Roger Federer - The Second Coming

On Monday, the 16th of July 2012, Roger Federer will take guard on the 287th week of his tenure as the World Number One. ‘Pistol’ Pete Sampras’ record of 286 weeks at the top will be consigned to oblivion.

By all accounts, this is one of the greatest comebacks in the annals of Sport. As a fairytale, this ranks right up there with the miraculous return of Sherlock Holmes from the torrents of Reichenbach Falls, and may yet inspire Mrs. Rowling to bring back Albus Dumbledore from the grave. Above all, this is a resounding vindication of Self-Confidence – with shockwaves that would have been particularly severe in the rocky island of Sardinia, where Rafael Nadal is enjoying a well-deserved vacation.

In the rarefied world of professional sport, athletes spend their whole lives in pursuit of records and immortality, and are often left tantalizingly short. It can be heart-breaking. In his last Test innings, Donald Bradman needed a measly 4 runs to finish with a career average of 100. The cruel hand of Fate and Eric Hollies ensured that he was bowled for a duck and ended at 99.94. On June 6th, 2010, when Rafael bludgeoned Robin Soderling into submission and powered into the World#1 slot, Federer was left high and dry at 285 weeks as Numero Uno, just one week shy of Pete Sampras. A great chance was lost, and in the face of the stiff challenges posed by Father Time and the glorious powers of Nadal and Novak Djokovic, it appeared that the Federer-story was irreversibly headed towards a quiet sunset .

But the enduring genius of Roger Federer has given us an improbable ending, and who knows, a Second Coming that may confound us all over again.

Over the last two years, Tennis has witnessed a battle royale between the proverbial immovable object and the irresistible force as Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic jostled for space on the leaderboard. Amidst their titanic struggles, much to the impatience of the critics who had written him off, Federer continued to remain a solid fixture at world no. 3 – far away from the sounds of battle at the top, but equally impervious to the challenges from below. His form continued to flatter and deceive as he regularly won ATP 1000 and 500 tournaments, but fell apart in the final stages of Grand Slams. His game shone with coruscating brilliance as he blasted Nadal in the ATP World Tour Finals in 2010 and again in 2011, this time with a bagel-set thrust upon his great rival. However, he stunned even himself by blowing two match-points against Djokovic for two years in a row at the US Open. A famous win over The Djoker at the French Open 2011 was followed by another strange capitulation to the Mallorcan Clay-King in the final, and then came an astonishing surrender to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga at Wimbledon after leading by two-sets-to-love.

As Federer-fans despaired, the critics nodded. They saw a pattern – the old man cannot last the distance in 5-set Grand Slam matches. Amidst the negative opinion, there were a few positive voices, and two of them stood out. One was Pete Sampras, who continued to assert that Federer was far from finished – perhaps it takes a genius to understand another. The other voice was that of Roger Federer himself, repeatedly insisting that he was playing well and was not far from winning another Big One. When he said at the beginning of the 2012 season that he saw a chance to be No. 1 again, most people dismissed it as self-delusion and the monumental hubris of yet another ageing champion. The iron Will of Roger Federer was discounted and ridiculed.

In many ways, his return to the top has been as unexpected as his fall in the summer of 2010, when his game dissolved in unforced errors and left fans shaking their heads. Last week, we were shaking our heads in disbelief as Federer-magic lit up Wimbledon.

Roger Federer sails once again in uncharted waters. The prospect of an Olympic singles-Gold looms ahead and whets our appetites, but maybe we should simply bask in the warm after-glow of the Master’s return and savour the ‘Federer moments’ as long as he chooses to play. As Andy Murray said after the Wimbledon final, “Roger’s not bad for a 30-year old”!

