Sahyadrica

There’s never been a time in history when a wild vertebrate did not kill a man or man did not kill a wild vertebrate. Not once for the last 15 million years since early humanoids roamed the planet. In fact, man killed more wild vertebrates than they killed us, and that is perhaps evident in us becoming the most successful species in spite of lacking claws and fangs. Man has always been against the wild, always the rebel, always the one to straighten things out, to mend and to tame. If it did not suit him, he destroyed it, and if he liked it, he finished it off. And then we drifted off, slowly, from all things wild. Today, we believe that money plants ( Epipremnum aureum ) bring us wealth, but we don’t know that that inconspicuous little fly, lovingly called a tiger fly ( Coenosia sp.), is sitting on its leaf to prey upon the other tiny insects that feed on this plant, and we bug-spray the plant, killing everything with it. That’s wildlife right there. We just wiped it out of exi...

We’re only a phone call away to rescue snakes from homes before they are killed, and work with the Forest Department on such small rescue missions. But often we hear about a handsome snake only a day after it is killed. The most common incidences of human-snake interactions happen during monsoon, and they are different than most because the incidences of the largest of the snakes  – the Indian Rock Python, Python molursus  –  of central India venturing boldly near human settlements and agriculture fields in search of prey increases. Pythons have fascinated man since a long time, and Forsyth wrote about them to be a “subject of so many wonderful tales” in central India. Forsyth mentions the Indian Rock Python only once in his epic Highlands of Central India as a narration of his encounter with this snake in the forests of central India. His description is rather vivid, as is his reaction, for pythons evoke a great fear and awe in those who see it (pp. 353–354): ...

Phapha sat on the dashboard of the car, clueless of where he was going. He sat in a position that meant he was exhausted, scared, and unsure of what had happened and would happen. When the car came to a halt, he made no move. He was picked up by two hands cupping his wings, and was placed carefully on the table. He wore the fully-adorned plumage of myriad shades of blues, with subtle hues of crimson sprinkled on the brown-streaked neck – the shades and hues typical of the elegant Neelkanth , the Indian Roller, Coracias benghalensis . The only noticeable characters were a shorter-than-usual tail, and yellow gape flanges typical of a fledgling – a teenager of the birdlife – whose curiosity is greater than fear, and who’s more eager to spread wings than stay nestled. He sat in the same manner when he arrived – the pose he retained until he found a suitable place to perch upon – and looked at us intently as we observed him for any injury. He appeared healthy but incapable of flight: ...