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SINCE God is already known to belong to Kerala, if any other state
could stake a strong contention to granting Him dual citizenship, it
must be Karnataka. The Jungle Lodges alone have enough credentials to
beckon God to reside in any of its cottages on the banks of Kabini,
the Anglicization for the mythological and more musical Kapila.
Succumbing to the temptations of the wild that embellish the exquisite
Jungle Lodges (JL, for short) was therefore only a formality. The
riches of nature are sprawled here in mocking contrast against the stark
squalor of Heggadadevanakote, the most backward taluka of Mysore that
houses this eco-tourism hotspot.
The gentle speed of the mini bus that carried us from Mysore combined the lush vegetation with one endless streak of verdant green.
The numerous potholes on the daunting journey, of course, upset the
motion of stroke to give it the jagged look of an electrocardiograph. The warm welcome on arrival kept the dispiritedness induced
by the inclemency at bay. It even offered an invitation for the
chilled beer to shift loyalties: from bottle to belly. Simplest of
meals have a way of imposing themselves on the partaker; ravenousness
finds itself an excuse in the wilderness; holidaying only makes things
worse. But slovenliness, abetted by overeating, was not enough of a
deterrent to keep us indoors, however inviting the ambience inside the
cottages was. The spirit of adventure was blessed by none other than
the rain god himself, who stayed away when it suited us, and the
pickup van that came almost on time could afford to parade itself
topless as is its wont. Perhaps, it was the hosts' way of not limiting
our soaring spirits. We had every reason to feel on top of the world.
The pristine bathtubs were not my idea of a fulfilling bath, but I was taken by
carefully chosen shower curtain that completed the picture of elegant
luxury. If one of the numerous immovable gifts that the erstwhile
Maharajas of Mysore once showered on their subjects has not yet been
devalued because of neglect, it is these imperial cottages, originally
meant to serve as rest house for the royal entourage on its hunting
expeditions.
At tea, Prasad briefed us about the park, ahead of our game ride
through it. (Post-dinner, I expressed my gentle but strong grouse to
Manager Hari Ram that he must be trained to speak more refined
English, particularly for the benefit of foreigners. Hari had his
problem: Thirty of his 80-odd support staff were extracted from the
village neighborhood and training them in the fine art of hospitality
was an ongoing challenge). Except the fact that there was a ten-minute delay in
departure for the ride, the one-night package worked to clockwork precision.
The black soil, which makes cotton cultivation the automatic choice near the Nagarahole National Park, had turned slushy with rain. Regular movement of the safari vehicles, as also the elephants, had created potholes at places so much so, we seemed to be having a boat-ride whenever the van skidded.
Somashekar, the driver, gave us a few chilling moments by stopping the vehicle close to wild elephants. First, it was a bull elephant, a mother and its calf.
The bull was nudging the mother elephant away to have an
extra-trunkful of grass of which there was no dearth. The instruction
given to us beforehand to maintain silence was followed in its spirit.
I took a dig at my mother-in-law by whispering to my wife that she had
never been so quiet as she was when we were almost a trunk-shake away
from the jumbos. By the time when we spotted and stopped near a lone
tusker, the belief had probably gained ground in some of us that the elephant in the wild is an innocuous animal. There were herds of spotted deer springing up
from the thickets every now and then. Their abundance is what denies
them the star status of the tiger, which remains elusive to me like
God despite my numerous forays into the jungles where the Project
Tiger is on.
Dinnerwas followed by dessert in the manifestation of Shekar Dattatri's near-hour-long film on Nagarahole. The gifted and hardworking producer took months to make this award-winning film in 1997, but I had never got a chance to watch
it. If an unlucky visitor perchance fails to spot a single animal because he has badly timed his visit, this film would smother his disappointment. (Or, would it stoke it by telling him what he missed?) The abject surrender of the stag to the guileful strategy of a pack of wild-dogs was a poignant scene. But the food chain cannot break links. It is only our lifestyle that has the habit of breaking link
after vital link of this long chain. Man's every meal is snatching another living being of its meal.
Earlier, it was the billowing fumes from the exhaust of a semi-efficient safari vehicle that broke the chain of my green thoughts. However, the last beautiful sight I had for the day was that of the well-kept modern kitchen that Hari led me into with amiable confidence. He dipped his fingers inside the huge bowl of potassium permanganate that gave organically grown vegetables their mandatory wash for hygienic reasons. "The cooks and helpers maintain a high
level of hygiene, too," he claimed and I didn't have reasons to object. Hari, who has been at Kabini for less than three years, went up another notch in my esteem when he briefed me about his conservation efforts, including the measure to divert the sewage to a site away from the river.
John Wakefield, the Resident Director who is the only non-governmental official on the campus, has been there since the inception of JL as a joint venture between Karnataka Government and Tiger Tops two decades ago. His presence somehow seems to add authenticity to the linkages the royalty of Mysore had with the British. I engage him in a conversation the next morning, and he has plenty of insights to offer. The government needs to take care of the approach road to JL. That is going to make the tour to Kabini a truly memorable experience, says Hari. 'This place needs nothing else.' Nitin, my every-inch-American brother-in-law, has gone nuts about this place, too. Though he recommends aggressive marketing, something which Hari is not in favour of. According to him, the place has the merits to attract tourists from far and wide by the word of mouth alone. He is glad that unlike most touristy spots, Kabini
has no memorabilia to offer. 'Memories of the place are good enough,' he says. Kabini memories are enough to make her forget the bumpy ride through the ups and downs of the safari ride.
Will God have second thoughts about accepting the citizenship -- just as Nitin has about hard-selling Kabini, because the good things that he found there had a touch of serendipity?
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