Roger Federer: In the Shadow of the Conquistador

Roger Federer: In the Shadow of the Conquistador

The TV camera played on the two men as they moved along the hallowed corridor of Wimbledon. The taller man walked ahead – his head held high, a white cap on his blond head, blue eyes full of determination. Behind him came the other man, leaping and twisting in the air like a frenzied salmon as he bounced forward, squaring his shoulders repeatedly like a prize-fighter in a boxing-ring. His long hair was held together by his trademark bandana, and on his face was the familiar scowl that is his feared calling-card.

The man in front was Tomas Berdych, Federer-slayer. The irrepressible human jack-in-the-box behind him was none other than Rafael Nadal, the world number 1. The little scene was the prelude to the final match of the men’s singles championships at Wimbledon, arguably the definitive tennis tournament of the world.

If Berdych was intimidated by Nadal’s antics, he did not show it as he walked on to the court. Before the match, he had gone on record saying that he did not fear anyone in tennis, and he was confident of his own game. A game that hinges on a supersonic serve powered by his 6’5” frame, and rocketing forehands that invariably found the corners of the court during his four-set dismantling of Federer in the quarter-finals. Novak Djokovic, the world number 3, also found Berdych’s power-game too hot to handle, and lost tamely in straight sets. So Tomas Berdych had every reason to be bullish about the chances of winning his first Grand Slam title.

As it turned out, Berdych, the giant Czech pretender, was blown away in three sets by the Spanish bull facing him on the other side of the court. Berdych’s booming first-serves and forehand winners dried up, and for most of the match, he was run ragged by his opponent. Rafael Nadal, the indefatigable metronome, had claimed another easy victim and the eighth Grand Slam of his soaring career.

After the match, Berdych hailed Nadal as the best player in the world, and in doing so, faithfully echoed the sentiments of Andy Murray, Nadal’s beaten semi-final opponent.

Those words must have struck home, uncomfortably so, in the mind of a certain Swiss gentleman as he relaxed at home in the company of his wife and twin daughters after being unceremoniously evicted from his beloved centre-court. For long, the epithet of ‘best player in the world’ had hung lightly about Roger Federer – an invisible aura of invincibility that he carried with consummate ease. In the space of two months, quarter-final defeats at the French Open and Wimbledon meant that he woke up on the morning of 5th July, the day after the Wimbledon finals, to the fact that he had dropped out of the world’s top two for the first time in seven years.

Federer and Nadal are as different as chalk and cheese. Fluid artistry against raw power. The refined Swiss versus the buccaneering Spaniard. Yet you cannot talk about one without mentioning the other. Their careers are hopelessly intertwined, and their measure of greatness is often their success against each other. Which is why, in these times, a story about Federer has to begin with Nadal.

Rafael Nadal Parera truly came into his own after the epic win against Federer in the 2008 Wimbledon final. On that day, he transitioned smoothly from a mere clay-court bully to one of the undisputed giants of the game. The hard-court victory at the 2009 Australian Open against his familiar foe further underlined his claim as a dominant player of his era. Much has been written about him and the tools of his trade – the top-spin that bites the court and rears up like a spitting cobra, the fore-hand follow-through that is more like the crack of a bull-whip than a tennis-shot, and most importantly his fierce determination and fabled mental strength – the man who would simply not go away. However, after this year’s back-to-back French and Wimbledon wins, the tennis fraternity is looking at him in a completely different light. People are talking in hushed tones about Nadal as the ‘new Federer’, and hard-nosed pundits like John McEnroe feel that Nadal will inevitably claim his place in the pantheon of tennis gods alongside Laver, Sampras and Federer. There are many who believe that Federer’s records – stupendous as they are – will eventually fall to Nadal.

Quite possible. The rampaging Spaniard is in his prime and at 24, he has many years of his best tennis ahead of him. If he can keep his errant knees under control, Nadal has greatness for the taking.

But what of Federer? Has he shot his last bolt? Federer is now nearly 4000 points behind Nadal in the ATP race, struggling with a dodgy back and a strained thigh, and the psychological impact of no longer being recognised as the best player by his peers. Can Federer win Slams again? Can he reclaim the number one spot that was once his personal fiefdom? In the last few years of his career, is the greatest tennis-player of all time destined to live in the long shadow of his nemesis from Mallorca?

