Nine Days Following the Unseen in India’s Western Ghats
Leaving the City Behind: Into the Core
Day 1: January 10 – Delhi to Pune to Karad
My friend Shimi and I had it all mapped out. We were heading to volunteer for the All India Tiger Estimation (AITE) 2026. The induction was scheduled for January 10, and our original plan was to take a direct train to Karad on the 8th. Indian Railways, however, had other ideas—our tickets for the 28-hour journey never got confirmed.
Pivoting quickly, we skipped the train altogether and booked a flight to Pune instead. We landed at around 6:00 AM and immediately hired a cab for the remaining 166-kilometre, three-hour journey to Karad. Exhausted from the last-minute change of plans, we slept through most of the drive, our belongings packed into one large rucksack and a small bag each.
By the time we reached the Forest Department office, the place was already buzzing with activity. We stacked our luggage alongside a sea of other backpacks and duffel bags. Around 65 volunteers had gathered from different parts of the country, all here for the same purpose.
After the induction briefing at 2:30 PM and a quick lunch, the room slowly came alive with conversations. I met several incredible people that afternoon, but I instantly connected with two in particular—Shub, and Rathore ji , a wildlife content creator who ended up teaching me quite a few things over the course of the day.
Soon, it was time for the group allocations, and reality finally set in.
We were divided into different ranges and beats, each team accompanied by two forest guards inside the Sahyadri Tiger Reserve. Unfortunately, our little group was split up. Shub and Shimi were assigned to the Koyna Wildlife Sanctuary and had to leave early for a 60–70-kilometre journey from Karad. Rathore ji was posted to the buffer zone of Chandoli, while I was assigned to the core zone of Chandoli National Park.
Watching them leave was surprisingly difficult. Rathore ji left about an hour after the first two, and suddenly I found myself completely on my own. I waited for nearly three hours before an official Forest Department vehicle finally arrived to pick us up.
Our first stop, at around 9:00 PM, was an old forest office that looked as though it hadn’t seen visitors in years. After picking up a few snacks from nearby shops, we continued deeper towards my assigned beat.
We made one final stop for dinner at another forest post before crossing into the non-tourism zone, where phone signals disappeared completely.
Dinner was simple but comforting—dal and chawal after a long day of travelling.
Stepping outside afterwards, I looked up and froze.
The Milky Way stretched across the night sky in all its glory. It was so profoundly dark that, for the first time in a long while, I realised just how much I had been missing while living in the city.
The drive to the camp only made the night more memorable. The jungle was alive. We spotted everything from massive gaurs to tiny hares, with thick-knees darting through the darkness in the glow of our headlights.
We finally reached the camp at around midnight. I unrolled my sleeping bag onto a cot, lay down, and within minutes, drifted into a deep sleep.
Finding the Forest’s Rhythm
Day 2: January 11 – Karad
I started the day early, walking out to a mini dam that the Forest Department was constructing for wildlife. This terrain is hilly and dry, and water becomes incredibly scarce during the punishing summer months. The idea was to capture and store the monsoon rains so the animals have a reliable water source long after the rains are gone.
Later that morning, my task was to monitor the installation of a solar-powered water pump meant for wildlife. We loaded up a vehicle with the required materials and headed into the forest with the labourers. After identifying the right location, the workers spent nearly two hours installing the system. The real test, however, was whether it would actually pump water.
Of course, it didn’t.
It took another hour of troubleshooting and reconfiguring before the machine finally roared to life. Only then did we begin our journey back to camp.
About halfway back, our vehicle suffered a flat tyre. The midday sun was beating down relentlessly, though a cool breeze took the edge off the heat. As a non-smoker, I didn’t have the luxury of lighting up a cigarette to pass the time like our driver did. Instead, I found a spot beneath a nearby tree and simply soaked in my surroundings.
This landscape was completely new to me.
Coming from a place where I regularly visit the lush green foothills of the Himalayas every three or four months, these dry, rolling hills felt beautifully unfamiliar. There was an inexplicable stillness in that moment—one that words can’t quite capture.
