Anytime someone mentions a trip to Jim Corbett National Park, two images come to mind. The first one of the men in my safari jeep sitting with a bloody nose but pleased expression, having successfully fought in a no-holds-barred battle for the last few park permits released every morning. The second a fat man in a jeep wearing a child&rsquos lacy, pink, floppy hat, sullenly complaining about the tiger not presenting itself for his amusement. &ldquoSher kahaan hai Sher dikhao na, yaar (Where is the tiger Show me the tiger now, buddy),&rdquo he whined.