Looking a 280-kilo tiger in the eye, grinning, maneuvering the steering wheel of a X6 BMW and of life in general, reversing at breakneck speed – that’s driver par excellence Mukesh Mann for you
By Debasish Roy
If one were to ask me, in the calm after a near-death experience, what exactly saved my life in Corbett National Park, I would have to say—with appropriate reverence—a driver. And not just any driver. No, sir. This was Mukesh Mann, the tour operator’s personal Rolls-Royce of chauffeurs, a man of such spotless manners, spotless shirt, spotless character and spotless everything that one suspected he even breathed in a polite and well-laundered fashion.
Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them while reversing an BMW X6 at 67 km/h away from a charging tiger.
Mukesh Mann belonged to all three categories.
Arrival at corbett: where the staff naps and the guests panic
I arrived at the five-star luxury Corbett hotel with the intention of relaxing. The hotel clerk, however, had very different aims and ailments—primarily involving sleep. He was a thin young fellow with a moustache that trembled like a nervous squirrel. Every time a guest approached the reception, he muttered something like, “Sir, give me two minutes—I am just completing my power nap – forty winks.”
The man’s dedication to disciplined napping was extraordinary. He took forty winks exactly every hour on the hour. You could set your watch by his unconsciousness.
I approached the desk with my suitcase, at which he immediately sighed and said, “Sir, please wait. I was just beginning my beauty sleep before the lunch hour.” And with that he shut his eyes again. A rare example of hospitality where you check in only when staff finish their REM cycle.
I had begun to wonder if I would ever acquire a room when the old gentleman stationed permanently at the lobby sofa waved his glass of brandy at me. He was a relic of the Raj era or possibly earlier, judging by the cut of his trousers and his fondness for narrating jokes about his late wife—jokes that caused intense discomfort to anyone within a 40-metre radius.
“Safari?” he asked with a hoarse chuckle. “Never been. Not once. Tigers hate me. My wife hated me more. Cheers!” I wondered what he was doing in a hotel right inside the jungle if he hated the big cats.
Everybody in the hotel avoided him with the determination of marathon runners avoiding potholes. One never knew which morbid anecdote or brandy-fuelled punchline he might launch next.
The fellow passengers: a motley crew
A safari vehicle collects all sorts of specimens—some animal, most human. My fellow tourists were:
1. The Cranky Punjabi Auntie
This formidable lady carried enough snack packets to nourish a medium-sized army. At any moment she could produce roasted makhana, gur-peanuts, mathri, and a thermos the size of a water cannon.
Her battle cry:
“Oye driver saab, slow! Fast! No slow! That side! This side! Stop the jeep, I saw something! No, that is a bush. But still stop!”
2. The Depressed Bengali Poet
He wore a black kurta, black trousers, black sandals, black-rimmed glasses, and an air of such profound melancholy that even the trees looked sorry for him.
He introduced himself as Sourjyo, and immediately recited:
“The tiger prowls, the tourist howls,
Life is short, existence fouls.”
I do not think anyone asked him for a second poem.
3. The single-minded Marwadi sethji
He spent the entire journey calculating how a “discount safari ticket” could be leveraged into his third bungalow in Jaipur.
“Listen, if you buy tickets off-season at 40% off, and resell them to NRIs at full price, the margin—bhai saab—the margin is better than gold.”
He never looked at a single tree, bird, or blade of grass. His safari was entirely financial, a journey among spreadsheets.
Enter Mukesh Mann: the liveried Jeeves of Corbett
Mukesh Mann, in contrast, was the picture of professional serenity. Hair combed to military precision, shirt tucked so tightly it could have been vacuum-sealed, and the faint scent of sandalwood connecting his soul to higher planes.
He addressed everyone with “Yes ma’am,” “Certainly sir,” and “Not to worry, the tiger merely wishes to understand us.”
One immediately felt that this was a man who could successfully kick start the the Indian economy, let alone the BMW X6, which he was driving for me.
Breakfast with the portly chef
Before our safari, we encountered the hotel chef, who was an artistic soul trapped in the body of a man obsessed with cheese and paaluck omelettes.
He introduced himself as “Chef Pundalik—but call me Pundu.” His moustache twirled upward as though independently delighted by life.
“Today, I make special breakfast!” he declared. “Every egg laid with blessings of Goddess Lakshmi. Eat and your day will be prosperous!”
He made:
- Omelettes shaped like tiger paws
- Pancakes shaped like elephant ears
- Toast somehow resembling a leopard (I suspect divine intervention)
- Tea so strong it could dissolve mild emotional trauma
He placed a plate before me with a flourish.
“This,” he said, “is the Corbett Sunrise Platter. Very healthy. Very spiritual. Except for butter. Butter is sin but also joy.”
The Punjabi Auntie asked for parathas. He served her 12. The Bengali Poet asked for something light. He served him porridge but with such theatrical sadness that it looked like a bowl of despair. The Marwadi asked if breakfast was complimentary and nearly fainted from happiness when told yes.
