ON THE FRONTLINE

INSIDE THE LIVES OF INDIA'S FOREST GUARDS, WHOSE DAILY DUTIES BLUR THE LINE BETWEEN SURVIVAL SERVICE, AND SACRIFICE

- KARTIKEYA SHANKAR

IT WAS OUR TENTH KILOMETRE OF THE DAY, AND the second round of gashti—a term local forest guards use for patrolling the jungle. The morning round had already been an exhausting six kilometres. Now with the afternoon sun weighing heavily over a rain-soaked Pench National Park in Madhya Pradesh, the forest had turned into a sweltering, humid cauldron. Each step forward was a struggle—slippery leaves underfoot, tangled shrubs above ground, and the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. My arms were scratched from the dense foliage, and at times, the forest guards had to hack through overgrowth with axes to clear a path.

Suddenly, a voice rang out through the underbrush: “Saab, yaha par keel hai.”

Our small group—two forest guards, four support staffs, and me, a city-bred outsider—perked up. The word “keel” (kill) hinted at a fresh discovery, one that could potentially reveal the recent presence of a big cat. Pench, after all, is prime tiger country—its rugged sal and teak forests inspired Rudyard Kipling's "The Jungle Book" (1894), and the spirit of Shere Khan still lingers in these woods.

We followed the voice, weaving through thick vegetation for about 30 seconds before we arrived at what was once a magnificent male sambar deer. Its antlers and legs were all that remained. The rest of its body had been devoured—most likely by a tiger, not more than three or four days ago. For a moment, I was frozen. The forest guards, however, sprang into action with efficiency. One took out his phone to log the incident. Another relayed the update over a walkie-talkie. Meanwhile, I stood awkwardly, trying not to gag at the overpowering stench and the swarm of flies that clung to the air like static.