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Hindustan Times
3 days ago
- General
- Hindustan Times
A life in the service of the wild and wildlife
Heartbreak sent Valmik to the jungles of Ranthambore. His first marriage had fallen apart in 1976 and he decided the best way to heal was to take himself away, out of his comfort zone, out of the urban jungle of New Delhi where he had been brought up, and into the wild, about which he knew very little. That instinctive decision would not just heal him, but change the course of his life, and the life of many a tiger. He had heard about Ranthambore from his sister and brother-in-law — my parents — who filmed a documentary, The Jungle Life of Rajasthan, there a couple of years prior, and had pitched their tent under the great banyan tree at Jogi Mahal. All three of them were now captivated by this special place and also by the man who was then the game warden (later, field director), Fateh Singh Rathore, with his Stetson, aviator glasses, and luxurious moustache. When I arrived on the scene a few years later, Fateh kaka was at the hospital in New Delhi and gave me my first tot of honey, soon after I was born. It was with this pioneering trio, Valmik, Fateh kaka, and my father Tejbir, that I spent my formative years in Ranthambore, living under the canopy of the great banyan and Jogi Mahal, sleeping out in the open on charpoys with only mosquito nets for protection as the tiger's roar, the raspy sawing of leopards, the bark-like alarm calls of sambar deer, and the cacophony of langur monkeys echoed off the walls of the medieval fortress. Often, we woke to find fresh tiger pug marks by our beds. This experience and these three exceptional men shaped me in different ways, and as I look back to an incredibly fortunate childhood, the die for my life was cast around the Jogi Mahal campfire. The discussions varied from the day's wildlife sightings to the positive changes in tiger behaviour post the ban on shooting — they had now started to roam more confidently and freely even during the day without the fear of being shot by trophy hunters — the problems they still faced, and what was needed to ensure their survival. The trio co-authored their first book, With Tigers in the Wild, in 1982, and Valmik went on to become a prolific author, with over 40 books in 50 years. A village that had voluntarily left their ancestral lands in the heart of the National Park, and had been resettled on more fertile and accessible land at the edge of the reserve in 1977, required funding to build a wall around their village school. Jagan, the sarpanch, had come to meet Valmik on a scorching day in June to make a request for assistance. I happened to be present, and he sent me off in 48 degree Celsius heat in our open Mahindra CJ3B Jeep with Jagan sarpanch for a site visit to Kailashpuri village, about an hour's drive away. In his typical matter-of-fact, firm, and gruff way, he told me that it was now my responsibility to raise the funds required, which I was to calculate, and ensure the wall was built at the earliest. I followed his direction, delivered what was asked of me. As any 10-year-old would, I expected a pat on the back from the big man. No pat and no special mention was forthcoming, lest I think I had achieved something already. There was much more to be done, and so I quietly better get on with it. Quintessential Valmik! The foundation and its activities made a lasting impression on me and formed the basis for the many initiatives I presently work on. Though Valmik relished his private time in the wild, observing, documenting, and photographing wildlife and tiger behaviour, he spent a lot of his time with forest officers, guards, conservationists, scientists, and with the communities that lived in or around India's national parks, tiger reserves and sanctuaries, finding innovative solutions to complex issues in his mission to help preserve India's 'natural treasury' as he called it. Valmik made countless critical interventions in the 150 or so government committees and boards he served over his lifetime. From the apex National Board for Wildlife chaired by the Prime Minister to the Supreme Court's Central Empowered Committee for Forests, many State Wildlife Boards, and also the Tiger Task Force set up by the then Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh, in the aftermath of Sariska's tigers being poached to extinction. He famously gave a note of dissent — I think the only one — much to the chagrin of the powers that be. Valmik always said it as it was, without fear or favour. He didn't give two hoots about any nasty repercussions that might come his way. He unwaveringly believed in the truth and lived by it without exception. In the last few years, he was disillusioned with the lack of courage and conviction among many who were tasked with protecting and preserving India's wildlife. Many of his suggestions and recommendations, including his many roars to create a specialised Indian Wildlife Service fell on deaf ears. But, he was not one to give up even when he knew the end was near. As his family, friends, and well-wishers try to heal from the heartbreak of losing him less than a month after he was diagnosed with cancer, the fight to ensure the survival of India's wildlife and habitats, that is so intricately linked with the survival of our 1.4 billion people, will go on, taken forward by the countless people Valmik encouraged, inspired and mentored. That is his formidable and eternal legacy. Jaisal Singh is an author, conservationist, and entrepreneur. The views expressed are personal.
