Just laugh it away, Mr Ranthambhore

Though stunning in its winter splendor, Ranthambhore is incomplete till the resident tigerman returns from his sickbed in Jaipur

The Bengal Post, 13 January, 2011

“What do you do with so much mustard?” The question came from an American couple who clearly had a taste for that yellow sauce (the more innocuous French versions of it) but were at a loss, considering the quantity of paste those hundreds of acres of standing flowers would amount to.

It was heartening to note that in a sea of tiger-hungry tourists, there were a few who drove away from Ranthambhore, cutting across those luscious mustard fields in search of blackbucks. The Americans went back with happy photographs and the knowledge of a new cooking medium. Ranthambhore always has a surprise or two for every visitor.

My friends among those blackbuck spotters recalled the collective “whoa!” that went up earlier in the day as their vehicle bounced up the undulated entry road on way to Jogi Mahal, throwing open the spectacular horizon. Under a mystical aerostat of bluish mist that masked the sun, the panorama was complete with craggy rock faces and majestic fort walls draped in winter vegetation of green and yellow.

It is difficult to feel partial to any particular forest. But Ranthambhore feels almost like home. Though I do not even remember the last time I entered the national park for a safari, this amazing forest has never failed to surprise me with its bounty of wildlife and stories. In fact, some of my best tiger encounters happened outside this national park, including the surreal leap of a young male tiger that cleared my jeep as I watched his white belly fly overhead.

My first Ranthambhore trip of 2011 was a short one. Yet it packed the usual punch -- two playful leopards by the road near Kushalpura village, a growling tigress with two cubs in the Chambal ravines, villagers negotiating the demands of conservation, and the customary evening debates in the open by the fireside.

But something was amiss. Ranthambhore’s resident tigerman Fateh Singh Rathore was away in Jaipur, in hospital for more than a week now. One who refused to lose his hearty laughter even after losing much of his voice, Fateh is a rare life force. But those close to him said he was not too well.


I know Fateh, Fatji to his innumerable admirers, for many years. He is the man who had virtually created the Ranthambhore national park as its first conservator. A true old world forester, he lived inside the forest and often put his life at risk to protect the park. A number of broken bones in his body still testify to those wild days.

I have never written anything on Fateh’s immense contribution to tiger conservation (lest it appeared a puff job). But some of my news reports did show him and his NGO’s early dealings in a not-so-favourable light. Not too long back, Fateh spoke to me of the injustice done to him and his family by the forest department when parts of their properties were demolished but I did not report (it was not national news). In short, Fateh had enough reasons to resent me.

However, I do not recall a single occasion when Fateh closed his doors to me. Every time he learns I am in town, he gets a beer or two placed in the freezer in case I drop by unannounced during the day. Age has forced him to give up drinking but it is still my privilege to light up a cigarette for him every time we meet. On occasions, I have simply walked in and shared his lunch.

Why has Fateh been so indulgent to a journalist who did him no favour? Is it because he believes my stories help his cause of tiger conservation? Possibly, yes. But I think it is in his nature to show warmth and trust people. He has many detractors, some among his friends, who routinely let him down. Some of them were jealous of his global fame, some others gloated whenever he was harassed by the establishment. A few still call him farji (fake) behind his back. For all his rustic charm, Fateh is sharp enough to know who stands where. But time and again, I have seen him open up with childlike spontaneity to his detractors when they need him. One requires a lion’s (or tiger’s) heart for that.

Dr Dharmendra Khandal came to Ranthambhore to work in Fateh’s NGO, TigerWatch, in 2003. Today, he is recognised internationally for his successful anti-poaching operations. I have never seen the boss rankled by his protégé’s meteoric rise even when occasional reporters left Ranthambhore with Dr Khandal’s quotes, without even meeting Fateh. Instead, he has happily given his protégé more space with each passing year.

To be fair, Fateh is no saint and he never claimed to be one. Like many Rathores, he has a weakness for land, lager (or whiskey) and ladies. Like most of us, he loves attention. His famed knowledge of tigers, though unmatched among his contemporaries, is largely anecdotal. At times, he overstates his cases against the establishment. When he is angry, he is usually abusive.

What distinguishes Fateh though from more visible tiger experts is the ferocity of his passion. He often concludes our discussions with a simple vow: “So long I am alive, come what may, I won’t let tigers disappear from Ranthambhore.” I often hear such lines in my job. I can tell Fateh does mean it.

But, like Ranthambhore, Fateh also keeps surprising me. In a world where experts are life prisoners of their early convictions, I least expected Fateh to be an exception. A man of modest education and feudal upbringing, he set up Ranthambhore by resettling villages and fighting poachers in the only way he knew: with an iron hand. Decades later, he was asked to accept that only guns would not save tigers, that poor tribal poachers were also victims of their circumstances. It required a paradigm shift in thinking that more erudite conservationists struggled with. But Fateh was up to it and soon, TigerWatch started rehabilitating poachers and educating their children.

For me, Fateh is as special a person as Ranthambhore a place. It is difficult to think of the two in isolation. The place owes its coming-into-being to the man. The man loves the place so much that he refuses to stay away one extra night than necessary. I am sure Fateh is laughing away his damned sickbed in Jaipur and itching to return. Ranthambhore is waiting.