A tiger cub answered it.
Walking through a clearing and then betwixt a matrix of dry trees, she crossed to the lakeside and took her station by the picturesque Rajbagh, like a maiden out on a teatime amble in her rose garden. Then, she sat down lending herself to a round of well-studied portraiture, looking so important that even the sun, abandoning his static form, seemed to be revolving around her.
Being a lass of a little over a year, the colleen sported a list of features that couldn’t have been better if made to order. A big, rotund face lined with fluffy baby-hair sat like a crowning jewel on her chunky shoulders, and a pair of big rotund eyes, but not big enough to absorb all she wanted, took centre-stage on it. A long nose, arranged neatly in the middle, ended in a pink tip that anchored a white mouth ensconcing a pair of dark lips and flanked by truncated whiskers. And when she directed her pupils hither, perfection was staring at me.
She made it easy to see that it’s a wonderful world.
For a while she sat gazing at the lake, and I wondered if she was absorbed in thought as we are, or was simply reflecting the moment like a mirror of the invisible, occasionally casting us a glance for comic relief.
A few minutes later she responded to the itch in her feet and commenced her voyage to obscurity, showing me that a tigress was one who at first glance showed you a glimpse of the beyond and then kept you there long after she was gone.
A few more portraits of the lass: