Twigs snap under the tiger’s weight, as it pushes its muzzle against the tent wall directly above her head. The tent fabric tightens like a drum under pressure as it presses its head forward and down directly above us. We can see the outline of its nostrils as they brush across the tent, the single layer of material, the barrier between us, and an inevitable death. The movement stops, and there is a sound, a brief, rushing inhale—the kind a child would make to extinguish candles on her a birthday cake. But there is something different about the volume of air being moved and the force behind it—something larger and more profound. It is a primal sound, the sound of a tiger inhaling the scent of prey.
We were 6 friends returning from a climb in the Eastern Himalaya when we were trapped in a cabin for 5 days at the mercy of a 400 pound Bengal tiger, This is the story of how our lives were forever changed.
The novel is based on an actual event and captures the terror that we felt, the weight of decisions that we made to survive, and the sacrifices that were made.
Twigs snap under the tiger’s weight, as it pushes its muzzle against the tent wall directly above her head. The tent fabric tightens like a drum under pressure as it presses its head forward and down directly above us. We can see the outline of its nostrils as they brush across the tent, the single layer of material, the barrier between us, and an inevitable death. The movement stops, and there is a sound, a brief, rushing inhale—the kind a child would make to extinguish candles on her a birthday cake. But there is something different about the volume of air being moved and the force behind it—something larger and more profound. It is a primal sound, the sound of a tiger inhaling the scent of prey.
We were 6 friends returning from a climb in the Eastern Himalaya when we were trapped in a cabin for 5 days at the mercy of a 400 pound Bengal tiger, This is the story of how our lives were forever changed.
The novel is based on an actual event and captures the terror that we felt, the weight of decisions that we made to survive, and the sacrifices that were made.
The roar cannot be confused with anything else when you hear it. You could call it a premonition of death, as when I heard it, I thought, ‘The tiger is going to kill us.’ The sound fills the night, the echoes carrying through the dense forest. God willing, you will never hear it. Certainly not when you are asleep in the jungle with a woman you love lying next to you. This roar snapped me from a deep slumber, my hands shaking.
Annabelle wakes and reaches for her headlamp. I pull her against me and hold her tight. Twigs snap under the tiger’s weight, as it pushes its muzzle against the tent wall directly above her head. The tent fabric tightens like a drum under pressure as it presses its head forward and down directly above us. We can see the outline of its nostrils as they brush across the tent, the single layer of material, the barrier between us, and an inevitable death. The movement stops, and there is a sound, a brief, rushing inhale—the kind a child would make to extinguish candles on a birthday cake. But there is something different about the volume of air being moved and the force behind it—something larger and more profound. It is a primal sound, of a tiger inhaling the scent of prey.
The tiger roars a second great roar leaving me frightened and paralyzed. The roar is guttural and intense, a sequence of abrupt growls that reverberate through the air, creating ripples of sound waves. It gives meaning to the expression “the fear of God” and sounds like an explosion or a building collapsing. Each growl rises in pitch and volume, building to a crescendo before tapering off. It is a sound I can feel as much as I hear, the low frequencies causing a visceral vibration in my chest and the air tingling with raw power.
The roar fills the space around us in all directions and I do not know if the tiger is a hundred yards away or standing just outside our tent. From this distance, the experience is overwhelming and has the effect of separating you from yourself, of scrambling the very neurology that is supposed to save you at times like this.
From its growls and the low guttural sounds, I place the tiger near the giant tree, close to the shed where the porters are sleeping. It is agitated, its calls cutting through the air, declaring its dominance, and warning that we who have trespassed will suffer its wrath. Able to kill an animal many times its size, the tiger possesses the brute strength to drag an awkward, thousand-pound carcass through the forest for a hundred yards before consuming it. No creature in the forest is off limits to the tiger; it alone can mete out death at will.
The tiger uses its paws to slam against the shed’s wooden door, and each strike sounds across the night. I can hear the wood tearing as it hunts the men inside. I imagine that the strands of wood are being stripped away, inch by inch and that when the door is no more, the night will be broken by screams, raw and full of primal terror, followed by a combination of growls, tearing flesh, and the final whimpers of dying men.
Unable to access the house, I can sense, more than hear, the tiger as it moves towards our campsite. We lie frozen in our sleeping bags, breathing shallow breaths, listening to the thuds of its paws meeting the ground. Despite the cold, sweat breaks out on my forehead, palms, and back, and every muscle in my body tenses, poised for flight. ‘Run, Run,’ my mind screams to run and seek shelter behind the thick mud walls and the heavy wooden door. Perhaps if she goes first, Annabelle might make it to the old house. These animals can leap forward 25 feet in a single bound, and I would have no chance of following her out of the tent.
The breathing of the tiger, the muzzle as it moves slowly back and forth— slow the seconds into eternity. There is a sound of a stick cracking as the tiger moves. Annabelle pushes against me, and I hold her tighter as if I can somehow protect her. We lie in the darkness, clinging onto each other, afraid even to breathe, listening intently for the sound of the approaching tiger.
The fabric tearing is a sharp, ripping sound, a clear and sudden disruption in the quiet of the night. A sharp, piercing cry cuts through the air, the raw, unfiltered scream of extreme distress and the horror of a man waking to a lethal predator. The tent rustles back and forth, and sticks and twigs snap as something is dragged into the brush. Sometime later, a roar bounces off the rock walls of the valley, cutting through the air with an imposing resonance, a roar that fills the forest with the force of an ancient angry god.
Tyger, The Thrilling Story of Survival in The Jungle of Nepal by Michael James is one of those immersive stories that places you right at the center of the action: the specific sights and smells around you, the wonder, the love... and sometimes, the fear.
In the prologue, James throws us right in the middle of the most dangerous part of the book: a tiger entering a group of hikers' campsite, leading to an intense display of predator and prey, hunting, and making impossible choices in order to survive.
Then in Chapter One, the reader is thrown back to the beginning, when the group of hikers get together, many of them meeting for the first time, to discuss their plans for the trek ahead, starting the next morning. Most of the book wanders along slowly, savoring every moment and detail. While readers who are more interested in fast-paced books or who may not appreciate deeply descriptive passages may not appreciate this about Tyger, I loved what came to be akin to a walking pace through the book: socializing, walking through nature, observing the sights and smells, enjoying and savoring delicious food, and even treating the ill and observing their symptoms. James' writing style in this book was incredibly immersive, and I appreciated his ability to put me into a country, on a journey, that I've never been on before myself, but which now I have a vicarious memory of through someone else's descriptive tales.
This writing style equally lent itself to the tougher moments in the book, like the group's encounter with the tiger. Pages are spent describing the sounds the tiger is making and the sounds the earth makes (twigs snapping, bushes rustling) as the tiger manipulates the space, but it's an enthralling immersion into a moment of intense fear and that instinct we have to try to make sense of what's going on around us when something is dangerous. The choices the group has to make, as well, are intense and lasting, and they are ample fodder for an hours-long conversation with a friend or reading group.
I found Tyger, The Thrilling Story of Survival in The Jungle of Nepal by Michael James to be beautiful, enthralling, enriching, and memorable. Like the well-read characters of the story, James' writing style alludes to his obviously well-read nature, and the book is akin to Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, Yann Martel's Life of Pi, and Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner for their thoughtfulness, immersive qualities, and descriptive natures. This is absolutely worth the read, and it's a book I see myself turning back to---and even if for some reason I didn't, it's one that will stay with me for a long, long time.