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There comes a time in the life of every human being, a time of craving to return to the wild, to a life when man survived by instinct, braving the elements; a time to be free from the confines of concrete boxes and far away from the madding crowd. What happens to that instinct? Well, mostly it lies dormant, suppressed by the conveniences of what we call modern civilisation.

Until a chance re-awakening.
It’s past 6.00 p.m. The gathering twilight and nimbus have conspired with the forest to create for us an impression of swimming through ink. Eyes straining and ears attuned to the twitter of the birds and every whirr of the cicadas as we drive the last few kilometres to Tala, we pass a herd of deer, statue-like, as they gaze into the inky dusk, noses a-twitch. We stop the Fortuner and begin taking pictures. A deer or two sips from the pond tentatively, returning frequently to follow the gaze of its clan.

The king is in the vicinity.
We scout the surroundings as best we can. No sign of the tiger. We can’t see it, but we know it’s there. That long-buried primal instinct is suddenly ticking again. Ensconced within our vault-like Toyota, none of us is brave enough to step out. After a few minutes of straining at the gloom, we decide to carry on. I crank the Fortuner to life and wince as the accompanying noise startles the deer. But barely have we driven a hundred yards when I feel a hand on my shoulder and a hushed voice asking me to stop. To our right, on a raised embankment parallel to the road, barely 30 feet away, sits a young male tiger. Completely disinterested, he just sits there. His absolute authority cannot be questioned. He is the king of all that he surveys. His benevolence stems from a sense of fearlessness (which, incidentally, has been his undoing). Yet somewhere, for a mere mortal, he re-kindles that wanderlust, that sense of true freedom, the will to be master of one’s domain. In a moment, we’ve travelled back in time, back to the time when we were wild.
Those few moments will live with each one of us forever. Shooed away by over-zealous forest guards shortly thereafter, we head to the quaint and cosy Nature Heritage resort to rest for the night. Dining in candlelight, the flickering shadows add to the atmosphere of the timeless images of tigers that adorn the walls. Our hotel enjoys the patronage of Kakubhai Kothari, a well-known photographer. Dinner table conversation centres round feline encounters and we have the pleasure of Rajvardhan Sharma’s company, who famously fought off a tigress some years ago.
With a belly full of country chicken and country brew, we trudge to our lodgings for a few hours of shut-eye. The sounds of the forest are a pleasant lullaby, even the persistent mosquito or two adding a second note to the tropical orchestra.