Filmmaker star Photographer


Dudhwa National Park

aaThe road from Lucknow to Dudhwa through dusty villages and dingy townships entirely belies the sights to come. But when we do arrive 6 hours later at Dudhwa National Park it is getting dark and I am deprived of my first glimpse of the forest that now tantalizingly lurks all around me.

8:00 p.m. I am standing in the portico of my forest accommodation. I listen to a familiar forest nocturne. I breathe in the intoxicating smell of fecund jungle. I look up at the glittering galaxies, thinking that a sky so generously sprinkled with stars can only be seen from the deepest depths of nature. I know that I have come to a place of spectacular and unspoiled beauty.

4:00 a.m. The biting cold is most unexpected. Suitably dressed, we speed off in an open-top gypsy into the blue, misty forest.

Three months later I am back in Dudhwa. It’s June now, and the sun has been mercilessly beating down on Dudhwa without any respite from the rain clouds. So much so, that some dirt tracks have turned into pure sand beds, which explains why I am stranded upon a wooden watchtower, with my feisty four-wheel vehicle uncharacteristically wedged in the earth 50 meters away.

You see, like in all great stories, our car chose a moot moment to sink into the soil. We spent the last two hours stalking a herd of elephants grazing in the tall grasslands, and now, when we are close enough to film them, there is no running away from them. We are fortunate to have this tower close by, but a wooden watchtower is but a twig for a matriarch of 30 elephants with young, should they choose for it to be so.

Be that as it may, this tower is a delightfully well-placed vantage point. As a filmmaker, the grand spectacle I am fortunate to capture quite obviates the threat we currently face from it. The rest of the crew is of course justifiably frantic. They’re making a hell of a racket trying to free the back wheels of the car before sunset, which is rapidly creeping up on us.

I am aware of the gravity of the situation, but I feel nothing but pure joy as I watch wild elephant calves feed alongside their mothers. I am so one with this world that it is difficult to feel concerned for my safety. Acutely aware that this is the last day of my film shoot I begin to pensively recall the many magical moments I have had over my two trips.

I recall for example that first, bitingly cold morning in March when we sped off in an open-top gypsy into the blue, misty forest. The first thing that struck me about the forest was the sheer size of the trees: Sal trees, tall and majestic, looming over the forest like ancient guardians. In early March, the forest is a dream. The dirt tracks are carpeted with auburn leaves, and as the jungle bursts open into infinite grasslands, the fog hangs low and heavy over the plains, golden and gleaming in the morning light. And the last time I had heard such a choir of birdcalls at dawn was in the rainforests of Borneo.

Dudhwa does, in fact, shelter 40% of India’s entire bird diversity. That is due to the diversity of the terrain itself. The National Park is a canvas of woodlands, wetlands, grasslands and riverine habitats; a varied landscape boasting an equally varied collection of wildlife.

Indeed, the magnitude of the landscape catches you by surprise. It is vast and variegated: dense green jungles burst into grand sunburnt plains, which blend gently into the fledgling green of marshland habitats. My first impressions of Dudhwa indeed had set my heart racing.

But by the end of the second day the mood had tempered. Glad as I was to be in the midst of this great wilderness, I wasn’t getting to film any wildlife, and it wasn’t until the sixth game drive that we finally managed to film anything even mildly worthwhile: a pair of common langurs, if you please.

And It wasn’t until another 3 or 4 days that I realized why it was so difficult to film wild animals in this National Park; the same reason why I would vehemently recommend the place to true forest lovers.

Dudhwa is not your average Tiger Reserve. It doesn’t offer safaris as well planned as those in Corbett or Kahna, and it certainly doesn’t offer luxurious lodges as amply available as in Bandhavgarh or Ranthambore. What it does offer are modest, cottage-room accommodations near the entrance of the park, with solar panels for electricity and a canteen for simple vegetarian food. Far better of course are the colonial dak bungalows inside the reserve. These have no electricity and guests must bring their own rations for the bungalow cook to prepare. But that’s a fair bargain when you’re falling asleep to alarm calls and jungle sounds all around you. Given that the facilities are so basic, and that the forest department's website boasts not to expect "a home away from home", it isn’t surprising that the average holidaymaker would choose a more tourist-friendly park. And the upshot of all this is simple: in Dudhwa it’s just you and the forest. Whether on game drives or on elephant back, it is unlikely that you’ll spot other tourists in your vicinity, which means, most of the time, you have the forest mostly to yourself. Only a true lover of nature will understand what a blessing that is.

