Forest Guard

We were met by a pre-booked Mahindra Commander. Danny Gilbert, a Scottish colleague who lives and works in Hong Kong, and Keshav, the young tyro in the group, spent the rest of the trip hanging at different angles from the back of the jeep. I never asked why.

Jhoomar Bawri, where we stayed, was 4 km away. It was perched atop a small hill on the edge of the forest8212;a little haveli-turned-pink hotel, with terraces jutting out from every floor. A narrow road wound up the hill, and the last curve threatened to throw Danny and Keshav off every time we made that turn. The bonus was the sight of the occasional deer scurrying across as the jeep lumbered its way up.

Save for sprays of white paint at the tiny reception that was under renovation, the rest was stunning. Each floor had a large central hall, decorated thankfully sparsely with ethnic furniture. The bedrooms, equipped with coughing air-conditioners, veered off in every direction. I counted six. Great digs, friends, beer8212;the ingredients for a happy weekend.

We finally headed for Ranthambhore Fort. Built in 944 AD, the fort has always stood as an intersection point for north-south India trade. It also served as the last line of defence for crumbling empires: Rajput great Hammeer, Sultan Alauddin Khilji and even the Mughal emperor Akbar thought it was important to conquer this fort, located in the middle of a thick, tiger-infested forest. Once you walk up the centuries-old steps, you realise why: It offers, if nothing else, a fantastic vantage point for miles around. As forts go, it is not as fancy as the ones you are likely to see in Rajasthan. But nonetheless, you marvel at the aesthetics. There was a colourful but sleepy dargah, where a mujawar sat nodding off over a collection box. And monkeys. If you are a langur enthusiast, you should head straight for the Ganesh temple at the peak.

But the real reason you go to Ranthambhore is the tigers. You roll the names of the legendary inmates around your tongue: Jhumru, Jhumri, Sylvie, even Machhli from the fishtail-like mark on a cheek. You expect to see them lolling by the Banas the river that flows hugging the east of the Park or making their way through the Aravalli and Vindhya rock formations. Throughout the 1,015 sq km of the reserve, their stinking, powerful presence magnified through our imagination and even the just-around-the-corner quality of their absence.

That afternoon, and the morning after, we spent four hours each in the forest. We were in a canter and although we ceaselessly discussed tigers, none of the 40-odd that remain in the jungle showed up. The silence, the dense overwhelming green, the sudden rise of cliffs and buttes, and the still waters of lakes, framed what we did see: Lots of deer. Nilgais by the dozens, black bucks, chitals, a lone hawk, some kingfishers, some owls and, yes, many tiger pug marks.

Throughout our trip, locals told us of their 8216;8216;sightings8217;8217; with barely concealed pride. But they also told us we weren8217;t likely to see any. The official figure for tiger presence at Ranthambhore is around 50; we heard 46 once we got to Ranthambhore, but one cynical waiter at Jhoomar Bawri whispered it was more likely half that number. Shocking, especially since the official reserve website quotes an offhand claim that 75 per cent of all tiger photos around the world have been shot in Ranthambhore!

But tiger or no tiger, eight hours in the jungle wipes the diesel-burnt layers of the mind clean. And if that doesn8217;t do it, then a silent, dark Saturday night on the terrace of Jhoomar Bawri will. The beer disappeared quickly.

That was what I thought of that Sunday night as we headed back to Mumbai on the Golden Temple Express. We are so profligate in the city with sound, that we don8217;t even know it. At least I don8217;t. Or I do only when, for example, I find myself in a thinning but still dark forest. Or spend the night whispering on the terrace of an old mansion.