<p>February 7, 2016, was not a date of any particular significance. Yet it became a day I will remember for the rest of my life. That Sunday afternoon, a call from a senior forest department officer took me to VIBGYOR School in Whitefield, Bengaluru’s IT hub. A leopard had entered the school campus, and I was requested to assist the department in capturing the animal. During the operation, the highly stressed leopard attacked me, leaving me grievously injured. What followed were multiple surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and an overwhelming financial burden.</p>.<p>For almost a year after the incident, aggregator-based taxi drivers would ask, “Sir, were you the one at the VIBGYOR School?” When I replied yes, they would often say, “I knew it when I saw your name on the booking.” I realised how deeply the episode had entered public memory. Even today, people occasionally say, “Oh, you were the one injured by the leopard near the swimming pool.” While the incident is slowly fading from public recollection, it left me with hard-earned insights into the realities of human-wildlife conflict, especially the pain survivors endure and the long-term impacts on their lives.</p>.<p>When I speak to communities affected by leopard conflict, they listen differently. They know I understand their fear, loss, and uncertainty. This experience has made me a strong advocate for a more humane and empathetic response to victims of human-wildlife conflict. I have consistently urged governments and officials to be more compassionate and generous towards families who suffer losses due to wildlife.</p>.The great nellikai heist.<p>The physical aftermath was severe. For a long time, mobility itself became a challenge, affecting not just my body but my mental well-being. Transitioning from an active life to struggling with short walks was deeply disheartening. It was only in 2022 – thanks to advances in medical science and unwavering family support – that I could walk normally again.</p>.<p>I set myself a personal milestone to mark recovery: climbing Kudremukh peak in the Western Ghats, a mountain that holds deep meaning for me. In November 2023, I finally stood atop it. The moment was exhilarating – not just as a physical achievement, but as a reminder that resilience can carry us through even the most unexpected setbacks.</p>.<p>Ironically, this philosophy of resilience came from a leopard. Yet the future of that species – and many others – appears increasingly bleak.</p>.<p>Since 2016, conflict with leopards has increased manifold. Hundreds are captured, translocated, or pushed into captivity. People have lost their lives; many more are grievously injured. The drivers of this conflict are well known: habitat loss, depletion of prey, unplanned development, and lack of awareness. Yet little changes, largely because those most affected are socially and economically marginalised.</p>.<p>What is particularly troubling is how the suffering of these communities is often romanticised. The term “human-wildlife coexistence” is repeatedly invoked by civil societies, sometimes cynically, to attract funding, awards, and international recognition, while families continue to bear the costs. In Junnar taluka of Maharashtra, a wildlife biologist once hailed their work as a model of coexistence with leopards. Once the funding and attention followed, the biologist moved on to greener pastures. This narrative is not limited to leopards; elephants, tigers, crocodiles, sloth bears, and many more are all framed similarly. Co-existence cannot be built on helplessness and fear.</p>.<p><strong>Slogans don’t solve</strong></p>.<p>Government responses are often delayed. As conflict intensifies, community support for conservation erodes, retaliatory actions increase, and political pressure mounts. Legislatures respond to popular anger, and executives struggle to hold their ground. Media coverage too often amplifies fear rather than building understanding. In this confusion, wildlife becomes the biggest casualty.</p>.<p>The scars from that day, whether I like it or not, are a part of me; some visible, many not. The deeper trauma now comes not from the incident itself, but from witnessing the direction in which human–wildlife conflict is heading in India.</p>.<p>I could view the scars as symbols of failure. Instead, I see them as proof of survival. It wasn’t my day of death; it was the first day of the rest of my life. And that perspective compels me to speak out.</p>.<p>If we truly believe in co-existence, we must move beyond rhetoric. Addressing human-wildlife conflict requires empathy, scientific planning, timely governance, and honest engagement with affected communities, along with sincere efforts to tackle the root causes of conflict. Only then can we give coexistence – not as a slogan, but as a lived reality – a genuine chance.</p>.