Coming from the rugged, snow-kissed slopes of Kashmir where Markhor cling to cliffs like ghosts of the mountains, I found myself thousands of kilometres away—standing at the edge of the Manas National Park, a world of emerald forests, swelling grasslands, and giants I had only seen in books. This journey, meant for learning and exchange, unexpectedly turned into a deeply personal moment of wonder. On my very first safari, the wild plains of Assam revealed creatures I had never seen in the flesh—birds, langurs, squirrels, the iconic rhinoceros, elephants, wild buffaloes, and gaurs. What unfolded became a story of contrasts, shifting landscapes, and how the fringes of one world can open the doors to another.

Manas tea fields—where the land breathes in shades of green | Photo © Muneeb Nazir/WTI

Manas greets you long before you even enter the forest. Just outside my homestay, endless tea fields stretch across the land, glowing in the early morning light. Women dressed in rainbow-coloured attire move gracefully through the rows, plucking tea leaves with a rhythm that feels almost musical. Their presence makes the fields look like a painting in motion. And when you finally sit down to eat, the food here in Manas is unlike anything I have ever tried before—simple, warm, and full of the flavours of this land.

There is something about dawn in Manas that sets it apart from anywhere else. The mist doesn’t just rise—it dances, twirls, and wraps itself around the tall trees like an old friend reluctant to say goodbye. As our safari jeep rumbled into the forest, I felt like I had stepped into a painting where every stroke of light carried a promise.

I’m from Kashmir—where mountains rule, where the Markhor leap across rocky cliffs and the wind whistles colder stories. Yet here, on the fringes of Manas, the forest spoke a different language: softer, greener, and alive with a rhythm I had never experienced before.

It was my first-ever safari. I didn’t know what to expect, but the forest seemed eager to introduce itself.

Chasing the first light through the misty tracks of Manas | Photo © Muneeb Nazir/WTI

We first saw birds, their colours flashing through the forest like quick strokes of a brush. Their calls filled the cool air, announcing the arrival of the day. Soon after came the capped langurs, leaping effortlessly through the branches, their long tails swinging like ribbons in the morning light. On a thick branch above us, giant squirrels lay curled up, sleeping cosily, completely unaware of the world passing beneath them.

Then, the landscape opened up. And there it was—a greater one-horned rhinoceros. My first rhino sighting. A lifer. Grazing calmly in the soft morning glow, looking as though it had stepped straight out of time.

The forest had more to reveal. A herd of wild buffaloes stood in the distance, broad and imposing, watching us with heavy, deliberate eyes.

 And then came the moment that stole the breath from my chest.

A tusker emerged—massive and majestic, his tusks shining like the polished swords of a ninja warrior. He wasn’t alone; he moved with his group in a slow, graceful rhythm. Seeing elephants in the wild for the first time felt unreal—my hands held the camera, but my eyes refused to blink.

A quiet display of courtship as the tusker approaches his female | Photo © Muneeb Nazir/WTI

As if to complete the morning’s magic, a herd of gaur appeared—muscular, towering, and regal. They moved through the grasslands with a quiet power, the kind that tells you the forest belongs to them.

I took countless photos, but none of them captured what my heart felt. The thrill, the silence, the disbelief, the joy. For someone who spends his days tracing the paths of Markhor in the mountains, the plains of Manas felt like another planet—yet strangely familiar in their wildness.

On the fringes of Manas, I wasn’t just a visitor. I was a student of the forest. And on that day, the forest opened its ancient hands and taught me wonder.

Manas didn’t just show me wildlife— it showed me how every landscape holds a story waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

Story by Muneeb Nazir, Field Officer, Kashmir Markhor Recovery Project, Wildlife Trust of India