Hardly anyone leaves here without sighting a tiger,” says Mahadeo Hirwe, manager of Maharashtra Tourism Development Corporation Resort at the Tadoba National Park, when I check in for a two-night stay. His inspiring statement sparks a thrill within me, thinking my dream of seeing the big cats wandering in their own domain will turn into reality soon. But during lunch, Jayant from Mumbai throws a bucket of water into my bubbling enthusiasm. He hasn’t seen a tiger from his two safari trips in the last 24 hours. “It’s a matter of luck,” he says. My ranger for the maiden voyage, Shyam, reinstates this a little later as our Maruti Gypsy swifts into the national park through the Moharli gate.
“Luck plays a big role,” he says while enticing us with the data on the animal population in the 626 sq km of parkland. We are in the homeland of 80 tigers. They are very territorial, so the rangers know where to look for them. The ones regularly spotted have names like Choti Tara, Sonam, Maya or Matka Sur. These big cats share the land with leopards, wild dogs, bison, sloth bears, wild boars and a variety of deer, gastronomical delights for the carnivores. Avian species keep an eye from above.
Comprising hillocks and waterways, the forest is paved with smooth meadows, dense teak plantations, bamboo thickets and caves that provide an ideal environment for animals. Vehicles are allowed to crisscross the land only on designated pathways.
Cutting through deep forest, we spot herds of spotted deer, sambar, bison and a rare wild dog, but no sign of a tiger other than a few pugmarks on the dirt track. Disappointment begins to creep into my mind.
Suddenly the gypsy halts.
“Shhhhh,” whispers Shyam, trying to listen to something carefully. I hear a kind of a yawning sound. “It’s a sambar’s call. She must be somewhere nearby,” exclaims Shyam, and instructs our driver to rush towards the direction from where the sound is coming. We are soon joined by three vehicles speeding the same way.
We soon arrive at a cul-de-sac thrived by a small pond. “If lucky, you may see Maya. This is her territory,” Shyam whispers. My heart starts beating fast. I notice Jayant with his family in another gypsy, looking very tense. Every minute seems like an hour.
Suddenly a nerve-wracking roar breaks the stillness. A child in the Gypsy next to mine starts crying, while embarrassed parents try to calm him with a lolly. The repeated growl becomes louder, and within seconds, her majesty Maya appears. She stands like a diva on the other side of the waterhole. What an hypnotising experience to be in such close proximity with a full-grown tigress leisurely looking at her admirers, just metres away. She has stopped roaring and the child has stopped crying, the silence enhancing the clicking of camera shutters. A couple of minutes later, Maya turns around and sprints into the bush. The crowd still remains dumbstruck for a while, then bursts into ecstatic jubilation as if their horse has won the race. Jayant waives at me with big smile. Both him and I tick off a big item from our bucket list.
During subsequent safaris I see more tigers, but nothing beats the adventure of the “first” like every other “first” in life.