Radhanagari Sanctuary sits on top of Phonda Ghat at a gasping height of almost 4,000 feet. By the time the animals trudge up to the top, they must be thirsty like a crow. And that probably explains the existence of a plethora of waterholes here. Each one named after the animal that visits it the most. So there’s Waaghaacha Paani or the Tiger’s Waterhole, Sambar Kond or the Sambar Deer’s Waterhole, and Geedhadaacha Paani or the Vulture’s Waterhole.
The drive from the gate at Dajipur was 22 kms long and treacherous. The mud was loose and the stones were unreliable. At many points on the way, I had to ask everyone in the jeep to get down, so that the vehicle would become lighter and I could negotiate the climb better.
All along the journey into the forest we came across strange landscapes called sadaas. The first one was called Holicha Sadaa. These were massive bauxite boulders, jet black in colour, rising from the morning mist like prehistoric animals. Probably the name Holicha Sadaa came from the burnt look of these boulders, as if they had just emerged from a cosmic Holi.
At the next sadaa called Sawraicha Sadaa, there were tell-tale signs of an ancient seismic upheaval. There were large patches of salvadora here, a plant that’s found only in mangroves. As also shells of dead snails scattered all along the table-land. Proving beyond doubt that all this was once upon a time under the sea, and in one massive volcanic eruption was flung high up onto these mystic mountains. And from the ever-soggy, moss-laden trees that were reminiscent of the dew-dripping trees of Cherrapunji, there sprouted exotic orchids from another land and another time.
The road to Sambar Kond was washed away in the last monsoon. As I walked on the road that didn’t exist, a horde of inquisitive butterflies followed me to the waterhole. There, on a crisp carpet of dried leaves behind the ghostly trees, Kanta our guide heard some footfalls which he said were of a lone gaur or Indian bison. We waited with bated
breath for a good 20 minutes, but the gaur refused to make its entry from behind the curtain of mist. It was only much later in the evening that we would lay our eyes on the largest of all wild oxen in the world. But when we did get to see it, we were convinced that few animals have the bucolic charm and the 12-pack abs of the gorgeous gaur.
On our return trip, I came across an artificial moat called saapla, made by the erstwhile King of Kolhapur, Shahu Maharaj. Once upon a time, not long ago, this moat used to be covered with dried branches, and hidden with dried leaves. Unsuspecting gaurs would be driven towards this trap by the beating of drums and clanging of cymbals. Once they fell into the moat they were shot dead at point-blank range, and their heads were then hung as trophies on the palace walls as a sign of the king’s misplaced manhood.
When we reached the forest gate in the late afternoon, Kanta took us to his village Malaachi Wadi, with the promise of bisonspotting. There we saw the backwaters of a bund that served as a water source for the villagers, and as a waterhole for the gaurs.
It was apparently the most likely spot where gaurs would descend from the dense forests that enveloped the backwaters. We waited and we waited and we waited, but the gaurs didn’t turn up for the appointment. Just as we started our trudge back cursing our bad luck, we heard a wild grunt that froze us in our track. Four majestic gaurs walked to the water’s edge, and as they were lapping up the setting sun from the water, we crawled on all fours slowly towards them for a closer look. And in the darkness of the descending night, the aperture of my eyes were kept fully open, as also that of my camera. Just so that I could get two images that last a lifetime. One within, and one without.
