In the Jungle

  The boy had always measured his childhood in pawmarks. Every evening after school, he would run out into the wide, golden grasslands that stretched beyond his village. The wind would whistle across the tall grasses, and somewhere in the distance, the grey shadows of wolves would flicker, hunting, playing. He had grown up with them, as if they were kin, watching pups stumble over their paws, watching the older wolves keep sentry against the horizon. For him, the grasslands were alive because of their presence. But slowly, that horizon began to change. First came the rumble of machines, chewing at the earth. A new road carved itself through the belly of the grassland. Then came the flyover, tall and indifferent, cutting across the sky like a scar. Complexes rose like grey fortresses where grass once swayed. The wolves grew uneasy, their howls more distant, their hunts disrupted by headlights and the never-ending din of traffic. The boy, now older, still visited the grasslands...

  Long ago, when the world was still forming, the Great Spirit of the Forest gave birth to a pair of twins.  One emerged striped—he was the Tiger. The other was bare-skinned, with eyes like stars:  The Baiga. The spirit whispered: "You share the same blood. One guards the woods; the other cares for people and their balance with the Earth." From then, Baigas and Tigers walked as kin, bound by a promise. Even now, the Baigas regard the tiger as elder brother, protector, unseen spirit. Every pugmark, every roar is a message, and the stripes—the script of the forest, written so the land remembers its story. Once, a young boy named Jhamu walked with his grandfather through the forest at dusk. The air was heavy with the scent of mahua, and from far away came the low rumble of a tiger’s roar. The boy’s heart pounded with fear, but the old man placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Do not be afraid,” the elder said. “That is not the call of danger; it is the voice of your fami...

  In a small village nestled at the edge of a lush forest, lived a boy named Unni. He was nine years old, with twinkling eyes, an infectious laugh, and a heart so full of joy it seemed to overflow into everything he touched. Unni had Down syndrome, which made him see the world in a way others couldn't—brighter, deeper, and less complicated. Unni’s days began with the rising sun and the soft notes of his favourite bamboo flute carved out of Bamboo by his father. Every morning, as birds burst into song and the forest awakened slowly, Unni would stand at the edge of the trees and play, a single simple note, and one that he played every day, but also one loved by the forest, where the monkeys chattered, the peacocks called, and sometimes even the elephants seemed to listen while on their morning patrol. The forest was Unni’s sanctuary. He hugged the towering Sal trees who he called his “giant friends” and loved to run barefoot on the soft mossy ground, chasing the butterflies and...

  The monsoon mist hung low over the emerald canopy of the Western Ghats, turning the forest into a dreamy realm where the lines between the real and the magical blurred. I had ventured deep into these ancient mountains as a curious traveller with a notebook, a camera, and a heart open to wonder. The constant patter of rain on leaves had become a comforting rhythm. The forest pulsed with life—drenched vines curled around mossy trunks, and unseen life chirped and croaked like an orchestra hidden behind green curtains. As dusk approached, the trail narrowed, leading me to a clearing framed by knotted roots and glistening ferns. There, at the edge of an old log of wood, I paused. Something shimmered on the ground, catching the last flickers of twilight. I squatted down and blinked—was it a trick of the light? No. It moved. A small frog sat perfectly still. But it was unlike any species I had ever seen. Its skin was jet-black but speckled with iridescent spots—tiny galaxies swi...

In the heart of rural India, nestled on the edge of a dense jungle, lay a small village. The forest stood like a living giant, both feared and revered by the villagers. Among them was a young boy named Deenu, just twelve years old, with curious eyes and a happy spirit. His world shattered one evening when his mother never returned from gathering firewood in the forest close to the village. A search party later found traces of a tiger’s presence—and her scarf, lying near some lantana bushes at the edge of the jungle. The grief that followed was heavy. Deenu stopped speaking. He sat beneath the Jamun tree, where his mother once sang songs of her tribe, staring into the forest as if trying to summon her back to life. The villagers whispered about the tiger with anger. Some spoke of revenge; others demanded that the forest be cut down. But Deenu remained silent, his heart filled with sorrow and anger. One morning, a new figure arrived in the village—a tall, weather-worn man in green. His n...

  Beneath the soft, golden light of dawn, the grasslands stretched wide like a golden ocean. Nestled amidst the tall grasses, hidden from prying eyes, a female hyena lay still—her ears twitching at every whisper of the wind.  She was a fierce matriarch, a skilled hunter, and above all, a vigilant mother. Her den, dug deep into the hillside, cradling two pups.  As she suckled them, a distant temple bell rang in the distance. This centuries-old temple crowning the landscape, was renowned for its architectural beauty and revered as a sanctuary of mothers due to the presence of female deities that adorned every stone and wall.   Villagers believed the goddesses watched over every beast and blade of grass, their stone eyes ever vigilant.  One morning, however, something felt different. As the pups played and the mother hyena groomed herself, she caught the scent of something unfamiliar. A smoky odour was accompanied by the sounds of vehicles. Her muscles coile...

  Long ago, in the heart of Central India, where the jungle whispered secrets that only the souls of the forest could understand, stood a majestic Sal tree. Towering and wise, the Sal had rooted itself in the earth for over a hundred years. Its gnarled branches stretched out like arms that had witnessed countless monsoons, scorching summers, and mist-laden winters.   One twilight, as the orange sun dipped low behind the hills, a regal tiger padded silently into the clearing beneath the Sal tree. A great beast with stripes like molten gold, the tiger was old. Alone after many years of companionship with his own kind, he sought solace in his final years among the trees.   The Sal tree, sensing the tiger’s need for solitude, rustled its leaves softly in welcome. The tiger settled, easing his weary muscles against the cool earth and roots, and for the first time in many moons, he felt truly rested and comforted. As night deepened and stars blinked into the velvet sky, a sof...

