Time Travel

If you could go back in time, would you change things? You would, of course you would. If you look at your life and think, wow, I wouldn't change a thing, not even the one teeny tiny bit of rearranging, I'd like to come shake your hand. And then slap you a little bit, just you know, so you'd have something different to say the next time.

What do you reckon you'd change, really? To find that one moment that set the ball rolling for the way a life shapes up. Kind of a challenge. I think I'd go through several attempts, seeing the sometimes misplaced sense of priorities I seem to persistently exhibit. Like in some movies, where the protagonist goes through a day again and again to get it exactly right, and in the end, someone dies anyway, because the moron was fixing the wrong moment.

Or maybe it's destiny and no matter how many times you adjust things, you're going to land up exactly where you were supposed to.

There's a film that sort of is about this and then some. Have you watched Sliding Doors? The movie starts with Gwyneth Paltrow having lost her job at a PR firm. She has a few drinks with her friends, goes home to a boyfriend who you realise is a bit of an ass right away. The next morning, she's running to make it in time for the train, and this is the moment the film splits into two. Two parallel tracks: one in which she makes it in time, chats with this lovely man, comes back home in time to find her boyfriend cheating on her, moves out, etc. And the other track, where she misses the train, the doors slide shut, and on her way back home, she gets mugged, goes to the hospital, remains oblivious to her cheating boyfriend for a large chunk of the movie, etc etc.

Now here's the thing. In both sequences, she ends up meeting the same people in different ways. And in one scenario, she dies in the end. And in the other one, she ends up talking to lovely man from the train much later, in the end. In an elevator.

It all depended on whether on not she caught the train in time. Scary stuff.

I watched three things about this in quick consequence, hence all this thought.

A rerun of an episode in F.R.I.E.N.D.S. where they all asked what if? What if Phoebe were a corporate lawyer, what if Monica was still fat, what if Chandler quit and became a cartoonist, etc.
The thing is, at the end of the show, they all were exactly where they would have otherwise been.

Last night, I watched an episode of Supernatural (who else wants to have Dean's babies? :)) which finally showed a scenario that the boys continue to ask in each episode. What if we'd never been ghost hunters, demon killers, vampire stakes, etc etc. They show Dean in a cool corporate job, madly rich and successful and Sam, tech support in the same company. And of course, they end up seeing a ghost and fight it, and maybe 5 years later than otherwise, they joined hands and became... well hunters. Hot hunters. Fully awesome, demon-killing, good looking, funny... okay. Back to the point.

I am a deeply impulsive being, which means I go through most things in life with the attitude of an elephant crashing through a jungle, not really thinking about how what I do or don't is shaping tomorrow. It's much later, when I reflect, I can see what I probably should have done differently. But then, what I didn't do differently also made me what I am today, yes? And if I do like that bit, then the rest becomes pointless.We're possibly meant to be just this. What we are today. Maybe when my father died, a part of me became so strong that it can take on the world. Maybe, the graveyard of my dead relationships made me so focused towards work that I soared professionally. Maybe, the hurt and the pain that every disappointment brought gave me newer stories to write. Without those, who would I have been today? Someone better? Happier? Maybe. With better stories? Unlikely, but who's to say?

What then, do I go back to change?

So, maybe some battle scars are there for a reason. Even if the reason is just to make you feel like a giant dufus.

I am like this, but then, I am also like that

(I'd written a slightly different version of this on FB. The last one, though, is from Grey's Anatomy).


I am highly prone to brief and intense addictions. It could be a TV show, a person, a song...

I love football. I used to play with the boys till I developed body parts that were no longer conducive.

For all my cautious talk, my life shows a persistent recklessness. I am alarmingly contradictory. I want, at all times, completely incompatible things.

I love sinking my teeth into a story. To turn it around, to tinker with the start, to pull things out and fit them somewhere else, and make it as beautiful as it was meant to be. I am a print editor, through and through.

I love video games, especially ones like Doom, where you’re handed a gun and an arsenal, and gross demons and soldiers ambush you from everywhere and you shoot everything in sight and all the blood splatters the walls and… what? Why’re you looking at me like that?

I am a sucker for happy endings. I get massively upset when fiction ends badly. Hello, if I want reality I have my life, no?

