They catch cobras, live in huts deluged by scorpions, roast termites they expertly harvest from mounds as tall as them, are called upon to exorcise ghosts, talk to birds, and have an intimate knowledge of medicinal plants. Meet Thenee and three generations of her family, members of the Irula tribal community in Tamil Nadu’s Eastern Ghats. Author and The Madras Crocodile Bank Trust and Centre for Herpetology co-founder Zai Whitaker’s new book, Termite Fry, a work of ‘fiction based on truth’ is set at the cusp of the passage of the Wildlife (Protection) Act, 1972, which banned hunting wildlife, irreversibly changing the lives of the family and community. But a ray of hope presents itself, allaying their fear of losing their primary means of income — hunting snakes for their skin — forever.
Edited excerpts from an interview with Whitaker, best known for her children’s books, including Salim Mamoo and Me and Adventures of the Humongoose Family.
You have written about how the Irulas have always had to be wary while travelling with their writhing baggage on buses because “once in a while a bag of rats jumped into the aisle or a wriggling snake bag caught the conductor’s attention”.
I remember anecdotes of Irula suppliers of snakes, rats and frogs. They were asked to get down from buses because of their live cargo. There was a lot more social discrimination in the 70s, and we saw incidents in hotels, hospitals, trains and buses where the Irulas were humiliated. The stories about wriggling bags in buses were often related with laughter; humour helped them get through challenging times.
Today, they catch snakes for laboratories that produce antivenom, and they use the Irula Snake Catchers’ Industrial Co-operative Society’s own air-conditioned van to travel. Many have motorbikes, and send WhatsApp pictures of an unusually large snake they might have seen… but these are the few lucky ones who are licensed members of the Society.
Midway through your book, the narrative turns political. Thenee’s family is informed “that killing snakes for their skin is not allowed, and people who do it will be put in jail” after the passage of the Wildlife (Protection) Act, 1972. There is palpable fear of losing their primary means of income... “Snake catching and the skin business is all we know,” Thenee’s grandfather exclaims.
Political decisions are important markers in the lives of Adivasis all over the world. And I felt that the sudden ban on the snake skin trade was a good metaphor for this; so I decided to build the Termite Fry story around this event. It was definitely a good move in terms of snake conservation, but the ban removed the central Irula livelihood without offering any alternative employment. Their traditional hunting grounds were being taken over for industrial and residential development; food-sources such as monitor lizards, were protected under the Act. This would have been a wonderful opportunity for the government to incorporate these forest-technicians into departments such as forests, fisheries and tourism.
How did you gather your nuanced insights into the lives of the community?
The most useful resource was my own memory, because I was lucky enough to be plonked into the world of the Irulas when many of them were still living the ‘old culture’. My ex-husband Rom [herpetologist Romulus Whitaker], who some of them called the ‘white Irula’, was often in the field with them and I tagged along on rat, termite, snake, crocodile hunts. I shared the odd mongoose or monitor lizard curry with them. There were special friends, such as little Kali (now a father of two) who was our sons’ playmate and took him scorpion hunting in his village. Kali once brought back one as a ‘gift’ for me.
Can you tell us about your role, and that of The Madras Crocodile Bank Trust and Centre for Herpetology you set up, in training Irulas to switch from hunting snakes for their skin to catching them alive to extract venom?
The credit goes to Rom. By the time the Wildlife (Protection) Act came into effect, he knew several older snake-catchers.. One of them was Natesan, or Sureman as he was known. Natesan, Rajamani, Chockalingam —now all departed — had many discussions with him about the venom centre idea, seated under the mango trees at our home. Today, the co-operative has some 350 members with licences to catch the ‘big four’venomous snakes. At present, we (The Crocodile Bank) are helping them plan a state-of-the-art serpentarium to upgrade their venom quality and snake husbandry practices.
Romulus Whitaker, founder of The Madras Crocodile Bank Trust and Centre for Herpetology, looks on as an Irula community member extracts venom. | Photo Credit: Shaju John
Tribal communities in India are routinely booked for collecting forest resources, even for as much as harvesting honey despite their rights enshrined in the Forest Rights Act...
The Forest Rights Act, 2006, strongly supports forest-dwellers. It recognises the socio-cultural needs of forest-based communities, including their livelihood, and habitation. But much work remains to be done in its implementation. Public-private partnership can achieve a lot in the area of Adivasi empowerment. We are seeing this today at the Co-operative Society. There is both despair and hope in modern Adivasi lives.
Several Irulas were fortunate to receive an alternative to their traditional livelihood. What about tribal communities across the country that find their sources of income from the forest taken away after the Wildlife (Protection) Act was enacted?
The alternative livelihood only benefits a fraction of the Irulas, because not all of them are snake-catchers, and not all snake-catchers have licences.
This is a discussion happening in many countries, and there are great initiatives we could learn from. SANPARKS (South African National Parks) recruits, trains and supports people living on the periphery of national parks. They are proud, confident keepers of their biodiversity and are repositories of information about the area. The possibilities are endless but the realities are dismal. And until we are able to see Adivasi communities as resources rather than welfare cases, this will not change.
You have said the Irulas are more “acceptable” than other Adivasis in the village. Why is that so?
Traditionally, Irulas don’t eat beef, so that was one brownie point, which meant that the women sometimes got jobs doing household work. Also, their snake- and rat-catching skills were used by farmers to keep their fields free of vermin. Companies, housing estates and other communities often approach the Irula Co-operative Society to track and catch bandicoots. Rodent-catching isn’t as easy as it sounds: different species require different techniques. Given the massive quantities of grain that rodents destroy in our country, we could explore this option. I can just see it: ‘Irula Department of Rodent Eradication’.
divya.gandhi@thehindu.co.in
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