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. 

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.