Platanista’s predicaments
Perceptions of the Ganga in India are often as diverse as the many states the river flows through. From being a living embodiment of a Hindu Goddess in one, to just a navigable channel in another, the Ganga oscillates in identity. One section of society ascribes ‘personhood’ to the Ganga while another abuses the river for economic benefits. Even people who believe in the holiness of the Ganga, litter and pollute. Devotion, it would seem, is not equal to reverence. The river is, therefore, constantly shrouded by a fog of duality and contradictions. So is the case for an inhabitant of the Ganga, the Ganges river dolphin (Platanista gangetica).

The Ganges river dolphin is the national aquatic animal of India, yet this animal is threatened by a wide range of issues, including declining water levels, increasing pollution, depleting fish abundance, and greater traffic in the rivers. But among these factors, one issue, a kind of pollution, is often overlooked. The pollution that I speak of is not the well-known chemical or industrial pollution of the water but a far more subtle pollution that severely affects the Ganges river dolphin: noise.
To understand why noise pollution is problematic for the river dolphin, we need to understand the animal’s biology. Unlike its marine cousins, these ancient cetaceans have almost lost their visual powers, probably because eyesight in a sediment-rich river is not a very useful sense. These dolphins navigate and forage by producing high-frequency clicks, much like bats do, to echolocate in the dark and murky waters. The dolphin relies on sound not only for navigation, but also to communicate with one another and to hunt.

People who haven’t seen the Gangetic dolphin often assume that, like their marine counterparts, they too are athletic when they dive. However, this dolphin only does the bare essential required to breathe; it will only breach the surface, ever so slightly, exposing its blowhole right behind the head, and silently plunge into the murky water to resume swimming in an unconventional manner.
Unconventional because this dolphin is a side swimmer and at times, uses its flippers to sense the bottom of the river, probably to orient itself. Most of the time, one can only see their arched back, head and the snout studded with sharp, pointed teeth. But on certain occasions, the animal will leap out of the water gloriously and dive in head first, showing that it too is capable of acrobatic skills. Although the river dolphin does display such diving behaviour during courtship periods, this behaviour is also characteristic of stress and is probably a response to motorised vehicles plying close to them.
In the 21st century, given the volume of traffic and noise in the river, stress is probably a constant for the dolphins. One needs to only look at China to witness the threats that increasing river traffic may lead to. Following the development of the waterway in the Yangtze River, continuous vessel movement and dredging became the ‘final nail in the coffin’ for the Chinese river dolphin and it was labelled extinct in 2008.
Because of our reliance on sight, it may be difficult to imagine the sonic perceptions of a river dolphin. However, an analogy with light may make this clear. Imagine being exposed to harsh and blinding stroboscopic light for every single hour of the day. It is sure to leave you blinded, disoriented and exhausted. What the Ganges river dolphins perceive when exposed to noise may very well be the same.
However, there is more to the Ganga than noisy vessels and dirty waters. Beyond the polluted waters and vast agricultural fields, there exists a land where otters and jackals roam without boundaries, where riverine birds flock by the hundreds and fishes as large as humans still dwell beneath the river. In the popular discourse, we hear how polluted and filthy the river is – which is true – but we miss out on other stories of the river. In trying to understand how noise affects the acoustic behaviour of dolphins, I have begun to appreciate this other side of the Ganga that  is rarely seen but is frequently heard. Out in the floodplains, the unseen captures your attention. Despite all the problems associated with the Ganga, and the popular notion of it being a ‘dead’ river, the part that flows through in Bihar still resonates with sounds that befit the living. This ‘other’ Ganga that I wish to write about is surrounded by charismatic animals on land, in water and air; areas that still retain their rustic nature, might and ‘wildness’ as was documented in the 1920s by the Bengali author Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay in his book, ‘Aranyak’. A place that triggers a sense of being lost in time.

Riverine symphonies
The Ganga, especially in the northern state of Bihar, is a breathtaking place. The river and its floodplain is a vast expanse of sand and silt, bordered in most places with a carpet of agricultural lands as far as the eye can see. The river itself, in some places, is about three kilometers wide and looks like the sea. After sundown, however, one starts to sense the landscape not through sight but through sound, similar to a river dolphin. A particular incident during my fieldwork made me experience the night-time ambience of the river and remains etched on my mind.

