Dalhousie - A town in the cradle of Dhauladhar

 DALHOUSIE

The snow capped Dhauladhar gleams over the rooves of the British relinquished Indian township. The British might have left long ago but the town still carries in it's heart the essence of colonial quintessence. Back in 1854, the British bought five hills from the Kings of Chamba; Katlog, Potreyn, Bakrota, Tera and Bhangora.  To escape the hot summers of Indian plains, they forged this small settlement in the hills into a picturesque summer retreat. The sun is a little shy here and the tall deodars dance wild. While the gorals graze on the slopes, the valley has a lush carpeted of  pansies, poppies and geranium. The clouds loom low over the hills. And fragrance of the woods loiter among the narrow lanes zigzagging over the mountain slopes. Quite a few colonial houses look over the valley. But now, modern luxurious hotels have found abode over the ridge alongside their antiquated cousins. 

That's Dalhousie for you... 

For me???...  It has a different fervour. 

The Long Drive

The mountain breeze was playing with my hair as I dozed over the cab's window. Four hours back, we had boarded the cab from Chandigarh. The morning stillness hovered over the hills, we ascended twisting across the serpentine roads into the lap of the mighty Himalayas. Glancing over my shoulders I found my wife deep in slumber and Twinkle busy with her cell phone on the backseat.

The husky voice of Mr. Narinder chimed in my ears, "Sir ji, Garam kapde pahen lo. Yahan se ab thand badhne wali hay."

I should have done that a couple of hours before. By now my ears and nose tip were cold enough to pass for an ice slab. Numbness was settling across my face. In need of a break I asked Mr. Narinder to pull over. 

At Cafe Coffe Day, Pathankot

A gust of chill air that rushed in was enough to get Seno out of her slumber. The rugged peaks, speckled with patches of greenery, stretched away from just beneath our feet. Deep gorges and valleys mingled around these ridges. I believe I had dozed off long as I had no memory of the plains passing by or the advent of the mountains. We were just a few kilometers away from Pathankot now. An urge for coffee was knocking on our brains, necessitating a stop at the Cafe Coffee Day outlet overlooking a cliff in the outskirt of Pathankot. Caffeine engulfed the languor that kept us from savoring the Himalayan visual treat. And as Mr. Narinder's  snow white 2016 model Swift Dzire veered out the driveway, Google map was flashing in a route map of couple more hours to Dalhousie.  

Dalhousie stood looking over the hill on the southern face of the mountain. A sharp right turn at the Gandhi chowk led us to a narrow lane curling away beside the 1863 built St. John's church. Few paces up ahead was our stay, Hotel Mongas, whose open terraced dining had lured me enough to have a booking. We couldn't hold back the delight of having dinner by the camp fire when the night sky looked over the summits with frigidity in its eyes. Meanwhile, we decided to have a brief visit to Khajjiar, while there was still few hours of light left in the mountains. 

Khajjiar - Well, that's a story for another day.

The Mall Road

Mall Road - Back in the days

Denizens hailing from the land of Angles (The Great Britain), who briefly settled in these mountains during hot Indian summers yearned to socialize with their own kind. And thus the hill stations of India warranted their landmark "Mall Roads". In the days of the Raj, these avenues were preferentially for the white ladies, and of course the Sahibs. Men with melanin gifted skin were prohibited. Loud bounty masculine talks, chiming ladies' giggles and occasional drunk brawls echoed these streets once upon time. Briskly walking the same path now, it seems like all that has faded into the womb of time. All that stands ruminant today, holding those days to its bosom is Cafe Dalhousie on the prow of the Mall. 

Cafe Dalhousie

Old and quaint, the cafe allures passersby with sweet aroma of freshly baked cinnamon cakes and coffee. The rustic Victorian windows resonates vibrancy of the history it carries. Originally Shalik Ram Khanna Wine and general Store in 1870s, remodeled into a Bengali sweet shop in 1950s and finally couples of decades back to this elegant cafe it is today. 

