JUNGLE NIGHTS: EPISODE 1

Sshhsshhhhh!” Silence, as thick as the heat of the night settled in as we followed in single file. Runner soled shoes walked along silently ahead of and behind me. But I walked with my eyes peeled to the ground for my feet clad in sandals were vulnerable to the attentions of the. Sawscaled viper. “Hemotoxic venom... If it bites your feet, the pain would be so bad you’d want to hack your foot off... But worse than that is the hideous disfigurement and you will definitely lose more than a half your toes..”, Mithun had said, “so remember to follow in my footsteps... Literally”

Ten of us picked our way along the brambles, streams and loose rock, each foot competing with nineteen others to see which would fall the lightest. I was with a group of wildlife enthusiasts who dedicated a fair share of their days to rescue wild animals that stray into human habitation. Like scalps hanging from the belt of a brave, these lads would trade tales of rescues with a hint of pride mixed with the satisfaction that only saving lives can bring. We were out hunting by the light of a full moon… hunting for a glimpse of a predator.

I had spent a long hot May afternoon looking for signs of life in the Sariska Tiger Reserve and as expected, I didn’t see too much. It was just too hot for anything to be about. Which is why common sense begs the question… why would the forest department insist on safari jeeps entering the park before four and exiting before six even in the white heat of summer? Anyway, what’s the point in charging at windmills, and so I set off on a foot safari with the wildlife rescuers I met in a canteen in the forest department’s office. Mithun Sharma, one of the lieutenants of the group joined me in my car, regaling me with his adventures with pythons, crocodiles and hyenas, as we headed off for a rivulet about 25 kilometres away that they said was famous for muggers, marsh crocodiles. Suddenly, the quiet group grew even quieter as our leader, a wildlifer and an old acquaintance, Chinmaya Macmaseey, raised his hand and strained to catch a sound. And then he pointed in the direction of a large body of still water… and then we all heard it. It sounded like a cricket’s drumming mixed with a frog’s croak.. “remember this sound… it is the sound of new life… baby crocodiles!”, whispered Mithun with a smile.

The croaks seemed to have stirred something deep within. We stood there listening for a fair while, trying to figure out how many of them there might be and then, as if on a silent command, five flashlights came out in unison. Powerful beams chased the sound and little halos lit up the lake. On cue, like new stars on the night sky, bright orange dots twinkled back at us from the surface of the lake… crocs. Excited, we all shuffled forward for a better look and tried to gauge the size of the reptiles from the gap between the eyes. “Th at one’s about nine feet at least” said one. “Sub-adult, six feet long I think”, said another. “Th at’s a big one…not an inch less than 12 feet”, said Chinmaya, pointing his flashlight at a pair of eyes gliding towards us. We moved back a few respectful feet and the eyes slowed to a stop. A slow restrained collective sigh escaped from our lips. Our hearts too slowed down with our breaths and that’s when Chinmaya said “I smell something…” He sniffed around like a hound on a hunt and Mithun followed… My nostrils were still full of the smell of slow water, algae and fish. I could see little fish fry wriggling between the beams of light. I switched off the light and tried to focus my energies on the odours floating around me. My senses dulled by smoke-filled cities seemed to be letting me down.

And then the wind changed. Like a pungent spear, the smell of death flooded my being. I turned and followed the stench. Chinmaya and Mithun were walking ahead of me. Their noses and their lights led us to a large bush where bluebottle flies were swirling like revelers at a rave. There was a big hole under the bush. Mithun and Chinmaya jumped in. The stench was overpowering my senses. But I was curious and if it wouldn’t kill Chinmaya and Mithun, it wouldn’t kill me either, I reasoned. The others stayed back but I jumped in after the duo. The wind changed and we lost the aroma for a while and then it came right back, with greater force… The light bounced off something black and caught our eye. We moved in towards the object, three streams of light trying to wrest the size and shape of death from the darkness. And then we saw it…. A large blue bull carcass! “Must be the 12 footer’s kill”, said Mithun. But then he examined the nilgai’s legs and realized it didn’t have the tell-tale bitemarks. I saw the carcass’ flanks and saw the skin lying like a flap over the ribs. All the organs and flesh had been eaten from the back. Th is looked like a big cat’s kill and I said so. The others nodded. The city slicker had earned the respect of the wild ones. Mithun and Chinmaya examined the neck and mouth. “A leopard!” they both concurred. Almost on cue, the sawing call of a leopard rent through the quiet of the night.

