In my view, one of the most fearsome and cunning predators among all DG is the Royal Bengal Tiger—strength, guile, agility, patience, and raw power rolled into one animal.
I never hunted them myself, but I grew up on my grandfather’s stories from the forests of Palamu, Daltonganj, and Betla in eastern India. What always stood out was how he hunted: always on foot and from the ground. Never from a machan. He used to say he couldn’t take proper aim from a platform—and he trusted his feet, not a perch.
His gun is a relic even by the standards of the day—a British Paradox 12 bore hammer gun, made by Manton, smoothbore with rifling at the muzzle.
He often spoke of being followed for miles by a tiger that never showed itself—always downwind, always unseen—waiting for the right moment. And then there were the nights: stuck up a tree because it was too dangerous to walk back to the village, the roar rolling through the dark close enough to rattle your chest. No radios. No watches. No backup. Just the knowledge that something far more capable than you knew exactly where you were.
Once, during a driven hunt, he told of a moment that still gives me chills. He neither heard nor saw a large Indian Sloth Bear approach from behind. When he finally turned, the bear was already there, standing upright, claws out, about to strike. He fired with the barrel touching the bear’s chest. That’s how close it was.
To me, that is dangerous game hunting in its purest form—no distance, no margin, no safety net. Just nerve, judgment, and resolve.
I can only hope I carry even an ounce of that courage.
