This book was a rather painful one in the initial chapters, as it started with the author's own blood-thirsty shooting of wild animals around Delhi in his childhood days in the late 1950s- he was already 13 years old the ear I was born. Then when he visits again in 1984, he waxes eloquent on how the countryside has changed and all those happy theaters of his youthful escapades have been ravaged. Reading his account of his trigger-happy friends and utter blood-lust in the company of the rich and royally connected of Delhi, I can only thank my stars that I joined the forest service when this license to kill had been considerably curtailed and wildlife protection laws had been set in place under the patronage of Indira Gandhi. I don't think the author claims any tiger trophies himself, but one wonders at the utter lack of compunction of those, British and native, who revelled in killing thousands of completely unoffending and innocent creatures going about their lives in the jungle, some of them over a hundred tigers and leopards, including the vaunted Rajah of Sarguja who shot the last three cheetah cubs that his fellow-royals are now desperate to bring back. However, this initial falling out of sympathy with the blood-stained author should not prevent us from appreciating his skillful marshalling of history, his own personal experiences, and his empathy with the conservationists (some of them former hunters of big game) who campaigned for the protection of the tiger and its habitat.