Madhai

It was an all too familiar cat and dog tale that we witnessed at Madhai. The cat here - a leopard - was up on the slopes with its kill, appearing quite regal as cats usually do. The demeanor was, however, short lived. Soon came a pack of dogs – the dhole - ferocious Asiatic wild dogs. Like all cat and dog stories, no sooner had the dogs arrived, regal bearing was thrown to the air and the cat scampered up the closest tree leaving its proud possession behind. The dogs, after taking a shot at tree climbing and managing only to scratch the trunk, suddenly realized that food was essentially on the ground floor. Focus immediately shifted to the feast, which from a distance appeared to be a female black buck. Having had their full and after a few more rounds of amusement at the expense of the hungry cat, they went their way merrily. After a few minutes of cautious surveillance from the top, the leopard came down and hurried home with the leftovers.

The Madhai forest reserve, part of the Satpura National Park, is located close to the confluence between the Denwa and the Tawa (a tributary of the Narmada) rivers about 150 km from the city of Bhopal. The Satpura National Park lies entirely along the Satpura Mountain Range that runs from Gujarat in the east to Chhota Nagpur plateau in the west. The mountain range serves to divide the Gangetic plain from the Deccan plateau. Madhya Pradesh can easily be termed as the wild life capital of India with over 60 % of the state being under forest cover. It boasts of quite a few well-known National Parks like Kanha, Bandhavgarh, and Pench. We however decided to explore the less frequented forests of the state in our quest for “that isolated, untouched beauty”. And we were not disappointed. Madhai is exquisite, to say the least. It is a “complete package” of almost everything a forest goer can hope to find in a forest. Be it the densely wooded hills, the sprawling grasslands, the winding backwaters or the occasional swamps - Madhai has it all.

The sighting of two of the most coveted predators along with herds of Gaur (Indian Bison) early in our safari had us flabbergasted. No doubt, it increased our expectations as well. Madhai however was up to it! When we thought we had seen it all, suddenly the thick teak forest opened up into a magnificent meadow reminiscent of the East African savannas. The yellowish hue of dried grass contrasted splendidly with the deep green bush land on its periphery, capped perfectly by the royal blue canvas above. What with a huge gathering of Cheetal, Boar and Black Buck sifting their way through the dried grass and Cross Tailed Drongo and the Indian Roller fluttering about, sometimes riding on boar-back and occasionally diving into the grass, it seemed the world of the paintbrush has come alive.

It is amazing what vegetation can do to the climate of a place. The temperature fluctuates as you leave the dense forest for the comfort of the open grasslands. This in turn also affects the mood hanging over the forest. The bright open savannas seem to be loaded with life, with birds chirping around, monkeys scuttling about – now in mid air, hidden in the grass the next – the sun weaving a magic of life, while, the thicker woods paint a countenance of dark, grim, sullen disposition. The mood, no doubt, is also impacted by the time of the day with the setting sun spreading a gloom across the entire horizon.

In the afternoon, we hired a boat from the forest department and set off to explore the backwaters. The backwaters are, in essence, narrow winding off shoots of the main river that coils its way through the forest much like an octopus spreading its tentacles over a prey. These shallow waters, brimming with fish, insects and other reptiles are the favorite “haunts of coot and herns” - wading birds like Storks, Cranes, Herons, Cormorants - so lively immortalized by Tennyson. One can easily spot a cormorant sitting atop a dead branch looking like a mere extension of the branch. Often one can also spot a Pied Kingfisher hovering over the water, and then suddenly swooping down at full speed, scooping up a small fish from near the water surface and settling on another branch close by – all in one smooth motion. An abundance of prey invariably ensures the presence of predators. High above, the Fishing Eagle and the Osprey patrol the skies. They also use the taller trees by the river as watchtowers and remain perched there to keep a watch over their territory below. The banks are also home to the crocodile. The crocs spend most of the winter days sun bathing and rarely stay under water. They invariably jump in though on hearing the sound of the motor. The relatively quieter petrol boat is thus a preferred choice over the diesel one, albeit costlier too. The ride through the backwaters is not only useful for bird-watching, it can also be used to good effect to spot game in the forest as they come out for a drink in the water channels that cut through the forest. In fact, these narrow channels are the hunting ground for the crocs as they lay ambush for thirsty deer. Just as we were about to wind up for the day, we heard a ruffle in the woods near by. Our boatman stopped the engine and we waded closer. The ruffling stopped and there was silence. We craned our necks to peer through the foliage. Then suddenly it began all over again and the bushes moved violently. And almost as suddenly out came a sloth bear!

