Snippets From My Wildlife Experiences!

  Some forest stories stay with you long after the safari is over. Not because of a dramatic chase or a perfect photograph, but because they make you look at wildlife a little differently. This is one such story about Junabai, the tigress from Tadoba who currently has four cubs. Junabai had made a kill and kept it across the road. But she couldn't simply return to it and feed. From morning until night, there were people walking through the area, villagers grazing their cattle and constant human activity. And so, she waited. Her cubs were still young and under training. They were learning about the world around them, and their reactions to people could have been unpredictable. A situation that an adult tiger might navigate cautiously could become very different with young cubs around. Junabai had to wait until the walkers, grazing people and cattle had completely left the area before she could return to her kill. Think about that for a moment. She had made a kill, but even feeding w...

  Every tiger has a story. Some are known for their strength, some for their territory, and some simply for the memories they leave behind. This July trip to Tadoba was all about Pushpa , the handsome son of the legendary Xylo and Junabai . We had hoped to see him, but we never imagined that just two sightings would become the highlight of our entire safari. The forest was glowing after the monsoon. Fresh green bamboo lined the roads, the air felt cool, and the earthy smell of the jungle filled every drive. It was the kind of morning that makes you slow down and take in every sight and sound. Our first meeting with Pushpa was calm and unforgettable. He was lying comfortably beside the road, surrounded by lush greenery, completely relaxed. His powerful body rested on the cool grass while he watched the forest around him with half-open eyes. Every now and then he would lift his head, look around, and settle back again, as if he had nowhere else to be. Then, slowly, he got up an...

  "Did you see a tiger?" It is probably the most common question asked after every safari. And for years, like many wildlife enthusiasts, I measured a safari's success by the appearance of stripes. A tiger sighting meant celebration. A safari without one often felt incomplete. But the forest has a wonderful way of teaching us patience—and perspective. Over time, I have realised that some of my most memorable safaris were the ones where a tiger never appeared at all. The jungle is never empty. While everyone scans the road ahead hoping for a glimpse of a big cat, an entire world is unfolding around us. A crested serpent eagle watches silently from a high perch. A herd of chital suddenly freezes, ears alert, reading a message in the wind long before we can understand it. A giant squirrel leaps effortlessly between branches. A troop of langurs quarrels noisily before settling into the afternoon sun. A tiny spider patiently rebuilds its web after a night of rain. Each h...

It was early morning in Pench - Khawasa Buffers, and the forest was calm and quiet with soft golden light coming through the trees. The ground was covered in dry leaves, and every small sound felt louder in the stillness. We entered the forest early morning without expecting much, thinking it would be a simple and peaceful drive. After a few minutes, we noticed some movement ahead. At first, it was hard to understand what we were seeing, but then it became clear. There was a leopard walking through the forest, moving slowly and blending perfectly into the surroundings. As we watched carefully, we realized there was not just one leopard, but two. One leopard was up on a tree with a kill, while the other was on the ground below. The leopard on the tree was not rushing or trying to grab the kill and eat immediately. Instead, it waited patiently, watching the other leopard. Everything around us became very still as we continued to observe. After some time, the leopard on the ground moved a...

 There are some forests you visit… and then there are forests that quietly stay with you. Singalila is one of them. Located in West Bengal, along the India–Nepal border, Singalila National Park sits on the Singalila Ridge in the Eastern Himalayas. It is also the highest national park in West Bengal, offering stunning forest landscapes along with distant views of some of the world’s highest peaks. This is not a forest of big sightings or constant action. It is slow, calm, and gentle. Thick greenery all around, trees covered in moss, and then suddenly—white magnolias blooming like soft light. Patches of pink rhododendrons appear through the mist, adding colour but still keeping the silence intact. You don’t just see Singalila. You feel it. There is a kind of silence here that is not empty. It is full of life—you just have to notice it. A bird calling from far away, a slight movement in the trees, a feeling that something is there… even if you can’t see it. And somewhere in this fores...

There are birds. And then there are engineers with feathers. If you have ever stood under a tree full of hanging, bottle-shaped nests, you know that feeling. They sway gently in the wind, like lanterns woven by hand. And then it hits you — each one of those beautiful homes has been built strand by strand by a small bird, the Baya Weaver. Across our grasslands, farms and wetlands, this bird lives quietly among us. Most of the year, it looks simple — brown, sparrow-like, easy to miss. But when the monsoon approaches, the male changes. A bright yellow crown appears on his head. It is as if nature has given him a helmet and said, “Time to build.” And build he does. He carefully chooses a branch — often one hanging over water or protected by thorns. This is not random. Water keeps predators like snakes away. Thorny branches add extra safety. Even before he starts weaving, there is planning. With just his beak, he tears long strips of fresh green grass. No tools. No training. Just instinct. ...