van vihar national park and zoo

Wildness, Coexistence, and Instinct

It was drizzling gently when we arrived at Van Vihar. The air was soft and quiet, and the wilderness shimmered under the wet sky — a perfect setting for reflection. We drove slowly, windows rolled down, eyes wide open, watching animals move through their own rhythms.

We saw a tiger, pacing. It seemed bored, repeating the same path over and over again. I watched it and felt a quiet ache — the kind you feel when someone’s freedom is shaped by fences. And yet, it was fed, safe, and in a way, protected. Maybe that’s its trade-off — routine over risk. A strange kind of peace.

Then there was the lion — or rather, a silhouette of it, inside its enclosure. We waited for it to appear, but instead we heard it. Loud, human-like moans echoed — either it was mating with a lioness or lost in its own pleasure. People around laughed, amused. I was surprised. The sound of it was… human. Unexpectedly so. It made me think of how instinct doesn’t care about our ideas of dignity or control — it just is.

We moved on to the snake house. It was dark and dingy, almost like an abandoned ward in an old hospital. Yet, the cobras lay calm. Big, still, powerful. Some rooms held more than one — snakes coiled up quietly beside each other, unbothered. I remember staring at a cobra and wondering — could this creature really swallow a human whole? It seemed surreal. Terrifying. But also… majestic.

Next, we entered the butterfly garden. A shift in vibe — vibrant, soft, full of flowers and delicate wings. The air smelled sweet. Butterflies fluttered gently through color — reds, purples, blues — drawn to beauty, as we all are. They made the space feel alive, full of small joy.

We saw crocodiles too — mostly underwater. One surfaced briefly, yawned like it had seen centuries, then disappeared again. Its eyes remained above water, still and ancient. I wondered if it was hungry, or just existing. Its stillness had a kind of power. An “I’ll move when I must” kind of energy.

Then, the tortoises — massive, 3-feet-long, covered in mud. They looked like they belonged to the Earth itself. I had an urge to clean them — to help — but paused. Maybe they liked the mud. Maybe their peace came from being exactly as they were. That was humbling.

The chameleons stunned me. Almost invisible, completely blended into the surface they sat on. I nearly missed them. Their quiet magic reminded me of myself — how I shift, adapt, change colors to merge with my environment. Camouflage as survival. Camouflage as art.

Then came the peacocks — those impossible blues and greens on their feathers. It felt surreal, that such beauty could be real. I wanted to bottle that color, to paint it, to remember it forever. That blue wasn’t just blue — it shimmered with stories.

We saw birds in groups — even seagulls, maybe, circling above the lake and perched on the same tree. That day, it struck me how most creatures seek groups — for survival, connection, or comfort. And yet, they also wander alone to explore, to grow, to build themselves.

It made me think…

Some of us are born into families — sameness makes it easier to stay, to grow roots.
Some of us find our tribe out in the world — difference invites us to evolve.
Either way, what matters is that we coexist — peacefully, respectfully.
That we do not harm, do not consume each other.
That we listen, adapt, and grow.

There is no one way to live — not for creatures, not for us.
Sometimes you need the group. Sometimes the silence of solitude.
Sometimes you are the butterfly. Other times, the crocodile.
But always, you are learning — from instinct, from connection, from stillness, from movement.

That day made me want to learn more about animals.
Made me feel that stories — whether wild or quiet — live everywhere.