A back-Pencher Naturalist

On safari in Masai Mara a few years ago, I was treated to a daily wake-up rendition of "Ingonyama nengw' enamabala" by the best part of my life. Thankfully, she did not consider "Chaddi pehan ke phool khila hai" to be as iconic; or maybe it was just that the thought of 45°C while on safari did not make her very songful. Or maybe she considers Rudyard Kipling such an imperialist ass that she has forgotten "The Jungle Book". But she did remember that the forests of Seoni, where Sir William Henry Sleeman discovered a boy brought up by wolves, were the setting for the story of Mowgli. It is difficult to not recall Mowgli; the chaddi pehan ke likeness pops up liberally around the Turia Gate of the Pench Tiger Reserve. That name is kind of shorthand, for the reserve bundles in it the Indira Priyadarshini National Park and the Pench Mowgli Sanctuary. The latter is out of bounds for tourists, but the Mowgli from the animated series can be found in the souvenir shops, the signboards exhorting visitors to be mindful of nature and a few life-size figures that kids try to get photos taken with. They may not know Kipling, but they've taken this Mowgli to be one of their own. 

Curious about the etymology of Turia, we checked with one of our guides; according to him, it was the spot from where officials of the British Raj would proceed 'on tour'; the vernacular description of this activity stuck on to become the name of the locality. Turia Gate is the favoured entrance to the Pench Tiger Reserve, accommodating 74 of the 99 vehicles allowed into the core area of the reserve. Despite that, the scene around the gate is quite relaxed. Space to park quite a few vehicles, just a couple of shops selling stuff from fizzy drinks to I-been-to-Pench t-shirts. And some Mowgli stickers. Of course.

One thing to keep in mind is that, in Madhya Pradesh, the forests take a half-day break on Wednesdays. No visitors on Wednesday afternoons. That is the only time you have? Go on to one of the gates on the Maharashtra side of the forest. The nearest such to the Turia gate is the Khursapar gate, 12 km away. But if you do end up at Turia gate on a Wednesday afternoon, do yourself a favour, and drive the extra 40 km to Sillari gate, which is said to be the best on the Maharastra side. Our experience going through Khursapar will become one of those suppressed, traumatic memories. It was likely an off day for all of us, the visitors, the guide, the driver, and maybe the animals there as well. The one thing I remember - faintly - from that safari is that we had a female guide. She was one of the 20-odd ladies who have been authorised to work as guides at Pench, something I haven't seen at any of the other National Parks I've been to. So that was a first; I hope it does not remain unique over the next few years.

Getting in through the Turia gate, you will be assigned one of three routes; one towards the Baginalla waterhole, another which takes you to open central lands and the third towards rocky terrain going up to Kalapahad, the highest point within the Reserve. 

It all sounds well to say it like this, but I have no clue how many times we went along each of those routes. After a couple of safaris, some of the points became familiar - like the communal waterhole from where one has to turn right to arrive at the nest of the Malabar Pied Hornbill. At the waterhole itself, we knew where to look for the mongoose, to peer up at the Hanuman Langur kiddos showing off their swinging prowess or to watch out for the flocks of Red Jungle Fowl, the males having an unusual circular white patch behind their beaks. (Unusual when first observed; learnt much later that such a patch - a lappet - is usual enough for this subspecies, the Gallus gallus murghi). 

Other locations became routine. The MP Forest Department has an elephant camp at Alikatta, inside the core area. There was a village here once, which was relocated when the area became part of the tiger reserve. The five elephants working for the Department are as domesticated as can be; their staple breakfast is stuffed roti, about 8-10 for each elephant. Not to worry, these are slightly bigger than the ones landing up on your breakfast table and the elephants do get other munchies as well. 

Alikkata seems to be the place to get stuffed. It is where the safari vehicles congregate for breakfast. Sometime during the first safari of our trip, messages came from veteran Pench-folk: "Don't miss the alu bonda at Alikatta!", they exhorted. We didn't. 

Were you here looking for descriptions of the wildlife itself? Oh, for that, you're better off reading this from DamVilRam, seeing pictures from Suresh here, or from Arul, here. If you insist on seeing photos that I took, go here - has a couple of tiger videos, too! 

God is no Role Model

Could never think of him as a role model batsman. Yes, a young boy could copy that out-flexing of the knees, the adjusting of the box, the positioning of the bat and maybe the stance. But it stopped there. One could never, ever, dream of replicating the strokes he played. Dravid, you could aspire to be, even if the ability were to remain ever so far behind. Laxman, you could pretend you were, for a stroke or four, even if you were easily seen for the pretender you were. But this man, it was just not possible. Anyone who ever attempted to do it stepped away very quickly, stricken, never to venture there again. And so, there were few who could criticise. Or even critique. 

Young children are never told they have to grow up to be a Siva, a Vishnu or even an Indra. Stories are told of them, sure, but to inspire: emulation is never a requirement. We know that is not possible and we don’t want to place such pressure on anyone. 

Gods are never Role Models. We should just be thankful they will always be around. 

A non-political meeting

It was not a political meeting, as Cho Ramaswamy reminded us twice during his 'special address' that lasted less than five minutes. The crowd at the Centenary Auditorium of the University of Madras did not believe him, of course. Arun Shourie followed, speaking about his latest book, and using quotes from that to berate the government for its inaction; the audience was sure that Cho was right, that his was not a political meeting. It was unlike the Arun Shourie that I expected; there he was, firing up the crowd, taking pot-shots at the PM, berating the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Defence for being dysfunctional and snidely describing its Chairman as "that great geo-strategic thinker - Shri Raj Babbar". He warned us that whatever words Modi used would be dissected for emphasis, setting the crowd up to expect something strong from the man as he came up to speak.