Indian Express
02-06-2025
- General
- Indian Express
When Valmik Thapar threw a punch for tigers
Valmik Thapar — Valu, as many of us knew him — was the fiercest voice for the tiger. His gruff, deep voice often resembled a tiger's growl. As an emerging wildlife conservation filmmaker in the 1990s, I knew about him and his tigers of Ranthambore. Even before I began, his first book, With Tigers in the Wild, co-authored with his guru Fateh Singh Rathore and his brother-in-law Tejbir Singh, adorned my bookshelf. After Indira Gandhi, who established Project Tiger to protect the rapidly vanishing animal in 1973, and its first director, Kailash Sankhala, I would place Valmik Thapar as the person who most contributed to the cause of tigers. I attended a talk he gave about his journey and the conservation of the Indian tiger at the Royal Geographic Society in London. His booming voice and the rare behavioural images of tigers, primarily captured by him, kept the audience on the edge of their seats. The evening ended with a standing ovation. The cherry on top was the six-part BBC series The Land of the Tiger filmed and broadcast in 1996-97. Valu was the presenter, traversing the length and breadth of India, unspooling the story of Indian wildlife and its rich biodiversity. As a young filmmaker, I was offered a small role in making the series. Over the years, I bumped into Valu at conservation meetings and would visit his house to discuss collaborative film projects. This invariably led to debates on contentious issues surrounding Indian conservation policy and practice. In my early years of filmmaking during the '80s and '90s, he and I belonged to two distinct conservation spheres. The term 'coexistence' was highly contested, representing a chasm between these two worlds. The one I occupied believed in a historical coexistence between forest dwellers and wild animals, asserting that any conservation policy must incorporate people's physical presence and participation. Conversely, the world inhabited by Valmik and other prominent conservationists and scientists maintained that wildlife should reside in 'inviolate' zones, meaning that forest dwellers and wildlife areas must be entirely separated. The 'inviolate' argument had a royal lineage tracing back to the times of the Maharajas and their protected hunting blocks. It was so deeply entrenched in the formative years of Project Tiger that, to establish the first nine tiger reserves, all forest dwellers, primarily indigenous peoples, were forcibly evicted, rendering these reserves 'inviolate'. Later, in 2001, we traced three Gond and Baiga Adivasis, who were among the original inhabitants of Kanha National Park and had been removed, to film their experiences and conservation vision in There is a Fire in Your Forest. Despite having a great deal of respect and love for one another, these two worlds remained at loggerheads. As a young, wide-eyed learner, it was sometimes amusing to witness these meetings. Both sides were passionate and dedicated to conservation, presenting thoroughly researched and scientific arguments. However, the truth lay somewhere in between. Valmik's inviolate zones for tigers should coexist with multiple-use forest ranges where forest dwellers could sustain their livelihoods. The power and influence of the 'inviolate zone' lobby controlled the narrative for many decades, and the middle ground policy finally began to take form in the early 2000s. The passing of the Forest Rights Act in 2006 marked a milestone moment, creating distinct divisions in the use of natural resources. The tigers and their forest would represent the inviolate range in the tiger reserves and national parks, while the designated community reserves would support the indigenous communities and forest dwellers dependent on forest resources. The democratisation of conservation policies was finally beginning to take shape. Amidst these tectonic shifts in the Indian conservation world, one morning in 2005, The Indian Express reported that all 22 tigers in the Sariska tiger reserve were poached right under the eyes of state protection, signalling the complete collapse of the protection system. Termites had hollowed out the system, and the crumbling of several other tiger reserves subsequently came to light. I jumped to investigate the collapse and made Tigers: The Death Chronicles. I interviewed Valmik for the film. He appeared on camera, disturbed by the developments in Sariska and livid with the likes of me, who proposed participation and coexistence. He was convinced it would never work. He angrily threw a punch and said that all forest areas should be opened and handed over to indigenous people and forest dwellers, and that we should say goodbye to wildlife. Although I disagreed with his harsh counterargument, I couldn't help but be struck by his passion and emotions for the tiger. His reaction was personal, radiating from a deep-seated hurt and love nestled somewhere deep down in his heart. Valmik embodied the deadlock and the eventual transition. He established a non-governmental organisation in his learning nursery, Ranthambore, to collaborate with the local communities. Ultimately, he straddled both worlds to promote holistic conservation in the Indian forests. Valu was an outspoken man who wore his heart on his sleeve, calling a spade a spade. You didn't have to agree with him to admire him for his strong convictions; he thumped the table and spat them out. The lashing out in my film is also a part of this. In today's India, it is unthinkable that a man would be allowed to criticise and work alongside those whom he criticised. That was the respect he commanded. Serious science and scientists like Ullas Karanth and dedicated forest officers and guards have shaped tiger conservation. Global and Indian conservation organisations have helped build the conservation edifice brick by brick. But Valu wasn't part of any organisation, the government, or any scientific institution. He was a lone ranger in love with this animal and became one of its most important supporters. The tigers, especially those of Ranthambore, have lost a friend and will miss him! Bose is a filmmaker, writer and teacher
