When Giants Speak Softly

The Nomad is a series of stories, fascinations, encounters, observations, experiences, joy of the moments by me, Ulrike Reinhard – all around my travels. Stay tuned!

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Let me take you back to India, to my early days, when I first met the elephants. Not in a zoo or a sanctuary, not from the safe distance of a tourist’s camera lens, but right there – in the wild heart of Panna National Park. It was Lokendra Singh, the Maharaj of Panna, who took Egon and me to the elephant camp. Quite the man – equal parts royalty and rugged naturalist. We rumbled down the forest track in his jeep, and I had no clue that this was about to become one of those days. You know, the ones that rewire something in you.

We arrived late in the afternoon. The elephants had just returned from their jungle shift – mud-streaked, glorious, hungry. These weren’t just elephants lounging about. They were working elephants. The kind who escort the park rangers into parts of the forest where jeeps can’t go and legs really shouldn’t – unless you enjoy surprise encounters with leopards or tigers. Tigers, by the way, apparently don’t mess with elephants. They coexist, no drama. Elephants don’t care. They’re like the grandmas of the jungle: massive, serene, and unimpressed by everyone’s nonsense.

There were ten, maybe twelve of them that day. All ages. Except for the adolescent boys – teen elephants –  there were no big males. Those guys are troublemakers and get their own lonely corners somewhere else. The herd was female-led – as they are in the complete wild. 

And these elephants were hungry. After a long day in the forest, the camp team had prepped their dinner – a bizarre yet beautiful mix of jungle foraging and custom-cooked vitamin-rich meals. Yes, there’s an actual kitchen, with chefs who know their way around elephant cuisine. Their dessert? Some huge brown-yellowish brick – I can’t remember the name. Think Indian jungle Nutella – sweet and sticky and apparently irresistible.

We were allowed to get close – really close. To touch them. To feel the dusty warmth of their thick, wrinkled skin, their bristle-like hair poking through like stubborn wires. They dust themselves deliberately. It’s their sunscreen. No bottle, just dignity and dirt.

Then came Vatsala. The matriarch. The queen. She was ancient, even back then – over a hundred years old, standing like a wise old soul who had seen the jungle evolve and still wasn’t terribly impressed. She had been unwell after an accident a few years ago, digestive issues. The rangers handed me one of her special food balls – massive yellow dough spheres – and asked if I wanted to feed her.

Vatsala fed by her Mahoot

Want? Please.

It took a surprising amount of courage to shove a squishy cannonball-sized lump into a living, breathing elephant’s mouth. Her tongue was rough, muscular. Her breath, warm and steady. But never once did I feel fear. Vatsala had a presence – like a mountain that liked you.

When we left hours later, I turned to Loken and thanked him. And he looked at me – eyes glinting, voice steady – and said, “It was such a great pleasure to see you there with the elephants. With your presence and behaviour, you showed me I did the right thing. The pleasure was all mine.”

He meant it. Over the years, he repeated this. “I’ll never forget the joy you showed at the elephant camp.” That stayed with him. And me. It still does.

And now – years later – as I sit down to write this, the news has just reached me: Vatsala is gone. She passed away just before my upcoming trip to India. I was already thinking of seeing her again. Now, when I go there, all the way in the back, under that giant tree where she loved to stand, slightly apart from the others, queenly in her stillness, that spot will be empty. I grieve her in a way I didn’t expect to grieve for an elephant. But she wasn’t just any elephant. We had a thing. People noticed. I once brought a friend from Pune to the camp. As we left, she asked, “What are you having with this elephant? She doesn’t let you go! What are you two talking about?”

I hadn’t realised, but I’d stood with Vatsala for nearly an hour – my head resting against her trunk, palms on her cheeks, syncing my breath with hers. Every time I tried to walk away, she nudged me gently – as if to say, “Not yet.” So I stayed. And in that wordless, slow, elephant way, she taught me something about presence, about connection that needs no explanation. About staying just a little longer.

Vatsala, old lady – thank you.

But Vatsala wasn’t the only one. Oh no – my connection went way beyond her. It was the whole herd. Every single elephant had a name, and I knew them all. We weren’t strangers. We were more like old neighbours who waved across the fence.