Federer’s game was nothing short of spectacular in January at the 2010 Australian Open. Federer’s semi-final victim, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, a top ten-player and no mean ball-belter himself, had a shell-shocked look about him after his straight-sets loss. When asked by a reporter about his views on who could defeat Federer in this kind of form, Tsonga’s answer was simple: “No one”. In the intervening months, the genial Swiss has plumbed the depths, distributing his own scalp generously to Tom, Dick and Albert Montanes. Not a single tournament win since January and relatively early losses at the French and Wimbledon have left him with his lowest world-ranking since anyone cares to remember, and critics have almost unanimously trashed his future prospects as a force in world-tennis. At just-about-29, Federer is being labelled as the old lion who has to make way for the marauding crop of younger players like Djokovic, Del Potro, Murray, Soderling and Berdych. The tennis world is already looking beyond Roger Federer for the next man who can challenge Rafael Nadal.

And that is a big mistake.

This is not a romantic notion from an ardent Federer-fan. Let us consider the logic for a moment. There are two factors at play here for Roger: whether he is too old to compete at the highest level, and whether he has the mental fortitude to claw back.

After his imperious display at the Australian Open, Federer could not have aged so much in the next six months that his lack of titles can be ascribed to senility. His movement and speed around the court are as sharp as ever – even McEnroe marvelled at it during Federer’s win against Arnaud Clement at Wimbledon. Federer will be 29 in August, but that does not qualify him as a member of the geriatric club – as critics will have us believe.

It is true that tennis is a young man’s game, but there are always exceptions. In our lifetime, within the modern era of the game, we have seen at least two champions who have fought it out and come out on top, well into their thirties. Look no further than James Scott Connors – our Old Jimbo, and Andre Agassi.
Connors held the world number one ranking for more than 15 weeks after his 30th birthday, and won the US Open when he was nearly 31 years old. He won three Grand Slam titles between the age of 29 and 31. This is at a time when far younger men and greats of the game like John McEnroe and Ivan Lendl were going strong.
Agassi went one better – he was the oldest number one in the history of the game in 2003 at the age of 33, when he ruled at the top for 14 weeks. He also won the Australian Open in that year, competing against the likes of Hewitt, Safin and a rising star called Roger Federer.

Federer’s game is still as smooth as silk and consequently much less taxing on his body compared to the strenuous exertions of Nadal or big-hitters like Del Potro, Berdych and Soderling. At 29, he is as fit as ever apart from a few minor niggles and still has at least a couple of very good years ahead in terms of sheer physical prowess.

Federer is an egoist – in a very positive sense. As someone recently said, no one believes more in the genius of Roger Federer than Federer himself. The insatiable hunger that led to 237 consecutive weeks as world number one and 16 Grand Slam titles cannot wane easily. Inspite of all his achievements in the game, Roger still wants the one major record that still eludes him by a whisker – Pete Sampras’ 286 weeks as world number 1. He could have had it this summer, but a series of unexpected defeats have left him stranded just one-week shy of Sampras.
For all their difference in persona, Federer and Nadal have one thing very much in common – a will of tempered steel. Those who point to Federer’s fatherhood blunting his edge are ignoring a solid body of evidence that speak about his ambition and determination to rule the game as long as possible.

What ails Federer today is a prolonged dip in form, something that he has not experienced in the last seven years, coupled with heightened levels of consistency from players like Berdych and Soderling. Statistically speaking, Federer’s run of 23 consecutive Grand Slam semi-finals must be viewed as a miracle of sorts – it had to end with a compensating dip, which hopefully should not last too long. Watching Federer play has always been a sitting-on-a-knife-edge experience – the delicacy of his shots has been finely balanced between spectacular success and limp failure. Those of you who have watched him hit a glorious cross-court forehand to win a point, followed by a ridiculous shank into the crowd in the very next shot, will know what I mean. Like the best musical instruments, Federer’s finely-tuned game sometimes goes off-key, at times for longer than he and his fans would like.