We clambered out of the hole and continued our walk along the banks of the stream, flashlights tucked away and just the warm glow of a full moon guiding our path. “Th is place is wild!” I exclaimed. Mithun fished out his phone and flicked the screen with his fingers till he came upon the picture folder. Close ups of large crocodiles basking in the sun; magnificent specimens clambering out of the water; large gaping jaws glinting in the sun; water birds, egrets, wooly necked storks, pied kingfishers…. Th is place was full of birdlife and crocs. “If you come here at dawn, you’ll see them all”, said Mithun. “I go and do my puja at dawn in a temple nearby and then I often come and sit here… It is beautiful”. And so much of wildlife, all right here… “Is this place protected?” I asked. Mithun smiled a wry smile and shook his head. “The authorities seem to be in denial. Th is place has more crocodiles than either the sanctuary or the much more well known Siliserh lake. But until now, no one has acknowledged or recognized the wealth in this buffer forest. We are right behind Silserh’s Lake Palace, and ideally this should be a protected zone but if you come here in the morning you will see empty beer cans, bottles of alcohol and plastic bags strewn around the place. People take their bikes and ride them right up to the banks.” But don’t the crocs attack encroachers, I wondered aloud. “Our crocs are like cows. They are as timid as our leopards are aggressive… such is the nature of Sariska”, said Chinmay. “Usually they just slink away at the slightest disturbance.”

“We have given a proposal for a reptile park in this area” added Mithun. “A venom bank and a tourist interpretation centre would help us sustain the facility. Most importantly, it will help enrich the area as we have been rescued animals in this zone. Sound biodiversity and protection from human encroachment will ensure the wildlife stays here and doesn’t wander into neighbouring villages and towns. More importantly, it will allow wildlife to breed and grow, for most species here are red lined on the endangered species list. But the authorities are worried about the fact that if they acknowledge the wealth of this are they will have to invest resources in protecting the area. They will have to be responsible and accountable. Going by past records, everyone in Sariska understandably enough shies away from extra responsibilities”.

“There’s a new management in place and we are very hopeful..”, added Chinmay. For the sake of these crusaders, for the sake of the snakes and those bitten by them, for the sake of the crocodiles and leopards and hyenas and all the bright and beautiful things they hunt and eat, I hope this ‘new management’ sees the light and looks at this little eden as an opportunity to redeem themselves instead of running away from an opportunity to wash away the past and build a new tomorrow. Sariska and the forests around it are blessed with riches that are still being unearthed. Every few years, a new species, considered extinct locally or never seen before announces itself to the world from the shadows of this forest. Who knows what other jewels lie hidden in this precious habitat. Chinmay, Mithun, Sariska’s wild ones and the beleaguered forest department… we need you all to put your shoulders together for this one and keep our natural heritage from slipping through our eager fingers. So more power and synergy to you...

THE MIRACLE THAT MATTERS

Imagine.. A ledge, high, very high, more than three miles high above the waters of the nearest sea... High above the clouds, where shards of ice fly like witches on brooms in winds that howl like banshees and where snowy glaciers still carve out morraines like they have since time began... Looking down on all of creation, from the roof of the world sits that ledge...

And on that frozen ledge sits a man.. the high winds and the sun have carved their own story on his craggy features. He sits with his eyes closed and his long dark hair piled into an untidy mop on his head. Now imagine that on in those frigid and giddy heights, he sits naked in the snow, wrapped in a coarse blanket. But that blanket does not keep him warm for it has been dunked in the icy waters of nearby river. To wrap that blanket around one’s body is to feel the cold congeal into a blade that seems to saw through bone... through every bone. But if you are there already and can see him there on that cliff then you must also see the steam rising from the blanket that covers the man’s body... You stare in amazement as the steam rises like mist from a river. You wonder what fire burns in this man’s core that can dry a blanket like it was wrapped around not flesh and blood but an industrial oven.

Most of us would have died of hypothermia while the frost bit through our extremities. But here this man sat on his seat on the crag, calm and serene while ice turned to smoke all around him. Is that a miracle, you ask. And answer is it is not, for there are many monks that wander in the frigid wastes of the Himalayas, both in India and in Tibet, who are adepts at the art of raising a fiery storm through their yogic powers that would keep them warm on the coldest nights. This drying of a wet cold blanket is almost a rite of passage for yogis and monks across many orders. The Tibetans call it ‘tumo breathing’ and some Western explorers have learnt this art too.

It is said that Alexandra David-Neel, one of the first Western women to travel to Tibet in the early 1900s, learnt this ancient technique of generating internal heat from the monks. During her 12 years in Tibet, Alexandra found many opportunities to be grateful to those from whom she had learnt this art for without it, she too might have perished in cold vastness of Tibet’s passes where many explorers, unable to meet the harsh demands of this beautiful yet unforgiving landscape, have given up and left to meet their maker. Alexandra David-Neel’s accounts of her journeys to the roof of the world are replete with accounts of yogic masters performing miracles every day. I came across these accounts while digging up stories to validate the claims made by the subject from last week’s column – The five Tibetan rites of rejuvenation.

