Four Animal Stories
Ishani Ganguly
©
Copyright 2025 by Ishani Ganguly
|
Photo courtesy of Bethany McCarter at
Wikimedia Commons. |
When
people speak of wild encounters, they often imagine roaring beasts,
jungle trails, or eye-to-eye moments with danger. But some encounters
are quieter. They pass like shadows across water, and yet they
remain- deeply, permanently. I didn’t go looking for dolphins
that morning. I was simply present- and perhaps, that made all the
difference.
The Ones Who Leave No Footprints
Setting:
Chilika
Lake,
Odisha
Animal:
Irrawaddy
Dolphins
Theme:
A
contemplative encounter with
endangered dolphins, touching on ecological fragility, awe, and the
quiet dignity of animals who exist without demanding attention.
Photo courtesy of the author.
Chilika
doesn’t announce itself. It seeps into your senses like a
prayer that you never learned but somehow always knew. Mist clings to
the edge of the water like old stories, and the boats- painted in
faded blues and reds- wait, silent and knowing. I was fourteen, and I
didn’t know much. I knew less about the Irrawaddy dolphins, and
even less about how silence could echo in a place so vast.
Our
boat had no name. It was wooden, narrow, and carried four passengers-
me, my uncle, the boatman, and the wind. We had come to see birds,
perhaps even a glimpse of flamingos, but the lake had other plans.
The
first time I saw the dolphin, I almost missed it.
It
was not the arc of a cinematic leap. It was just a subtle curve above
the water, a glistening grey that slipped in and out, like a breath.
“Did
you see that?” I asked.
My
uncle nodded, “They come like that. Quietly.”
There’s
something deeply humbling about encountering a creature that doesn’t
care for your attention. The Irrawaddy dolphins are shy, unlike their
more exuberant marine cousins. They don’t leap through hoops or
swim up to boats. They exist. They glide. They leave no footprints.
The
boatman whispered their name in Odia, as if saying it too loudly
might scare them away. He told us there were fewer now- “Maybe
a hundred, maybe less.” I couldn’t tell if he was
estimating or mourning.
We
saw three more than day. None of them stayed longer than a few
seconds. But those seconds re-arranged something in me. I had read
about climate change, oil spills, plastic, and extinction- but no
article had ever looked back at me the way that second dolphin did.
It’s eye- a gleam between sky and water, vanishing before I
could read it.
The
lake changed after that. Even the birds felt borrowed blessings. I
saw spoonbills that dipped their heads with grace, kites that wheeled
like emperors, and flamingos that kept their distance, as if knowing
their beauty was too sharp for proximity. But nothing stayed with me
like the dolphins did.
Later,
over lunch, I tried to describe them to someone who hadn’t seen
them. “They look like smooth grey sculptures,” I said.
“But alive. And shy. Very shy.”
He
smiled politely, but I knew I had failed.
How
do you describe a creature that appears only when you stop trying?
Years
have passed since then. I’ve visited other lakes, other shores.
I’ve learned how to speak better, write clearer, think deeper.
But whenever I’m asked what truly changed me, I go back to that
unmarked boat in Chilika. To the quiet slip of grey above green
water. To the realization that the most unforgettable presences often
arrive without noise, without warning- and leave behind no trace but
memory.
That
day, the dolphins didn’t just appear in the lake.
They
appeared in me.
There’s
a strange kind of thrill in watching something that doesn’t
answer to you- not to your voice, your presence, or your fear. I once
believed that a little courage and a steady gaze could settle most
situations. But that was before I met a monkey that reminded me I was
neither the first visitor to the forest, nor the most important.
The Monkey That Waited For Nobody
Setting:
Simlipal
Forest, Odisha
Animal:
Rhesus
Macaque (wild monkey)
Theme:
A
moment
of confrontation and
unexpected understanding between human arrogance and wild instinct- a
reminder that the wild doesn’t flinch the way humans do.
Photo courtesy of the author.
We
had been warned, in a casual sort of way.
