Interview with prominent wildlife conservationist Belinda Wright

“If only animals could vote”, laments Belinda Wright as she reflects on the rapidly failing standards of the Indian wildlife. Widely regarded as one of India’s leading wildlife conservationists, Wright has been striving hard to save the Indian tiger from extinction over the past three and half decades.

Belinda Wright

Speaking from her Delhi-based office, the Executive Director of Wildlife Protection Society of India (WPSI), Wright sheds light on several critical issues concerning Indian wildlife and her efforts to save it.  WPSI’s commitment is primarily to the tigers, their habitat, and the Indian people and Wright has been responsible for countless seizures and raids on poaching gangs.

Born and brought up in Kolkata (India), her love for wildlife, as she mentions, is in her DNA- both her parents were animal lovers.  It was this love for wildlife that inspired her to launch the WPSI.  And through this organization, she has also been attempting to reach and help various local communities from remote villages.

In the Sundarbans, for instance, over 1,80,000 mangrove saplings have been planted in and around the Bali Island by the local communities, with the help of Wright and her organization. The locals have also formed a voluntary Tiger Rescue Team which reacts swiftly to any reports of tigers entering nearby villages.

Not many would know that Wright has also been a wildlife photographer and filmmaker for the National Geographic Channel and has won two Emmy Awards along with 14 other major international awards for her National Geographic film 'Land of the Tiger'. She has also been conferred with the Carl Zeiss Wildlife Conservation Award 2005. 

Undoubtedly, Belinda Wright is special. In an interview with yours truly she sheds more light on her life, serious issues concerning wildlife and her efforts to save it.

Q. Can you shed some light on the current wildlife scenario in India? Do you honestly feel that the Indian Tiger can yet be saved?

Belinda Wright: Tigers are not a difficult species to save. They breed well and require undisturbed space (particularly to avoid conflict in human habitation), protection, food, and water. Tragically, it seems that we are not able to provide them even these basic survival requirements. What tigers give us in return is unimaginable. Their very presence is the reason for protecting forests that are the source of about 300 rivers. Tigers stop the exploitation and devastation of these forests that are vital for the environmental security and wellbeing of the nation. The tiger is also a keystone species that plays a critical role in keeping the ecosystem that it lives in healthy.

The tiger is an iconic species the world over and the national animal of six nations, including India. If we cannot save a species of this magnitude, how will we be able to save other species, and indeed our precious planet?

Q. Tell us a bit about the history of Wildlife Protection Society; especially its achievements and breakthrough over the years.

Wright at the Dec 2007 seizure in Allahabad 

Belinda Wright: I founded the Wildlife Protection Society of India (WPSI) to try and bring new energy to the wildlife conservation movement in the 1990s and to fill what I saw was a critical gap, the lack of wildlife enforcement. One of WPSI’s primary aims is to provide support and information to the authorities to combat poaching and the illegal wildlife trade, particularly in wild tigers.

Probably our single biggest achievement is that we have helped ensure that people actually now know how and why tigers and other species valued in the wildlife trade, are brutally killed and traded. We have exposed the facts, and the killings are no longer the guarded secrets of wildlife criminals.

Q. Over the years you have constantly attempted to bring the core issues concerning Indian wildlife to the forefront. But somehow they haven’t exactly yielded the results that they should have.  Does frustration creep in after a while?

Belinda Wright:  Fortunately, I have always been a fairly optimistic person, and despite the incredible odds, some positive things do happen. For example, there is a lot more awareness of the problems and needs of wildlife conservation than there was in the past, particularly in civil society and the judiciary. Greed and corruption play a negative role in practically every issue, and wildlife too suffers from this. Political support is also lacking – if only animals could vote!

Q. What exactly do you think is wrong with the Indian system that it continues to fail in arresting the falling standards of the Indian wild? Where are we going wrong?

Belinda Wright: As I said earlier, the failure is mostly to do with greed and corruption – in the political system, in the forest service, and all the people who put pressure on them to bend the rules. The government has invested huge sums of money for wildlife conservation, but while the one hand provides, the other destroys. Forests are seen as easy pickings for mines, highways, dams, nuclear power stations – just about anything. Another huge problem is our burgeoning human population, which puts pressure on all lands and wild places and results in the growing problem of human-animal conflict.