Parts of the crowd chanted the usual slogans, but they scattered and fell to the ground rather quickly. Modi got into his speech - it was in English, and he was reading it out. That was rather disappointing, for he wasn't getting a lot of it right. It was only when he went away from the prepared text and expounded in Hindi that he was most relaxed and at his best. Of course he needled the government. Of course he mocked them. It was nothing new, nothing different from what he has been saying for the past year or so. But because he was saying it at the Nani Palkhivala Memorial Lecture on "India and the World" - not a political meeting - it seemed to be a tad jarring. 

We got past that quickly, for every time he made a comment about the present dispensation, he moved into some other idea. There were a few ideas there, ideas that probably sketched out his foreign policy vision, at least for the neighbourhood. The standard line of being tough against intrusion extended into weaving strands of neighbourliness, playing upon common south Asian identities: Buddhism was the thread of choice for the evening. Rhetoric about repelling intrusions across our borders flowed into a somber assessment of cyber-warfare preparedness; and then, very surprisingly, into an charged plea for repelling terrorism through "firewalls of our hearts". It was, as he put it, "Shakti with Shanti"

He spoke about decentralising foreign policy, or at least its visible manifestations. That part was picked up by the print media, but his point was also to use such opportunities to build awareness about various parts of the country, thereby building a gateway to the tourism industry; "Terrorism divides, tourism unities", he repeated. Arun Shourie had indicated that Narendrabhai would be talking about soft power, but not that he would be doing it so softly.

It was not just soft power, but also "healing power". The putative PM-in-waiting talked about easing the world's aches and pains, not merely with medical tourism but also through a greater emphasis on ayurveda and other traditional systems, as well as yoga. He spoke about moving away from emphasis on fossil fuels, to creating a grouping of nations blessed with the sun's healing power, something like an OSPEC, to coin an acronym. His closing exhortation was for everyone to take their job seriously and to do it well.

Simple statements, but they were quite well presented. The contrast with other aspirants was probably the difference between simple and simplistic. Was this lecture significant? I can't help feeling that the media has ignored what seems to be a strategic pivot of the Modi campaign. On the strength of what he said today, there is certainly hope. But that hope needs to be sustained through a more full-bodied version of the policy. In any case, it is certainly better than playing headless chicken!

Heaven on earth

The tea gardens reaching up to Nallamudi, in Valparai, are owned by the Bombay Burmah Trading Company, but where the hill falls off into the Pooncholai, the Forest Department of the state government takes over. The tea gardens are scenic enough, but the shola forests of the pooncholai make them quite run-of-the-mill in comparison.

To get to the pooncholai, we have to buy tickets from the forest guard. It is then that we learn of a unique gent who is allowed unhindered access into the forests. "He has seen God, you know", says our driver and he is backed up by the forest guard. Yeah, right. 

The climb up through the tea garden is a slow gradient. The sight of a black shouldered kite on a silver oak keeps us company through a curve. The flower of the tea plant - now, whoever thought they would be allowed to blossom? - with a bug lying on its back inside the petals kept conversation going for a while.

Then, silence. A dragonfly, with a deft mid-air swerve, swooped on a small Blue Tiger butterfly with a softly audible 'thwack'. It is surely not polite to watch someone eat, but we try to take pictures. The dragonfly is not amused and it goes deeper into the tea gardens.

We are near the edge. A ledge, with a concrete structure, comes into view. An old man close to the building sees us coming and calls out, urging us to come on over. We watch. He goes to the edge, raises his arms to the sky and yells across the valley. Not a language that any of us can decipher.

We follow his arms as they come down, to look across the valley. In the far distance, seven or eight threads of silver seem to be descending directly from the clouds that wrap the peaks. The threads are lost in the multi-coloured greens of the sholas, and, much lower down, emerge as broad streams making waterfalls as they course further down the valley.

A path dips away to the right, and at its end, a small clearing houses two large, flat, sloping stones, which, together with a third, smaller one, form a rough triangle. An open flame on the small stone is almost invisible in the bright sunlight. The larger stones are decked out with flowers in bright colours, some of them way off any palette that you can imagine. 

Along the path, many of those flowers bob at us. Amidst them, more bright colours flash around; flying jewels, those Crimson-backed Sunbirds. One would think such brilliantly coloured feathers would stand out, but they merge with the vivid flowers until we are confused if it is the flower or the bird that is flying.

Heaven on earth.

And then we see the signboard on the side of the path. In Tamizh and English, it says this is the 'SEEN GOD SHRINE'. The old man is waiting, he has seen us looking at the sign. "38 years and 104 days ago", he says. "I saw God. Here". He speaks in Tamizh and English and says his life changed that day. No more trousers, no job, just tending to the stones for a couple of hours a day before going to his son's house for his daily 'kanji'.

Velu has seen all the animals of the forest. He is believable, for he does not tell of the tiger we missed last week. The last one he saw was five years ago. We ask him about the God. "There was a square patch of brilliant light, and it grew to a column that seemed to reach up to the sky. He was beautiful. I saw him with these mortal eyes.", he says, emphasising the mortal-ness. 

We probe further. What did he speak to God about? "Why would I need to tell you about that? I saw Him, I spoke to Him and I am the better for it". So, is he a devotee? "பித்தன்னு சொல்லலாங்கொ (a manic would be more apt)". He is happy. Maybe he did have some kind of epiphany here.

There are few better places to have a vision of God, anyway.

Three generations, and 13 days

A little over 25 years ago, I borrowed a bike, and with my friend in tow, went off to see my grandfather. We did not have a phone at home and neither did my grandfather have one in his. It was far simpler to get on a bike and ride out from Nungambakkam, to convey a momentous bit of news to the old man at his house in Nanganallur.

