Let’s Talk Leopard

Having grown up on a healthy diet of Jim Corbett, my love for the jungles only grew when I switched to Kenneth Anderson, followed by Hugh Allen and Valmik Thapar, nearly 6 years ago.  So when I met my husband a decade back, we connected instantly over our passion for wildlife and the drive to explore the Indian jungles.

Blessed as we are to have visited most of the Tiger sanctuaries in Karnataka, we realized over time that most naturalists and promoters of ecotourism in India have a single-minded obsession – spotting the majestic tiger. Although still on the endangered species list, it's heartening to know that the tiger population in India has grown substantially over the last few years. What’s disheartening, however, is that in a bid to save the tiger, other critical species, which aren’t necessarily on the endangered list, are often ignored.

Mahadesha - The Tiger

On our recent trip to the Bandipur Tiger Reserve, we informed the naturalist that we’d like to observe all animal and bird species, to which he raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked us if the striped feline wasn’t on our list. Well, of course, it was. We’d love to observe a tiger in its natural habitat, as we’ve done many times before, but we’d also like to take in the different sights and the sounds of the jungle.

We started off on a cold January morning. As we ambled along, our naturalist pointed to our right and whispered excitedly, “There’s Mahadesha!” Following his gaze, I expected to see someone from the anti-poaching squad walking along the fire trail.  What I saw made my jaw drop. There he was, a fully grown male tiger, lazing around in a nearly dry water hole. The excitement in the safari jeep was palpable, the cameras clicking away furiously. After clicking some pictures, I put the camera aside and watched ‘Mahadesha (also known as the Basavanna Katte male)’ yawn and stretch. He rose in all his magnificence and melted into the thicket, as we continued to gaze at the spot where he’d just sat. It was an excellent day indeed, and we were just getting started.

 As we prepared for next day’s safari, I wondered what surprises the jungle had in store for us. Little did I know of the thrilling experience that awaited. 

It was around 4 in the evening and the naturalist told us that it’s unlikely that we’d spot anything at this time of the day. Indeed, the part of the jungle that we were to cover that evening lacked the usual deer and langur population, and we were quite certain that this wouldn’t be anything more than a peaceful drive in the wilderness. The drive was lulling me to sleep, and the delicious lunch a few hours before didn’t help. Just as I was about to slip into a sweet slumber, one of the guests exclaimed, “Leopard, leopard!”

I was instantly awake. Indeed, less than 70 meters from our jeep was a fine male leopard out on his post-lunch stroll. Leopards are shy and difficult to spot in the wild, so we were fortunate to have seen this one up close. His movements unhurried, his body sinewy, the spotted, smaller cousin of the tiger gave us a cursory glance before doing the vanishing act. But my excitement isn’t something everyone will share. Considered a nuisance by many, leopards are vital to maintaining the ecological balance. While studies show that there are four leopards for every tiger in India, the alarming reality is that these cats are often poisoned, trapped in snares, or simply shot. The future perhaps isn’t as grim for the leopard is it appears for the tiger, but at the rate at which these creatures are dying, I certainly hope they don’t meet the same fate as that of the tiger.

The Sounds of the Jungle

So obsessed are we, in the pursuit to spot the big cats, that we often forget to observe the beauty of the jungles that surround us. We hear, but don't listen. We look, but we don't see. We admire, but seldom appreciate.

The jungle, to me, is a place where imagination comes alive. A large rock sheltered by the bushes resembles a gaur or an elephant in the twilight. Twigs take on the shape of snakes, lying motionless, patiently waiting for an unsuspecting hare or rat to come by. Sometimes, on a moonless night, something scurries past, rustling a bed of dry leaves. And I find myself playing guessing games, wondering what it could be.

It was one such warm, moonless night, when I found myself in a dark tent, surrounded by acres of thick jungle. It was our third visit to the K.Gudi camp in Biligiriranga Hills or BR Hills for short. The fact that my husband and I were the only guests at the camp and the lack of electricity added to the excitement. At about 8 30 that night, after we were done with a delicious, but simple dinner, I decided to step out for a while to take in the familiar, soothing, sounds of the jungle. The cicadas, after making quite the racket, decided to take a break, giving the nightjar the perfect opportunity to make its presence felt. I felt myself being lulled into a stupor, my thoughts wandering all over the place. This blissful state of affairs continued for a good thirty minutes or so until the realization suddenly hit me that all the denizens had quietened down. Now if you've been to the jungles as often as I have, you'll know at once that a silent jungle can mean only one thing – a predator was on the move. I was alert, straining my ears for a faint rustle, or the rough, sawing sounds of the leopard.

Soon enough, the deathly, oppressive silence was shattered by the alarm call of a sambar deer. "Dhonk, dhonk, dhonk!" it went. I followed the direction of the sambar's alarm call, and mentally traced the path of the cat that must have walked around the periphery of the camp, barely 200 meters from the tent. Was it a tiger, or a leopard, I don't know. For I was as blind as a bat, my ears doing all the listening and seeing for me. I retired to the safety of the tent, as the calls continued well into the night. Sleep, of course, eluded me, for I was high on the heady mixture of thrill and curiosity. The sambar stopped calling eventually, signaling that it was safe for the denizens to come out of their hiding. A few hours passed, and I could hear the wild boars outside, sniffing and devouring any tasty tidbits they could find. My glow-in-the-dark watch showed that it was nearly 3 AM, and I decided that I simply had to get some sleep.

"Oye, wake up, wake up," someone whispered frantically. Groggy and confused, I grumbled at my husband for disturbing my sleep. "Listen, it's a barking deer!" he whispered, hardly able to contain his excitement. Sure enough, it was now the barking deer's turn to call out. Something was definitely afoot, moving stealthily about, but this time, the calls were from the opposite direction, indicating that the predator was returning to its lair, which clearly wasn't too far from the campsite. I imagined it to be a leopard, returning from its hunt to the comfort and safety of a tree. We passed, what was left of the night, listening expectantly for more alarm calls. They'd died down of course, and we found ourselves dozing off, as the first light of the dawn kissed the dewy foliage.

Thirty minutes and two cups of tea later, we were on the morning safari. I mentioned the previous night's alarm calls to the driver and the naturalist, and they weren't too surprised, but nevertheless excited.

"We heard it too!" they exclaimed, in unison.

"This particular leopard lives somewhere close to the camp," said the driver. "But, he's a master of camouflage, so the guests rarely get to see him."

No sooner had he spoken, we saw a rush of yellow and dark spots jump across the fire trail, and crash into the bushes. It was the leopard alright! My jaw dropped in awe at the fleeting glimpse of this beautiful creature, just before it vanished.

"You're fortunate madam," the naturalist said, grinning from ear to ear. "Most people only hear him, you got to see him too, albeit for a few seconds."

Lucky indeed! But I couldn't wait for nightfall, until I heard him again, in the alarm calls of the deer, and the silence of the cicadas.

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.