Kenneth Anderson’s tales from the Indian Jungle

For those of us in India who’ve grown up on tales of Corbett, Anderson will rekindle similarly fond memories of an India where fangs and claws still ruled supreme. Readers not familiar with Corbett or his ilk of hunter turned conservationists need not worry about finding themselves alienated, for Anderson possesses a rare talent which makes anything woven by him a sheer delight to read. Anderson was a british hunter turned naturalist who made India his home and much like Corbett fell in love with its diverse flora and fauna (more with the latter). Both these hunters had their fair share of ending the budding careers of many a menacing man eaters (Humans used to be a viable prey species not all that long ago you know), but that’s where the resemblance ends. Anderson frequented the pristine rain forests and dry scrub jungles of South India compared to where his predecessor operated and Anderson also got to personally witness the results of an uncontrolled population boom and the havoc it has since wreaked on the India’s ecosystems.

Getting back to less gloomy subjects, Anderson’s anecdotes (for that is the gist of everything written by him) is a first person account of his experiences in the jungles of South India. He regales the readers with delightful tales of various close encounters with some of the most majestic and dangerous creatures of sub continent, with the Tiger being the foremost of these illustrious beasts. The narration is often pacy and nail biting leaving the reader breathless. Anderson also lends a warm and personal touch to the anecdotes, a style which is uniquely his own. The reader is transported back to a period where the nascent young nation was taking its first uncertain steps from a colonial hangover and this setting adds even more to the charm of an already endearing theme. Imagine, no computers, TVs, cellphones, gameboys, discos or urban jungles, replaced instead by virgin rainforests where a tiger roams in all its pomp, dusk as witnessed from the comfortable porch of a jungle bungalow, the call of the wild filling your every waking hour… Sigh I could just go on, but I'll have to settle for reading Anderson. Somebody invent a time machine and hurry up.