<p>(The writer holds a PhD on leopards and is the author of Leopard Diaries: The Rosette in India)</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>February 7, 2016, was not a date of any particular significance. Yet it became a day I will remember for the rest of my life. That Sunday afternoon, a call from a senior forest department officer took me to VIBGYOR School in Whitefield, Bengaluru’s IT hub. A leopard had entered the school campus, and I was requested to assist the department in capturing the animal. During the operation, the highly stressed leopard attacked me, leaving me grievously injured. What followed were multiple surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and an overwhelming financial burden.</p>.<p>For almost a year after the incident, aggregator-based taxi drivers would ask, “Sir, were you the one at the VIBGYOR School?” When I replied yes, they would often say, “I knew it when I saw your name on the booking.” I realised how deeply the episode had entered public memory. Even today, people occasionally say, “Oh, you were the one injured by the leopard near the swimming pool.” While the incident is slowly fading from public recollection, it left me with hard-earned insights into the realities of human-wildlife conflict, especially the pain survivors endure and the long-term impacts on their lives.</p>.<p>When I speak to communities affected by leopard conflict, they listen differently. They know I understand their fear, loss, and uncertainty. This experience has made me a strong advocate for a more humane and empathetic response to victims of human-wildlife conflict. I have consistently urged governments and officials to be more compassionate and generous towards families who suffer losses due to wildlife.</p>.The great nellikai heist.<p>The physical aftermath was severe. For a long time, mobility itself became a challenge, affecting not just my body but my mental well-being. Transitioning from an active life to struggling with short walks was deeply disheartening. It was only in 2022 – thanks to advances in medical science and unwavering family support – that I could walk normally again.</p>.<p>I set myself a personal milestone to mark recovery: climbing Kudremukh peak in the Western Ghats, a mountain that holds deep meaning for me. In November 2023, I finally stood atop it. The moment was exhilarating – not just as a physical achievement, but as a reminder that resilience can carry us through even the most unexpected setbacks.</p>.<p>Ironically, this philosophy of resilience came from a leopard. Yet the future of that species – and many others – appears increasingly bleak.</p>.<p>Since 2016, conflict with leopards has increased manifold. Hundreds are captured, translocated, or pushed into captivity. People have lost their lives; many more are grievously injured. The drivers of this conflict are well known: habitat loss, depletion of prey, unplanned development, and lack of awareness. Yet little changes, largely because those most affected are socially and economically marginalised.</p>.<p>What is particularly troubling is how the suffering of these communities is often romanticised. The term “human-wildlife coexistence” is repeatedly invoked by civil societies, sometimes cynically, to attract funding, awards, and international recognition, while families continue to bear the costs. In Junnar taluka of Maharashtra, a wildlife biologist once hailed their work as a model of coexistence with leopards. Once the funding and attention followed, the biologist moved on to greener pastures. This narrative is not limited to leopards; elephants, tigers, crocodiles, sloth bears, and many more are all framed similarly. Co-existence cannot be built on helplessness and fear.</p>.<p><strong>Slogans don’t solve</strong></p>.<p>Government responses are often delayed. As conflict intensifies, community support for conservation erodes, retaliatory actions increase, and political pressure mounts. Legislatures respond to popular anger, and executives struggle to hold their ground. Media coverage too often amplifies fear rather than building understanding. In this confusion, wildlife becomes the biggest casualty.</p>.<p>The scars from that day, whether I like it or not, are a part of me; some visible, many not. The deeper trauma now comes not from the incident itself, but from witnessing the direction in which human–wildlife conflict is heading in India.</p>.<p>I could view the scars as symbols of failure. Instead, I see them as proof of survival. It wasn’t my day of death; it was the first day of the rest of my life. And that perspective compels me to speak out.</p>.<p>If we truly believe in co-existence, we must move beyond rhetoric. Addressing human-wildlife conflict requires empathy, scientific planning, timely governance, and honest engagement with affected communities, along with sincere efforts to tackle the root causes of conflict. Only then can we give coexistence – not as a slogan, but as a lived reality – a genuine chance.</p>.<p>(The writer holds a PhD on leopards and is the author of Leopard Diaries: The Rosette in India)</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
