Bandipur Tiger Reserve is smack dab in the middle of Karnataka’s southern stretch of forests, part of the world’s largest bastion of tigers and elephants. It is an important part of India’s wild spaces.
Deciduous trees cover its hills, with water holes and patches of scrub jungle scattered about. All the characters from Kipling’s Jungle Book dwell here. If you want to see big animals, this is where you go.
Bandipur was where I had my early “awakening”, my wild initiation of sorts. It was deep in this forest as a child that I stared into the eyes of a tiger and realised my interest in the natural world. A memory blazingly vivid in my head, it's the butterfly wingbeat that set off my passion for the wild. In every sense, Bandipur is a spiritual home for me.
In May 2022, after my first year at university, I flew back to Bangalore, where I quickly packed my bags and set off for the tiger reserve.
I caught the first bus leaving for Mysore, trusting that I’d figure out the rest of the journey. It was a trip I’d done countless times with my family. I hopped from bus to bus as the scenery changed from coconut trees and sunflower fields to thick, impenetrable bushes. Several hours later, I found myself at the gates of the reserve.
I was greeted by Mahesha, a tall, stringy man in his thirties. He was Junglescapes’ coordinator on the ground and my primary contact. We exchanged pleasantries and then headed off into the reserve in his jeep. I observed the jungle as we wove along the highway, a road whose every curve I knew.
The NGO Junglescapes aimed to curb the invasive plant growth in the reserve. An invasive species isn’t native to the region but has been introduced from outside. Having evolved in distinct environments. With a set of natural predators, they pose harm to the region they are introduced to, growing unchecked with nothing to stop them.
Take lantana, for example, a plant native to Central and South America. When the British colonised India in the 18th century, they brought lantana with them as an ornamental plant. Apparently, the plants on the mainland weren’t enough to decorate their gardens.
This plant has no natural predators in India. And so, freed from the environmental constraints that kept it in check in its original habitat, the invader outcompeted Indian flora for essential resources such as sunlight, water, and nutrients. Over a few centuries, this fast-growing shrub enveloped the landscape.
Such invasions have cascading effects on the health of the forest ecosystem. Native plants, which evolved to coexist with specific. In turn, this impacts native animals that depend on various plants for sustenance.
Bandipur is one place where this growth of disastrous proportions has occurred. Junglescapes was intent on tackling this menace.
They partnered with the local Jenu Kuruba tribals to clear out this weed. The tribals had resided in these jungles for generations, sharing their homes with elephants and tigers. Originally honey collectors (“Jenu” means honey in Kannada), they were relocated outside these forests by the authorities when reserves came under government protection.
The Jenu Kurubas know the ways of the forest. The NGO hired them for their innate skills and provided them a means of employment, since they belong to a low economic stratum.
We drove around a bit as Mahesha explained the gist of what they were doing and what my role would be. I was supposed to photograph the tribals and write about their work for a report.
It was late when I arrived at the reserve, so we decided to begin work the next day. He dropped me at a local guest house and said he'd pick me up the following morning for the trip into the jungle.
We cruised through the forest the next morning. The sky held every kind of cloud as the calls of peacocks rang in the air. Herds of spotted deer (also called chital) grazed by the roadside while a crested serpent eagle soared overhead. We drove along for a bit, parked on the side, and walked into the forest in full view of all the park visitors.
Considering the rigid bureaucracy controlling access to India's tiger reserves, this was a rare and singular honour. I saw the people in passing vehicles press their curious faces to the glass as they watched.
As a young boy, I'd read any literature I could find about Bandipur. Having a good grasp of its geography, I knew we were walking into the GS Betta range, marked by large hills on the right side of the main road. I recalled the books by the esteemed naturalist AJT Johnsingh, who studied dholes (Indian wild dogs) in Bandipur. Now, I was walking along the same landscape he described. It was an unrivalled joy to see the tales of my childhood come alive.
After walking for a kilometre, we reached where the tribals were clearing the lantana for the day. There were around twenty of them, armed with sharp sickles and sturdy wooden poles.
Since lantana forms a dense thicket, it must be hacked off at the base. Then, using the poles, the bush is heaved off the ground and turned upside down. It is too heavy and thorny to move with just your hands.
I asked if I could help them. Some smirked as they gave me a sickle and a wooden stick. Soon, I could see why. Great skill and strength are needed to wield these tools. I had none. From how I cut the lantana, it looked like I would take out someone’s eye. Embarrassed, I stopped and did what I was assigned: converse with the tribals and take photographs.
The air grew heavy with a noxious odour from the felled lantana. A stench no words can capture. My respect for the Jenu Kurubas rose.
Soon, a routine formed. In the mornings, Mahesha would pick me up for transfer to the forest, where I spent the day with the tribals, learning from them and documenting their work, and returning to the guest house by sundown. I repeated it the next day at a different spot in the reserve.
These trips taught me more about the Jenu Kurubas and their interactions with the wild. The intimacy with which they understood the jungle is admirable. They read the forest like a pianist reads sheet music, where each leaf, pugmark, and snapped twig was interpreted with incredible insight. For them, walking was a way of knowing and understanding.
During their work, they picked out subtle signs in nature and deduced a whole story from them. They could identify the tracks of gaur and elephant faintly impressed in the soil. They demonstrated how grass bent over when an animal passed through and how it will stay like that for a few hours before springing erect. They taught me to analyse a chital’s alarm call and tell whether it was for a leopard or a tiger. For them, the tiniest bit of disturbed foliage revealed a saga: a sambar deer grazed here, a mongoose used this path, and a pack of wild dogs made their kill here a few days ago.
These nuggets of wild knowledge, honed over generations, hold a value that can’t be captured in words. Their mentorship meant more to me than I could ever tell them.
When I wasn’t walking in the jungle, I spent time in the nearby villages, documenting other activities the NGO was involved in. In the village of Mangala, I met Jenu Kuruba women extracting seeds of native trees from their pods for reforestation projects around the reserve. A merry crowd, they were very shy as I took their photographs.
Next to the guest house I was staying at was a small food joint run by a Malayali, where I had my meals. Vinayan, the owner, was surprised to find that I had a connection with his state and that I spoke his language. He and I soon became friends, bonding over our common heritage.
When we weren’t observing the lantana removal, we surveyed sections of the reserve already cleared of the weeds. We'd go into a patch of forest and assess each area with a GPS, checking where the invasive species was trying to make a comeback. This helped the NGO plan their lantana elimination efforts for the coming months.
I knew that my task was to document the NGO’s work, but there was no way I could gain such deep access into this jungle and not look out for animals. So, during the surveys, while we focused on analysing the lantana growth, I eagerly scanned the bush for the presence of wildlife. I was in one of the prime habitats in the world; I wasn’t going to squander this opportunity.
But since we trekked through the jungle in the noon hours, most of the larger wildlife would retreat to cooler havens. Spotting a tiger or leopard on foot soon became a vain dream. The odd eagle, monitor lizard, or star tortoise would glance at us, but for the most part, the wildlife slipped by undetected.
On a survey, we were lucky to see a herd of chital at close range. They stopped to look at us, their heads upright and ears cocked. They sensed us from a mile away. Our best bet was to stay far enough for them not to get spooked and skip away.
The chital is probably the most common deer in the Indian wilds. It is brown all over with white spots and is about as dangerous as a feather.
I spotted a couple of stags in the midst of the herd before me. Their antlers were still in velvet, indicating the mating season hadn’t begun.
Excerpted with permission from The Light of Wilder Things: A Teenager’s Search for Nature and Wildlife, Ishan Shanavas, Stark World Publishing.