Nanganallur in the early 1970s was rustic. The Beach-Tambaram suburban trains did not stop there. Pallavan’s 18C rumbled by maybe four times a day, connecting Nanganallur’s main roads to Madras’ Mount Road. During the working days, menfolk were hard to spot, for there was nothing in Nanganallur for them to work on. The retired gents would be resting inside, cooling themselves with palmyra-leaf fans, while the women would be getting ‘things ready’. We kids had the streets to ourselves. Not just the streets, the compounds of the houses too. We would jump over walls, wriggle under fences, and even cut through barbed wire, if that gave us a tougher path from point A to point B. We weren’t awed by retired Secretaries to Government, or District Educational Officers, or Public Sector General Managers. But I was careful that we did not trouble that retired Deputy Superintendent of Police. Not just because he was a policeman. Not just because he was granddad’s friend. But also because he had the only fridge within a 20km radius (I imagined) in those days and he always smiled when he gave us ice cubes. Granddad and he – with a bunch of other retirees – played bridge for hours every evening and no matter how much they swore at each other during the session, I could still get my ice-cubes from the DSP when I wanted them.

The late 1980s had changed Nanganallur. I reached my grandfather’s house quite soon and had finished telling him about having got my admission to XLRI (his response is recorded here), when the DSP walks in. The oldies got to boasting.

“The boy says he is going to Bihar”, says granddad.

“Really? My grandson is also going there”, says DSP.

Granddad: “He’s going to do his MBA”.

DSP: “So is my grandson”.

Granddad: “He is going Jamshedpur, to XLRI!”

DSP: “Is that right? So is my grandson!”

With a vague feeling of apprehension that they were building up steam to swear at each other again, I ventured to ask the DSP his grandson’s name.

“Bharath Chandran”.

At which my friend piped up. “Bharath Chandran?!! Was he in PSBB?”, which left me wondering what I was doing in this oh-we-all-know-him kind of gathering.

That was my first introduction to Brat. Brilliant alumnus of PSBB, wonderful quizzer, had so many friends that he was never at home… The first three times I went to his house to meet this wonder-man in person, I came back disappointed. And then he walked in to my house one morning. Bespectacled, stooping, fuzzy throated. And when he left 15 minutes later, he left me wondering how I was going to even hoping to compete against such awesome brains.

XLRI changed many of us and sent us out in different directions. But Brat went back to his family, to help his father run his business and, at the same time, also help his grandfather, the DSP, run his. That wasn’t easy, I guess, but it gave me a chance to meet the DSP several times, for Brat and I met every evening, mostly after his work, but often when he was winding down.  And he and I would sometimes remark about the curious, generation-skipping friendship. Not entirely generation-skipping, actually, for our uncles were together for a little bit, singing Elvis Presley songs and acting groovy.

The years went by and we saw less of each other. Since November 2010, I hadn’t seen him at all. But there was no way I could not think of him every day. He was struggling with multiple sclerosis, being taken care of by his mother and his brother, away in Bengaluru. Some of us tried to help, but there was only so much we could do. I didn’t have the guts to go see him.

So, I will have no memory of him in hospital beds. I can’t visualize him in the ICU. I can only see him walk into my house in the morning light: I can only see him telling me that he is going to go back to Dubai once the MS is under control: I can only see him laughing out loud at the physiotherapist who is haranguing him to take his exercises more seriously. I will not see him any other way, for there is nothing more of him to see. The phone call on the morning of June 4 told me that.

Many of his friends from school, college and XLRI will be at his shubam, the 13^th day ceremony, later today. Almost all of them would have known him for much longer than I have. They will all miss him. I will miss him too, but maybe differently. I have anyway missed seeing him in the past couple of years. I had already been missing the ‘usual’ Brat for the past 5 or 6 years. During those years, when we did meet, he was happier talking about XL, or the few years immediately after, than about anything else. Granddads entered the conversation, too. He remembered my granddad almost as much as I remembered his, even though he grew up in Madras city, away from Nanganallur. And now I know those conversations can never happen again, and that a friendship spanning three generations has come to a pause. I will miss a bit of myself.

Chennai? What's that?

This post comes about courtesy the good folks at the Chennai Bloggers Club. The Tag-blog has been going on for over a month-and-then-some. Sulaiman Sait, the lover of poetry in all its forms, has passed the tag to me - the penultimate link in this log. 

Why aren't we doing this in French? Portuguese? Double-Dutch? I'd like to think it is because of my city. 

It is a pity they named it Chennai, because that was like introducing a socially awkward uncle at a hep soiree by his pet name, the one used only by close friends and family. He knows all those beautiful people at the party will stumble over his name and feel sorry / hurt / irritated at that. He knows they'll soon recognise him for the good man that he is, but until then, he will have to suffer their awkwardness. He knows they will value his ideas, his perspectives, his point of view - and the vast knowledge he places at their disposal, but he also knows they would not like to be seen in conversation with him; with Him!? Of all people!! Yet, they will be back again, seeking his approval, his energy, to help them fulfill their plans. But to be seen around with, they'd prefer the glam, even if there was little substance beneath the wrapping. Why, Chennai is going to be around always, we can lean on Chennai as a backup, Chennai won't mind.

And Chennai doesn't, it truly doesn't.

But, the uncle wonders, what if I could have used my other name, the one I used to be known by to everyone else around the world. The word that is linked to cloth, paleontology, music, spice, spirituality, heat, learning, mathematics, movies, ophthalmology, beaches, automobiles, art, trigonometry… and pretty much everything else. ‘Madras’ had it all, the right connections, and, very wonderfully, didn’t hoard any of it. Madras just gave of itself to the world. The world of course, took a lot of it, and expected Madras to remain the same.

