When I got selected for Indian Forest Service in 1987 a family friend and a well-wisher, who had some familiarity with the service, remarked to me, “Congratulations. You will enjoy your career because a forest officer is a king of the jungle!”. Taking his compliment literally to heart I then readily concluded that children’s story books had probably misled me earlier to erroneously believe that lion was the king of the jungle! Nevertheless, I really felt like a king on my first posting as Wildlife Warden in Parambikulam Sanctuary in Kerala because - one reason among many - only the Warden had an old, green canvas top Maruti Gypsy, that too non AC, in the entire jurisdiction of nearly 300 sq km landscape comprising only of forests. The four subordinate range officers, by contrast, had Mahindra jeeps. It also made me realize later in life how often we need very little to be happy and contented.

The forest department was the only arm of the Government of Kerala in that densely forested valley having hardly any human habitation other than about 800 tribals in four hamlets spread in different corners. There was a huge reservoir, right in front of my official residence across the road barely 70 m away, that I treated as my private swimming pool though it had crocodiles too that were occasionally seen floating languidly in deeper parts. However, they very considerately maintained a respectable distance while I swam near the bank of the reservoir allowing me an illusion of royal entitlement. In the evenings on alternate days, I had the pleasure of hand rowing a small boat-a skill that I picked up in the initial days from a daily wage forest watcher. The boat could just accommodate four people and I rowed it under his watchful eyes while he held my one-year-old daughter who also enjoyed the outings.

Parambikulam was a remote place on the border of Kerala and Tamilnadu. The nearest town, Pollachi, in Tamilnadu, was 55 km away while Palghat in Kerala was at a distance of 100 km and one had to manoeuvre nearly 30 km of a meandering hill road having sharp curves on a steep incline with lush green forests to reach there. Despite this place being in Kerala, it had no direct motorable road access from anywhere within the state and one had to pass through the adjoining Indira Gandhi Wildlife Sanctuary in Tamilnadu along a single-lane meandering road that was the only lifeline for transport.

Absolutely nothing was available in Parambikulam those days for the kitchen except for a variety of fish from the reservoir- a boon for a non-vegetarian. Hence, one was thankful for the various official meetings in Palghat and other cities because attending them made possible an intermittent and precariously short supply of groceries and vegetables, offering a big relief to my strictly vegetarian family.

In 1991 mobile phones were yet to appear on the scene anywhere in the world and for all official communication, there was a wireless system with repeater stations beaming messages across the state all the way from Trivandrum. Often it required Leonardo da Vinci problem solving ability to unravel the garbled messages, especially in English that passed through a series of transmitters and receivers, ears and mouths of the forest staff, or daily wage watchers attending the wireless. Indeed, it was difficult to pinpoint the exact source of any distortion in those wireless messages whenever it occurred and had to be taken in stride.

Those days my immediate boss, the Field Director, had his office in Kottayam and to attend his monthly meeting I had to drive first for 2 hours to Palghat by road and then board a train after instructing the driver to park the vehicle in “Wood House” - a Forest Rest House made entirely of wood- till my return that used to be late night.

Every day after sunset the check post barriers on the road passing through the sanctuary were closed for the general public and the green Maruti would be the only vehicle moving at that odd time with the magnificent forest and its fauna standing as mute witnesses. On many such nocturnal return trips, I could see a lot of wild animals - herds of spotted deer, a lone sambhar scrambling away, a bear family in a playful frolic or a white stockinged stout wild gaur with a prominent dewlap -on the road itself. As no vehicular traffic, other than for government purposes, was allowed between dusk and dawn on this approach road in adjoining Tamilnadu and Kerala sanctuaries, the wild animals felt safe to roam around freely and one had a feeling of being in the midst of Garden of Eden because of its tranquillity.

Returning from one such monthly meeting at Kottayam, it was past mid-night when my driver made the usual request to Tamilnadu forest barrier staff on duty to allow my vehicle to pass through. The sleepy staff came out half dazed, gave one look at the familiar vehicle and lifted the barrier. The vehicle glided along silently with no other soul in sight. Even the tribal colony that we passed after a couple of kilometres was very quiet and I could only see the dark silhouettes of their sparse dwellings from the road.

