Up until 2004, I had not heard the roar of a tiger in the wild. At
some zoos, the zoo keepers pull off a trick of making the big cats roar
to entertain visitors. But that robs the grandeur of the King's roar,
making them look like clowns instead of rulers of the jungle.
Then in March 2004, I had for company my father, my brother-in-law, and the friend I've done most of my safari trips with. It was a balmy late evening outside the hangar-shaped cafeteria of the dormitory in Kisli village, right outside the entry point of Kanha national park. This tiny hamlet is right inside the core area of the park, so we were well away from the chaos of the buffer zone, where all the private resorts, little inns called thelas or dhaabas, souvenir shops, and STD-ISD/Internet booths congregated. Four kilometres from there, surrounded by the tranquility of the jungle and its night songs, we threw back our heads and relaxed under the night's dark shroud, happy to be here instead of in the buffer zone. Apart from the lady who cooked our dinner, the caretaker of the cafeteria, and a few other forest guards in the hamlet that had already retired for the night, there were no other human forms.
While all four of us sat outside on the makeshift porch, staring dreamily at the velvety, star-studded sky, from a distance came the roar of the King. It took a few seconds for the sound to register in our spaced-out minds. The roar came from somewhere far off for it was quite faint. But its effect on the forest was magical. Our chattering stopped and remained suspended like fog. We stopped breathing. Ears corked up and eyeballs rolled in the direction from which the roar came. Several pairs of eyes lit up like fireflies frozen mid-air in the clearing between the porch and the petrol pump about 100 metres away. Even the caretaker of the dormitory, who should have been used to such sounds, was standing in the frame of the door, fascinated, grinning at us.
Although he knew what it was, my friend Anupam turned to the caretaker, his finger still pointing in the direction of the roar. The caretaker nodded his head.
"Haan sir, it is a tiger. Very far, though. Could be near Digdola camp."
Now with the numerous trips that I had made to Kanha, I knew that Digdola camp was somewhere behind the hills that bordered the Kisli meadows in the north. To think that the deep-bellied aaaaaah-ouunn carried all the way over the hills and across the meadows till here was absolutely fascinating.
The
first time I heard the King's speech from close quarters was in the
winter of early January in 2005, again in Kanha National Park. We were
seven, carefree tipplers - Then I was still a non-drinker, for whom my
friends had to ferry sodas - and my brother-in-law, Govind, who was now
becoming a veteran of the park. On day two, we set out early in the
morning when dawn's feeble glow had only begun to colour the eastern
skies above the silhouette of the forest canopy. As always, our guide
was Ashok, who told us that it was about two or three degrees Celsius.
That was hardly surprising, for all of us were clad in two or three
layers of clothing. Prickly eyes peeked out of holes in monkey caps or
from under skull caps. Noses were runny. Hands were gloved and still so
numb from the cold that when we took pictures, our fingers had to be
moved with substantial effort.
That morning we drove down the new Indri route, which passed by the lake that we saw from the dormitory in the south. New at least for me, for this route did not exist the last time I'd visited Kanha. Ashok told us that a few jeeps on that route the previous evening spotted the resident tigress and her cubs not far from the lake and the forest trail. Opaque wisps of fog hung over the frigid Kisli lake as we drove past it. Ribbons of fog wound through the sal and deodhar trees. The cold assaulted our nostrils, singed our ear lobes and our fingertips. The iron bars on the 4X4 Gypsy pierced through our palms as we dangled on them. But we saw nothing, apart from a few chital and a jungle fowl that kuckeedy-cooed its way across the forest. At the clearing at Indri, there stood a lone sambar stag, wisps of vapour shooting out of its nostrils. A bunch of langurs quietly foraged in the trees, indicating that no danger was lurking in the vicinity. Disappointed, we drove on to the Chimta campsite.
For an hour, our Gypsy had ambled on thus. The
feeble sunlight was slowly beginning to warm the cold Earth. Bars of
sunlight streamed through the latticeworks of the forest canopy, making
the forest trail look surreal. Outside Chimta camp, the driver
halted the Gypsy. Both he and our guide Ashok squinted at the pugmark
they saw in the middle of the forest road, only inches away from the
wooden hedge around the forest camp. The camp itself had two simple
thatched huts, like the many we had seen in the villages that we drove
through to get to the park. Except that those houses were painted; this
one was not.