Once the tyre was replaced, we made it back to camp, where I had brunch before crashing for a three-to-four-hour nap.
I woke up in the evening and took a gentle walk around the camp’s perimeter. Since it was only my second day and I was still getting to know the forest guards, I didn’t push for a deeper walk into the forest. Instead, I wandered around camp before heading back for dinner.
That night, I spent nearly half an hour doing nothing but staring at the star-filled sky.
With the cold mountain winds flowing through the camp, I didn’t miss the city—or its air conditioners—for even a second. By the end of just two days, the rhythm of the forest was already beginning to replace the rhythm of the city.
Sleep came effortlessly.
Of Crocodiles and Tiger Prints
Day 3: January 12 – Karad
This was Day 1 of the official AITE data collection—the actual tiger count.
The department had confirmed the presence of three resident males and two reintroduced tigresses, but they were quietly expecting more, and so were we.
One of the guards carried a machete to cut through the thick, aggressive undergrowth that had swallowed parts of the walking trails. Out here, the bush is no match for a tiger, bear, leopard, or gaur. I, on the other hand, had packed my backpack far too heavily—a decision that would soon become the biggest mistake of my day.
Our route plunged straight into a steep valley.
It was a stunning walk.
As we descended, a sudden noise startled a sounder of wild boars, and I watched them scatter down the hillside before disappearing into the dense thickets. Further along, tucked beneath a patch of bushes, lay the skeletal remains of a gaur—most likely the old kill of a tiger, a leopard, or perhaps even a pack of dholes.
Beyond the carcass, the trail slipped beneath towering green canopies. The sheer variety of landscapes packed into a single forest was mind-bending.
Suddenly, a strange, staccato chirruping echoed from above. For a brief second, I wondered what kind of bizarre dog could possibly make a sound like that. Then I looked up.
An Indian Giant Squirrel.
Even in that split second, the animal left me completely spellbound. There was something almost unreal about it. Its rich, chestnut-and-cream coat glowed as shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, making it look less like a rodent and more like a creature from an old forest folktale. Against the muted greens and browns of the jungle, its colours seemed impossibly vivid, as though the forest had briefly decided to reveal one of its best-kept secrets.
The moment I spotted it, the squirrel launched itself through the canopy like a rocket. By the time I managed to pull out my camera, it had already vanished into the invisible world high above the trees.
What a spectacular animal.
We continued descending until we reached the edge of a massive lake, its water an almost flawless shade of crystal blue.
Beautiful as it looked, it hid a far darker reality. The lake was heavily populated by mugger crocodiles. Thankfully, I have a strict rule of never putting my hands or feet near unfamiliar water bodies until I know they are completely safe. As we walked along the sandy shoreline, I noticed white, chalky lumps scattered everywhere. Curious, I asked one of the forest guards what they were. His answer sent a chill down my spine.
Crocodile scat.
The dried, chalk-white droppings were another unmistakable sign that crocodiles regularly frequented the shoreline. Their pale colour comes from the uric acid and calcium-rich waste that crocodiles excrete, which becomes even more noticeable as the scat dries.
We were standing deep inside their territory.
Unlike big cats, which are generally shy around humans and will usually retreat once they notice you, crocodiles are different. To them, almost anything that moves can be potential prey. Knowing that made me deeply uncomfortable.
We continued towards the end of the shoreline before finally stopping to drink some water and catch our breath. Looking more closely at the point bar, I noticed enormous drag marks carved into the earth. They were deep impressions left behind by crocodiles as they hauled themselves across the wet mud.
By then, we were a safe distance from the water’s edge, so I wandered around, examining the area more carefully. That was when I made the biggest discovery of the day—and the first significant find of our mission.
Half buried in the soil was a tiger pugmark that even the forest guards had completely overlooked. I placed my hand beside it, and a wave of pure awe washed over me. For the first time, I truly understood why the tiger is the undisputed ruler of these forests. My own hands, which had always seemed fairly large to me, suddenly looked tiny beside that enormous print.