Strolling the Mall

Down the lane, thrift shops flaunt with gifts, souvenirs and racks showcasing an array of fruit wines.  One can hardly pass by without grabbing one for that predinner contentment a soul requisites in Dalhousie's chilly winter evening. A brisk walk across the street and we were hungry to the core. Settling in at a small eatery at the far end of the Mall road we ordered some tandoori momos. I would have preferred some local delicacies but the momos seemed far too tempting to be ignored. Steaming hot cottage cheese stuffed dumplings, fried with spice covered crust, served with green chutney... bliss. The cold breeze was sweeping in from the high mountains, chilling us down to the bones. And I wondered the white paradise this place would transform into while the snow showered down in peak winters. A silent promise to myself drifted away into the warm lanes to visit Dalhousie in the winters - someday. 

Art and Love

Engraved in the wood

Seno lay cozy in my arms as we made our way back to the hotel. A small crowd gathered beside an antique shop. We snooped in to have a look. Dressed in a warm black jacket that looked a little weathered around the collars, a young man was intently working on a small wooden cutout with swift strokes of his brush. Gliding over the rectangular timber, his brush drew clean figures of a couple standing under an umbrella staring into a starry navy blue sky. Completing his art with practised agility in no time, he then swayed a hot air blower over it, concreting his magnum opus over the wooden canvas. Cleanly wrapped in an old newspaper he handed it over to a gleeful honeymoon couple standing in audience. They hopped away, arm in arm with hearts and cupids dancing over their heads. I looked at Seno's gleaming eyes which now twinkled with rejuvenated love. And yup... No words said, we joined the que to get our love story engraved on wood. 

Gulab-jamun 

That treat of hot Gulab Jamun (AI)

At the nook near the cafe, on an aluminum parat (open broad pan), hot gulab jamun gamboled in the simmering sugar syrup. The Persian origin Gulab Jamun - fried cheese balls tossed in rose scented sugar syrup. An Indian delicacy now, has survived the Mughal and British period and reigns over sweet toothed Indians' hearts from the Himalayas to the southern peninsula. I wonder, the vendor who smiles at us with inviting eyes ever knows of its history. Deciding not to displease him or our watering tongues, we make away with two plates. The hot sweet syrup when passed through our gullets warmed its way down - a soothing relief from the bitter cold. Two more plates follow. The winds have picked up by now. And a warm campfire awaits us at our hotel. We were delighted to have our dinner by a campfire, as assured by our manager at arrival. Watching over the valley with shimmering lights of Dalhousie blanketing the face of the mountain, it feels as if the town is getting cozy for the winter night. It's late October and snow hasn't made its appearance yet but the nights have already borne the guise of frigid season to come. Locals tell us that the Dalhousie winters were longer a decade back, from late October to late March. Now, it merely lasts from late December to  mid-March. It seems even the winters have receded to the higher mountains to find a peaceful abode.

Blowing away with the smoke rings (AI)

It was time to call it a day as my wrist watch's glowing arms struck 9. Oblivious of the transfixing gaze of the Indian scops-owl perched on a pine tree across the lane, our wobbly legs guided us uphill to our resort. A bit drowsy and a lot more tired, Seno leaned on me, almost hanging on like a winter jacket on my left shoulder. Her warm breath on my shoulder felt comforting. Twinkle followed a few paces behind engrossed in her cell phone. No matter how ill she felt, her pics should never be devoid of even the slightest of her grace. I believe some of her pics were getting a makeover. The sweet aroma of the Mall road delicacies hovered in the night air, to be occasionally overpowered by  the pine woods' whiff. A bhotiya dog all sprawled out, slept peacefully near the entrance of the resort. The red tattered collar around his neck proclaimed him to be an "Indies" (Indian stray dogs adapted as pets) . Most probably by the watchman who sat on a culvert a few paces ahead smoking on a bidi. Lost in his thoughts, and worry of the day vaporing away with the puffs of smoke that escaped his lips - unaware of our presence. Unnoticed, we melted away into the shadows of the staircase as fluidly as the smoke rings of the bidi into winter's mist. 

