The winking tigress of Bandipur

The best things in life are often those that are least expected! The same applies to safaris. 

We were on the lookout for the bear-killer. A moniker earned by a bold male tiger after he had killed a sloth bear in a waterhole. Usually a formidable opponent, the bear did not stand a chance, having been caught by surprise by a lethal attack from behind when it bent down for a desperate drink. At least, that’s how the story goes, since I was not there to witness this rare moment. Gathering bits of information from the videos shot by the lucky ones who watched the show from close quarters, we wasted no time in heading straight to the said waterhole to try and catch a glimpse of he-who-dared-to-dine-on-the-mighty bruin! 

The harsh afternoon sunlight created silver ripples on the still waters, as we squinted to adjust to the brightness. Of the deceased bear, there was no sign. The tiger seemed to have polished off his delectable meal leaving no remnants for us to “ooh” and “aah” upon. 

The afternoon dragged on, while we shifted uncomfortably in our seats, wiping rivulets of perspiration off our faces and necks. A restless human specimen, in his attempt to position his bazooka-like lens, violently shook the safari vehicle and its inhabitants, who were lulling off into a heat-induced slumber. A fellow guest opened his mouth to reprimand him, but shut it almost instantly, having spotted a dull-orange shadow with black stripes behind the drying vegetation. 

The tiger emerged into the open, and what a magnificent creature he was! Oblivious to the excited audience pointing their cameras, mobile phones, and fingers at him, he yawned and proceeded to immerse himself into the water, albeit butt first. 

His belly appeared full from his previous meal, and he alternated between drinking water and dozing off as a gentle breeze caressed the jungle. 

I put down my camera, giving my aching arms some rest, and simply watched the tiger as he stretched and emerged from the water, shaking the excess moisture off its pale coat, and walked majestically into the thicket. In a few moments, he was gone! 

It was nearly time to go ourselves. The blazing afternoon had turned into a mellow evening. A cormorant and egret circled the shallows, looking to grab a quick supper before retiring for the evening. It was the perfect end to a perfect afternoon. Or so I thought. 

Our safari driver, Pradeep, a man of great experience and an acute awareness of animal behaviour suggested we take a different route to the exit, rather than follow the convoy exiting the reserve. With some time to spare, we excited lot set off towards a more picturesque part of the jungle. The flat terrain soon changed, and we found ourselves ascending a hill as the 4X4 swallowed the undulations with aplomb. 

The landscape was simply breathtaking! The denuded hillock, devoid of much greenery in the summer months, appeared ethereal as the bare trees swayed on a bed of ash-littered earth. The ash was the result of the forest watchers’ efforts to prevent a forest fire, which is a dangerously common occurrence in the dry season. The watchers, through controlled fires, burn the dry grass, which would otherwise turn into a lethal blaze. 

We drove on, chattering animatedly about the bear-killer, as the sun gently lowered itself into the hills, when Pradeep brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt, his whispers a mix of urgency and excitement. 

“Tiger! Tiger!” he whispered. 

I scanned the fireline, expecting to see the hindquarters of a retreating tiger, when he impatiently pointed in a different direction. Lo, behold! There she was, resting on a bed of ash and soil, her rich coat contrasting against the dark earth beneath and the cornflower blue sky serving as the perfect backdrop. It was an unforgettable sight indeed!

A famously shy tigress, she seemed uncharacteristically at ease, as she gave us a casual glance and winked as if to say, “Well, the game is up. Looks like you found me after all!” 

The winking tigress!

At least that’s what I’d like to think, considering what actually happened was that she reflexively shut an eye to ward off the pesky horseflies that plague the jungles in summer. Having done that, she rose lazily, sauntering off into the brambles after liberally scent-marking the trees. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Bazooka-Lens, dismayed by the lost opportunity to photograph this elusive tigress groaned audibly at his folly. He had packed up the camera equipment after the first tiger sighting, assuming his tiger luck for the day was done. 

I felt a tad sorry for him, for nothing dampens the mood as much as a missed opportunity to photograph this magnificent feline, especially when one is right in front of you. 

The last rays of the sun almost disappeared as we drove back, each one of us still spellbound by the glorious evening. 

I hope to see her again someday, maybe with cubs or her mate. Only time will tell. Perhaps she might wink once more?

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.

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.