Even though the pugmark was already three or four days old, it somehow still carried the presence of the animal that had left it behind. After measuring it, photographing it, and logging all the details into the AITE app, we began the long journey back to camp.
The return trek was nothing short of a labour of Hercules.
We had to climb five to six kilometres back up the valley, and the ascent was brutally steep. Within the first kilometre, my surroundings disappeared from my mind. The only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat pounding like a frantic machine. The climb tore through my lungs so badly that the guards had to stop so I could recover. Fortunately, we came across a small waterfall spilling down towards the lake. I splashed the icy water over my face and head, hoping the cold shock would bring me back to life.
For the next hour and a half, we walked through landscapes that I know were beautiful, but I honestly remember very little of them. My heart was pounding so violently that I genuinely thought a fall from the ridge wouldn’t kill me—but a heart attack just might.
Thankfully, the final kilometre eased into a flat, merciful trail.
Back at camp, I had a quick breakfast, took a hot shower, and collapsed into what felt like the most satisfying midday nap of my life. When I woke up later that evening, I took a short walk around the nearby trails to familiarise myself with the terrain, returning well after dark. Dinner was followed by what had quietly become my nightly ritual—standing beneath the stars in complete silence before finally calling it a day.
Footprints of the Past
Day 4: January 13 – Karad
Getting out early is the golden rule in the forest if you want any chance of a sighting. But since it was peak winter, the sun didn’t rise over the horizon until around 7:00 AM.
Just outside the fenced gate of our camp, we came across our first surprise of the morning—fresh pugmarks and scat left behind by a sloth bear. It was a little unsettling to realise just how close the bear had been to my camp while I slept.
The guard simply smiled and told me this was perfectly normal. The camp is surrounded by fruiting trees, making it a regular stop for sloth bears. He even shared a story from a few years ago. One bear had climbed high into a mango tree overlooking the compound when the branch suddenly snapped beneath its weight. The bear crashed to the ground with an enormous thud, frightening everyone nearby—including itself. Startled and confused, it scrambled over the camp railing before immediately climbing back up the same tree to continue eating its mangoes.
The trek that day was noticeably easier than the previous day’s ordeal, though I kept my eyes peeled, hoping for a bear sighting.
Instead, we headed towards a natural spring where groundwater bubbles straight to the surface. This very spring supplies our camp through a direct pipeline. We drank our fill, topped up our bottles, and continued on our way.
The damp soil around the spring was covered with the tracks of feral buffaloes.
Their story was fascinating.
These animals are the descendants of domestic cattle abandoned nearly fifty years ago when villagers were relocated out of the forest. Somehow, generation after generation, they adapted to life in a landscape shared with leopards, dholes, and tigers.
The guard mentioned that their numbers have now started to decline. With healthy, protected populations of the major predators returning to the reserve, the ecosystem is gradually correcting itself. In many ways, this is conservation working exactly as it should. The apex predators regain a natural prey base, while an introduced population slowly regulates itself without direct human intervention.
Amid the maze of buffalo tracks, the guard pointed out a single, enormous hoofprint.
It belonged to a large gaur.
The print was easily twice the size of the buffalo tracks surrounding it. We measured it, logged the observation into the AITE app, and continued walking, passing several man-made waterholes that served as a constant reminder of just how dry this landscape naturally is.
Back at camp, I was treated to an incredible Maharashtrian lunch. We were served pitla—a comforting, spiced gram flour curry—topped with crunchy bhujiya and accompanied by fresh bajra rotis. It was simple, light, perfectly spiced, and exactly what I needed after the morning’s walk.
I decided to skip my afternoon nap and head out again, but that quickly proved to be a bad idea. Instead, I returned to camp, picked up a book, and spent a quiet afternoon reading. By evening, I ventured out once more. The forest was unusually quiet. Very few birds were calling, but I did spot a lone egret standing in a patch of golden sunlight filtering through the trees.
