Chidi Kho Trek and The Jungle Book
I
The Trek
It was the
third weekend of January, a long one. The morning in Bhopal was predictably
chilly, though the light fog lifted within an hour. A motley group of about
fifty trekkers—young and energetic, old but sportive, serving officers and
pensioners, homemakers enjoying a brief respite from the routines of home, and
a few children, the youngest still shy of four—set out for Chidi Kho Wildlife
Sanctuary, seventy kilometres away. Most reached before nine; a few straggled
in soon after.
Bhagavati
Prasad Sharma, a short, stocky man in his early forties, was our guide. He
worked part-time, as visitors came mostly on winter weekends. Summers were too
harsh, and weekdays too quiet to sustain a full-time livelihood. That morning,
he seemed both excited and slightly flustered by the size of the group, which
included several veteran forest officers.
Before the
trek began, he gathered us under a sprawling banyan tree and delivered a brief
welcome.
“Jai
Raghunath Ji ki. That is how we begin any enterprise in these parts. The ruler
of Narsinghgarh never called himself king. Raghunath Ji was the King, and the
ruler only his Dewan.
“I grew up
in a nearby village. This forest has nourished me, and I owe a debt to it. I
guide visitors because of my attachment to these woods.”
He might
have continued, but a senior officer cut him short.
“Enough about yourself. Tell us a little about the flora and fauna—in two or
three minutes.”
Most
trekkers had already skimmed the glossy brochure handed out at the entrance and
were in no mood for a lecture. Each picked up a complimentary green cap, a
slender bamboo staff, and a small water bottle, and we began the walk.
“It’s rather
late to sight animals,” the guide warned. “But you will feel their presence.”
The trek
turned out to be more of a leisurely walk. The initial climb to Chacko Point
was modest, and the descent at the end posed no challenge even for the senior
citizens. Much of the five-kilometre trail ran across a rocky plateau with
sparse vegetation—varieties of jungle grass and scattered palash, khair, mahua,
saja, and amaltas trees, all sturdy survivors of the tropical deciduous
climate.
We had
walked less than a hundred metres when the guide stopped and pointed to a small
heap in the middle of the dusty track.
“That’s sai
poop—porcupine, in English. Plenty of them here. They are nocturnal, rarely
seen during the day.”
A little
further, he pointed to diagonal marks on a tree trunk.
“Those are
from a sambar. After shedding old antlers, the new ones come covered in velvet.
They rub against trees to remove it.”
Soon the
trail began to tell a more dramatic story. We saw several droppings of panthers
and many more of nilgais—both carnivore and herbivore appearing to compete in a
relay race to claim the trail with their markings.
“Both
animals mark territory through dung and urine,” a senior forest official
explained.
Then we came
upon a substantial heap where nilgais had been defecating for weeks. On top of
this communal mound lay a fresh deposit from a panther.
“That’s
unusual,” the officer said. “Cats usually scrape the earth, defecate, and cover
it. This one chose to dump directly on the nilgai heap.”
The
implication was clear: a territorial message.
Go
elsewhere. My territory is not your toilet.
At other
spots, panther droppings lay uncovered on the rocky ground. There simply wasn’t
enough loose soil to hide them. But here, the animal had carefully avoided
pawing the nilgai heap. It was beneath his dignity, perhaps.
At another
point, we found a scrape where the soil was still damp.
“She was
here early this morning,” said the guide. “Maybe two hours ago.”
On a
north-western slope stood a pale, leafless tree.
“Ghost
tree,” someone said. Sterculia urens. Its smooth, white bark glowed
faintly, even in daylight. Often leafless for months, it survives on the quiet
labour of its pale skin, turning sunlight into food.
Nearby,
jungle rats had dug a maze of tunnels with multiple exits—escape routes from
snakes and other predators. A rock lizard basked on a stone, refusing to move
when an over-curious trekker tried to shoo her away with a stick. She seemed
more intrigued than frightened—an old resident tolerating an intrusive visitor.
Midway
through the trek lay the Dheeng Dev cave, an optional detour. It required a
careful descent using a thick nylon rope tied around tree trunks, with helpers
steadying those unsure of their footing.
Inside was a
Jain cave with a headless Tirthankar, carved from a single rock. A student of
history in the group pointed out the ratna on the chest.
“A
Tirthankar, no doubt,” she said.
The head,
someone explained, had likely been hacked off by plunderers. And as if the
beheading were not enough, semi-literate vandals had scrawled their names
across the torso.
Mahavira had
preached a life of non-violence. His followers carved statues of the
twenty-four Tirthankars so their teachings would endure. The vandals had added
their signatures in search of a two-minute taste of renown and immortality.