I don’t like all babies. Only cute ones. I live in fear that my own baby won’t be and then I won’t like my own child.

I am madly passionate about wildlife, the outdoors, and everything nature-related. I live in the (slightly deluded) belief that it feels the same way about me.

I cannot fathom how in the blistering barnacles have we reached a point where cockroaches (*shudder) are featuring in entertainment films. I could not enjoy Wal E as much as I could have (*gags). And Monster vs Aliens. The doctor's a roach?? What in the whole wide world is that about? Since when are these cute? This has to stop. Now. Yes, I am phobic. And if you're at all sympathetic to their cause, go read the Roach post in this blog. Bullies.

I think travel is the closest I've come to feeling at peace. And I think I am really good at it.

I have the gift of impossible relationships. Love is my Waterloo. 

I cannot hold my drink. And I do not sip. I gulp. One drink: (Loudly) talking about how the waaallsh are moovinng, how much I love my frandsh and my mommy, and how the tiger is going f***ing extinct. Second drink, I am horizontal on the floor… thank you ladies and gentlemen, end of day’s play. I quit when people started party conversations with a slightly nervous, ‘So what is Sej drinking?’ or ‘Who is mixing Sej’s drink?’

Dirty bathrooms depress me.

I've discovered that God takes sides. If you've hurt me, if I were you, I'd watch my back. No, no, really. It's scary.

My father’s death has left me a shadow of the person I used to be.

My mum is not as timid as she looks. If there ever was an example of looks being deceptive, my mum could run the campaign. This is me and mum in a fight when I want to do something she doesn't want me to:
Me: *LOUD YELLING
Mum: Silent and appearing docile.
Me: *MORE LOUD YELLING FOR AN HOUR
Mum: "No."
Me: "Okay." 

I get high on live performances… theatre, street plays, stand-up, concerts, anything that exudes live energy.

I think my niece is special. As babies go, she has spoilt me for life.

Contrary to popular belief, I love driving. I used to take long drives, before this city and its roads became what they are today.

Once you’re in my (very short) special people list, you can do no wrong. I mean, you will need to stab me in the back with a pretty sharp knife for me to see you’re a so-and-so. I have a few battle scars to show for this idiocy.

I adore desserts. If they put me in one of those ads where one is supposed to make those orgasmic sounds and ecstatic faces after a bite, I wouldn’t have to act at all.

I laugh at almost everything. I believe what Cyrus Sahukar once said in a Femina interview: Dude, funny is all around you, you just have to see it.

I can be painfully vicious in a fight. But I should care enough to be.

Finally, against all odds, against all logic, I believe…

The Loss of Innocence

I saw my first and only strip show in Bangkok. 
On an office conference. From Femina. All those years ago.

Loss of innocence happened. 

The lanes of Patpong were everything I'd heard they would be. There were endless rows of clubs, with men and women standing outside and enticing passers-by. Shocking passers-by in my case.
Men came up and asked, "Want boy? Very nice," with accompanying hand gestures. As I gawked at them, trying to form a sentence that would appropriately explain that while I was at the most popular sex street in the world, I was not looking for anything, my friend pulled me away with a 'no no, not interested'.

"Why are you having a conversation with them?" G was laughing.

"I was not! I was attempting to decline." I said, completely distracted by everything. There were peddlers selling sex toys and I could hardly believe some of the shapes and sizes of the various things on display. There was music blaring out of every other club and --

"Okay, can everybody else see a naked woman in a glass cage?" I stared as she shimmied up and down the sides and smiled seductively at us. I couldn't help it. I laughed. And it wasn't a flustered 'Oh my, there's a naked woman in a glass cage' laugh. It was a 'Um, lady, knock, knock, you know that we can see you, right?' laugh. It was a 'Sweetie, don't look now, but you're in a glass cage' laugh. She wasn't amused.

We were finally there. The club was named after a woman's body part that had nothing to do with a cute feline animal also of the same name. There were 15 of us, including U, who was heavily pregnant. With twins. The guys haggled with the staff for seating, rates, etc, and we took our seats in front of a poorly-lit square stage. I looked around our little group. Apart from U, who was already looking doubtful about her parenting skills given that her kids could technically say that their mum had taken them to their first strip show, we were a mixed group. There were two three girls who blushed at the mere mention of sex... and all that surrounds it, and in the media, these conversations came up often, so I knew that they indeed blushed often. And then there were others, me included, who had come out of pure curiosity. To see what the fuss was about. I was even interested in a story. Maybe I could talk to a few of these girls... get their story. I said so to P. She rolled her eyes.
"Sej, will you stop thinking about work?! We're on holiday!" she exclaimed.

