Tiger Tales

"Look, he said to his imagination, if this is how you're going to behave, I shan't bring you again."

Going Postal

Terry Pratchett

I remember reading The Thak Man Eater with my back to the window in the TV room on a summer afternoon when, in one of those rare moments of peace, no one in my house seemed to be around. And I remember finishing the tale and staying in my chair, not daring to move, for fear of attracting the tiger's attention that I knew was lurking somewhere behind my right shoulder, waiting for me to reveal myself with the slightest movement. 

Since then, Corbett's tigers have stalked me in dreams, waking me up convinced that they were hiding beneath my bed, and they have followed me on solitary walks in the hills near Kasauli, defeating all sensible responses - there are barely any tigers or leopards left in India; they are not natural man-eaters; if there was one in the vicinity, it would be known, especially if it were a man-eater - there's always a first time, argues the imagination.

And so, my walks are accompanied by a pounding heart, a watchful eye and an ear straining to recognise the sounds of the forest and be alert to the warnings provided by its folk when a predator is on the prowl. My feeble attempts at self-preservation may be laughable but I do observe more of the forest and forest-life now.