The Fable of the Ghost and the Guardians of Corbett National Park. 

In the heart of the Jim Corbett National Park, where the Ramganga River whispers secrets to the ancient sal trees, there lived a magnificent tiger. The villagers and forest rangers called him "The Ghost," for he was rarely seen but his presence was felt everywhere. His roar was a thunderclap that kept the deer vigilant and the wild pigs in check. He was the king, and his kingdom was in balance.
The Ghost's power was not just in his strength, but in the harmony he brought to the forest. The deer grazed with a healthy wariness, never staying too long in one place. This allowed the grasses to grow tall and the young saplings to flourish. The wild boar, fearing his shadow, rooted only where they must, leaving the forest floor unturned and rich. The rivers, too, flowed clear, for the trees whose roots held the banks were not disturbed. The Ghost was the heartbeat of the jungle, and all life pulsed to his rhythm.
But a new sound began to echo through the hills—the sound of steel and the smell of fear. Poachers, drawn by the lure of easy riches, crept into the forest. They were not looking for food, but for the tiger's skin and bones. They set their traps and laid their snares, their greed a poison that seeped into the ground.
One by one, the tigers began to disappear. The Ghost’s kin were taken, and a silence, colder than any winter mist, fell over the forest. The deer, sensing the absence of their great predator, grew bold. They grazed without fear, stripping the land bare. The wild boars tore up the earth with abandon. The delicate balance was shattered. The trees, no longer protected by the constant movement of a wary prey, were cut down by those who saw a profit in them. The riverbanks crumbled, and the water grew muddy. The forest, once a vibrant kingdom, became a ghost of its former self, a silent monument to what was lost.
Just when all hope seemed lost, a new kind of sound echoed through the jungle. It was not the roar of a tiger, but the footsteps of the guardians—the dedicated forest rangers and conservationists. They were men and women who understood that the forest needed its king. They patrolled the borders, their eyes and ears sharp. They educated the villagers, teaching them that the tiger was not a monster, but the protector of their water and their land. They set up cameras and tracked every movement, working tirelessly to make the jungle safe again.
Slowly, through their tireless efforts, the tides began to turn. The poachers were driven away. The forest, given a chance to breathe, began to heal. And one day, a faint roar was heard in the distance. It was not The Ghost, but a new tiger, his offspring, returning to reclaim his throne. The deer, hearing that familiar sound, became wary again. The wild boars moved with caution. The trees began to grow, and the rivers, once more, ran clear.
The fable of the tiger in Corbett is not just about the tiger itself, but about the people who understood its true value. It teaches us that the tiger is not just a magnificent beast, but a symbol of a healthy ecosystem. To save the tiger is to save the forest, the rivers, the deer, and all the life within. And to lose the tiger is to lose the very heart of the jungle. It is a tale that reminds us that we, too, can be the guardians of the wilderness, and in doing so, we can save a whole world.