 Dinner at the Terrace

The kharshu oak crackled, as it burned in the bonfire with subtle flames dancing over its bare body. Dalhousie shimmered over my shoulders like a conclave of fireflies, oblivious to the open terrace dinner served at the Monga's (resort)...oblivious to those many faces, who sat beside me and Seno, indulged in romantic and familial talks. As long as these mountains embosom their charm of being "the abode of snow", people will swarm in to places like Dalhousie. Places that have kept the fragrance, savour and quintessence of the past alive in its lanes. 

As we wait for dinner at the terrace

Waiting for the dinner to be served, Seno and I venture into seclusion of  unuttered romance. Her eyes admiring the flames while words flowed in poetic verses that melted away before knocking at my ears. I never heard what she said. I did not want to. My gazed hovered over her flame brightened face with jubilation in my heart of having her by my side. I left my thoughts to wander away into the mountains above. When will another such day come when we find another moment in the cradle of Dhauladhar cherishing our journey was unknown to us... to our stars. Reputedly, we submitted our being to that surreal moment. The next day we were to leave Dalhousie for Dharamshala. On the prow of that hill, we just let this beautiful night cuddle us with her tender warmth as the moon on the west horizon kissed the mountains...

Dalhousie - That little charming town in the lower Himalayas

Dalhousie it will be... Always.

 

 

Hymns of the Mountains – Tsomgo Lake and Nathula Pass (Part 4)

The snow felt soft beneath my feet and the air chilling. I walked swiftly, briskly among the white canvas of snowy terrain. The breath that escaped my lips turned smoky as they were touched by the cold air. My hands felt numb, my streaming blood inefficient to provide warmth any more. But, somehow in this hostile environment I felt relieved. It felt like I had been graced with the world of my fortuitous dream. Shrill ringing alarm pierced my ears, with it my dream was gone. "Pooofs". I opened my eyes to the clock staring at me, just having struck 4:30 AM. "Early", I thought but then a long day awaited and "early" was the need of the hour. Pulling away my warm blanket I climbed down my bed, tapping on my friends on the beds nearby I made my way to freshen up.

In an hour's time we were at the hotel's lobby waiting for our cab for the pick up. Five minutes later we had already boarded the cab and were on the way to the registration office. "Today's destination - Nathula Pass - Indo-China Border." The feeling that I will be standing at the edge of my country enthralled me. One more hour passed by at the office to get the permits. At around six our cruiser- cab was climbing up the hilly slopes ... we were on our way to Nathula now.

En-route Nathula 

On the way to Nathula

Convoluting roads marked a steep climb on the mountains' face, specks of settlements dotted the landscape. Rolling down my window glass I gazed up to the sky, amazed... "I have never seen such a blue sky!" The air felt light and fresh, the early morning sun's rays soft on the skin. Nathula is 53 kilometers uphill east of Gangtok, Sikkim's capital. It takes some 3-4 hours to reach there due to the harsh terrain and cliff side roads. 

We were moving early to avoid mountain traffic. You would know better if you have ever been through a mountain road how treacherous and time consuming it is when you are stuck in a mountain traffic for hours. But for now we were enjoying the open roads. A few kilometers from Gangtok we were asked to stop at the first Military outpost for I.D. verification. It was done in a couple of minutes. 

Landslide right infront of our eyes

The roads then became rugged, worn off at places. From the distance I could see large boulders and land slipping down... Landslides. As we approached a turn a large puff of dust mushroomed ahead on the road, our cab jolted to a stop. Slowly we moved ahead with caution, huge chunk of rocks were rolling down the hill sweeping out tree along with them. It was a terrifying experience, when you know any rolling rock can crash into your car or knock it off the hillside. But we dared to moved on.

The car rocked  side to side as if dancing like a child mounting a hilly incline. Oxygen got scarce, breathing a little difficult now. The terrain began to appear more rocky merging up into the skies. Sikkimese songs playing on the audio player of the cab had a different vibe to it. Melodious as it was, calming and relaxing all the same. After some time that seemed long enough we reached a small settlement called "Kyangnolsa". Though not very tired, still refreshment was necessary. We got out of the car to visit a nearby cafe...smell of hot tea felt inviting. 

