At the edges of the largest protected forest area in southern India, there’s an uneasy calm. Half a dozen makeshift tents have been erected, not as a challenge to the habitat of the Bengal tigers and Asian elephants that live in the forest, but to worship them more closely.
More than 150 indigenous tribal people are reclaiming their forest lands after decades in urban chaos, or working on coffee plantations. But no sooner had they pitched their tents when the authorities dismantled their wood, bamboo, and tarpaulin shelters.
But they haven’t gone away. They cook on wood fires, fetch water from streams, and teach children under trees. Women bathe in the open. Medical help is 20km away, but they say the forest life is better than the lives they were forced into.
This indigenous tribe is called the Jenu Kuruba, meaning “honey collectors”. Their ancestors lived and thrived in the forests of Nagarahole, a lush belt across Karnataka’s Mysuru and Kodagu districts. Since the 1980s, when the area was declared a national park and, later, a tiger reserve, they were gradually evicted.
This summer, they came back.
The forest-revering tribe now lives far from any electricity, or other amenities of modern life. But then for the Jenu Kuruba people, the forest is sacred. Its trees, animals, and spirits are to be communed with, not conquered. Tribal elders say this symbiosis makes them better custodians of biodiversity than state agencies. Their presiding deities include the tiger, elephant, and bear.
“Those who live with pet dogs and teddy bears are seemingly tiger experts nowadays,” said Shivu Jenukuruba Appu, 29, a long-haired young leader. “And those who live with tigers like us are against forest conservation, according to the government.”
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During my visit in August, the Jenu Kuruba were holding intense discussions about their next steps. This is a very strongly bound group of people – I watched as two infants were passed around to be nursed by several mothers.
At the shelter site, just beyond the forest boundary, the ground was littered with elephant dung. The forest is home to more than 800 elephants. The mouths of many adults were stained deep red from constant chewing of betel leaves, areca nuts, and tobacco. Each person carried a pouch filled with these. There were no individual kitchens, only a communal space where rice was cooked three times a day over a wood fire. These tribes are naturally multilingual, living at the intersection of three Indian states with different languages.
Like Jenu Kuruba, thousands of tribal families were relocated across India, often on vague promises of compensation and land. Many ended up on the urban fringes, forced into exploitative work. Over time, they became scattered and invisible.
In 2006, the Forest Rights Act (FRA) was passed to correct historical wrongs by recognising the rights of traditional forest-dwellers. Sensing an opportunity, in 2009 Jenu Kuruba filed claims under this act. Yet bureaucratic apathy, delays, and widespread rejection of claims left them with little change. After decades of waiting, they took matters into their own hands and moved back.
“We still haven’t received independence. As bad as under British colonial rule, we’re just ruled by a different colonial regime now,” said Thimmanna, a local tribal leader who has assisted tiger conservation projects and research.
Conservationists and civil society are divided on the issue. Some argue that protected areas must remain untouched. Others say indigenous people were the first conservationists, having lived in harmony with the forest for generations. Tribal rights activists claim current conservation models carry a colonial logic that sees people as threats to nature.
The Jenu Kuruba are not asking for roads or demanding compensation. All they seek is the right to live where their ancestors did, to gather honey, grow food, and pray in peace.
As monsoon clouds gather over Nagarahole’s treetops, a deeper storm brews below. This is no longer just about tigers or tribal rights. It is about the cracks in Indian society and the people who are left behind.
Vasudevan Sridharan is a freelance journalist based in southern India
