Wildlife Protection Act, 1972: A tale of conflict and controversy in Kerala

On May 14, 2025, a video began circulating across news channels and social media in Kerala — KU Jenish Kumar, the CPI(M) legislator from Konni, voice raised and finger pointed, issuing ‘threats’ to forest officials at the Padam Forest office in Pathanamthitta. Flanked by police officers who stood by in silence, the MLA demanded the immediate release of a man held in connection with the electrocution of a wild elephant. His warning was unambiguous: free the man or the office would be set ablaze. The man he was defending wasn’t a local leader or even a voter from the area — just a migrant labourer, far from home, caught in the crosshairs of a growing conflict between law enforcement, especially the forest department and local people in Kerala’s forest-fringe settlements.

The incident followed a tragic accident at the Konni elephant training camp, where a four-year-old boy died due to safety lapses, further eroding trust in forest authorities. Jenish Kumar’s actions, while controversial, reflected a broader discontent with the enforcement of the Wild Life (Protection) Act (WLPA), 1972, which often pits forest officials against communities living near protected areas. The law’s stringent restrictions on activities within and around forests—such as grazing, farming, or even driving away animals—have long been a flashpoint, particularly for those who predate the establishment of wildlife sanctuaries. The MLA’s standoff highlighted the law’s failure to accommodate the realities of human-wildlife coexistence, leaving locals feeling criminalized in their own ancestral lands.

“I was at a protest against rising wild animal attacks when I got a call from a pregnant woman whose migrant worker husband had been taken into custody over an elephant’s death. Locals told me 11 people had been picked up in connection with the same incident. It was clear there was an attempt to use the elephant’s death to spread fear. A simple notice would have sufficed, instead, ordinary people were harassed. The comments in that video may have drawn criticism, but the real issue is the distress caused to the public by the forest department’s actions. The issues I raised are rooted in the experiences of the people, and I will continue to stand by them. Even if it comes at a personal cost, I will not back away from that responsibility,” said MLA Jenish Kumar.

WLPA’s stringent restrictions on activities within and around forests such as grazing, or farming have long been a flashpoint, particularly for those who predate the establishment of wildlife sanctuaries. Photo: ANI/For representation

However, soon after the video went viral and public debate intensified, the Kerala Forest Rangers Association—the body representing range forest officers in the state—posted a sarcastic message on social media, taking a jab at the MLA and daring him to repeal the WLPA. The post was later taken down.

Dear MLA, why not go a step further and call for the disbanding of the entire Forest Department? Rally your supporters to electrocute every wild elephant, and torch every living creature from worms to leopards. Perhaps then, you and your loyalists can go ahead and conquer the Western Ghats — the post mockingly suggested.

Survival concerns

Public sentiment, meanwhile, did not favour the forest officials, and even the government refrained from backing the department. Although forest minister AK Saseendran of the NCP initially expressed concern—advising politicians to respect their limits and behave responsibly—he made a U-turn the very next day. As of the time of filing this report, no case has been registered against the MLA.

James Pazheril, a farmer from Konni and a Congress sympathiser, offers a different perspective. “I’ve voted against Jenish Kumar in the last two elections because I disagree with his politics. But in this situation, I support him wholeheartedly. I’ve never seen an MLA stand up for ordinary people the way he did. He went to the forest office on behalf of a migrant worker—not for votes, I’m certain of that. But through that act, he’s earned the respect and support of farmers like us, regardless of political affiliation.”

“No forest officer is eager to register a case for the sake of it. If a crime has occurred, it is his duty to file a case. If the argument is that this shouldn’t be done, then the proper course is to ask the officer to submit a formal recommendation to the government — that would resolve the issue. For a powerful MLA like him, that should be as easy as plucking a flower. Instead, targeting innocent officials is simply not right,” a forest officer told The Federal.

As a grim backdrop to the ongoing tensions, many in the region still recall the case of Ponnu Mathai, a small-scale farmer taken into custody over the death of a wild animal in 2020. His death in custody—later confirmed by a CBI probe—sparked widespread outrage. His family, refusing to bury his body for over a month, demanded justice.

Jenish Kumar’s outburst at the forest office in Pathanamthitta marked the latest in a series of confrontations between the public and the Forest Department.

