We are waiting for Sonam. The
driver-guide duo has desired so. I am new to the game and being a slow starter,
in any case, prefer to ‘wait’ and watch. My gypsy is one among several which is
poised by a small waterbody awash with egrets. It is 3.30 p.m. and the mercury
is rising over 40 ºC. A Gaur is cooling off in the shade even as a sambar peeps
out from the thicket venturing towards the waterhole, cautiously. Another one
follows. Sonam is snoozing amidst bamboo bushes. The scorching summer has
thinned the grass, yet she remains obscured. Only the experienced guide can see
the hint of stripes through the twig tracery. Sonam is oblivious of the
spectators at the ringside. Everyone is hoping and wishing that she comes out
for a drink. Time is ticking away even as it stands still.
Sonam is a tigress and this is
her territory. This is my first jungle safari in Maharashtra’s famed Tadoba Andhari
Tiger Reserve. The waiting game has just begun. Tourists are waiting to catch a
glimpse of the tiger in the wild. Meanwhile, the sambars retreat and in come
the monkeys. Hanuman langurs - mothers and babies, pesky juveniles and rogue
males - enliven the scene with their antics. Gaurs troop in herds, but no sign
of Sonam waking up. Chips, cookies and colas pop up all around. Tourists are
lulled into chatting with each other and light banter ensues between the guides.
After nearly an hour, I start to get restless; minutes are ticking away and I
haven’t even seen the forest yet. Half of the safari has been spent in waiting
for Sonam. I finally take the reins in my hands and decide to move on to
explore other bounties.
The drive through the
bamboo-flanked road lures us into the jungle. Deep inside there are majestic
Mahua trees, the quintessence of jungles of Central India. Unfortunately, the
flowering season is behind us. The sloth bears who love to feast on the mahua
flowers are, therefore, scarce too. The
tree is beginning to bear fruits though. These are last days of summer; we are
mercifully at the cusp of monsoon season. We are also at the cusp of change of tourist
season. By end-June the park will close for three months of rains. We are the
few straggler-tourists lucky to have beaten the rush-hour frenzy.
The showers of the previous
night have lowered the temperature and the morning safari on Day 2 starts on a
fresh note. The drive is suffused with the heady perfume of Parijat or wild jasmine. At Agarzari
range, the brash driver, who is better ‘guide’ than the guide himself, promises
to introduce us to Madhuri. As we are driving along an earthen path wondering
why no other vehicle is in sight, the guide gets information of Madhuri’s
movement, on his primitive cell-phone. We turn around and soon figure out where
the other gypsies have been. The action is happening right next to the main
gate.
Madhuri is stalking a sambar in
the bamboo thicket. This time round the visibility is better. The sambar is browsing
cautiously and carelessly, by turns, almost as though shrugging any sense of
danger. Sambars have poor eyesight so it can’t see the tigress that is
virtually within 10 metres of it. We could see Madhuri inch forward stealthily half
paw (held mid-air) at a time, in a real-life slo-mo clip. Another sambar joins
the first doubling the chances of Madhuri's meal. Somewhere, the brainfever bird is entreating
the rain gods for some respite from the heat.
In what seemed like eternity, Madhuri would stop in her tracks assessing the situation and distance before making another silent move. The sambars were now comfortably browsing away. In a moment of weakness and haste, Madhuri over-steps and the sambars are alerted. They simply balk and jink few steps away. They don’t need to run for their lives like the impalas hunted by cheetahs in savannas. The moment the tiger’s presence is sensed or it is spotted, the game is up. We could hear the tigress growl her disappointment as she slunk away deep inside. A Grey Junglefowl crowed loudly from the forest innards as though mocking the king. The apex predator too has its failures, far too many.
For the tourists, the game was
still on. The jeeps revved and lined up on the adjacent road anticipating the
tigress’ next move. The guides were there exactly for that reason. Our driver
had something else up his sleeve. He moved away from the gypsy ‘herd’ and asking
us to hold tight, took off. The next 10 minutes or more we hurtled on the murram road at 80 kph, our gypsy a Formula
one racing car. It was edge-of-the-seat excitement, alright. The adrenalin was
flowing, despite myself, even as a sense of unease gripped me. We arrived at a
spot of open grassland face-to-face with the entourage we left behind! We
had missed Madhuri by inches; she had crossed the path minutes ago. The others
were lucky… but they hadn’t had enough yet.