Q. You have been extremely passionate about wildlife. How and when did this passion for wildlife begin?

My parents were both animal lovers and we shared our large home in Kolkata with dogs and horses and many orphaned wild animals. My interest and passion was always wildlife, and I have never thought of working on any other subject.

 

Belinda Wright with a tiger cub in Patna, 1974

Q. Tell us a bit about your formative years, especially the experiences related wildlife.

Belinda Wright:  My family is of British origin with a long association, going back many generations, with the Indian Subcontinent. My mother was the daughter of an ICS officer and my father was the son of an IPS officer – he was born in Kolkata, and so was I. My brother and I had a wonderful childhood in Kolkata and Bihar (we spent practically all our holidays in what is now Palamau Tiger Reserve) in the 1950s and 1960s before we were sent off to school in England. I hated being away from India, but it didn’t take long before I was back again.

Q.Who have been your role models in wildlife conservation ?

Belinda Wright:  My first wildlife guru was Dr. Salim Ali, who I was fortunate to know well. Billy Arjan Singh and Fateh Singh Rathore also became close friends. But ultimately I think my role model is Dr. George Schaller. He is a rare combination – a renowned scientist and an unshakable conservationist, someone with determination, knowledge, and soul.

Q.  If you could, what be your recommendations for our administration and other concerned people to improve the wildlife scenario? 

Belinda Wright: So many excellent recommendations have been made over the years and ignored. The creation of a sub-cadre for wildlife could probably bring about the single biggest positive change so that managers and field staff are properly trained and dedicated to wildlife issues. The Prime Minister even agreed to this proposal, but it never happened. We desperately need better leadership and management of our protected areas, especially to motivate the demoralized field staff. Field staff vacancies need to be filled and training and infrastructure improved. And we desperately need intelligence-led, professional enforcement.

A solution to much of these problems can also be found with the support and collaboration of local communities. I know such support is possible, but it will not happen under the present system.

Q.  Do you think the Indian middle-class is too unconcerned from issues concerning wildlife? Nobody seems to care about it. And should the media play a bigger role to make the average Indian be a little more concerned about the critical wildlife issues? 

Belinda Wright: The media is playing a critical role in spreading knowledge and information on wildlife and environmental issues. Thanks to their efforts, the average Indian is much more aware of the issues, then it was say ten years ago. But the knowledge gap is still wide. People still do not understand what is actually needed - the solutions to the problems - even though these are well documented.

 Q. What is WPSI's current motive given the present day wildlife situation in India? What would your future objectives be? 

Belinda Wright: Curbing wildlife crime will always be our focus, but the human-animal conflict is increasingly becoming a widespread problem and a challenge for contemporary wildlife conservation efforts. This is an issue that must be handled swiftly and professionally, with government and non-government organizations working closely together. Every district with forestland should be equipped, trained and prepared for conflict situations.

Q. How long do you think you can continue on this endeavor to save the Indian wildlife? How would you like to be remembered as? 

Belinda Wright: I will continue to fight for India’s wildlife for as long as I breathe. Despite all the failures, I would like to think that I do make a positive difference, and I don’t care if

I am remembered or not. That is not the reason why I do what I do. I am driven by a lifelong passion that I am sure will never be extinguished.

Of being a tall boy and those unpleasant memories

Last week I was reading this book review posted by a friend. It was the story of a fat girl who is bullied and mocked for her weight. The reviewer then went on to point out how she was fat-shamed as a girl in school and hence could relate to the story at a personal level.

The review left me stirred up. I felt sorry for her. And it got me thinking about my school life. My boyhood was mostly very happy. I made great friends, had some unforgettable memories and always look back on that phase with a lot of fondness.

There is one aspect of my childhood, however, that I don’t often discuss. Not in detail, anyway.

I have been very tall for as long as I can remember. Today I am okay with it; I take it in my stride, in fact.

But that wasn’t always the case.

