Give otters their riverbanks with sand and grass

The birds were calling from the canopy when something slipped out of the water.

- NEHA SINHA

(above) Oriental small-clawed otter, and a Smooth-coated otter.

(istockphoto)

It was grey, rolling like a wave, jolly. It splashed on the shore, and as I watched, it seemed to change form and assemble—like a column of mercury becoming solid. It stood. In the background was its companion, another wave that turned into something else—a smooth pelt, a clever face, whiskers and paws.

Two Smooth-coated otters stood in front of us, their noses quivering and their black eyes full of curiosity. They had come so silently, as if they had always been there, like they were creatures of land. But otters are top predators of rivers. They belong on river banks, on sandy stretches where they roll about, on complex banks they make dens in, and in currents that are intimidating to others. One otter stood, looking up, his fluvial body almost looking pear-shaped before it transformed to a long, lean cylinder as he craned higher into the air. The other one lay prostrate on the ground, sniffing, the tail a leathery, flattened whip.

It was like looking at energy brilliantly compacted—they moved like water constantly, in ellipses and bounds, like they knew life was about being both active and playful. All our fatigue washed off, and we watched them cross the path and melt into the water.

Years ago, I was in too orderly Singapore. Everything was beautiful, organised, manicured, predictable. I visited the zoo, which was nice. But I craved something wild and free, something that made its own decisions and roamed of its own volition. The desire had the poignancy of the expat—we want something that reminds us of home, even if that thing has teeth, a kind of discomfort. Near the botanical gardens, my wish was granted.