“Don’t
carry food in your hands. And avoid eye contact if you see one
alone,” the forest guide said, as we entered the eastern trail
of Simlipal. It was February- the kind of afternoon when the sun has
no agenda and the trees seem taller than usual. My cousin and I had
insisted on walking insisted on walking instead of taking the jeep.
We wanted the “real experience.”
Real
experiences have a strange sense of humour.
At
the third bend of the trail, not far from a banyan tree that looked
older than time, we met him- a single rhesus macaque, perched on a
stone ledge, just above the footpath. He was alone, but his eyes
carried the calm of someone who wasn’t.
I
froze. My cousin didn’t.
He
whispered. “Just walk. Don’t stop.”
But
I did. Something about that monkey made me pause. He wasn’t
doing anything threatening. He didn’t hiss or leap. He just…
stared. Like we were the ones interrupting something sacred. Maybe we
were.
I
don’t know what kind of courage or foolishness made me meet his
gaze. But I did- and he didn’t look away. In that moment, I
felt something odd: not fear, not curiosity, but recognition. He knew
we didn’t belong.
He
didn’t care.
The
stand-off lasted barely ten seconds. But when he finally moved- not
away, but toward the edge of the path- I understand something that I
couldn’t explain in words. He wasn’t letting us pass. He
was simply done with us.
And
we walked on.
No
camera came out. No giggle. No attempt to feed or name him. I
remember that trail in fragments now- the rustle of leaves, the
sudden silence of birds, the sharpness of being seen. The monkey had
vanished, but something had shifted.
We
saw deer later, dancing skittishly near water. We even spotted an
elephant herd from a distance. But nothing stayed with me like that
macaque did. Not because of fear- but because of something older.
Something that reminded me that not every gaze is an invitation, not
every encounter is meant for remembering.
Some
are just there to teach you where the line is.
Sometimes,
to see something truly wild, you must first unlearn the noise of your
own presence. That’s what I realised one night by the shores of
Odisha, waiting for something ancient to arrive from the sea. It
wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was the kind of
moment that you don’t speak about too much- not because it was
small, but because it was sacred.
The Turtles Walk At Night
Setting:
Rushikulya
Beach, Odisha
Animal:
Olive Ridley
Sea Turtle
Theme:
A quiet,
reverent memory of
witnessing the mass nesting of Olive Ridleys- a story not just of
nature, but of patience, humility, and learning to be still.
Photo by Bethany McCarter courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
We
had been told not to use flashlights.
The
volunteers at the turtle conservation site near Rushikulya Beach were
clear- “No bright lights. No shouting. And do not, under any
circumstance, try to touch them.” It was March, and the chill
of the sea wind was just enough to make you wrap your arms around
yourself. I had read about the Olive Ridleys. But reading about
something and sitting quietly on the cold sand for five hours hoping
to witness it- those are not the same thing.
We
waited.
Around
us were a few other observers, mostly conservationists and students.
The sound of the sea came in rhythmic waves. Someone passed a thermos
of tea in silence. And then, just past midnight, a girl with
binoculars whispered. “They’re coming.”
What
I saw next wasn’t some cinematic marvel. There were no drums of
excitement or gasps of awe. Only dozens- then hundreds- of dark,
domed figures emerging from the water, dragging themselves slowly
across the wet sand. The Olive Ridleys had returned to nest.
They
moved in slow motion, as if the world didn’t matter. Every few
feet, one would stop, dig, and begin laying eggs. Their flippers
looked more like paddles, but they worked the earth like ritualists-
as if this was something they had done a thousand times. Perhaps they
had. Perhaps their mothers had too. Perhaps the earth remembered each
one of them.
For
over an hour, we watched. Silent. Motionless. The only sounds were
the sea and the soft scraping of shells against sand. No one said a
word. There was nothing to say. We were guests in something older
than us. Something wilder.
A
baby turtle emerged near the edge of the water- confused, too early.