I was based in a small town called Kahalgaon in Bihar right on the banks of the Ganga. At about 3:00 in the morning, as my boatman and I climbed down to the water’s edge to place our sound recorders and underwater microphones in the water, the howling North-Eastern winds that blow during March and April created ferociously crashing waves on the river. Our small fishing boat stood no chance in navigating the river in this tempestuous weather. However, the storm didn’t last too long and disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived. The ambient sound too changed dramatically. Soon after the roaring winds and crashing rain, all we could hear was the gentle lapping of waves against the hull of our fishing boat and the sound of the oar breaking the water’s surface. As we sailed across the river, a lone Ganges river dolphin started trailing our boat. These animals are known to follow small fishing boats at night in hopes of getting an easy meal from the scattering fish when the fishermen start hauling their nets. Although you cannot see much in the dark, the river dolphins reminded us of their presence by breathing air out of their bodies with a characteristic ‘sus’ sound. This sound is why these dolphins are known as ‘sus’, ‘susu’, ‘sons’, and ‘hu’, in various vernacular languages.

Experiences such as the one I describe are rare, but there is beauty even in the ordinary, if one looks, or rather listens, in the right direction. A traveller visiting for the first time may even turn back because of the cacophony that one perceives as he or she travels through the cities of Bhagalpur and Kahalgaon. But, in a sense, exposure to this din in the city is crucial in appreciating the more comforting and peaceful sounds of the river and its floodplain. This peaceful riverine orchestra is in fact quite rewarding if you listen close enough, for the musicians in this symphony are both human and non-human in nature. The wind and the rustling sand, during morning hours, form the foundation of the song, with the occasional motorboat acting as the bass, while the shrill calls of little terns, common ringed plovers, sandpipers, river lapwings, Eurasian curlew and small pratincoles form the melodious high notes. The soloist in this orchestra of the floodplain is the farmer who sings with his alto voice, a haunting tune that echoes through the vast floodplains.

However, come nightfall, the soundscape along the river changes drastically. Once, my boatman and I were camping on a river island near the town of Kahalgaon. His boat was anchored off the island and was gently swaying along with the waves. After dinner, I decided to take a stroll along the island and absorb the gentle sound of the flowing water. The peace and tranquillity that I felt was absolutely mesmerising but little did I know that the midnight symphony of the Ganges was about to begin.

Past midnight, the crescendo of the wind becomes noticeable, and like the wind in the dawn orchestra, formed the bass and keynote for this midnight symphony. The waves too, emboldened by the wind, created a soothing, crashing sound, with water bubbling in the sand. Nearby, filling in the role of cellos, ruddy shelducks took flight and called. Their calls, although quite eerie in nature, fit the vast, moonlit darkness of the river. Whatever caused the disturbance to the shelducks soon moved nearer and displaced a dozen greater adjutant storks. Their wings produced the percussions that were necessary to complete the low notes of this soundtrack.
 
Like curtains rising to show the playwright of a play, a shrill laughter erupted from the grasslands, revealing the disturbance that led to the dramatic flight of the birds. The characteristic call of jackals was unmistakable. The jackals caused a ruckus among the nesting lapwings and their calls along with the alarm cries of the lapwings added to the much needed soprano of the composition. The end of this midnight symphony was heralded by a hunting river dolphin which, while chasing fish in knee-deep water, kept slapping its jaws, producing a very apt applause for the performance.

Navigating nature
Noise and tranquillity; wilderness and civilisation; filth and reverence; dolphin and destruction, existing cheek by jowl in the Ganga, challenge our notion of where wildlife should exist. Usually, when we visit a protected area, we are often surrounded by all things ‘natural’ and devoid of anthropogenic developments. However, river systems, like the Ganga, are strange places. One can experience both ‘wilderness’ and ‘civilisation’ within a span of 24 hours. The same river island, overrun by people who depend on the river for their livelihood during the day, can transform into an island that harbours exciting wildlife, rich with drama, during the night. Unfortunately, this fragile and boundary-less nature that exists in the river also experiences threats more intimately than areas that have been cordoned off for protection.

With rapid development of waterways looming in the immediate future, experiencing the river and its natural entities may soon be a thing of the past. The proponents of the national waterway which include several ministries of the government such as the shipping and water resources, road and transport and ironically, the Ganga rejuvenation and development, argue that waterways are in fact, ‘eco-friendly’, since the amount of fuel consumed for transporting materials over water is much less. Their arguments may make economic sense but make very little ecological sense since continuous dredging, alteration of river flows and construction of embankments and dams need to be ensured for navigation on the river. Hence, here too, the identity of the river is being contested with one section lobbying for economic growth while the other section argues for ecological stability.