As darkness settled over the forest, I made my way back to camp for dinner, followed by what had now become a familiar ritual—ending the day beneath a sky full of stars.
Where Bears Borrow Houses
Day 5: January 14 – Karad
The morning air had a sharp, nippy bite to it.
Today, only one of our two forest guards accompanied us. We spent the first few hours checking a network of natural and man-made waterholes scattered across our beat.
We were walking along a narrow ridge, with low hills rising to our right and a gentle slope falling away to our left. As I scanned the hillside below, a pair of large horns caught my eye. At first, my brain dismissed it as another feral buffalo, but as more of the animal came into view, I realised it was a magnificent gaur. I spotted him before he noticed us. Keeping my head low, I quietly gestured to the guard. Unfortunately, that small movement was enough to catch the gaur’s attention. For an animal weighing well over a tonne, its speed and agility were astonishing. It turned and charged uphill like a rocket, disappearing into the forest within seconds and leaving both of us completely stunned.
We continued along the trail until the trees suddenly opened up, revealing the spectacular expanse of the Warana Reservoir.
It was breathtaking.
I stood there for several minutes, simply taking it all in while watching a distant troop of langurs playing in the trees far below. Eventually, we climbed to an old forest watchtower. It was obvious that the Forest Department hadn’t used it in years. In their absence, the wildlife had claimed it as their own. The floor was covered with the tracks and droppings of civets and sloth bears. Inside the room on the ground floor, a large circular patch of dust had been rubbed completely clean—the unmistakable sleeping spot of a bear. I couldn’t help but smile.
It felt like stepping into a real-life version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. It was a beautiful reminder that nature wastes very little time reclaiming the spaces we leave behind.
On our way back, we stopped beside a particular boulder where a faint mobile signal managed to reach the forest. I took the opportunity to download a few movies to keep myself occupied during the long, quiet afternoons. Back at camp, I had lunch before collapsing into a four-hour nap. The rest was well worth it because the guard had planned something special for the evening—a night walk.
Once darkness fell, the guard, his helper, and I stepped into the jungle armed with nothing more than our flashlights. The forest felt completely different after sunset.
One of our first sightings was a Jungle Nightjar. We accidentally flushed it from the ground and onto a tree, and I managed to capture a few photographs before it disappeared back into the darkness. Its camouflage was nothing short of extraordinary.
As we approached the edge of the camp on our return, a sudden burst of heavy rustling erupted from the bushes just a few metres away.
My heart stopped.
For a split second, I was convinced a sloth bear was about to charge out of the darkness. The beam of the flashlight finally revealed the culprit—a large wild boar.
That wasn’t particularly comforting either.
Wild boars are notoriously unpredictable and can be extremely dangerous when cornered, often charging in self-defence. Fortunately for us, this one chose flight over fight and disappeared into the thickets as quickly as it had appeared. Crossing back through the camp gate felt oddly reassuring.
After a day that had swung between breathtaking views, abandoned bear bedrooms, and a couple of close calls, my bed had never felt more welcoming.
The Night Belongs to the Civets
Day 6: January 15 – Karad
Today’s mission shifted from tracking predators to studying their prey base.
Our task was to walk a straight one-kilometre transect line, carefully identifying and recording every herbivore on our checklist. Just outside the camp, we were greeted by fresh leopard pugmarks. They definitely hadn’t been there during our evening walk the previous day.
It was incredible to think about just how active—and how dense—the leopard population was around our little camp, and yet the cats themselves remained completely invisible, moving through the forest like ghosts.
Over the next two hours, we methodically completed our transect. We recorded a few sambar deer moving through the background, several gaur tracks, and a single chital. That lone chital was far more significant than it might sound.
Chital are not historically native to these particular hills—or rather, they once were, until they were hunted to local extinction generations ago. The animals found here today are part of an intensive reintroduction programme. Breeding populations were brought in from Central India and kept inside secure enclosures before being released into the wild in carefully managed batches of 80 to 100 animals, with the aim of rebuilding a self-sustaining population.
