Poor King Cobra

Most snakes hiss, king cobra growls. Its hood anatomy is dramatic, all the more imposing for it being able to lift one-third of its body (running up to 18 feet) into the air. And yet, as far as humans are concerned, it’s a shy creature. From the growl to the stand-up, all it’s trying to communicate to them is: Leave me alone. We are not their food, we are scary, they have no interest in us. Of course, we haven’t listened, we haven’t left the king cobra alone.

All its physical characteristics reflect a deep history of adaptation to a specific ecological niche – South and Southeast Asia’s wetlands and forests, where it can spend a quarter of its time up a tree. But humans, when they are not encroaching its habitat, are displacing it by other means. A study of Goa’s snake rescue records from 2002-24 establishes that every time a Western Ghats king cobra ends up in a completely unsuitable location, it’s in proximity of railway tracks or stations.

We like throwing food here, which attracts the rats, which attracts the rat snakes, which are king cobras’ staple diet. The study authors place their results firmly within the literature of human-mediated wildlife dispersal. The film Snakes on a Plane got everything hatefully wrong about its subject, except for the fact that modern transport has indeed increased the incidence of various animal species being transported, against their wishes, far from their homes. Often by smugglers.

In a few months, India will celebrate Naag Panchami, when we worship snakes, offer them milk and seek their blessings. This feeling runs through Hindu, Buddhist and Jain traditions in many other ways too. The iconography of Shiv and Buddha is intimately intertwined with king cobras. In all these senses, it is considered sacred. But worshipping king cobras doesn’t stop us from making them miserable.

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