Day 1: The Pull of the Wild
What began on 31st March as a simple family trip quickly transformed into a full-fledged wildlife expedition—a pivot that required no small amount of pleading on my part.
We hit the road early, determined to beat Delhi’s notorious traffic on our 470-kilometre journey to Dudhwa National Park. With my camera safely packed in the back, I was ready for whatever the forest had to offer. As always, there were the customary stops—a much-needed coffee to wake us up, followed by a mandatory McDonald’s breakfast before we continued straight towards the park.
We reached our resort at around 3:00 PM and headed directly for lunch, postponing the check-in formalities until later. Along the drive, we noticed several forest fires burning in the distance—most likely a consequence of the intense summer heat, though, as is often the case, human negligence cannot be ruled out.
The Terai landscape immediately reminded me of Jim Corbett, yet it possessed a character of its own. The vegetation felt fresher and unfamiliar to my eyes, even though much of the wildlife resembled what one encounters across the Terai belt. The most remarkable exception, of course, was the Greater One-Horned Rhinoceros. Once wiped out from the Dudhwa region by around 1867, the species was successfully reintroduced in 1984 through a remarkable conservation programme. Today, that small founding population has grown into a thriving, free-ranging herd—a true conservation success story.
Since we were travelling in a large group, organising an afternoon safari wasn’t practical. Instead, we spent the afternoon playing cricket, soaking in the excitement and building anticipation for the next morning’s safari. Every new forest has its own rhythm, and Dudhwa promised an entirely new experience.
After dinner, acting on a tip from the resort staff, we set out on a night drive. Wildlife sightings were sparse—a lone chital being the only animal we encountered—but the landscape itself was captivating. The forest glowed with scattered lines of fire. We soon realised these were firelines—controlled burns deliberately lit by the forest department to prevent devastating, uncontrolled wildfires from spreading. What first appeared alarming was, in fact, one of the forest’s most important safeguards.
We drove so deep into the forest that we found ourselves close to the Nepal border, with our phones showing absolutely no signal. It wasn’t until someone checked the time that reality struck—we had barely five hours left before our morning safari. Reluctantly, we turned back towards the resort, leaving the silent, fire-lit jungle to swallow the road behind us.
Day 2: The Art of Observation
1st April started the way all good wildlife days do—long before sunrise.
Our first stop was a local waterhole known to be frequented by tigers, but the morning remained quiet, offering us no luck. We then moved on to our second stop, a machaan (watchtower) used by the forest department to monitor the surrounding grasslands.
Climbing to the top, we were greeted by a sweeping view of the Terai landscape. As I scanned the wetlands, mentally preparing my eBird logs, I spotted a Black-necked Stork standing alongside a few Woolly-necked Storks. At first glance, they may seem similar, but the Black-necked Stork is a masterclass in elegance, with its iridescent head, crisp white plumage, and impossibly bright coral-red legs. The Woolly-necked Storks, by contrast, possess a quieter, more textured beauty. They look as though they are wrapped in plush white scarves that end abruptly at a glossy black cap—a wonderfully cozy appearance as they forage through the shallows.
Further out in the clearing, a herd of Western Swamp Deer (Barasingha) grazed peacefully. True specialists of the wetlands, they are perfectly adapted to the flooded Indo-Gangetic plains, with broad, splayed hooves that prevent them from sinking into the soft marshes. Watching them, it was impossible not to feel a sense of admiration. Once pushed to the brink, this magnificent deer now stands as one of India’s finest conservation success stories.
Deciding it was time to continue our search for the tiger, we started moving again. Almost immediately, a Red Junglefowl stepped out from the undergrowth, foraging calmly and generously offering a few poses for my camera. Common does not mean ordinary, and this wild rooster is living proof. Strutting through a shaft of sunlight, he was an explosion of molten colour—golden-crimson hackles like spun silk, deep metallic-blue wings, and a sweeping beetle-green tail. Crowned with a brilliant red comb, he carried a lean, untamed elegance that completely redefines the familiar domestic chicken.
Then came the jungle’s most reliable neighbourhood watch – the Hanuman Langur.