The rapid development of the waterways not only threatens the Ganges river dolphin but can also impact other organisms that depend on the river for their survival. Although tigers, sloth bears, and wild buffaloes that once roamed the land have gone extinct, otters, fishes, nilgais, wild pigs, jackals, the occasional gharial and mugger crocodile, hyenas, diverse waterbirds, and the shushuk (dolphin), still inhabit this timeless place. However, the fact that the dolphin and other wildlife still manage to survive here should not mislead us into thinking that the busy waterway has no impact.
If one is to develop and rejuvenate the Ganga, it is crucial to view the river through an ecological lens and not solely through an economic lens. The hydrology of the river, the status and health of other biodiversity, along with the community of people that depend on the river need to be taken into consideration if one is to revive this ‘dead’ river. Bihar remains one of the only states where rivers such as the Son, Gandak and Ganga run relatively free, without any major alterations to their flow. Instead of viewing this as an underdeveloped state of rivers, it should be viewed as a source of inspiration on how rivers need to flow.

Some dualities in the river lend character, whereas others reduce it. Therefore, it becomes crucial that we as a community see not just one aspect of the river but also appreciate and honour the more nuanced bits that often go unseen and unheard. If only we were to use this sense of appreciation and reverence as regularly as our sense of gain and profit, much of the harmful dualities will cease to exist.
Link to the soundtrack:https://soundcloud.com/mayukh-dey-533977316/riverine_symphonies
 
 
 
 
 

People have moved species from one part of the globe to another throughout human history. For the most part species introductions have been deliberate—most of the food we eat, the fibers we use, the plants in our gardens, have their origins in distant parts of the world. Occasionally, species introductions have been inadvertent or accidental—as hitchhikers on deliberate introductions, or, increasingly, as collateral to growing global travel and trade. Every so often, an introduced species tends to become dominant in its de novo environment, competing with native species, altering the structure and functioning of native ecosystems, and doing untold ecological and economic damage: the arrival of avian malaria in the Hawaiian islands led to the extinction of several bird species unique to the archipelago, and to the decline of many others; introduced grasses have altered !re regimes, thereby changing ecosystem structure, composition, and dynamics in the Americas; introduced trees are reducing water flow into aquifers and a$ecting water supply to Cape Town in South Africa. These are examples of what have come to be known as invasive alien species, ‘invasive’ a reference to the ecological damage they cause, and ‘alien’ a reference to their non-native biogeographical provenance. So great is the concern about invasive alien species today, that the international Convention on Biological Diversity has ranked them amongst the foremost threats to biodiversity and ecosystem functioning.

A British biologist, Charles Elton, was amongst the earliest to draw attention to the problem of invasive species in the late 1950s. He was concerned that with increasing human- aided movement of species around the planet, the uniqueness and distinctness of biodiversity in different parts of the world was in danger of being homogenised. He cautioned that though not all alien species were necessarily invasive, those that were could have devastating impacts. He also cautioned that the potential danger from invasive alien species was likely to be greatest on oceanic islands, with their unique but vulnerable biota, and in disturbed environments, where available resources could be readily preempted by invasive species.

Today there is a great deal of interest, both in what makes certain species more invasive than others, and in what makes certain ecosystems more vulnerable to invasion than others—questions that can provide insights into how ecosystems are assembled. These questions also have tremendous practical significance for the conservation of biodiversity and the services that society derives from ecosystems, as they can provide us with tools to predict which species are most likely to become invasive, and can enable us to model invasive species spread and to prioritise management interventions. #ere is also growing interest in evaluating the economic consequences of invasive species for human well being, and in developing appropriate policies and capacities for invasive species prevention, control, or mitigation.

This special feature brings together a collection of articles that showcases a diversity of concerns related to invasive alien species. Perrings et al. examine the economic and policy aspects of the problem of biological invasions at a global scale, especially with respect to global trade. The authors include microorganisms in their definition of biological invasive species, thus encompassing issues of emergent and recurrent human diseases. Their assertion, that the problem of invasive species is the most significant environmental issue facing humanity, is therefore not surprising.
Volin reviews work on Lygodium micro-phyllum, a climbing fern native to the Old World and now widespread in the southeastern USA. #is article illustrates the kinds of information, across scales, required to understand the ecological underpinnings of a species’ invasiveness; such information can aid the search for appropriate control methods and enable predictive modeling of the species’ spread, of value for managers and policymakers.