Sipping hot Tea sitting beside a Bokhari.

The cafe was a shop cum cafe with warm clothes displayed in the room present beside a kitchen that   brewed hot tea along with omelets and maggi noodles. Hew... "Maggi" - it's a life saving staple food here high up in these mountains. Sitting besides the Bokhari (a traditional wood burning stove that keeps the house warm) we enjoyed our hot cups of tea for a brief moment. That tea warmed us from within, giving us strength and hope to move on in this bone chilling cold.

After some refreshment we continued on our journey. The mountains ahead appeared white with snow covered peaks. The serpentine road, growing steeper with every turn. To our relief we had been already warned about the cold weather at Nathula by our hotel staff at Gangtok the previous night.
Mr. Anil, at the reception counter warned us during a casual talk, "Sabji, Nathula mein bahut thand. garam kapra leke jana."
Me: " Kitni thand hay? Barf padti hay kya?"
Mr. Anil: "Haan ji. Do din pehle barf gira tha."
And wisely we wore thick jackets, caps and gloves the next morning or else it would have been tough for us to reach our destination. 

Gum-booted 

Travelling in the mountains is an experience that cannot be described in words but then this adventure also comes with it's own risks. Anyway, for the moment I kept looking out of the rolled up window side glass and soaked in the raw beauty of these massifs. The next stop we made was near "Changu Lake"(Local name) or more officially called the "Tsomgo Lake". It is also one of the most popular tourist spot but we decided to explore it on our way back. Here we had to rent some gumboots, because our shoes would be of no use in the snow. There are small shops here that serve maggi and alcohol(A necessity to keep warm in these parts). One can also rent winter wears and gumboots here. Finally dressed for the occasion we marched on.

Sikkim Scouts

On our way we came across many army camps. Being the international border and relation between India and China not that friendly in the past, this area is highly militarized. Different regiments of personnel have been posted here, the most famous being the "Gorkha" regiment, known for their fighting spirit and resilience. These men deserve respect, they work in such hostile conditions day in and night out where it is difficult for us to even thrive for a couple of hours. "Jai Jawan".

Nathula was just a few kilometers away when snow flakes appeared on our cab's wind-shield. My joy had no bounds, it was the first time that I was experiencing snowfall... I still remember how elated I felt that moment. These white tiny petals of ice showered down with consistent intensity. Our cab stopped a kilometer away from the Nathula war memorial, which now was visible at the hill top beneath the red roofed Army office. I sprinted out as the cab screeched to a stop, running out with open arms to embrace the snow. Smile stretched ear to ear as I realized my early morning dream was unfolding true infront of my very eyes.

Nathula lies at an altitude of 4300 m above the sea level and forms a part of the ancient silk-route that connected Tibet to the Bengal plains. In 1962 Nathula witnessed a heavy artillery skirmish between the armies of the two nations - Sino-Indian War. Following this the pass was closed for almost 40 years. With the initiative of the then Prime minister Mr. Atal Bihari Vajpayee(2003), the relations between the two countries improved leading to opening of the pass in 2006. And as of date the line of fire at Nathula has ceased to a peaceful retreat. Tourists throng this place year round, indeed among some strict security measures.  We had to put back our cameras in our bags as photography beyond the parking lot was not permitted. So, the last photo I took was from the parking area only.

It was one kilometer walk to base of the Nathula post. On reaching the base, we paid homage to our brave soldiers at the Indian War Memorial present over there. A plight of stairs took us straight to the Indian border edge, beyond which the land is foreign. I stood there a couple of minutes imagining what this place must have witnessed, the old traders ambling through with goods, the wars between people on both sides, Buddhist pilgrims crossing national borders in search of faith and on occasions like today tourists that flung to admire this place. I wish I could have had a little more time to spare, a life more to spare I would have dedicated it to this land and it's causes. Places like these ignite that dormant patriotism in you but then it is always there I recalled. Snow flakes now showered copiously and it would be difficult to return if this escalated. So, with heavy hearts we had bid our adieus to Nathula and head back.