Our shelter, Madhai Wildlife Resort was on the banks of the Denwa River at the edge of the forest. The only other accommodation available is a couple of nearby forest bungalows. The key feature of the resort is its wonderful location – overlooking the forest - not to mention the possibilities of gastronomical pleasures. We would simply devour the mouth-watering ‘alu parathas’ and curry made from local country chicken prepared by the cook. One can simply while away time lazing on the balcony sipping coffee and munching on the sumptuous ‘pakoras’ watching pied kingfisher swoop down and create ripples in the still water or painted storks create wonderful patterns as they soar high above. Additionally, the owner Mr. Dubey was also of great help in planning our safaris.

A faint orange glow broke in through the mist hanging over the water like a fleece of wool. The winter sun lazily propped itself up over the distant hills. The chirping of the birds filled the cold morning air. It was around six thirty and people were queuing up at the jetty to cross over for the morning safari. The forest department manages the safaris as well as the river crossings. The resort, however, takes the onus for arrangements for tourists putting up at the resort. A gentle breeze started to blow over the river and the mist slowly started to clear away. A flock of geese flapped their way down the river. Far away, a Serpent Eagle let out a shrill cry – a cry of joy as it welcomed the beginning of another day. I stood on the balcony and wondered how long this will last. How long, before fifty hotels cram the riverbanks with their ugly billboards to draw flocks of humans. How long, before 10 motor boats start crossing the river every minute and all the geese fly away. How long, before100 gypsies throng the forests in a day instead of the five now, shrouding the grasslands with whirls of dust and leaving remnants of our plastic culture to pollute this Garden of Eden. I wonder.

Darchik

The road, lined by khobani trees, had remained straight for almost three hours. It finally took a turn and crossed the river to which it seemed inseparably bound. They had come together at a turn just ahead of the small town of Khaltse where the winding metallic strip had de-coiled itself from the rugged, barren mountains and laid beside the gushing, gargling, grey waters of the mighty Indus. The road, as it approached the PoK, now crossed the river and was again lost amongst the folds of the mountains - this time greener, and this time in a different world, amongst a different people.

The mountain hamlet of Darchik along with three other nearby – Garkone, Dah and Beema - is home to a group of people called the Brog-pa. These villages lie close to the PoK and are a good 6-7 hours from Leh which is where most tourists land in for a trip to Ladakh. They are however closer to the town of Kargil which is about an hour’s journey in the southwesterly direction. Darchik is closest to the border and along with Garkone, require a permit from the Army to visit. The permit can is arranged easily by most hotels. The only place for tourists to stay here is a PWD guest house at Dah.

These people – the Brog-Pa - think of themselves as the true descendants of the Arya people who migrated to the sub continent from the Central Asian highlands around three thousand years back. It is difficult to ascertain whether this is entirely true or is simply a myth which has helped these people maintain a sense of identity – after all myths and legends are integral to any community, leave alone an ancient one. It has no doubt helped their livelihood as this story alone draws more tourists than would have otherwise been possible in this remote, secluded, lost Himalayan kingdom.

Myth or no myth, one thing is certain, they are different from any other people living in Ladakh. Their beautiful looks, fair skin, sharp features, blue eyes, contrasts sharply with the brown skinned, flat, mongoloid features of the Ladakhis and are more in line with people from Kashmir, north of Pakistan, Iran etc. Their appearance, however, compliments their surroundings perfectly. The beautiful, sharp features reflect the tremendously beautiful but stark surroundings they live in. For many people, to whom Paradise is decidedly on earth, and Gods and Goddesses are nothing but a group of people bestowed with a higher than average natural endowment, just to have a glimpse of these God like people is reason enough to travel over uneven, rugged country on a seemingly never ending journey to the end of the world.