Owing to the travel fatigue I might have dozed momentarily while my driver, Ravi, drove the vehicle with rapt attention. Suddenly I was awakened when Ravi gasped and stopped the Gypsy. The weak headlight of Maruti and the soft moonlight shone on a lone tusker that was happily standing on the middle of the road relishing the bamboo culm it might have uprooted from a nearby area. Ravi, a young man in his late twenties with a sober face and generally reticent smile, was used to such encounters and apparently it was not a matter of any concern. There was no way we could drive further without the tusker giving us the right of way and it looked that it was in no mood to do so.

Ravi initially dipped, switched off and flashed the vehicle’s light beams for several times to scare the animal but that had absolutely no impact on it. Its huge head swayed from side to side and the big ears kept on fanning lazily while it eyeballed us coolly in the dark. I knew that elephants have poor eye sight but in that instant I was not willing to rely on that theory and bet my life on it. For a couple of minutes Ravi tried all the tricks up his sleeve gained over seven years of driving in Parambikulam. He banged against the metal door of Gypsy and raced the engine thereby shattering the dead quiet of the night but the elephant turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to all his efforts. It was a battle of human wit against the fear of brute animal strength and we were clearly on the losing side.

After 15-20 minutes of his futile efforts Ravi looked at me helplessly and suggested, “Sir, let us go back and attempt to seek help from the nearest tribal colony”. I was apprehensive whether anyone would be up and awake at that hour to listen to our plight and would also be agreeing to assist us. In the worst scenario my mind was already contemplating a long uncertain wait in the vehicle at a reasonably safe distance from the tusker. As the situation was not getting resolved I agreed to his idea and we turned tail and drove back to the tribal colony we had passed earlier on our way hoping for the best.

Ravi gingerly entered the colony while few dogs barked in the background alarmed by the odd and unexpected visit. Luckily, and to my utter surprise, he could muster five tribals who immediately boarded the Gypsy without much persuasion to help us.

We drove again to the spot where we found the elephant enjoying his “dharna” and still did not bother on the approach of the vehicle that he had treated with utter disregard earlier too. What happened next was surprising and hilarious. The men in the back of the vehicle got down noisily, folded their ‘mund’ (lungi) up above their knees and started moving unhesitantly in tandem towards the tusker while clapping their hands vigorously and shouting something in Tamil that I could not decipher. The ease, comfort and harmony with which they did the march was as if they were just participating in Beating the Retreat parade on Delhi Janpath road. The tusker that had managed to ignore all our attempts to budge it earlier was totally unprepared for this contemptuous treatment meted out to it by mere human beings. On seeing the small crowd approaching it with clapping sounds and showers of noisy Tamil words, the huge animal promptly turned around, took to its proverbial heels, quickly got off the road like a cartoon animation character and vanished in the adjoining forests lending a comical effect to its summary eviction. The whole scene was enacted in less than a minute and the tension of the road block melted away immediately. However, the night still had one more surprise for me that turned out to be a huge life lesson that could not be forgotten even after so many years.

Once we got convinced that the tusker had been “politely” cajoled to leave us in peace, I asked Ravi to inform the tribals to board the vehicle again so that we could drop our brave heart saviours back to their colony. It may sound totally irrational, absurd or even unbelievable, yet all of them declined our offer in all humility and asked us to proceed on our way assuring us that they would happily walk back without any inconvenience. This was the most humbling moment of my life-realising that they had to walk at least three kilometres at that odd hour to reach their hamlet sacrificing their sleep apart from the fear of facing other wild animals on the way. Despite several combined pleas from Ravi and myself offering to transport them in our vehicle, those five men simply walked back waving us off joyfully with beaming smiles as if it was something routine in their life and not a feat even to be acknowledged. Finally, Ravi and I drove on to our destination feeling amazed and indebted. While many intellectuals and conservationists only talk about interdependence of species on this planet, I was given a hands on lesson about “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam” by those simple folks.

That noble and selfless gesture of those tribals fills me with gratitude every time I recall it.

.   .   .