chapter 4

Our good old nation was just seven years old as a republic when it became bigger by a small territory.

Pondicherry entered the Union of India on November 1,1954. One civic achievement called for another. A

portion of the grounds of the Pondicherry Botanical Garden was made available rent-free for an exciting

business opportunity and-lo and behold-India had a brand new zoo, designed and run according to the most

modern, biologically sound principles.

It was a huge zoo, spread over numberless acres, big enough to require a train to explore it, though it seemed

to get smaller as I grew older, train included. Now it's so small it fits in my head. You must imagine a hot and

humid place, bathed in sunshine and bright colours. The riot of flowers is incessant. There are trees, shrubs

and climbing plants in profusion-peepuls, gulmohurs, flames of the forest, red silk cottons, jacarandas,

mangoes, jackfruits and many others that would remain unknown to you if they didn't have neat labels at their

feet. There are benches. On these benches you see men sleeping, stretched out, or couples sitting, young

couples, who steal glances at each other shyly and whose hands flutter in the air, happening to touch.

Suddenly, amidst the tall and slim trees up ahead, you notice two giraffes quietly observing you. The sight is

not the last of your surprises. The next moment you are startled by a furious outburst coming from a great

troupe of monkeys, only outdone in volume by the shrill cries of strange birds. You come to a turnstile. You

distractedly pay a small sum of money. You move on. You see a low wall. What can you expect beyond a low

wall? Certainly not a shallow pit with two mighty Indian rhinoceros. But that is what you find. And when you

turn your head you see the elephant that was there all along, so big you didn't notice it. And in the pond you

realize those are hippopotamuses floating in the water. The more you look, the more you see. You are in

Zootown!

Before moving to Pondicherry, Father ran a large hotel in Madras. An abiding interest in animals led him to

the zoo business. A natural transition, you might think, from hotelkeeping to zookeeping. Not so. In many

ways, running a zoo is a hotelkeeper's worst nightmare. Consider: the guests never leave their rooms; they

expect not only lodging but full board; they receive a constant flow of visitors, some of whom are noisy and

unruly. One has to wait until they saunter to their balconies, so to speak, before one can clean their rooms, and

then one has to wait until they tire of the view and return to their rooms before one can clean their balconies;

and there is much cleaning to do, for the guests are as unhygienic as alcoholics. Each guest is very particular

about his or her diet, constantly complains about the slowness of the service, and never, ever tips. To speak

frankly, many are sexual deviants, either terribly repressed and subject to explosions of frenzied lasciviousness

or openly depraved, in either case regularly affronting management with gross outrages of free sex and incest.

Are these the sorts of guests you would want to welcome to your inn? The Pondicherry Zoo was the source of

some pleasure and many headaches for Mr. Santosh Patel, founder, owner, director, head of a staff of

fifty-three, and my father.

To me, it was paradise on earth. I have nothing but the fondest memories of growing up in a zoo. I lived the

life of a prince. What maharaja's son had such vast, luxuriant grounds to play about? What palace had such a

menagerie? My alarm clock during my childhood was a pride of lions. They were no Swiss clocks, but the

lions could be counted upon to roar their heads off between five-thirty and six every morning. Breakfast was

punctuated by the shrieks and cries of howler monkeys, hill mynahs and Moluccan cockatoos. I left for school

under the benevolent gaze not only of Mother but also of bright-eyed otters and burly American bison and

stretching and yawning orang-utans. I looked up as I ran under some trees, otherwise peafowl might excrete on

me. Better to go by the trees that sheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early

hour was the bats' discordant concerts of squeaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by the terraria

to look at some shiny frogs glazed bright, bright green, or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it

might be birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or black swans or one-wattled cassowaries, or

something smaller, silver diamond doves, Cape glossy starlings, peach-faced lovebirds, Nanday conures,

orange-fronted parakeets. Not likely that the elephants, the seals, the big cats or the bears would be up and

doing, but the baboons, the macaques, the mangabeys, the gibbons, the deer, the tapirs, the llamas, the giraffes,

the mongooses were early risers. Every morning before I was out the main gate I had one last impression that was both ordinary and unforgettable: a pyramid of turtles; the iridescent snout of a mandrill; the stately silence

of a giraffe; the obese, yellow open mouth of a hippo; the beak-and-claw climbing of a macaw parrot up a wire

fence; the greeting claps of a shoebill's bill; the senile, lecherous expression of a camel. And all these riches

were had quickly, as I hurried to school. It was after school that I discovered in a leisurely way what it's like to

have an elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of finding a hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick

through your hair for tick snacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantry your head is. I wish I

could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a

lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want

to feel it.

In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise and sunset. That is when most animals come to life.

They stir and leave their shelter and tiptoe to the water's edge. They show their raiments. They sing their

songs. They turn to each other and perform their rites. The reward for the watching eye and the listening ear is

great. I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life

that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.

I have heard nearly as much nonsense about zoos as I have about God and religion. Well-meaning but

misinformed people think animals in the wild are "happy" because they are "free". These people usually have

a large, handsome predator in mind, a lion or a cheetah (the life of a gnu or of an aardvark is rarely exalted).

