Between Apples and Claws: Who Belongs to the Forest?

On the edge of Dachigam National Park, where apple orchards meet the forest, a young storyteller grows up listening to the land and learning its silences. When a routine day in the fields changes everything, questions of fear, survival, and belonging rise to the surface. This is a story about memory, courage, and the uneasy line between home and the wild.

Read this story in Hindi

Fifteen years ago, in the month of September, as the Kashmir Valley rejoiced in the harvest of its fruit crops, my grandfather rejoiced too. Mohammad Ramzan Ganie, whom we lovingly called Abba Ji, was a farmer.

He was a man of strength and quiet grandeur. For me, Abba Ji’s hands in the soil defined what it meant to be brave. His labour did more than feed us; it shaped my understanding of strength itself.

That day, as part of his daily routine, he set out to cut grass in his fields, about half a kilometre from our home. He walked with the same steady resolve he carried every day, accompanied by my sister Rihanna, who was still a child. He left home smiling, greeting everyone in Harwan village with warmth and an easy grace born of a life lived close to the land.

When he reached the grazing fields, he took out his sickle and began cutting grass for the cattle back home. Rihanna stood nearby, watching him sway the sickle in his hands, each stroke clean and sure, as he chopped through the grass and gathered it into bundles with practiced speed.

Then Abba Ji sensed something, soft sighs, heavy nostril sounds, a low, distant roar, and slow movement through the fields. He stopped mid-swing. Lifting his head, he looked toward the direction from which the sound came.

At first, he saw a large, wolf-like figure in the distance, its shape unclear. Squinting, he focused more intently. And then he realized that it was a black bear, moving steadily toward them.

The bear was coming from the forest side of Dachigam. My sister froze, unsure what to do. Abba Ji saw her fear and whispered for her to leave. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the rustle of dry leaves. But… “crack!” – In her panic, she had made a sound, the faint crack of a twig underfoot. The bear turned sharply and began moving closer.

Abba Ji straightened, his breath steady. “Run,” he whispered to Rihanna. He knew it was time to fight. The air was thick with the smell of soil.

Rihanna still remembers his words, firm and final, etched in her mind like a wound:
 “You run, and I will face the bear. If we both run, it will attack us. If you go alone, you’ll be safe.”

My sister cried and refused to leave him, but my grandfather insisted, choosing her life over his own. She finally ran, while he stood his ground before the bear.

Meanwhile, Abbaji raised his arms, shouting, making himself larger, the sound tearing from his chest.

By the time Rihanna reached the fields again with the villagers, shouting, desperate for help, Abba Ji had already faced the bear. No one had seen what truly happened in those few minutes. All they found was him, lying on the same fields he had worked his whole life, his head and face bloodied, the soil around him torn and trampled. The forest had fallen silent. The bear was gone. Only the broken stalks and the heavy stillness remained, as if the land was guarding a secret it would never speak aloud.

When they finally got him to the hospital, he had already lost too much blood. The doctors spoke in low, urgent voices, moving quickly around him, stitching what they could, pressing hands where the bleeding would not stop. His head injuries were severe, too deep, too many. Outside, prayers rose in whispers and sobs, folded palms trembling with hope. But hope arrived too late. As if fate had already written the ending, Abba Ji did not survive. That day, quietly and without spectacle, he met his Creator.

Abba Ji’s incident left deep scars on all of us, scars that time has not softened. I loved my grandfather deeply, and not a day passes when he does not return to my thoughts, sometimes quietly, sometimes with a sudden ache. He was a man to live by, a presence that shaped our days without ever needing to raise his voice. What happened to him is not just an ill-fated story of our family; it is a larger story of human lives pressed up against the lives of animals that dwell in the forest, the fragile, often violent collision of both worlds.

Abba Ji’s courage reminds me why this issue matters, why these stories cannot remain buried in silence, and why we must find ways to reduce such human–wildlife tragedies. For my sister, the memory still lives in her body. She is terrified even now when the incident comes up in conversation.

“It sends shock waves through my body when I recall how Abba Ji was dragged by that creature,” she says. “I can never come out of this trauma. I wanted Abba Ji to be with us.” Her words trail off every time, heavy with what was taken and what will never return.

This story begins in my village, Harwan, about half a kilometer from Dachigam, in the Srinagar district of the Kashmir Valley. Here, the edge of human life presses gently, but constantly, against the wild. Dachigam rests against the mighty mountains of Dachigam National Park, roughly 22 kilometres from the capital city of Srinagar. It is a landscape where dense forests slip quietly into orchards, and cultivated fields give way to wilderness.

The name Dachigam comes from Dachi-gam, meaning “ten villages,” a reminder of the communities that were relocated between 1910 and 1934 to create what is now a protected national park. Spread over approximately 141 square kilometres and stretching across the Zabarwan Range, the park rises from about 1,700 metres to over 4,200 metres above sea level. This dramatic range shelters rich and varied flora and fauna, but Dachigam is best known as the last stronghold of the Hangul, the endangered Kashmir stag and, of course, the Asiatic black bear, whose shadowed presence so often brings the wild uncomfortably close to human lives.

I remember when I was fourteen, walking through the cherry orchards alongside my grandfather. The air was sweet with ripening fruit, the trees heavy and low. As we walked, he spoke softly, as if the land itself was listening.

