The Zoo: Indians and Animals
The High Altitude Zoo in Nainital is both arrestingly beautiful and disturbingly ugly. One of only three in the country, the GB Pant High Altitude Zoo is smartly laid out, with well-paved walkways and prominent directional cues. While I don’t agree with keeping the animals in cages — I vastly prefer the version where humans walk through a protected cage and the animals are free to roam — I must admit that most of the animals do look fairly healthy. The Royal Bengal Tiger and the family of leopards, for example, were robust with a healthy shine to their coats.
My favorite moment came by the Sambar enclosure. As I approached the enclosure at the far end of the zoo, the Nainital mist rolled in. In the gathering clouds, beyond the chain link fence, I could make out a vague large shape with blurred contours. As the mist rolled out, the Sambar saw me and came to make inquiries. Her coat was a gorgeous mix of a late-evening flaming sunset with a shade of rust and a touch of strawberry. Her face carried motherly compassion and serenity. Her eyes were large and doe-shaped, and her leaf-like ears stood upright. She nuzzled the fence, looking for a treat or a pat. Zoo rules forbid visitors from touching the animals (as well as scaring, teasing and feeding them); so, I whispered to her instead, “Hi, sweetie pie.” The Sambar looked directly at me for a long moment, then turned and went back to her grazing. I sat on the bench by the fence. Her enclosure looked like a piece of heaven, with lush green grass and small white flowers in the foreground, while the background rose up in steps and carried ample tree cover. The mist rolled in and out, lightly brushing its moisture against my fingers. Behind me, I could hear gray langurs leaping to and from branches, and about a dozen free-ranging woodpeckers taking off sounding like the drum of rain on an asbestos roof.
And then, there was a moment of pure stillness. The mist had obscured everything except the very near. The Sambar in front of me was grazing, her big rump turned toward me. The tiny colorful woodpeckers behind me had settled and were pecking at the ground. Beside them, a single langur sat on a mid-level branch munching on something it held in its paws. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. It was one of the most beautiful and peaceful moments I have ever experienced, let alone in a zoo.
The ugly moments came every time I witnessed an Indian visitor interact with the animals. They’d come in packs of three or four — either as a couple with a young child, or as a group of friends — basking in their sense of the complete and unimaginable power they wielded over these hapless animals. The ugliest moment came right after I left the Sambar enclosure and headed towards the exit. As I approached the tiger cage, I could hear the powerful roar of the Royal Bengal male. And then, in its subsiding aftermath, I heard the laughter, the jeers, and the taunts. Adjoining the tiger cage is a small room with a sloping cement roof. Over a dozen people — boys, teenagers, young men, and a middle-aged mother — had climbed on the roof with cameras in hand. They were rattling the cage and shouting at the animal. The tiger, which had been lazing in the tall grass in the far corner when I had seen it last, was now pacing on a raised platform, growling and swiping at the fence that separated it from its tormentors. I yelled at the crowd on the roof, demanding that they stop at once and get off the roof, and admonishing them for their actions. Incredibly, nobody believed they had done anything wrong. The middle-aged mother, after hefting herself down, exclaimed, “What a great experience!” When I countered that it was actually a wrong experience considering visitors weren’t supposed to tease the animals, she defended her actions stoutly, claiming she was only clicking pictures. When I complained at the Zoo Office, the Head Ranger shrugged his shoulders in resignation, indicating his helplessness.
This wasn’t a one-off incident, though. Throughout my visit, I saw the Indian visitors roar at the leopards (pronounced “lee-po” by a large section of the visitors) and bark at the Himalayan bears (pronounced “beer”) to get their attention. An Indian vulture sat still in its cage, resting its beak in the space afforded by the chain link fence. A man, maybe in his 30s, reached across the separating barricade and tapped its beak with a plastic water bottle. A Japanese macaque morosely extended a hand out of its prison, obviously accustomed to begging for and receiving food. A mother gleefully rummaged in her handbag for treats while her two young sons scrambled over the separating median to get closer to the monkey. A petite Himalayan Goral interrupted its grazing to investigate a group of two young couples standing by its enclosure. As it placed its twitching nose on the fence, it received a short jab with a plastic water bottle from one of the women. When it didn’t budge, it received another. At my beloved Sambar enclosure, a young couple, followed soon after by two teenaged boys, reached out to touch her and take a picture. Every animal received whistles, tongue clicks, yells, shouts, and rattled cages — all in an effort to get a reaction and maybe a picture.
What was astounding was the atrocious quality of the parenting lessons. I didn’t see one parent — not one — make an effort to teach their child anything useful, either in terms of knowledge or behavior. A trip to the zoo was distraction, not enrichment. They encouraged their children to grab the animals’ attention through a series of noises, and showed them how to make those noises. All I heard was various versions of “Look, leepo! Say Hi!”, “Look, beer! Say Hi!”, “Look, tiger! Say Hi!” repeated endlessly. Parents would pose their children beside each animal and then noisily try to get the animal to look, all in search of the perfect picture, post which they would simply head to the next animal. Other parents threatened to feed their children to the closest animal, either in jest or as a reprimand. I shuddered when a young boy, aged about four, entered the zoo with his left hand clasped in his father’s and his right hand holding up and firing a toy machine gun.
Unfortunately, for all its prettiness, the zoo doesn’t help much to aid either knowledge or better behavior. The information is perfunctory and boring. As a result, nobody reads anything, whether it be a wall-painted sign detailing the animal’s origins or a rusted noticeboard asking people to “not scare, tease, touch or feed the animals.” Installing compulsory video-viewing at the entrance to simply explain expected zoo etiquette will go a long way in curbing bad behavior. Better surveillance — through guards and CCTV cameras — will help nab offenders. Stricter penalties, including steeper fines, community shaming, and jail time, will help enforce better behavior. Well-designed audio guides will keep visitors engaged and help them understand the animals better and, therefore, respect and love them more. A well-stocked book and gift shop can help feed the curiosity and learning of a young mind. Redesigning the zoo so that the people pass through and look out of a cage while the animals wander freely and look in on the people can help restore the balance of equality and empathy between humans and animals.
At the Himalayan Bear enclosure, one grandmother leaned over to her young grandson scrambling up the median and asked in a baby voice in Hindi, “What will you tell your teacher when she asks you what you saw?” The boy exclaimed “Bhaloo!” The grandmother swiftly responded, “You will not say ‘bhaloo’. Your teacher will beat you if you speak in Hindi. Say ‘beer’.”
“Beer,” repeated the child dutifully.
(Based on a trip in July 2014)
