Dappled light: a tusker's plight
In February 2015 I witnessed a failed rescue of a wounded tusker in the Biligiriranga, or B.R., Hills Tiger Reserve, a 540-square-kilometer protected area linking the Eastern and Western Ghats of southern India. The undulating, lush corridor hosts an abundant variety of plants, birds, insects and mammals, including healthy populations of wild elephant and tiger. I was at B.R. Hills to learn about tiger conservation from G. Mallesheppa, Honorary Wildlife Warden of the Chamaranagara district in Karnataka, and from Karnataka Forest Department officials. During my visit the elephant, whose whereabouts had eluded the Forest Department for over a month, had suddenly emerged from the forest. He had been gored in a fight with another male and was suffering from a maggot-infested wound on his hind flank. Without intervention it was only a matter of days before he would expire.
I was resting in a friend's house after lunch when I received a text to come quickly to the end of the driveway. The tusker had appeared, and I was to join Mallesh and other forest officials in a jeep to the site. We found the tusker foraging among trees near the forest road. His wound was in an advanced stage of infection, and he was clearly exhausted. Karnataka Forest Department officials stood close and photographed in order to gauge the condition of the wound. I watched from higher ground. Though weak, the tusker mock-charged them in warning. A wildlife vet was on his way to administer aid, but he would not reach until the next day. In the meantime there was nothing to do but watch and wait.
The next morning, I traveled to the nearby town of Chamarajanagar to interview the Chief Conservator of Forests and Director of B.R. Hills Tiger Reserve, Mr. S. S. Lingaraja. His office was abuzz with all manner of business. Journalists from the local paper were asking questions about three tiger poachers caught some years back who were serving time in jail. Secretaries were queued at his desk with papers in need of his signature. The phone was ringing off the hook. Nevertheless, Lingaraja welcomed me with chai and conversation while juggling the details of his day. During our interview, an urgent phone call alerted him to an unfortunate twist in the tusker’s condition. The pachyderm had stumbled and fallen during the night. Shaken by the news, Mr. Lingaraja convened a team to intervene.
By the time we reached the scene, some 20 officials, a local vet, and department mahout (elephant caretaker) with his trained elephant were assembled around the suffering giant. The situation was grim. The tusker had fallen face down into a sloping pit and could not get up due to his position. He was a pitiable sight. The hind wound was grotesque, and additional sores pocked his body. The on-call vet did what he could by cleaning the wounds and administering a solution of electrolytes, pain medication and antibiotics. Lying on his side, the big male would occasionally flail his legs as if bicycling in place, perhaps in an effort to gain ground and flee. His one eye facing out wildly roved the scene.
Ten men were wielding shovels and sticks around the fallen elephant. The idea, it seemed, was to dig an incline so that, once righted, he could more easily escape. The impact on the hard ground was violent, and I cringed when each blade plunged near the terrified beast. At one point the tusker’s eye found mine and we stared at each other for some time. I focused on sending him the only thing I knew to give: love. An image came to me of him as a juvenile foraging on tender bamboo shoots in dappled, morning light. Whether he was thinking this thought or I was giving it I could not be sure, but I liked to think that he was remembering happier times, or perhaps a time to come. For a moment there was calm. And then things got truly macabre.
A plan was circulating to hoist the tusker to his feet in a last ditch hope that, once righted, he could amble off into the thicket and regain his vigor. Everyone was talking at once, weighing strategies. It would take brute force to move a beast of his stature to an upright position, and there was no clear or easy way to do it. Various grueling approaches were tried, from using the tame elephant to scoop and push the fallen tusker’s body from behind with his tusks, to pulling him up with a steel chain. Each successive push or pull raised him halfway only to flop him down again. The elephant was crying. I became doubtful that he would ever stand again.
Hours passed. The shadows were cooling, and the sun would soon set. It was time to go. The officials had made a Herculean effort to save the fallen giant, but to no avail. Everyone there did what he or she believed to be right. With heavy heads and hearts we headed down the trail, leaving the wounded tusker to his fate. He would either die or recover through the night. Before I left, I knelt beside him and pressed my fingers to his head. This gesture was likely as helpless as the rest, but I wanted the last touch to be kind. I wanted him to know I cared.
To what degree should humans manage a wild animal’s survival or let nature recover or collapse on its own? In this case, our help seemed a hindrance, an imposition on his dignity. I wondered that intervention, no matter how well intended, may not always be appropriate.
The tusker died toward morning. A great pyre of sticks and logs was built around his body and lighted. The wood cracked and roared, flames licked the giant into ash, and the smoke, camouflaged in dappled light, drifted back to the forest.