We stepped out of the car as it crossed the river. The remaining 5 minutes to the nearest huts had to be covered on foot. The driver pointed to a mountain behind us – it was across the border in Pakistan. We were in the Kargil district – the war zone. Heavy shelling had taken place in these border areas and the villagers had to be removed to army camps beyond the artillery range. They returned after the war ended. Walking past a series of khobani trees by the Indus it was difficult to imagine a place of such un-earthly beauty as a grim bloody battlefield. We climbed up the slope to small green fields rendered partially orange by scattered khobani and bordered by the first few huts.

Sing Dorje, the man of the household, welcomed us to the nearest hut which housed a sitting room and a kitchen. The kitchen also doubled as a dining room. The living quarters were in a different hut. While the elderly women and the children gathered around us, the younger women went about their daily chores of washing clothes and picking khobani from the fields.

The Brog-pa livelihood is dependant on agriculture and the army. The women mostly work the fields. Khobani (apricot) is a major crop. The fruit is consumed along with the dried seed which is supposed to tone the respiratory system. They are mostly sundried; however, recent developments have also led them to use a solar dryer. The dried seeds and the fruits are then sold to the markets mostly through the army as the markets are far away. The men do several odd jobs for the army like working on road maintenance etc. However, despite this, most of the villages are poor with a very simple lifestyle built around bare minimum requirements. They still don’t have electricity although they have been promised that before every election since the last fifteen years or so. Solar power works for around 5 hours a day. Every year they eagerly look forward to the summers as the road opens for tourists. As they don’t have too much too offer, they often present themselves in their festive gear for a nominal financial reward. The winters bring with it a gloomy seclusion as they remain cut off from civilization for months on end.

Currently there are around 62 families in Darchik with a few more in the other three villages. All along they have managed to maintain their identity with a strict adherence to intra-community marriages. However, with more and more youngsters bidding farewell to the villages for the wealth and glamour of the cities, they are finding it more and more difficult to maintain their so-called racial purity. Their society is mostly patriarchal with a woman being allowed to marry the younger brother of her husband if he were to die an untimely death. The dead is usually cremated with the family holding a 3 month “ashouch” – similar to contemporary Hindu customs. Their main God – “Pal dan lamo” – is a God similar to the Hindu Goddess Kali. Their proclaimed religion is, however, Buddhism! Though this appears surprising at first glance, it can be recalled, that when a new religion is enforced on a people with beliefs and practices firmly rooted in the depths of time, the new religion simply functions as a garb over the existing beliefs and practices; the observations and celebrations remain same, the names change merely.

The blue eyes of a young girl gaze at us through her light brown hair rendered golden by the blaze of the sun as we start to take our leave. Was that how Draupadi could have looked? I ask myself. Or had the migrants already changed colour on mingling with the locals by the time the Mahabharata took place? Or was I just being a victim of the age old concept of racial superiority of the fair skinned and the blue eyed that has plagued man kind? Difficult to say…lost in the wilderness, amidst the folds of the towering abode of the Gods, along an ancient mythical river, anything seems possible!

Dudhwa

The soft pink light at the rear end of the passenger train paled out and eventually disappeared as the thick white mist gradually engulfed the whole station. The few waiting passengers, wrapped in their shawls and huddled together beneath a single shade of the desolate platform, appeared like ghostly figures under the yellow halogen lamp illuminating parts of the platform. It was one-thirty a.m. Weary after a whirlwind few days at Dudhwa, and rendered numb by the frosty winter of northern India, we yearned to be home.

Phulkumari stood near the entrance of her mud hut, weary of approaching strangers. We paused and smiled hoping that she would smile back and the ice would be broken. She didn’t. We took a couple of measured steps towards her. She didn’t seem to mind. Sudeshna, my wife, went forward and introduced herself. She reflected on what she heard for a few seconds and eventually smiled and mumbled back in broken Hindi. She turned and called out loud, apparently to her family, for, in an instant, a couple of kids, an elderly woman with a toddler hanging on her back fast asleep emerged from nowhere and the whole family stood queued in front of us as if awaiting marching orders. This was our first visit to a Tharu village.

True to her name, Phulkumari stood with the demeanor of a queen, in front of her blazing yellow mustard field lined by wild flowers mostly with a violet hue. The flowers were beautiful and the beds neatly arranged one after the other. We were ushered in to a courtyard bounded on three sides by mud huts with thatched bamboo roofs. Huge stacks of hay brought up the remaining side. The courtyard was neatly arranged with a charpoy placed under an asbestos shade and earthenware pots stowed away to one side. An incessant drone at one corner revealed a quaint pig sty with chickens fluttering about while a parrot kept pecking at the small metal door of its cage.

