Stories the Dead Tell
Stories are not always spoken. Sometimes,
they lie silently in the middle of the road, in a forlorn track, or beside a stream.
Three dead creatures I encountered
recently near Laharpur, Bhopal, told me three very different stories—not merely about
themselves, but about how little we know about the wild creatures that live
around us.
Near Ecological Park, Laharpur
Returning from our morning walk at Eco Park, I thought I saw a
dead snake in the middle of the road not far from the park gate. The sky was
overcast, visibility a little poor, and a fine spray
of raindrops had made the windscreen hazy. Maybe, no snake, but a stick, I
thought; but after dropping my spouse at home, I returned to the site.
My hunch was right. A snake, crushed by a passing vehicle. I took
a few pics on my phone.
What snake is this? I asked a man—possibly a migrant worker from
a nearby village.
“Do-muha saanp,” he said.
The Red Sand Boa (Eryx johnii) is popularly called do-muha
or “two-mouthed snake” because its short, blunt tail resembles a second head. In
fact, upon sensing danger, the snake offers its blunt tail to confuse the predator.
Harmless and non-venomous, it has nevertheless been persecuted and illegally
trafficked because of persistent myths about its supposed powers.
I uploaded the pic and asked Gemini, “Identify the snake, and age.”
“Rough-scaled Sand Boa (Eryx conicus
/ Gongylophis conicus), also commonly referred to as the Russell's Boa.
A juvenile, likely under a year old.”
Interestingly, the non-venomous Sand Boa resembles the highly
venomous Russell’s Viper in its colour and markings— maybe a mimicry, offering
the harmless snake some protection from predators. No wonder it has sometimes
been called “Russell’s Boa”—a name that can itself cause confusion.
How did it get killed?
Possibly, its burrow was flooded, and the reptile was crossing the
busy city road, an alien jungle,
in search of a safe shelter. Sand Boa crawls very slowly, more so on smooth, asphalted
surface.
The snake knew how to survive in nature;
it had no way of knowing that mechanical predators kill without warning.
I showed the pic, and asked Rajesh and
Lakshmi, both from rural areas of Madhya Pradesh.
“Dingad,” they said. “Very venomous. A
mere puff kills. The victim's body swells. It bursts open.”
In rural regions of Madhya Pradesh, the term "Dingad" (or Dhingad / Dhingra)
typically refers to the Common Krait (Bungarus caeruleus).
“Google says it is non-venomous,” I told
them.
“Google ko kya pata hai?” they sneered.
I wasn't sure which of the three of us
knew.
Inside Eco Park
A few days ago, I took a forlorn track for my morning walk. A motorable
earthen road, but not much in use. The generous
droppings of cattle which grazed here, and the abundant rains had encouraged thick
growth of weeds and grasses in the fields and the track.
The track ran from west to east demarcating the park’s southern
end. No morning walkers on this track; so, numerous birds sang merrily undisturbed
by human cacophony. Terrestrial birds, much shyer, hastily ducked inside the
thick bushes.
A foul odour brought my attention from the trees to the ground. A
dead animal in an advanced degree of decomposition. From a little distance, I took
a pic on my phone, moved away a few feet from the unbearable stench, and asked
Gemini, ‘Which snake?’
‘Not a snake. It’s a Bengal Monitor Lizard. Zoom the pic to see the
paws and nails.’
I did. Of course, it’s a Bengal Monitor Lizard. In Hindi, it’s called
gooh (गोह), in Sambalpuri gue, and in Odia,
godhi.
During occasional trips into the forests from
our village, the older boys easily spotted gue burrows. Once it enters
the hole, no one can pull it out, so strong is its grip on earth, they said. I
had no occasion to pull at the protruding tail of a gue inside its hole,
so I never got to test the claim. But folklore stories maintain that in ancient
and middle times, monitor lizards were trained to climb fort walls, reach the
top, and grab the rampart. A rope fastened to its body helped a soldier to
scale the impregnable fort.
“Who might have killed it - a predator, a human, or a passing
vehicle?” I asked a wildlife expert.
“A few months ago, I had seen a dead monitor lizard in Eco Park. Could
be a fatal disease;” he replied, “so, I had suggested a pathological analysis. But
the concerned officer possibly forgot my request.”
I sent the photograph to a senior forest
official; and later in the afternoon, a park
official called me. I had clicked a Google Map location of the corpse which I shared
with him. You may consider a
pathological examination, I suggested.
I haven’t heard from him.
Beside Laharpur stream
I spotted it during our post-dinner stroll. The streetlight in
front of our home had died a few weeks ago; the Nagar Nigam Call Centre had
assured that the problem would be fixed in 72 hours at most, and I’m still
waiting for that.
From a little distance, I saw on the road a little shiny creature
in a half curl. Surely, a snake. Is it dead or alive? I wasn’t sure. I took a
pic from a safe distance. Rajesh, our domestic help, took a little stick, and
went near.
“Don’t. It could be poisonous,” I said.
He didn’t pay heed, and poked the tail. No movement. It was dead.
Zoomed the pic. Yes, a road-kill. Its intestines had spilled out at two points.
“Is this a venomous snake,” I requested ChatGPT.
“Not a snake, it’s an earthworm,” declared C, and offered several
paras to support its finding.
“No, it’s a snake,” I snubbed C.
“The pic is hazy. Please upload a better pic, including the head,”
demanded C, a little offended maybe.
The head had been crushed. Anyway, I uploaded a clearer pic.
“Arboreal snake,” said C.
Checked with a snake expert, a human, who thinks it could be a
Wolf-snake, or a Checkered Keelback, or even a Brahminy blind snake.
I’d take a clearer pic tomorrow morning. I made a mental note.
By morning, the corpse had
disappeared.
Who had carried it away? A rat, a street
dog, a cat, or perhaps a jackal?
The dead, it seems, do not remain dead for
long in nature. One creature's death becomes another creature's meal. Even a
road-kill has a second life.
Perhaps that is another story the dead
tell us, if we pause long enough to listen.
Bhopal Ecology Journal
This reflection is part of my ongoing Bhopal Ecology Journal,
where I record everyday encounters with the wild lives around Bhopal. Each
entry is a reminder that nature speaks in many voices—sometimes through the
living, sometimes through the dead. I hope you’ll join me in future instalments
as these stories continue to unfold.
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