Guwahati: It was a hot summer afternoon and the roads in Guwahati’s Rajgarh locality were covered with sludge after the flash floods. As the taxi squirmed its way through the narrow roads, a petite woman, dressed in a green cotton mekhela sador—traditional Assamese attire—stood in the by-lane, directing the vehicle toward her house at the far end.
Her directions were precise and clear — “take right,” “pull over”. Similar to the commands she has used all her life while training elephants.
Parbati Barua is India’s first female mahout and also the first phandi — those who catch elephants with a ‘phand’ or lasso and deploy the ‘mela sikar’ method. Now obsolete, it was once considered the most dangerous means of elephant capture. In January, Parbati was conferred the Padma Shri for her contribution to wildlife conservation and for overcoming gender stereotypes in a traditionally male-dominated profession. The 70-year-old has lassoed fourteen elephants and trained over 600 in captivity over nearly five decades.
Parbati enters the living room, which almost looks like a museum. The room is filled with framed pictures, a bevvy of awards, sculpted elephants over a cane rack, and the traditional Assamese Horai (bell-metal objects) polished to shine.
The Padma Shri citation hasn’t been put up for display yet and lies carefully stored in a trunk full of souvenirs. “There’s no space to exhibit them… Once the Matiabagh museum [proposed by Assam government] is complete, I plan to donate most of it.”
Parbati is grateful to whoever suggested her name for the national honour but admitted that recognition is not something she aspires for.
“Being under the spotlight is quite a bother,” she added, not sounding vain, but with a sense of discomfort from having to keep narrating her life and experiences in interviews. “I was living low-profile… And life was so peaceful,” she laughed.
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Lakhi and the mahout song
Parbati was raised among mahouts at the pilkhanas (elephant stables) owned by the royal family of Baruas in the small town of Gauripur in western Assam’s Dhubri district.
“I was a month and 17 days old when Baba (father) handed me over to a mahout on elephant back,” she said. Her father, late Prince Prakitish Chandra Barua of the Gauripur Zamindari family was a legendary elephant catcher.
This encounter with the mahout took place at the Damra elephant camp — traditionally owned by the Baruas — between Goalpara and Meghalaya. It was an elephant capturing area or mahal, leased to the zamindars. As mahaldar or leaseholders, the Baruas were required to pay royalty to the governments of Assam, Bengal and Bhutan for each elephant captured.
Born in Shillong, Parbati later moved in with her eight siblings to their ancestral Matiabagh Palace in Gauripur, the summer estate of the royals in the 18th century. It now lies empty and in near ruin.
In the 1900s, Assam had a thriving elephant-catching industry to meet the demand in tea gardens, for hauling and administrative purposes, in cultural processions, and by landlords of princely states. British tea planters were quick to establish partnerships with the Assamese catchers.
Parbati has spent her life wandering with elephants, talking to them, and learning from them too.
“I have given all my time to understanding elephants, sometimes 24 hours a day. At Matiabagh, three to four elephants would often be tied in the courtyard. I would get up in the night and peep from the verandah, only to be told by maa – ‘Why don’t you take your bed to the elephants and sleep with them?’,” she narrated.
The sounds of the forests are unforgettable. The monotony of city life, the concrete boundaries make her feel disconnected.
“This is not my environment, I love jungles,” she said.
Every month, Parbati escapes to the Manas National Park in the Bodoland Territorial Region, near the Bhutan border, to visit her loyal companion Lakhimala — a 50-year-old elephant who has been with her since 1975. Lakhi and Parbati pretty much grew up together.
I have given all my time in understanding elephants, sometimes 24 hours a day. At Matiabagh, 3-4 elephants would often be tied at the courtyard. I would get up in the night and peep from the verandah, only to be told by maa – “why don’t you take your bed to the elephants and sleep with them?”– Parbati Barua
“‘Mur haati (my elephant),’ she proudly announced. Parbati caught Lakhi and exclusively trained her.
Lakhi was about three years old and under five feet tall when Parbati lassoed her.
“I found her in Bengal, and she’s been with me ever since,” she said.
Lakhi has long been a cherished member of the royal family of the Baruas and now lives with her mahout Ranjit Rajbongshi, in a village near Manas.
