Valmik Thapar on the tigress that made him fall in love with the wild
Valmik Thapar, conservationist and chronicler of India's wild tigers, died on May 31. In this excerpt from 'Living with Tigers', he recounts how Padmini, in the 1970s, initiated him into the Ranthambore forest and changed his life forever
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The Hindu
12-06-2025
- The Hindu
Valmik Thapar and the golden light
He could have been carved from a granite crag of Ranthambhore, the place he delighted in. A mountain of a man, full-bearded, with a voice like thunder, Valmik Thapar could seem intimidating but was actually gentle and courteous. I enjoyed working with him on several of his books, and not one of my colleagues ever had an unkind word to say about him. That said, he was happiest in the wild, and didn't much care for the social circuit of Delhi, his home city. He wasn't one for small talk, preferring to use his voice, as with all the other faculties and resources he could muster, in service of the beloved tigers he had been obsessed with for 50 years. Valmik was the son of the distinguished public intellectuals Raj and Romesh Thapar, who started the influential magazine, Seminar. The Thapars were friends with many important politicians and industrialists, but did not hesitate to hold them to account when they erred. Valmik inherited the fearlessness of his parents and often took on the wealthy and powerful when they stood in the way of his determination to save wild tigers from extinction. Transforming Ranthambhore Over more than 40 books (including the last one he ever wrote, The Mysterious World Of Tigers — with his usual meticulousness, he finalised the proofs from his hospital bed, a few days before he passed away from cancer on May 31, 2025) and documentaries, he described in detail how he was drawn into the world of tigers. At the age of 23, he felt tired and disillusioned by the purposelessness of his life in Delhi. In early 1976, he decided to visit Ranthambhore in Rajasthan on the off chance he might see a tiger or two — there was no real thought behind this visit except the desire to flee the city and the ennui he felt there. When he disembarked at Sawai Madhopur, the train station from where he would have to make his way to Ranthambhore National Park, he wasn't much impressed by what he saw. A dirty small town in the Indian hinterland, indistinguishable from the other dirty small towns dotted all over the country, it seemed highly improbable that he was going to find any tigers there. Nevertheless, he figured he might as well get on with it. Hiring a horse carriage, he went in search of Fateh Singh Rathore, the warden of the park, who would go on to become his tiger guru. At the time that Valmik first began visiting Ranthambhore, it was almost impossible to see tigers. To start with, there were very few of them around — 13 or 14 at the outside. These animals rarely showed themselves, mainly because of the constant human activity within the park. Almost single-handedly, Rathore fought to save Ranthambhore's tigers. He resettled more than a dozen villages within the core area, watched over the tigers to ensure they weren't disturbed, went after poachers at considerable risk to his own life, lobbied governments and bureaucrats, raised funds, and more. In Valmik, he found a willing chela (disciple) and a tremendous ally. Through their efforts, along with those of a few other kindred spirits, and a host of dedicated forest officials, Ranthambhore is today a shining example of tiger conservation. What began as 400 sq. km. of parkland has grown to 1,700 sq. km. And, there are almost 100 tigers in Ranthambhore and sightings are common. Emotional engagement Although self-taught, Valmik was a first-rate naturalist, his field observations over the decades considerably expanding our understanding of the magnificent big cat. But what set him apart from other dedicated naturalists was the way in which he disseminated his passion for tigers. Anyone who has read his books and watched his movies can see that devotion come shining through. He would talk unabashedly about the tears that rolled down his cheeks when he saw tiny cubs playing with their mother, Laxmi; he would mention the awe he felt when he saw Genghis, the master hunter, who ruled the area of Ranthambhore's lakes, first demonstrate the art of hunting prey in the water; and he wouldn't shy away from confessing his love for a special tiger he named Noon. In his new book, he writes: 'She was a tiger who filled up my senses… Fateh teased me… that I had fallen in love with this tigress… Many scientist friends warned me to keep detached and not humanise tigers, but in truth, I was delighted with my emotional engagement with Noon. It deepened my understanding of the mysterious world of tigers.' One of the things Valmik cherished was walking with tigers, especially in the early mornings. In his words, 'As the sun rises, the golden light slides off the tiger's body. It's a magnificent spectacle.' As I write this tribute, I see him striding through that radiance, watching for all eternity over wave upon wave of Ranthambhore's tigers. The writer is a publisher and author.
Time of India
03-06-2025
- Time of India
Valmik Thapar on the tigress that made him fall in love with the wild
Valmik Thapar, conservationist and chronicler of India's wild tigers, died on May 31. In this excerpt from 'Living with Tigers', he recounts how Padmini, in the 1970s, initiated him into the Ranthambore forest and changed his life forever
Indian Express
02-06-2025
- Indian Express
When Valmik Thapar threw a punch for tigers
Valmik Thapar — Valu, as many of us knew him — was the fiercest voice for the tiger. His gruff, deep voice often resembled a tiger's growl. As an emerging wildlife conservation filmmaker in the 1990s, I knew about him and his tigers of Ranthambore. Even before I began, his first book, With Tigers in the Wild, co-authored with his guru Fateh Singh Rathore and his brother-in-law Tejbir Singh, adorned my bookshelf. After Indira Gandhi, who established Project Tiger to protect the rapidly vanishing animal in 1973, and its first director, Kailash Sankhala, I would place Valmik Thapar as the person who most contributed to the cause of tigers. I attended a talk he gave about his journey and the conservation of the Indian tiger at the Royal Geographic Society in London. His booming voice and the rare behavioural images of tigers, primarily captured by him, kept the audience on the edge of their seats. The evening ended with a standing ovation. The cherry on top was the six-part BBC series The Land of the Tiger filmed and broadcast in 1996-97. Valu was the presenter, traversing the length and breadth of India, unspooling the story of Indian wildlife and its rich biodiversity. As a young filmmaker, I was offered a small role in making the series. Over the years, I bumped into Valu at conservation meetings and would visit his house to discuss collaborative film projects. This invariably led to debates on contentious issues surrounding Indian conservation policy and practice. In my early years of filmmaking during the '80s and '90s, he and I belonged to two distinct conservation spheres. The term 'coexistence' was highly contested, representing a chasm between these two worlds. The one I occupied believed in a historical coexistence between forest dwellers and wild animals, asserting that any conservation policy must incorporate people's physical presence and participation. Conversely, the world inhabited by Valmik and other prominent conservationists and scientists maintained that wildlife should reside in 'inviolate' zones, meaning that forest dwellers and wildlife areas must be entirely separated. The 'inviolate' argument had a royal lineage tracing back to the times of the Maharajas and their protected hunting blocks. It was so deeply entrenched in the formative years of Project Tiger that, to establish the first nine tiger reserves, all forest dwellers, primarily indigenous peoples, were forcibly evicted, rendering these reserves 'inviolate'. Later, in 2001, we traced three Gond and Baiga Adivasis, who were among the original inhabitants of Kanha National Park and had been removed, to film their experiences and conservation vision in There is a Fire in Your Forest. Despite having a great deal of respect and love for one another, these two worlds remained at loggerheads. As a young, wide-eyed learner, it was sometimes amusing to witness these meetings. Both sides were passionate and dedicated to conservation, presenting thoroughly researched and scientific arguments. However, the truth lay somewhere in between. Valmik's inviolate zones for tigers should coexist with multiple-use forest ranges where forest dwellers could sustain their livelihoods. The power and influence of the 'inviolate zone' lobby controlled the narrative for many decades, and the middle ground policy finally began to take form in the early 2000s. The passing of the Forest Rights Act in 2006 marked a milestone moment, creating distinct divisions in the use of natural resources. The tigers and their forest would represent the inviolate range in the tiger reserves and national parks, while the designated community reserves would support the indigenous communities and forest dwellers dependent on forest resources. The democratisation of conservation policies was finally beginning to take shape. Amidst these tectonic shifts in the Indian conservation world, one morning in 2005, The Indian Express reported that all 22 tigers in the Sariska tiger reserve were poached right under the eyes of state protection, signalling the complete collapse of the protection system. Termites had hollowed out the system, and the crumbling of several other tiger reserves subsequently came to light. I jumped to investigate the collapse and made Tigers: The Death Chronicles. I interviewed Valmik for the film. He appeared on camera, disturbed by the developments in Sariska and livid with the likes of me, who proposed participation and coexistence. He was convinced it would never work. He angrily threw a punch and said that all forest areas should be opened and handed over to indigenous people and forest dwellers, and that we should say goodbye to wildlife. Although I disagreed with his harsh counterargument, I couldn't help but be struck by his passion and emotions for the tiger. His reaction was personal, radiating from a deep-seated hurt and love nestled somewhere deep down in his heart. Valmik embodied the deadlock and the eventual transition. He established a non-governmental organisation in his learning nursery, Ranthambore, to collaborate with the local communities. Ultimately, he straddled both worlds to promote holistic conservation in the Indian forests. Valu was an outspoken man who wore his heart on his sleeve, calling a spade a spade. You didn't have to agree with him to admire him for his strong convictions; he thumped the table and spat them out. The lashing out in my film is also a part of this. In today's India, it is unthinkable that a man would be allowed to criticise and work alongside those whom he criticised. That was the respect he commanded. Serious science and scientists like Ullas Karanth and dedicated forest officers and guards have shaped tiger conservation. Global and Indian conservation organisations have helped build the conservation edifice brick by brick. But Valu wasn't part of any organisation, the government, or any scientific institution. He was a lone ranger in love with this animal and became one of its most important supporters. The tigers, especially those of Ranthambore, have lost a friend and will miss him! Bose is a filmmaker, writer and teacher