Three of the articles focus on Lantana camara in India, undoubtedly a reflection of lantana’s status as amongst India’s most widespread terrestrial invasive species. However, they examine very di$erent aspects of lantana—Sharma and Raghubanshi focus on its ecological impacts, Babu et al. talk about mitigation and control, and Shaanker et al. propose adaptation and related livelihoods. The article by Sharma and Raghubanshi draws on their work on the impacts of lantana on biodiversity and ecosystem functioning. They also propose that lantana’s invasive success may not be explained by any one characteristic of the species but rather, could be attributed to multiple mechanisms. Babu et al. describe a method they have designed to control lantana and restore native species and ecosystem functioning, which may have high benefits, particularly in protected areas.

The management of invasive species can have complex effects on livelihoods and ecology, as illustrated by both Shaanker et al. and by Shackleton and Gambiza. Shaanker et al. argue that once an invasive species has become widespread it may be best to live with it and enable local communities to draw a livelihood from it, thus reducing the costs of control. Shackleton and Gambiza draw our attention to Euryops floribundus, a native invasive species in South Africa; its eradication, though of bene!t to livestock owners, would adversely a$ect women who depend on it for fuel.
Rauf Ali is dismissive of the focus on what he terms the ‘page 3 species,’ including lantana. Instead, he draws attention to the vulnerability of island eco-systems, in this case, the Andaman islands, to invasions. His choice of invasive species—both elephants and chital are native to the Indian mainland— helps underscore an important point, that ‘alien’ is a biogeographical rather than a political concept. His choice of invasive species also underscores the cultural obstacles to our dealing with animal invasive species.

Namboothri and Shanker draw our attention to Kappaphycus alvarezii, a marine invasive species, and its relationship with the industrial production of soft drinks. Cola production has created an economic interest in the species, to the extent that arguments are made contesting the species’ invasiveness. Who bears the burden of proof? Should we adopt the precautionary principle? #is collection of summaries informs us that there are a great diversity of biologically invasive species and contexts, with some fundamental uncertainties but possibly great implications for human welfare.
Ankila Hiremath is a Fellow at ATREE, New Delhi, India. Mail at hiremath@atree.org
Vikram Dayal is an Associate Professor at the Institute of Economic Growth, Delhi, India.
 
Illustrator: Kalyani Ganapathy

Under an overhanging banana tree, with its ripening fruits encased in gunny bags, I sat speaking with an elderly ex-serviceman from Punjab. Surrounded by coconut trees, with dense rainforest forming the distant backdrop to his tsunami shelter on the island of Great Nicobar, he looked out of place in his proud turban. On the contrary, this 11-acre tropical haven has been his home for the past thirty- nine years. While he wears his roots wrapped around his head, he is no longer a ‘settler’, as most people from mainland India tag him and others who first came to the island in the 1970s. He is a local, an islander, who has nurtured his farms and children with the limited resources available to him. The internal conflict pertaining to his identity never leaves, and it resurfaces every time he finds himself surrounded by other ‘locals’ from different communities. Are they one, or many? In a way, each person on the island holds dear two cultures – the one they brought with them when they first came to Great Nicobar, and one that they’ve created together by virtue of islandic isolation.

Introspective turmoil is, however, only one among many challenges these locals have had to face. The longest-residing of these families on Great Nicobar had first set foot on a deserted, undeveloped island during Indira Gandhi’s Prime Ministership in 1969. Apart from a few settlements of the indigenous Nicobarese and Shompen communities, the island and its wildlife were unaccustomed to strong human presence. Over a period of thirty years, these settlers cleared and developed the southeastern stretch of the island. They cultivated rice, grew vegetables and created coconut plantations and orchards. Soon, people from diverse communities migrated to the island with their families in search of employment, sowing the seeds of the heterogeneous community present in Great Nicobar today.

The original occupants of Great Nicobar 
Long before human settlers came to the island, it had been home to a healthy population of the endemic Nicobar long-tailed macaque (Macaca fascicularis umbrosa). They lived a predator-free existence, save for rare encounters with saltwater crocodiles. They mostly ate Pandanus fruit, supplemented by seasonal fruits from the forest, and insects and crustaceans.

As early as 1903, C. Boden Kloss, an English zoologist who traveled the length and breath of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, spoke of the timid monkeys of Katchal and Great Nicobar. He found that they could, at times, be observed from close due to their innately curious disposition. On most occasions though, Kloss found that attempts to follow troops were a near-futile experience, owing both to the challenging terrain in which they lived and their skittish nature. Kloss noted that these monkeys raided coconut and Pandanus plantations belonging to the native Nicobarese people, often to the point of hampering the growth of more fruit owing to the harm they caused to the trees.