In late April 2025, Malayalam rapper Hirandas Murali, known by his stage name Vedan, found himself at the centre of a legal maelstrom that exposed the WLPA’s stringent enforcement. Vedan, a Dalit artist celebrated for his socially conscious music, was arrested in Kochi after police seized 6 grams of cannabis from his apartment. While he was released on bail for the drug charge, the Forest Department swiftly took him into custody for a seemingly trivial offense: wearing a pendant suspected to be made of a leopard’s tooth. The pendant, which Vedan claimed was a gift from a fan, triggered charges under the WLPA — that included hunting of a leopard — which prohibits the possession of wildlife articles without proper documentation.

The arrest ignited a public outcry, with activists, politicians, and intellectuals decrying what they saw as targeted persecution. Vedan’s Dalit identity and his mother’s Sri Lankan Tamil refugee background were thrust into the spotlight, with forest officials’ media leaks about his origins fuelling allegations of systemic discrimination.

The Forest Department’s report, submitted amid mounting criticism, admitted to procedural lapses, such as premature media disclosures, but defended the arrest. Vedan was granted bail on April 30 but the case underscored WLPA’s potential for overreach. The law’s broad provisions, which criminalise possession of wildlife trophies without clear exemptions for cultural or historical artifacts, left little room for nuance, ensnaring individuals like Vedan in legal battles over items of ambiguous origin.

The forest officials’ defence —one of whom was transferred as the issue gained media attention—was simply that they were operating within the bounds of existing law.

“In a case that has attracted so much public attention, sacrificing a dedicated officer who stands firmly for nature and the rule of law—just to appease a mob—is not only a denial of justice but also utterly deserving of protest. If mob justice is considered justice, then the Constitution and laws would have to be discarded. But unlike those, the loss of forests and wildlife is irreversible,” maintained the Kerala Forest Rangers’ Association.

The arrest of a bus

A week ago, in another bizarre twist, the WLPA’s reach extended to an inanimate object in early 2025, when forest officials in Kerala took a KSRTC Scania bus ‘into custody’ after it accidentally killed a deer on a highway. The incident, which occurred in a forested area, prompted authorities to seize the vehicle under WLPA provisions that hold individuals—or in this case, state property—liable for harming protected species. The bus, a critical asset for public transport, was impounded for weeks, disrupting services and drawing ridicule from commuters and commentators alike.

The case exemplified the law’s indiscriminate application, where even unintentional acts, such as a vehicular accident, could trigger severe consequences. While the deer’s death was tragic, critics argued that holding a bus ‘in custody’ was an absurd overreach, diverting resources from more pressing conservation efforts. The incident fuelled perceptions of the WLPA as a blunt instrument, incapable of distinguishing between deliberate poaching and accidental harm.

In the lush landscapes of India, where biodiversity thrives alongside human habitation, the WLPA was envisaged as a cornerstone of conservation policy. Enacted to safeguard the nation’s rich fauna and flora, the law has been hailed for its role in protecting endangered species like the Bengal tiger and the Indian rhinoceros from extinction. However, as India grapples with escalating human-wildlife conflicts and competing interests, the WLPA has increasingly come under scrutiny for its rigid enforcement, which critics argue infringes on constitutional rights and disproportionately affects marginalized communities. At the heart of these controversies lies a fundamental question: Is the WLPA constitutionally sound?

Against Constitution

Ecologist Madhav Gadgil, named a 2024 ‘Champion of the Earth’ by the United Nations Environment Programme, has been a vocal critic of the law’s draconian nature. In an interview with The Federal in 2024, Gadgil argued that the WLPA violates the Indian Constitution by denying citizens their right to self-defense. “Under WLPA, people are not free to defend themselves against marauding animals as even driving them out of their homes and crop fields needs official permission,” he said. “Yet the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), Section 35, gives everyone the right to private defence of body and property.”

Gadgil’s critique centres on the law’s failure to account for the rights of communities living in and around forests, many of whom have coexisted with wildlife for centuries. He highlighted the growing threat of human-wildlife conflict, noting that animals like wild pigs, elephants, and tigers increasingly encroach on human settlements, destroying crops, killing livestock, and, in some cases, attacking people. “These people are not encroaching the forests—they have been living there for several centuries. Now the tigers encroach into farmers’ property because there are too many of them in the forest,” he told The Federal. Gadgil’s assertion that the WLPA is “clearly not valid constitutionally” stems from its restriction on self-defence, which he believes contradicts the spirit of instruments to protect fundamental rights as elucidated in BNS.

