‘Exquisite flora and fauna,’ one web site said. ‘The secrets of the jungle open themselves as you journey through Bhadra Sanctuary. The call of the wild is best heard in this unspoilt haven for nature.’ The first dusk peeled one layer off Bhadra Tiger Reserve, in Karnataka, like the outer layer of an onion, revealing many more underneath.
It was a thin day for tourists and our driver-cum-guide, Raja, who had been inclined to linger, had disappeared with half of the retinue into the forest. We had spent close to three hours on the safari ride and hadn't seen much barring the occasional herd of deer and a heavily trodden four-foot strip (‘Elephants must have frolicked here,’ Raja had pronounced). Our water bottles were empty; our minds kept darting fitfully to visions of hot, steaming tea. The older amongst us gazed vacantly ahead. Huge flies buzzed ceaselessly, their peek-a-boo with the van's sliding windows jarring on our nerves. Before disappearing, Raja had let it be known that ‘these flies can kill an elephant in seven bites’.
Suddenly, we didn't care for the forest any more. We pined for Bangalore. Even the neon, traffic and bustle was preferable to the murderous drone of the flies as they multiplied in number and ferocity.
There's this thing with going to a forest resort, particularly a tiger reserve. Friends and acquaintances will only ask: ‘So, did you see a tiger?’ The more disdainful of them will cut you in half with their scorn. ‘Oh, you will get sick of seeing deer and elephants and bison. And you will wait for the tiger; the most you will see is a pug mark here and there.’
Hardened foresters are wry in their reaction to tiger mania. ‘They want a zoo, not a forest,’ snorted Yatish Kumar, Chikmagalur's Deputy Conservator of Forests (DCF). ‘They are used to seeing caged animals. You can't get tigers on demand.’ Well, we had seen a tiger's pug mark, actually.
When a dozen metrophiles go lumbering in, the jungle somehow marches to a different beat. That's not hard to understand; the clatter and din of urban feet can butcher the skeins of stealth that otherwise wrap around the jungle. A tiger would have to be either daft or a man-eater to be conspicuous when wannabe Mowglis come tramping into its territory. At least, that's how we rationalised the absence of the beast.
When we finally got back to the Shigekhan guesthouse in Muthodi, the tea, smelling of wood-smoke, seemed to us like a royal spread. The air was getting nippier by the minute and the view from the terrace was spectacular. To the north, along our line of sight, was Kemmanagundi, atop the Bababudain (BB) Giri hill range – containing the highest peak in the state, Mullaiahnagiri; swivelling westward, you could see the valley, dotted with trees that seemed to have been painted on – so still were they. The south and the west were blocked off by mountainous forest behind us but we could hear the distinct gurgle of a waterfall.
There's no power supply in Muthodi and darkness brought the glow of the solar lamps. It's then that the tranquillity hit us. Perhaps it was just the forest air. Perhaps it was the absence of TV. Perhaps it was the escapist high that came with being insulated, far from the madding crowd. Perhaps it is Bhadra's reputation as a bird paradise – there were any number of whoops and hoots, punctuated by the occasional ululating little cry – which makes it a generous treat, regardless of day or night. Perhaps it was the thrill of rediscovering the primitive, savage appetite for food that had been lost along with early youth some years before. Whatever it was, our collective spirits gradually lifted and then soared until, eventually, we were all quiet, shushed by a strange combination of excitement and gravitas.
The woodpecker's steady tap-tap-tap woke us in the morning. We took turns trying to spot the bird but never could despite powerful field glasses. The deciduous forest of the reserve, in the midst of the Western Ghats, is spread across the districts of Chikmagalur and Shimoga. As we trekked – and there are numerous trekking paths to choose from – the forest panned out gracefully, revealing itself tract by tract. Six of us set out gingerly, with two children in tow, and we came back with the funny feeling that we might never get to do this again. We didn't see anything to brag about, not even a snake (the official literature speaks of 32 varieties) but the forest has a way of insinuating itself into your system. Of revealing itself to you layer by layer, if you watch patiently.
The gracefulness and charm of Bhadra Tiger Reserve owes not a little to the plentiful bamboo trees – by streams, hills, narrow paths… the green-and-yellow clumps are everywhere, spare and straight. Very rarely, we were informed, the bamboo 'flowers' to bring forth grains that resemble wheat; these can actually be milled to make rotis (bread). It's when you are admiring such sights that a flash of wilful and tantalising jungle magic can happen, like a flying squirrel darting across the thick foliage; the suddenness of it peeling off yet another layer and showing you that there is so much to be uncovered. The senses are on high alert – you sense that you are being watched even as you strain to catch a glimpse of the unusual. The mind bakes ideas – what if a tusker were to appear as suddenly as the flying squirrel?
The reserve is ringed by coffee plantations, which, like much else here, are characterised by the ubiquitous 'Khan' as the last syllable in their names. 'Kathle Khan' coffee, for instance, is sold as a premium coffee called Dark Forest. The dumping of coffee pulp into the Somavahini River (which is a tributary of the Bhadra; the Bhadra in turn joins the Tunga much later to become the Tungabhadra) is a significant enough problem for the state forest department to mention it primly in its brochure: ‘Efforts are being made to prevent planters from polluting the river.’ Indeed, the man-forest equation is a complex topic in the context of Bhadra; but there's an entire story there, one that has been much written about.
The trekking ended when we discovered we had been tramping with porous shoes in leech country. Sinuous bits of wire until they are onto you; they resemble little curled-up balls of blood when they fall off. Hardly painful though. We never knew when they came aboard and when they disembarked – and when they fell off, the bleeding would be both reasonable and painless. The punctures were almost works of art – tiny, round and precise. Local wisdom has it that leeches are not only harmless but are actually beneficial in small numbers because of the anti-coagulant that they inject into the host body. ‘They take out the bad blood,’ is the refrain. It is common to see foresters and locals wade about unconcerned, with the creatures sticking to their legs like bees on a hive. The more stubborn ones are usually excised by fire or a mix of lime and salt.
After another savage meal (really, there is no other word to describe the fierceness with which otherwise sober citizens set upon a perfectly civilised meal – even vegetarian) and a brief lull, and the day seemed to have slithered out of our hands. Another safari ensued, when we spotted some thrilling wildlife, including a giant squirrel, but there was a sense of having grown out of the trophy syndrome. And we no longer cared for TV, we didn't care that there was no power and we didn't miss our neighbours. Instead, we marvelled at the turmeric that grew wild in the forest and the basil that seared the tongue expansively. We wondered if we could identify the shama when it sang. Bhadra was ours for just one more evening and we were determined to hug it as closely as possible. As night fell, there was another medley of sounds that we tried to archive in our minds but succeeded only somewhat.
The tiger didn't matter one jot.