Visiting the Indian forests for the past 10 years, one comes across interesting demands and language with regard to tigers. Apart from the usual ‘ akeli gadi’ and ‘road hi road’ another interesting demand by the guests directed towards the un- suspecting driver or guide is, “Female toh bahut dekh li, lekhin “bhaiya male dekhna hai” (we want to see a male tiger.) As if the pilgrimage without seeing a man of the feline world is incomplete.  For me however, it has always been the lady folk of the feline world who have held special interest. It is probably because of their ability to seem unfazed, undeterred in the face of constant adversity or just the fact that well, they are women. My first ever tigress was in 2010 (I first time I visited Bandhavgarh) by the name of Mahaman female. True to her family name of being shy and elusive, I just about caught a glimpse of her ochre coat in the fading evening light, speeding up a hill, her powerful stride crushing the leaves underfoot an...

Tigers, as a friend had once put it, have found a way to silently pad their way into a million hearts. She may be right, for how else can you explain, why people bundle up in layers and layers of fabric in the coldest of seasons, putting themselves through an early morning routine in wretchedly icy cold conditions 'companioned' often sadistically by cold winds to get a glimpse of the stripes? or, why else would people travel in 45 degrees of pure hellish heat routinely getting scorched by the sun to yet again watch this magnificent cat in it's realm? It has to be a certain degree of charisma with a spoonful of mystery and of course a tumbler full of beauty and sheer majesty that shimmers down to the tail, whiskers,  a shade of ochre and stripes with rippling muscles that is the tiger. Tigers are beautiful yes but during my time spent in the forests I have come to realise that the way they look seems to change with the change of season. This, however is not a s...

In the deep, dark, sultry forests of Southern India, the weather had changed, the usually still forest, started swaying to a steady breeze and the forest floor was hit with tiny drops of rain. Unusual weather thought the herd, but then it was a special night, for the herd’s favourite female was due to give birth.  By the time he was born, the forest was drenched with rain, with the trees looking happy and green and everything in the forest seemed to be either singing or calling or croaking with the prospect of a lovely new day.  That’s when the sun too decided to make an appearance to bathe the freshly washed curtain of green. And as the sun hit a dense clump of bamboo, that’s when she saw him for the first time, but what caught her eye, was not the tiny trunk or the perfectly formed round ears or th...

Bandhavgarh is a riot of colours and calls right now. True to it's nature, the summer has turned the grasslands yellow, the Mahua has turned a delicious red, the sun and dust play havoc, while the Sal appears as green as a tree would after a heavy downpour. The leaves which the Sal has shed, hit the Earth noiselessly, a beautiful brown, trod upon by the magnificent chital, with the male calling out incessantly announcing a summer worth mating. The langurs observe interestedly  sitting in a sheet of cotton offered by the Silk Cotton Tree, the white of which blends in with the silver appearance of the langur.The Brainfever bird, whose call is symbolic of summer flies calling hysterically from the safety of the 'mahul' and perches on the liana which looks gnarled with the heat. With the call of the Peacock and deer echoing through the forest and the changing colours of the trees, water seems to be the only constant till we chance upon it now covered in a haze of green, p...

In continuation to the deities and their spectacular 'vahan's worshipped in India. The Blackbuck, 'vahan' of the wind god or 'vayu'. The Blackbuck is probably associated with the wind god owing to it's speed and agility. The buck looks like it's flying through the air when in motion, thereby posing as the 'vahan' for 'vayu.' The Ram, 'vahan' of the fire god or 'agni'. A powerful god in Hindu mythology, agni is considered to be as powerful as Indra some texts even pronounce him to be Indras' twin. A messenger of gods, agni is usually a symbol of  important rituals be it a wedding, a havan or a normal religious ceremony in a Hindu household. Considered to be the mouth of the Indian gods and goddesses, a lot is given to agni for well being and new beginnings also known as a sacrificial fire. It is probably due to the sacrificial nature of agni that the Ram is associated with him as it is considered the ultimate a...

Nature worship has always been an important part of Indian culture. With 'Peepul' trees being worshipped as the epicenter for learning and knowledge, they are also regarded as the abode of the god ' bada dev' worshipped by certain tribals in Central India. However the most important instance of animals in Indian religion, more specifically, Hinduism has been the role of animals as the 'vahans' or vehicles of the Indian gods and goddesses. While the reason for why the concerned animal is associated with the  particular god/ goddess may not be always known, some of them have beautiful logic to them. For example, the Goddess Durga also known as 'shakti' is associated with the tiger or lion ( the cat species varies according to region) as the big cat epitomises strength, power and a protector against all evil. Which is where the concept of 'baghesur' or the tiger god also comes up. Wherein a lot of villages worship the cat in form of a tiger/ lion...

"How will what you are doing, help save the forests?" - Generalisation of human opinion. The world already feels somewhat of a battleground what with fights for space, money,  opinions and emotions raining down almost everyday  much like this torrential downpour. The only difference is, the rain, we need. The fights, we don't. So why do I suddenly feel the need to philosophise about fighting? it is because, in my time as a 'wildlifer' I have seen more people fighting each other rather than fighting for the species in question. They fight  about what the other is doing wrong rather than what is going wrong for the species in question. Why is it necessary to pin point loopholes in another person's attempt to save the species rather than mend the loopholes in the system  that has brought  this species to the brink, where it needs to be carefully guarded lest it disappear, appearing only as dusty souvenirs in shops or books where it's shelf life will pr...