We took our seat on the charpoy and sipped on to the cold water which was served to us. Being unaware of each others tongue (their Hindi broken at best), conversation was limited to sign language and a few words here and there wherever applicable. So for example, Phulkumari pointed at the pig and made a sign of eating with her hands and mouth to ask us if we wanted an authentic tribal pork preparation. We politely shook our heads, pointed at our tummy and smiled to indicate that we were not quite up to it! In due time, after we had our due of looking around the picturesque little hamlet, we said our good byes and left.

The Tharu are a primitive tribe who has settled down to an agro-based economy. They are engaged in a number of activities typical of village folks like animal husbandry, and fishing in the Sarda River that flows through the jungle - Dudhwa National Park - close by. Their presence (as well as the presence of other villages) at the edge of the forest often brings the two into a conflict. Not surprising therefore, man-tiger conflict at Dudhwa is pretty high as compared to other national parks. Animal deaths further result from a meter gauge track that runs through the forest for the small number of settlements that are within the periphery of the park. After a series of tiger and elephant deaths, the Government has finally woken up and has decided on an attractive package – about 10 lakhs for anyone above 18 in a household – for them to evacuate. It has also decided to extend the buffer zone and connect it to the nearby Kishanpur Sanctuary, thereby creating a biological corridor of sorts. Currently, the 15 km stretch between Dudhwa and Kishanpur is all agricultural land.

Dudhwa National Park is a prominent, yet lesser known, tiger reserve near the foothills of the Himalayas in the terrai region of Uttar Pradesh near the Nepal border. The closest town Palia is about 10kms away and the nearest railhead for most tourists is Shahjahanpur. Bungalows run by the forest department inside the forest can be rented at a nominal price and the only place outside the forest but close to it is the one run by the UP Tourism – offering very basic facilities - some 5 kms away.

The reserve spreads across acres of dense forest and sprawling meadows lined in the north by the Shivalik range of the Himalayas and occasionally dotted with lakes and swamps. The forest begins way before one enters the National Park, almost half way through the road joining it with the nearest town - Palia. This road is in fact a highway which cuts through the forest and passes by the Tharu village and heads towards Nepal. All along, the road is lined on both sides with marshy lands – an ornithologist’s delight. The swamps are brimming with fish, snakes and hundreds of different smaller reptiles and insects. This obviously leads to a variety of water birds either in the water or perched on the lower branches, sitting dead still, on the look out for any trace of movement below. Some of the branches are so crowded that they look either spotless white or brownish black depending on whether it’s a flock of heron or commorant perched on it! Often one can spot a royal blue kingfisher, suddenly swooping down at full speed, scooping up a small fish from near the water surface and settling on another branch close by – all in one smooth motion. And all along, the higher branches remain occupied by the king of the skies – the eagles. Dudhwa being close to the Himalayas, one can easily spot a variety of predatory birds which are difficult to spot in the warmer forests. The chances of spotting are even higher in winter when more number of these birds come down from the higher slopes to escape the extreme climate. One may find the dark brown Serpant eagle, Pallas’ fishing eagle or even the white feathered crested hawk eagle perched on the bare branches of some dead tree often appearing like a mere extension of the branches, moving only to make a smooth, calculated descent with their huge wings flapping regally. Further inside the forest, on high branches along the river, Osprey’s aren’t difficult to site either.

The winter mornings were usually cold and foggy with the fog gradually dying down by mid-morning. The misty jungle in the early mornings was a breathtaking sight with the trees, the moss, the grass, the leaves all seemingly conspiring to create a mystical atmosphere - reminiscent of the woods of the fairy tales. I could almost catch a glimpse of Red riding hood trotting by the nearby bush! The afternoons were pleasant – we would laze around Banke Taal – a lake in the middle of the forest - and spot Barasingha’s and black necked storks basking on the small islands on the lake. The Barasingha population is larger in the larger lake at Kishanpur, though – no wonder therefore that the banks of the lake are a favorite haunt of the tiger with pug marks visible all around.