Playing in the snow

Once back on the road, the skies profoundly started pouring down snow. Visibility was now mere 5 meters. Condition for driving was unfavorable, with no other choice left we had to stop. The sky appeared dark, white snow screening out everything you could put your eyes on.  I remember talking to myself if it safe to get out of the car in such heavy snowfall, but my adventurous better-half of consciousness was inclined to give it a shot. And I obliged. We headed out into the open snow, laughing joyfully, running, splashing snow at each other, rolling down and living every bit of it. That moment is encarved deep in my treasure of memories now.

Baba Harbhajan Singh's Temple

Baba Harbhajan Singh's shrine

Acts of valor, legendary personas and events are always folklored in many battle ravaged lands. Nathula is no exception. The tale of Baba Harbhajan Singh and his legacy is one to behold. Young Harbhajan Singh was posted here in 1968, a time when the two nations had been in battles for quite a couple of years now.  He died during a supply transfer mission, buried in glacial ice. It is believed that Harbhajan Singh guards his motherland and his fellow-mates even after death. Surprisingly no military causalities have occurred in the area after his demise. He is so revered in this part of the world that people and army personnel have built a temple in his honor. Even at the flag meetings at Nathula, a chair is left empty with respect to him. He received allotted salary and promotions till his retirement post-martyrdom. A berth is reserved once a year in a train from New Jalpaiguri to Kuka, Punjab(his resident village), to mark is yearly home visit. 

Mr. Singh narrating his story 

Harbhajan Singh was awarded the title of "Baba" after the mass contemplated him to be a holy soul who safeguards the life of his followers. Many stories float around of how Baba Harbhajan Singh saved lives in these mountains years after his death. Locals believe his soul still roams these borders and his death could not cease him from commencing his duty. One such story was narrated to us by  First Lieutenant Harpal Singh, who and his company had lost sense of direction in a snow-storm during regular petrol. He explained how the silhouette of a man dressed in uniform of 1960's guided them to the safety of their camp. He acclaimed that Baba Harbhajan Singh saved his life that very day. Sometimes, you accept and fail to accept at the same time, some events and occurrences. And your logical mind questions, but is laid silent by the strong belief of a mass. Baba Harbhajan Singh, is one such anomaly. Whatever the truth be, but this man deserves immense respect. We paid a visit to his shrine and listened long to his folklore. A couple hours later, though we had moved on from that place my heart lingered back time and again.

Tsomgo Lake

some amazing moments with our Jawans

On our way down we met some Army personnel and even they rode with us for a few kilometers to the next outpost. We struck a hearty conversation. Life here is difficult but then what's the charm of it with no challenges, they stated. Tourists can be a little irritating a times, as they know not to how  act at places with high securities. Time and again the jawans would stop the car, get down to tell the tourists not to stop at restricted area for photographs. Duty ridden, safety of the nation and it's citizens is the prime objective of these jawans. Respect, again. They dropped off just before we reached Tsomgo lake.

Tsomgo Lake at the backdrop

Tsomgo lake (Changu Lake) is a glacial lake about 40 kilometers from Gangtok. It is a natural wonder as the lake is known to have waters of changing colors with change in seasons. We had arrived early winter, snowfall already had begun and the lake was placid white now, though not completely frozen. The lake is surrounded by steep sloping mountains giving it the appearance of a saucer. The word "Tsomgo" is derived from two Bhutia words - "Tso" meaning lake and "Mgo" meaning head. That literally meant the head or origin of the lake. The lake hosts the festivities of Guru Purnima, when holy healers called Jhakris assemble at the lake to reap benefits from it's healing waters. Standing here beside it's water felt serene... healing. My heart latched on to this place, somehow I felt connected. See, that is the thing with the mountains they embrace you in a way that nowhere else on the planet you will find.

