Elephant Madu

 

It’s been a year now. A year since a soul named Madhu left this world, but his story is not one of peaceful departure. It is a story that hangs in the air of Sri Lanka's forests and temples, a heavy, sorrowful ghost that refuses to be silenced. To speak of Madhu is to speak of a single, tragic package of suffering, shot through the heart of a creature who knew both the boundless freedom of the wild and the bitter chains of captivity. He was, in his brief life, a wild elephant calf, a rescued patient, a captive, a temple offering, and finally, a broken-hearted statistic.

His story begins not with his end, but with a desperate fight for his beginning. The memory of his rescue is still vivid, a tale best told by the man who was there, a story now immortalized in the book "Ten Years with Wild Elephants" by Vijitha Perera, who now, as the venerable Panadure Vimukthi Rathan Thero, lives a life of asceticism, perhaps haunted by the memories of the souls he tried to save.

The Rescue – A Snare and a Mother's Love

It was a morning like any other at the Udawalawe Elephant Transit Home, until a piece of information crackled through: a young calf in a herd near the Mother Ara area was in terrible trouble. The report said it was walking with immense difficulty, its leg grotesquely swollen. We mobilized immediately, driving down the dirt track that snaked through the grasslands, our eyes scanning the green-gold landscape.

And then we saw them. The herd was moving into the thicker jungle for their midday rest, a slow, majestic river of grey. And there, at the very back, was our calf. He was about three and a half years old, a small, vulnerable creature standing about four and a half feet tall. He was with his mother, but his progress was a painful lurch. His front right leg, swollen like a balloon, barely touched the ground. With every step, he seemed to wince in a silence that was louder than any trumpet.

As we watched through binoculars, our hearts sank. This was no simple injury. A deep, infected wound festered around his leg, and peeking through the pus and swelling was the cruel culprit: a wire snare. This wasn't an accident of the forest; this was the work of man. The cable had sawed into his flesh, biting down to the bone. The calf was trying to stop, to give up, but his mother, with an urgency that spoke of primal understanding, was constantly behind him, nudging him, pushing him, her trunk a gentle but firm propellant of despair. She knew that to fall behind was to die.

It was clear he wouldn't last more than a few days. The jungle is merciless to the weak. The infection would claim him, and he would become just another unseen tragedy in the vast wilderness. We had to act. Capturing him and bringing him to the Transit Home was his only chance.

Fate, it seemed, had assembled a rescue team for us that very day. A new veterinarian, Dr. Suhada Jayawerdene, was present. A group of veterinary students had volunteered to help with work around the Home. Even the lorry we used for transport was serendipitously parked at the facility. All the pieces were in place. With official permission secured, we set our plan.

We knew the herd would return to the grasslands in the evening. We waited, our vehicle positioned, our tranquilizer gun loaded. The herd emerged as the sun began to soften, a golden hour painted with tension. Our target was there, grazing weakly, staying close to his mother's side. We needed a clean shot, a moment when he was clear of the other massive bodies. The moment came when his mother shifted, creating a narrow window. I aimed and fired, the *phut* of the dart gun sounding impossibly loud in the evening calm.

The herd startled, shuffling nervously. The calf, stung and frightened, let out a small cry. But seeing no clear threat, the herd settled, perhaps thinking it was just an insect bite. We waited for seven agonizing minutes until the drugs took hold, and the little calf slowly, gently, folded onto the grass. To the herd, it must have looked like he was simply lying down to rest.

Then, we moved. On our signal, our support team erupted, firing thunder flashes and signal crackers into the air. The noise was terrifying, a man-made storm designed to panic. The herd, seized by primal fear, turned and fled into the jungle, a thunderous stampede that shook the ground. They left their youngest member behind.

We rushed to his side. His breathing was already shallow. We administered the reversal drugs and started him on saline and energy boosters. Within minutes, he was back on his feet, but dazed and unsteady. We secured his legs with soft ropes, attaching them to our vehicle since there were no trees nearby. We sent a message for the lorry to come to the gate. Everything was proceeding.

But the jungle had one more player in this drama.

The Mother's Gaze – A Confrontation of Souls

From the tree line, another elephant emerged. It was her. The mother. She had turned back. We all froze. She charged towards us, a force of pure, maternal fury. We scrambled, firing the remaining thunder flashes to deter her. She recoiled, startled by the noise and flashes, and retreated. But only for a moment.

She turned and charged again. And again. We drove her back each time, but her resolve was terrifying. Our supply of thunder flashes was dwindling. Soon, we were out. We were weaponless, facing a two-ton mother whose child we were stealing.

She charged again, and this time, we had no choice but to scramble back onto our vehicle. The engine roared to life, but we couldn't drive away—her calf was tied to it. We were trapped, a mere twenty feet from a creature capable of crushing us with ease. All we could do was shout, a pathetic, desperate human noise against her monumental grief.

She stopped. Not at us, but at her son. She stood over his sedated, prone body. Then, she turned her head and looked directly at us. But what we saw in her eyes haunts me to this day. It wasn't the threatening glare of a wild animal. It was an utterly lost, helpless, and pleading look. It was the gaze of a mother who had fought through every obstacle to protect her child and was now utterly defeated. She could have easily charged the last few feet and ended us. But she didn't. In that moment, she seemed to understand the futility of it all.