"Er, P, we're here on an office conference." I grinned. 

"Oh, yeah," she laughed sheepishly. "Forgot."

So okay, drinks served, seats adjusted, breathing exercises done (by U), and they were ready for us. I didn't know if we were ready for them, though.

Ten minutes later, I was shell shocked. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. Now, don't misunderstand me. I am not a prude, though I do think women having to take off their clothes and get jeered at for a living is appalling, but that is just one of the reasons I hated it. This was a horrible, horrible show. It was not erotic, it was not tasteful. If anything at all, it was downright sad.

A couple of women shuffled on to the stage, wearing a bit of this and a bit of that. They moved listlessly to the music. They looked bored out their brains. A couple of women at the back of the stage were actually talking. they were in the middle of a conversation. 'Hey what's up, nothing much, I saw a movie, went shopping... hey can you get my bra strap open... Ya, so shopped and then... wait let me just wave this in the air... ya so then we just hung out.' Like that. Most of them were old, and, forgive me for saying this, but it was a strip show... fat. Really. 

But the worst was yet to come.

One of the women finally broke the hideous vacant moving-on-the-spot routine and came up to the front of the stage. She was wearing nothing at all. She sat down on her knees and proceeded to remove colourful strings of paper. From inside her. I recoiled in my seat. That was the mildest scene that night. The women proceeded to do acts (with the body part that the club was named after) that until now, I had thought physically and humanly impossible. Acts that involved pens, paper, writing, and (shudder) cola bottles. Our numbers dropped rapidly. P was the first casualty. I don't think she had ever seen a porn film in her life and here... She left almost immediately. U braved it for some time, her face alternating between disbelief and disgust. My threshold came after the cola bottle. When she brought the bottle close to herself for the first time, I shrank back in my seat with a 'Oh god, oh god, what is she going to do now?' Unfortunately, I found out immediately. That did it. Want to go," I whispered to V. "Want to go now."

A loud, opinionated discussion followed that night.

"Men like this?" I asked. I was over the shock of it now, and the dynamics were interesting. 
P, next to me, shuddered. "Men are sick!" She looked accusingly at G and D and said again, "SICK!"
"Men don't like that!' said D, slightly frightened. "That was a really bad show! There are better ones. More sensual than sick." He looked around the group of disgusted women. "Really! I promise!"

That must be true. This show was more of a circus act than fodder for erotica. It was a freak show. But there were men in that audience who were enjoying it. I saw them. They were there. Perverts for whom even this portrayal of bored, disinterested, freak act was pleasurable. They look pretty normal... business suits, well-bred. They didn't look twisted in the least. 

And that scared the hell out of me.

(First posted in itsastartwhat.blogspot.com in 2007 :))

My ear vs the Roach

A travel plan is an oxymoron.
No travel, no matter how well you plan it, is going to go completely according to plan.
Flights will be cancelled, trains will be delayed, restaurants will close by the time you reach, car tires will go bust, a stomach flu may find you, or a cockroach could climb into your ear.

Yes, true story. It happens. It did happen. To me. Very far away from home. Or a hospital. Or my mummy.

I was in the middle of a travel assignment in Meghalaya. We'd reached Cherrapunjee late evening, and the hotel was on a beautiful hill, in the middle of... nowhere. Ironic how that particular bit had appealed to me immensely before a cockroach mistook my ear for its home.

We were visiting in the middle of summer but Cherra (as it is fondly called), was showing off. No longer the wettest place on Earth? I'll show them. That sort of thing. It had been an exhausting day, with a full trek in the rain and some hail thrown in for good measure. I couldn't wait to sleep, so I asked for dinner to be sent to the room. After a few bites, I left the rest on the table. A BIG mistake. I was after all, in the wilderness, and should have been slightly more mindful of bugs, but I went off to sleep under a bundle of mattresses almost immediately after.

