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.”

A road-killed Sand Boa near the entrance to Laharpur Ecological Park, Bhopal

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.

A dead Bengal Monitor Lizard on a remote track inside Laharpur Ecological Park.

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.

The mysterious road-kill beside Laharpur stream—identified variously as an earthworm, an arboreal snake and several species of snake.

“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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A Fable and A Journal: Home-Schooling by Mother Jackal

A Fable and A Journal

Home-Schooling by Mother Jackal

A Fable

Once upon a time, Bhopal, like most habitations on Planet Earth, was ruled by homo sapiens — the self‑styled ‘wise men’. They were mostly self‑centred and greedy; but in rare, contrite moments of compassion for other animals had created a city forest and grandiosely named it Ecological Park.

The Rulers had posted a Notice in big, bold letters Strictly Prohibiting pet dogs, vehicles, and littering inside the park. An inept painter, having won the tender by quoting the lowest rates, had painted on a few boulders in lurid colours a few animals which could be identified only from the textual declaration under the painting. Not far from a Kripaya Shor Na Karen signage met a Laughter Club every morning. Calling their morning ritual noisy would be a gross understatement! But why blame the LC; the murmur of the leaves of the gently swaying trees, and the twitter of birds were drowned as many morning walkers put their smartphones in speaker mode and listened to NEWS, spirited radio discussions on why CJP and intellectual Naxalites must be banned forthwith, Bollywood hits, and devotional songs.

Amravat Khurd village stood on top of the hillock at the north-eastern end of the forest. The villagers refused to use the new road that the forest department had built for them and continued to use the ‘No Public Thoroughfare’ road inside the park. Vehicular traffic – school buses, vans, jeeps, and two-wheelers plied throughout the day.

In this Park, there lived a pair of jackals – mates for life - who had made two adorable babies. Inside a dense grove, they had expanded an abandoned porcupine hole and camouflaged it to create a safe haven to raise their little ones. They took turns to keep vigil, with one parent foraging for food while the other stayed at home.

As per jackal custom, they homeschooled the cubs for elementary lessons. When ready for the bigger, tougher lessons of life, they must run with the parents, and travel far from home.

The cubs were happy when mother returned home, for they were hungry. After feeding them, she licked to groom the cubs, and then it was time for study.

“Do you remember yesterday’s lessons?” Mom asked.

I do, said the eager boy. Me, too, said the girl, not to be outsmarted.

Ok, you go first, she asked the boy.

“Lesson One?”

“Stay at home when parents are out.”

“Correct. Why so?” She asked the girl.

“Danger.”

“Exactly. Lesson 2?” She asked the girl.

“Keep silent but keep listening. Shall I recite the full lesson?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes Open, Ears Open, Mouth Shut – EO EO MS – for easy recall.”

“That’s right. But, why?”

“No one must know we live here. Top Secret.”

“Excellent. New lesson for today.”

“After dark, time to bark;

In the morning, return to hiding.”

“Why must we hide, Mom?”

“To keep safe.”

“Where to hide?”

“In our home, the Den, or deep in the bushes.”

“Okay, today’s session is done. Time for a little snooze. Before that, you may ask questions, if any.”

“Mom, why do we howl? Why not stay silent at all times?”

“The howl is our anthem. We sing:

Heed our howl,

Don’t play foul;

Forest is our home,

Night our time;

Don’t mess with us,

As we don’t mess with you.”

“Once upon a time, this forest belonged to us and other fellow forest dwelling animals. Those two-legged animals are very, very hungry; they chewed away our jungle. That’s why we howl in protest.”

“Mom, why do those animals howl strangely, each in a different tone and volume? Haven’t they been taught to howl in sync like us? And why are they so noisy, yapping endlessly when in a group, and muttering even when alone? No danger for them?”

“No, they’re the dangerous ones.”

“Do they bite?”

“No, worse, they are very, very dangerous. They use their upper legs to throw stones, hurl lathis, and hurt us with other strange weapons.”

“Can I go a little closer, and take a peep?”

“No, better not. Best to stay away from them.”

A Golden Jackal

An elderly couple began their morning walk at Eco Park on August 22 at 6.15 AM, a little earlier than usual. The sky was overcast, the dawn lingered, though darkness was slowly fading away.

The monsoon this year had been generous with Bhopal, the trees and plants swayed gently in gratitude, the birds sang in myriad tunes, and the animals were happy, too.

They took the track at the eastern periphery, and reached their favourite strip connecting the central circle to the Amravat Khurd road, on which the man was walking N-S, and the lady from the opposite direction, when she whispered, “A jackal!”

He turned around, and noticed a morning walker, at the northern end of the strip, shooing off an animal. He caught a glimpse of the jackal with a shiny brown coat and thick, furry tail disappearing into the bushes. He walked on the village road for a few metres hoping to see a little more of the jackal. No luck. He resumed walking, still keeping an eye for movements, if any, in the bushes.

In a few minutes, the jackal was peering at him from behind the bushes. When their eyes met, it hastily returned to hiding. Probably trying to cross the walking strip, he thought, and stood at a safe distance. Luckily, there were no other walkers on the road. The jackal noted his presence, concluded that it was safe to cross, emerged from the bushes, but instead of swiftly crossing it, turned right and gently sprinted on the open road for a few metres heading north, and thereafter, turning left, entered the undergrowth leading to a thick grove.

(Somewhere in this grove, a jackal couple might have a den with their cubs. Photo by Blogger)

When the jackal was on the road, the man could have shot a video, which he missed. But he noted her swollen teats. Probably, a nursing mother, returning from her nocturnal forage to suckle her cubs, hiding somewhere amidst the bushes.

The lady had seen a jackal at this same spot a few weeks ago, but for the man it was a first time. He was delighted.

For the elderly couple, that fleeting glimpse of the mother jackal was more than a sighting; it was a reminder that the meagre, dwindling forest still holds hope for many creatures, who school their young in silence, vigilance, and resilience.

Most humans have forgotten to listen, yet the jackals haven’t given up. They continue with their communal howl – a sad and solemn tune of protest and plea, often heard in several fringe areas of Bhopal.

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