Kanha Diaries Part 3.3: First Night and Dorm-Alone

The shrill bark of a spotted deer (chital) made me freeze. I had a morsel of tandoori chapati and chole curry standing still an inch away from my mouth. By then, the guide had told me about "alarm calls" that various animals give out when they see or sense danger . Chital, for example, raise an alarm only when a predator such as a tiger, leopard, or a pack of red dogs called dholes in Hindi is close by. Fowls such as peacocks and jungle cocks raise an alarm when they spot smaller predators such as jackals or even snakes. These calls have a distinct sound, different from their regular calls. All this information was fascinating, but at that moment, as the solitary guest in the Kisli tourist hostel, I must admit that a chill went down my spine, and it was not only because of the end-November chill of the Central Indian plains.

Colours of sunset at Kisli, Kanha National Park

Colours of sunset at Kisli

The lone light bulb in the dormitory

Another bark echoed, followed by a third. The caretaker at the canteen casually strolled up to the doorstep and stood  with his hands tied behind his back. He casually looked in the direction of the alarm calls, which he told me came from the Kisli meadows not far away.

'Could it be...a tiger?' I asked, the morsel still waiting in my hand, curry dripping out of my fingers.
'Tiger, leopard...could be anything sahib,' he said, smiling brightly like most men in these parts did, I noticed. 'By the way, Kisli is largely leopard territory because they get driven out by the bigger cats from the core areas of the forests.'

Spooked and exhilarated at the same time, I wolfed down my dinner and joined him at the doorstep. We stood in the patio; I didn't dare to step out of the light zone that the fluorescent light. All of a sudden, in the surrounding darkness, I saw several gleaming eyes, like stunned fireflies, staring at us.

'Dholes?' I asked.
'No sahib, these are deer!' the caretaker said, pointing his flashlight at the shiny eyes. I could make out the spots of deer hide and relaxed. 'They are also scared and are looking in the direction of the alarm calls. Now sahib, you go to your bed in the dormitory. I've to close the canteen and go home.'

'You...going home? In this darkness?' He had a house in this wilderness? I simply assumed he slept in the canteen!

He pointed towards the mud houses behind the canteen and said that was where his house was.

'Hey, why don't you join me in the dormitory? There are so many beds and I'm the only one in that building!'

He smiled again and said that he was not allowed to do that.

'But who is going to know? There are no human beings around here in a radius of 3 kilometres!'

'No sahib,' he said. 'There are people here. This is Kisli village where many forest guards, mahouts, and their families live. Behind the dormitory is the Baghira Log Huts hotel. There are many guests over there. You don't worry sahib. I'll walk you to the dormitory and you lock the door once you get in. I'm sure you are going to sleep only now? There's nothing else to do. No TV, no phones.' Mobile phone networks were several miles away from Kanha National Park. Mobile data, 2G and 3G was the stuff of sci-fantasy fiction.

I didn't want to appear as a completely sissy fellow, so I took the offer and he walked me to the dormitory. He told me how I could find a seat in one of the jungle bound jeeps in the morning and that I should be there at the check post by 5:30 am. Then, he walked away, leaving me behind all alone in the dormitory, in the core area of a REAL jungle teeming with wildlife! When I asked for adventure, I didn't expect so much of it on the first day itself.

Earlier That Day

I'd reached Kisli after a 4-hour ride from Jabalpur in a rickety bus at noon, just in time for a sumptuous lunch. The food in the hostel canteen, I must mention, is simple but delectable vegetarian fare with an essence of deja-vu of home-cooked meals in it. If all vegetarian restaurants would serve meals like that, I would gladly hop from one vegetarian restaurant to another every weekend.

The caretaker took me to the dormitory building, a single-storey structure with a long, semi-circular veranda in front. There are three large rooms of eight beds each. There were two families in the first room in which I was given a bed. The middle-aged couple from Nagpur and the Majumdar family of four from West Bengal. Mr. Majumdar, a garrulous man in his late thirties, immediately signalled to his dusky and beautiful wife - in Bengali - to lock away all the cash and jewellery and hand him the keys. He also told his preteen daughter, whose bed was next to mine, to switch her bed with his. I don't speak Bengali but I do follow it, especially if the speaker isn't a fast talker. Majumdar babu wasn't one, and was excessively loud. I was amused, but didn't show it.