Reminiscing days gone by, Parbati recalled a warm autumn afternoon, when she would ride Lakhimala into the dense Kachugaon forest in undivided Goalpara.
“I become a different person when I am atop an elephant,” she said, her eyes full of excitement.
Lakhi would snack from overhanging branches along the way, while Parbati would break into a song — a Goalpariya Lokageet or one of the mahout songs, a genre created by her sister Padma Shri Pratima Barua Pandey.
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Rajkumari, a phandi
Parbati grew up watching the phandis at the camps, mainly in the Garo Hills region, and was always in awe of them. She wanted to become one herself, and make her father proud.
The master mahout remembers the celebrations to this day — every time a phandi and their team returned from the forest with a captured wild elephant, firecrackers would go off, and bugles sounded. The phandi would receive pats on the back from everyone for their daring feat. “They were treated like a hero,” she said.
“I desired that pat on the back. I asked my father if I could catch elephants. He said I could — if I had the interest. But I would need to undergo training, prepare my own ropes (for lassoing). Thankfully, I was allowed to take help for cutting jute fibres to make ropes,” she said.
Until 1975, the Barua family had 35-40 elephants at their pilkhana and estates. Trapping elephants ceased in Assam around 1978, said Barua, though special permissions for ‘mela sikar’ were granted until the mid-1980s under the Wildlife (Protection) (Assam) Rules 1980. The exception also extended to a mahal of the Barua family.
Parbati also caught elephants in West Bengal and the Duars region. Her father was her guru, and she often joined him on expeditions and ‘mela sikar—pursuing the wild herds with tame elephants carrying nooses.’ By age nine, Parbati could control an elephant on her own, and at 14, she lassoed her first elephant, a female over 5.5 feet tall. “I learned by observing — dekhi dekhi,” she said. “After catching my first elephant, I gained confidence. My father patted me on the back and said, ‘Beti, you did it!’”
Parbati graduated in Political Science from Handique Girls’ College, Gauhati University. She didn’t pay as much attention to academics and realised her talents were meant for something else—catch and chase elephants. After her father passed away, Parbati sharpened her skills under seasoned phandis.
“I somehow completed my graduation, and ran off… Aru nuari aru (cannot do this anymore),” she said.
At the camp, the mahouts and the chaarkatiya or ghasi (grass cutter) called her “Didi”. She was revered as the Rajkumari of Matiabagh and her father was called Lalji. Brought up in a male-dominated society, Parbati overcame all barriers and commanded respect.
The family would go on extended trips, setting up elephant camps at different seasons in different places. The royal entourage included private tutors, cooks and servants. The day began with Parbati and her siblings huddling at the study table.
“Like elephants (which generally trained from the age of 5), we started school late — just homeschooling, and direct admission to Class III,” she said.
After lessons, they would go hunting on foot. “Upon returning from sikaar, having killed a bird or two, we would have lunch together. I would observe the mahouts and phandis — studying how they bathed and tied up elephants, and the texture of the ropes.”
At dusk, they gathered around the campfire as the mahouts sang folk songs and played the dotara — a stringed instrument.
Earning the accolade of phandi or a professional nooser in the male-dominated elephant world was challenging. “I learned what to do and what not to do. I started as a ghasi, then became a mahout, and finally a phandi. A ghasi must work for three months before advancing to a mahout,” she said.
Reflecting on her perspective of love and relationships, Parbati said she “wasn’t interested in men, and my father had no plans to marry me off either. Although I had opportunities, my temperament was different. It still is. My romance is with elephants, not humans.”
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The mahout culture
“Agit” (forward) “peeche” (reverse), “dhaat” (stop), “boith” (sit)—the commands must be sharp, said Parbati, demonstrating how she trained the animal weighing anywhere between 3,000-4,000 kg.
“You cannot be mewing before an elephant. Once trained, we rarely use verbal commands—just toe cues and signals. Hold his ears, and he knows to sit.”
But Parbati isn’t impressed by how mahouts today give multiple commands at a go, confusing the elephant.
