Anaimalai Roadblock: On the Trail of a Tusker

“They’ve cut down all the jackfruits. I wonder how long he will be around this year,” I told Aneesh Sankarankutty, a Palakkad native, photographer, and storyteller of all things elephants. I was talking to him on the phone about Chilli Komban, an elephant that Aneesh has been following since 2012. Aneesh tracks the tusker’s movements and interactions with people as he moves about in the forests of Nelliyampathy, on the buffer of Parambikulam Tiger Reserve. Chilli Komban, along with a healthy population of other elephants, spends most of his time in Nelliyampathy, feeding on lush greens, guavas, and the natural fodder that abounds. Once the monsoon ends in November, he moves towards Navamalai and Aliyar — the dry, deciduous forest patches in the foothills of Anaimalai Tiger Reserve. Chilli traverses the forests of Parambikulam towards the end of January, reaches the Topslip, Sarcarpathy, and Sethumadai forest areas in early February, and usually arrives in Navamalai by end-February or early March.

This kind of local migration is not new among wild animals, especially elephants. Researchers say some individuals are born with an impulse to migrate every year as their ancestors did. Others migrate whenever it benefits them, such as to escape drought or to access more nutritious food and abundant water. Highly seasonal environments have a lot to do with why elephants like Chilli migrate.

Over the years, I’ve seen him in Navamalai, 30 km away from his native Nelliyampathy. Navamalai also houses a Malasar tribal settlement and a Tamil Nadu Electricity Board (TNEB) colony, a small neighbourhood of row houses built as staff quarters.

“He’s here in Navamalai much earlier than usual,” we observed, as he’d been sighted in end-December. My first glimpse of him was on 5th January. I was driving toward the colony when he emerged from the bushes and stood on the forest’s edge, waiting for the perfect opportunity to come onto the main road. His characteristic tusks (kombu in Tamil), perfectly curved like chillies, set him apart (they’re the reason for his nickname).

Having observed him in the field often, I am convinced that Chilli Komban has this super sense to predict when vehicle movement is low so he can take to the road. He waits patiently for vehicles to pass and picks the perfect moment to walk along the road. He walks with swag, his trademark foot-shuffling, head-bobbing, and ear-flapping all so rhythmic, as if he’s walking to background music. Whenever I’ve met him on the road, I’ve given him space and let him be.

When Chilli was in the TNEB colony, he was always unbothered about humans, happily munching on his favourite treat, jackfruits. When he found a tree full of jackfruits, he would stand there all day enjoying them. The whole town would gather to watch the majestic yet friendly tusker in their backyard, and he’d become the talk of the town. During the day, he’d often withdraw into the forests to eat tender tamarind leaves and other greens. After dark, he’d roam the empty streets almost as if guarding the town.

“He’s harmless. He just wants fruits. And we want the stories and the excitement he brings into our lives for a few days. He is one among us!” says Anand, who runs a teashop in the colony, where guests usually discussed Chilli Komban and his whereabouts and shared their encounters with him. They often spoke of how gently he gave way and let them pass.

During the first pandemic lockdown in 2020, Chilli Komban accidentally touched a high voltage electric line and fell to the ground. These people, who’d enjoyed watching him, alerted the forest department and immediately shut down power to all the electric lines. He was almost electrocuted and was writhing in pain. After that, locals coordinated with the electricity board to switch off lines when he was around them, alerted the forest department of his movements and safeguarded him till he went back towards Nelliyampathy.

But in 2021-2022, something changed. By the time Chilli arrived at Navamalai, the jackfruits he loved so much were removed. Suddenly, the friendly neighbourhood elephant was perceived as a threat to local safety and property. It’s possible that this drastic shift in their attitude had something to do with an incident from the previous year when he had pulled a big branch that had fallen on and broken a parked car’s windshield.

With no jackfruits to eat, those of us interested in Chilli Komban’s movements wondered whether he would go elsewhere in search of food or find an alternate source in Navamalai. Unfortunately, he chose the latter and ventured into the local coconut plantations. The forest department observed him form a bond with another tusker and raid coconut farms after dark.

Farm owners and elected representatives pressurised the forest department to intervene. Field staff patrolled the farmlands at night, firing crackers at the two tuskers. This show of aggression was new to Chilli, at least in Navalmalai. The place he once roamed free had turned into a conflict zone.

When I first saw him walking along the main stretch, I considered myself lucky for the serendipitous sighting. Then it became routine. He walked to and fro, from Navamalai to Aliyar, 5 km away, every day in the early mornings and late evenings. This also meant that he ran into multiple vehicles during that time. Most times, he veered off the road, gave way and waited, only to come back onto the road and walk further.

But he never crossed Aliyar. Aliyar was Chilli’s entry and exit point for his visits to Navamalai.

In early March, each time he walked till Aliyar, he stood at the forest’s edge and walked all the way back again. We assumed he was delaying his return journey for some reason. And then, one fateful Sunday evening, an unfortunate encounter with two cars that approached him uncomfortably close led to conflict.

The next day, newspapers carried reports of a tusker attacking the cars of TNEB employees, leaving them grievously injured. Phone video footage of the incident, caught by the department staff, became viral. “Rogue elephant, dangerous tusker, angry elephant in musth.” The narrative was consistent across all media: Tusker, the Villain, and People, the Victims.

Those of us who were fond of him decided to act quickly. We visited the area with the District Forest Officer (DFO) of Anamalai Tiger Reserve, M G Ganesan. When he learnt that the tusker was only passing through, he agreed not to disturb him. He imposed a curfew and deployed a dedicated team to monitor his hourly movements.

Then, a guard from the Aliyar check post informed us that he’d observed our tusker standing at the edge of the forest early in the morning on the previous day. It was as if he was trying to venture into the electric-fenced farmland across the road. The guard believed it was the elephant’s usual route to enter and leave Navamalai.

Though apprehensive, we visited the farm and spoke to the owner, who was very cooperative and welcoming. Like many native folks who’ve been here for generations, the farm owner, Ravi, and his family share a sympathetic relationship with the wildlife around their land. To our surprise, they had a fondness for the tusker. It was heartening to hear Ravi’s compassion towards the tusker, a stark contrast to the intolerance we’d seen elsewhere. We learnt that the fence in question, built to safeguard coconut saplings, had come up after Chilli had entered the area in December.

Chilli Komban was trapped. Blocked. Cut away from the migration path he knew so well and had taken all these years. Now it made sense. We convinced the farmer to pull down the fence, and the department, in turn, offered to safeguard his coconut saplings. Everyone wanted to ensure Chilli returned home safe.

A few days later, the good news came in. The monitoring team had seen Chilli cross the farm and commence his return journey. It was a huge relief for all of us. Within two weeks, Aneesh offered even more exciting news — Chilli Komban had reached his home in Nelliyampathy.