See how pretty. Not that I got to enjoy any of it

It happened at around 5:30 in the morning. In hindsight, I can see it as a scene in a movie. The small roach making its way over the mattress. Approaching the ear. Audiences gasping, covering their eyes, cringing, hopelessly telling the sleeping form on the screen to wake up, as it pauses over the opening of the ear...

I felt this horrible muffled scratching, scraping in my left ear, and I jerked up in bed, bewildered, still not fully awake, with an extremely strange sensation in the left side of my face. The room seemed to sway for a second as I shook my head. And then a feeling of horror as I instinctively knew what had happened. Oh god, oh god, there's a bug in my ear, I thought, as the scuffling continued. I was hoping, so so so hoping it was just the altitude and wax, but when I moved to get up, the scuffling increased, and I let out a whimper. Jeez, what was it? I tried tapping on the right ear, so if it was on the brink, it could fall out, but that sort of frightened it, and it started to flap around. I yelped in pain and fright. The pain, combined with the flapping sound in my ear! YUCKS!

I sat, slowly, with as little movement as possible and called L, the photographer in the next room. I took deep breaths, and said, feigning calm, "L, can you come out, please? I think there's a bug in my ear." Slight pause. Understandable. "Inside your ear???" Another pause. I waited, shockingly patient. "Coming," he said. I got up, again, very slowly, and as if in slow motion, switched on the torch, and swept the light across the room. I knew, I don't know how, exactly what it was, but I wanted to be sure. And there, sure enough, in the corner of the room, near the food, was a tiny group of small roaches. Not the massive ones, the small, long, gross ones. It was a horrible moment, for anyone, but let me take a second to tell you why it was more so for me.

I hate roaches. No no, it's not the girlie I-am-so-afraid-of-roaches fear. It's a deep phobic fear. I am mortally frightened of them. It is a paralysing fear. One that I am battling with continually. I have abandoned trains, buses, cars (one I was driving, yes) because of these darned creatures. They seem to smell my fear and single me out to torment. Always. So. Back to the story. 

I met L at the door, who was still groggy with sleep, "What happened?" "There's a bug in my ear," I said. I think he expected hysterics, so did I, so this matter-of-factness gave him hope. "Let me see," he said. Gratefully, I let him peer into my ear, turning my head this way and that. "I can't see anything. Maybe it's gone?" he asked. "No, unfortunately, I can feel it," I said. We stood there, in our nightclothes, in the cold and I could tell he didn't think it was a bug. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew in our direction and the insect flapped helplessly, making me double over in pain, with a "Oh God, what the EFF!" This alarmed L considerably, bug or no bug, and he ushered me hastily back into the room and closed the door.

I slow-motioned to the bed, the wretched creature calmed down and the pain paused. God, this was the grossest thing ever to have happened, I thought. "I'll call AL," L said. "He'll know what to do." AL was our guide for the trip. Yes, I thought. AL would come through. An extremely jolly sort of fellow with a great love for drink, a good time and all things Khasi, AL was madly well-connected. Too much so... by evening all of Shillong knew my encounter with the roach (no exaggeration). While he dialled, I called Mansi, my brother's wife. "Maan, there's a cockroach in my ear, Maan," I said pitifully, relieved that I was finally telling someone who would understand the enormity of a roach bullying me. Mansi is a fire-fighter. A cool head, but for a few minutes, there was full blown panic. How did it happen? A ROACH??? REALLY? AAAAHHHH! That sort of thing. "I am calling the doctor, you hang in there, I am on it," she hung up. She called back with notes immediately: find a hospital. In the absence of that, pour hot mustard oil in your ear. It will die and float out." Hmm, I thought, hospital. Definitely hospital. She hung up with a pep talk, and told me to continue to be calm. I doubt I was calm. I think I was in denial. Jeez, YUCKS!

L handed the phone to me. "AL," he said. I took the phone, cringing at the slight movement in my ear, and talked to an extremely sleepy and hungover AL. "AL, I have a bug in my ear. Where can we find a doctor?" AL waited for this information to seep through the layers of alcohol-induced sleep. I think the only word he actually grasped was doctor. "We can go to the market at 9 and check with the local guy if he can help us. Would you like some tea?" he asked cheerfully. Tea? IF he can help? I think in my bid to appear calm, I was ending up doing too good a job. I took a deep breath. "AL, I have an insect, probably a roach, lodged inside my ear. I cannot wait for three hours to visit a local quack and for him to pour oil in my ear. I need a clinic, or a hospital. Now." This seemed to rouse everyone into motion. AL said, "I'll check and call you."