Further along the trail, I spotted a shed sambar antler lying among the bushes.
For both legal and ecological reasons, these should never be removed from the forest. Over time, the antlers break down and return valuable minerals to the soil. Taking them home as souvenirs may seem harmless, but it only fuels a demand that can ultimately encourage poaching.
I took a quick photograph and left it exactly where it belonged.
Back at camp, the isolation was beginning to catch up with me. More than anything else, I was craving a little comfort food. I asked one of the guards if anyone from the nearby village was coming up with supplies. If they were, I requested the simplest luxury I could think of—a packet of Maggi noodles. Unfortunately, by nightfall, the supplies still hadn’t arrived. To take my mind off both the hunger and the waiting, we headed out for another night walk.
As we slowly scanned the trees with our flashlights, a faint rustle caught my attention. I swung my torch towards the sound, and the beam settled on a Small Indian Civet. This is an animal that most visitors to the forest will never see. Strictly nocturnal and remarkably shy, they usually disappear the moment they detect human presence. This one, however, seemed completely unfazed. It simply sat on the branch, frozen in the beam of my flashlight, almost as if it were posing.
I became so absorbed in watching it that I completely forgot to take photographs.
Only when it was about to leave did I fumble for my camera. I managed to capture two hurried, mediocre frames before it silently melted back into the darkness. Sometimes, I suppose, not every memory needs to be perfectly photographed.
We left the civet in peace and made our way back to camp for dinner before settling in for another quiet night beneath the forest sky.
Embers and Hard Truths
Day 7: January 16 – Karad
Today’s assignment was the same as yesterday’s—a one-kilometre transect—but in a completely different part of the forest.
My morning began on the porch of the outpost, watching a family of Indian gerbils, among the smallest mammals in these forests, darting around as they played and foraged without a care in the world.
The jungle itself felt unusually quiet. There was very little movement from the larger mammals. We completed the transect, spent some time scouting the surrounding area, and found little beyond a few distant langurs and the usual forest birds.
With nothing more to do, I returned to camp, had an early breakfast, and slept through most of the morning.
The night, however, turned out to be spectacular.
The moon had waned into a thin crescent, allowing the stars to shine brighter than they had all week. Right on cue, we had another visitor.
An Asian Palm Civet.
It looked noticeably different from the Small Indian Civet I had seen the previous night—smaller, more slender, and altogether more delicate. This was another rare wildlife treasure. Unlike the previous night’s encounter, this individual seemed completely comfortable with our presence. Even after noticing our flashlights from the top of a tree, it made no attempt to flee. It remained perched there for nearly fifteen minutes before climbing down and casually patrolling the camp for another twenty.
It gave me more than enough time to photograph it.
Eventually, it wandered off into the bushes, only to make a brief reappearance at around 2:00 AM. By then, I was fairly convinced that this little civet was a permanent resident of the camp. As the night grew colder, we gathered some dead wood and lit a small campfire.
Sitting around the flames, the guard began sharing stories about the early days of tiger reintroductions in Sahyadri and how the local communities have gradually adapted to living alongside the returning predators. Our conversation eventually shifted to gaurs and just how dangerously aggressive they can become if they feel cornered.
He told me about a relative who had spotted a gaur and decided to move far too close in an attempt to get a better photograph—something the Forest Department repeatedly warns people never to do.
The gaur felt threatened and charged. Its massive, metre-long horns pierced the man before anyone could react. By the time help arrived, it was already too late. The government later paid compensation to the family, but as the guard quietly said, no amount of money can ever replace a person.
That story stayed with me long after the fire had burned down.
Staring into the glowing embers, I couldn’t help but wonder how many tigers, leopards, and even bears have ultimately paid the price for similar human mistakes.
A person ignores the rules, pushes an animal into a situation where it has no choice but to defend itself, and if that encounter turns fatal, the animal is often branded a “man-eater.” In many cases, it is hunted down for a tragedy that began with a human mistake rather than an animal’s intent.