On an
adjacent hill lay Karbatia cave—a narrow cleft between two towering rocks,
negotiable only by walking sideways. It was not for the claustrophobic.
The forest
guard narrated local folklore. In Sat Yuga, he said, the Devi temple had been
built in a single night by Vishwakarma, the divine architect. A rakshasa once
tried to plunder the goddess’s ornaments, but when she raised her trident, he
fled—tearing apart the mountain as he escaped. The narrow cleft, he said, was
the mark of his desperate flight.
Hidden among
the hills were caves with ancient rock paintings. A local guide offered an
enthusiastic interpretation—battle scenes between rival rulers, caged birds,
their release. The king on a horse painted in red, the queen on a camel in
yellow. Folklore, perhaps, rather than archaeology.
When we finished
the trek late afternoon, we had not seen a single large animal. Yet the forest was
alive with presences.
The
porcupine’s pellets, the sambar’s scratch marks, the leopard’s scrape—each was
an entry in a silent record.
It struck me
then that the jungle is not silent at all. It is simply written in a language
most visitors cannot read.
II
The Jungle Book
Chidi Kho sanctuary
is rather quiet and understated; not a forest of towering sal or uninterrupted
teak, but a mixed deciduous mosaic—grassland edges, scrub, and scattered trees
thriving on rocky soil and modest rainfall. A large lake and several waterholes
in the valleys sustain the animals.
Here,
presence is not proclaimed loudly. It is inferred.
A rubbed
trunk, a dung heap placed with intention, a spray of urine—these are the
sanctuary’s punctuation marks. To read them is to understand how different
species claim space without fences or flags.
The jungle,
in fact, is a journal.
To the
casual visitor, it is only a green mass of trees, shadows, and occasional
movement. But to a trained trekker or forester, it is a text—constantly being
written, revised, and annotated by its inhabitants. Every animal that passes
leaves an entry.
A forest
track is a logbook. It records who passed, when, and in what condition.
A set of
fresh pugmarks may tell you that a leopard crossed at dawn, walking, not
stalking, probably a male, heading toward water. Hoofprints nearby might reveal
that a herd of chital passed earlier, their tracks overlapping in the soft
soil. Sharp edges mean recent passage; blurred ones suggest time has passed.
The jungle
also keeps a ledger—a record of claims and boundaries.
A leopard’s
scrape on a path, a jackal’s scent mark on a rock, a nilgai’s dung heap—each is
an entry in this ledger. These are not aggressive declarations, but courteous
notices:
I was
here. I use this route. Let us avoid unnecessary conflict.
The ledger
is maintained not by fences, but by scent and sign.
Then there
is the jungle’s gazetteer—its record of place.
Porcupine
quills near rocky outcrops suggest nearby burrows. Scratched mahua trees hint
at sloth bears. Repeated alarm calls of langurs warn of a predator’s movement.
Without a map or GPS, a forest guard can describe the landscape simply by
reading these signs. The jungle has already written the gazetteer; he merely
recites it.
Most
visitors cannot read it.
They see
only a tree, a patch of mud, a pile of dung. The trained eye sees species, age,
direction, intention—and often the story that links them. Reading the jungle
requires patience, practice, and a willingness to look down at the ground as
often as up at the canopy. It is like learning an ancient script. At first it
is meaningless; then letters emerge; finally, whole sentences speak.
What makes
the jungle’s journal remarkable is its honesty. There are no lies in it.
In human
society, records can be altered, accounts manipulated, stories embellished. But
the forest keeps an incorruptible archive. It records everything without bias
or exaggeration.
The jungle
is always writing, but it never speaks aloud. It expects its readers to come
prepared—with quiet steps, sharp eyes, and a patient mind.
A good
forester, tracker, or trekker is not a conqueror of the jungle, but its reader.
He walks slowly, head slightly bowed, as if reading a long manuscript. Every
few steps he pauses, noticing a faint scrape, a pellet heap, a disturbed patch
of dust. To him, these are not random signs but sentences in a familiar
language.
By the end
of the walk, he can narrate what happened during the previous night.
The jungle
does not hide its secrets.
It only writes them in a script that must be learned.
And in
places like Chidi Kho, the book lies open for anyone patient enough to read.
***
Dudhraj (Indian Paradise Flycatcher)-
State Bird of Madhya Pradesh, is often found in Chidi Kho.
Panther: Source-Chidi Kho Brochure
Dheeng Dev-Photo by blogger
Rock Cave Painting-Photo by blogger
Jagdish Jatiya, a colleague and an accomplished bird-photographer, shared on blogger's request a few of his photos from Chidi Kho. Grateful.
Spotted Deer
Black Stork
Common Lora
***