Unfortunately, no one else spoke of these grey, frizzy-haired primates until a whole century later, when a survey was done across the three islands (Katchal, Little Nicobar and Great Nicobar) to understand how they were distributed. Dr. G. Umapathy of the University of Mysore and his team systematically travelled these islands to count the number of troops and monkeys within them, and learn about their basic biology. Today, we’re slowly starting to learn more about these creatures by observing their movement, diet, and behaviour, but the large lacuna in research between the early twentieth and twenty-first centuries has left us with more questions than answers. The islands that are home to these macaques are more accessible now than they’ve ever been before, providing us with an opportunity to study them better. This accessibility, however, has a flip-side and has thrown the islands open to further anthropogenic development and modification of the macaques’ natural habitat.

An attempt to fill the knowledge gap
When I first visited the island of Great Nicobar, I was intrigued by how close the Nicobar long-tailed macaques and people lived. While there may have been a time when these macaques roamed freely through the heavily-forested island, they were now sharing their home with nearly 9,000 human beings – not including those of indigenous communities – with no room for territorial expansion beyond the island’s shoreline. Every person I met steered the conversation towards the macaques’ shenanigans – of how every day was a constant battle of wits with the monkeys. I learned how the monkeys had found their way into the people’s orchards, farms, and homes, raiding their fields and gardens for food regularly.

The overlapping homes and home ranges of these two highly-intelligent primate species had clearly resulted in a wide range of interactions, and I decided to study how these had come to be.

I hoped to piece together the history of interactions between people and the macaques, understand what the nature of interactions between them are at present and unearth factors that had led to a seeming increase in conflict over time. Gathering this information required combining the social sciences and behavioural ecology. Put together, the people and macaques of Great Nicobar helped me understand the sequence of events leading from the settlers’ arrival on the island up until present-day, where they go through life with monkeys in their backyards.

Interactions between human and non-human primates are inherently complex, owing to people’s tendency to anthropomorphise and empathise with their evolutionarily-similar neighbours. The island of Great Nicobar provided an isolated system within which I could study the nuances of these interactions. Here, they are varied in their nature and intensity between macaques and people from different settler communities. Further, being on an island of unusually-high cultural diversity added another layer to the intricacies of conflict.

Given that the earliest academic records of the Nicobar long-tailed macaques were as recent as 2003, I relied on the locals to learn more about the longer history of this interaction.

“All this land once belonged to the monkeys alone”
The coastal vegetation and surrounding evergreen rainforests were first cleared to make room for human habitation from 1970 onward. Each family received 11-14 acres of land for agriculture from the Central Government, which resulted in the clearing of coastal Pandanus clumps to accommodate coconut and areca nut plantations. The southeastern coastline of the island was soon transformed into a developed strip of land, with one family residing every few acres. This pushed the otherwise-coastal macaques further inland or left them sandwiched between villages.

The long-tailed macaques, being new to such development and the dominant presence of human beings, initially maintained a safe distance from them. They feared people but gradually learned to venture into their fields and gardens in their absence. As the years progressed, the development of the island,human population and the macaques’ experiences with people increased. A combination of these factors led to the level of interaction between people and the macaques moving from negligible to noticeable.

The extent of these interactions varied greatly across the island. Some houses and farms, being closer to the forest edge, were more prone to raiding by the macaques. Macaques began entering coconut plantations more regularly, foraging on fruit trees from orchards and raiding paddy fields when left unattended. To combat this increasingly-problematic raiding, people bred dogs and trained them to chase the monkeys away. An arms race began, with people trying newer and more creative ways of keeping macaques away from their produce, and the macaques learning to dodge their efforts. Both species involved were adapting to the dynamic life resultant from living in the other’s presence, and people began to pay attention to the consequences of having set up home in what was once unchallenged monkey territory.

A fragile system, further ravaged by the tsunami of 2004
The tsunami of 2004 caused major upheavals in every avenue, affecting the lives of both humans and macaques on Great Nicobar through landscape modifications and mortalities. The island’s boundaries were altered, submerging crucial stretches of land along the coast. Most settler families that owned agricultural land in these areas lost their only source of livelihood. The long-tailed macaques, whose diet requires a large proportion of Pandanus fruit, were left with very few individual trees along the coast, with different regions and their troops being affected in varying degrees.