A researcher gently lifted it and carried it closer to safety, but
even that moment felt reverent, not heroic.
I
didn’t take a photo.
I
didn’t write anything down.
And
I’m glad.
Some
things don’t need to be captured to be remembered. They need to
be honoured. That night, I didn’t feel like a writer or a
witness. I felt like a student- humbled by silence, by time, and by
creatures that didn’t need our protection as much as they
needed our respect.
We
left before sunrise. I remember turning back for one last glance. The
beach looked empty. But I knew it wasn’t.
You
don’t usually notice a butterfly unless you’ve been
taught to pause. I hadn’t. I was in a hurry- always in a hurry.
Like felt like a race to accomplish, prove, and perform. But one
spring morning in Dooars, I realised a butterfly had more to teach me
than all the awards I had ever run after.
The Butterfly That Refused To Rush
Setting:
Dooars,
West Bengal
Animal:
Blue
Mormon Butterfly
Theme:
An
unexpected stillness during a
rushed trip reveals how nature slows you down when you refuse to
listen- a deeply reflective encounter with a butterfly that becomes a
metaphor for growing up too fast.
Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
I
was supposed to be somewhere else. A seminar. A writing workshop. A
student event- I don’t remember which, but I remember how
urgent it felt. I had been in the Dooars region of West Bengal with
my parents for just two days, meant to be a short break. But even on
a break, my mind ticked like a deadline.
We
were walking through a lightly forested trail near Lataguri when I
saw it.
It
wasn’t doing anything spectacular. It was simply sitting- wings
wide open- on the edge of a leaf. A Blue Mormon. I recognized it from
a childhood textbook. Second largest butterfly in India, if I
remembered correctly. Black with iridescent blue patches. A creature
so effortlessly regal that it seemed almost unreal.
But
what struck me wasn’t its beauty. It was the stillness.
We
had been rushing ahead- our guide leading the way, chattering about
hornbills and barking deer- and yet here this butterfly was, resting
like it had nowhere to be. No one to impress. No clock to beat.
I
stopped. I bent down. I stared.
Five
minutes passed. Ten. The butterfly didn’t move. And for the
first time in weeks, neither did I.
Something
about its defiance- its refusal to hurry- struck something deep. As
if it was mocking me, softly. As if it was saying, “Go
on then, rush past beauty. See where that gets you.”
When
it finally flew away, it didn’t flutter- it glided.
Effortlessly. Like a poem that doesn’t need to rhyme to be
remembered.
That
evening, I didn’t attend the virtual workshop. I didn’t
even apologise.
I
sat with my notebook, and for the first time in months, I wrote
something that wasn’t for a deadline. It wasn’t
brilliant. It wasn’t even finished. But it was honest.
Sometimes,
life sends you signs in the shape of wild things- and if you’re
lucky enough to notice, you change. Not overnight. Not permanently.
But enough.
The
Blue Mormon taught me how to stay still.
And
still, I remember it.
Ishani
Ganguly is a non-fiction writer based in Puri, India. Her work often
explores the intersection of nature, quiet moments, and personal
growth. With a keen eye for the wild and an unwavering belief in the
power of
observation, Ishani captures the raw beauty of the world in its
simplest forms. Her stories reflect a deep respect for the natural
world and the lessons it offers. When not writing, she can be found
wandering along the shores of Odisha or lost in the forests of India,
always seeking to understand the untold stories of the wind.
Ishani
is deeply grateful to those who have enriched her writing with their
support and insight. To Ayan, her oldest friend, whose unwavering
belief in her abilities has been a constant source of motivation; to
Samriddhi, her cousin, whose sharp mind and thoughtful discussions
have broadened her perspectives; to Rusha, her neighbour, whose
encouragement and critical feedback have been invaluable; and the
last but not the least; Anirudh, her cheerleader, whose gentle spirit
and quiet wisdom have helped her see the world through a softer lens.
Their influence is woven into every page of this work.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Book
Case
Home
Page
The
Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher
