A sketch of an Asiatic lion
By BIKRAM GREWAL
All it took was a phone call from my Rajkotbased friend Pintz Gajar, and I was on the red-eye flight to Ahmedabad next morning, with my hastily packed bag containing, inter alia, a bottle of forbidden tipple. Then a taxi-ride to Paldi, from where the buses to Rajkot depart. A quick breakfast of phafda and jalebi, and I was on the air-conditioned bus to meet my friend, who would drive me to Sasan Gir, the last home of the Asiatic Lion.
All said and done, the roads in Gujarat are the best in the country, and the journey passed smoothly while watching Kabir Bedi and Rekha trying to feed each other to crocodiles in the terrible revenge film, Khoon bari maang. The bus was comfortable and armed with internet, and despite the unforgiving 46°C outside, the temperature inside was cool. The dry and tree-less Saurashtra landscape flew by and I was soon united with my friend, who came by in her dilapidated Maruti 800. In hindsight, this was one terrible mistake, for she is easily the worst driver I have ever had the misfortune to meet. She lost her way at every turn, and what should have been an easy four-hour journey, turned into an eight-hour nightmare. Eventually we limped into the Gir Birding Lodge, set amidst a 10-acre kesar mango orchard, and took our exhausted bodies to bed.
The Asiatic Lion once freely roamed in this region from Sind, Bahawalpur, Punjab, Gujarat, Rajasthan, Haryana, Bihar, as far as Bengal in the east, and up to the Narmada River in the south. But heavy hunting has drastically reduced their number. They were shot by British colonial officers and Indian royalty till they were reduced to a measly dozen and confined to a small area of Gir in Junagarh district. There are records of a pair of lions being shot at Palam in 1857 in Delhi, where the airport stands now. The Nawabs of Junagarh, who were truly concerned about the declining population, were however constrained to invite the viceroy to come and shoot one of these increasing rare animals, and in 1900, Nawab Rasulkhanji invited Lord Curzon for a hunt. However, a letter entitled Viceroy or Vandal? was published in a Bombay (now Mumbai) newspaper. This prompted Curzon to abandon the proposed hunt and soon, he and his wife become strong proponents of saving the lion. This refusal by the viceroy gave the nawabs an excuse to turn down other such requests from fellow princely rulers.
His son, Sir Muhammad Mahabat Khan III Khanji, put all his might to save these lions and soon, the population started to recover to reach 500. He however, decided to accede his kingdom to Pakistan, which invited military action, and he had to leave India, taking 200 hundred of his dogs with him, even as he left his wives behind!
It was blisteringly hot at five that May morning when we commenced our game-drive in attempt to see this famous animal. By ten, we were wrung dry, having traversed over large tracts, and begged to be returned to our lodge, despite having seen no lions. The afternoon was no different and I amused myself by observing a flock of Mottled Wood Owls and trying to differentiate between the subspecies of the Marshall’s Iora. Our disappointment was further exacerbated when fellow guests claimed to have seen over a dozen.
The next morning was our last chance, and we set out quivering with anticipation. A couple of hours later, just when we had begun to wonder if they existed at all, we saw a cluster of jeeps with eager tourists pointing their long lenses towards a forest path.
Out came a lioness walking nonchalantly, but followed ten paces behind by a female forest guard, who tapped her lathi on the ground as though she was herding a cow back to her pen! It was not a great experience, but what followed certainly was. As we drove out to the small town of Sasan, the fruit shops were laden with a delicious variety of mango called kesar.
And as soon as I tasted one, I knew it far surpassed the legendry alphonso. This mango was first grown in 1931 by Sale Bhai, the Wazir of Junagadh in Vanthali, who planted about 75 grafts in the foothills of the Girnar hiils. The mango got its name when the Nawab exclaimed that its colour resembled that of kesar or saffron.
