Once, at dusk.

It was nearing dusk,but there was still good light. Arrowhead had just mesmerized one and all with her glamorous walk down a long dusty road before disappearing into the thickets. She seemed to have food on her mind. Twenty days ago her tiny,tiny cubs-just orange fur balls-had peeped out of green grass and left one and all in bouts of puppy love. All the Gypsys dispersed with this momentous sighting. We moved towards the nearest forest chowki to end the day around a warm oven with stories of the wild from the tongues of the forest guards . We might have traveled some 750 km when Arrowhead emerged from the bushes right behind us. I could have stretched my hand and patted her arrowed head. We waited, unable to fathom the mother's intended path and afraid to startle her by any movement. Soon it became evident that she wished to continue on the path right before us. Our gypsy was blocking her way.

She did nothing "wild" or "tigery".

She moved through the undergrowth and crossed a chain separating two zones. On the other side, she gracefully raised her tail and sprayed her fluid over some stones. Wordlessly, soundlessly and like a queen, she declared the place to be her own. We moved away from the area to avoid disturbing her again.

A day later, the zone was shut down to prevent any disturbance to Arrowhead and her kids housed in an ancient hunting palace that lay right at the end of the chained road.