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In 1987, I visited a south Indian game forest known for
its wild elephants. Early one morning, I set off with a
friend to walk in the forest. After a mile or so we came
across a herd of about ten elephants, including small
calves, peacefully grazing. My friend stopped at a
respectful distance, but I walked closer, halting about
twenty feet away. One large elephant looked toward me
and flapped his ears. Knowing nothing about elephants, I had no idea this was
a warning. Blissfully ignorant, as if I were in a zoo or
in the presence of Babar or some other story-book
elephant, I felt it was time to commune with the
elephants. Remembering a Sanskrit verse for saluting Ganesha, the Hindu god who takes elephant form, I called
"Bhoh, gajendra" - Greetings, Lord of the Elephants.
The elephant trumpeted; for a second I thought it was
his return greeting. Then his sudden,
surprisingly agile
turn and thunderous charge in my direction made it all
too clear that he did not participate in my elephant
fantasies. I was aghast to see a two-ton animal come
hurtling toward me. It was not cute and did not resemble Ganesha. I turned and ran wildly.
I knew I was in real danger and could feel the elephant
gaining on me. (Elephants, I later learned in horror,
can run faster than people, up to twenty-eight miles an
hour.) Deciding I would be safest in a tree, I ran to an
overhanging branch and leapt up. It was too high. I ran
around the tree and raced into tall grass. Still
trumpeting menacingly, the elephant came running around
the tree in close pursuit. He clearly meant to see me
dead, to knock me down with his trunk and trample me. I
thought I had only a few seconds to live and was nearly
delirious with fear. I remember thinking, "How could you
have been so stupid as to approach a wild elephant?" I
tripped and fell in the high grass.
The elephant stopped, having lost sight of me. He raised
his trunk and sniffed the air, searching out my scent.
Fortunately for me they have rather poor vision. I
realized I had better not move. After a few long moments
he turned away and raced off in another direction,
looking for me. Soon I quietly picked myself up and,
trembling, made my way slowly back to where my terrified
friend had stood watching the whole episode,
convinced
that she would witness my death.
Rudimentary knowledge of elephants would have kept me
safe: a herd with small calves is particularly alert to
danger; elephants do not like their space invaded;
flapping ears are a direct warning. The encounter itself
was nothing but a projection of my own wish that a wild
elephant would want to meet me.
It was wrong to think that I could communicate with a
strange elephant under these circumstances. Yet he
communicated very clearly to me: he was angry and I
should leave. I believe this is a realistic description.
What fascinated me about animals was the ready access
they seemed to have to their emotions. They demonstrate
their feelings constantly. Annoy them, they have no
hesitation in showing it. By contrast with animals,
people's emotions are often distanced. |
