Neha Sinha: Give otters their riverbanks with sand and grass

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

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, it was 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.

There were lines in the water ahead of me, and they were darkening, coming closer. The line became a shape, and for a brief moment, two otters emerged, bounding with the urgency and energy of creatures graceful on both land and water. On the same walk, I came across signs for “otters crossing”—people were reminded to be mindful of otters on roads, in water and gardens, to not feed, touch or harm them. The manicure of the place was instantly changed by the presence of those wild, vivacious otters—it was evidence that the human and wild citizen could live together.

Globally, Smooth-coated otters are listed as vulnerable. They are threatened by water pollution, conflict with fishermen (they damage nets while hunting fish, the waters a veritable rivalry between the two groups), and like many other wild animals, are also poached illegally. Otter pelts—dense and rainproof—often show up on wildlife contraband hauls. There is also a murky pet demand which trades illicitly in wild otters.

That day near the Ganga river, we saw the otters again. We were looking at Red crested pochards, gadwalls, wigeons and a fat Pallas’s gull—all winter migrants that are well known in the birdwatching tourism economy. But in the water were leaping residents too: otters in their element, hunting.

Field studies show that otters value things we often disregard. Firstly, otters need clean water. When we look at water, we think of a resource, to be piped and poured. But water is a habitat too; and clean water, unpoured with effluent and chemicals, is a better habitat. Secondly, otters require food that we too covet—fresh fish. Conflict is rampant and needs handling and quick compensation. Thirdly, otters are impacted by human industry—much of it unseen by the final consumer. Dams on water, and legal and illegal sand mining serve some in various ways, but deprive the mammals of their very right to exist.

We need a recognition that rivers and wetlands are in fact shared spaces, and when we take, we have to also give back—with informed zoning, no-take areas, ecological flows, and protection and rewilding measures. This brings me to the last point, which is a recognition that the “untidy” is often part of habitat for the wild animal. The untidy could mean fallen logs, crevices and grasses—quite distant from our horticultural imagination of “developing” riverine areas into steps, concrete layers and the removal of reeds and vegetation. Creating canals with steep banks also negatively impacts otters.

A 2021 study by Sayanti Basak et al found that Smooth-coated otters in the Himalayan foothills preferred areas with boulders, grass and sand. An increase in human disturbance and lack of vegetation has a negative impact on otter presence; observations show otters need sandy areas close to water as grooming sites. I have always seen otters emerging suddenly, gambolling, and then shooting off into escapes in reeds or grasses. They need habitat in natural states: not neatened, developed ones.

As we build along and over rivers and pour chemicals into them, it is also worth remembering that both water and the banks belong not just to us, but to animals that are already besieged by other threats. But we are the ones with the agency to change this state of affairs. And we can and should conserve more wildlife and otter stretches on rivers and wetlands.

In the London zoo, otters are a star attraction. Zookeepers throw fish and the otters catch them expertly, shooting up—ostensibly with joy—for their bounty. One sunny afternoon in London, I pointed out Small-clawed otters to my Canadian friend. Look at the old logs, the reeds, the sand, the mud, I told her. Once fed, some otters splashed about in the water, while others disappeared in the cover. “We have these otters in India,” I told her. “And this enclosure is a lot like our river stretches.”

I also remembered then how clever and fierce otters are, perhaps too quicksilver and wilful for the wider world to appreciate. Did you see any otters? my friend asked me. It was a natural question, but I felt smaller by it: I had been to many places, but had hardly seen numerous otters. I knew they weren’t as abundant as they used to be; that they are known to poachers but are without a smidgeon of importance in the popular imagination. In Singapore, otters are doing better after a conscious move to clean waters, and giving the animals right of way. This is part of the way for us too. “Yes, but we need more otters,” I told her.

I thought about the freedom to frolic, to go to one place and end up at another, to roam, to spend a life split between eating and playing, in forging conspecific relationships with the like-minded.

I knew then these wishes weren’t just for the otters. They were also for us.

Neha Sinha is a conservation biologist and author of Wild Capital: Discovering Nature in Delhi.