Madras didn’t mind. Not even when the pet name became official and the world had to scramble around to find who this was.

Chennai was Madras is Chennai will remain Madras.

Call it what you will, but you can’t take away the fact that this is the city:

• That’s completely self-made. No queen or king poured largesse on it. It was built from nothing but the fancy of an Englishman and the enterprise of those who helped him. 
• That the French lusted for. When the diplomats at Paris traded Madras back to the British in return for Cape Breton, the French military fumed. Under Comte de Lally, they desperately tried, for close to a decade, to take the city back. Had they prevailed, vous seriez lisez ceci en français (without Google Translate, of course) 
• That should be on par with the Vatican and Amalfi for being the only sites known to have tombs of an apostle of Christ
• Without which, there would possibly have been no Yale University
• With a wonderfully rounded economy, without being disproportionately famous for just any one sector
• That hosts the largest cultural event in the world, spanning over a month, without any visible central organizing force
• That cradles within itself the smallest National Park anywhere in the world
• Where the Pakistan cricket team was given a standing ovation as they did a lap of the stadium after winning a close match
• That is more than competent in several disciplines, but never with an in-your-face attitude – and that quite often leaves it a perennial runner-up
• Which is the only one I call home! More about it, every day, here

If you've managed to get this far, do take it ahead tomorrow with the next link.  Bhavana, an irreverant, still-not-comfortable blogger married to Chennai via an arranged match, who writes on socially relevant issues, will be talking about her marriage (to the city, of course!) on her blog. That's going to be the last link of this Blog-Tag, so you might also like to get more perspectives of what Chennai is all about by going back along the chain!

Ranthambore, Day 4 (last)

All packing done during the night, we were off to an earlier start – by about 10 minutes – than usual. It was much cooler than the previous days, but somehow, all the animals seemed to be having a lie-in. Running up to the top of a hillock on the Aravalli range, we took in another look at the dhok clouds across the valleys before going back to what had become a restful spot – the ranger station at Padam Tal, where we could watch the Golden Oriole, the Common Iora and the Parakeets on a Ficus, as also various waterbirds. The muggers had come out in strength to bid us a goodbye; the other high point of the safari was our coming across tracks of a porcupine, its footprint looking like one of the flowers children draw, with a large central circle fringed with six or seven circular petals.

The large group had broken up; 7 of us were the first away, rushing to Jaipur – a two-and-a-half hour drive – to take the SpiceJet flight to Chennai, touching down at Ahmedabad and Hyderabad on the way. A few stayed on at Sawai Madhopur and some others were spending time at Jaipur. Our goodbyes were rushed, but that doesn’t matter: we’re sure to see each other again, on the GoogleGroup if not at the MNS meeting – or maybe on the next MNS trip!

Ranthambore, Day 3

Keerthana had dreamt about peacocks the whole night. Vijay said he woke up with “Jungle mein more nachha kisine na dekha…” buzzing through his head. Back to the Canters: we were told that the authorities might become unhealthily curious if we insisted on cornering the Gypsies every day, so we were breaking and re-forming our groups daily. Today’s Canter has Jogi for our guide. Away we went, straight into Zone 3, stopping at the bottom of the hill for our check in. Those peacock dreams were coming true – by the steps leading to the temple on the hill was a peacock, spreading out his tail, alternating between showing us the ‘eyes’ and then turning around. In the excitement of watching the dance, we missed trying to get record shots of the Slaty-headed Parakeets we had seen at this spot on the first day.

Again we went to Padam Tal, hoping that yesterday’s luck would hold. The rangers told us that T28 was seen near the border of Zones 2 and 3 and if we get across quickly, we might sight him before he disappears into the forest. Our setting off was held up for a few minutes because one more peacock went into its dancing frenzy. We drove up and down the track; the Hanuman langur’s booming calls warning us of the tiger’s presence a little distance away, prompting us to swerve to the right, while our companion vehicle goes the other way, trying to triangulate the tiger’s position. The sunlight dappled with shadows on a sambhar’s hide leads us to mistake it for the tiger; another sambhar belling swings us around on to a higher road, the tree-tops on our left level with us as the ground fell away. And it was while we were distracted in trying to identify a raptor that Jogi spotted him; T28 was lying at the foot of a small nullah, about 80 feet below the road we were on, near a patch of water. “I knew the water here never dries up, that’s why I was looking for him here”, said Jogi. The narrow, rising path, cliff-face on one side and a drop on the other, vehicles ahead and behind jockeying for position, was not the best position for watching the tiger. Yet, it took a while before Sekar figured out what that reddish patch, just ahead of the tiger’s paw, was. A sambhar fawn’s neck had been gashed and the tiger was unhurriedly relishing his kill, letting the waters lap at it while he fed. Then we saw her, waiting in the bushes near the water; T17 was hoping to get a share of the sambhar and was waiting to see if she would be lucky. T28, however, did not seem to be in a mood to share; picking up the sambhar by its back, it gave us a glimpse of how the great cat ‘drags’ its kill – in reality, carrying the dead animal rather effortlessly. Not that T28 carried it far away, just across the water, as if to let T17 know that it was futile to wait. Fortunate to have had seen one more of the tiger’s behaviours, we did not want to hang around for much longer, and came back, hungry for our own breakfast.