It was a sobering reminder that living alongside wildlife demands one thing above everything else: respect. The moment we forget that, both people and animals stand to lose.
The Night Everything Changed
Day 8: January 17 – Karad
This was the final official day of the AITE census.
Spending eight uninterrupted days in the deep core of this jungle has changed me. I feel a strange, deeply rooted connection to this landscape now. We finished our final morning transect early. Right along the camp boundary, we came across fresh leopard scat—a beautiful reminder of just how healthy this ecosystem really is.
A little farther down the trail, I noticed distinct scratch marks around the base of several termite mounds and ant hills.
They belonged to an Indian Pangolin.
These beautiful, insect-eating mammals are strictly nocturnal and are almost never seen during daylight hours. It broke my heart to think about them. Pangolins are among the most heavily trafficked mammals in the world, relentlessly hunted for their scales, which are smuggled into China and parts of Southeast Asia for use in traditional medicine despite having no scientifically proven medicinal value.
All we can do is hope that awareness grows and demand falls before they disappear altogether. A short while later, we stumbled upon another fascinating scene. The ground was covered with dhole pugmarks, while long, sharp porcupine quills lay scattered across the trail.
An intense battle had clearly taken place between a pack of Asiatic wild dogs and an Indian Crested Porcupine. Porcupines are deceptively dangerous prey, and since there wasn’t a single drop of blood on the ground, we concluded that the porcupine had successfully defended itself and walked away the winner. I picked up a few quills for a quick photograph before placing every one of them back exactly where I had found them.
After returning to camp, I had breakfast and went to sleep, only to be jolted awake by frantic shouting outside. A forest fire had broken out on the hillside directly behind our outpost. Driven by the afternoon winds, the flames were racing straight towards the camp. The guards reacted immediately. They rushed towards the fire and managed to contain it before it reached the buildings. Apart from the surrounding vegetation, very little was lost, but it was a stark reminder of just how fragile life in these forests can be.
As evening approached, I stood watching the sun slowly sink behind the ancient ridges of the Sahyadris, turning the mountains into dark silhouettes against a fading sky. Looking at that final sunset, I couldn’t help but think of a line that has stayed with me for years:
“A king’s time as ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day, the sun will set on my time here, and will rise with you as the new king.”
It’s a strange quote to find yourself thinking about in the middle of a forest, but somehow it felt exactly right.
Every chapter has its sunset.
My time here was drawing to a close, just like the light slipping behind the mountains. Yet every ending quietly makes space for a new beginning—for another journey, another story, and another person who will one day stand exactly where I was standing. Later that evening, while I was waiting for dinner, the guard suddenly burst out of the kitchen shouting,
“मैं आपको साँप दिखाता हूँ!” (Let me show you the snake!)
I rushed inside, but by the time we reached the kitchen, the snake had already moved.
The guard froze.
Coiled tightly beneath a plastic chair was a tiny snake, its scales rubbing together to produce a harsh, metallic sizzling sound. Only then did he realise he was standing less than two feet away from one of the fastest-striking snakes in the world. To anyone unfamiliar with snakes, it looked like nothing more than a dusty ribbon, barely forty centimetres long.
But this was a Saw-scaled Viper.
People often fear king cobras and giant pythons because of their size, yet this tiny, hyper-aggressive viper is responsible for an astonishing number of fatal snakebites across the Indian subcontinent every year. The fire had most likely driven it into the kitchen in search of shelter, leaving it frightened and highly defensive.
Some of the camp staff immediately wanted to kill it. I couldn’t let that happen. Armed with nothing more than an empty wheat flour sack and a long stick, I slowly stepped forward. I spread the mouth of the sack open in front of the snake and gently nudged its tail from behind. A snake’s first instinct is almost always to escape into the nearest dark, enclosed space. Exactly as I had hoped, it slid halfway into the sack. Knowing it couldn’t strike backwards from that position, I quickly lifted the bag, sealed it tightly, and handed it over to the guard. He carried it well beyond the camp boundary and safely released it back into the forest.
