I was on the road, cruising along the state highway That connects Mysore to Ooty. The strip winds through one of the most fecund and pristine wildlife parks in the subcontinent. Motoring at a measured pace, lapping up the breathtaking vistas the Bandipur-Mudumalai belt opens to sore eyed travelers, or die hard naturalists like myself. A granite monolith that suddenly metamorphoses into a giant jumbo, another rustle in the undergrowth that magically transforms into a thousand eyed peafowl, static teak trunks that sway a wee bit to reveal a cryptic herd of spotted deer, ears pricked in alertness. The day was hot and humid, and just beyond a bend in the road, I spotted a weary, withered, weather beaten tracker, his bare feet footsore. I eased my car to a halt and signalled the tired man in. The khaki clad tracker, in baggy half pants, raised his calloused palm to his forehead, as a mark of gratitude. He tucked himself into the nether end of the front seat beside me, muttering a profusion of salaams. Trackers are the menials in the forest department’s pecking order. The bottom rung of officialdom. Cranking levers at check posts, clearing forest fire lanes of undergrowth, de-shrubbing, parthenium de-weeding, first line defence and whistle blowers against poachers and their ilk. Theirs is getting the nitty gritty chores done. His job keeps bureaucracy creaking, running errands on foot, operating wireless batteries, pushing stalled jeeps, readying the linen in the Inspection Bungalows for the imminent descent of brass- buckled officers…or at times arranging for a succulent leg of prime jungle fowl for some men in khaki or some other ‘leader of men’ in khadi. Jeep or Contessa ferried. Beads of sweat on the man’s forehead, and the cracks on his soles, told of the un-numbered years of silent service and servitude to the department. Unnamed, unrecognized and unsung, that is who trackers are. The the cool confines of the air-conditioned car and the steady chug of the engine warmed my passenger’s tongue. What a garrulous chap he turned out to be, this tracker Mahadevappa. With native wit, inborn charm and earthy ethnicity he churned out one anecdote after another: tales of dipsomaniacal officers, often diplopic too after one peg too many. Of men and animals. Of the legendary poacher-smuggler Veerappan, of other rogues and tuskers, of shikar lore and haunted trees…. The dialogue (monologue!?) was sheer drama. Mahadeva was in his elements, here, in his own ecosphere. The highway stretch meanders through one of the most successful areas of Project Tiger, the nature park itself a symbol of the acme in a planned conservation strategy come good. Not surprisingly, soon, Mahadeva veered into ‘tiger territory’, soliloquy-wise I mean. “Tiger saar” he drawls, with a reverence he had scarce shown whilst talking about his senior officers, “ very brainy”, tapping his temple, for effect, with a forefinger. And on he went, ceaselessly, singing paeans and praises for the real jungle raja, the tiger. Adjectives after adverbs, extolling the I.Q. of the big cats. “It just happened here saar”, he gesticulates pointing to a roadside ditch we were driving past. I brought the car to a stop, and got down, Mahadeva ambled over to the rim of a ‘nulla’ a twenty five foot long five foot deep natural hollow. He sat himself on the edge of the trench, and lit himself a beedi. Letting out a lungful of fetid smoke, and peering deep into the depth of the nulla, he shook his head, taking another deep drag of his tobacco, he sighed audibly. “It was just here sar, the most monstrous male tiger one ever set eyes upon. Just lying here sar, as if in deep slumber”. I sat down beside the tracker, untying my shoe laces to let my feet breathe. He then narrated this extraordinary tale. “It was early morning sar, the eastern sun was just lighting up yonder horizon over the Nilgiris, and I was trotting along this very road to relay a message I had received on my check-post wireless, to the DFO sa’ab in the Bandipur quarters. It was then that I saw him saar, this ogre. Big as a tusker, and stronger than any jumbo too, not five feet from my feet in this nulla. My legs went jelly and I scooted as fast as my wobbly knees could move, all four miles, all the way to the DFO’s office. Trembling all over, I fair sputtered the words ‘ Tiger dorai. This big dorai’ I said, stretching my arms out to convey the magnitude of the problem. Between pants and puffs, in garbled tongue, I told the DFO what I had seen been through.” “Not drinking again are you, Mahadeva?” yawns the bleary eyed DFO. “No dorai, not ever after my Muniyamma died” Mahadeva reverentially uttered, pinching his throat as he said so, a native gesture that betokens ‘truth’ is being spoke. “It was real sahab, the biggest and meanest yellow creation of God, not more than a hands-breadth from me.” In ten minutes, the DFO and his posse was ready. All booted And loaded, they disbelievingly followed an edgy Mahadevappa to the spot where he claimed he had met with a tiger ‘bigger than a dinosaur’. The Foursome trudged to the fourth milestone. They came upon the trench, just as the sun’s orange orb bathed the forest ablaze. Mahadevappa tiptoed to a stop. “He is there sahib” he mutters under his breath, pointing a finger into the ditch. Motioning the foursome to stay put, the jaunty DFO, strode up to the nulla’s rim. His mouth went agape. By God ! the rogue Mahadevappa was indeed right ! Lying in the nulla, not eight feet from his feet, was a magnificent male tiger, a good thirteen feet, tip to tail. And the DFO had seen a few monstrous striped ones in his days, but this cat was something else. The dawn sun played against the perfect orange red coat, lighting it up like fire. Gesturing his men to keep close, and shut, the DFO inched his way to the trench, and in one agile leap, went into it. He ran his palm on the flanks of the inert feline, still wet with dew. Icy cold. He then stood up on his feet, so that his posse could see him. He stuck his tongue out and tilted his head, pointing his right hand to the heavens. The message is universal. The beast is a goner. Dead. Just then, as if from the blue, all hell broke loose. Even before the import of