One individual sat high in a tree ablaze with brilliant shades of red, orange, and gold. The contrast was breathtaking. His jet-black face and silvery-white fur, framed by fiery foliage, made him look like a quiet forest sage. But a langur is never truly at ease. Perched safely in the canopy, they serve as one of the forest’s most dependable early-warning systems. Unlike the random panic calls of many animals, a langur’s guttural, coughing “khok… khok…” alarm call is remarkably precise, usually indicating that it has spotted a tiger or leopard. When a langur speaks, the entire jungle listens.
Today, however, our silent sage remained perfectly calm, suggesting that the forest’s great predators were elsewhere.
I was still scanning the forest floor when a massive shadow suddenly swept across the light above me. Before I could register what it was, I felt a powerful rush of wind pressing against my face. Looking up, I watched a Great Hornbill glide effortlessly into the canopy.
Unlike most birds, hornbills lack the smaller insulating feathers that soften wingbeats. As a result, each powerful flap forces air directly through the primary feathers, producing the unmistakable whoosh… whoosh… that you don’t just hear—you actually feel. It landed gracefully on a high branch, its enormous yellow casque glowing against the green canopy. There it sat, perfectly still, an unshaken guardian of the treetops, completely unfazed by the miniature storm it had just created.
Following the thrill of the hornbill, we stopped near the boundary of the Rhino Conservation Area. There is an unmatched comfort in sitting on the bonnet of a safari gypsy in the middle of the Terai, sipping hot chai and eating a steaming bowl of Maggi while the sounds of the forest settle gently around you.
Right next to our makeshift tea stop stood the park’s camp elephants, resting beneath the sheds of the nearby forest chowki. It’s easy to assume they are simply captive elephants, but many of them have deeply moving stories. Several are rescued individuals, brought in from situations of conflict or hardship to find a safe, purposeful life. Because the marshy terrain inside the rhino enclosure is impenetrable to vehicles, these elephants become the only reliable way for forest staff to patrol the area. They are, in many ways, the frontline guardians of Dudhwa’s rhinos—the living shield that helps keep this remarkable conservation landscape safe.
Our morning safari came to an end, and we returned to the resort for a simple but deeply satisfying breakfast. There wasn’t much to explore outside the park, so we spent the afternoon resting before heading out once again.
As soon as I stepped out of the vehicle near the entrance for our afternoon safari, I noticed something that most people would have walked straight past—a pair of Red Cotton Bugs.
They were tiny masterpieces of colour, their velvety crimson bodies resembling polished lacquer beads, beautifully contrasted by a soft cream band and bold black markings across their wings. Yet behind that jewel-like appearance lies a mischievous reputation. Known as notorious cotton stainers, these insects pierce developing cotton seeds with their needle-like mouthparts, introducing fungi that permanently stain white cotton fibres a yellowish-brown. A beautiful insect, remembered entirely for the colourful trouble it leaves behind.
While we waited for the clock to strike 2:00 PM, a commotion erupted near the forest chowki. Two Rhesus Macaques had brazenly stolen a casserole full of rice from one of the offices. Watching them feast on their stolen meal, a sobering thought crossed my mind.
What have we done to these macaques?
Habitat loss is certainly one challenge they face, but perhaps an even greater one is our habit of feeding them. Every morsel offered by humans slowly erodes their natural foraging instincts, encouraging dependency and fuelling human-wildlife conflict. Wild animals should never look at people and see an easy meal.
The afternoon safari itself remained quiet, rewarding us only with the familiar regulars—chital, sambar, and wild boar.
Sensing the subdued mood in our jeep as dusk settled over the Terai, our driver suggested an unexpected detour. Leaving the main route behind, he steered the gypsy onto a rugged kaccha track that disappeared into the growing darkness.
His destination was the estate of the late Billy Arjan Singh—the legendary conservationist widely regarded as the father of Dudhwa National Park.
As we bounced along the uneven trail, the headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the darkness, and the thrill of uncertainty returned. But the Terai, we were beginning to learn, follows its own schedule. By the time we finally reached the estate, the gates had already closed for the evening. It was a gentle reminder that in these forests, nature sets the pace—you simply learn to follow it.
We eventually returned to the resort for dinner. Afterwards, the children enthusiastically persuaded everyone to head out for another night drive.
The jungle, however, had settled into complete silence. We didn’t encounter a single animal, yet somehow the drive never felt empty. Beneath the vast night sky, with the forest wrapped in darkness, simply being there was reward enough.
Day 3: Borders and Boundaries
2nd April brought an unexpected change of plans—Dudhwa National Park remains closed on Tuesdays.