I was unusually tall as a kid; the tallest in my class for the entire length of my school life. In fact, I had touched almost six feet when I was in the fifth standard itself. And those were very embarrassing days. For instance, in middle grade, we had to wear half pants, and courtesy of my rather long legs, they would feel embarrassingly short. My growth rate was alarmingly fast and after every three months, I would outgrow my new shorts causing much frustration in my family.

I had to endure some really snide remarks about this for a really long time. I had no way to cover my long legs and would just put a smile on my face and nod as those hurtful comments (mostly bordering on “Looks like you are wearing a chaddi!” and “You have legs like that of a female!”) were hurled at me. Sometimes even the teachers would join in on the fun. It was unpleasant but there was nothing I could do about it.

Then there were the endless finger-pointing, giggles, whispers behind my back and some kids openly mocking and laughing at me every single time I would walk down the stairs or stand in a line at the assembly. I used to hate going to school at one point. And felt extremely uncomfortable being alone in a crowd. I was given horrible nicknames and my height was mocked with such regularity that it just made me an incredibly shy kid, unable to respond to those jibes.

School wasn’t the only place where my height was an issue. I couldn’t escape taunts about my height anywhere I went – the neighbourhood, relatives’ homes, buses, trains… everywhere. I had learned to quietly smile and ignore all the mockeries about my height but after a point, it started to wear me down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anyone to share this with.

While I was reading that review of the book earlier, one particularly horrible memory came back to gnaw at me. I had shoved this memory very deep inside and never allow it rear its ugly face. But for some reason, it was let out today.

This was back in the sixth grade when I was attending an inter-school sports day in a huge stadium. To avoid the crowds, I located a secluded balcony in one of the top tiers of the stadium and positioned myself in a corner so as to enjoy the activities and avoid any crowds. I had spent a good half an hour there when I heard some commotion from behind me. A teacher from some other school was walking up to me, a bunch of boys behind him.

The man was well-built, wore a tight-fitting white polo shirt and had a bushy mustache. He snorted on seeing me first. Then, eyeing me curiously, from top to bottom,  asked me what I was doing here. I mumbled “Nothing” and tried to get away. But he blocked my path and then, just out of the blue, he suddenly began taking digs at my height.

“What did your parents eat to make you so tall?” he said loudly. It wasn’t really a question; he had a slight sneer on his face when he said so. His students roared in laughter. More rhetorical and nasty comments about my height followed. And there was more raucous laughter from behind him. I could feel myself burning hot in the face and the man kept checking me out, his eyes wide in demented glee as if I was some strange animal in a zoo.

As I tried to make my way past them, the man suddenly turned around and slapped me on the back of my head. It wasn’t a light slap. It was a full-on thwack and it hurt. I moved my head around, stunned at the impact, and saw the boys cackling loudly while the man just stood there, beaming. To avoid further embarrassment, I simply scampered away from the spot, not daring to look back.

This might have felt like a scene from a cheesy film, but it wasn’t. It happened. And I have no idea why.

I remember boarding the school bus back home that evening and being very quiet. A couple of my friends asked me what was wrong and I just said that I had a headache. I didn't have the guts to tell anyone what had happened.

Did I cry? No. I was too ashamed. Too humiliated. Too scarred. I kind of retracted into a shell for a few days. And I guess from thereon my habit of closing myself out from the world from point to point began.

I have never shared that incident with anyone in my life. Not even my mother. This is the first time I have typed it. It didn’t feel good. I don't like remembering that memory. It makes me feel small. And that’s quite ironic, perhaps.

I am not writing this to gain anyone’s sympathy. It is too old an incident to fret over now. But, yes, writing it out made it feel real and, perhaps, I can now accept it and have some closure.

Maybe I should have reacted differently on that day. Maybe not. That is not the point, anyway. The point is that it shouldn’t have happened. But it did.  No 12-year-old child deserves to be treated that way. No 12-year-old boy deserves to be treated differently from the others just because he is taller than the rest.

I hated being stared and pointed at all the time. I hated being asked questions about my height every single day. I hated being mocked and laughed at because I was so tall. I hated standing out in the crowd all the time. I just wanted to be myself. But not many allowed me that privilege.