Because the animals are less exposed to tourists they are more skittish and elusive than at other parks. Dudhwa is a genuine wilderness. For lengthy and close sightings, one must have tons of patience, faith and a keen understanding of animal behavior. And nothing proves this better than my long awaited tiger sighting.

We had been shooting for a week and until then the most exciting moment was when we filmed rhinos at exhilaratingly close range. The Rhinos of Dudhwa are part of a great success story. More than a century ago, the entire Terai was a prolific rhino habitat. Until, of course, they were hunted to extinction. In 1984, in an ambitious rehabilitation programme, rhinos from Assam were reintroduced into Dudhwa National Park, and today some 30 of them roam the grasslands that their ancestors once did.

A similar success story is that of the swamp deer. There was a time when swamp deer could be spotted in the thousands. But loss of wetland habitats and poaching resulted in a sharp decline in their numbers. Today, Kishenpur sanctuary, part of Dudhwa Tiger Reserve, shelters the largest herds of swamp deer in India, and one can watch hundreds of them gathered on an island, while smaller groups paddle in neck deep water.

Kishenpur, in my opinion, is the most idyllic of all places within the National Park. Swimming deer apart, it is also one of the best avian habitats in the region, hosting an immense variety of migratory birds every winter. And if that’s not enough, Kishenpur also happens to have one of the highest tiger densities in India.

Which brings me back to my tiger sighting. There we were in the middle of Pugmark Park, fresh footprints all around us, going off in every direction, but no sign of the protagonist himself. Panic attack. A film about a tiger reserve, and no tiger footage at all, and this the last day of our shoot. I was a bag of nerves having spent the whole morning going around in circles in Kishenpur, and if I saw another pugmark I would lose my mind!

I decided that I could not afford the filming break from 11 to 3 that had become part of our routine. So regardless of the harsh light and the fact that animals are most inactive in the afternoon, I resumed my search for a tiger. With the sun at its zenith, every tree, every leaf and every blade of grass had an unsightly shadow right beneath it. The path was dusty, the grasslands empty and the forest silent. What followed was not in any script.

At half past one, I spotted a shape at the end of the dirt track. The contours looked too good to be true. There she was, materialized out of nowhere, orange and black, sitting majestically in the middle of the road, as if awaiting our arrival. The young tigress proceeded to give my camera a 10-minute performance. Our patience, faith, and resolve had finally paid off. We had our big cat on film, and that too at a most unlikely time of day. But that’s the thing with tigers: they’re beautiful but trying, unpredictable but exciting. Much like the forest of Dudhwa itself.

The only other time I felt as lucky was when I had returned to Dudhwa to film the live hatching of baby gharials in Katarniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary. It is a rare privilege to watch scores of tiny little long-snouts swimming in the Gerva river, while nests of unhatched gharials cry “umph” from within their eggs, calling for their mother to dig them out. I remind myself that this unique species has only 200 or so breeding adults left in the wild, extinct everywhere else except for in a few places in India and Nepal, of which Katarniaghat Sactuary, in Dudhwa Tiger Reserve, is among the most thriving.

And here I am again, spectator to that magical scene unfolding before me. The grass is tall and I can only see the elephants faintly now. The vehicle is still bogged in the sand, but I am watching the sun set and the landscape take on a dreamy blue haze. Far across the grasslands, the trees fade in the distance, and the horizon meets the sky. The moment is magical and idyllic, but brief and illusory.

I am rudely returned to reality. The vehicle has finally been freed and I am summoned to get on board. And almost with uncanny synchronization, reality impinges a little more harshly as villagers from neighboring farmlands begin to raise a cacophonic din to scare away any animals lurking in nearby grasslands. The idyllic quiet is shattered and the elephants that were grazing peacefully in the dusk are now trumpeting anxiously as they flee the scene.

