Friday, April 1, 2011

The Tigers the TigerMan

Tigers would surely mourn this one death. Ananda Banerjee remembers noted conservationist Fateh Singh Rathore, who passed away early this month.

A bout of unseasonal rain calmed the heat and dust of the tiger forest. “Cheetal will congregate in great numbers today,” boomed a voice under the Stetson, as we moved along the royal lakeside at Rajbagh, Ranthambhore National Park.

In the late 1980s, a wildlife documentary on tigers captured my imagination. Especially a sequence of a tiger hunting down a sambar deer on this very lake alongside the palace ruins. Also seen in the documentary was this very man nattily dressed with a Stetson driving his jeep around the park. These two images remained transfixed forever — the tiger named Genghis for its strength and prowess, and its guardian, Fateh Singh Rathore.

Never once in my wildest dream had I imagined that a day would come when I shall ride with him into the very heart of Ranthambhore. This was in the late 1990s when by a curious turn of events, after failing to become a medical practitioner as my parents had desired and a short career in advertising, I got involved in the work of counting tigers in my fantasy land.

The first time I went to meet Rathore at his home, I couldn’t recognise him for a good few seconds. So used to the image he conjured in the many documentaries and pictures that I mistook him for someone else when he sat in his garden relaxing in a white kurta and dhoti. What made him look different was his striking baldness, as the familiar Stetson was tucked away somewhere inside his house. But his beaming smile under the flowing silver moustache was a cue enough for the legend he was in picture and spirit.

Coming back to our jungle trip, we saw a number of cheetals grazing; and, we indulged in some photography. Those were the days of film cameras, as digital cameras were unheard off. ‘Fatji’, as he was lovingly called, was using Nikon F3. I had a borrowed FM2 of the same brand. As discussions turned towards the nuances of aperture and shutter speed, we were joined by other tourist jeeps where one particular gentleman let loose his bazooka (read long telephoto lens) and went berserk shooting with his automatic SLR. Immediately, Fatji sounded his displeasure: “Hum mehnat karke photo khichate hain, aur ishko dekho, phat-phat-phat-phat-phatttttt. Ye koi baat hui, ye to koi bhi kar sakta hai.”

Rathore was in his eccentric mood. Further down the forest track, he let loose again: “Yeh aur ek pagal hai”, commenting on the persistent call of the Common Hawk Cuckoo. “Brain fever, brain fever”, he shouted and abruptly asked his driver to pull up on the side. I dared to ask the reason and he replied pointing at the sides: “Maharani idhar hi hai, aur yahin se niklegi”. Such was his command of the forest and its famed inhabitants! He seemed to have a sixth sense and his uncanny ability to predict the location of the big cat was legendary.

Apart from the ‘brain fever’, there were no other calls and the forest remained silent. As there were no alarm calls, there were no tigers — at least none showed up at that moment. After waiting for a good half-an-hour, he finally gave up. And we drove on only to get a tyre of our jeep flattened near Malik Talab. Other tourist jeeps offered us help, but Rathore whisked them away nonchalantly. A troupe of hanuman langurs hopped around in front of us as if to inspect and he let loose a volley of unprintable superlatives only to laugh aloud at the very next moment. Such was his unpredictability.

The light was fading and it was time for us to head for the exit. But Fatji was adamant on revisiting the spot where we had ‘wasted’ more than 30 minutes looking for the maharani.

The bend where we waited seemed devoid of any activity, but on closer inspection we found fresh pugmarks going across the road and vanishing into the undergrowth. This was something I never expected. Even without spotting a tiger the experience was magical. Reverence was the only thing that came to my mind when after a long silence he said: “Maharani ki marzi darshan nahi dene ka.”

That afternoon no one had a single sighting at the tiger reserve and visitors irked him at the exit gate by asking if he got to see one. He let loose again: “Tiger, tiger, tiger. Tiger tumhara naukar hai kya. Jab marzi bulaoge to samne haziri dega… Jungle mein aur bhi to bahut kuch hai dekhne ke liye.” Then, instantly, he suggested the possible location where one might get a spotting the next morning.

With Rathore’s passing away, memories of that blissful afternoon flooded me. He was the ‘Tiger Guru’ and the ‘Tiger Man’ of India. His name is synonymous with Ranthambhore and countless account of his work has been documented in films and books. The legendary Jim Corbett had once commented: “The tiger is a large-hearted gentleman.” I think of the same for Fateh Singh Rathore. May his soul rest in peace.

Timeline

1938: Fateh Singh Rathore is born in Choradia, a village in the Jodhpur district of Rajasthan

1960: Rathore joins the Rajasthan Forest Service. One of his first jobs is organising tiger hunts during a visit by the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh in 1961

1971: He is posted as game warden in Ranthambhore

1973: Rathore creates a tiger sanctuary at Ranthambhore. When Rathore arrives at Ranthambhore, there are believed to be just three or four of the animals left

1980: Ranthambhore sanctuary is declared a national park

1981: He is ambushed, beaten unconscious and left for dead by villagers illegally grazing cattle in the reserve

1982: Indira Gandhi presents Rathore with the Project Tiger conservation award

1983: He is awarded an International Valour Award for bravery in the field

1988: He has been sacked as warden and transferred to an office job in Jaipur after remonstrating with a ‘nobleman’ caught shooting wild boar

1999: After his retirement, Rathore is appointed Honorary Wildlife Warden for Ranthambhore

2011: He is presented with a Lifetime Achievement Award by the World Wide Fund for Nature. He dies on March 1

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