'You are phrom...?' he asked me.
'Mumbai,' I said. He shook hands vigorously and went on to tell me about his Madhya Pradesh trip in general and Kanha in particular.
'All lies they tell, okay?' he said. 'We hab done 3 safaris already but hab not see one tiger! Now we are doing evening safari. You are coming? Letsee if you is habing the good luck.'

The caretaker pointed out to a backdoor, where there was another corridor that had bathrooms and privies at both ends. As soon as we stepped into the corridor, a green tree snake fell out of the roof in front of us.

'Does this happen inside the dorm too?' I asked gingerly.
'Oh no no sahib. You can ask them. This is a very rare incident.'

Well, I'd wanted adventure and had chosen to live in the core area of Mowgli country, so I couldn't complain. This was what I'd wanted. So if an indoor snake rain is what I was up for, so be it.

I joined Majumdar babu and his family on the evening safari, my first in a forest and probably the worst, for Mr. Loudmouth wouldn't shut up. 'Why no tiger is there here? There? And there? On the trees? Behind the rocks? In our Jaldapara, we are seeing tiger and elephant always! This is a big conspiracy. There is no tiger in Kanha. All lies!' While we passed through some lovely woods and meadows, all we saw were deer and peacocks. And a gaur or Indian bison. After an exasperating drive, we returned to Kisli at sunset. That was when I noticed all the guests at the dormitory, including Mr. Majumdar's family, pack their bags. Cabs had arrived to pick them up.

'Y'all going? Does that mean I'll be alone in the dorm?'
'Nothing to worry Mr. Sandeep. There are no tigers here. Only lies!' said Mr. Majumdar.
'We're fed up of this man,' his old mother, wrapped in woollens of all sorts from head to toe, poked her wrinkled face out of her monkey cap, and said. 'I pleaded with him not to take me out in this cold to a forest, but he just wouldn't listen!'

The family from Nagpur offered to drive me out to Khatia gate where the private hotels and lodges were situated. 'If you feel safer outside the core forest, we can take you there. I can imagine how scary it would be to stay all alone in this place with all kinds of animals around.'

One by one, the jeeps drove off with the families, leaving me behind at the doorstep of the dormitory. I shook my head in disbelief, locked the dorm door, and hurried to canteen, about 300 metres away from the dorm building.

Fear of the Dark

Of course I had the constant fear that something's always near. Iron Maiden's guitar riffs in my head did nothing to allay the trepidation in my heart. To make matters worse, the biting cold was something I wasn't accustomed to. Every now and then, a thud on the corrugated-sheet rooftop made me jump in my bed, but I knew they were only langurs, monkeys, scampering about. The rich sounds of the jungle pierced through the cement walls and rang aloud in my ears. I kept my ears corked for a roar or growl, but heard none - fortunately! Thankfully, tired after the five-hour bus ride and also owing to the fact that I had been awake since 4 AM that morning, I fell asleep with the light in the dormitory room still on.

Jeeps arriving before dawn for the morning safari. Pic courtesy: Ankur Nagar

I survived the night. Early in the morning, armed with my flashlight and toilet paper, I slunk into the privies, piled on additional warm clothes on me, and stepped out as the first light of day touched the Eastern horizon above the canopy of sal trees. And, in the clearing right outside the dormitory, there were three gaurs looking back at me! I locked the door and, without directly looking at them again, marched towards Kisli gate in the hope of finding company for a trip into the jungle. That was where I met Jorge and Ricardo, two Costa Rican boys, who were to stay with me at the dormitory for the next couple of days. They arrived late the previous evening, which was why they weren't let into the core area of the forest. They spent the night in a lodge right outside Khatia Gate. Motel Chandan, Jorge said, and I remember the man who had handed me a brochure of Motel Chandan back in Mandla at the bus stop. A day later, Tim from Britain joined us. On day five when I was ready to leave on the afternoon bus to Jabalpur, Tim said to me: I'm going to be alone tonight, I reckon?

I smiled and wished him luck.

An Abstract Trip through the Warrens of Memory

There's this thing about places. They hold memories. Days, weeks, months, years, even decades go by, but the place remains freshly etched in your head. It gleams like a newly forged sword (not that I've held or seen a sword in my life; okay freshly polished brass ware should do.) Every detail, every conversation, every thought, the touch, the smells and sights and sounds. They stay forever. They do so only because they were special solely for you. And some of these places aren't even exotic locales. It's just that particular moment, that person or just that oneness you might have experienced, however brief or long, that makes it special. Some of these places, you'd never go back to - but never say never, eh? - and as time goes by, these places change. That nondescript building by the thoroughfare, that lone tree, that lake, that wall with bawdy graffiti on it; whatever it was, everything will have gone the next time you visit it, if you are fortunate enough to go back to it. But in your album of memories, the place remains just the way you'd last seen it. And cherished it. 

