A Sunset Scare in the Nilgiris

One of my major strokes of luck struck early in life, during 2007, when my parents decided to move to an apartment in North Bengaluru, where we would find ourselves neighbours with Dr. A.J.T. Johnsingh for the next 17 years. Yes, “The” Dr. Jonsingh. Johnsingh uncle, as I fondly call him, and I formed a strong bond over the years and shared such a relationship that cannot be described/put to words/explained. We developed a grandfather-grandson like relationship, only stronger. 

Over the years, he let us accompany him on a couple of his trips to the forests.

Back in November 2018, on one such trip, all four of us drove to his friend’s 2000+ acre tea estate – situated in the heart of the Nilgiris at an altitude of almost 8,200 ft above sea level, making it likely the highest tea garden in the world. It lies in a key wildlife corridor between the ‘Mudumalai Tiger Reserve’ in Tamil Nadu and ‘Silent Valley National Park’ in Kerala.

Admirably, a judicious portion of the estate has been left uncultivated to remain as evergreen forests, and also, the estate hasn't been fenced to allow free movement of wildlife through this corridor. This comes purely from the estate owner's understanding of habitat conservation and awareness about the crucial role such corridors play in protecting wildlife. 

On the third day, Johnsingh uncle and I headed down to the stream in the valley after enjoying a post-lunch nap. Johnsingh uncle had been fishing for over an hour without any luck, as I sat by observing a troop of Nilgiri Langurs (Semnopithecus johnii). Nilgiri langurs are striking, glossy black primates with a mane-like tuft that glows golden in direct sunlight. These are endemic to the Western Ghats. It was around 5pm. Just as Johnsingh uncle was losing hope with his fishing, we spotted fleeting patches of rusty-red, chestnut-coloured movement on the opposite hill, no more than 200m from where we were. Three Asiatic dholes (Cuon alpinus) were trotting across the slope. I was enthralled. Johnsingh uncle, not as much. This was understandable given that he had spent a meaningful part of his life studying them. His doctoral thesis centred around the ecology of Dholes – examining their social organization, predation patterns on prey like chital (Axis axis), and interactions with other predators such as tigers (Panthera tigris) and leopards (Panthera pardus). It was the first field research on a free-ranging large mammal by an Indian scientist. His daily routine from 1976-78 usually included extensive walking, finding a suitable tree close to a dhole den, climbing the tree and observing the dhole family from dusk to dawn. 

I took out the camera from his bag to click a few photographs but they hurried off the moment they noticed our presence. Soon after, he decided to call it a day and head back to the rest house. A 10-minute climb from there. I told him I would follow him up shortly. He left his camera with me and was stern when he said "Be back well before the sun begins to set". I nodded in assurance, eyes still fixated on the spot where the dogs had slipped away. Soon, in sheer excitement, I crossed the stream and moved up the hill stealthily in hope of finding the pack of dholes again. Before I knew it, I was halfway up the hill and the dogs were long gone. As I turned around to backtrack, I saw the sun setting behind the opposite hill and sat down - amidst the tea plants - to soak in the moment.

In that serene moment when everything seemed magical, I heard a rumble from a bush some 15m behind me. I froze. I heard loud puffing and grunting. My heart skipped a beat. I sat there motionless, holding my breath, doing everything I could to go unnoticed. I was playing 'statue' - only it wasn't a game. I could somehow gauge the massive size of this creature by the sound of its heavy breathing. It sent shivers down my spine. The sound of hooves crashing against the mud gave me an idea of what it could be and I wasn't too happy about it. I could feel my heart in my mouth. I was considering an attempt to silently crawl away when suddenly chaos ensued and I heard a loud noise - as if a huge boulder had rolled down the hill. And there he was. A robust sambar (Rusa unicolor) stag in its winter coat, startled by my presence, had scampered down to the valley. It must have easily weighed over 250kg and I can only imagine what could have happened if things went wrong.

Till date I don’t know how I mustered up the courage after what had just happened, soon enough to click this picture. But I can confidently say I have rarely been as nervous in close to 25 years of my life. Navigating through the darkness, I eventually found my way back to the rest house by 7:30pm. Johnsingh uncle had quite naturally turned extremely anxious and had sent someone looking for me. He was sweating. His past experiences obviously didn’t help*. He was livid and I deservingly got a good shouting from him that day. My parents weren’t as worried because they probably didn’t understand the magnitude of the situation. 

They had no idea of the terrain or the kind of animals that frequented this corridor. 

*Read “Field Days: A Naturalist's Journey through South and Southeast Asia” authored by Dr. A.J.T. Johnsingh, for context.