Monk in the Woods

June 04, 2025

Monk in the Woods

Hello, green warriors out there!

We all want to save the Earth—don’t we? At some point, most of us have taken part in a plantation drive, a cleanliness campaign, or at least shared a sustainability post online. We dream of a greener planet. But how often are we truly willing to change our lifestyle for it?

We speak of cutting carbon emissions yet struggle to give up small comforts. We want to save lakes, but not if it means relocating from our homes. Our concern for nature often wavers at the first sign of inconvenience.

The slightest inconvenience often shatters our inner green warrior, doesn’t it?

But today’s blog is not about that contradiction. It’s about something deeper—another face of the conservation story that we often overlook. I want to introduce you to someone who has lived this sacrifice—and done so with remarkable grace.

Most conservation stories highlight majestic animals, dense forests, or ambitious reforestation projects. However, there is another side often overlooked—the human cost of conservation. But ecological conservation is not just about trees and tigers. It’s a complex mosaic that includes people—predominantly indigenous tribal communities who have been living in harmony with nature for generations. For many of them, the forest is not just a home; it’s a cultural and spiritual identity.

Unfortunately, several ambitious conservation programs have disrupted this delicate balance. The declaration of Protected Areas (PAs) has, in many cases, forced tribal communities to relocate—either directly or through restrictive policies. Although the Forest Rights Act of 2006 introduced some reforms, a subtle and persistent tension persists between conservation goals and the livelihoods of these communities. It’s hard to wear the green warrior badge when your very survival is at stake.

Let me introduce you to someone who defies this paradox—a man whose worldview challenged everything I thought I knew about sacrifice, sustainability, and selflessness.

His name is Mr. Divakar, a resident of a forest hamlet in Kudremukh National Park. Locally, he’s fondly—and sarcastically—nicknamed “Upendra” (after the Kannada film actor and director known for his unconventional and thought-provoking films).

Divakar is a daily wage labourer, earning Rs. 350–400 per day, and that too only seasonally. This wasn’t always his reality. He once lived in a core forest village called Muduba, where he owned six acres of Areca and coffee plantations and reared 50 to 70 cattle. However, due to rising human-wildlife conflicts and restrictions brought about by the declaration of the National Park, he was forced to leave everything behind. Today, he is landless, working hard just to make ends meet.

You might expect him to be bitter, even broken. But you'd be completely wrong...!!!

When I asked Divakar about the loss he faced, here’s what he said:

“We might be around 5,000 people living inside the National Park, but there are crores outside. This region is the origin of rivers like Tunga and Bhadra—if these forests aren’t conserved, where will the rest of the country get its water from?

Earlier, people lived with what they needed. But over time, greed took over and estates began to pop up everywhere. If this continued, they would have exploited groundwater, and even the rivers might have dried up.

Looking at what’s happening elsewhere, declaring the National Park was the best decision.

We humans can move and rebuild our lives. But where will the wild animals go? If the river is safe, we can always get water through tankers. But if the river itself dries up—what then? What will we drink?

For all these reasons, I believe declaring this region as a National Park was the right step. The country is bigger than any individual. It’s okay if a few of us have to sacrifice for the well-being of the many.”

This is a man who lost everything in the name of conservation—and yet, he doesn’t consider it a misfortune. When I asked if his current earnings were enough to live on, he replied:

“Life isn’t easy here—we have our struggles. If we have Rs. 20, we manage with Rs. 5. If there’s no dal, we use coconut. We make do with what’s available.

There isn’t much agricultural production in this forest. Even those who farm face trouble from wild animals—boars, bisons, sambar deer, monkeys, and birds that feed on ripe pepper and coffee. Whether it’s areca, coffee, pepper, or paddy—every crop has its threats.

Agriculture here is limited. We’re surrounded by forest. But we can’t even blame the animals. They too need to eat. They belong in the wild—it’s we who are intruding into their home.

It’s better that we move out from here…”

That was Divakar. A man who lost everything—his land, his livelihood, his sense of stability—yet held no resentment. His humility, compassion for wildlife, and selflessness left me stunned. Without a formal degree in ecology or philosophy, he embodies a deeper wisdom—one that even seasoned conservationists can learn from.

I walked into that forest as a researcher. I walked out having met a monk—not one in saffron robes, but in soiled clothes, with mud-stained feet and a luminous spirit.

This is the story of Divakar. The monk I found in the woods.