AL came to the door. I got up in anticipation and regretted in instantly. AL and L looked on in dismay while I bent over with "OW!" as the poor insect fought valiantly to escape. AL, now all business, said, "We can either go to the doctor's house in Cherra or drive to Shillong, 2 hours away." L, a local Shillong boy, spoke Khasi fluently. "Shillong," we both said. No contest. AL called the driver and declining his suggestion of a merry breakfast with an incredulous look, L and I left for Shillong.

In the car, L and I looked at each other. I could tell he wanted to laugh. "Does it still hurt?" he asked instead. I gingerly shook my head. Nothing. I did it again, slightly firmly. Nothing. It had died. Inside my ear. I could feel it still, a weight, now dead, in my ear. I was wrong. This was the grossest thing to have ever happened, I thought gloomily. L kept me distracted all the way to Shillong with stories about Meghalaya, friends I didn't know, cats he'd seen, anything at all. Now that the thing had died, my ear wasn't hurting, I just had to deal with how disgusting this situation was. YUCKS!

We reached Shillong in record time and pulled into Bethany Hosiptal. L spoke to the doctor in Khasi as I stood quietly by. Till now, I had not concentrated on this part at all. In the car, I had gratefully listened to L but now, I would have to face this. Would they pull it out? What if it was too deep? Oh god. And YUCKS! I did not miss the amused look the doctor shot in my direction during the conversation. He took me to the OPD immediately, sat me down and flashed a torch in my ear. Yes, he confirmed. It is a bug. A roach. I didn't realise until then that though I knew it was a roach, a part of me was hoping he'd say, what? NO, it's just wax! Tut tut, silly child. Go home, now.

Damn. This thing had now been inside my ear for 5 hours.

"Please just get it out of me," I said resolutely. "Even if I scream, or cry or hit you, please just ignore me and just get it out." The doctor brought a set of clinical tweezers. Feeling supremely sorry for myself, I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together. I felt the cold metal in my ear and tensed as the doctor reached in and pulled. There were a few seconds of pain after which he pulled away and said, "I can't take this out. It is too deep inside." And then promptly turned away and started to speak to the nurse in Khasi.

"Wait!" I squeaked. "You can't take it out?? So then what??" The doctor held his arms up in a whoa, chill lady manner and said, "I mean, I can't remove it with this. I need larger tweezers." Oh, well, he should finish his sentences, no? How was I supposed to know? I settled back into my seat with as much dignity as I could muster. L was by now quite tickled by this adventure. The tweezers arrived and then the doctor wasted no time. "Brace yourself," he said. Like I had to be told. I don't think I'd relaxed my shoulders or exhaled since 5:30am. He plunged the metal in, I felt a tug, some pain that lasted for a few seconds and with a whoosh, it was out!

I didn't look at it, I didn't want to, but I knew it was big, because when the doctor pulled it out, both L and the nurse collectively said, "Oh, JEE-SUSS!" L said I should keep it as a reminder. I looked at him as if he'd sprouted two heads. Was he mad? I was in no danger of forgetting this. No matter how much I tried. The doctor gave me antibiotics so I would be infection-free and as soon I returned to Mumbai a few days later, I went to an ENT and got everything checked and cleaned.

See the second line. It says, "Insect gone inside ear". Haha.

L and I went to his house from the hospital, where we were both hysterical with laughter about what had happened. Once my friends heard, they were all sorry for me for around two seconds before the roach jokes started. "What if it's laid eggs and you have loads of baby roaches in your ear in a few weeks?" EW. Or "What if its friends come get you?" Or "Arre wah, inke liye toh ab tumhara kaan hi kaafi hain!"

Oh, ha ha, very funny. I hung up on them.

My ear had been through enough for one day.

Exposed

If you want to know someone, ask them to write something for you.

Over the last few years, I've discovered that writing exposes you in a way very few things can.

By that logic, yes, of course, all art does. Like painting. What you draw, how you draw, the colours you use, they're all give-aways. Movies, dance, even how you cook, all of that.