As we drive off, I end my last day in Dudhwa on a bittersweet note. I catch a passing glimpse of a little calf hiding timidly between its mother’s legs. For me the image is both poignant and symbolic. The little nestling calf is a tender embodiment of the fragile peace that reigns in Dudhwa. The forests are beautiful and teem with spectacular wildlife. Yet this wilderness is helpless. As everywhere else, the man-animal conflict takes its inevitable toll on wildlife and their habitat. Villagers encroach deeper into forestlands. Displaced animals venture into human territories. Dudhwa’s proximity to the international border makes the task trickier for the forest department as it wages a desperate war to protect the virgin forests and the wildlife within. The challenges are many, but the one-man crusade begun by the legendary Billy Arjan Singh, is now being carried on by the forest department and a group of dedicated NGO’s and conservationists, who long to see wonderlands like Dudhwa safe and thriving. And so, as my departing wish, I dare to hope that that little nestling calf hiding between its mother’s legs may someday grow into a thriving matriarch in a thriving forest, in a future thriving with life.

Article by Ashwika Kapur

The Author is a Young Wildlife Filmmaker and Conservationist.

Article & Photographs Published in The Hindustan Times

aa5.45 pm. I pull my cell phone out of the back pocket of my grubby jeans to have a look at the time. The screen looks back blankly, the network bars altogether missing. Next to me, Kien, an optimistic, bouncy little man from Vietnam, climbs on a chair, furiously waving his cell phone in the general direction of the sky. He is determined to jerk a few bars back onto the screen so he can make that phone call back home. It is of course the most urgent thing to do for we’ve just been informed that there’s no way to do it. Well certainly not, for we’re deep, very deep in the midst of a rainforest in Borneo.

Borneo: Sabah, Malaysia. Exotic names on the map you have heard about or seen through the carefully mediated refraction of a National Geographic lens; a place primitive and untouched and unspoiled by human hand. I am in the heart of Borneo now, in a place called Danum Valley. It is beautiful and breathtaking as I watch the soft, quiet rain in the evening light. The fecund smell of the damp earth mingles with the fragrance of flowers in bloom as I listen to a dappled orchestra of birds settling in for the night. I sit still and silent, watching the gloaming fade into darkness. And now the rain has stopped and night has fallen and the sounds are different. A lone owl hoots in the distance and a bat rustles overhead, and the crickets clatter in time to a random cacophony of cicadas and tree frogs.

I cannot believe that I am only 5 hours away from the plush Hyatt Hotel in Kota Kinablalu where I caught a quaint airplane to Lahad Datu and a road journey for 80 km across a private logging road which has brought me to the Danum Valley Field Research Centre, home for the next 2 weeks in the thick of the Borneo Jungles.

The Danum Valley: a 438 square kilometre tract of undisturbed Lowland Dipterocarp Forest in Sabah, Malaysia. The jungles drowsily awake at dawn to a thick shroud of mist hanging low over the tall canopy. And when the mist melts away in the warm light of the morning, the rainforests emerge in a palette of glistening greens, and it is then, in the golden light of the morning, if you’re lucky, you may sight some of the most exotic and endangered animals on earth. Unlike most natural habitats, Danum Valley was fortunate enough to have escaped the greed of the human world. It went unnoticed and unexplored long enough for the right people to discover it, and declare it protected. It is unique in the sense that before it was declared a protected area there was no human settlement within it. Hunting, logging and other human interference was non-existent, making these virgin forests a primary site for scientific research and the study of pristine and uncorrupted jungles.

It is primarily for this reason that I was there in the first place: to attend a workshop hosted by Earthwatch, a leading conservation organization that runs several scientific research projects in the area. Committed to protecting the natural world through research, education and conservation, Earthwatch is committed to instructing and shaping minds in the conservation industry. As a member of the Kolkata based Nature Environment & Wildlife Society (NEWS) I was fortunate enough to be invited to one such training programme, aimed at imparting business skills to those who work for UNESCO World Heritage sites (in the case of NEWS - the Sundarbans), so that they may be able to raise and manage the funds that are imperative to sustain conservation activities in any environment.

The workshop struck a fine balance between classroom lectures on the economics of conservation and outdoor activities which had the participants assisting scientists on-field in their research projects. Hectic classroom schedules were also enlivened by welcome breaks which took us for long walks in the deep jungles, crossing little rope bridges or swimming in waterfalls. And some nights we went on exhilarating and unforgettable drives.

This, perhaps, is what makes Earthwatch training programmes so special for they aren’t your typical dry, pedantic workshop. They strike a fine balance between theory and practice by conducting their educative programmes in the most unexpectedly remote, exotic and ecologically significant places on earth. These courses are designed not merely to educate and inform, but to involve and inspire. It is as simple and beautiful as that.

