During a safari in Masai Mara, Prof Aparajita was captivated by the lion’s majestic countenance, inspiring her to contemplate life lessons and the plains’ grandeur. We are introducing a weekly column by the nature enthusiast, Prof. Aparajita, exclusively for Different Truths.
August twenty-nine was the third day that we were in the Masai Mara. Incidentally, the Masai Mara gets its name from the local Masai tribe. My guide, Dennis, explained that “Mara” in Masai slang means “the dotted plains.”
The acacia trees growing far apart from each other make the terrain look dotted in a bird’s-eye view. So, the mara that belonged to the Masai tribes came to be called the Masai Mara. This enormous national game reserve, which boasts a whopping 1510 square kilometres in Narok, Kenya, spills over onto the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania, which is an even larger place.
I call him Simba as a tribute to that unforgettable majestic figure of grit and gumption in Disney’s eponymous film, The Lion King…
Anyway, coming back to this regal creature in the picture. I love to call him Simba as a tribute to that unforgettable majestic figure of grit and gumption in Disney’s eponymous film, The Lion King, though the umpteen scars on his face would rather make a scar out of him.
There was a hush among us all in the five or six open-hooded safari Gypsies as he ambled up in unhurried, leisurely strides to a little hillock nearby and ensconced himself with practiced ease on its summit. And he just sat there, oblivious to the slew of inquisitive vehicles around him, prying shamelessly on his privacy. As the sun made its way to the horizon, its last golden glow lingered on Simba’s magnificent mane, lining his great head in an iridescent halo as his luminous eyes took us in in casual heedlessness.
He sat there, his mighty, sinewed forearms crossed one on the other, regal in his sheer nonchalance.
He sat there, his mighty, sinewed forearms crossed one on the other, regal in his sheer nonchalance towards us shallow humans who crowded around in our insistent vehicles, madly photographing him as a keepsake, a trophy to take back home, little remembering that our puny existences are scarcely capable of holding a candle to nature’s grandeur. It manifests gloriously in creations like ‘Simba’. As I looked closely through my lens at the scars punctuating his grand visage, I wondered at the story of survival that hovered behind each cut, each mark, and each scratch on that life-toughened face…
As the sun dipped lower, our vehicles quietly pulled away one by one, leaving the Mara and its majestic solitude to the numero uno of the wild, wild plains of the Mara.
…the composed and steely gaze of Simba’s fascinating amber eyes lingered on in my slumber-slowed consciousness.
Back at the base camp, as the lights dimmed for the night and sleep descended gently on our travel-tired eyes, the composed and steely gaze of Simba’s fascinating amber eyes lingered on in my slumber-slowed consciousness.
I want to learn how to stride through life with my head held high like you, Simba. I want to learn the art of living from you!
Photos by the author
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