Pahadland tales Part 3

The room at the very natty and efficient Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam lodge perched right on top of a mountain (2500 meters above sea level) in the thick of a wildlife sanctuary in Binsar was wood. The walls were wood. The floor was wood. The ceiling was wood. The brat walked in and looked all around in wonder. It was the first time he had encountered something like this. "Mamma, dis d room or dis d cupboard?"

At Corbett, Mamma and the brat were witness to a scene out of National Geographic. An elephant calf had strayed into tall dry grass from the river where the rest of the herd was drinking water and splashing themselves to stay cool in the boiling almost 40 degree celsius heat. A tusker noticed the baby and trumpeted an alert. The entire herd charged out of the water and sheperded the baby back towards the river whipping his butt with their trunks to get him to skip along faster, and then we heard the tiger, hidden in the tall grass barely any distance away from us, growl in anger at having his meal taken away. Our hair stood on end. A niece wondered whether we had tranquiliser guns with us, in case the tiger decided to make a meal of us. A rustle of the grass and a herd of deer fled past in terror and the tiger roared yet again. We sat, quiet, hushed, scared to breathe. The brat clambered onto the top of the gypsy, balancing himself on the top bars with an agility mamma didnt know he possessed and took the binoculars from the guide. "Dere's d tiger," he squawked at full volume. Guaranteed to ensure that said tiger never would emerge from the bush into the public gaze. And we all hushed him and pulled him down, and sat him on the vinyl seats with a hand over his mouth to keep him silent, until the unfortunate combination of sweat and vinyl seating resulted in a noise from under one of the occupants that sounded remarkably close to a sound that is not done in polite company. The brat broke out in loud peals of laughter that probably echoed around the jungle. "Whu did a paaaaaadh????" he squealed. The guide gave up, and asked the driver to get us moving. At those decibel levels, no self respecting tiger was going to emerge.

The last time mamma flew back with the brat, he was three years and a few months. This was the newly opened Bangalore airport, the second day of the new airport functioning and total chaos. Long lines that didnt seem to move anywhere, counters empty, tempers fraying and the brat running helter skelter in the crowd and mamma being forced to run around, leaving her luggage in queue in order to track him down, and almost losing him at one point. Finally, he was perched on top of the luggage on the trolley and a friendly firang kept him entertained until we reached check in. Then the flight was delayed by an hour or so. Which meant he ran around in the waiting area, danced to Hanuman Gasolina on the spanking new bucket seats and generally kept the lay public amused so well, mamma should have printed tickets for the show. This time round it was different. From the moment we got off the taxi, the brat had morphed into Mamma's little helper. He got mamma a trolley. Helped Mamma load the luggage onto the trolley and wheeled it into the terminal, helped mamma get the luggage onto the screening table. Got mamma baggage tags. Helped mamma load the luggage back onto the trolley. Unload it again at check in. Ask for, and handle his own boarding pass very carefully. No running about. Sitting patiently in his seat, keeping one eye on the screen for our flight number, and when we reached, stayed alert at the luggage carousel for any of our bags, and swooped down on each as they rolled in. Mamma was delighted. But a part of her was sad. Her baby has truly grown up.