The fog that picked up again by late evening was severe and almost created zero visibility at certain stretches which made our drive back to Shahjahanpur for our night train a harrowing experience. Eventually, after at least 4-5 narrow escapes and almost certain that we had missed the train, we reached Shahjahanpur only to find that our train hadn’t even arrived – its arrival uncertain because of dense fog! There was a passenger train on the platform heading for Delhi. We ran to catch it. As luck would have it, we missed it!

Jet Set Weekend

“Wake up! Quick!” A frantic whisper from my wife - gazing ahead, her eyes almost popping out - stirred me back to life. I had dozed off waiting, waiting and waiting… A quick turn of the head in the direction of her eyes revealed a bright fiery orange something with black stripes some distance away, hidden partially by slender deep brown barks of deciduous trees. It was a tiger! A huge male (the guide put it down to about 200 pounds) tiger - sauntering through the bush land and scarce vegetation so characteristic of the dry climate of Ranthambhor National Park. Gorgeous, hypnotic, mystique were the words that came to mind in a snap! Bulky, yet regal in every move it made.
Ranthambhor, lying in a cradle formed by the Aravalli and the Vindhya ranges - two very old mountain ranges – in Rajasthan is home to around 30 odd tigers and along with Kanha, Bandhavgarh, Pench and Corbett ranks pretty high in the Project Tiger success list. So much so that tiger cubs from the park fitted with radio collars, (for the first time in India) are being moved to nearby Sariska for a fresh lease of life – rampant poaching by hunter gatherers from the Mogiya tribe unfortunately being the reason for its extinction there. In fact in one sting operation in the early nineties TRAFFIC (an organization that monitors the wildlife trade for the World Wildlife Fund) had discovered dozens of families in Delhi’s Sadar Bazaar engaged in the trade of animal body parts. After all a tiger skin can fetch more than $1500! As the availability decreases with tiger numbers, the prices soar. And with a buoyant Asian economy, affordability is only increasing. Wildlife protection forces are usually understaffed and the budget laid out for conservation by the Government is meager at best. The situation worsens when there are religious sites present within the premises of the reserve – as is the case with both Sariska and Ranthambhor. This allows unrestricted human entry within the park and makes poaching control trickier.
His highness paused for a second to cast a fleeting glance at his subjects – the event being noted and marked by a zillion clicks from all possible photography equipment on show from the zillion gypsys that had gathered there – word of the monarch spreads like lightning in these parts; and that too, if I may add, by word of mouth! The langoors, sambhars, cheetals, peacocks all play their own part in this evolved mode of communication which can be described in simple terms as an “alarm call” traceable even at large distances. The tiger turned its head and walked away apparently irritated by the high decibel levels being maintained in its realm; for few park visitors in India are aware of the etiquette to be followed in the jungle. For most, it’s just another outing on a weekend where they cut loose and yell at close to top of their voices and sometimes even go to the extent of littering the parklands!
Education and awareness of the importance of the jungle, not only from an aesthetic view, but also from an ecological perspective which has the potential for impacting the economy of the country, is imperative for its survival in the long run. This is something where the wild life department needs to dig deep and come up with plausible solutions. Without a nation wide awareness about the need and ways of the jungle, saving it would require a Herculean effort, not to say it doesn’t already does so!
The terrain of Ranthambhor is unique. At the far end there are the two mountain ranges forming a V like pattern. The near end is fenced by the huge Ranthambhor fort – built by a Rajput ruler and now largely in ruins. Nested in between is the major portion of the forest with tracts of undulated grass lands and three beautiful lakes. The grasslands here are different from the ones in Kanha where it stretches till the end of ones imagination; here, because of the hilly nature of the terrain the land climbs up now only to take a plunge the next to form a sort of valley – and all the while brooks, seeming to come from the magical places which are “the haunts of coot and hern” immortalized so well by Tennyson, spurt by in a hurry, sweeping away almost anything that dared hinder their march. What with early rains (mid-June) this year Ranthambhor was exploding with life. The usual dry dusty sparsely vegetated land was transformed into a bright green bushy garden with even the lakes taking on a greenish hue. Crocodiles or magar as it is known in India swarm the lakes which are also the hunting ground for a large number of wading birds including herons, a variety of storks, mallards, stirlings etc. The birds patiently look out for a catch – remaining stationary for minutes at an end sometimes - while the crocs appear to be prepared to wait as long as it takes to lay an ambush. Often one can notice a stork take a furtive step or two towards a potential prey only to squinch back on detecting a croc taking a sun bath in its way. Now and again we would come across a small brown hare nibbling on a light snack in the afternoon or a woodpecker making heavy weather of a thick dark bark of a tree as ancient as the earth itself. The hilly parts on the other hand provide a better opportunity to spot predatory birds and provide a breathtaking view of the plains below.
Unfortunately, Ranthambhor doesn’t have any forest rest house within the park. Hence, one has to put up at the various hotels outside the periphery of the park. The state tourism hotels are reasonably priced and have decent facilities, though the efficiency of service is poor. One good place to stay could be the Ranthambhor Bagh, owned and run by Aditya Singh, a dedicated conservationist and photographer. Herds of photographers, wildlife enthusiasts, naturalists etc usually drop anchor there during their visits to the park, hence one could be in for some very interesting and intellectually stimulating evenings with loads of tips and suggestions coming ones way. There one can also run into Salim Ali, a very competent naturalist and “tiger driver” who has worked with BBC on various projects. If one can enlist him for ones services as a guide during ones stay there one is assured of a trip worth remembering! At least the chances of spotting a tiger will surely move up by several notches.
Ranthambhor National Park, which is a part of the much larger Ranthambhor Tiger Reserve, lies in the Sawai Madhopur district of eastern Rajasthan. The Sawai Madhopur Sanctuary, followed by the Sawai Mansingh Sanctuary and the Qualji Closed Area lies further South-West of the park. Sawai Madhopur, the nearest rail head, is 5 hrs by train from New Delhi. Mewar express and Shatabdi both link the two towns with daily runs. The town is accessible by road as well, however what with roads being is poor shape, the journey might take about 9-10 hrs!

