TIGERS OF INDIA

Karthik

Just past dawn, the sky awash with soft hues of orange and pink, our open jeep rumbled gently along the forest trail of Nagarahole National Park. The jungle stirred awake — birds chirped, a distant langur grunted, and leaves rustled gently in the cool morning breeze. On either side, dense walls of teak and rosewood trees towered, forming a grand green cathedral. Golden sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting long shadows on the forest floor. Our guide, a quiet man with hawk-like eyes, suddenly raised his hand. The jeep stopped. The forest fell into an expectant hush. “There,” he whispered, pointing ahead. Then, we saw her. Standing in a sun-dappled clearing, partially veiled by trees, was a Bengal tiger. A stunning female — her orange coat marked with black stripes, muscles moving with effortless grace.


The morning light streamed through the trees, illuminating one side of her body in radiant gold, as if the forest had chosen to spotlight her. She paused. She didn’t turn, didn’t startle, just regarded us with calm curiosity. No fear. No threat. Just presence. Her breath curled slightly in the crisp air. Not a single alarm call came from the langurs or spotted deer. She was entirely at ease. Time seemed to freeze. The forest hummed softly; a camera clicked once. We barely moved. It wasn’t just a sighting — it was a rare moment of connection. Then, with a final glance, she turned, drank from a nearby stream, scented the trees, and slipped into the forest’s embrace. Light glimmered on her flank until she disappeared. We sat in silence, hearts racing. That morning, the wild had offered us a gift — a glimpse of royalty bathed in dawn’s golden glow.

This article first appeared in the PRISMA Newsletter, 20th of July 2025.