque Manali

To me, the journey sometimes supersedes the destination. In fact, there are times when I am almost disappointed to have arrived at the destination even before I can fully appreciate the feeling of absolute abandon that comes with road trips. Add some good music, throw in something to snack, and of course, great conversation, either with your fellow passengers or an interesting stranger who’ll be your companion through the journey and you have the perfect ingredients for a merry road trip.

Of course, there are those instances when you’re desperately counting the kilometers, waiting to get to your destination. Despite their unpleasant nature, these journeys are tucked away somewhere in your treasure trove of memories. Sometimes you recall them with a smile, and sometimes with a small shudder, glad to have put them behind you.

One such journey was when my husband and I took the awful bus ride to a picturesque hill station in the Himalayas, Manali.

The bus, a rather colorful, albeit a rickety piece of metal, came to a screeching halt at the bus station in Delhi. It was late by two hours, and the sweltering heat didn’t make the endless wait any easier.

I almost cried out in relief when I saw our bus, for it had ‘Luxury AC Comfort’ painted in bold, gaudy colors. Tossing the blood-soaked tissues that I’d used to stop my husband’s nose bleed, (courtesy, the heat) we handed the bags over to the guy, whom I assumed was the cleaner, help, and companion to the driver.

Greasy red and black seats that had embraced many a tired, eager bottom, awaited us.

“We did not sign up for this,” I whispered to my miserable husband, as he tentatively sat down, trying not to touch the greasy armrests.

“It’s doo lade for dat,” he responded, dabbing his reddening nose.

It was a full hour before the bus started, ferrying a motley bunch of paratha-munching aunties, a group of unwashed and glossy-eyed youngsters, fidgety families, the cleaner and of course, the driver, an absolute maniac with a morbid sense of humor.

The air conditioning did little to alleviate the heat, and soon the stench of sweat and unlaundered hosiery, mingled with the scent from all the food that was being passed around give off an unpleasant odor.

I almost gagged, trying to breathe through the handkerchief I was holding. If this was bad, the worst was yet to come.

A couple of harrowing hours later, the bus pulled up at a roadside dhaba. Muttering a prayer of thanks, we disembarked, stretching our cramped legs and taking deep breathes of fresh air. We were on the outskirts of Karnal, a city in Haryana. The night sky twinked brightly, and the aroma of the food improved my mood a little. I was hungry and couldn’t wait for my first-ever experience eating at an authentic North Indian dhaba. But first things first, I needed to use the bathroom.

“Bhaiyya (brother), where is the bathroom?” I asked the chap who was busy slapping the rotis inside a blazing tandoor.

He barely glanced my way as he pointed toward a dingy corner behind the kitchen. I took my husband along because I was terrified of what or who lay in wait for me in the darkness. The ‘bathroom’ comprised a rusty door that was coming off its hinges. I hesitated, but was reminded by my husband that my options were few.

My eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust to the zero-watt bulb that cast a miserable shadow inside the tin-shed. A small hole dug in the earth and a broken plastic pail, which probably was a can of paint in its last birth sat forlornly in the dim light. I realized with dismay that this was ‘ladiss bathroom’ as the sign hanging on the door proclaimed. It with either this or the fields that stretched along the highway. Imagining snakes and scorpions waiting for an unsuspecting victim, I wisely decided to give the fields a pass.

Following a harrowing visit to the ‘ladiss bathroom’, I joined my husband on the cheap plastic chairs and waited for someone to take our orders.

“How about we try the paneer makhni?” I enquired, looking expectantly at my husband.

“I suggest we stick with the basics. Just some dal and rotis should be a safe choice. Best avoid the other stuff” he responded.

I, however, was insistent on the paneer. “How can we come to an actual North Indian dhaba and not try the paneer?” I reasoned and proceeded to order. My wise spouse stuck to his plan and asked for dal with his rotis.

Let me tell you this...it was the best paneer I’d had so far. Large chunks of cottage cheese, slathered with butter and spices in a delectable tomato gravy, accompanied by piping hot rotis. I tucked in hungrily, while my husband dunked his share of rotis in the not-so-bad looking dal.

“At least the delicious meal was the saving grace on this bone-jarring bus ride,” I commented as we boarded the bus for the remainder of the journey. Little did I know that I’d need a lot of ‘saving’ from the paneer that would soon to do the cha-cha in my stomach.

The bus rumbled on, the video player blaring songs from a vague movie that played for the benefit of the drowsy passengers. The driver,  as if recharged by the meal, pressed the pedal hard, sending the vehicle into a tizzy, barely missing a couple of collisions en route. The passengers gasped between their naps and packs of potato crisps, drifting back into their state of inertia, while the driver continued his murder-suicide mission.

My stomach, in the meanwhile, sent the first signs of distress as I felt the start of tiny, painful pricks. We still had a couple of hours to go, and I prayed as I’ve never prayed before that I wouldn't have to use another one of the ‘ladiss’ bathrooms again. I tried to sleep off the mild discomfort, but the driver’s colorful language as he drove like a man possessed, and the fear of meeting a watery grave in the mighty Beas River that flowed alongside the highway, kept me wide awake.

Now my discomfort levels transitioned from mild to mind-numbing. My husband looked at my perspiring face in alarm and figured what was wrong. With impressive alacrity, he fished out some medication from the bag, which I swallowed sheepishly.

The rest of the journey was a blur of pain and uneasiness as I clutched my aching belly and wished for the dreadful bus drive to conclude. The medication provided temporary respite, until finally, the driver announced that we had arrived at our destination, words that were music to my ears.

The next couple of days at the hotel were, of course, spent on multiple trips to the restroom and back. Needless to say, I wouldn’t touch paneer for some time after the horrendous episode...even if someone paid me a small fortune.

Fast forward ten years, with the regularly mushrooming fast food chains along the highways, the convenience of simply hopping onto a plane or the train at the slightest drop of a hat, and the ease with which navigation apps on mobile devices chart the best possible routes, makes for less adventurous journeys. Although the drive to Manali doesn’t qualify as an adventure I particularly miss, I thank the heavens for the inconveniences of a simple life; for, without these memories, I’d have nothing to reminisce or have a good laugh over.