One of Federer’s biggest admirers is none other than Rafael Nadal. For all his piratical ways, Nadal is a fabulous sportsman and a true gentleman of the game. Who can forget the victorious Nadal consoling the weeping Federer after the 2009 Australian Open final. As Federer tearfully admitted that failure to win his potentially record-equalling 14th Grand Slam was ‘killing him’, Nadal assured him and the world-at-large that it was not far away. It was clear that this was no lip-service and Rafael Nadal genuinely meant what he said. No one brings out the best in Nadal like Federer does, and vice-versa. Paradoxical as it sounds, an untimely demise for Federer’s career will probably be most undesirable for Nadal!

Modern tennis has had its share if yin-and-yang, fire-and ice rivalries, where players with diametrically different personalities have given each other a run for their money over long periods. It started with Borg-McEnroe and wound its way through the stories of Becker-Edberg and Sampras-Agassi. None were as exciting as Federer-Nadal.

The onus is on Roger Federer to write the next chapter in the continuing epic. The world is waiting – and so is the conquistador from Spain.

Kanha: India’s Garden of Eden

It was a beautiful spring evening in early March. As darkness descended quietly on Kanha National Park, we nestled into our comfortable wicker-chairs on the verandah of the Kisli Forest Rest House, looking out at the sprawling meadow and the rolling hills beyond. We were right in the core-area of Kanha, in a forest bungalow with no fencing, where the jungle started as you stepped off the porch.

Night arrives on winged feet in the jungle. The tall sal trees cast long shadows, and before one realises it, darkness has set in. The birds of the day fade out, and the creatures of the night take over. The crickets are soon at it with a vengeance - their constant and vociferous drone forming the background for all other sounds of the night. As you sip your cup of evening-tea at the forest-bungalow, you hear unseen feet crunching on the dry leaves carpeting the meadow outside. Sudden gusts of wind and the rustling of leaves muddle up your untrained ears. Is it a chital foraging? Or is it something more substantial ? Your imagination can have a ball!

The air was heavy with the intoxicating, indescribable aroma of an Indian forest - a heady concoction of a woody fragrance, the scent of flowers and leaves, the pure, clean smell of a forest older than time itself. The chilly miasma of the night silently wraps around you, carrying the forest-smell with it, an elixir of instant rejuvenation.

It was the night of Shivaraatri, and there was no moon. The darkness around us was absolute. We could hear rustling at the edge of the patch of long grass, less than twenty feet away, and on shining the torch, we found white eyes bobbing up and down, with the indistinct silhouettes of the three chital behind the eyes. Another chital herd was grazing under the banyan tree, in a clearing about fifty yards to our right. A gentle breeze was blowing towards us, and the night was a typical jungle-cacophony of crickets, owls and other nightbirds.

All of a sudden, without warning, the cosy hum was disturbed by the strident alarm call of a sambar – a loud ‘Dhonnnk, dhonnk, dhonnk’. The sambar called thrice – far away to our right. After a momentary silence, a distant langur on the treetops gave voice too:’ khakkarr-khakkarr..’- it went. We sat up in our chairs and leant forward, torches at the ready. Something was afoot.

A strange noise floated in from the distance. It seemed to come up from the depths of the earth itself – a sound like some subterranean giant yawning after deep slumber. We cocked our ears and stood up. There it was again, closer this time, near the base of the hill to our right-front. Clearer too… a long deep note tapering off into a guttural cough… .‘aaaaaaaaooun…aaaaaaaoungh…..aaaaounghhrr’… the unmistakable roar of a tiger.