My daily route between Janwaar and the tree house took me through the forests of Panna National Park – places where the elephants go to work. And sometimes, I’d spot them – my gentle grey gang – ambling through the trees, massive and elegant like moving boulders, guided by their Mahoots. And without thinking, I’d call out their names. Not loudly. Just enough.

Encounter in the forest

And then it would happen. Ears would flap. Trunks would lift. Heads would turn. They knew my voice. Every single time. And if the Mahoots weren’t in a rush, they’d let the elephants drift closer to the roadside. We’d ‘shake hands’ – which is really just a sweet moment of mutual recognition, their trunks reaching out, I’d run my hand gently over their rough skin, like an ancient pact being renewed in the middle of Madhya Pradesh.

One day, I stumbled upon the teenage boys of the herd – north of Panna, in the forest, just off the road. Now, that was a show. These young bulls had just begun their training for park duties, and let me tell you, they were not exactly… focused. They were goofing off like a bunch of oversized schoolboys who just found out gym class got extended. Instead of carrying the branches they were meant to move, they were throwing them – massive branches – into the air like circus performers, catching them with their trunks, spinning them around, balancing them like some kind of forest juggling act. I stood there, watching them, absolutely delighted. They were having the time of their lives. The kind of unfiltered, muddy joy that only teenage elephants could pull off. Their trunks curled with glee, their eyes full of mischief. They were smiling. 

Now, their Mahoots? Probably less amused. But Mahoots are a different breed. Patient to the bone, part philosopher, part elephant-whisperer. They know better than to rush the process. They’ve seen it all. They wait, they guide, and they trust that one day, even the most rebellious branch-juggler will become a solid ranger companion.

And they usually do.

That’s exactly what happened with Babu. He started out as a cheeky little rascal – your typical jungle teenager – but over the years he’s matured into one of the solid, dependable fellows of the forest. A true companion of the wild.

Babu was no random elephant. He was royalty – Vatsala’s grandson. I’d known him since before he was born, literally. I was so committed to witnessing his grand entrance into this world that I actually packed up and left my beloved treehouse, moving into a modest state-run resort just down the path from the elephant camp. All because I wanted to hear it – the deep, rumbling trumpet call of elephants welcoming a new member to the clan.

But alas, elephants don’t operate on our schedules.

Every week, the rangers would give me the same confident smile and say, “Next week! For sure, next week she will deliver!” And like a fool in love, I kept believing them. Weeks turned into months. The Maharani of Panna herself could have appeared and said, “She’s just faking it,” and I still would’ve waited.

Eventually, worn down by false alarms and the not-so-subtle smell of bureaucratic boredom, I headed to Delhi for some work. Of course, that’s when the call came. “Babu is born!” they said.

I missed it.

They named him Babu – sometimes affectionately called Bapu – because he was born on Gandhi Jayanti, Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday. “Bapu” in Hindi means “father” or “respected elder,” and while this pint-sized pachyderm could barely stand up straight, the name stuck. He was to be a figure of gentle power – eventually.

When I rushed back to the Ken River, I practically ran to the elephant camp. And there he was: a five-day-old elephant baby, wobbling under his mother’s massive belly like a wrinkled, furry dumpling trying to find his footing in a world far too big for him. He was all soft eyes and knobby knees, covered in more hair than I’d ever seen on an elephant – which, let’s be honest, isn’t saying much, but still, the boy was fuzzy.

He’d inch toward me with a kind of daring curiosity, trunk swinging like a blindfolded explorer. But the moment I twitched or stepped forward, he’d scramble back to the comfort of his mum’s legs. It was our little game – an elephant-sized peekaboo. His mother, wise and calm, clearly understood the rules and let us play undisturbed. No protective flapping of ears, no warning grunts. Just the occasional side-eye that said, “Don’t push your luck, hooman.”

Babu’s skin looked like he’d borrowed it from a much larger elephant – so many folds and flaps, as if nature hadn’t finished stitching him together. He was still squishy, figuring out what to do with his legs, but there was already mischief in his eyes. He knew he was adorable. And boy, did he use it.