Yes, but I still feel writing (and this may be because I am a writer) can strip you naked in front of people. In front of people who don't know you at all.

I've been accused of judging people based on how they write. Guilty. But it's so much more than playing Grammar Police. Of course, if you send me a text message saying "Hi, I dont think that will happen," and then follow it immediately with one that says, "*don't", you've won my heart forever. And just so you know, I've registered the comma after the 'Hi' and the capital use of H too.

Of course, all these are turn-ons, but that's just one level. I am looking for who you are. 

You write to me in a message:
I went to a family function this evening. Everyone was there, it was so much fun. We laughed and ate so much food! (I can tell you've had a great time at your family function)

Or you write this:
My cousin got married today. The Guzzus were out in strength today, and we sat around and did what my family does best: laugh and eat. It was more fun than I've had in a while.
(I can tell you have a married cousin you like, I can tell you're aware of what your community is like and is ribbed for, you love it and that you're capable of making jokes about it. I can also tell you love spending time with this particular part of your family)

See what I mean? This is not about how you SHOULD write. No, I am merely saying these are two very different people.

The way you write tells me not just what you're thinking, or your opinion on something, but it tells me, in black and white, what you feel.

Let me explain.

In the last two years, people who've read me forever started to notice something different about the way I wrote. There was a piece that was well-written, it was perfectly adequate for the purpose it was supposed to serve. You couldn't fault it. But it wasn't always me. They said, at some point, there's a sense of a wall we can't cross.

Some said they felt cheated. They sensed a wonderful madness in the writer, a free spirit, and a potential of it coming through in the writing, but I refused it. The tip of an iceberg. Apparently, I no longer allowed them in. That I remained, in the story, tantalisingly, just out of reach.

It was not conscious. I did not know when it happened. But here's the incredible thing: I was going through a terribly painful time in my life. And I did not allow myself to show it. Betrayal, hurt, all of it. I hid it from everyone, what had happened to me, the injustice of what had happened, I hid it all. Even from the people I saw everyday. It became a way of life. To lie about it. To hide. To constantly worry about 'appearing' okay. To laugh when I wanted to cry. To smile when I wanted to yell. To purse my lips when I wanted to slap. Everyday. For more than a year. I withdrew inward. I took shelter inside, deep inside, where no one could see me.

Costly decision. Because my writing followed me. It became everything I was feeling. Withdrawn, walled in, sometimes full of fake abandon, and the most important thing: it was without me. I was lost.

Sometimes, a stray sentence, a stray story even, would suddenly bring me forth. So all was not lost. She was in there somewhere. Just too embarrassed to write what she felt. I tried to put it down, but couldn't. It wouldn't come. I told close friends that it refuses to come and they said, have the courage to write badly. Be brave and let all the rubbish out. You've stashed everything away. Deep inside. But the main thing I was told is this: don't be embarrassed. Let it flow. Don't hide behind words and smart phrases, readers will know. If you're feeling like shit, and writing rubbish, do it. Puke it out. Do anything. But write. write. write. 

They also said, it's like going to a shrink, only free. Writing is therapeutic.

This is me, then. This blog. No lies. No pretence. I'll try and stay as true as I can.

And I am going to make sure it's the most fun anyone's ever had in therapy. :)

The King and I: My favourite sightings of the elusive cat

Designed by Manish Mutalik.

 I've never left a national park without seeing a tiger, unless it's one that doesn't host any. I mean, it'd be alarming if I did spot one, say in Gir, yes? That'd cause quite a stir.
I digress. Where was I? Yes, I was showing off. 

I've always always seen the striped cat, and I think it's because I don't go to the park just so I do. Of course, I want to see tigers, I look for them too, but it's more, much more than that. The wilderness is a haven. I miss it when I am away from it, and this may seem infinitely crazy but I feel it misses me too. When I enter a forest, it feels like home, you know?
No? Okay, moving on.

Point is, when you're looking for a tiger, don't miss what's happening around you at that moment. Even if you don't see any, there'll be signs everywhere. Like pugmarks. I saw one in the first 10 minutes in Corbett. Fresh. Giant. Pugmarks. An hour later, we saw claw marks on the barks of trees. Tigers use the barks of trees to sharpen their claws and to leave their scents to ward off other cats. Powerful, long strokes. Definite evidence of their existence. For me, the forest had already delivered.