The safari begins — and hiccups attack
Just as we rolled into the forest, I developed hiccups of such violence that even the deer flinched.
Hic!
Auntie gasped, “Oye, beta! Evil eye! Eat a teaspoon of sugar!”
Hic!
The poet whispered, “Life is a hiccup in the great silence of the universe.”
Hic!
The Marwadi said, “If you drink water upside down, the hiccup vanishes. I saw on YouTube—premium subscription.”
But Mukesh Mann, like a spiritual guru disguised as a chauffeur, calmly said:
“Sir, please breathe in, look at the sky, and think polite thoughts.”
I tried it.
The hiccups immediately vanished.
Jeeves himself could not have cured bodily rebellion with such dignity.
The matter of safari attire
Before we left the jeep, I had foolishly packed:
- A bright red T-shirt
- A floral jacket
- Shoes with lights that flash when I walk (a purchase made in low blood sugar)
Mukesh Mann assessed my outfit with grave politeness.
“Sir, in jungle, it is advisable not to resemble either prey or festival decoration. Please allow me to suggest a subtle olive-green windcheater.”
He produced one from somewhere deep within the bowels of the vehicle—possibly kept for guests like me who lack survival instincts.
I wore it.
Instantly felt like Bear Grylls’ under-qualified cousin.
The great tiger incident – Royal Bengal notwithstanding
We had rolled barely twenty minutes into the forest when the dense silence around us broke. Leaves rustled. Birds fell silent. The depressed Bong poet perked up enough to mutter, “Ah. Death approaches.”
Out stepped a tiger—a splendid, muscular, orange-and-black symbol of “Nope”. It looked at us with the expression of a creature deeply unimpressed by tourism.
Auntie screamed.
The poet began composing his final poem.
The Marwadi calculated whether tigers preferred to eat full-fare or discounted ticket holders.
And the tiger began ambling – walking toward us.
When it broke into a charge, everything happened at once:
- Auntie’s snack packets burst like grenades.
- The poet declared, “I knew happiness was never meant for me.”
- The Marwadi whispered, “Bhai saab, even tiger takes no risks before attacking,” which was frankly unhelpful.
But Mukesh Mann—oh glorious Mukesh Mann—slipped into action with the calm of a man backing out of a parking space at DLF Mall.
He reversed the BMW X6 so smoothly, so elegantly, that the vehicle glided backwards like a figure skater performing a waltz. He twisted the steering wheel with the precision of a surgeon peeling a grape. The tiger lunged. The bonnet dipped. And the X6 elegantly slid away, leaving the tiger swiping at nothing but dust and disappointment.
I clutched the seat. Auntie clutched her paratha. The poet clutched his own chest. The Marwadi clutched his wallet.
Mukesh Mann simply said, “Sir, please do not worry. Tiger’s turning radius is larger than ours.”
We escaped unharmed.
The tiger, I believe, went home to reflect on its life choices. It might even have eaten a porcupine with orange juice.
The safe return — and yet another near-death experience (coffee)
Back at the hotel, still trembling, I went to the Bagheera – coffee shop. Immediately, the hiccups returned—as if to applaud my earlier cowardice.
Mukesh Mann appeared beside me as though summoned telepathically.
“Sir, one cold coffee with extra foam will settle the nerves and the diaphragm. If it doesn’t subside try another with a lemon tart with high on the tartness.”
It did. Well, the first one did but I wanted the lemon tart.
I have no scientific explanation. One simply accepts Mukesh Mann’s remedies the way ancient people accepted miracles.
Meanwhile, Chef Pundu was performing a one-man show behind the counter.
“Coffee should be smooth!” he shouted while whisking with enough energy to power a small village.
“Foam should be fluffy! If foam not fluffy, how guest feel fluffy inside?”
He then attempted latte art and created something that looked like a squirrel falling off a tree. We applauded dutifully. Even the line chefs smiled and clapped.
The evening: the old brandy man returns
As night fell, the old brandy-drinker in the lobby saw me and yelled, “Back alive? Shame! Could’ve joined my wife!” and laughed until he choked.
One truly begins to understand why everyone avoided him.
Mukesh Mann: never underestimate a driven driver
When I left the next morning, the sleepy clerk was on his thirty-second nap, the poet was writing an epic on existential tigers, Auntie was stuffing the jeep with leftover parathas, the Marwadi was still plotting his ticket-resale empire, and the old man was sipping brandy like it was oxygen.
And Mukesh Mann?
He simply bowed and said,
“I hope your stay was pleasant, sir.”
Pleasant?
The man saved me from:
- A charging tiger
- Emotional collapse
- Fashion disaster
- Terminal hiccups
If that isn’t Jeeves-level greatness, I don’t know what is.
And thus, dear reader, if ever in Corbett, choose the safari vehicle and the tour operator wisely.
Specifically:
Choose the one driven by Mukesh Mann. Your life may depend on it.
