When British Royals Failed to See Gir’s Lions: Untold History of Gujarat’s Wild Kings

The tales of Gir’s lions are often told through folklore and conservation files—but some of the most remarkable chapters lie in the encounters they refused.

In the early 20th century, around 1900, the Duke of Clarence travelled to the Sasan Gir forests of Gujarat with the singular desire to witness the Asiatic lion in its last royal domain. Foresters, eager to impress, arranged prey to draw out the lions. Yet, the monarchs of Gir chose not to appear. The princely rulers of the region, guardians of the lions, withheld any intervention. The Duke returned disappointed; the lions would not be summoned at will.

Decades later, in 1983, history all but repeated itself. Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, arrived in Gir with anticipation. Forest officials—still steeped in the colonial hangover of appeasing foreign dignitaries—tethered a buffalo in the open to lure a pride. The Prince waited in his vehicle for four long hours. Not a single lion emerged. His British security, rigid in protocol, forbade him from stepping down. The lions never came.

According to G.K. Sinha, former Principal Chief Conservator of Forests in Gujarat, the Prince expected the lions to approach him. “They are kings,” Sinha recalled, “not performers.” The incident cost R.R. Joshi, the then Conservator of Wildlife, his post—shunted off to the Forest Training Institute in Rajpipla, 500 km away.

It was a lesson the forest department took seriously. When Prime Minister Indira Gandhi visited Gir soon after, she walked on foot, following the natural trails suggested by guides. She was rewarded with the quiet spectacle of a pride at a waterhole—proof that respect, not command, opens doors in the wild.

Ironically, while British royalty returned lion-less, two Indian officials observed the jungle’s most intimate moment. R.N. Bhattacharya, DIG of Saurashtra-Kutch Police, and Padma Shri IAS officer S.R. Rao once ventured close enough—just 25 feet—to witness lions mating, capturing rare images that remain legendary among forest veterans.

Spread across 1,419 square kilometres across Junagadh, Amreli, Bhavnagar, and Somnath districts, Gir today shelters 891 Asiatic lions. Declared a national park on September 18, 1965, with only 174 lions, this last refuge once stood on the brink of collapse. The drought of 1986 was its darkest hour. All 239 waterholes dried up. Wells turned hollow. Maldharis, desperate, drove their cattle into protected zones like Mitiyana, Girnar, and Pania in search of dwindling fodder.

I had walked those parched trails then, alongside DFO Ashok Kumar Sharma and District Magistrate B.K. Singh. My front-page report in The Times of India, Delhi edition, stirred Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi into action. Within days, Rs 25 lakh was sanctioned—tankers rolled in, reservoirs were deepened, lifelines restored.

For years, Madhya Pradesh pressed for translocation of Gir’s lions to Palpur Kuno sanctuary in Sheopur, where 344 sq km stood ready. Gujarat never relented. Mangubhai Patel, the state’s forest minister who opposed it fiercely, is now Governor—while Kuno, meant for lions, today hosts African cheetahs.

Gir’s lions have never yielded to protocol. They grant audience on their terms—neither to Dukes nor to destiny. In Gir, sovereignty belongs not to men,but to the wild.