They imagine this wild animal roaming about the savannah on digestive walks after eating a prey that accepted

its lot piously, or going for callisthenic runs to stay slim after overindulging. They imagine this animal

overseeing its offspring proudly and tenderly, the whole family watching the setting of the sun from the limbs

of trees with sighs of pleasure. The life of the wild animal is simple, noble and meaningful, they imagine.

Then it is captured by wicked men and thrown into tiny jails. Its "happiness" is dashed. It yearns mightily for

"freedom" and does all it can to escape. Being denied its "freedom" for too long, the animal becomes a shadow

of itself, its spirit broken. So some people imagine.

This is not the way it is.

Animals in the wild lead lives of compulsion and necessity within an unforgiving social hierarchy in an

environment where the supply of fear is high and the supply of food low and where territory must constantly

be defended and parasites forever endured. What is the meaning of freedom in such a context? Animals in the

wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory-that is, as a

simple physical possibility-an animal could pick up and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries

proper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happen than for a member of our own species, say a

shopkeeper with all the usual ties-to family, to friends, to society-to drop everything and walk away from his

life with only the spare change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most

intelligent of creatures, won't wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an

animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? For that is what animals are, conservative, one might

even say reactionary. The smallest changes can upset them. They want things to be just so, day after day,

month after month. Surprises are highly disagreeable to them. You see this in their spatial relations. An animal

inhabits its space, whether in a zoo or in the wild, in the same way chess pieces move about a

chessboard-significantly. There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of

a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose.

In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season. In a zoo, if an

animal is not in its normal place in its regular posture at the usual hour, it means something. It may be the

reflection of nothing more than a minor change in the environment. A coiled hose left out by a keeper has

made a menacing impression. A puddle has formed that bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But

it could mean something more. At its worst, it could be that most dreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a

herald of trouble to come, a reason to inspect the dung, to cross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All

this because a stork is not standing where it usually stands!

But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.

If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and

said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!"-do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They

wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us

out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel."

Don't we say, "There's no place like home"? That's certainly what animals feel. Animals are territorial. That is

the key to their minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill the two relentless imperatives of the

wild: the avoidance of enemies and the getting of food and water. A biologically sound zoo enclosure-whether

cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium, aviary or aquarium-is just another territory, peculiar only in its size

and in its proximity to human territory. That it is so much smaller than what it would be in nature stands to

reason. Territories in the wild are large not as a matter of taste but of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals

what we have done for ourselves with houses: we bring together in a small space what in the wild is spread

out. Whereas before for us the cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds a mile that way, the

lookout next to it, the berries somewhere else-all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches and poison

ivy-now the river flows through taps at hand's reach and we can wash next to where we sleep, we can eat

where we have cooked, and we can surround the whole with a protective wall and keep it clean and warm. A

house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled close by and safely. A sound zoo

enclosure is the equivalent for an animal (with the noteworthy absence of a fireplace or the like, present in

every human habitation). Finding within it all the places it needs-a lookout, a place for resting, for eating and

drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc.-and finding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing six

days a week, an animal will take possession of its zoo space in the same way it would lay claim to a new space

in the wild, exploring it and marking it out in the normal ways of its species, with sprays of urine perhaps.

Once this moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even

less like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder, and it will behave in the same way within its enclosure as it

would in its territory in the wild, including defending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such an enclosure

is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animal than its condition in the wild; so long as it fulfills the

animal's needs, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, without judgment, a given, like the spots on a

leopard. One might even argue that if an animal could choose with intelligence, it would opt for living in a

zoo, since the major difference between a zoo and the wild is the absence of parasites and enemies and the

abundance of food in the first, and their respective abundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it

yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz with free room service and unlimited access to a doctor or be

homeless without a soul to care for you? But animals are incapable of such discernment. Within the limits of

their nature, they make do with what they have.

A good zoo is a place of carefully worked-out coincidence: exactly where an animal says to us, "Stay out!"

with its urine or other secretion, we say to it, "Stay in!" with our barriers. Under such conditions of diplomatic

peace, all animals are content and we can relax and have a look at each other.

In the literature can be found legions of examples of animals that could escape but did not, or did and returned.

There is the case of the chimpanzee whose cage door was left unlocked and had swung open. Increasingly

anxious, the chimp began to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly-with a deafening clang each time-until

the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the situation. A herd of roe-deer in a European zoo

stepped out of their corral when the gate was left open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearby

forest, which had its own herd of wild roe-deer and could support more. Nonetheless, the zoo roe-deer quickly

returned to their corral. In another zoo a worker was walking to his work site at an early hour, carrying planks

of wood, when, to his horror, a bear emerged from the morning mist, heading straight for him at a confident

pace. The man dropped the planks and ran for his life. The zoo staff immediately started searching for the

escaped bear. They found it back in its enclosure, having climbed down into its pit the way it had climbed out, by way of a tree that had fallen over. It was thought that the noise of the planks of wood falling to the ground

had frightened it.

But I don't insist. I don't mean to defend zoos. Close them all down if you want (and let us hope that what

wildlife remains can survive in what is left of the natural world). I know zoos are no longer in people's good

graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague them both.

The Pondicherry Zoo doesn't exist any more. Its pits are filled in, the cages torn down. I explore it now in the

only place left for it, my memory.