the DFO’s signals had sunk home to the rangers… commotion, chaos and calamity. In a bizarre and shocking twist to the tale, the seemingly dead tiger sprang to life, and in a frenzied and frenetic savage attack, tore the hapless DFO to ribbons. Within sight and earshot of his men, the DFO was being mauled to shreds, Yet they stood, shell shocked and speechless (loudmouth Mahadevappa too !). Then the youngest of them all, Raju, jolted to senses, cocked his rifle to life, and pointed an oscillating barrel at the duo duelling in the ditch: finger on trigger, ready to fire at the ‘shaitan’, the first chance. Then, as if from somewhere afar, they all heard a screaming voice, a familiar one, their beloved DFO’s. “Don’t shoot, Raju, don’t shoot.” At the garbled command, Raju instinctively lowered his gun. Presto, as suddenly as it all began, it all went silent. Maybe the tiger had had enough, maybe the human voice from up close disconcerted it. Whatever be it, it let go of the limp officer, and in one practiced leap cleared the nulla edge, gave one piercing stare at the foursome, gave vent to a murderous snarl with it’s bloodied mouth, and disappeared, like a ghost from a nightmare, into the thickets. It was some minutes before the men got their moorings back. Then in a body they ran towards the trench and their DFO. They retrieved a delirious, blood bathed mangled mess from the depths. Mercifully, he was still breathing; more mercifully, he was ‘out for the count’. A hundred ugly gashes criss-crossed the writhing form. Tracker Mahadeva, waved down a passing truck, and bundling the inert DFO into the lorry, they sped the driver towards Gundlupet, and its small hospital, a fair half hours motoring away. Here after first aid, the little that a small town governmental hospital could provide, the DFO was carted to Mysore, in a serious state. Rattled and shaken, Mahadevappa returned with his foresters to Bandipur in the same truck. Officialdom makes many demands, the least of which was to file reports, three copies of each, of incidents, events, the aftermath, the whys, hows and why nots, all in bureaucratic legalese. Filed, thumbs impressed and forwarded. It was some three weeks before the forest trackers from the Bandipur range could hitch hike a free ride to Mysore. Here they trooped in, heads bowed and in silence into the district hospital’s special room their DFO was being treated in. Swathed in bandages and plaster of Paris, hooked up, and drips flowing lay their proud DFO. His once aquiline features were distorted, obliterated by oedema. Ugly scars and raw lacerations tracked his arms. The DFO, raised his plastered arm in recognition, his visage breaking into a toothless grin, courtesy the tiger. Mahadevappa could take no more. He broke down, sobbing uncontrollably at the foot end of the steel cot, “Why sahib, oh why indeed, did you not let Raju kill the shaitan?” Tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, he went on “Raju had him in his sight saar, just one single goli, and the devil would have gone…yet you…boo hoo boo hoo” his body jerked with spasmodically. Raju, standing beside Mahadevappa, gently tapped the latter’s shoulder, “Why, you fool, why I was ordered not to shoot? You imbecile, can’t you see, accidentally my aim, in that chaos could have gone amiss, and instead of the wretched tiger, got our beloved DFO sahib. That’s why, you fool, now stop sobbing like a drunk baby.” Oho! Now it all made sense to Mahadevappa. Yes indeed, in the Utter confusion and conflict, Raju may have well shot the DFO by accident. God forbid. Mahadevappa wiped his tears and stood up. Then they heard the familiar voice; Their DFO’s. “No Raju. I asked you not to shoot, not because you could have shot me instead of the tiger.” The motley group stared, mouths agape and eyes wide. What was the DFO saying ? They could not understand anything. Was he all right ? The officer continued, “My fear was just the opposite, Raju. You are one of the best marksmen in the range, and you surely would have felled the yellow cat with one single bullet, just like Mahadeva said” Raju stood transfixed and perplexed. All others in that room appeared flummoxed too. Why then the order to lower arms? None could make any sense of all this. The DFO sat up on the bed, pained and groaning at the physical effort. “Project Tiger and Bandipur are in my blood. My life and livelihood is here amidst all this, in this jungle. Had you,Raju, shot me instead of the tiger, India perhaps would have had one DFO less amongst thousands or more in the forest cadre, but had you got the tiger, which, as I mentioned you certainly would, Bandipur and Project Tiger would have had just forty five, not forty six of these majestic animals. One King less. Thanks to you, Raju, and you my men for your implicit faith in me and response to my orders, the forty-sixth tiger will continue to lord over his territory and roar in defiance in this favourite jungle for years to come…” So ended Mahadevappa’s roadside ditch story, narrated with the aid of half a dozen beedies. An epic tale, full of holes, hyperbole and hysteria, you could add. So would I. But for one truth. The story Mahadevappa related to me, perched on the nulla edge on the road to Bandipur one humid hot morning was factual. I had heard of this incident from other sources. I knew the DFO too. He still toils for the department and forest service at another remote posting. His arms and face still bear railway-track like suture trails, and he still limps too. His once Grecian face is just passably handsome now. Yet, thanks to the brave men of Project Tiger, men like the Committed and unsung DFO, and Raju, and Mahadevappa and his ilk of barefoot trackers, the jungles of Southern India, still reverberate and echo with the fearsome roars of the fiery felines…all forty-six of them! Note: This is a quasi-fictionalised account of actual events which took place happened in the very locales cited. Mahadevappa, the tracker, still trots everyday, on his cracked feet, in his tattered khaki shirt and baggy short pants, in the steaming noon-day heat, eight kilometers a shift, along the grassy edges of the Mudumalai-Bandipur National Park’s interstate highway.