"Is there a tiger around here?" I asked. Ashok scratched his chin.
"The mark is fresh. It is a huge tiger, this Chimta male, a cat that belongs to this territory. The Indri road tigress and her cubs sought refuge in that area to keep the cubs away from this male."
Our bladders were so full that our tummies ached. It was time for a long-awaited pee break. Apart from campsites like this and the Kanha headquarters, we are not allowed to step out of our jeeps anywhere in the park. After an hour of dozing and shivering in the cold, we all needed to take a leak.
An old, wiry forest guard stepped out, still groggy, scratching his head. While we were directed to the area behind the huts, Ashok conversed with the guard about the presence of the big Chimta male. Still scratching his head, the guard said he had no idea.
"But it passed by the entrance! There's a fresh pugmark right outside your hut," said Ashok, in the dialect that was a mix of Hindi and something local. They both walked out to the spot to inspect the pugmark, while we peeled aside the layers of clothing to relieve ourselves. Sure, there were several layers of clothes! I had worn track pants inside my jeans. I also had to lift up my tshirt, a sweater, and the brown jacket, and hold all these in a bundle under my chin. The air was still cold. We could still hear Ashok asking the guard about the tiger. The man finally said that he spotted the Chimta male the previous evening when he had just come to the camp. That was late in the evening, long after the safari jeeps had exited the park.
Then suddenly, a muntjac barked! The shrill bark, more like the final squeal of a pig being slaughtered, came from somewhere on the hill right behind the camp. The conversation stopped, the only sound now emanating was that of us watering the shrubs and the wooden hedge in the backyard of the camp. The deer barked again. And then, almost instantly, from the same hill, at a distance of about 300 metres at most, came the most deafening, the most chilling growl I had ever heard!
The adult male of Chimta camp growled four times. I was numb, and I was still peeing! How on earth could I stop that and run without even zipping up?The adult male of Chimta camp, the King of this realm, growled four times. I was numb, and I was still peeing! How on earth could I stop that and run without even zipping up? Four sharp, intimidating growls, enough to stun the forest into silence. Even the birds in distant trees stopped chattering. We could see nothing but the foliage that covered the hillside. But surely, there was a muntjac and a tiger on that hill, and the muntjac had managed to annoy the King.
Each one of us finished watering the shrubs and the wooden hedge, fastened our zips, turned around, and darted towards the open Gypsy. I'm sure it made for a very amusing sight: five pot-bellied men darting across after hearing a tiger's growl. Our guide Ashok could not stop laughing, while his friend, the forest guard, slowly turned towards the hill where the tiger had announced its presence. Slowly lifting up his wiry hand pointing a wiry finger towards the hill, the old man said to Ashok:
"There is your Chimta male!"
Then in March 2004, I had for company my father, my brother-in-law, and the friend I've done most of my safari trips with. It was a balmy late evening outside the hangar-shaped cafeteria of the dormitory in Kisli village, right outside the entry point of Kanha national park. This tiny hamlet is right inside the core area of the park, so we were well away from the chaos of the buffer zone, where all the private resorts, little inns called thelas or dhaabas, souvenir shops, and STD-ISD/Internet booths congregated. Four kilometres from there, surrounded by the tranquility of the jungle and its night songs, we threw back our heads and relaxed under the night's dark shroud, happy to be here instead of in the buffer zone. Apart from the lady who cooked our dinner, the caretaker of the cafeteria, and a few other forest guards in the hamlet that had already retired for the night, there were no other human forms.
While all four of us sat outside on the makeshift porch, staring dreamily at the velvety, star-studded sky, from a distance came the roar of the King. It took a few seconds for the sound to register in our spaced-out minds. The roar came from somewhere far off for it was quite faint. But its effect on the forest was magical. Our chattering stopped and remained suspended like fog. We stopped breathing. Ears corked up and eyeballs rolled in the direction from which the roar came. Several pairs of eyes lit up like fireflies frozen mid-air in the clearing between the porch and the petrol pump about 100 metres away. Even the caretaker of the dormitory, who should have been used to such sounds, was standing in the frame of the door, fascinated, grinning at us.