Things got better eventually, of course. I grew out of my shell and discovered new facets of my personality that were unrelated to my height. I made some great friends along the way who never bothered about how tall I was. And as I passed my teens, my height, I realized, aided my personality. And, yes, sometimes I secretly enjoy the attention my height gives me these days.

I also take regular digs at my own height these days. I enjoy doing so. I guess it was some sort of a defense mechanism I developed much later in life. Also, that experience from my childhood has made me more empathetic towards children. I have felt that whenever I interact with any child who is a little shy or different and somehow I just know how to break the ice with most of them.

Regardless, it wasn't easy being unusually tall as a young boy and being the constant butt of crude and snide remarks. For what felt like years I hated myself and my height. I guess it is a human tendency. They see a gangly, shy and ungainly teenage boy and they take cruel digs on him because he is tall and doesn’t know how to react, not realizing the damage they are inflicting on his psyche.

So the next time you come across an overweight or dark or tall or different-in-any-way kid quit staring and throttle down that urge to pass on any witty remark. Those actions can have a long-lasting damage. And not every kid has the ability to cope with it.

I have mostly made amends with this particular aspect of my past life. But some parts of those days have had a permanent effect on me and I don’t think those scars will just go away. Because even today, when I notice someone giggling behind my back and pointing at me, it makes me cringe a little and immediately brings back a flood of those not-so-memorable memories. It makes me remember me hurrying down the stairs of my school with the other kids sniggering and pointing behind me. It makes me remember the eyes of that man on that stadium after he hit me and the laughter of his students. And it’s not a good feeling.

It will take time, I guess. Hopefully, I would outgrow that part of my life, just like I did with those half pants.

Chapters From My Childhood: When Papa Bought Me A Car

It is Father’s Day today. And I see almost everyone writing great things about their respective fathers. That is very natural. Most of the stories are centered on how their father has been their rock, or their friend, or their guide or protector.

When I think of it, I can’t really explain what my father is to me. He is certainly not my friend. I don’t see him as my guide either. So, what do I see him as? I see him as my father. An honest, loving and caring father. And nothing else matters, really.

My father is a very simple man. He speaks very little. He emotes rarely. And it isn’t very easy to break through his exterior to get a peek inside.

We share a very unusual bond, my father and I. We don’t express much to each other about what we are feeling. We generally stay to ourselves, speaking mostly about cricket or politics or the deplorable condition of Calcutta. I let him enjoy his space. And he lets me be in mine. For some reason, we have always had this strange wall between us. A wall that holds us back. It has been like that for ages. And we are used to it now.

Since its Father’s Day today, I wonder if I should have bought him a gift. I have never really done that, though. We don’t just bring each other gifts. Gift-giving, in fact, is an awkward exercise between the two of us. On my birthday, he simply asks me to get something online. On his birthday, I generally buy him something useful online.

Going out of our way to buy a gift for one another, out of the blue, is something we don't indulge in.

Except for this one day about 25 years back.

I remember this day pretty clearly because it remains the only instance when the wall between the two of us had broken for a few moments. And it had felt good.

**

It was Saturday evening. I entered my room and switched on the television, eagerly waiting for a cartoon show to begin. My father sat on the bed with a huge, red notebook in front of him and a pencil in between his fingers.

I was glued to the television screen when my father asked me to lower the volume. The words barely registered in my head and I just nodded.

“Chiku, lower the volume. I am working,” he said, more firmly this time.

“One minute, Papa,” I mumbled.

“When you're with the Flintstones

Have a yabba-dabba-doo time”

The lyrics of my favorite cartoon show screamed loudly back at me and I swayed my head along with it.

“A dabba-doo time

We'll have a gay old…”

I heard a ‘thud’ and the next moment saw my father get up and switch off the television. His notebook lay sprawled on the floor.

“What part of lowering the volume did you not understand?” said my father angrily. He looked frazzled. And his eyes were red.

I was stunned. My father was known to lose his temper. But he never lost it on me.

“But… I just…” I sputtered.

“No buts…Out you go. I don’t want any disturbance,” he thundered. I had never seen him lose his cool like this.

It felt like he had slapped me right across the face. I got up and left in a huff, my body shaking in fury.

