Tigers, these days are a much respected and revered lot. They are under threat of extinction and justifiably so, trans-national and state machineries are working overtime to save them. From page-3 tiger parties to international conventions, the theme is singular – Save the Tiger.
Fat donations are pouring in from the likes of actors Leonardo Di Caprio, Amitabh Bachchan and Russian Prime Minister Putin, who are puttin’ (note: pun) the money where the mouth is. And whenever the world’s interest in the cause starts to waver, they rope in Lindsay Lohan (in the desi context Sherlyn Chopra/ Poonam Pandey) for a nude Tiger series. With a loud growl the coffers start overflowing again.
Which brings me to the Great Tiger Conspiracy by the Indian animal conservation parks. It seems that majority of the tigers in India are already dead due to poaching, apathy and neglect. But to save face and keep the money flowing in, the national parks and their cohorts are keeping the farce of the tiger, alive. Through smart PR, they plant stories of high-on-testosterone tigers making away with unsuspecting babies and pretty village belles, the way men from Haryana do. The resorts around the national parks advertise heavily, tour operators talk about tiger seasons and forest officials speak knowingly about tigers' preferred brunch, who is spotted sleeping with whom, their favourite tree for the siesta and the times they get up to pee at night.
Sample this latest visit to the Pench National Park in Madhya Pradesh touted to have at least 30 big cats at the last count:
The tiger-spotting trap got me conned the moment I said 'Tiger' to my travel agent who usually spoke in monosyllables and on special occasions through hand gestures. He nodded excitedly and before I could say T-A-A-E-E-E-G-E-R a second time, he whisked out the confirmed booking of an expensive resort, bunged in a safari for extra, threw in a few taxes, cess and duties. Dutifully emptying my wallet, I asked the crucial question: Will I spot a tiger? It was a special occasion that deserved gestures. He jerked his head in what I guess was his positive response and as I walked out, happily flashed a V for Victory with the wrong fingers. Then he sank back into his chair to rip off other gullible people eager to spot the non-existent tigers.
The drive to Pench was uneventful and unpicturesque except for the large green signages with majestic tigers about to leap off on our car. At the resort, I was eagerly welcomed with a wet face towel that had a tiger on it. The staff alternating between Hindi, Marathi and experimental English insisted on calling me Sir (saaar) (semi urban folk in India are all for gender equality). I asked the thin, mousy receptionist if tigers were being spotted on those days. He dropped his voice a few notches and whispered mysteriously,
"What are you saying saar? This IS the season! All tourists are spotting HIM in both morning and afternoon safaris." I wondered if there was a particular HIM that I would spot, but later realized that everyone spoke about the tiger with immense respect and in hushed tones.
After that everything else that followed were tiger related, except for the beast itself. There was tiger paraphernalia all around. Cups and saucers were printed with a striped tail, there were coffee table books on the mighty beast, a gigantic oil on canvas depicting the majestic stride hung on the wall…you get the drift. As I settled for the night I remembered the mousy manager’s warning for the early morning safari –
"Better not be late than sorry saar." I pondered its meaning for a long time and fell asleep hugging the tiger-print pillow.
A weak but persistent knock on my door early dawn woke me up. I opened up to a faintly smiling waiter standing in the morning mist saying:
"Your Potty please. Will help when you go to see HIM."
In hindsight, the waiter was right, the pot-tea was needed as there would be no food or water for what seemed like the end of time, waiting for the big beast to show itself. So, at 5.30am I got into the jeep with fellow tourists who for some reason were dressed like hunters.
We had to pay more money to get an authorized guide, who walked up to our gypsy and smiled benevolently. "Very good morning," he said. "Myself Waghmare" (a common Maharashtrian lastname that meant Tiger-killer). I said to him in a strict tone:
"Waghmare, I hope we will spot a tiger."
"Not to worry," he said with a confident grin, "You will see HIM at least a few times in today’s trip. Happy saar?"
On that positive note, the big search began. The gypsy rattled for 15 minutes through a narrow forest path and reached a water pool.
Waghmare exclaimed, "HIS favourite hole saar!"
Within a few minutes, more gypsy cars trooped in at HIS favourite hole. Eager faces and binoculars kept staring at a muddy waterhole for half an hour. Suddenly, the sound of steady breathing was broken by a cacophony of animal cries. The vehicles jerked wildly and raced to the direction the sound came from. Waghmare almost fell off our gypsy and then steadying himself spoke in a panic-struck voice:
“That’s the sound of the Sambar (Indian deer) signalling other animals saar! HE must have reached the other hole. This one is a man-made hole, the other one is natural. Maybe HE likes natural these days,” he said tremulously.
Five vehicles crash-landed near waterhole no 2 in barely a few seconds. Whatever chance there was of spotting a tiger would have been eliminated by the ruckus of the vehicles. Anyway we resumed with our soundless waiting. This time the anxious silence was broken by a loud fart. The offender kept staring at the bushes determinedly. Potty had done its job, I noted.
After a few more minutes of silence, a rustling sound came from the woods. A man straight out of Kile Ka Rahasya (the scary TV serial from childhood) walked out of the deep, waving a stick portentously. He was scraggy, oily looking with bloodshot eyes and stained teeth. He said in an ominous tone,
"Go away. HE is gone. HE was here this morning. Gone. Gone."
He briskly walked past and disappeared into thin air. Suddenly a guide from one of the other vehicles pointed at something on the ground. Everyone gathered to see what they were. Pug marks. To me they looked like any other animal’s. Like Jhumroo's, our domesticated stray dog back home.
With the unanimous conclusion that HE had left waterhole no 2, Waghmare said he would take us to a faraway lake where HE can almost always be spotted, playing with cubs. He added that the long drive to the lake, cutting through the forest, will be very enjoyable as we will get to see a lot of wild animals. We were left with no choice. With sullen silence and long faces we embarked on our excursion.
The next major distraction was when Waghmare squealed,
“Look saar! WHORES!”
Eager eyes scanned the bushes for the variety indigenous to these parts. All we saw was a tired looking horse tottering on its hooves aimlessly. 'Herbiwhore' I muttered to myself.
Wild dogs were spotted next. Waghmare acquired his tremulous voice yet again,
“You can spot HIM easily saars, but wild dogs? (longish pause for effect) NO way! They are ferocious, clever and hide well. Why! One rarely gets to see them!”
As he completed speaking, a pack of not less than half a dozen dogs with fox like faces scampered away. Dogs done. What next now Waghmare?
“Look, look! Wild Boars” was the next visceral reaction. I half expected him to say wild whores.
“Pigs in a swamp are a common sight in any Indian city, Waghmare. These are just uglier,” said my neighbor dressed like a hunter.
Undaunted, Waghmare continued to show us other species with palpable excitement. He showed us owls that stared at us warily from the trees. He pointed at the white-haired, black-faced langoors sitting sorrowfully with their babies in their laps. We saw Nilgais standing in a group staring into the horizon. We saw the four-horned antelopes having a good time tickling each other in the waist area with their many horns.
“Waghmare, by waiting in the center of this field are we spotting the tiger or is HE spotting us?” I felt an immediate bonding with the fellow hunter.
Waghmare said calmly,
“We are not allowed into that forest saar. So we have to wait here till HE comes out of the forest to go to the lake.”
Of course, Godot never came. Simply because HE didn't exist. When we returned to our resort an hour later two shades darker and feeling like we had suffered a heat-stroke, I wanted to shake Waghmare by his collar and yell:
"WAGHMARE!!! You and your bloody ancestors are responsible for all the tigers vanishing."
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