Hazaribagh: The joys of living wildly

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

Nights were of a different metal - we would either go boating and hear the oars cut through the limpid lake or sit by the lake, dip our feet and wait for hordes of deer to line up on the other bank and drink water. In the darkness we could hardly see the deer, but their eyes shone like diamonds and we would do a wild census by counting the glitter.

The orange balsam. The red canna. The crowded sal. The trite fragrance of wet eucalyptus. The golden of the orioles. The russet of the earth. The branched antlers of the deer. And the twitter of the sparrows.

Inside Hazaribagh National Park, these were like everyday perks doled out to anyone who set foot inside this 72 sq. mile park. For me, it was a fiefdom, for my father happened to lord over it officially. The park was a weekend getaway for us, straight from school we would change into jumpers and slacks, hop into a rickety jeep and drive through 18 kms of green fields and brown hillocks to reach Pokhariya, the entry point of the Park. Beyond the entry point, for 10 kms all one had was a dense canopy of sal all around, the prancing spotted deer, the burly sambhars standing by the mud road and staring, and the occasional rabbits and snakes. Yes, there were leopards and tigers but hey! have you ever seen royalty walking the streets with the plebian? There were no casual encounters with leopards and tigers, but then who really cared, there were better things waiting at the end of those long, bumpy 10 kms.

A wooden creaky bridge led into the canteen that sat smug in the middle of a man-made lake. The fuel used in the earthen hearth was wood (who had heard of LPG cylinders then!) and if it were winter we would sit near the hearth and scoop condensed milk out of the tin and slurp! Let me admit that milk was for the canteen's provisions, but then when you have dad who lords over it nobody snatched that tin away. In summer, glee came in the shape of an incredible fridge. There was no electricity inside the Park but there was an improvised fridge. An earthen pot was filled with water up to its gills and placed in a three feet hole in the canteen's backyard. The lid was covered with wet sand to beat the heat and this contraption was used to keep cold drinks, lemon, mangoes. And every time a Fanta or a Thums Up was pulled out of its wide neck I yelped in glee. That weird fridge also became my first lesson in minimalism.

Nights were of a different metal - we would either go boating and hear the oars cut through the limpid lake or sit by the lake, dip our feet and wait for hordes of deer to line up on the other bank and drink water. In the darkness we could hardly see the deer, but their eyes shone like diamonds and we would do a wild census by counting the glitter.

All these vignettes were borrowed from years that have gone by. But having trudged the world and worked enough I longed to see the Park again. When I packed and drove inside the Park recently, the sal looked as dense, I did spot the sambhars and the cheetals, I heard the twitter of the sparrows and I also recognized some of the faces that made our childhood happier. The Park still has no electricity, the wooden bridge still creaks and the canteen stills serves simple, yet sumptuous food in a jiffy. There weren't busloads of porcelain-skinned Bengalis who vacationed here, but age has not withered the pristine beauty of the Park and any day I would choose the no electricity, no phone life here than curl up within satin sheets in a Four Seasons.

While Hazaribagh National Park is known for its sal and cheetal, Betla National Park is where the world's first tiger census was held. A five-hour drive from the state capital Ranchi, Betla is nestled next to Daltonganj, a largish town, and is known for its tiger and elephant population. And it is my two encounters with the elephants that I think of every time Betla crops up in a conversation. It was a chill winter morning and we were in an open jeep scouring mud-spattered roads in search of a herd of elephants. The forest guard said he could sniff them, we were certainly on the right track. Seconds swelled into minutes but the tuskers were eluding us. Disappointed the driver was about to swerve to another track when we heard the first loud trumpet. Yes, the elephants were coming, we jumped in joy. But the loud trumpets soon sounded disaster, out of nowhere there came what looked like hundreds of elephants chasing our jeep. My dad, an avid photographer, did not want to miss this opportunity, my mother screamed at the driver to take us to safety. Those were harrowing moments, I had lived in the jungle long enough to accept danger but this pushed us close to Death. The jeep's engine was revved but strangely suddenly the elephants stopped dead in the tracks. They just let us go. I still can't find an explanation to this sudden change of heart, but I know we had a close brush with Death.

But elephants don't necessarily make the heart race wild, in Betla the tamed ones take you around the jungle on a morning safari. Just as the sun rose from amidst the cobalt sky, we struggled up the elephant in search of tigers. For two hours we went up and down hillocks, braved the sun and the bruises but well, there was no tiger. Yes, the mahout did try and convince that the pug marks were that of a tigress but we laughed at his gimmicks.

When in Betla, try and stay in the treetop, a cottage perched on the top of a tree. The bed might squeak and if you have vertigo keep the windows closed, but it is an experience that not many national parks offer. And if you are a history buff, put on your sneakers and roam around the ancient Medininagar fort that sits on the park's fringes.

Hazaribagh and Betla national parks stay within the realm of reality, but if you are looking for a fabled land where lizards fly and butterflies spatter their colors with gay abandon, go to Saranda. Sprawled over 800 sq kms in the West Singhbhum district of Jharkhand, Saranda literally translates into 'the land of 700 hills'. The forest is lush; it houses exquisite flora, provides a safe haven to the endangered flying lizard and is the permanent home to 150 Asiatic elephants.

If you want to see the prettiest sunset in the state, drive to Kiriburu that is perched at 2,800 ft above sea level and can easily masquerade as a hill station. Soak yourself in the spectacular view of the rising and setting sun at the viewpoint.

Published in Today's Traveller, April 2005.

Contact: Preeti@deepblueink.com