I had just about reached the verandah when I ran into my mother.

“Ah! I was just looking for you. Get me a box of sandesh for bhog, will you? Quick!”

It was dark outside and she couldn’t clearly see the contours of my face. I breathed in a little, and muttered, “Okay!”, making sure she couldn’t see my wet eyes.

She handed me a ten rupee note and left to tend to her gods and goddesses inside the temple room in the verandah.

I stood there for a while, allowing my breathing to normalize. But my insides still stung.

**

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside the local mishti shop right opposite our home.

“Five Kalakands, please,” I said thoughtlessly. As I turned around, I noticed a familiar face standing right beside the shop, smoking a cigarette. It was my father. He blew a puff of smoke in the air, looking quite worn out.

Our eyes met for a second. And then, I immediately turned around, intending to get away far from him.

“Chiku! Hey, stop,” he called out.

I ignored him and hurried away.

He caught hold of my right hand. “Hey! Listen, please!”

“Let... Me…Go…” I struggled to let my hand free from his firm grip. But he caught both my hands and turned me around.

“Hey! Hey, I am sorry…Please…I am sorry.”

I couldn’t look at him. But kept staring at the ground below while he held me. My breathing was heavy. But my anger was dissipating. I wasn’t used to such conversations with him. It was awkward. It was embarrassing. I just wanted to run. But then, just like that, I burst out.

Wrapping my arms around my father, right there on the busy pavement, I bawled my heart out. I wept into his shirt, while he caressed my head. “I am sorry, son! I am sorry!” he said again.

After what felt like an hour, he pulled my hands apart, wiped my face and asked me, “Listen, do you want anything? Tell me,” he asked kindly.

I shook my head. But taking me by my hand, he took me to a retail shop nearby.

“Here! Choose anything,” he said.

I was completely taken aback at the turn of events and still felt a little groggy. I looked around at the tiny shop. There was a sea of colorful items. But my eyes instantly fell on the one thing that I had been lusting over for the last one week – a red car. It had been placed strategically on the top shelf of the shop for more than a week and had caught the fancy of many boys in the neighbourhood. The words “James Bond 007” was printed in glossy black letters on its bumper. For the past few days, every afternoon after school, I would get down from the school bus, cross the road and spend a good few minutes just gazing at the gorgeous car.

My father caught me ogling at the car and asked, “You want this?”

I couldn’t say anything. I wasn’t used to such an offer from him.

He got the car from the shop owner and handed it to me. I held it, dazed and confused while my father handed over some cash from the chest pocket of his shirt to the shop owner.

The car looked shiny and smooth and perfect. Every single part of it dazzled. I smelled it. It felt fresh and ready to use.

“Okay, you run along now,” my father said. “I will come in a little later.”

I nodded and turned to leave, my eyes still fixed on the car. It felt surreal.

“And listen,” he called out. He looked a little flustered for some reason. “Um…Don’t mention anything about the cigarette to your mother, okay?”

***

That red car. That was a huge part of my childhood.

I held that car very dearly with me for years. I remember playing with it every day for years while being fed dinner by my mother during dinner. It had a special place in my cupboard for a very long time while I was growing up.

And it wasn’t just because it was a magnificent-looking car – it was. But because it was the first and only gift my father had bought for me on his own. And because of the memories attached to it.

The only time I had hugged my father after that evening was about 15 years later on the morning we were bidding my mother a final adieu. And that is it.

We continue to share an unusual bond, with that wall between us. But after my mother’s passing, we have grown much closer than we ever were. He continues to express his love in subtle ways – drawing the curtains in my room so that the rays of the morning sun don’t fall on my face directly; serving me dinner; making my breakfast. 

I wouldn’t change anything in the relationship we share. Like I said earlier. He isn’t my buddy. And he isn’t my guide. But he is my father. An honest, loving, sincere and caring father. And nothing else matters.

From time to time, however, I will look back on that evening from 25 years ago. My father would have no memory of it, I am certain. But I will remember the red car. I will remember the hug. And I will remember how the wall had broken between us.  Even if it was for just a few moments, it meant the world to me.