While walking around we came across some locals providing "Yak" ride. Hesitating initially, but then we managed to convince ourselves for a ride. Just for 10 minutes we moved across the footpath on the edge of the lake. The Yak had ornately decorated horns and their long, black hair felt warm. Afternoon sun was hiding behind the dark clouds with temperature dropping down. It was time for us to leave as we had to get to Darjeeling before nightfall. With the events of the day and memories of moments at Nathula and Tsomgo lake dancing wild in our thoughts we headed back down to the township of Gangtok.

Riding on the mountain harden bovines... Yak Ride

Parting Thoughts

Nathula, a land of ancient reverence, carved millennia back when the earth collided  and raised the low land to sky high summits. A land where belief finds it's meaning and mortality merges into the immortal realm. Time and tide loose their significance yet somehow exist in the shadows. People who have conquered lands beyond have learned to bow down to the vast expanse of these mountains and the forces that govern them. They respect, they worship, they admire ... these highlands. Nathula is not just a place, it's an experience ... an experience that I am willing to have again any given moment of my homuncular life.

Nathula, as I remember seeing it

Meandering into Kipling’s Jungle Book (Part I)

Kanha National Park

Birth place of the legend of  Mogli

"NOW this is the law of the jungle,

 as old and as true as the sky,

And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper,

but the wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk,

the law runneth forward and back;

For the strength of the pack is the wolf,

and the strength of the wolf is the pack.”

Words of Rudyard Kipling’s “Jungle book” rang in my ears as I glanced through the window of room, sipping on my early morning coffee. Infornt of me also an urban jungle unfolded, with sky scrapers aligning the horizon of Raipur city. I looked back at my bed, and found my wife asleep, lost deep in her dreams. And I wondered what thoughts put that pleasant smile on her face.  With a smile I shove it away as my own thoughts were overpowering me now. The “Jungle Book” had fantasized my childhood, and I always wondered how mesmerizing would be the land where “Mogli” roamed wild with his Wolf brothers, Bageera and Baloo. Now, it was time to find out and venture into the playground of Mogli and Kipling’s plot of the jungles of central India, Kanha National Park.

I put down my empty cup on my bedside table, woke my wife from her slumber and put on my clothes; our vehicle was to arrive in 30 minutes at the hotel.

Raipur to Kanha:

It was late in March, 2017 that I decided to revisit Kanha. The Déjà vu of my previous visit seduced me to journey again. It’s almost five hours journey from Raipur to Kanha.  After travelling for 45 minutes we made a halt at Dhamdha. The tea and “Khoa jalebi” is a speciality here and I never missed it. 34 kms from Dhamdha is Gandai, we took a sharp left from there followed by a right turn from Narmada Kund (a few Kms away). Beyond this the landscape kept changing like images flashing through a kaleidoscope. A few kilometers of hard rugged ground, and then suddenly crops fields spanning acres and acres would come into view; driving through hilly terrain as you move on you would find dense deciduous forest emerging out; milestone after milestone patches of dense forest and open grounds. Sitting on the passenger seat I scanned the sights that unfolded infront of my very eyes… My sunglass dancing on the dashboard and my camera loosely hanging on my shoulder I kept wondering how a place like this was lost in time. Much to the disagreement of my wife and family, at intervals I would get down from the vehicle and capture some snapshots of the stunning view of the landscape and wildlife. That’s where you come to understand that man and wife are opposite sides of the same coin.

The winding roads en-route Kanha National Park

Encounter with the Digambaras

Digambara monks walking with devotees

Three hours into our drive and we had just entered the small settlement of Damoh that we encountered what seemed like a rally. It took us some time to manoeuvre our vehicle through the crowd, but the sight that followed was something unique. What seemed like a procession was infact a convoy of a hundred naked Jain Digambara monks. These monks exhibit an extreme level of devotion. They abandon their life as a commoner, do not put on clothes, carry a “pichhi” (broom made up of fallen peacock feathers) in one hand and a “kamandalu” (water container) on the other. As they made their way through the small town, devotees lined up on either side paying them respect with folded hands. India is a country of diversity, and shades of all colours of life unite in the heart of this very land. Adding this amazing moment to our treasures of memory we drove on.