And so laden with this delicious fruit, it was time to return to Rajkot, a trip that is etched in my memory forever, not for the seeing the domesticated lion, but for discovering the king of all fruits.
https://ahmedabadmirror.indiatimes.com/others/sunday-read/flockmusic-a-true-king-watching-lions-in-mango-land/articleshow/70110519.cms
All it took was a phone call from my Rajkotbased friend Pintz Gajar, and I was on the red-eye flight to Ahmedabad next morning, with my hastily packed bag containing, inter alia, a bottle of forbidden tipple. Then a taxi-ride to Paldi, from where the buses to Rajkot depart. A quick breakfast of phafda and jalebi, and I was on the air-conditioned bus to meet my friend, who would drive me to Sasan Gir, the last home of the Asiatic Lion.
All said and done, the roads in Gujarat are the best in the country, and the journey passed smoothly while watching Kabir Bedi and Rekha trying to feed each other to crocodiles in the terrible revenge film, Khoon bari maang. The bus was comfortable and armed with internet, and despite the unforgiving 46°C outside, the temperature inside was cool. The dry and tree-less Saurashtra landscape flew by and I was soon united with my friend, who came by in her dilapidated Maruti 800. In hindsight, this was one terrible mistake, for she is easily the worst driver I have ever had the misfortune to meet. She lost her way at every turn, and what should have been an easy four-hour journey, turned into an eight-hour nightmare. Eventually we limped into the Gir Birding Lodge, set amidst a 10-acre kesar mango orchard, and took our exhausted bodies to bed.
The Asiatic Lion once freely roamed in this region from Sind, Bahawalpur, Punjab, Gujarat, Rajasthan, Haryana, Bihar, as far as Bengal in the east, and up to the Narmada River in the south. But heavy hunting has drastically reduced their number. They were shot by British colonial officers and Indian royalty till they were reduced to a measly dozen and confined to a small area of Gir in Junagarh district. There are records of a pair of lions being shot at Palam in 1857 in Delhi, where the airport stands now. The Nawabs of Junagarh, who were truly concerned about the declining population, were however constrained to invite the viceroy to come and shoot one of these increasing rare animals, and in 1900, Nawab Rasulkhanji invited Lord Curzon for a hunt. However, a letter entitled Viceroy or Vandal? was published in a Bombay (now Mumbai) newspaper. This prompted Curzon to abandon the proposed hunt and soon, he and his wife become strong proponents of saving the lion. This refusal by the viceroy gave the nawabs an excuse to turn down other such requests from fellow princely rulers.
His son, Sir Muhammad Mahabat Khan III Khanji, put all his might to save these lions and soon, the population started to recover to reach 500. He however, decided to accede his kingdom to Pakistan, which invited military action, and he had to leave India, taking 200 hundred of his dogs with him, even as he left his wives behind!
It was blisteringly hot at five that May morning when we commenced our game-drive in attempt to see this famous animal. By ten, we were wrung dry, having traversed over large tracts, and begged to be returned to our lodge, despite having seen no lions. The afternoon was no different and I amused myself by observing a flock of Mottled Wood Owls and trying to differentiate between the subspecies of the Marshall’s Iora. Our disappointment was further exacerbated when fellow guests claimed to have seen over a dozen.
The next morning was our last chance, and we set out quivering with anticipation. A couple of hours later, just when we had begun to wonder if they existed at all, we saw a cluster of jeeps with eager tourists pointing their long lenses towards a forest path.
Out came a lioness walking nonchalantly, but followed ten paces behind by a female forest guard, who tapped her lathi on the ground as though she was herding a cow back to her pen! It was not a great experience, but what followed certainly was. As we drove out to the small town of Sasan, the fruit shops were laden with a delicious variety of mango called kesar.
And as soon as I tasted one, I knew it far surpassed the legendry alphonso. This mango was first grown in 1931 by Sale Bhai, the Wazir of Junagadh in Vanthali, who planted about 75 grafts in the foothills of the Girnar hiils. The mango got its name when the Nawab exclaimed that its colour resembled that of kesar or saffron.
And so laden with this delicious fruit, it was time to return to Rajkot, a trip that is etched in my memory forever, not for the seeing the domesticated lion, but for discovering the king of all fruits.
https://ahmedabadmirror.indiatimes.com/others/sunday-read/flockmusic-a-true-king-watching-lions-in-mango-land/articleshow/70110519.cms
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