Kipling's Den?

Anyone who has sat through the popular Disney animation film “The Jungle Book” or browsed through the book of the same name by Rudyard Kipling will concur the setting is idyllic. It is often said that Kipling had Kanha at the back of his mind while immortalising the jungle life in his story. Need anything more be said? Isn’t it the ultimate praise that can be showered on a jungle? Set in the eastern fringes of the country’s heartland – Madhya Pradesh – this 940 square kilometre of wilderness is beauty personified.

We arrived at the MTDC resort at Mukki (the park has 2 gates – Kisli and Mukki), close to the main entrance of the park one morning, the weekend just before Christmas. Immediately after lunch we set out for our first Park ride. Almost as soon as we entered we were greeted by a herd of Cheetals (spotted deer) grazing languidly some distance away. As we moved ahead, the road, lined by Sal trees on both sides, suddenly opened up into a vast meadow reminiscent of the East African savannas. The yellowish hue of dried grass contrasted splendidly with the deep green bush land on its periphery, capped perfectly by the royal blue canvas above. On and off one can spot a Sambhar reaching out to pluck leaves from the scattered trees or a flock of Cheetals making their way to the nearest water-hole. And then the gypsy would enter a dark, cold, thickly wooded part of the forest, entirely impregnable to the soothing winter sun; and then again we would come out through a serpentine path in the middle of a swamp, with flocks of mallards and other wading birds, not to mention the egrets, herons and the kingfishers hovering above, waiting for the opportune moment to plunge at an unsuspecting prey. It is this contrast - of terrain, of flora, of colour, of scent, of light and shades – that makes Kanha exhilarating.

“Pitter-patter, pitter-patter” - little drops of water hitting the glass and dripping off onto the window sill woke us early the next day. We rushed to the door anxiously. We were touring in an open gypsy – ideal for safari. Rain would ensure that we had the hood on and that would spoil the ride entirely. Thankfully, it turned out to be dew dripping from the leaves above!