His remarks resonate in regions like Wayanad, where human-animal conflicts have claimed 915 lives and injured over 7,917 people in the past nine years, according to Kerala government data. Farmers, often left defenceless against marauding wildlife, face legal repercussions for protecting their livelihoods, creating a cycle of resentment and alienation. Gadgil’s call for a constitutional re-evaluation of the WLPA has gained traction among activists, who argue that conservation must balance ecological goals with human rights.

“We, the farmers living near forest areas and paying taxes to the government, are treated as second-class citizens compared to the urban population. Wild animals protected under various schedules of the Forest Act have now entered human habitats, yet the government sees us as the threat. If we use basic pesticides to protect our crops, we risk legal action—because peacocks, which are everywhere, are national birds, and if one dies, we could end up in jail. It’s the same with elephants, boars, and monkeys—especially monkeys, which have become a major menace,” says Tedy CX, a farmer based in Attappady, Palakkad.

“We’re overly eco-friendly, to the point that we feel guilty even for harvesting food. People label us settler farmers as encroachers on tribal land, but in reality, it’s the forest department that’s alienating tribal land—not us,” adds Tedy CX.

The WLPA’s enforcement raises profound questions about the intersection of conservation, constitutional rights, and social justice. While the law has undeniably bolstered India’s conservation efforts—saving species like the Bengal tiger and the Indian rhinoceros from the brink—it has also created a rift between forest authorities and local communities. The cases of Vedan, Janeesh Kumar, and the KSRTC bus illustrate how the law’s inflexible provisions can lead to outcomes that seem disproportionate, if not outright unjust.

Systemic oppression

For marginalised groups, such as Dalits and tribal communities, the WLPA’s enforcement often feels like an extension of systemic oppression. Vedan’s arrest, for instance, was seen by many as a targeted attack on a vocal artist who challenges caste hierarchies through his music. Similarly, the detention of migrant worker in Padam and the seizure of a public bus highlight how the law’s application can disrupt lives and livelihoods, particularly for those with limited resources to navigate legal battles.

Madhav Gadgil’s critique underscores the need for a nuanced approach to conservation—one that respects constitutional protections and acknowledges the realities of human-wildlife coexistence. As India’s forests face mounting pressures from climate change, industrialisation, and population growth, the WLPA must evolve to address these complexities without trampling on fundamental rights.

For instance, Kerala has long been urging the Centre to declare wild boars as vermin, but the Union government is yet to act on the demand. In fact, the forest ministry has already made it clear that it will not notify boars as vermin.

“When Kerala MPs like John Brittas raise the issue in Parliament, the response by the minister has been baffling. How can declaring wild boars as vermin be considered a violation of Indian culture,” asks Tedy CX.

"Now that the state government has declared animal attacks a disaster, we’re allowed to shoot and kill wild boars—but with certain restrictions. The absurd part is, we’re told to burn the carcass, not consume it. How does that make any sense? These forest officers make our lives miserable if someone eats boar meat. They’ll go to any extent—even conduct stool tests a month after someone has eaten it. Can you imagine such harassment?" asks Mohammed Shiras, a small-scale farmer in Nilambur.

In this context, Kerala has revised the guidelines for giving compensation to kin of human-wildlife conflicts from the State Disaster Response Fund and the own fund of the forest department. This follows the government’s declaration of man- animal conflicts as state specific disaster.

Meanwhile, the Kerala government's attempt to amend the Kerala Forest Act of 1961 through a 2024 bill was withdrawn following widespread protests—not just from the opposition but also from within the ruling front. The proposed amendment, which aimed to bolster environmental protections and wildlife preservation, was criticised by protesters as being anti-people and insensitive to the hardships faced by forest-side communities.

The Wildlife Protection Act of 1972 stands at a crossroads. Its legacy as a bulwark of conservation is undeniable, yet its draconian enforcement has sparked a growing backlash. The stories of Vedan’s pendant, Janeesh Kumar’s defiance, and a bus held ‘in custody’ reveal a law struggling to balance ecological imperatives with human realities.

Madhav Gadgil’s constitutional challenge adds a critical dimension, urging policymakers to rethink a framework that pits people against the very wildlife it seeks to protect. As India navigates this delicate terrain, the WLPA’s future hinges on its ability to harmonise conservation with justice, ensuring that neither nature nor humanity is left to bear the cost alone.