There's that view of the runway at Mumbai airport, with its landing lights on, staring straight into our apartment in Santacruz. My friend and I used to sit on the water tank on the rooftop of my apartment building and gawk at the Boeings that landed late at night from the West. 

There's that 'flashlight' dance we guys did at that Scouts and Guides campsite near Vihar lake. We switched off the lights, put on some Bollywood songs on a cassette player, took off our t-shirts and danced in shorts and underwear with our flashlights (torches) swarming like disco lights. 

That moment in a hotel room in Kodaikanal, when the rest of my schoolmates had gone 'sightseeing' in the cold rain and I chose to sit in the room and watch "Saajan" on Cable TV, remembering Dana. 

The song of the "banjaras" or gypsies in the night at Badnawar; the freshly baked "bhaati" and "dal"; watching the Venkatesh-horse-like Karishma Kapoor starrer "Anari" in a decrepit movie theatre, front bench, on the outskirts of Ujjain.

That marshy inlet in Agashi, Virar, a sleepy village north of Mumbai where I lived for 12 years. Where I kissed a girl for the first time in my life. I was seventeen then.

Cloud Nine cafe in Colaba. The seaside promenade in Navy Nagar at Cuffe Parade. International Fleet Review in 2001. Enough said.

The surf at the black Arnala beach. That forested hill crest overlooking the Vaitarna river in the middle of the afternoon. With her sitting next to me. A glint of anticipation in her eyes. Our hearts pounding louder than our vacuous conversations.

The point at Baga beach where the river meets the sea, especially after sunset when the lights in the beach shacks and restaurants come on. And UB40 croons Red Red Wine.

The mellow sun of Juhu Beach on a balmy January afternoon, when I went down on a knee and proposed.

Lying on a mattress in her apartment in 'Chandragupta' building, Raheja Township, Malad East. Long after midnight. With "Out of the Blue" by MLTR playing softly in the background. The midnight conversations, those sweet nothings. 

Morning mist in Gangtok drifting into our room in Hotel Asian Heights. And watching her sleep peacefully, buried in white sheets. While I listened to the sound prayer bells and drums from a monastery nearby.

The view from the Kisli gate at sunset. When the mating call of the Chital deer or the baying of the red dogs at night filled the air. And later, after dinner, sitting outside the canteen under a black velvet sky studded with stars. 

The fluttering Stars and Stripes outside the Marriott near my apartment in 300 Oakwood, 15th Street South, Crystal City, Arlington VA.

The little aircraft taking off at a nondescript Chesapeake Bay airstrip; the flurries in Maryland and in Corning, NY on our way to Niagara; the arresting, breathtaking unravelling of NYC as we emerged from the Lincoln tunnel on a lovely night in March. 

That one bike ride home from work in Pune, from Hinjewadi to Kothrud. When the world around us was awash in tender orange. When we rode on my 'Bluecephalus' the Avenger, in silence. With only her tingling sensation of her breath on my neck. 

Snowfall at Gulmarg; those cups of steaming hot Kahwa.

Those morning Bluecephalus rides back and forth between Mumbai and Pune; the 'poha aani chai' stops at Khandala.

Standing in front of India Gate at sunset, with an army band rehearsing for the Republic Day celebrations. 

Sunset at Bamhni Dadar, Kanha National Park. The local bus stop at Bamhni village outside Mandla; the smouldering lake near the dormitory; the view of the meadows from the Forest Officers' guest house; the open-air amphitheatre at Khatia Gate; the first time an adult male tiger crossed our path while descending the ghats in Kanha in the evening. 

The croaking of frogs at Vembanad lake, Kumarakom at night.

That lone tea stall near Pykara dam, Ooty, with the tea gardens around us.

The copious tears I shed in the Figo on the second morning of my drive from Mumbai to Kerala, outside Malpe by the sea.T

The vast expanse of nothingness somewhere near Rannebennur, when I rode my Avenger, the Bluecephalus, from Bangalore to Mumbai, and the battle that raged in my head.

The many runs over the Bandra-Worli sea link; I've run at least four times on this bridge and driven in a vehicle only once :)

So, so many more, but these have stayed with me. Fresh, untarnished. Don't know who I'm saying this to, but the thought just occurred out of nowhere: 

Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden. I will meet you there - Rumi