At Bandipur’s Edge- Navigating Human Fear and the Science of Tiger Conflicts

Bengal tiger

In southern India, along the mist-lined fringes of Bandipur National Park, a series of unsettling encounters has shaken the farming communities that border the forest. In October 2025, 35-year-old farmer Chowdaiah Nayak set out to plough his field—a routine task he had done countless times. But on this morning, the forest watched back. From behind, a tiger emerged, launching a swift and silent attack, dragging Nayak into the dense undergrowth. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, a search party of anxious relatives and villagers pushed their way into the forest. Deep inside a secluded ditch, they made a grim discovery: Nayak’s partially eaten remains. He was the third farmer to lose his life to a tiger in just days—each attack occurring along the vulnerable borderlands of Bandipur’s vast reserve. The news spread quickly, igniting outrage among villagers who had long felt unheard. Their frustration boiled over when Range Forest Officer Amrutha and her team arrived; some farmers, overwhelmed by grief and fear, reportedly attempted to confront her.

The escalating tension prompted swift action. Forest Minister Eshwara B. Khandre ordered an immediate halt to tourist safaris in Bandipur and neighboring Nagarhole, along with a suspension of trekking in conflict-prone zones. Every available staff member—right down to safari drivers—was called into service for a single mission: find the tiger. Days passed as trackers combed through ravines, riverbeds, and thickets where sunlight barely reached. At last, in Bandipur’s Moleyur range, they located a tiger matching the descriptions. The big cat was tranquilized and transported to Mysuru Zoo’s Chamundi Wildlife Conservation, Rescue and Rehabilitation Center. DNA analysis will ultimately confirm whether this animal was responsible. Yet forest officials already suspect the aging tiger, weakened and increasingly unable to hunt wild prey, had turned to easier targets along the forest edge—a tragic intersection of survival, territory, and human life.

Bandipur National Park

Before any conclusions can be drawn, the story now hinges on a crucial piece of evidence: the DNA tests. Only by comparing the captured tiger’s genetic samples with those taken from the attack sites can we know, with certainty, whether this animal was truly behind the three recent killings—and whether it should bear the grave label of “maneater.” By the National Tiger Conservation Authority’s own criteria, the manner in which Chowdaiah Nayak was killed fits the profile. But the question remains: is this the tiger responsible, or are we once again chasing the wrong shadow? History offers a cautionary tale. In 2023, following the death of a young boy in Nagarhole National Park, mounting pressure from frightened villagers led authorities to seize a tiger they believed was the culprit. During transport, the animal broke its canine teeth—an injury that sealed its fate. Unable to hunt, it could never return to the wild. And yet, in the end, it was not the killer. The true predator slipped back into the forest, unseen and unchallenged. It is a stark reminder of what can happen when fear overtakes patience, when communities desperate for safety demand immediate action. Today, as anger and anxiety ripple through the villages bordering Bandipur National Park, we can see a familiar pattern emerging. And once again, the future of a tiger—and the safety of those who live alongside this ancient wilderness—rests on whether we choose certainty over haste.     

Nagarhole National Park

Relying solely on a tiger’s age, its physical condition, or the wear of its teeth is no longer enough to determine whether it has turned to killing humans. Such clues may have served researchers in an earlier era, before the rise of modern genetics. But today, with sophisticated DNA analysis at our fingertips, we have the means to reach far more definitive answers. For that reason, the investigation into the three recent attacks must continue. By monitoring which tigers stray into villages and farmland, authorities can identify potential suspects, capture them safely, and analyze their DNA. Only then can we match each animal to each incident—and know, beyond speculation, which tiger was responsible. Crucially, the communities living along the forest’s edge must understand that this process takes time. Fear and frustration are natural responses, but pressuring wildlife officials into acting hastily does little to ensure anyone’s safety. Education, patience, and clear communication are essential if these investigations are to unfold without repeating past mistakes. And when a maneater is finally identified, I firmly believe its fate should not be death. Such animals—rare, dangerous, but still part of India’s natural heritage—should be placed under managed, captive care rather than shot. The same principle applies to leopards, especially in places like Maharashtra, where human–leopard encounters are increasing and where officials have even authorized shoot-on-sight orders. In moments like these, the challenge is clear: to protect human life without abandoning our responsibility to the wildlife that shares this fragile landscape.