From the soil of the emerald grasses and ebony trunks, in the land where ways of soft sand wind through dense bamboo clumps and meet dew-drenched meadows, and rocky footpaths converge at junctions of bliss; where euphonious roars thunder through mists of green, and lakes gleam in silence like giant mirrors reflecting indigo skies; where ravines run into caves and caves harbour conclaves, there rises a tiger whose panache hugs his stride as he walks wild and free as the wind. His form is burly but lithe, his stride is seeped in panache and when, bristling gently with the glow of youth, he passes you by, you see him for what he is, the Marauder of Magadhi.
TIGGA TALES 