About
Mystery-drama-thriller about tiger-poaching, big-game hunting and the international
trade in endangered species against the backdrop of conservation
Description
Tsunami in the Jungle!
Burree Maada, the famous Royal Bengal tigress, the pride of the tiger gene-pool,
is mysteriously missing from the high-security Kanha Tiger Reserve and a Wildlife
Guard is found dead.
Mystery thickens as an old man’s surreal dream about his son, Ram—a highly successful
NRI settled in Silicon Valley—being ravaged by a tiger uncannily begins to come
true; Ganga, a brilliant Forest officer protecting tigers, is suddenly transferred;
Sherry, a vivacious investigative journalist, is attacked, possibly by the wildlife
mafia and a globe-trotting and debonair Maharaja and his royal guests plan to recreate
old-time tiger-shikar....
Why has the NRI gone to jail for a tiger-skin that was presented decades ago to
his father by an English hunter of man-eating tigers? Where has Burree Maada vanished?
Kanha-Jabalpur-Katni-Kathmandu-Mandalay......where is the trail leading to? Who
are the people behind the billion-dollar international business of big-game hunting
and sale of tiger-parts and wildlife trophies? Who will survive the tortuous end-game
between those who want to protect wildlife and those who want to use it?
Set against the backdrop of wildlife conservation, Scent of a Game is a mystery-drama
about tiger-poaching, big-game hunting and the international trade in endangered
species.
With its stark and unsettling storyline, this thriller transforms our understanding
of not just the tiger and our environment, but life itself.
Page 1: The tiger skin shone brilliantly in the pre-lunch Jabalpur sun. Of the two
men who spread it in front of the chai-shop, Ramchandra Prasad—the older one with
a shaved head and gentle, hesitating hands, had a natural poise establishing his
higher position in life. That he had come from the United States was evident from
his elegant, though creased, Hilfiger jacket and the airline-tag on the Hartmann
bag by his side. Jugnu Pardhi, the younger man with gaudy sunglasses, and tight-fitting
jeans that did little to conceal the bulge of a fat wallet, displayed the confidence
of a local.
The gleaming skin on the bench also cast its spell on the chaiwallah, who begged
to feel it. He turned down the radio and quickly jumped off his shop on stilts before
Ram could say a word.
‘Tiger is truly king of the jungle,’ he said admiringly, looking at the others.
He poured chai into glass mugs from his aluminum kettle, wiped his hands thoroughly
against his shirt and caressed the gold and black skin. ‘Sheer velvet…Burree Maada
must have been at least ten or twelve feet big when she ruled the jungles of Kanha.
What say you, Jugnu?’
Burree Maada was the famous Royal Bengal tigress that had vanished recently from
Kanha Tiger Reserve despite camera traps in the core area and a radio-collar around
her neck. No evidence of territorial fights between felines had been detected. No
carcasses of dead tigers, let alone of this mature tigress, had been found. The
matter had attracted instant local and even international media attention because
of the massive ongoing national conservation program. Quite expectedly, the government
had been hauled over the coals by the opposition for this failure.