Earthwatch Institute engages people worldwide in scientific field research and education in order to create green guards around the world who will contribute to conserving the environment. The good news is that these training workshops aren’t just restricted to conservation professionals. They are designed for pretty much anybody and so long as you have the drive and enthusiasm for an adventure in the wild, and are willing to pay for it, you can sign up for an Earthwatch Expedition holiday in some of the most exciting locations on earth.

Earthwatch offers you a holiday, of sorts, because these are much more than just eco-tours or volunteer vacations. They are designed not only to give you an extraordinary experience off the beaten tourist track, but also to make your vacation meaningful by providing you with the rare opportunity to be involved hands-on in environmental projects being conducted in the region. So the next time you crave something quite unique and novel you might want to consider an Earthwatch Expedition instead, and who knows, you could find yourself tracking a family of Meerkats in South Africa, or monitoring the Amazon dolphins in Peru, or caring for captive cheetahs in Namibia or even perhaps, come across some of the most exotic little creatures in the midst of a pristine rainforest in Borneo, the Danum Valley, where I am now, as I sit watching the gloaming fade into darkness, and the night songs come alive.

Article & Photographs Published in The Hindustan Times

aaSasan Gir, Gujarat, is the final frontier for the last lions of India. You might have been there, perhaps more than even once, because, as I was told, Durga Puja is when an enormous number of Calcuttans travel across the country to visit. So what I’m about to tell you might strike familiar chords, which you might find pleasant. For those who haven’t made the trip, here goes.

After a 12 hour overnight bus drive from Ahmedabad, cold, bumpy and windy because of a wretched window that wouldn’t close, I arrive at Gir at 8:00am, only to find that I can’t check into the lodge until 10:30. So instead of catching up on precious sleep, I bundle myself off on another bumpy ride; my first game-drive into the forest. And in keeping with the tempo of things, minutes into the forest I see a leopard. I blink. It’s gone. Presque vu. It takes another four game drives for my luck to pick up. Yes, I get to watch a family of lions take the sun and the longest, most trying nap on my first evening, but that hardly counts for much for a photographer.

The second day also begins promisingly. I see a leopard. I blink. It’s gone. Déjà vu. And then, only the ubiquitous jungle babblers and an occasional raucous parrot. Apart from that, no luck at all. I suppose spending many such vacuous days in the jungle teaches you the virtue of optimism. That’s why I don’t up and leave that second afternoon, which is severely long, sultry and still as I lie reclined on the back seat of my Gypsy.

Being one of the first to arrive at the location, I am witness to virtually all the comings and goings from the site. A jeep pulls in with a fresh burst of eagerness, and the newcomers inevitably get all worked up by a rustle in the bush. Since it’s only a bunch of jungle babblers they settle down bored even a little piqued and sullen. The afternoon torpor becomes intolerable.

Other Gypsys pull up eagerly and settle down disgruntled, until a new arrival turns up with an uplifting rumour: a male lion has been spotted deep in the woods 5 km from here and there’s a good chance of him making his way to the watering hole at sunset. Excited desperation drives much of the assembly away. Some of us decide to wait. At least we know for certain that a hundred metres deep in the bush a certain family is taking a big cat nap. Those who have left are one kind of safari tourist. They want instant action: enter forest, see lion, see leopard, return to 5-star lodge. The other comes hoping for a taste and experience of true, natural wilderness. After a three hour wait, it’s mostly the second type who linger in the same spot. The sun is dipping low and the wind has picked up. Flocks of parrots squawk in noisy circles overhead as the drowsy jungle wakens from its siesta. It’s time I sit up, for sunset is when things begin to happen. If you spend time long enough in the jungle, you learn, almost instinctively, the rhythms of nature and the significances of the jungle noises. A cheetal call sounds the alarm: a lion has been spotted. My driver knows exactly what to do. We reposition a little further down the track.

What follows is the moment I’ve been waiting for. A beautiful lioness emerges majestically from the tawny thickets with two little bright-eyed princesses in tow. The girls make their way up a little hillock and bask in the golden light of the evening sun. They let me watch and share the magic of their idyllic world as I capture what little of it I can through my camera lens.