For the first four weeks, Babu and his mother were kept apart from the rest of the herd in a shaded paddock beside a large water tank. Once they were reintegrated, I moved back to the resort. There were no tourists around – just me and a daily routine of elephant-time. I’d pop over every morning before they headed into the forest, and again when they returned in the evening. The working herd had duties, but Babu and his mum were on extended maternity leave. So I had the baby all to myself. Every day became a circus of joy. We’d play tag – well, elephant-style. Mostly, he’d chase me, his little trunk flailing and his tiny legs trying to keep up. I even brought a frisbee once – I can’t remember where I got it – and to my eternal delight, he loved it. I’d throw it, and he’d bound after it, trunk reaching, utterly convinced this flying yellow disk would one day surrender. It never did, but he never gave up. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

During these months our bond grew strong.

Babu chasing me

At six months old, he began joining the herd on their daily jungle missions, proudly waddling behind like the junior intern on his first field trip. The whole herd watched over him – the aunties, the teens, the stoic matriarchs. He was in good company.

That was when I moved back to the treehouse, but I remained a regular at the camp. I’d visit at least once a week, sometimes bringing apples or bananas – if the kitchen staff gave their approval. Feeding time was always a treat. The sound of an elephant chewing fruit is oddly satisfying, in case you’re wondering.

Occasionally I’d time it just right and catch them at the little lake near the park entrance where they took their post-jungle bath. Picture this: massive grey bodies rolling in the water like oversized puppies, trunks spraying water, Mahoots scrubbing like they were washing vintage cars. It was a full-on spa. And if I was lucky enough to be there, I got to scrub those bellies too. Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like bathing with elephants. I emerge soaked, sun-kissed, and grinning like a child who’s just discovered magic is real.

Over the more than ten years I lived in Panna, the elephant herd became a kind of family to me. They never judged. Never pretended. Never played games. Well, except Babu. They were simply there – enormous, gentle, and endlessly wise. They welcomed me with a respect I rarely find among humans. Always open. Always present.

And I, well – I fell in love. With the herd. With Babu. With a rhythm of life so ancient and so honest that it reminded me what it meant to simply be.

Whispers Beneath the Wrinkled Skin

At the elephant camp, I always feel a kind of stillness that’s hard to find elsewhere – a deep, grounding calm that settles in my bones. It has a very special rhythm. No rush. The place itself is profoundly beautiful, tucked just beyond the Hinauta Gate of Panna National Park. The land stretches out in gentle slopes, an open plain dotted with just enough trees to cast shadows. Scattered rocks lie around like ancient storytellers, reminders that the famed Panna diamond mines sit just at the edge. In the cool, dark caves of these mines, tigers have been known to give birth to their cubs. So yes – there’s magic here. Quiet, old magic.

And then there are the elephants, adding their own slow, deliberate poetry to the place. Their presence is undeniable, majestic without trying. Over the years, they’ve shown me things – simple things, yet deeply meaningful. Lessons tucked inside their unhurried ways. I never expected such teachings from elephants. But now, looking back, maybe I should have. Their nature holds a quiet kind of wisdom, one that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. Just being with them – watching them move, breathe, care for each other – has reshaped how I think about what it means to truly be in this world.

Among the grey folds and rumbling steps, this is what I came to see:

Strength with gentleness. These elephants – even the little ones – are immensely powerful, yet rarely aggressive. It shows that true strength doesn’t need to dominate – it can be calm, controlled, and deeply respectful of others. There’s dignity in restraint.

Memory and presence. I was always surprised by the extraordinary memory they have. But also for their mindfulness – being fully present in their movements, their interactions, their grief and joy. They showed me to honour the past without being trapped in it, and to remain fully aware in the now.

Loyalty and community. These elephants live in tightly bonded matriarchal herds. They care for their youngsters collectively, mourn their dead, and support one another through illness or injury. For them it is important to stick together, to care deeply and consistently for those they journey with.

Patience and endurance. They walk great distances slowly, never rush, trusting in the pace of nature. That convinced me that we don’t always need to sprint, that good things – growth, healing, understanding – take time and steady movement.

In a world obsessed with speed, noise, and ego, the Panna elephants showed me another way: steady, soft-footed, deeply rooted. They taught me to listen more than speak, to remember without bitterness, to love with constancy, and to live without needing to prove our strength every day.

I feel deeply grateful that these magnificent creatures welcomed me into their world.

Vatsala and me in December 2024