By Satyavatinandan Satrekar
On a damp September evening, the quiet fields of Torshe in Pernem were disturbed by an unusual visitor. It was Omkar, a wild elephant that had strayed away from its herd in Maharashtra’s Sawantwadi region and wandered across the state border into Goa.
For the past week, Omkar’s journey has taken him through paddy fields, orchards, and even into the shadow of the Mopa International Airport. The Goa Forest Department, caught somewhat off guard, has struggled to manage the situation—sometimes chasing the elephant away with firecrackers and “dada bombs,” other times simply relying on their counterparts from Maharashtra to track his movements through drones.
Omkar first entered Goa on a Saturday through Netarde, a sleepy village on the border. For the locals, the sight was as alarming as it was fascinating. “Fifteen years ago, three elephants had come to our village,” recalls Mangesh Kubal, a resident of Kholbagwadi. “They destroyed our paddy fields and orchards. This time Omkar has not damaged the crops, but farmers are worried about what could happen next.”
The anxiety is not unfounded. In 2001, large herds of elephants had crossed into the Tillari region from Karnataka. The Maharashtra Forest Department, ill-prepared for the sudden influx, attempted to push them back across the border. The plan failed. Human-elephant conflict erupted in Sindhudurg and Kolhapur, claiming more than two dozen human lives over the years and leading to the deaths of several elephants.
Goa too has had its share of tragic encounters. In Bicholim, Bardez, and Pernem, elephants have entered villages before, damaging fields and triggering panic. In Ibrampur, a forest guard lost his life while trying to drive one away. In Revoda, a villager died after a sudden encounter with the animal. The scars of these incidents remain fresh among farming families who live on the forest edge.
This time, however, it is a solitary elephant that has crossed into Goa. Yet the Forest Department’s response has raised eyebrows. Instead of consulting wildlife experts or preparing a coordinated strategy, officials have been relying on fireworks and even deploying snake rescuers—men skilled at handling cobras and kraits, but with little knowledge of elephant behaviour.
Meanwhile, Maharashtra’s trained Rapid Response Team, equipped with drones and trackers, has been leading much of the monitoring effort. In contrast, Goa’s own staff, including Deputy Conservator of Forests Jiss Varkey, have found themselves hampered by lack of equipment and expertise. Heavy monsoon rains have only added to the challenge of tracking Omkar in the dense forest around the airport.
Villagers in Fakirpato got a shock earlier this week when they spotted the elephant at night. Soon after, Omkar ambled onto the Goa–Mumbai Highway, where motorists and onlookers gathered to watch, turning the road into an impromptu wildlife viewing point. What for some was a thrilling sight was, for the farmers and residents of Pernem, another reminder of the risks that come with living on the edge of wild habitats.
The episode has once again highlighted the fragile relationship between humans and elephants in the Konkan and Goa belt. Elephants do not recognise political borders, and their wandering paths cut across states, villages, farms, and now even airports. Without careful planning and expert intervention, the story of Omkar could easily tip into another tale of conflict.
For now, the lonely elephant of Torshe continues his uncertain journey, a towering reminder of how unprepared Goa still is to handle the giants that occasionally wander into its fields.