Unrehearsed yet synchronised, all vehicles reversed and made to the gate. The tiger was headed
outside the park on tar road to cross over to the adjoining range. Before I
knew what was happening, vehicles were pulling up by the gate. Some youngsters
with their ‘bazookas’ jumped out even before their gypsy pulled over and made a dash for the gate. The opportunity to shoot a tiger on the road
in broad sight was unmissable. My driver urged me to get out too. That is when
I put my foot down firmly, figuratively speaking. I was not going to do
anything unethical in the pursuit of tiger-spotting. I am sure the driver and
the guide thought I was a chicken!
Not the one to be discouraged
the brash driver took us to a nullah
to Maya’s territory. We could sense the cat with her cubs, see their apparitions,
but none too clear. Therefore, we moved again to yet another spot, yet another
gypsy congregation, yet another wait. An Indian Pitta pair was whistling nearby
as it busied itself with nest-building. The pittas are local migrants who come
from Ratnagiri to the safe haven of Tadoba for breeding, informs the guide. Few
Jungle Babblers were blabbering about even as hush descended on the waiting
parties. As we stood cameras primed and trained on the road, four cubs trooped
out from the thicket, one by one. The three females gambolled across with ease
and elan, the male scampered like a scaredy-cat! I managed to shoot the cubs
and even watch them, even as vehicles edged each other out in a bid to secure
the best spot. The collective sense of satisfaction and satiation was almost
palpable in the air. I knew the tourists would go home happy today.
I pined for more diverse experiences, such as witnessing the majesty of the Ghost tree for the first time. The peeling bark of the Sterculia urens stands stark white on moonlit night, its twisted twigs and boughs appearing ghost-like, hence the sobriquet. The Crocodile Bark Tree or Indian Laurel is the other distinctive majestic presence in the forests. By my fourth safari, I was getting to be on top of the game. No more was I at the mercy of the driver or the guide, brash or otherwise. No more was the King the only focal point. And it was then that the jungle revealed itself in its glory.
In the anonymity of the forest,
away from humans, a peacock was dancing, its feathers unfurled – a green bush
amidst the dun, dry vetiver grass. Perhaps, it was trying to attract a
female, but there wasn’t any around. More likely, it was dancing in joy at the promise
of rains. The Pied Cuckoo, ever the harbinger of monsoon, wooed us with its
dulcet song. The Pittas joined the musical soiree. Celebration was in the air.
The serenade was breached by the
urgent and persistent call of a barking deer. A tiger was in the vicinity. This
was Sharmilee’s home turf, but the cat, true to her name, proved elusive. By now
the guide knew that I was averse to waiting around at the cost of exploring the
jungle, so we struck a compromise. We headed for Pandarpaoni
meadow where another tiger had been spotted. I could take in the sights and
sounds en route. Pandharpaoni was a village in the heart of the core once but
has been shifted out and rehabilitated hence. Chitals punctuated the
drive. Alexandrine parakeets screeched and magpie robins trilled. A monitor
lizard scurried to its hole-in-a-tree home. The fire line of fresh tendu leaves stood out in contrast to the dry bamboo forest. The guide was hopeful of another
chance which was not to be. All the hotspots were exhausted, no movements were
detectable; the dejected guide finally resigned.
Our last safari had come to an
end and we headed back. Ironically, I hadn’t given up though, for me, a safari
is not about the tiger alone. I asked the guide about the significance of the name,
Tadoba. Tadu is a deity of Gond tribals with a small shrine to it by the Tadoba
lake. With the villages having been shifted from inside the park core, nobody
ever visited it anymore. As we raced to make it to the gate on time, there was
divine intervention by Tadoba himself. Striding by the lake side was a huge
hulk, the notorious Matkasur. A mad
scramble of jeeps ensued as they vied for a vantage spot,
almost colliding into each other.
Matkasur walked nonchalantly
without so much as looking at us, unaware - or perhaps aware - of its celebrity
status. He crossed the road in front of the crowd, over to the hill, marked his
territory and slowly turned to face us. That one glance seemed to be mocking us
lesser mortals. I silently folded my arms in prayer.
All Photographs in this blog and website are the Author's Original work/Copyright.