With few attractions around the small town, one of the resort staff suggested we spend the day visiting Nepal. Surprisingly, crossing the border required no passport—just our Aadhaar cards. It felt strangely surreal to walk into another country with such ease.
The border was barely 20 kilometres away. Our first stop was a bridge that had been recommended as a popular tourist attraction, though it didn’t quite live up to the hype. The nearby town we were advised to explore was equally underwhelming, so we decided to continue further into the hills.
Along the way, our two vehicles became separated. The occupants of the second vehicle had been stopped by a corrupt police officer who confiscated their permit in an apparent attempt to extort money from them.
Higher up in the mountains, mobile connectivity became almost non-existent, with only one person in our group managing to get a signal. We decided to drive back down and reunite, stopping along the way at a small roadside shop for a cup of chai and some exceptionally delicious local achaar.
While receiving my change in Nepalese Rupees (NPR), I found myself admiring the currency. Each note featured a beautiful illustration of Mount Everest on one side and a different native animal on the other. They were so visually appealing that I couldn’t resist exchanging a ₹2,000 note for as much local currency as the shopkeeper could spare—roughly equivalent to the prevailing exchange rate.
After our tea break, we began the drive back, having been advised not to stop if approached again by the corrupt officers. Fortunately, we crossed back into India without any issues and continued towards the resort.
On the return journey, we crossed a river where we had regularly seen Mugger Crocodiles over the past two days. Looking down from the bridge, we spotted several basking peacefully on a sandy island and along the riverbank. We watched them for a while, admired them from a safe distance, and moved on.
Sadly, the tourist who arrived after us made a very different decision.
Ignoring the obvious risk, he climbed down towards the water’s edge for a closer look. Perhaps he assumed the crocodiles were only on the island. What he failed to realise was that crocodiles are often almost invisible beneath the water’s surface.
Within moments, disaster struck.
A crocodile lunged from the water and severely injured his foot. The police, ambulance, and forest department responded remarkably quickly. Although our vehicle had already left, the second vehicle in our group witnessed the aftermath as they crossed back into India.
It was a sobering reminder that in the wild, boundaries exist for a reason. They are not meant to restrict our experience—they exist to protect both us and the animals we have come to admire.
Back at the resort, we spent the evening playing cricket while others chose to rest. After dinner, our now-customary night drive awaited us once again.
This time, the headlights revealed a few chital and, to our delight, a pair of Indian Crested Porcupines, which hurried into the undergrowth almost as quickly as they had appeared.
Day 4: The Heart of the Jungle
3rd April began with a mellow energy. By now, everyone had assumed Dudhwa was much like Corbett—beautiful, but stingy with big cat sightings. I didn’t mind. I am always excited, regardless of what the jungle decides to reveal.
We rushed to a nearby watering hole as soon as the gates opened, but found nothing. Continuing along yesterday’s route, a sudden movement in the bushes caught my eye. There she was—a tigress. She stared straight back at us, looking deep into our souls. I have always believed that animals can see what humans carry in their hearts. She stepped out of the undergrowth and walked alongside us, trusting us with her presence. She approached a tree, scent-marked it, rubbed herself against the bark, and then stepped gracefully into the open. She walked as if she owned the jungle—because she did. Every bird and every animal acknowledges the presence of a tiger—not merely out of fear, but out of respect for the true ruler of the forest. And just as effortlessly as she had appeared, she dissolved back into the endless shades of green.
Assuming the show was over, we continued ahead, greeting the familiar herbivores along the way. Suddenly, everything came to a standstill. A deep, low grunt echoed through the forest. A tiger’s growl can travel nearly three kilometres, but this one was close—very close. Barely fifty metres away, a slow, deliberate walk accompanied by those unmistakable grunts revealed that we had disturbed her mate. He was clearly unhappy with our presence, and he made sure we understood that. He delivered a brief mock charge before retreating into the bushes. We knew we had entered their space and quietly backed away. Big cats are notoriously protective and easily irritated during mating, so we left them in peace to continue making more tiger babies, feeling completely fulfilled by what the morning had already gifted us.
As we headed towards the elephant camp checkpoint, we found another safari jeep stopped in the middle of the road. They were observing a Brown Fish Owl. The people in that vehicle seemed disappointed by the lack of tiger sightings and drove away shortly after we arrived. Little did they know, their day was about to get much worse.