Having said all this, nothing beats seeing a tiger in its natural environment. It is a life-changing experience even for the most disinterested wildlife viewer. You will not be the same again. I've been lucky to have experienced some of these moments. These are my most memorable ones.

When she hypnotised us from less than 10ft away at Tadoba
(Two days and we've seen a lot of the forest, but no tiger).

It's a late but cloudy morning, around 11am, and the sunlight is just fabulous, bathing the dry, dry grassland of Tadoba in golden light.

And that's when she steps out of the tall grass in front of us.
 
Now, this is the beauty of a tiger experience like this. If you're chasing an alarm call, that's fine. You know it's around and that's why the animals are going bat-crazy. But this way, this unexpected appearance is unparalleled. You're driving for days searching for her, stopping every few hours, listening to the quiet forest for sounds, signs, and nothing. You've started fidgeting, it's hot, you're now in a relaxed stupor, looking at the forest, knowing that your morning safari's almost over, and you're not going to see anything more. And then she just steps out of the grass, so casually, so oblivious. It's really almost outrageous, that behaviour.

She gives us a sidelong glance and saunters across the path and into the dry grassland. "She's making her way to the other side of this meadow," our driver says, stepping on it. "We'll meet her as she gets out." We drive around the meadow and she catches sight of us waiting, pauses and stares. Yes, it's us again. Sorry about all the stalking. I don't know what she's thinking, but she changes direction, and makes directly for us. Directly for us. She doesn't take her eyes off us, and it's like we're hypnotised. We cannot look away, cannot move. She comes closer and closer, and we're mesmerised by her beauty. Her coat is dazzling in the sun, a brilliant orange and black, and she's heartbreakingly graceful, slow yet deliberate. Uff. It isn't until she's around 5ft away that the forest guard tears his eyes away, and says to the driver, "Abbe, peeche le!" The spell's broken, and we reverse, putting regrettably more distance between her and us. She pauses again, with one paw raised elegantly, mid step, follows our progress with those magnificent eyes, turns, and disappears into the foliage. This is the closest I've ever been to an animal this beautiful.

When she hung out with a herd of deer in a pond at Kanha
(This was a rare, rare sighting. Even the drivers and the guides with us were stumped).

We've just started the morning safari at Kanha, and within minutes, our driver pulls over and says, "Tiger." There's a pond some distance away, we're actually at a slight elevation to it. To the right side of the pond, a tigress is cooling herself off on a hot, hot summer afternoon. She's half submerged, her head and upper body leaning lazily on the bank. It's a pose that makes you forget this is a predator and go aww. To the extreme left side of the pond, completely oblivious to the cat, is a herd of sambar. Can you see it? The prey and the predator, chilling together. Now I've seen everything. Even the drivers in the jeeps around us are surprised.

No, but it gets so much weirder. The deer get into the water... deeper, towards the centre of the pond. Now, I've heard that the sambar deer is the tiger's favourite food for its poor eyesight and the wind is probably blowing the cat's scent in the other direction. But this is quite ridiculous. From her apparent disinterest, the guide assumes she's had her fill, but as the deer wade closer, she understandably tenses. She sort of sits up and we can actually see the incredulity in her body language as she squares her shoulders. I can almost see her thought bubble: "Hellooooo, tiger here, you blind bats." "Should I cough or something?" The sambar are now around 10ft away, romping around in the water. We're all frozen in place, much like the big cat. And then, one of the spotted deer on the shore lets out a LOUD alarm call, like a mini trumpet. The rest catch on, and the sambar herd, in great panic, leap and bound out of the pond, splashing around, falling down in terror, all of that. It's quite comical. The air is full of alarm calls, and the tigress, satisfied with this delayed but finally appropriate turn of events, slides back into slumber. 'About time,' she thinks. I agree.

When she roared, Kanha stilled
(This was my first trip to a national park. All those years ago. I didn't see her on that day but this remains a favourite).

We've heard a tigress is making her way up the hill with two cubs. Our driver takes us to the top, where she's sure to cross the mud track to get where she's headed. And then we wait. Half an hour goes by. The forest is noisy, and there's a jeep in front of us waiting as well, with a boy making an obscene amount of noise, despite being shushed by us a million times. While we wait, the driver tells us amazing stories of the jungle (the unlikely partnership between deer and langur, notice you'll never see one without the other; vultures circling over a spot in the sky equals a carcass equals a big cat, etc).