We entered the park at day break and headed straight for a ticket counter to enrol ourselves for the ‘Tiger Show’ in case the mahouts who leave at around the same time to comb the forest in search of the big cat do return with news. As and when the mahouts report a ‘sighting’, the word is spread and the forest officials reach the spot with a few of their tame elephants. All vehicles are stopped at a distance from the spot so as not to be a source of disturbance for Sher Khan. (To what extent they are successful, however, can be a matter of extensive debate.) The visitors are then led through the dense foliage by haathi to catch a quick pricey glimpse of the elusive monarch (it costs Rs.200/- per head over and above the cost of the park ride).We enrolled and went about our usual park ride. We sighted a Barasingha couple (Swamp deer), found only in Kanha, grazing nearby. In fact there is a special protected area for the Barasingha whose population had dropped to less than 60 a few years back. Careful preservation however has raised the number to over thousand now. And then came the news! Only a rumour from the driver of a passing gypsy to begin with, we received confirmation soon after. Sher Khan has been spotted! We drove at almost break neck speed for the next half an hour or so to collect our token at the enrolment centre and head towards the spot, with the terrain changing gradually from level plain to a hilly one.

The first impression was that of disappointment. When one visits the wild or makes a conscious decision to tour a less frequented place, the last thing he wants is the companionship of a horde of fellow humans – and that’s exactly what lay in store for us here. The whole place thronged with gypsies. The officials had a tough time in keeping order. Their repeated pleas to ensure that we don’t step out and await our turn in silence, however, helped create an atmosphere of suppressed excitement. We were fifth in line. Each elephant could carry only 3 people. We anxiously anticipated our turn as one by one the elephants left for the rendezvous with the King, urging the Almighty to use all His powers to keep it rooted there a little more. Finally our turn arrived. Climbing up the ladder with cautious steps, for the huge brute was insistent on rummaging through a pile of dead grass and sneezing continuously, we took positions on its back. Positions, we thought, would be strategic in providing us with the best view. With our cameras ready and the mahout “pulling the trigger” with his whiplash, we were off!

I have often wondered the reason why there aren’t too many television programs on Indian wildlife. All those lovely shows that we see in National Geographic on African safari! Aside from a program or two, there’s very little on India. The answer hit me from all sides while seated on the elephant. As soon as you step inside the bushes from the jungle path, the first thing you realise is that the visibility drops to less than a few yards ahead. On top of that moving around becomes next to impossible. No African forest comes as close in terms of the dense foliage and undergrowth to the tropical forests. It is simply not viable for a crew with all its equipments to move amidst this maze of branches, fallen trees and cluster of bamboos. The elephant is the only useful mode of transport. Neither is a zoom lens of much use where your view is blocked by an impenetrable mesh of leaves and branches for most of the time. For haathi, it’s a cinch though. He surged ahead, dextrously using his snout to remove the twigs and shoots that attempted to stall his progress, before long we were there. And there lay the regal Khan, resting, possibly after a sumptuous meal, under the shades of the forest canopy. The crackle of dry leaves had informed him of our arrival. He looked up at us for a moment with that royal air. Just long enough for us to press the shutter. Royal ‘sighting’, being high in demand, no sooner had we had the chance to overcome the initial awe and get down to clicking a few snaps, the mahout had already used his whiplash and we were off once again.
“Off season mein aiye babu….pura ghuma sakte hain....season mein bahoot mushkil” cries out the guide assigned to us. Evidence of what he says is all around. Christmas and New Years being pretty much vacation time for most, there are almost 170 gypsys at a given time in the forest making viewing animals pretty much difficult. The noise and whirl of dusts drive most of the animals into the thicker woods. Hence, what the officials do is allot specific routes for every vehicle entering the Park. Thus one remains restricted to a small portion of the jungle. Even then almost at every turn one can expect to stumble over other vehicles. During off seasons since the guide can take one through the entire forest, and with vehicle population being far lower, chances of ‘sightings’ are much higher. Summers are anyways the best season to sight game. With sources of water shrinking, animals are forced to gather in the few remaining water-holes, thus, making it easier to track and view.

So, pack your bags this summer, beat the heat, and head for the wild! This breathtaking beauty lies only a few hours journey by car from Jabalpur. Unless one is a ‘wild’ fanatic, the ideal thing to do would be to club it along with places like Jabalpur, Panchmari, Amar Kantak or north to Khajuraho, Orchha, and Gwalior etc., or even west to Sanchi and Bhimbetka. It’s worth every penny!

A Magical afternoon!