A quick pattering of hooves, a succession of shrill alarm calls, and the chital at the base of the banyan tree had scattered like leaves in the wind. The tiger roared again and again, at five to ten-second intervals, coming closer with every roar. It seemed to be heading towards the water-hole beyond the Baghira log-huts, in a line passing right in front of our bungalow. The jungle was completely silent now – all noise had stopped. Even the crickets were deferring to their Lord and Master. The volume of noise was unbelieveable – it seemed to fill all the space around us. An involuntary shiver ran down my spine, and it was not entirely due to the chill that was setting in. The resonant sound came closer and closer, and the tiger could not have been more than thirty yards away as it passed by in front of our verandah – basically a patch of grass and thin air separating us from the most powerful predator of the jungle. As the awesome roars receded in the distance, reverberating in the hills, I recalled the stories of man-eating tigers and their reign of terror across whole districts – when men and women locked themselves indoors after sunset and ventured out only at the risk of their lives. It was easy to empathise with them in the face of the tremendous demonstration that I was witnessing, even with the sure knowledge that this was a normal tiger of the forest, and not a man-eater. Once again, I marvelled at the boundless courage of my hero and idol – Jim Corbett – a man who hunted man-eating tigers on foot for decades in the dense forests of Kumaon and Garhwal. I recalled his immortal, self-deprecating words: “To know that one is being followed at night – no matter how bright the moon may be – by a man-eater intent on securing a victim, gives one an inferiority complex that is very unnerving, and that is not mitigated by repetition.” (The Man-Eating Leopard of Rudraprayag)

Located in the Maikal hills of the Satpuras, nestled at the bottom right-hand corner of Madhya Pradesh in the Mandla and Balaghat districts, Kanha epitomises the ancient forests of Central India. There are forests and terrain for every taste – rolling grasslands and meadows, impenetrable sal and bamboo jungle, flat-topped hills (locally called ‘dadar’) with dense vegetation, numerous lakes and two major rivers (the Banjar and the Halon). Kanha is one of the largest National Parks is Asia, with a core area of 940 sq km, insulated by a buffer area (where human habitation and regulated cattle grazing are allowed) of another 1009 sq km.

Long inhabited by the Gond and Baiga tribes, Kanha has a quite a bit of history in the annals of Indian wildlife. Captain James Forsyth refers to the Banjar Valley in his ‘Highlands of Central India’, and in those days the whole Kanha-Bandhavgarh-Pench area was one unbroken tract of forest. Sporadic attempts at conservation began in the nineteenth century – Kanha was declared a ‘Reserved Forest’ in 1879, though no special attention was devoted to wildlife, and the area continued to be divided into shooting blocks for hunting till 1933, when the Banjar Valley was declared an ‘Absolute Sanctuary’. This however did not prevent the Maharajkumar of Vijayanagaram from shooting 30 tigers between 1947 and 1951, with wildlife conservation clearly not being a priority in the new independent Indian nation. In 1955, a major step was taken with 253 sq km of the Banjar Valley being declared a ‘National Park’. More area was added progressively, and Kanha was one of the first parks to be inducted under Project Tiger in 1973. The core-buffer strategy took shape in 1976, and with the addition of the Suphkar area of the Halon Valley, Kanha gradually took on the contours which we see today.

Kanha’s wildlife is as varied as one could hope for – apart from the tiger, one finds the panther, sloth bear, hyena, wild boar, wild dog, Indian bison (gaur), and many members of the deer family, including the Hard-ground Barasingha – for which Kanha is the last remaining refuge. It is also a veritable treasure-house for bird-watchers, with over 200 species of our feathered friends flitting in and out of these forests. Although it is probably the best-managed park in the country, the population of tigers in Kanha is under the scanner after the Sariska furore. While a number of 130 odd was bandied about even five years ago (the census being based on the old pug-mark counting method), recent estimates by more modern technology suggests a far lower number, definitely below 100. In late 2007, poachers have been bold enough to lay gin-traps for tigers right inside the forest, and even tourists have witnessed injured tigers limping away from these traps.