For a wildlife photographer, Gir is one of those places which guarantees a few great moments if lions are what you’re looking for. Among the big cats, lions are relatively easier to photograph. A tiger can glide through a forest unseen. A leopard could be sitting 10 meters from the road and you’d never know. But lions, luckily, don’t play as hard to get. They will even allow your vehicle to get up close and personal. And since they are social creatures congregating in groups, you get wonderful opportunities to capture assorted portraits as well as interactive behaviour.

Unless you’re freakishly unlucky, you should most certainly see one, if not a few lions during your stay, which should be for at least four or five days. Don’t be surprised if the first time you spot a huge, handsome male sauntering out of a beautiful leaf-covered creek, as I did, you spot three trackers sauntering out right behind him. While cynical and often ignorant tourists assume that the lions at Gir are secretly tame, this sort of close tracking of wild animals has a purpose.

Once widely ranging from the Mediterranean to the north-eastern parts of the Indian subcontinent, by the end of the 19th century, relentless hunting caused the Asiatic lion numbers to plunge to as low as a dozen. Conservation efforts began with the help of the British administration and over the years the numbers steadily rose. Today there are 411 Asiatic Lions in the wild, all found exclusively in the Gir Forest, Gujarat. Conservation efforts at Gir, and other such sanctuaries around the world that shelter endangered species, appear to follow the simple logic that since it was man who encroached upon nature and created the imbalance, man must now intervene again, to restore that balance. Thus, much of the conservation success at Gir has depended upon an exceptionally active and involved team of forest guards, the most essential of whom are the rescuers. Gir has a long and well-known history of wildlife rescues, captures and health management.

Gir believes that in the struggle to revive a critically endangered species, it must intervene to resolve mortal threats such as disease, injury, rejection of young and other such occurrences. The rescuers at Gir are on call 24x7, treating wounded animals, rescuing those which have strayed out of the protected area and, over-all, ensuring a fit and healthy lion population. Most of the guards, rescuers and guides at Gir are locals who have lived their entire lives in and around these jungles. Thus, while their knowledge of lion conservation per se, may be developed through years of education efforts and on-the-job training, their native understanding of the forest is what makes them its best guardians. Another unique factor about Gir is the tribal hamlets that still exist inside the reserve, and the Maldharis, as they are called, are as primitive in their lifestyle as they are modern in their understanding of the need to conserve the very same animals that pose a daily threat to both them and their livestock. In fact, this vital awareness of and sympathy for lion conservation is widespread throughout the villages in Sasan, which is significant considering the Sanctuary is situated within the district.

And this brings us to the village of Sasan Gir where your safari must begin. It’s friendly, clean and supplied with the basic modern amenities that make life comfortable. The nearest airport is Rajkot, a four hour drive away. Alternatively, overnight sleeper-buses from Ahmedabad are an equally comfortable option. Once here, the best place to stay is at the forest lodge - The Sihn Sadan: good service, comfortable rooms, affordable rates, and a practical choice too since it is from here that you must collect your permit to enter the forest. However, if you’re a committed non-vegetarian, you are likely to share my one complaint about Sasan Gir. The only restaurant that boasts of serving non-vegetarian meals on a teasingly colourful signboard, had its shutters down for the length of my stay. I’m told there are other lodges which serve chicken but I cannot vouch for it.

All in all, for any wildlife enthusiast, Gir is a place worth visiting. Of course, like in any other game reserve you need to get your season right, and you attitude right, to better your chances for an eventful trip. All you need is patience, faith and a little bit of luck, and then at the end of a long wait, you too will witness a moment as beautiful as the one I am privileged to share: a beautiful lioness emerging majestically from the tawny thickets and two little bright-eyed princesses playing under a tree, in the warmth and magic of a golden hour.

Columns in The Times of India, as a member of the Advisory Board for the Bengal Election Edition