We had so far stuck to the straight and narrow for our own food. Toast, cutlets, omelettes, paranthas and juice made up the standard breakfast. After a 4-hour drive, we really needed the full spread to get us back to action – especially today, when a few of us were headed back to the buffer zone of the National Park. The public is allowed entry to the top of the hill, where a dargah shares space with a Jain temple and a temple to Ganesha. Descriptions of the hill started off with a 300-step climb; last evening it was resting at 175-steps, but those who actually went up today estimated it as being less than 100-steps. Having become acclimatized to the heat over the past couple of days, it was possible to enjoy the wonderful view from the hilltop – ranging from the east to west, the whole of the core forest and the buffer zone is visible from the top, as are the chattris on the nearby cliffs. In its time as the hunting grounds of the Rajas of Jaipur and Sawai Madhopur, servants scanning the forest for the tigers’ movement, would have manned the chattris so that the Rajas could arrive at the right place at the right time. They appear rather forlorn now, embarrassing reminders of the tiger’s decimation over the years.

After lunch – again, standard but lip-smacking fare of rotis, dal, vegetables, rice and curd – we saw more of the Rajas’ hunting infrastructure. At the Raj Bagh is the hunting palace, at the edge of a large lake. Seated under the canopies of that palace, the Rajas could watch everything happening around the lake; the sambhar, chital and nilgai coming to drink, the langurs in the trees warning of the tiger stalking them through the tall grass, the muggers floating around until they spot their prey and the multitude of birds – we saw lapwings, godwits, stints, ducks, terns, gulls, storks, spoonbills, ibises, drongoes, mynas, sandpipers, plovers and stilts – incessantly milling around, all of them ready to rush away at the first hint of danger. Kanhaiya, our guide and Munir, our driver for the afternoon safari kept their ears open for the calls and we moved from one side of the lake to the other, but the tiger was feeling the heat and wasn’t moving out from wherever it was lying hidden. There was another animal working for its food, however. In a small offshoot from the main lake, a mugger was trying to drag a sambhar carcass across to where it could make a meal of it. That was part consolation for not seeing a tiger, but more comfort was had from our spotting teals and a flock of Pallas’ Gulls riding the water at the edge of the lake. Not giving up on the birds, we were rewarded, first with Ezhumalai sighting a Changeable Hawk-Eagle and then, as we headed out, with a grand sighting of four nests of the Long-Billed Vulture, one of them with a white-headed chick waiting for its parents to return.
Dinner was adventurous. We traded our normal ‘north-Indian’ food for Rajasthani cuisine – dal-bhatti-churma was the dish of choice for dinner, a specialty chef being brought in to make it for us. The bhatti, broken up and soaked in dal (or kadi, if you like), loaded with ghee, with some of the sweet churma mixed in, was traditionally Rajput soldier food – easy to transport, keep-fresh bhattis and churma, with only the dal to be prepared on the battlefield – providing nourishment and energy without much fanfare. The bhattis disappeared quite quickly, though they didn’t seem to have made much of an impact with the kids – or maybe it was just that they were preoccupied with Chennai Super Kings’ abject batting performance in the semi-final.

Ranthambore, Day 2

Coming in on the Chennai – Jaipur Express, we really hadn’t had much of a chance to take in the change in the vegetation around. Having reached Sawai Madhopur at 3.45 am, we had all been eager to get to the Tiger Safari Resort – anyway, there was little chance to scan the plant life at that hour. But Sivakumar, who had flown in to Jaipur before connecting to Sawai Madhopur had seen the land carpeted with dry trees, with just a few patches of green showing through. Inside the Ranthambore National Park too, there was little green. Branches of the dhok trees mingled with each other, the network of their thin twigs creating an impression of a grey, dusty cloud hanging about 10 feet off the ground. The ground, of course was almost completely barren, with no undergrowth worth its name.

That’s what makes it easier to spot the animals, say the guides, assuring us that we are visiting at the best time for tiger sightings. A couple of weeks later, it will be too hot even for the large animals to venture out and sightings will be down, close to nothing. The hot season will last until July/August, when the monsoons will begin. Within a week of the raindrops hitting the ground, the dhok will be flush with new shoots, plants will spring up from the undergrowth, providing far better cover to animals moving around, making it even more difficult to spot them, even those chitals and sambhar which are now seen at every turn.

Going into Zone 4 in a Gypsy, we didn’t believe sightings could get any more difficult; our criss-crossings didn’t show us even a single hair of a tiger, but we did spend a few minutes taking in an awesome view of the valley, sharing it with a honey buzzard who circled lazily overhead before wheeling away from us. In those few minutes we lost the other Gypsy in Zone 4; they got to see a tiger across a check dam, even though it was nowhere as close as it was the previous day. Not knowing of their sighting, we spent some time trying to find the Brown Fish Owl and ending up with a pair of Painted Spurfowl. Our lunch was rather somber, for a third among us had not seen a tiger on any of the three safaris that we had been on.

Afternoon was into Zone 5, for the second time. We weren’t going to Bakola, however. Rajendar Sharma, our guide, waxed eloquent on how his childhood was spent wandering through the forest, of which he could remember every nook and cranny. Outsiders, he said, are welcome as guests, but too many have strained their welcome by staying on and usurping jobs the locals could otherwise have had for themselves. Despite all the distractions he had in expounding his philosophy, he managed to take us to a check dam with a bit of water in it. On the other side, hiding in a thicket was a young male tiger, watching the three or four vehicles that had gathered by then, rather incuriously. And then, deciding that we’d earned ourselves a better view, he sauntered down to the water, soaked himself in it for a few minutes and ambled back, deeper into the thicket, shutting off our view. We had him in view for about ten minutes and we waited for another ten before giving up and going around to see other parts of the forest, those that we would have no hesitation in certifying as being “100% tiger-free”. Maybe to chastise us for our lack of focus on the tiger – and our lack of faith in its presence throughout the forest – our Gypsy had a puncture on the way back. Here was a justifiable reason to get out of the vehicle and set foot on the forest floor, which all of us did. The chastisement was in full force, for we were stuck at a spot that did not seem to have any sign of life – no animal, no bird, insect nor plant, save for the dormant dhok trees all around. It was a rather mundane outing and had it not been for the bathing tiger, the kids – Kedar, Roshan and Uttara especially – would have probably turned into tigers themselves, growling in their disappointment.