The logistical challenges of guarding and patrolling a densely forested area with difficult terrain that is as large as Kanha, with equipment and technology that is relatively antiquated, are too numerous and complex. The key issue of course is funding, and wildlife will never be an over-riding priority in a country where farmers are still driven to suicide. However, the Park management and their team of forest guards and guides are extremely committed and deliver excellent results in the face of these constraints.

The local tribes are a key part of this team, and many of the forest guides and guards are Gonds and Baigas who have spent their lives in and around these fabulous forests.
On a rating-scale based on degree of difficulty, being a forest guard in one of India’s tiger reserves rivals the thorny job of being a Prime Minister in a coalition government. Armed with a stick or at most a small axe or knife designed to hack a path through dense undergrowth, the forest guard is expected to keep the poachers at bay. A dead tiger is worth over a 100,000 US dollars in the international market, and the poachers are armed to the teeth, as can be imagined when the stakes are as high. The Forest Department has shelters (single-room affairs, sometimes simple thatched huts) built at various vantage points across the forest, and it is here that our forest guards live for most of their working lives, without electricity, and with the barest essentials for food. For days on end, their only connection with other human beings is through a handheld radio set. Wild animals walk up to their doorstep, and they go to sleep with the calls of the jungle-folk in their ears. During the torrential downpours of the monsoon at Kanha, when the forest tracks become a morass, impassable for all modes of transport except on foot or on elephant-back, our forest-guards have the unenviable task of trudging through the quagmire on a regular basis – for it is at this time that the poachers are at their peak of activity. As the monsoon peters out, the forest-guards map out the damage to Kanha’s roads, and point out areas where urgent repair work is required before the tourists flock to the Park on October 1st.

These simple men are the life-blood of Kanha. Stories of dedication and commitment abound, and there are many instances where forest-employees have been mauled or even killed by wild animals while they were at their daily jobs. All this for a pittance - the only perquisite being a grand-stand view of one of the most beautiful forests in the world.

The impact of Kanha on human senses is deep and unforgettable. As you enter the forest, at the first crack of dawn, you are greeted with wreaths of white banks of mist – the whole jungle seems to float in it, topped by the glowing pinks and reds of the rising sun. The fresh scent of the awakening forest and the dew-soaked earth is incredible. Chital are omnipresent, and so are the troops of langurs – their whooping calls echoing through the jungle like a ghostly presence. The trees sway and branches break with a crash as the playful langurs bounce around, but if you look closely at the tree-tops, there will the inert silhouetted figure of the langur watchman, ever-alert to danger. As the first sunbeams filter down from the tree-tops, cutting a swathe through the swirling mist, the dew-drops on the tall grass sparkle like diamonds. The birds are out in force - it is a regular musical orchestra out there - with the persistent call of the ‘did-you-do-it’ bird as background-score. The flashy electric blue of the Indian Roller (Blue Jay) is common, and so is the Racket-tailed Drongo – a bird with a unique floating tail that is designed to inveigle flying insects. Peacocks abound, the male strutting around in his beautiful plumage, the long purple neck held high. If you are lucky, you will see a peacock taking off in full flight – a quick shambling run followed by an ungainly little jump, and the heavy bird unfurls its spectacular wings, a million colours glinting in the sunlight. A few ponderous and noisy flaps, and the bird settles into a tree close by, clearly exhausted by the effort. A quizzical downward look at you, the head bobbing up and down, and it gives vent to its typical harsh, strident call, rising and falling to an ancient beat. India’s national bird looks the part, but its vocal skill definitely does not give Lata Mangeshkar a run for her money.

Amidst the peaceful spectacle around you, a sudden cry rents the air – it sounds like a pitiful cry of distress of an animal on its last legs. As you try to figure it out, your guide will gently explain that it is nothing more than the hoarse rutting call of the chital stag. You wonder how a graceful animal can produce that kind of grating noise, that too for attracting a mate! Not to be outdone, the barasingha too has a mating call that will stun people into silence – a long-drawn bugling marvel that sounds like the clarion-call of doom. If you hear it for the first time, it is guaranteed to evoke images of some terrifying monster lurking in the forest.