“Living on the edge of the countryside,” he told me, “the people near Dachigam have coexisted with nature for generations. We plant apple and cherry trees, graze our livestock, and collect firewood from the forests.” He paused, brushing his hand against a branch. “But on quiet autumn nights, when the orchards sag under the weight of ripe fruit, an uneasy silence often falls. Then comes the sound, branches snapping sharply in the dark.”

He looked toward the forest line. “When shadows stir in the moonlight, we know what it means. The black bears have come.” Drawn by the sweet scent of fruit, they raid the trees and fields, leaving behind shattered branches, scattered crops, and a lingering fear in the hearts of farmers.

Most of the time, villagers keep their distance, waiting for the bears to leave, or taking measures to protect their orchards. But sometimes, like in the case of my grandfather, these encounters tip into life-and-death moments, testing courage, quick thinking, and the fragile, unspoken bond between humans and the wild.

These Asiatic black bears, also called moon bears, roam the Himalayan foothills of Kashmir. Strong and powerful, they carry a crescent-shaped patch of white on their chests, a mark of the Valley’s wild heritage, and a reminder of how closely our lives are bound to the forest.

But their visits are never quiet. Over the past two decades, more than 2,300 bear attacks have been reported across the Kashmir Valley. Some ended in tragedy. For villagers, these numbers are not mere statistics; they translate into sleepless nights, shattered orchards, and a fear that lingers long after the bears retreat into the forest.

Apples and cherries are more than fruit here, they are lifelines. Families spend months tending their fields, pruning trees, guarding blossoms from frost, only to wake up one morning to half-eaten fruit strewn across the ground. “All year we work in our fields,” says a farmer, shaking his head as he surveys the damage, “and in just one night, the bear destroys everything.”

In moments like these, the tension between humans and wildlife becomes almost tangible. Every rustle in the orchard, every snap of a branch in the moonlight, could signal a bear on the move, a reminder that in this fragile, shared landscape, survival is a daily negotiation. What is a meal for a bear can mean survival lost for a human. And often, the conflict does not end with ruined crops. Sudden encounters have left behind stories of lasting pain and loss, like the one my grandfather lived through.

Yet the black bear is not an enemy. It is a hungry animal navigating a rapidly changing landscape. Forests around Dachigam are shrinking due to encroachment, illegal logging, and expanding human settlements along the park’s edges. Deforestation has stripped away much of the bear’s natural diet, nuts, berries, and wild fruits, forcing it to descend into villages and orchards in search of food. These visits are driven not by malice, but by need.

Recent studies underline this growing crisis. Habitat fragmentation, urban expansion, and intense livestock grazing have led to an estimated 7% decline in forest cover around Dachigam, along with a significant reduction in natural habitats. These changes have only deepened human–wildlife conflict, turning ordinary nights in the orchards into moments of uncertainty, fear, and irreversible consequence.

There are voices in my community that want the bears kept away from this area. These are people who have suffered real loss, whose orchards have been destroyed, whose year-long labour has been wiped out in a single night, and whose sleep has been broken by fear and worry. For them, the bear is not an idea or a symbol, but a daily threat. They seek distance from the forest, peace of mind, and the security needed to protect their children and their livelihoods. This is not a voice of anger or hatred, but one shaped by exhaustion and fear.

Yet alongside these voices, there are still others in my community who speak of compassion and coexistence. My grandfather was one of them. He used to say, “We share this space. We share this land. Only then can survival be possible.” Even after everything that happened, I hold on to those words. They feel like something he left behind for us to carry.

I remember a young conservationist once telling me, “The bear is not our enemy. It is only trying to survive.” His words echoed my grandfather’s beliefs. My grandfather often said that if we learn how to protect our crops and still respect wildlife, we can live together. He believed coexistence was not a theory but a responsibility.

Some villagers have begun to believe this too. I have seen fences rise around orchards, solar powered lights blinking through the night, and community watch groups forming, where neighbours take turns guarding the fields. These are small acts, but they matter. In nearby hamlets, such measures have already reduced bear encounters. Yet I know that real change must go deeper, into restoring forests, engaging communities, and finding alternative livelihoods so that survival does not come at the cost of constant fear.

For me, the story of the black bear in Dachigam is not only about conflict. It is about balance, fragile and easily broken. It is about learning how to live with the wild without trying to conquer it. I imagine a future where orchards remain safe and bears return to the higher slopes to feed on wild fruits, far from our homes. Whether that future becomes possible depends not just on forests, but on the choices we make as people who share this land.

If the conflict continues, we all lose. But if understanding grows, something else becomes possible. I want children to grow up knowing that a bear is not a monster. That it is a part of the forest, just as we are a part of the earth. I want them to inherit knowledge, not fear, and stories of coexistence, not loss.

Even now, the bears still surprise us. But I sense a shift. People are trying. Watching. Learning. Hoping. Some say the solution must go further, and I agree. We need to make space for both human lives and wildlife, before more families carry grief like mine.

This is what Dachigam has taught me. The orchards heavy with apples and cherries need protection, and the bears moving silently through the night need food. If either side loses, both lose.

My grandfather showed courage when he faced a bear to protect his family. But the greater courage, I believe, lies in choosing coexistence, so that no one else has to lose a grandfather, a father, or a life. That is the story I want to tell. That is the future I hope we choose.