We stayed behind, admiring the owl, until the forest suddenly fell into complete silence. Then, piercing alarm calls from a chital shattered the stillness.
Our hearts stopped. My eyes frantically searched the bushes. Leopard… or tiger? I stood up, tightening my grip on my camera. A head slowly emerged from the dense vegetation.
“Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!” I shouted.
The tigress locked eyes with me before calmly licking her lips. She descended from a small mound into the clearing, sat for a few peaceful moments, and then disappeared into the towering elephant grass as another approaching jeep disturbed her. Our driver smiled confidently.
“मुझे पता है कि वह कहाँ से बाहर निकलेगी.”
“I know where she will come out.”
Trusting his years of experience, we made a U-turn, positioned ourselves nearly a hundred metres away, and waited in complete isolation. The guide casually mentioned that she was a mother with three cubs, and that they might be somewhere nearby. My excitement skyrocketed. A few minutes later, she emerged from the left side of the grass, crossed the road with effortless elegance, and disappeared into the vegetation on the opposite side.
Was that it?
More safari vehicles began arriving, filling the road behind us. I was already thrilled with the sighting, even if the cubs never appeared. Then, a single paw emerged from the elephant grass. The mother had returned. She sat right in the middle of the road, as though announcing her cubs to the world.
The first cub cautiously peeked out, noticed the line of vehicles, and hesitated. The second was noticeably bolder, stepping confidently into the open, followed closely by the third. The mother stood up and walked back towards the left. The second and third cubs followed immediately, while the timid first cub gathered every ounce of courage before dashing after its family. Within moments, all four vanished into the towering grass, never once looking back.
I was so mesmerised by the tiger family below that I almost missed a pair of Great Hornbills flying directly above them.
It was a sensory overload.
While the silent camouflage of the apex predators commanded the forest floor, the enormous wings of the hornbills sliced through the sky with their unmistakable rhythmic whoosh… whoosh… Catching the warm golden-hour light, their brilliant yellow-and-black casques glowed like polished amber—a vibrant streak of colour suspended above the tigers.
The entire moment lasted only seconds. I didn’t even attempt to lift my camera. Honestly, it was for the best. Some moments belong in a photograph. Others are meant to be etched directly into your memory, without a viewfinder standing in the way. After returning to the resort for a short rest, we headed out for our final safari of the day—a special permit for the Rhino Rehabilitation Area.
As our 4×4 sputtered to life, our guide cleared up one of the biggest misconceptions about the area. This is not a glorified zoo or a fenced paddock. It is a vast, 28-square-kilometre expanse of wild Terai marshland where rhinos roam, forage, wallow, and evade predators entirely on their own terms. The solar-powered fence, erected in 1984, was never intended to keep the rhinos captive. Instead, it served as an ecological shield, protecting the founder population from Dudhwa’s dense tiger population while they established themselves and raised their calves. The programme has been so successful that the population has now grown to over fifty rhinos, and the forest department has gradually begun removing sections of the fence, allowing radio-collared individuals to disperse naturally into the wider park.
Driving through the towering elephant grass of one of Asia’s greatest rewilding success stories was exhilarating. We had also been told that a tiger had been seen in this very area earlier that morning. Yet, as we explored the vast marshlands, we were reminded that rhinos can be just as elusive as tigers.
For most of the drive, we saw nothing. Only as we neared the exit did the tall grass begin to sway. A massive rhino slowly revealed the upper half of his body. For nearly twenty unforgettable minutes, we simply watched one another. Then, without a sound, he turned and melted back into the endless grass.
The day ended exactly as it deserved to—with quiet conversations among family about the jungle, life, old memories, and the moments we knew we would never forget.
Day 5: The Final Frame
4th April was meant to be our departure day, but the success of the previous morning had left us hungry for one final safari. Not everyone was keen, so our convoy shrank from four jeeps to just one. We decided on a change of scenery and headed towards Kishanpur Wildlife Sanctuary, about 30 kilometres away and conveniently located on our route back to Delhi. Kishanpur has earned a reputation for excellent tiger and elephant sightings, so our hopes were naturally high.
As we entered the sanctuary, the landscape changed dramatically. Unlike the Terai grasslands of Dudhwa, Kishanpur is dominated by sprawling wetlands. Since it forms part of the greater Dudhwa landscape, wildlife moves freely between the two protected areas. Early into the drive, we spotted chital, sambar, and Western Swamp Deer grazing in the distance. The big cats, however, seemed determined to stay hidden, so we turned our attention towards the wetlands instead.