Night at the Resort

Club Mahindra Resort - Kanha

The sun was just swimming away on the tidal horizon of the crimson sky when we arrived at our resort, the Club Mahindra. A lavish family resort with all modern amenities nestled it is in the midst of the forest, just on the periphery of Mocha village. I could see the intricate tribal designs on the walls as we drove in but the lobby had a rustic look to it with colonial travel décor. We were escorted to   our room which was at the far end of the resort. Sounds of jungle filled the night with occasional alarm calls of the deer echoing from a distance. In the dim of the pavement lights I could see it was just a six feet chain link fence that kept us apart from the jungle. A feeling of ecstasy drove through my spine, “finally, I have come back to the land of Tigers, Kanha.”   

I changed into my shorts, picked up my camera and walked back to the lobby area. My wife had not yet recovered from her journey lag; she was to catch up with me in a while. Walking through the

Shades of the night forest

dimly lit resort ground I could feel the jungle caving in. The trees beneath which I walked were rustling with movement of monkeys. At intervals their howling with screeching sounds could be heard as the made space for the night halt among the trees. Unlike the silence of our distant rooms, the lobby was bustling with activity. There was an entertainment room beside the multi-cuisine restaurant. Brightly lit, kids and adults equally occupied the entertainment zones. An old grandfather was teaching his young grandson the game of pool, stretching his arms and holding them steady on a pool table as the sue stick moved back and forth between them. It was like a flashback of my past. I always missed these moments that I had with my grandfather. Just a few steps to the right was the information cell, a fine gentle man stepped out and wished me good evening. I shook his hand, and we had a good conversation about the resort and it’s ambience. I came to know it was Subham, Club Mahindra’s business executive. I wished him good night and went on to explore what else I could find. 

Meeting Abhiroop:

Just about the other side, a gleamy lighted sign board caught my attention. I strained my eyes and could make out what read like “The wilderness says HELLO”. My instinct drew me to it. Curious, I moved in … it was a souvenir shop. I had already been to one such at Tuli Tiger Resort on my previous visit. A tall handsome dude with charming bread greeted me in. Something in me made me very comfortable on our first meet itself. Felt like this guy and I had some strings attached. One glance at him and you could see, he wore his passion for wildlife on his sleeves. He introduced me to his passion for wildlife and the way he printed them on the canvas of apparel. Hung from the wall were framed T-shirts with magnificently captured images of wild animals. Every nook and corner of the shop was adorned with snapshots of wild animals, which seemed to be staring dead straight into your eyes. My glance stopped at one tiger’s picture and I called out “It’s Munna”. Abhiroop nodded. “Munna” is the legendary tiger of Kanha National Park with a prominent “CAT” marking on his forehead. This is the very tiger whose quest and stories dragged me back to Kanha. Pursuit of him will keep my spirit alive and my heart throbbing for tigers all across the country.

 

Abhiroop and Me - some pleasant moments

Abhiroop was a part of this team that promoted “Wolfpack”. But deep within, he was man driven by the unquenched ardour for wildlife. He had witnessed a lot of amazing moments and captured some unique events of wild animals’ life through his lense. He told me the story of a territorial feud between a leopard father and son on a high branch, in Kabini. The narrated the turn of events as it unfolded infront of his very eyes. His words were powerful and the images of the ordeal kept flashing on my mind.  Our conversation lasted for almost an hour, sharing stories and taming thoughts. By then my wife had already joined us. After just a few formal words we bade our adieus, leaving the conversation to follow the next day. That brief time between us had sealed a bond of brotherhood, held together by an obsession for wildlife.

Abhiroop Ghosh Dastidar

Dinner for the night

The night was getting dark and the jungle had fallen silent by now. It was time for the dinner followed by a much needed sleep. The next day we had two safaris planned…

With a mind with racing thoughts of uncertain tomorrow, holding hands me and my wife walked on to the dining area.

Hopes held high, fingers crossed… I prayed for a glimpse of the majestic one.

The Tiger – “Sher Khan”