And then, she roars. It is like nothing I have ever heard before. Loud, overpowering, and striking an extremely primal chord in us, it comes from the left, some distance away, and the entire forest stills. I am not exaggerating. The entire forest, so busy just a few seconds ago, is literally stilled into silence. Monkeys stop chattering, birds stop chirping, even the crickets stop singing. You could hear a leaf drop to the forest floor, that is, if the wind hadn't suddenly died. Absolute, frightened silence. "Something must have stopped her progress," the driver whispers. "She's protecting her cubs." The boy in the other jeep lets out a whimper, and I am not proud to confess I feel a ruthless pleasure in his fright. How about a little respect now, noisy boy?

A few minutes later, the forest starts to move again, tentatively, cautiously. A bird here, a monkey there. Alarm calls ring out. The king is on the move. :)

With the one that got away in Corbett
 (This was my niece's first tiger experience in the wild. She, like us, will never see an animal in the zoo the same way again).

The herd's so chilled out, we're sure the drivers are lying to us. A herd of spotted deer is grazing under a tree. This is a good distance away, across a meadow, so it's tough to spot the tiger even if he's there. "He's here," our driver says. "Be patient." It's a family trip, my brother, Vaibhav (equally if not more fanatic about the wild), his wife, Mansi,  5-year-old daughter, Aarya and my mum. We're stuck in a canter, not even a jeep, which means noisy passengers, whom we wanted to feed to the cats.

Anyway, the herd's lazing about, not even standing in the alert way they do when they smell danger. I've seen deer act around a predator, they're alert, they're calling, they're never this unfazed. We wait for half hour. Nothing. The deer's chilling and every jeep in the vicinity is now pointing at random spots saying 'There he is!!" "No, there!" "It's that small mound, see??" And my mum, who keeps insisting she sees it, "There, I see it!" We try to explain that's not a tiger but she's refuses to budge till the photographer in the canter shows her his telelens photo and says, patiently, "Madam, that is a deer." Even then, she looks at me, and says conspiratorially, "He doesn't know, only."

Meanwhile, we wait amidst continuous calls from peacocks. But nothing from the deer. And then, quite bafflingly, the large group of deer on the other side of our cars, where our backs are facing, ups and runs away. At least 50 odd deer leap off to safety. We're stumped. Still not a peep out of the deer where the tiger's supposedly hiding. Has he slunk past our cars while weren't  looking, crossed the road to the other side to terrorise that herd? Not possible. A couple of jeeps drive off to see what's happening there. Our driver refuses. "He's here. Always look at the film crews. If they're still here, the cat's definitely here." So we wait. Another half hour ticks past. Some of the deer start to wander further from the herd, towards the centre of the meadow. The driver sits up. "Now watch." The small group moves closer and closer to a tree and suddenly, one jumps up, gives a frightened yelp and they start to leap away. Leaping gracefully, the herd moves as one to safety. The air is now FULL of alarm calls. Small little trumpets blasting through the forest. We're craning our necks, and he emerges from behind the tree. He's failed. The deer's got away. Now that he's in the open, we wonder how we ever mistook him for deer, or a boulder, or anything else. I mean, look at him. He's unique. and massive. He moves in graceful defeat right past the deer, who're watching him leave, every eye pointed at him. Poor guy.

Aarya has two very good questions (my heart is bursting with pride that she's thought of these).
a) Why did the deer not smell him?
b) Why did he not chase them while he was walking past less than 10ft from them?

a) The tiger is a clever cat. He deliberately hid where the direction of the wind blew his scent away from the deer. Which is why the deer, which were downwind, on the OTHER side of the plains, smelled him first and ran.

b) His advantage is stealth, not speed. He cannot outrun the deer. He knows that. He must have planned this hunt hours ago, from kms away, crouching closer and closer so he can spring on the unsuspecting herd. Once his cover was blown, he didn't bother to hang around. He left so he could find somewhere else and take position for a night hunt.

For all those who're thinking, a blog post about tigers? Ya, little mental I am that way. :)
Happy sighting.