Dihing Patkai Counter Map

Nestled against the northwestern edge of the Dehing Patkai Rainforest, Soraipung village has long been a confluence of animals, nature, and humans. In the village’s north, perched against the tree line, lies a curious pond.

On moonlit nights, it’s said that the rainforest’s beasts and birds convene by the pool, drawn to an adjoining brine spring. Witnesses describe a striking sight – a transient pledge of peace amongst the beasts as they share the pond’s savoury water. The British, too, were aware of these congregations. Moss-covered bricks and rusted metal pieces, alleged to be the remnants of a colonial observation deck, still litter the poolside slope.

For Soraipung’s natives, the harvest season brings along an unlikely predicament. The herd of elephants, upon leaving the pond, head toward the village granaries, drawn by the scent of the gathered crop. The fragile architecture offers little resistance to the herd’s might, leading to an unexpected disregard for the fleeting truce in the area. The desire to deter destruction mobilizes a section of youth from the village. Equipped with flares and crackers, they gather swiftly around the granaries, forming a united front in their determined resolve as they prepare to thwart the mighty herd. Usually, these exchanges are without harm, as the loud bangs and torch flashes become unpleasant enough to prompt the herd’s retreat back into the forest.

Although not all the elephants are so easily deterred. Estranged from the herd, a lonesome elephant wanders across the region. His darker skin and stockier build stand in stark contrast with the other herd members. It is known that Tempu, a creature of habit, named after a popular minivan, has claimed the lives of at least five people in the surrounding region.

“Beware of a dark, short, lonely elephant” – the noticeboard outside the ranger’s office displays a foreboding message.

“He’s probably 30, but looks younger because of his smaller stature,” says Bijoy, a local guide, as he walks ahead of the group along a winding trail amidst dense foliage during my last visit in September. Halfway along our way to the Bet Camp, he stops and points to a clearing across the adjoining ridge. “Last month, I was exactly here with a pair of bird-watchers from New Zealand, when Tempu suddenly charged at us,” he claims. “I had to throw my crackers at him to scare him off. We managed to escape, but one of the tourists tripped and broke his camera in the chaos.”

Three of Tempu’s unfortunate victims belonged to the Soraipung Range. “If he senses people around him, he completely freezes, hiding behind the foliage out of sight,” continues Bijoy as we walk along towards the Bet Camp. “He won’t make a move till you, unsuspecting, are directly in front of him. Once you’re within his reach, he charges wildly.” He told us that once one of Tempu’s victims was found folded like the metal chair at the Ranger’s office.

The locals in Soraipung speculate that when he was a kid, Tempu witnessed his herd being attacked by poachers, which likely caused his stunted growth and aggression. Curiously, some of the natives question if there is a connection between the poachers and Tempu’s victims.

Tempu’s temper continues to remain a looming threat to Soraipung. Bijoy, having encountered the lone elephant multiple times during his trips, still urges the villagers to leave the beast alone. Beyond his survival skills, he has cultivated a unique relationship with the jungle’s avian inhabitants. Among Bijoy’s favourite species is the spot-bellied eagle owl, its call making quite a haunting noise, similar to the rising creak of a heavy wooden door. He favours the bird because of its alerting tendencies, as he believes that the bird announces the presence of elephants around. The villagers trust the owl too, its scant nocturnal warnings, prompting the determined band of youth into protective action.

More than a decade ago, a young man in his 20s back then, Bijoy stumbled upon an opportunity to assist a legendary guide in the Dehing Patkai Range. Picking up his curiosity towards migratory birds, he started training in observing avian behaviour, often mimicking bird calls for fun. Bijoy discovered that he could coax responses out of some bird species, sometimes even drawing them closer with this imitation. This skill earned him a reputation amongst bird-watchers, and even in the ranger’s office, where he frequents, often to accompany ministers and officials on guided tours. Lately, he’s been passing down his knowledge to his daughter, teaching her the intricacies of being an avian oracle.

Bijoy’s cousin is part of a local gang of young men who raid oil wells operated by the Indian Oil Corporation. A band of 20, their swift and coordinated operations target exposed oil valves, siphoning off natural gas before vanishing into the dense forest. “We can find them at Valve no. 27. The group calls it the Robber’s Valve,” remarked Bijoy, as we made our way back from the BET Camp after spotting a surprisingly large grey peacock pheasant pecking on a fallen fruit. Defying the Corporation’s grand Digboi refinery on the eastern reaches of the forest, they execute an elaborate modus operandi. The group is split into multiple smaller factions based on functional roles. The operators specialise in regulating the well’s inlet valves, controlling the flow of the natural gas, ensuring a safe loot while minimising leaks and spillage. Then there are the carriers, consisting of the bulk of the group members. They collect the looted oil in larger polycarbonate cylinders. It’s also their job to carry these cylinders down forest trails, away from the main street, safely to storage. The spotters are the lookouts, older, experienced men, spread around the well at critical junctions, looking out for patrolling company guards. If the spotter spots security, he whistles sharply, mimicking a bird sound, picked up and echoed by other spotters, to let the others know of the incoming danger. It takes the entire group no more than a couple of minutes to disappear in the thick foliage, in seemingly random, but well-versed directions for their getaway. The gang usually reconvenes minutes after the patrol has left.

A critical tool lies at the heart of this operation – “the filter.” This L-shaped metal cylinder, roughly the size of a standard ruler, is wrapped tightly in fabric until it resembles a large bee hive. “Sometimes we wrap it in our own heavy jackets. It’s a matter of safety,” one of them quips.

A thick, chilling mist of pressurized gas surrounds the site as the filter is engaged to the outlet, and the gas is released.

This gas, when passed through the fabric-wrapped pipe, condenses into a liquid form, which is then collected and whisked away. It is sold in the region for INR 50 a litre, at half the price of the market rate. Local gas stations have also been known to buy this stolen gas from the robbers, apparently to dilute their fuel reserves for some easy profit.

The Corporation operates about fifty wells in the Soraipung region, with the newest being dug just a month ago, along the route from the highway to the village. These wells are controlled by the Jorajan Gas Block, a sprawling industrial complex tucked west of the forest. Behind the industrial compound lies a towering flair pit, used to burn away the excess gas and impurities, the flames from the pit soaring up to forty feet. In winter, the elephant herd huddles around the flair pit, drawn by its warmth. During the monsoons, birds, some of whose calls Bijoy might recognize, encircle the blaze to dry their wings in its heat.

Ten kilometres from the eastern edge of Dehing Patkai lie the great collieries of Margherita.