Not Girish, though. He was in the Gypsy that had gone into Zone 2, turning off at the entrance and heading straight to Padam Tal, where they parked for almost two-and-a-half hours. For a large part of that time, they were treated to a wonderful show by a tiger which had been lying up in the tall grass bordering the lake for a while before coming out and gamboling on the shore, allowing Girish some splendid photographs that he is justifiably proud of.
At the end of the second day, everyone had had at least one sighting of the tiger – and so plans were being made for sampling the other attractions. Sivakumar and Kumar had anyway made their foray into Sawai Madhopur town on the first evening itself, using the matki dahi and the ganne-ka-ras available on the streets to wash away the heat of the afternoon. The extremity of the heat can be sensed when you hear that the sun glowed silvery-white, rather than the customary red, as it was setting that evening. The second evening was almost balmy by contrast, though the temperature during the day had touched 46°C. The bird list had grown, and was now in the mid-80s, but still far below the ‘official’ count of 274.

Ranthambore, Day 1

After the 15th of April, all the Cassia fistula trees along the streets of Chennai were barren, shorn of their flowers. Bouquets of the konna, among other things, are supposed to be an auspicious sight on the morning of Vishu, the harvest festival of the Malayali and had therefore been taken down from the trees to be a part of the Vishukani display.

The road to the gates of the Ranthambhore National Park however showed no evidence of Malayalis having gone that way – the few konna trees on that road were in full bloom, their vivid yellow flowers a sharp contrast to the heat-washed early morning. Maybe they were auspicious, too, for almost as soon as we cleared the gate bureaucracy, we had to stop. Dr. Jayamurthy’s keen eyes had seen a movement on the stone cliffs of the Vindhyas – and there we saw what Dr.Jayamurthy had spotted, a sight possibly rarer than seeing a tiger – a leopard, ambling over the rocks. He then lay down for a while, letting all of us take a good look at him, before going deeper inside the ledge and away from our sights.

Bumping along the forest roads, we pulled to a halt on the shores of the Padam Tal, as did several other Canters and Gypsies. A tiger had been sighted there yesterday, said the guide. A herd of chital on the far shore looked at us and then stiffened, sensing a greater threat and then broke into a run. False alarm. It was only a big sambhar stag, coming down for a drink. A Gypsy came rushing up to the group of vehicles. The message was crisp: at Lakharda, near Mandu Point, a pair of tigers had dragged a kill across the road from a waterhole. The race was on. Canters galloped, Gypsies careened, as every vehicle tried to be the first on the scene, to grab the best spot for watching the tigers. But even before we reached there, four or five other vehicles had cornered the vantage points. Not that we were complaining. We had a wonderful view, as the male tiger – a large 5-6 year old – got up, crossed the road up ahead of us and walked towards us, stopping at the waterhole, where he slaked his thirst. Strolling back, he went about 25 feet away from the road and lay down, sated, needing some peace and quiet, now. The tigress was still feeding at the kill, but soon, she needed water as well and so cut across the road to the waterhole. Maybe the male felt protective, for he too got up and circled the vehicles, getting to the waterhole. He saw that the tigress wasn’t too worried about the crowd of onlookers – there were close to a hundred people, standing up on the seats of their vehicles, trying to get pictures the best they could – and had settled herself quite comfortably into the small waterhole, so he wandered back to the other side of the road. The tigress continued to lie in the water, soaking herself for a while, allowing everyone to take a good look at her. When she had enough of it, she got up, intending to walk back to her kill the way she had cut across the road. But by now there was a double line of vehicles blocking that path, so she had to go around, behind the last vehicle. That Gypsy suddenly gunned its engines and reversed, keeping abreast of the tigress – thankfully, it was only for a few seconds and the big girl was allowed to get across before she could build up her anger. We had been there for almost an hour, though it seemed but a few minutes, and the drive back was quick, for we had been lucky, to have seen two tigers on our first safari.

Our enthusiasm at breakfast was rather subdued; the smaller group of 11 had been lucky, the bigger group of 16 hadn’t. And so, before the afternoon safari, they were given detailed instructions: Zone 3. Mandu Point, where the road curves. Watch for a waterhole in the crook. Hoping the pair would still be digesting their morning meal, and hoping that would give the bigger group a good sighting, we went off into Zone 4. We zigged and we zagged. Herds of sambhar and chital were seen, so were nilgai, too, though less frequently. Peafowl wandered about everywhere, the males trailing their tails with practiced unconcern. Troops of Hanuman langur pretended to be unaware of the approaching vehicle, leaping away at the last moment and then muttering harsh words to us. We waited a while at an artificial waterhole, watching the communal drinking – circling around the water were sambhar, peafowl, red-vented bulbul, a flameback, some chital – all making for a nice, peaceful scene. We moved on, leaving the wildlife to quench their thirst without any spectators and Ramanan asked the guide about going to Bakola. “Not possible”, said the guide, “the forest department has chained the way shut. But we will still go on that road, as far as we can”. The road ran to the right of a low cliff, about 12 feet high and sloping down to meet the road just where the chain across two trees stopped us from heading any further. As if to taunt us, a jackal looked at us and loped away, heading into the forbidden forest, as if daring us to come after it. Not falling for that trick, we turned around to head back to the exit. And then, there he was. He looked Vidya right in the eye, and as she called out, the Canter stopped and backed up in a hurry, bringing us all right beside him. He had come down the cliff, probably just after we had passed, hoping to get across to the other side for some food and was now stuck by our return. He was confused, irritated, scared and bewildered at this interruption and seemed thankful when the engine was switched off. Crossing the path in front of our vehicle, he looked out to the flatland, wondering how he could bring down one of those sambhar for a meal. We waited a while, hoping he would show us the answer he worked out, but the little fellow – he was only a year-and-a-half old – did not seem to be that hungry. We drove back to find that the bigger group hadn’t been lucky at all; their guide refused to believe that they knew about a morning kill that he was ignorant about and being at his mercy as to the possible locations of a tiger, the group had spent the afternoon unsuccessfully searching at different locations. They had made up for the lack of tiger sighting with a large list – Dr. Shyamala had spotted over 60 species – of birds and the amazing spectacle of a mugger capturing a large fish in the lake.