Only afterwards did I realise how hard my heart was pounding. That night, for the first time, I felt an overwhelming sense of clarity. It wasn’t because I had handled a venomous snake.
It was because, in that moment, I had chosen understanding over fear—and in doing so, I had helped save a wild life.
I don’t know exactly where this path will lead me, but that night, standing in a small forest camp in the middle of Sahyadri, I realised I had found something I had been searching for all along.
I had found my calling.
And for the last time in the core of that forest, I slept like a baby.
Tracing the Ghosts of Chandoli
Day 9: January 18 – Karad to Pune
With the official census wrapping up the previous day, today’s walk wasn’t about collecting data or logging coordinates. It was simply about immersing ourselves in the forest one last time.
The sunrise felt different—slower, quieter, and far gentler than the dramatic mornings that had come before. We wandered through Chandoli National Park with no expectations, simply enjoying the silence. For a while, the forest seemed unusually empty. Even the usual chorus of birds was missing, until a brilliant flash of white caught my eye.
An Indian Paradise Flycatcher.
A white morph male drifted gracefully through the trees, its impossibly long tail ribbons flowing behind it. It was breathtaking.
On our way back, we found ourselves retracing our own footsteps along the dusty trail. It felt like an ordinary walk until I glanced down at the ground. Stamped directly over our own fresh footprints were the unmistakable pugmarks of a pack of dholes. They had walked the same trail after us. Judging by how crisp the impressions were, they couldn’t have been more than a minute or two ahead. Without saying a word, we instinctively quickened our pace, following the tracks as they wound past the edge of the camp. It was incredible to realise that these elusive predators regularly used the same trails that humans walked, even in broad daylight. I scanned every patch of undergrowth, hoping for one last surprise.
About five hundred metres later, the forest suddenly opened into a broad grassy clearing. And there they were.
Three dholes.
They moved across the meadow with effortless speed and absolute confidence. The sight was so mesmerising that I completely forgot to lift my camera. Then again, they were moving far too quickly for a worthwhile photograph anyway. It is remarkable to think that an animal capable of intimidating some of the largest mammals in the forest is, at first glance, little more than a medium-sized wild dog. Their true strength has never been size. It has always been their unity. I stood there watching until the three ghosts silently dissolved back into the trees.
Back at camp, I took a few final photographs with my two incredible forest guards.
As a small parting gift, I handed Anand my personal copy of Birds of the Indian Subcontinent. Throughout the week, he had shown a genuine curiosity about birds, and I knew the book had found the right owner.
After packing my bags, I headed to the Forest Department office to collect my volunteer certificate before beginning the long journey back towards Pune and, eventually, Delhi. As our vehicle rolled away from the camp, I realised I didn’t actually feel like I was leaving.
Physically, yes.
Mentally, I was still somewhere deep inside Chandoli, following animal trails through quiet valleys and listening for sounds hidden in the forest.
After collecting my papers, I finally said goodbye to the Sahyadri peaks. With a full heart and a completely empty stomach, I stopped for a quick roadside meal before continuing the journey.
Later, I reunited with Shimi, Shub, and Rathore ji in Satara, where we spent an hour exchanging stories from our respective beats, laughing about the moments that had challenged us and the ones that had left us speechless.
Soon after, Shimi and I boarded our connection to Pune before catching our flight home to Delhi.
The journey ended there.
Or perhaps it didn’t.
Because I know that a part of me will always remain behind, walking those dusty trails, following fresh pugmarks, and quietly tracing the ghosts of Chandoli.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Neha Sinha for her insightful editorial guidance.
Image Credits:
- Dhole & Indian Giant Squirrel: Khushi Rathore
- Pangolin: Sandip Kumar (CC BY-SA 3.0)
- All other photographs: Nakul Aggarwal
Amazing 👏🏻🔥
Absolutely amazing!