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The open-top jeep arrived sharp at 3.45 in the morning at the spartan Kumaon Mandal Tourist Rest House in Ramnagar. The small Uttarakhand town was fast asleep. Only those who had a date with the jungle, like me, were up and ready. A date with Jim Corbett National Park (NP).
Our jeep was among the earlier ones to report at the entry point of Bijrani Safari Zone of Corbett NP, this gate and zone being close to Ramnagar town. As my permit was getting verified, Ramsharan Bisht proudly declared his name and took the seat beside the driver, then added, “Sir ji, I am your guide today. And I will do my best.” Bisht-ji, as I kept referring to him despite his reluctance, took instant control of the state of affairs from thereon, imparting a benign sense of ease.
Lucky spottings
The eastern horizon was showing signs of impending sunrise and in that veiled translucence, I realised we had entered the part of the forest with much open space, dominated by grasslands. Soon, we came across a broad rippling stream. My heart missed a beat as our jeep went tyre-deep in the water, and I heaved a sigh of relief as we emerged on the other side. The driver had stopped the vehicle and Bisht-ji pointed far to the left. A dark something slowly came to focus amid the green foliage. A sambar deer. A stag, with twisted horns. “Good omen,” whispered Bisht-ji. The jungle has its own portends of destiny, and I was to discover some of them. It also has its own list of forbidden expressions, which I was yet to learn.
As our jeep went sauntering around, Bisht-ji went pointing — chital, the spotted deer, flowering plants of semal and madar, a changeable hawk eagle up there. The grassland had given way and we were in the thick of sal forest with a stream running parallel to our track on our left. Bisht-ji just raised his forefinger and we stopped. “Look there,” he whispered, pointing at the stream. I didn’t spot anything. “That big boulder on the other side of the stream, now slowly look to right of it, on the small rock by the stream.” “Yes, yes, an owl, almost the colour of stone,” I said excitedly. “Brown fish owl,” said Bisht-ji.
By afternoon we reached Dhikala Forest Lodge. Dhikala is the largest of the safari zones of Corbett NP. But what sets this forest lodge apart is its spectacular location. The setting sun had coloured the Ramganga Reservoir, which forms the northern boundary, in its own reflective mood of crimson. Further ahead in the golden-rod grassland by the reservoir, a herd of elephants were still at their supper, the ridge of their topcoat glistened in the slanted rays of the sun. And across the reservoir to the north rose the foothills of Kumaon, like sentinels, their folds getting darker every passing minute.
Being the largest of the forest lodges inside Corbett, the dining hall of Dhikala is a buzzing place around dinnertime. Here, stories of the day’s sightings are exchanged. Hardened wildlife buffs silently share a table with exuberant first-timers. I met Harsh at my table, quietly nibbling at his roti and subzi. Unless one nudges him off his reticence, which I brazenly did, it would be impossible to place this shy young man from Chandigarh as a hardcore wildlife photographer whose works have adorned the covers of the best-known magazines in India and abroad. Amid our conversation, dodging the protocol of the standard buffet dinner laid, a cook came straight from the kitchen with hot, still ballooning phulkas and special gobi masala for Harsh, and he, in turn, inquired of his son’s progress with Maths. “I come here so often, they have now become family,” said Harsh to me, almost apologetically. I, however, got the benefit of gobi masala, which was not on the buffet menu, and swelling phulkas. “Give me some tips on wildlife,” I pleaded with him. He thought for a few moments and then said, “The three most important mantras of wildlife viewing are — patience, patience and patience.”
Tales of the big cat
After dinner, taking the cue from Harsh, I found the elderly mahout of Dhikala, in half darkness under a large jackfruit tree near the staff dining hall. Chacha, as he is known to the fraternity, is like any other greying person except for his eyes — glowing and somewhat playful. “Did you see a tiger today?” I asked. “Shhh,” he stopped me on my track. “Never take the name,” he said, “the superstition of the jungle is that if you take the name, you will never see one.” I must have looked awkward in that beastly silence. So, Chacha broke my discomfiture with a smile, “In the jungle, we ask — sighting hua kya? (has sighting happened?).” He went on to say that the rarest of animals to be seen in Corbett is the bear. “Asian black bear, also known as the moon bear. In my 25 years in the jungle, I have seen it only thrice. And of them, once the bear was standing up on hind legs exposing the white stripe shining across the chest.”
True as Harsh hinted, Chacha is an encyclopedia of Corbett, as he spoke about the extraordinary tales of the forest he calls home. Suddenly, he put his finger on his lips and whispered, “Shhh. Can you hear a bird singing? Like a soft whistle? It’s a blue whistling thrush.”
Next morning, when the sun rose, it was as if a part of the forest was on fire. The yellow-orange-red streaks penetrated the dark green canopy like swords slicing through the flesh. The mist, in turn, blurred the shards of rays into an all-encompassing blaze. This was a new sun, and for sure, a new kind of sunrise altogether. And in the backdrop of that glare, Bisht-ji pointed at the silhouette of a bulk, slowly moving up the narrow jeep trail. “Elephant and her cub,” he whispered, “be absolutely quiet and don’t move.” Elephants can be the most devastating animals in the wild, I came to know later, and a mother is most susceptible to mood swings at the slightest perceived threat to her cub. I could now clearly see the mother and child, about 70 feet from us. They stopped. Were they looking at us? Then the mother turned and disappeared into the jungle, with the cub following her obediently.
The sun was up, but still not strong as we continued our trail. Bisht-ji stopped the driver. Was he looking for something? Or looking at something? Time just crawled as we sat in the stationary jeep, motionless, and as for me, clueless as well. Then at Bisht-ji’s unspoken order, our jeep slowly rolled forward. We passed a dry riverbed and moved cautiously ahead. Bisht-ji was now standing on his front seat, ramrod straight, and from behind, I could sense his neck muscles, taut. At his signal, I also stood on my seat, holding on to the roof-bar of the jeep. We came by a long-leafed bush and stopped. Bisht-ji slowly turned at me and pointed at the bush, less than 10 feet from the jeep. No words were spoken, but his eyes told me to look intently. Camouflaged in the yellow-brown-green of the bush was a pair of eyes, set in blazing yellow. Then the brown strips of the faces could be recognised. A slight flapping of the ears, or was it the leaves fluttering? I slowly held my camera to my eyes and zoomed and focused. I shuddered as the zoom brought me nose-to-nose with the not-to-be-named beautiful beast across that flimsy bush.
I could now go and tell Chacha — sighting hui (sighting happened).