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.

***

Searching for a Grass: Tracing Bhopal’s identity through a humble weed

 

Searching for a Grass

Tracing Bhopal’s identity through a humble weed

Who's Looking for a Grass?

Who's looking for a grass, and why?

Why keep the reader in suspense? This blogger readily pleads guilty: he's searching for Johnson's Grass, aka Sorghum halepense—Barru for older Bhopalis who may look like fossils to the generations that crawl social media day and night, hold digital confabulations, and launch nation-wide agitations.

But why search for a wild, invasive weed hated by farmers? Is he a saboteur scheming to ruin MP's agricultural prosperity? No, he simply wishes to spot a tall and robust Barru and cut it to lay irrefutable claim to the precious title—Barru-Kaat Bhopali.

Having lived in Bhopal for more than two decades, yet not able to brag of being a BKB rankles; but what could he do since the Housing Board allotted him a small plot on a bald hillock with no Barru or any other grass on it, only stubborn boulders.

Barru-Kaat Bhopali

If you've watched Sholay, the Bollywood blockbuster, you might recall Jagdeep's buffoonery as Soorma Bhopali, a timber merchant and patia-baaz—the teller of tall tales. But beyond cinema buffoonery, the phrase “Barru-Kaat Bhopali” carries layered meanings in local lore.

Three hundred years ago, when Dost Mohammed Khan, the Afghan adventurer, obtained a lease from Rani Kamlapati, the Gond ruler, and established Fatehgarh Fort (now Gandhi Medical College), the adjoining hills and vales were sprawling forests with rich grasslands skirted by a large wetland. Barru (Sorghum halepense), cousin of edible Sorghum bicolor but one of the world’s invasive wild weeds, grew abundantly in this terrain.

                Barru (Sorghum halepense): Image by CoPilot

Barru (Sorghum halepense): Video shared by Mr. Fazil Rashid.

Invited by the Afghan Chief, his clan and followers settled near the Fort, clearing the Barru forests and building modest houses. Barru, a sturdy grass, also provided cheap and durable roofing.

When someone proudly declares, “I’m a Barru-Kaat Bhopali,” he’s vindicating his status as an original settler; when someone says, “Oh, he’s just a Barru-Kaat Bhopali,” it’s a slander for someone rude, rustic, poor, and unsophisticated.

The grass also made Barru-Kalam, a reed-pen—an essential instrument for intellectual pursuits before the advent of fountain pens.

When animals supplied food and mechanical power to man, the grass beeds were valuable resources. Fodder from the expansive beed from Shyamla Hills to Bairagarh fed the horses and elephants of the royal stables. The grassland from Roshanpura Naka to Arera Hills was named Naulakha Beed—not because it yielded nine lakh bundles of grass, but because it fetched substantial revenue from annual auction.

The workers and estate managers estimated the yield in local measure—phula (bundle), gadheiya (50–100 bundles), and ganji (large stack).

“Does gadheiya mean a load carried by a donkey?” I asked Mr. Rashid. He smiled, “I don’t think so.” Yet the word instantly recalls a popular Bhopali proverb, often used by braggarts:

“तालों में ताल भोपाल ताल, बाकी सब तलैया;

रानी में रानी कमलापति, बाकी सब गधैया।”

Here, gadheiya means a she-donkey; to embellish by contrast the eminence of Rani Kamlapati, the Gond Queen who ruled from Ginnorgarh Fort, now in ruins inside Ratapani Tiger Reserve.

Grasslands of Central India

But why such lengthy discussion on Barru? Ah, thereby hangs a tale!

Recently, the Saturday Club, Bhopal hosted a Talk on India’s Savannas: Forgotten Grasslands of Central India by Mr Fazal Rashid, an Ecology Restoration Practitioner. He mentioned Barru, and I got to learn a little more about this grass and the rich ecosystem of grasslands.

Which grasses are critical to human existence? He counted the major ones—wheat, paddy, maize, millets, sugarcane, bamboo, and others.

India’s grasslands are tropical savannas; designating huge tracts of the country as wasteland or degraded forest is a serious case of misclassification. These grasslands constitute ONEs (Open Natural Ecosystems), and are critical to a wide variety of plant and animal life, argued Mr Rashid.