Brrrrr! The wind was killing – it seemed to be blowing a gale – so chilly was it that holding the bricklike Minolta SR-7 steady was an ordeal in itself! To the locals however, it was a gentle, soothing, refreshing breeze typical of fall, bringing with it a sense of “the last happy days” – epitomised so well by Keats - before the harsh, frosty, gloomy winter sets in. I was freezing on the outskirts of a Dutch village.
Village??! Ha! Well, that’s what they call Breukelen. However, to one for whom the visual association of the word is a multitude of mud huts, some covered with thatched bamboo and some with red clay tiles, cow dung slapped on the walls of almost all of them - connected by a network of uneven threadlike patches of land - de-grassed by ages of footfall, this was a far cry. This was a regular township. Rows of pretty cottages with even prettier little gardens in front – flowers of different hue and size popping out from the grass, with furry little kittens crouched between the stalks, fenced by uniformly pruned small hedges – the entrance marked by a waist high whitewashed wooden gate and little children playing with their roller skates nearby - pretty much reminiscent of the world of fairy tales one found oneself steeped in as a child. Probably due to reduced pollution or probably due to some unknown reason, the colours here appear so much brighter, the images so much sharper, as if suddenly, the brain was manipulating the images formed by the eye using its own Photoshop!
I walked along the canal, past a few cherry orchards towards a bridge that crosses into Breukelen. The bridge appeared like a mirage at a distance – and as I came closer, human forms seemed to emerge from the fog as if some conjuring sorcerer was flaunting her wizardry. This was one long row of fishermen sitting still like sculpted works of art with fishing rod in hand and a bag of bait next to the portable chair. For nearly more than half a minute no one moved! No one spoke! They just sat there as if glued to their seats with sealed lips and gaze fixed on the rod as if strength of mind was all it took to get a finned one to swim into its grave! Fishing, I learnt later, is a major leisure activity with the Dutch, across all age groups. Thursday being working, understandably, this was an old men’s troupe.
Leaving the fishermen to their meditation, I took the bridge. I had walked no more than a few feet, when a blast of cold wind caught me unawares and threw off the scarf that wrapped my ears. Groping about for a few minutes, for it was difficult to keep ones eyes open, I managed to recover. The wind surging down the canal was, by virtue of being able to flow unobstructed, much stronger. I somehow managed to cross over, stopping only for a few seconds midway to drink in the breathtaking view!
Breukelen bears some resemblance to colonial small towns in India – albeit it is much more beautiful. There is a main thoroughfare that cuts through the village and connects it to other towns. Branching off from this artery are narrow lanes on which the residential and other town buildings stand. Running parallel with the road system is an intricate canal system which enhances the beauty of the town. Some of the houses in fact directly open onto the canals with small paddle boats tied to the entrance. What with ducks quacking and the flame coloured leaves – characteristic of autumn – scattered all around, “idyllic” was the only adjective that came to mind that could aptly depict the scene! The houses here are almost all built in the same style with sloping roofs and never more than two stories in height – most of them being cottages with only a few apartments – the situation being entirely different in larger cities like Amsterdam. Even the colour combinations and decoration are same creating a notion of uniformity. The windows typically are adorned by white laced curtains with small flower pots on the sill. The entrance is usually through a ubiquitous small garden in front of the porch and a yet smaller backyard bringing up the rear. The public houses like the bars, cafes restaurants, grocery stores, banks are all lined next to each other near the town centre. The eating houses with their pretty interiors done up entirely in wood and often lit be a few candles render a distinctive old world charm. Coupled with the whiff of some exotic dine, the feel is enthralling, delightful and unreal!
Nature, as has often been observed, is notorious for its unpredictable bearing. Though we often lament at her inconsistency, this diversity and the consequent mood changes on offer, holds us in significant awe. Within a quarter of an hour of entering the village, a swirling motion began in the air and the mist began to thin out and disappear, reminiscent of the last cold winds of winter being shoved out by the first spring air, bringing with it a fresh lease of life, in Fellini’s Amarcord. Slowly, the sun peaked out – a mild patch of light on the church spire to begin with, it brightened with every passing minute till the entire town basked in the bright, warm light. Even here, the indiscernible presence of a fairy Godmother waving her magic wand and directing the change of scenes, stupefying us, mere mortals was unmistakable!