Picturing Chennai

Now that I've started a new blog, this one has been neglected for far too long; guess I'm using up more than my quota of words for the Chennai Daily Photo blog.

It has been quite satisfying to go around taking pictures of various parts of Chennai. Not being very mobile during the day does limit the opportunities available, but these days my camera has been a constant appendage (super photographer that I am, the N73 does not come up to scratch on several occasions :o). Still, I seem to end up doing more of historical/heritage/features of interest stuff than the 'candid camera' ones. Now that's something I want to correct, sooner than later.

Naturalist

I am now officially a member of the Madras Naturalists' Society (www.blackbuck.org.in). Joined up at the MNS' monthly meeting (2nd Sunday of every month) under the banyan at The School, KFI. I have missed two big events this year - the Chennai Bird Race and the 'deer counting' at the Guindy National Park. But no matter, there will be more races and countings to be done.

Add on to my bird list for the year: a Crow Pheasant and two pairs of Hoopoes. Also confirmed to myself that what I had seen at home earlier was indeed a Treepie.

The Art-Tryst

Of course I had seen Sumukha Gallery before. Never had reason to register its location earlier though, and that led to a bit of a crawl-search before finding it on Friday afternoon. For all the various write-ups about the exhibition of Sara Abraham's private collection, the place itself was deserted and the security guard seemed bored without having to regulate the crowds that I imagined would be breaking down the gates.

So much the better; I could wander through the exhibition at my pace and not worry if I was spending too much time in front of a piece that wasn't deserving of such attention. And seeing a Raja Ravi Varma original right at the entrance was a good start, indeed.

Surprise in store at the Laxma Gowd 'village' wtihin the exhibition. Without going ga-ga over it, I've always liked Thota Tharani's work. And it was indeed a bit out-of-the-blue to see his efforts being referred to as "repulsively glossy". I guess there must have been phases - or, more surely, early days when all kinds of things were attempted and Gowd happened to be at the receiving end of one such experiment. Tharani's collages were quirky without being extraordinary, and there was no work that could be considered 'glossy', even without the additional adjective to it.

The collection on the ground floor was quite neat, and did have a few names that I recognized - Adimoolam, Akbar Padamsee, Ganesh-es; Pyne and Haloi - though I misinterpreted KH Ara's signature as Sara's.... and that is my big crib. It seemed to be an insider thing, with most of the works not having any identification as to whose it was and none of them having any kind of description. A huge hurdle to climb for the lay fan of art, indeed. Having a catalogue of Sara's collection available at the entrance seemed to be more of a "you-could-have-looked-it-up-if-you-really-wanted-to" statement than a guide to the non-usual gallery goer. And with no one inside the downstairs rooms, there wasn't any chance to 'ask the authorities' about anything!

The collection upstairs was better cared for; with 5 or 6 Hussains there, it had to be. The two large paintings by A Ramachandran were certainly eye-catching. Though I wasn't the only person when I entered the room, the other visitor seemed to be in a grand hurry to leave. After that departure, the manager of the gallery - her office was in a side room upstairs - took pains to make sure that I did spend as much time as I wanted; she pointed out portraits that Sara had painted in her maiden name (Mathen) and had had the subjects autograph. The subjects, by the way, included Lord Mountbatten and Albert Einstein! If that wasn't enough, the lady also pointed out 2 paintings that MF Hussain had sent over as gifts for Sara on her 80th birthday last week. Looking at them, my first thought was that as he gets older, MF Hussain gets more colourful! Bright, vivid reds, yellows and greens made a stunning setting for the paintings - I've always thought his works were certainly more sober and subtle.

The highlight though, was seeing a very unusual Hussain; only a sketch, one that seemed to have been done rather quickly and to capture the true likeness, rather than the abstract figures that seem to define Hussain. To me, that sketch of Zachary Abraham seemed to be the clincher that Hussain is indeed a marvellous artist, if such reiteration were necessary.

The manager told me I could take 'two or three' photographs, and I pushed it to a half-dozen; I'd rather keep some of what I did see there in my mind's eye - my poor photography skills cannot in any way do justice to the richness of many of the works there, but my memory (and imagination) can colour them better as the days go by.

Birds!

I've always been pleased to spot a non-usual bird around Chennai; and that I have actually seen most of the birds listed in 'Some Indian Birds' (http://www.childrensbooktrust.com/books/wild/birds.htm) since first reading it some 30-odd years ago makes me feel rather kicked about life in general.