A picture in British travel writer and conservationist Mark Shandi’s book Queen of the Elephants, shows the young princess in full battle dress, leading her charger Lakhi, decorated in white chalk. She wore a camouflage shirt, a boonie hat and a traditional scarf. Her face hasn’t changed much, nor has her temper.
Parbati says she never had problems working with men but sometimes had to reprimand a few keepers for negligence. “I had to hit them to teach discipline — duty is duty. If an elephant does wrong, correct it with a reward, not punishment. Elephants are highly intelligent – they understand,” she said.
She is concerned about modern-day mahouts who lack discipline, spend too much time on social media, and hit elephants without reason. She said one cannot be a mahout without some form of intoxication — bidis or moonshine (country liquor) — but they should not do it in excess.
“Even an elephant has a liking for liquor, but doesn’t like his human consuming it. If I had to fetch 300 kg of fodder but only manage half because I am drunk, the elephant would starve. Sometimes, an intoxicated keeper might fall off, and the animal gets blamed.”
She recalled the hard work of fellow mahouts back in her time, including 92-year-old ‘Ghergeri’ from Kamrup district, whom she has known since childhood.
“The mahouts then had selfless love for elephants, which is rarely seen nowadays,” she said.
Elephants recognise their keepers by voice and smell, and mahouts should understand them by looking into their eyes, as Parbati does.
“If you keep a pet, you have to give it time. You must understand its thoughts. The same applies to elephants, and even humans — you need time to understand a person,” she said. “Elephants are sentient beings — not vehicles to be run for eight hours. Even an engine needs rest. They don’t have sweat glands, and a mahout should recognise signs of fatigue through their behaviour.”
Discipline is essential, but it must be applied correctly. “An elephant can exploit you if you’re too lenient, sometimes fatally. One should be careful, not overconfident. It’s difficult to guess the mood of elephants — sometimes, they get nervous if a leaf falls, and can remain unaffected when a tiger approaches,” she said.
For twenty years, Parbati lived in North Bengal, chasing elephants away from human areas. Dressed in bush clothing and often carrying a shotgun, she was the saviour for Asian elephants at a time when they were battling survival. She still gets invited by the West Bengal government for mahout training, but the ‘Rajkumari’ refuses to train in zoos or classrooms.
“It’s practical — without an elephant, how can they learn? Should I just tell them that elephants have four legs and two ears?” she giggled.
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The chief elephant warden’s plans
Parbati is proud that her elephants rarely suffered from swollen limbs — thanks to herbal medicine. She said veterinary science should include a chapter on elephants for the young graduates, as they have for cows and goats.
“There’s significant work for captive elephants, such as patrolling and protecting rhinos and tigers,” she said, calling on the government to initiate orientation programs for foresters with senior mahouts. “Mahouts might not know English, but they have valuable knowledge. There shouldn’t be an ego problem here.”
Since 2003, Parbati has assumed responsibility as the Chief Elephant Warden of Assam, an honorary position awarded by the state government.
The ancient methods of Mela Sikar and Khedda (in pens or stockades) have now been replaced with tranquilliser guns to catch elephants, mostly for medical treatment and rescues. Parbati wants to revive the lost art of lassoing that doesn’t involve tranquilizer shooting.
If elephants aren’t there, we would cease to exist. We are responsible for conflict situations – we need rail tracks, roads, we want beds made out of teak and mahogany — Parbati Barua
She also suggested starting a mahout training school for Assamese youth, from which qualified mahouts can be absorbed into the forest department.
Parbati called for better human-elephant coexistence. “We’re in their territory and we have to pay the tax. Noise makes them nervous, they get scattered from the herd. That’s when the damage happens,” she said.
Remembering how the jungles of Kachugaon and Raimona were once abundant with rhinos and spotted deer, she said it is important to save both forests and wildlife.
“If elephants aren’t there, we would cease to exist. We are responsible for conflict situations – we need rail tracks, roads, we want beds made out of teak and mahogany…”
In future, Parbati hopes to train a battalion of female mahouts — “if the government supports”.
“Form a team of ten women. In my time, society wasn’t advanced, but my family was unique — all my siblings could ride elephants. You need to be willing, fearless, and ready to sacrifice your life. I’ve done that.”
(Edited by Anurag Chaubey)