Looking up, I watched a large bird take flight—an Asian Openbill. Gliding effortlessly on the rising currents of air, its broad white wings, edged in glossy black, looked almost weightless against the morning sky. When it landed on a muddy bank, its unusual namesake feature immediately stood out. There was a distinct gap between the upper and lower mandibles of its bill, making it appear almost unfinished. Yet as I watched it forage, the design suddenly made perfect sense. That peculiar gap functions like a precision tool, allowing the bird to grip and pry open large freshwater apple snails with remarkable ease. It looked less like an imperfection and more like nature’s own specialised multitool. Watching it work was another reminder that every creature in these wetlands has evolved its own brilliant way of making a living.
A little further ahead, we came across a group of mud-covered Indian Wild Boars emerging from a wallow to inspect us. As the wetlands gradually gave way to denser woodland, our path was suddenly blocked by a Crested Serpent Eagle sitting squarely in the middle of the dirt track.
It was an unusual sight.
Normally, these magnificent raptors are seen perched high in the canopy or standing over a freshly caught snake. This one had no prey. It simply sat on the road, staring directly at our jeep with piercing yellow eyes.
We switched off the engine.
What followed was a quiet standoff.
The eagle looked every bit like a royal guard, completely unfazed by our large 4×4. After a few long moments, it finally decided our audience had lasted long enough. With one powerful push, it lifted effortlessly into the air, glided low along the track, and disappeared silently into the forest.
Later, while waiting near a waterhole frequented by tigers, we witnessed one of the most unexpected moments of the trip. A handsome male chital stood perfectly still as a White-throated Kingfisher landed delicately on its antlers.
The deer showed no sign of discomfort, almost as though it had accepted the tiny visitor as part of the morning routine. It was a fleeting interaction, but one that perfectly captured the quiet harmony that often exists within the forest.
Nearby, a Mugger Crocodile basked along the riverbank with its jaws held wide open, regulating its body temperature in the morning sun.
Climbing a nearby machaan turned out to be one of our best decisions of the day. From the top, I spotted something I had never seen before – a raft of Smooth-coated Otters.
Watching them swim, fish, chase one another, and play effortlessly through the water was nothing short of magical. As I lowered my camera, however, I felt the faintest trace of disappointment. The deep forest had chosen to keep its apex predators hidden from us on this final morning.
Reluctantly, we accepted that our last safari had come to an end and began making our way out of the sanctuary.
Before rejoining the rest of our family for the long drive back to Delhi, we stopped beside a local water-boring pump next to vast fields of golden wheat swaying gently in the breeze. The water gushing from the pipe was icy cold, crystal clear, and unbelievably refreshing. We splashed our faces, washed away the dust of the jungle, and quietly took in everything we had experienced over the past five days.
As we merged back onto the highway towards Delhi, I found myself smiling.
I laughed at my own greed.
The jungle had already given me so much—a remarkable diversity of birds, unforgettable wetland behaviour, my first encounter with smooth-coated otters, and the unparalleled privilege of watching a tigress with her three cubs, along with multiple tiger sightings that many people wait years to experience. Yet a small part of me had still been searching every patch of grass for just one more cat. Nature is generous, but it demands respect.
We should always hope for more, but the moment we let greed overshadow gratitude, the jungle is quick to put us back in our place.
The journey ended where it began—on the road back home. But somewhere between the grasslands, the alarm calls, the silence, and the stories hidden within the Terai, I realised that the jungle had quietly changed the way I looked at the wild. Perhaps that is why we keep going back—not because we expect the forest to reveal itself every time, but because each visit reveals something new within us.
In loving memory of Anu Gupta (Anu Aunty).
Thank you for always believing in my journeys and celebrating my love for the wild.
This story is dedicated to you.
Acknowledgements
Edited by Neha Sinha
Photographs by Nakul Aggarwal
Amazing story of family trip! More adventurous than a comfortable outing. The shots are great captures. Best part is what needs to be respected and is carefully worded – ” was a sobering reminder that in the wild, boundaries exist for a reason. They are not meant to restrict our experience—they exist to protect both us and the animals we have come to admire.” I liked the whole writeup. Keep going and posting.