Having a good bit of greenery next door helps; Roshan & I have been able to identify most of the birds that we see without having to go back to reference material. Apart from the hens, quails, turkeys and partridges that we have seen in the coops, and the omnipresent common / jungle crows we have spotted:

Indian Rock Pigeon - with our apartment blocks, they now have many nooks and crannies to fashion their nests in....
Parakeets - see them very often, but need help to figure out if they are the rose-ringed ones or the alexandrines....
Common Babbler - the seven sisters, though have never spotted a covey of seven. Four, five and sometimes even six, but the seventh has been elusive....
Indian Pond Heron - on a branch or on the ground, it is difficult to spot, being brown flecked, but when it takes off, its wings magically change to white....
Kingfisher - didn't know there were so many kinds of this bird! And why is it so common in the city, where there is very little to fish for....
Common Myna - lovely little birds, they've probably been the easiest to spot on any given day....
Woodpecker - again, don't know enough of the distinctions to be able to narrow it down. One of them seems to be building a nest within a 100 metres of our balcony, so hope to give it a more specific name soon....
Little Egret - seasonal, but have seen them in the last two seasons and hope to see more of them again....
Golden Oriole - a flash of yellow should make it easy to spot; so I thought until I had to spend quite a bit of time trying to find Point B, after the bird flew to it....
And finally, the one bird that we had to go back to reference material to identify; a bluish-grey upper body, changing to brownish-yellow, with white-edged, brown wings. Its long tail made me think of a drongo when I first saw it last week, but a quick check of bird-books told me that it is more likely a Rufous Treepie. And I'm waiting for it to appear again, to make sure I've got it right.

Now, to get on a bit more organized birding activity.

And January went

Pakistani military scientists announce their finding that bullet holes can be caused by butting one's head against a sun-roof. This information made Hillary Clinton cry and the Sri Lankan army announce that all tigers will be given a sun-roof. The angry tigers blow up a bus and take the sun-roof away. (The army is still fighting to get it back). Hillary was given New Hampshire to keep her quiet.

'Saare Zameen Par' becomes the new anthem as ragpickers are interviewed by CNN-IBN and NDTV to find out what stocks they recommend to their clients. Ragpickers demand instant un-demat measures to ensure that they have physical certificates to be picked up.

Bangladeshi chicks allegedly bring in a virus to India. And no, that's not called Taslima. You're getting her confused with Carla Bruni, an Italian chick who says, "Sarko! See!!". Much research (listening to Ramkumar Shankar) tells me that Carla has a lot of tyres.

The Australian Open is declared unofficial after reviewing footage which showed that neither Roger nor Rafa played in the finals.

Georgie-Porgie delivers the final 'State of the Union' address. He later says it is not 'the final'; he wants to play some more.

Learnt that Punjabi gaalis can sound like racist insults in Australian, thereby expanding my Australian vocabulary to 'Maaki' also. (earlier, it was only 'Fosters', to let them know exactly which beer I don't want to drink).

Zoo with a view

I am very impressed with Singapore creating a bit of Africa on the island, but even I think that extending it to ZooLoos is stretching it a bit!

Name calling

History gives people opportunities for redeeming themselves, but also for befouling their fair names. Ponting brushed away a chance for the former; his grass-grab would have been put down to excitement if he had so much as hinted at it in his press conference. Poor chap is now having to learn meanings of big words like 'Integrity'.

And Church went out of his way to smear soot on his face - it would have been completely daft of him not to appeal against Dravid. But going on to say that he didn't find anything that happened later unfair is now a black mark; would to God that it remains a beauty spot!

Bottom line is that there are now 5 words that I would find extremely insulting when used against me; 'Ricky', 'Ponting', 'Symonds', 'Bucknor' and 'Benson'. En garde, monsieurs et mesdames, no more monkeying around with those!

A year-end story

As 2007 winds down, I decided to put down this story I heard about a couple, who are our friends.

Though both of them are the same vintage as I, they give one a complex with their constant drinking from the fountain of youth, and their refusal to reveal its location. Both of them probably have to literally look up to Sachin Tendulkar as well. Add to all this their charm, inquisitiveness and natural sense of wonderment and you have a couple who appear to have stopped their watches at the age of 14 or thereabouts.

If this is what they look like now, one can imagine what they must have looked like about 15 years ago, when they were just married and driving down to visit their relatives in one of the smaller towns. Just before reaching town, they thought it would be a good idea to freshen up and present themselves as the radiant, stunning couple they are. Finding reasonable hostelry - at Chinnakallupalli? Bodinayakanur? One of those quaintly pastoral towns, anyway - they left their luggage in the car and taking the bare essentials for dolling up, approached the inn-keeper. I wasn't told what he was like, but I can picture a crisp, spotless-white veshti, white mull shirt, a 'thundu' over his left shoulder, the typical 'ooruku periavar'. One look at the two of them approaching, dishevelled and dusty, his mind was made up. No rooms.

But the couple wasn't about to take that refusal lying down. Gentle persuation and pleading (I'm sure that's what they used, can't picture them ranting and raving) melted the heart that was surely whiter than the mull shirt. Reaching for the register with a smile, he inquired how long they needed the room for. "One hour", said they. That did it. "Out, out of here, before I call the police!" he fumed, indignant at such casualness.

Until today, no one has apparently had the heart to tell them that the inn-keeper was completely justified.

This one's for the birds!

If indifference is the first sign on the road to ruin, then Vedanthangal is probably headed there. Two years ago, there was a board on NH35 that clearly indicated where one had to turn off for the sanctuary. Expecting to see it this Sunday morning also, I casually dismissed the regular road sign that said "Vedanthangal > 12".


A debate on whether road signs like the one above should indicate the distance after the turn or the distance to the turn took up nearly 25 km. Thankfully, Vidya had the sense to suggest a direction check (or can I claim that I had the sense to spot it was time to accept that suggestion?). And we reached the sanctuary at 7.30 am, only about 45 minutes after our estimated arrival time.


The Forest Department person insisted that the board was still up there on the "main road". He was so politely insistent, so we let his word win the day!

History!

TNGF Cosmo Golf Course, Hole 4, 135 yards, par 3.

A nice 5-iron on to the green for a birdie putt. Am glad I didn't muff par!!