The boy had always measured his childhood in pawmarks. Every evening after school, he would run out into the wide, golden grasslands that stretched beyond his village. The wind would whistle across the tall grasses, and somewhere in the distance, the grey shadows of wolves would flicker, hunting, playing. He had grown up with them, as if they were kin, watching pups stumble over their paws, watching the older wolves keep sentry against the horizon. For him, the grasslands wer

Tracking is an art. Tiger tracking, is the most patient form of art. It draws sweat, considerbale amount of flies, sunburn, hunger and...

I first heard of a tiger named Bamera in the summer of 2010, while we were doing a survey in the buffer villages of Bandhavgarh Tiger...

There are many who claim to protect the forest, there are many who love the forest, but there are very few who know the forest. If...

Hari, a lively boy of 11, lived with his parents in the sleepy fishing village of Kumbarjua in Goa. Forever active, he was always landing...

“The gladdest moment in human life, methinks, is a departure into unknown lands.” – Sir Richard Burton Beautifully put. A foray into...

Goa is Swaying palms, white sands and sparkling waters, this is not how I describe it, and is possibly a stereotype, but this is how...

A short story I had written on Makar Sankarnti and the effect it has on birds. Uttrayan! get up Raju! Everybody has already started...