Although he knew what it was, my friend Anupam turned to the caretaker, his finger still pointing in the direction of the roar. The caretaker nodded his head.
"Haan sir, it is a tiger. Very far, though. Could be near Digdola camp."
Now with the numerous trips that I had made to Kanha, I knew that Digdola camp was somewhere behind the hills that bordered the Kisli meadows in the north. To think that the deep-bellied aaaaaah-ouunn carried all the way over the hills and across the meadows till here was absolutely fascinating.
- Dawn breaks forth at Kisli, the point of entry into Kanha National Park.
That morning we drove down the new Indri route, which passed by the lake that we saw from the dormitory in the south. New at least for me, for this route did not exist the last time I'd visited Kanha. Ashok told us that a few jeeps on that route the previous evening spotted the resident tigress and her cubs not far from the lake and the forest trail. Opaque wisps of fog hung over the frigid Kisli lake as we drove past it. Ribbons of fog wound through the sal and deodhar trees. The cold assaulted our nostrils, singed our ear lobes and our fingertips. The iron bars on the 4X4 Gypsy pierced through our palms as we dangled on them. But we saw nothing, apart from a few chital and a jungle fowl that kuckeedy-cooed its way across the forest. At the clearing at Indri, there stood a lone sambar stag, wisps of vapour shooting out of its nostrils. A bunch of langurs quietly foraged in the trees, indicating that no danger was lurking in the vicinity. Disappointed, we drove on to the Chimta campsite.
- Mugshot of a tiger from Bandhavgarh National Park
"Is there a tiger around here?" I asked. Ashok scratched his chin.
"The mark is fresh. It is a huge tiger, this Chimta male, a cat that belongs to this territory. The Indri road tigress and her cubs sought refuge in that area to keep the cubs away from this male."
Our bladders were so full that our tummies ached. It was time for a long-awaited pee break. Apart from campsites like this and the Kanha headquarters, we are not allowed to step out of our jeeps anywhere in the park. After an hour of dozing and shivering in the cold, we all needed to take a leak.
An old, wiry forest guard stepped out, still groggy, scratching his head. While we were directed to the area behind the huts, Ashok conversed with the guard about the presence of the big Chimta male. Still scratching his head, the guard said he had no idea.
"But it passed by the entrance! There's a fresh pugmark right outside your hut," said Ashok, in the dialect that was a mix of Hindi and something local. They both walked out to the spot to inspect the pugmark, while we peeled aside the layers of clothing to relieve ourselves. Sure, there were several layers of clothes! I had worn track pants inside my jeans. I also had to lift up my tshirt, a sweater, and the brown jacket, and hold all these in a bundle under my chin. The air was still cold. We could still hear Ashok asking the guard about the tiger. The man finally said that he spotted the Chimta male the previous evening when he had just come to the camp. That was late in the evening, long after the safari jeeps had exited the park.
Then suddenly, a muntjac barked! The shrill bark, more like the final squeal of a pig being slaughtered, came from somewhere on the hill right behind the camp. The conversation stopped, the only sound now emanating was that of us watering the shrubs and the wooden hedge in the backyard of the camp. The deer barked again. And then, almost instantly, from the same hill, at a distance of about 300 metres at most, came the most deafening, the most chilling growl I had ever heard!
The adult male of Chimta camp growled four times. I was numb, and I was still peeing! How on earth could I stop that and run without even zipping up?The adult male of Chimta camp, the King of this realm, growled four times. I was numb, and I was still peeing! How on earth could I stop that and run without even zipping up? Four sharp, intimidating growls, enough to stun the forest into silence. Even the birds in distant trees stopped chattering. We could see nothing but the foliage that covered the hillside. But surely, there was a muntjac and a tiger on that hill, and the muntjac had managed to annoy the King.
Each one of us finished watering the shrubs and the wooden hedge, fastened our zips, turned around, and darted towards the open Gypsy. I'm sure it made for a very amusing sight: five pot-bellied men darting across after hearing a tiger's growl. Our guide Ashok could not stop laughing, while his friend, the forest guard, slowly turned towards the hill where the tiger had announced its presence. Slowly lifting up his wiry hand pointing a wiry finger towards the hill, the old man said to Ashok:
"There is your Chimta male!"
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