Samrudhdi Kerkar
The bear is one of the most iconic animals in the world, and perhaps also one of the most adored, at least in our imagination, since childhood.
Wonder how?
Almost every home has a fluffy teddy bear on a shelf or tucked into a toy collection. Some of us sleep with one; others pose with it in photos, arms wrapped around its softness.
But do we ever pause to think, while hugging this toy, how fierce the real animal might be?
Ferocious or vulnerable?
That depends on how much we understand their world, and whether we try to see it from their perspective.
There are eight recognised species of bears in the world. The one found in the Western Ghats is the sloth bear, known as Aswal in Goa, or more locally, Vaashal.
Unlike its more majestic cousins, the sloth bear has a shaggy black coat, a long snout, and sharp, sickle-like claws, features that give it a fearsome appearance.
Every time I venture into secluded pockets of the jungle, I secretly hope to uncover its secrets, especially to catch a glimpse of the elusive, much-feared sloth bear.
Walking through these wild forests with my baba, local villagers, or other forest-wise companions, brushing past thick canopies that smell of animal presence, and trees cloaked in moss (almost resembling bears themselves), I’ve often come across signs of the sloth bear.
Deep pits dug up in search of termites, their favourite food, are marked by unmistakable claw marks. I’ve also seen droppings filled with seeds of jackfruit, wild jamun, and bhedsa, clear signs of recent foraging.
This summer, during a visit to my friend’s home in the villages of Huland and Maan, places where bear encounters have become more frequent, we often set out to collect wild berries like Ranjambhul and Bhedsa, both loved by sloth bears.
But villagers always cautioned us: never venture out after 4 p.m., the time bears typically emerge to forage. Even while gathering berries, we spotted droppings, evidence they were close.
And yet, I found it thrilling. A part of me longed to see one, even from a distance.
Maybe it’s the thrill. Or maybe it’s because I grew up respecting these animals, thanks to my baba’s teachings.
As a child, I watched The Jungle Book, Winnie the Pooh, and read Panchatantra and Isapniti tales, where bears are often wise, gentle, and kind.
Baloo from Kipling’s ‘The Jungle Book’ left a lasting impression on me. Even today, I find myself seeing bears through that warm, familiar lens.
But with rising attacks in the areas we roam, I’ve begun to wonder: why? What’s changed?
Bears have long held a revered place in Indian culture.
In the Ramayana and Mahabharata, the bear appears as Jambavan, king of bears, mighty and wise.
Even the region of Jamboti in Karnataka (from Jambu-hatti, meaning ‘bears’ village’) hints at their historic presence.
In Surla village, nestled 812 metres above sea level in Sattari, humans and wild animals still share the same paradise.
Once, naturalist Ramesh Zarmekar Bhayya showed me a jackfruit tree often visited by bears. I was stunned to see how close they live to human settlements.
In Huland, I learned something heartwarming. Here, the bear is fondly called Naamo.
When my friend’s grandmother casually said, “It’s been long since we’ve seen Naamo,” it melted my heart. It felt as though Naamo wasn’t a wild animal, but a neighbour or even a friend whose home, the forest, we were entering.
Such reverence for wild creatures still exists among those living close to nature.
But sadly, it’s fading, replaced by fear, conflict, and misunderstanding.
The recent attack near Kambar Vesh was truly disturbing.
When we visited the site, I saw the jackfruit tree the bear had leapt from. It was unusually tall, far too high for most animals.
But bears are excellent climbers, as the incident revealed.
Though they are insectivores, feeding mainly on termites, fruits, and honey, why do they turn aggressive toward humans?
What provokes them?
One reason could be competition. Humans often forage for the same wild foods.
Another is territory. Especially when cubs are nearby, bears become defensive.
But the deeper issue is this. If we keep destroying their forests, where will they go?
I recently saw a video of a bear being chased by a car near Paali. In fear and self-defense, the bear turned back, ready to strike.
Its eyes didn’t show anger.
They showed confusion, fear, and desperation.
If we only look at these encounters from our own perspective, if we keep carving roads through the heart of the jungle in the name of “development.”
Who will notice the silent tears of those losing their homes?
Who will listen to the stories of these voiceless beings?