aaThe notion of town and countryside might underpin thinking that has long gone out of fashion. The fact remains that the country continues to emigrate to the town. The town has rarely emigrated to the country. But if the country must ape and aspire to the town, why is it that the town has never aspired to the country? Except for the privileged few who have the wherewithal to buy weekends on country estates, what do the rest of us do within this fume-filled urban landscape? As we, in Kolkata, pull down the past to build garish empires in the present and thrust greedy concrete deeper into the wetlands on the eastern fringe of the city, are we at all aware that the present can have no future because such mindless development is environmentally unsustainable? How long has it been since we last saw fireflies dance? Remember the letter-birds, the ones that flew in a V-shape across the sky? And the chattering sparrows, the dragonflies, the millipedes and the vultures on the banks of the Hoogly? Where have the daddy-long-legs gone? And the blue-bottle flies, big, restless and buzzy, which swarmed in with the advent of the mango season? Young as I am, I remember these joys I found in nature even through my childhood years. In the matter of a decade, they have become rare sights and that’s what happens when the city under its own compulsions must throttle its environment in order to urbanise. Calcutta was a green city. At night the sky was an indigo carpet spangled with stars. Kolkata is a very different city. It is a city with an empty heart and a paralysed will. The causes might be political and sociological. It is too small and its population too big. It is Alipore and Tangra. Its expanding landscape is myopic and unplanned. How then, busy as we are building an urban jungle,aa do we even start thinking about setting our city environmentally right? Ralph Nader had fine and idealistic plans when he launched the Green Party. Nothing changed. We have our own home-grown crusaders fighting for the Wetlands, the Maidan and the Victoria Memorial. Nothing has changed. Lone rangers are enigmatic, even mythic. But one man with a cause is one man on an island. If things are to change, it is we who must change them. This is when I think of small NGOs or individuals who are doing what they can for the environment in their sincere and sometimes passionate ways. But I ask myself what these isolated efforts all add up to. It is ironic that as political parties proclaim their way to the impending elections, every one is talking about change. So perhaps we may replace the hammer and sickle with a flower. But since we are all cynical, we know that when parties change, nothing changes at all. Change happens when we make things change. If we are inconvenienced when our groceries are not packed in plastic, knowing well that plastic bags are banned because they are an environmental hazard, we are unlikely to be the catalysts of change and speak up as we watch the real estate industry wrench away whatever little space nature has left in this city. The answer lies in a united effort, not in fragmented ones, and that can only happen through a disciplined execution of environmental laws. The creation of a Green Bench at the High Court is good, but laws are bent or perverted or simply stored away in dusty tomes. If there is to be change we need effective governance and establishment of the rule of law. If Sikkim can do it, so can West Bengal. For me, there will be change only when we have the political wisdom to understand that a manifesto which pledges to work for the people, for urban development and a higher standard of living, will succeed only if it pledges to work for the environment. And I hope I am not naïve in daring to hope that such a change will happen, that if not in April, then in some not so distant future my city will be green again, will have space to breathe again, and the sparrows will return in numbers and the dragonflies will dance.

Subarna,as she has been named, is an orphan. She is two months old. The Alipore Zoo in Kolkata is not her home. She was born near the Paschim Medinipur district of West Bengal, into a herd of thirty elephants, but on 27th January 2010, her life changed forever. At dusk on that nippy winter day, she was rejected by her own mother. Abandoned and alone she would have died in a few days had it not been for the intervention of the Forest Department which set about finding a home for her.
The rejection of elephant calves is a fairly common occurrence, and the incident that preceded Subarna’s disownment explains why and how this happens. Subarna had been separated from the herd and had spent a night away from it. This was on the 27th of January, the day before her rejection. Forest officials believe that the herd had strayed into a nearby village in the Dantan region of Medinipur district after crossing the Subarnarekha River from Orissa. Crop destruction by elephants is a frequent hazard for villagers on the Subarnarekha banks, and so they launched a coordinated attack forcing the herd to retreat into the jungles. However, as burning torches and beating drums chased the tuskers away, the baby, undoubtedly traumatized, lost contact with the herd. Subsequently, the calf was tortured and ill-treated by local villagers before they finally reported the incident to the forest authorities. Once notified, forest department officials attempted to track down the herd in order to re-unite the calf with its mother. But after the nightlong separation, the mother refused to accept her. One of the commonest reasons for the rejection of elephant calves is injury or wound of any kind. Cruel as it may sound, nature dictates the abandonment of the weakest. So an elephant mother is likely to reject its calf if she believes it is too weak and may not have a chance to survive. Conservator of Forests, Mr Vinod Kumar Yadav, says that the night incident had left the baby traumatised and visibly weakened with an injury to her hind leg. He is convinced that the injury was the cause of her rejection.
- Ashwika Kapur
Despite all efforts, baby Subarna did not survive. She succumbed to a bout of severe diarrhea on the 2nd of April.

Published in Ministry of Envioronment and Forest (Govn. of India) Cheetah Project Brochure

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