The standoff was surreal. She stayed with her calf, nuzzling him, trying to rouse him. He was awake but dopey, unresponsive to her silent commands. She wanted him to get up and leave with her. He couldn't. She stood there, her eyes shifting from his still form to us, a silent, devastating accusation.

When the lorry finally arrived with more thunder flashes, we used the noise and the vehicle's advance to finally drive her away for good. It was a heartbreaking sight. She would run a short distance, then turn back, only to be driven off again. It was a war of attrition we were forced to win.

Loading the dazed calf onto the high bed of the lorry was a Herculean effort. As we finally managed to get him secured, we saw her one last time. She followed the lorry as we drove away, a solitary, grieving figure in the encroaching dusk. She chased us for nearly two kilometers, her calls echoing through the twilight, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish. It was the sound of a mother's heart being torn out. She finally faded from view, a ghost in her own world.

Madhu's New Life – From "Maddha" to a Friend

Back at the Transit Home, the severity of his injury was clear. The wire snare was deeply embedded, sawing into the bone. We named him "Maddha," after the snare that had trapped him. But officially, he was registered as Madhu.

Madhu was furious. His world had been ripped away. The unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells, and the absence of his mother, terrified him. He was violently aggressive. None of us could get near him. We had to tighten his ropes. He refused food and water. His spirit was broken, and his body was failing.

We tried a new tactic. We led him to the edge of the Udawalawe reservoir, tying him to a tree near the water. The effect was immediate. The water soothed him. He waded in, drank, and began to eat the grasses on the bank. The frantic wildness in his eyes began to subside, replaced by a weary acceptance.

But he still wouldn't tolerate humans. We had to sedate him for every treatment, a dangerous and unsustainable practice. Our breakthrough came from an unexpected ally: another young elephant named Migara. Migara was the confident, dominant male of the calf group. For some reason, Madhu was submissive to him. With Migara by his side, we could change Madhu's ropes, offer him food, and most importantly, reach his wounded leg to treat it. Madhu, under Migara's watchful eye, would tolerate our touch.

We then tried bottle-feeding him formula, again using Migara as a shield. It worked. Madhu drank greedily. It was a turning point. The act of receiving nourishment from a human hand began to dissolve his fear and anger. He transformed from a terrified, aggressive prisoner into our close friend. He no longer needed Migara's protection. Madhu had learned to trust us.

For two months, we nursed him. His leg healed beautifully. His body, once emaciated, grew strong. Our goal was always to return him to the wild, to his herd, to his mother. We were confident she would recognize and accept him. We formally requested permission for his release.

And then, the bureaucracy of fate intervened.

The Betrayal – From Freedom to a Golden Chain

We were told that Madhu would be released with the next group of calves. We agreed, hopeful. But that hope was a lie. A few weeks later, a new order came down: Madhu was to be donated to a temple.

We were stunned. We argued, we pleaded. How could giving a wild-born creature a life of chains and servitude be considered a "meritorious deed"? But the decision came from high up in the political sphere. The Department of Wildlife had to comply. In a cruel twist, his name was at the top of the list for release, which made it the first name to be picked for this "donation."

We were powerless. Madhu, whose freedom we had fought for, whose life we had saved from the brutality of a snare, was now being handed over to a different kind of trap. We took him to the Dalada Maligawa, and he was then given to the historic Rajamaha Viharaya in Badulla.

His name was changed to "Madhu Sanka." The next day, we went to say goodbye. He was being bathed in the Mahaweli River with two other temple elephants. When I called his name, he immediately emerged from the water and ran to me. He touched me with his trunk, as if to say, "Why? Why is this happening?" It was a final, heartbreaking farewell.

The Ghost and the Final Goodbye

Years passed. In 2006, I was driving through Habarana, a area famous for its "elephant safaris." I saw a small, under-sized elephant, around 10-12 years old, struggling under the weight of tourists on its back. A dreadful suspicion gripped me. I asked a mahout about the small elephant's name. When he said "Madhu," I could barely hide the tears that welled in my eyes. This was the calf we had saved. This was his life now.

Later, I saw him again at a river where safari elephants were taken to bathe. I walked towards him with a mahout I knew. I called his name, "Madhu." He stood up. But he did not run to me. He just stood there and looked at me. The trust, the friendship, the bond we had built was gone. In his eyes was no warmth, only a deep, resigned question: "Why did you make me a prisoner?"

That was the last time I saw him alive. He died a year ago, after a short, brutal illness, having spent the majority of his life in service, a life he was never meant to live.

Madhu's story is not unique. Nearly forty elephants gifted by the government in this way have met premature, tragic ends. Some are dead; others, like Madhu was, continue to live in silent suffering. And yet, the very associations that claim to represent "tamed" elephants still have the audacity to beg for more resources, for more "domesticated" elephants, while the ones they have are dying of neglect and broken hearts. It is a cycle of greed and hypocrisy that preys on the most majestic symbols of our nation.

Madhu's year of absence is a monument not just to his suffering, but to our collective failure. He was a wild soul we tried to save, only to deliver him into a different, more prolonged kind of death. 

His memory is a ghost that asks a simple, unanswerable question: For an animal born to roam free, what is the greater cruelty—the sharp, sudden bite of a snare, or the slow, lifelong chain of a temple or a safari?