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The description of its natural wealth and richness occurs even in
Ain-i-Akbari. THIS in one place where our national animal seems to be reasserting its right to live. At six o’clock in the morning we were in the The Indira Priyadarshini National Park in Madhya Pradesh’s Pench. The jungle’s microclimate was chilly. Mist and shadows spread in puddles between the massed trunks of the trees. The forest paths were touched with shimmering light as if sprayed with quicksilver. We huddled in our jeep at the gate, joining the queue of vehicles, waiting for our entry tickets and our route. People breathed into their cupped hands. And then, in a flurry of gravel-churning wheels we were in.
"Bison! Gaur! Crossing the road." A sudden shout was heard. A huge, black, muscular bovine, with dangerously curved horns, emerged out of the shadows of the forest, stood on the road gazing at us, his white ‘ankle-socks’ immersed in a flow of morning mist. Behind him, his cows ambled out. And following them, a spindly-legged calf, clothed in brown suede. The herd-master decided that we were not a threat. He went up to a sapling, bulldozed its trunk with the boss on his head, allowed his wives and heir to nibble on its leaves, and grabbed a mouthful or two. And then they moved, merging in the jungle. The sapling straightened up, looking a bit like M. S. Dhoni shorn of his locks. We moved on. A so-called ‘ghost tree’, caught the light on its bare trunk, trapping the rising sun on its golden leaves. It looked like a white-limbed ballerina. The shadows and the mist in little hollows began to be leached by the light. The animals were not scared of us: a good sign in a national park. Even the pair of wide-eyed scops owls on a hollow tree, looking like the emblems of the Defence Services Staff College, regarded us solemnly as if they were part of the directing staff! Then we heard a terrible racket. It was a loud chorus of grating cackles, as if demons with sore throats were screaming incantations. We raced down the road and stopped at a beautiful caf`E9-au-lait pond. Swimming on it were two golden brahmini ducks, as smug and contented as cosies on warm teapots! As we looked at them, they opened their beaks and gave vent to that hellish sound. Clearly beauty and harmony don’t always go together. The sun was high in the sky now and we decided to return. But, before we did, we stopped over at the Orientation Centre near the gate. It was well worth visiting. Its dioramas, particularly the one showing a leopard and its chital prey draped over a branch, were excellent; its descriptive boards the best we have seen in any of our national parks. Evening rounds begin between 3 and 4 pm when the sun has lost its sharpness and deer and antelope are often easier to spot. With filled stomachs, they tend to be rather relaxed and in search of snacks rather than a heavy main meal. When we entered the forest again, we met sambar and nilgai. The latter rather briefly as these slate-coloured antelope prefer the shelter of the deep woods and stand stock still, merging into the shadows.
In most of the national parks of MP, they have a centre point where visitors can buy snacks, tea, and soft drinks, and get the latest news about the whereabouts of tigers spotted by the Forest Staff. We were lucky. As soon as we reached there, we heard a walkie-talkie rasp out the location of the latest sighting. We raced ahead of the others, scrambled onto an elephant, swayed through the forest, spotted a tiger slinking away. And stopped. There, a few heart-thudding meters away, was a tiger family: a mother, three sub-adult cubs and, a little beyond, the remains of their sambar kill. The mother was obviously trying to distance herself from her brood. She had brought them into the world, nursed them, defended them from murderous males, taught them how to hunt; and now they were old enough to fend for themselves. She was ready to get on with her life, find another mate, raise another family. And happily, she
probably did. We’ve just read a news-report that eight new cubs have
been born to two tigresses in Pench.
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Chital,
or spotted deer, herds are less reclusive. They seem to rely on their
numbers to give them early warning of approaching predators. They’ve
also struck a favoured-creature treaty with itinerant tribes of
langurs. Langurs are wasteful eaters, dropping fruit and leaves
from their dining trees. These are gobbled up by the chital below. And
when the langur sentries, from their high perches, spot a carnivore
they hoot a warning. The chitals then flee triggering a general
exodus of all prey species: ruminants, simians, wild boar, and
even ground-living birds.