As you motor along the meandering tracks of the jungle in your open-top Gypsy, the forest brings out its full bag of tricks. Dappled sunlight plays among the leaves and bamboo-thickets, and creates a thousand illusions for you. Tips of vegetation sway in the breeze, and you wonder if you just missed a sighting. A warped stick looks amazingly like the antlers of a sambar, and you excitedly tap your guide on the shoulder, only to be given an indulgent smile and a shake of the head. Of course, false alarms apart, there are encounters aplenty. Other than deer, you will see the gaur – the Indian bison, the largest cattle in the world. These immense beasts are truly magisterial in appearance with their white socks, black granite-like bulk and supremely arrogant stare as they chew the cud nonchalantly under their bossed and wickedly curved horns. If your luck is in, you may come across a pair of male gaurs jousting by the roadside – a stately affair as the giant combatants spend hours in circling each other and snorting their derision before they actually lock horns.

However, there is a clear undercurrent of anxiety in this veritable Garden of Eden. You can see it in the way the chital stop chewing the grass to listen and look all around them, their large ears perked up, the stumpy tails with white undersides twitching from side to side. It is visible in the intense gaze of the langur-watchman, or the sudden stillness in the grazing sambar-hind. A movement in a distant bush, or a sound too many, and the jungle comes alive with thudding hooves and swishing branches as animals flee for cover, the air ringing with myriad alarm calls – the shrill cry of the chital, the throaty bark of the langur, or the bagpipe-like bellow of the sambar.

Peaceful as the jungle may seem, it is ruled by the hidden menace of the Tiger.

Supremely reclusive, seldom seen and rarely heard, the mystique of this phantom predator is in the air all over Kanha. You may wander in the forest for days without getting a whiff of him, but signs of his presence are easy to see: long rows of pugmarks on the loose soil by the roadside, scratch-marks on trees where the feline has sharpened its claws, and the occasional tiger-scat. Yet the tiger has a habit of showing up where you least expect him. Sightings are purely dependent on luck and can happen almost anywhere in the Park. And sometimes they are really up close – most tigers at Kanha are very comfortable with Gypsys, and regularly walk past within a couple of feet of the vehicles.

Jim Corbett once said that the sight of a tiger at close quarters always used to leave him breathless. If that is what it can do to one of the world’s greatest hunters, the effect on a common man is easy to imagine. The most arresting element of the tiger is not the great beauty of the striped form or the formidable size and strength of the animal. In my book, the eyes of the tiger are worth going miles to see: incredibly bright, light-green orbs narrowing to a black slit of a pupil at the centre, beaming out a ferocity and fixity of purpose that is impossible to beat, set in the mesmerising pattern of black, white and orange facial markings. An unblinking stare from these eyes at close quarters, even from a tiger resting quietly in the shade, can leave you with a persecution mania that lingers for days.

The sight of a tiger in the wild is a cathartic experience - grace, power and freedom rolled into one superb specimen of Creation. At Kanha, tourists with a tiger-sighting under their belt are easy to identify – their broad smiles as their Gypsy passes yours are like badges of a secret brotherhood. The ‘tiger-smile’ is what they call it out there!

Even if you do not glimpse the tiger, Kanha casts a permanent spell on the mind. The sheer beauty of the forest is unparalleled, and has the power to draw you like a magnet, year after year. Here in the wilderness, amidst teeming life at its best, there is absolute peace and solitude. In these timeless forests, the paraphernalia of civilisation are missing – no newspapers or television, no traffic jams. The comforts of urban life are unavailable, but are more than compensated for by the extraordinary simplicity and beauty of life all around you. Nature in all her glory, aided by her loyal cohorts of the jungle, will rinse your mind and give it sparkling clarity, much like the pristine waters of the Banjar river in Kanha.