Human survivors of the tsunami were rescued and accommodated in the most-developed and least- affected area of the island, Campbell Bay, for nearly five years. It took another decade of sustained relief effort to redevelop the island and relocate the affected families. During this time, the macaques of Campbell Bay found themselves in constant contact with humans, becoming progressively habituated and decreasingly afraid of them. The lack of sufficient natural resources may have led to them supplementing their staple of Pandanus with human-provisioned foods as well. Similarly, in other regions of the island, the macaques learned to make use of abandoned coconut trees and kitchen gardens, and these foods became more common in their diet over time.

The tsunami modified agricultural practices, social structures within human communities, the distribution of human settlements across the island and what the macaques ate. New settlements were built further inland and on higher ground, cutting further into the macaques’ habitat. These factors came together to create an environment ripe for conflict between monkeys and humans, exacerbated by the overlap in their combined need for space and resources.

People’s perspectives towards conflict and on-ground realities
My interviews with the islanders and behavioural observations showed that between 1970 and 2018, the macaques moved from barely interacting with people, to a situation where a quarter of their diet came from human-provisioned resources. Naturally, this led to people facing financial and personal losses. I spoke to these people to learn more about their personal histories, their position on how serious the on- ground situation seemed to them, and to understand the perspectives of the macaques. Did the islanders consider their daily interactions with the black, furry, teeth-baring primates to be ‘conflict’? Each person’s familial backgrounds, geographic positioning, gender and socioeconomic standings affected how they perceived their interactions with macaques.

These perceptions navigated through a wide spectrum of positive to negative. The macaques’ adaptability to human environments and latent politics between different human communities combine in curious ways to make the situation on-ground more layered than visible on the surface. Adding another fascinating layer, people’s anthropomorphism towards these human-like creatures and stories of the monkey god, Hanuman, greatly influenced the manner in which they dealt with conflict scenarios. In a country like India, where mythology has seeped into each home imperceptibly, it’s hard to disentangle the effect it has had on people, of any religion, and their outlook towards the garden-raiding Vaanars they see.

Even in regions that faced extremely low levels of macaque visitation, as I found through a citizen- science initiative across the island, people still felt a keen frustration towards the monkeys. All these factors came together to either increase or set at ease people’s sense of loss at the hands of the monkeys. Finding these intricacies within an island so culturally and economically diverse made me believe that solutions to combat the rising conflict need to be well-informed and accommodating of its complexities.

Intricately, innately grey
Delving deeper into the complexities of why these interactions exist and the various permutations in which they are dealt with could fill pages of asympathetic book. The chapters therein would cover the island’s history, the macaques’ biology, the game- changing tsunami of 2004, the steady development of the island, the different cultures of each community and the indigenous people, and detailed descriptions of what one may observe taking place today. A book, an article or an academic paper, however, would be suspended in time, a snapshot of a constantly- adapting land. Any author would struggle to pick a side while narrating the history of this islandic system, so far removed from our mainland. These interactions are entwined in ecological history and the nuances of anthropology, making the onset of conflict between two species like these more intriguing with each layer unearthed.

That elderly, Punjabi man I mentioned at the start, sat under his banana trees, fruits shielded from the monkeys, and spoke with sparkling fascination about their intelligence. Moving quickly beyond his description of the economic losses that the monkeys had caused him by destroying over 70% of his annual coconut harvest, he lost himself in a narrative of how the monkeys have learned to avoid every obstacle he placed before them. Despite his daily tussle with them and the frustrations of being ‘stuck’ on that inescapable bit of land floating in the Andaman Sea, he still found room in his wise, old heart to marvel at their antics.

Of course, it isn’t every family that can afford to smile at their losses. People have deep-set reasons to justify their love for and apprehension of the macaques, sometimes both simultaneously. I have learned not to label their interactions with these curious creatures as ‘conflict’ anymore, unless characterised as such by the people themselves. I am a mere spectator, who has attempted to describe this system to the best of her ability using a combination of tools. When each person views the monkeys through a different lens, chiselled down by personal experience, who am I to pin an overarching negative connotation to their lives?

These interactions are dynamic and vulnerable to change. Our first step should be to understand the reasons for that change. Currently, human and macaques on the island of Great Nicobar are in transition-moving from co-existence to semi-harmonious co-occurrence. If we are lucky, with the right tools and the inclination to describe all aspects of the ‘conflict’ at hand, we could work towards curbing its escalation and safeguarding the wellbeing of all animals involved-human or otherwise.