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.
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.
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.