After that Talk, during my morning walks at Eco Park, Laharpur, I’m a little more mindful about the many varieties of grasses, creepers, plants, and trees in this sprawling grassland. Google Lens helps in identifying the varieties, though sometimes it goofs up. Can’t blame it, for its responses carry a disclaimer—AI can make mistakes!

An Old Man

Every morning, the old man comes to Eco Park, walking in slow, unhurried steps, dressed in a dhoti draped in rustic dehati style, a loose long white shirt, a big light-green turban on his head, and a self-made walking stick in hand even though he walks erect and doesn’t need it. He fills the sakore - earthen bowls hung on trees for birds - every day except on rainy days.

When I first saw him cleaning the sakore of moss and filling it with water carried from home, I thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

“Do you live in Amrawat Khurd?” I asked. That village on the hilltop skirts the Park. He nodded. “What’s your name, please?” “Name doesn’t matter, does it?” he asked.

Every day, I greet this kind old man who is reluctant to share his name, and my heart is filled with gratitude.

        The old man of Amrawat Khurd: Photo by the blogger.

Today, I asked, “Is there Barru grass in this area?” “No.” He’s a minimalist! “Is it found in khet?” “Sometimes.” “Do cattle eat this grass?” I pointed at a patch with mixed grasses and amorphous plants. “That, yes; but not that!” (American Mint, Google Lens identified for me).

Grass Is No Mere Weed

The search for one grass revealed a whole world of them. Grass is no mere weed beneath our feet. Grasslands sustain insects, butterflies, snails, reptiles, birds, and burrowing animals—and, ultimately, the larger food web. What looks like vacant land to us may be a living ecosystem to countless other creatures.

Perhaps the search for Barru is less about grass itself, and more about discovering Bhopal’s layered identity—where even a weed becomes folklore, a badge of belonging, and a whisper from the city’s past.

Someday, I’ll go to Van Vihar, or the swampy backwaters of Bhoj wetland to continue my search. Till then, I remain a Bhopali, but alas, not yet a BKB!

***

Postscript

Bhopal Taal & Chittorgarh

A senior colleague tells me that the original proverb was:

तालों में ताल भोपाल ताल, बाकी सब तलैया; 
गढ़ों में गढ़ चित्तौड़गढ़, बाकी सब गढ़ैया।

Bhopalis tweaked the second line to honour the Gond Queen who ruled the territory before the advent of the Afghans.

Barru Kalam

Munna Goyal of Nimach, a friend, shared the following cute note:

A Childhood Memory Rekindled

Your beautiful blog, “Searching for a Grass: Tracing Bhopal’s Identity Through a Humble Weed,” brought back a wonderful childhood memory—especially the passage:

“The grass also made Barru-Kalam, a reed-pen—an essential instrument for intellectual pursuits before the advent of fountain pens.”

I was instantly transported back to my school days. Once a week, we were taught to write with a Barru Kalam, and I remember being fascinated by the beautiful, almost calligraphic character of the writing it produced. There was something wonderfully graceful about the flow of ink from that simple reed pen.

The memory goes even deeper. At my grandfather’s shop, the accounts were meticulously maintained in large, red, cotton-covered Bahi-Khatas. The ink was kept in traditional bronze inkpots, which I would happily borrow at home for my Barru-Kalam homework!

I am delighted to say that I still have those very inkpots in my collection. They have survived the passing decades and today seem to me much more than mere objects—they are little vessels of memory, carrying a piece of the world of my childhood.

And, as a small contribution to your search for Barru, I am enclosing a photograph of a Kalam fashioned from Barru grass.

Your search for a humble grass has, unexpectedly, made me rediscover a beautiful chapter of my own childhood. Perhaps that is the magic of such writing: while tracing the history of a place, it also awakens the histories quietly preserved within us.

Thank you for bringing Barru back to life—and with it, a cherished piece of my childhood.

Barru Kalam - Photo by Munna Goyal

    Bronze Inkpot for Barru Kalam - Photo by Munna Goyal