Another miraculous feat that these monks from the mountains seem to have mastered is the art of ‘lum-gom’ trance walking. Trance walkers have trained their bodies to cover long distances in effortless leaps. Explorers to the Tibetan plateau, even Western scientific research teams have claimed that they have seen these yogis bounding across the rugged mountains in long leaps in a manner that seemed to suggest that they were floating through the air. Both ‘tumo’ and ‘lum gom’ are techniques that are taught in monasteries on the high passes. They involve special breathing and visualization techniques. And unlike stories of masters from other cultures, these miracles aren’t restricted to a few individuals and are relatively common across different sects.

Perhaps the most popular legends that have floated out of these secretive mountains that kept Tibet secluded from the rest of the world have been tales of amazing longevity. At a 100, it is said these masters have merely entered their youth. Early explorers to Tibet have claimed that they have met masters who been around for more than 200 years. Unfortunately, there aren’t very many gerontologists who have studied these yogis but if you were to look to go to places like Dharamshala and meet the oldest lamas who have made India their home, you will see 80 year olds walking up the steep mountain trails with the kind of vigour that would do men half their age proud. They may not live well beyond the ‘usual 100s’ but these Tibetan yogis definitely live their years well. I don’t know if it’s the mountain air, their Spartan lifestyle or their yogic practices that give them this youthful constitution, but whatever it is, it really works.

But these are miracles I have only read about or heard. Except for the rather fit octogenarian lamas I came across in Dharamshala and Mcleodganj, there isn’t much I can personally vouch for. But there is one miracle that this Tibetan meditative life path has given ample evidence of to all who chose to ask and it is this…

When the Chinese army invaded Tibet in 1949, it did what invading armies do. Resistance was crushed. Defenseless monks were tortured and killed and a cultural and religious purge was followed by attempts at Hanification of Tibet. More than a million people lost their lives, perhaps brutally. Every Tibetan home would have lost a loved one or more. Tibet should be a country seething with anger.

And yet, every Tibetan I have met in my travels has spoken of the Chinese invaders with a degree of compassion. Some have said that they hold no ill feelings towards the Chinese even though they suffered at the hands of the invaders. Some lost loved ones, others lost homes and livelihoods. And yet they feel that they had earned this suffering through their actions in another life. The Chinese were mere puppets in the hands of their own karmic fruits. In a film about the yogis of Tibet, I saw a young monk admit that he felt a degree of anger and resentment towards the Chinese. His family had suffered unspeakable atrocities and had seen libraries and monasteries destroyed. But then, the monk added that (unlike his elders) he perhaps felt this anger because he hadn’t progressed enough in his practice.

In an interview in the same film, Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, recounts this story about a monk who had been jailed and tortured by the Chinese. After his release, the monk escaped into India where he met His Holiness. One day, the Dalai Lama asked him about his time in prison and the monk replied that there were times when he felt that ‘he was indeed in danger…’. And when His Holiness asked about the nature of this danger’, the monk replied that at times while he was being tortured, he was indeed in danger of losing compassion for the Chinese

I had met the Dalai Lama for an interview about two years ago. And the words that I still remember from that day were in response to a question about what should one’s response be to an oppressor, be it a nation or an individual like let’s say, an Osama or a Hitler? The Dalai Lama had just smiled and said we should remember that it is the oppressor who needs compassion far more than the oppressed because while the latter has already endured a karmic cycle, the former has only begun to sow the seeds of his sins.

And this approach of treating one’s enemy like a teacher and forgiving him or her all his sins is perhaps the greatest miracle that has emerged from those passes in the mountains. Heat that vaporizes ice, leaping across miles or living a very long life might all be miracles worth chasing.

But can anything compare with the power of resolute compassion when it comes to making this world a better place? Imagine how much more beautiful the world could have been if every individual or community that today feels oppressed or persecuted, instead of picking up arms or hurling bombs had instead chosen to practice heartfelt compassion instead. And also imagine how much more hellish our world would have become if even the Tibetans had chosen the path of sustained and indiscriminate violence to hit back against those that have persecuted them.

I have tried this path and it seems infinitely more challenging than it might be to try and learn how to dry wet blankets. My compassion is fickle but it grows a little stronger every day, and I believe I become a little better every day. On our own on this path, we may stumble and fall, but if those we know and love share this quest and are with us when we get tripped by pain and ego, maybe they’ll hold our hands and help us find our feet… and then indeed, a miracle may not be beyond us.