Extracts from My Interview and Reflections on the Film
How does your film contribute to the already existing knowledge of the debates concerned with ecology?
My film contributes to ecological debates by reframing conservation as a multi-stakeholder issue rather than a singular focus on wildlife numbers. While much of the existing discourse emphasizes species protection, my documentary highlights the often-overlooked consequences of such strategies when human communities are excluded. Wildlife numbers are increasing due to successful conservation programs such as Project Tiger, but forest areas remain limited and constant. As a result, growing tiger populations not only come into confrontation with human communities living on the fringes of these habitats but also with one another, as limited territory fuels increased intra-species conflict. These pressures push animals closer to villages, leading to casualties and loss of crops and livestock. Ignoring local communities fosters distrust against the system and retaliation against wild animals, ultimately undermining conservation itself.
By using Tadoba as a case study, a frontrunner in human–animal conflict, the film situates the issue within a global ecological context. As conservation successes multiply worldwide, similar conflicts are likely to emerge, making policy frameworks that include human communities an urgent ecological need. The film also calls for conservation models that move away from restrictive rules and instead empower local people as active partners. Examples from tiger conflicts in India and elephants damaging village wells in Namibia illustrate that lasting solutions require tangible benefits for communities, such as through tourism or local incentives.
“A thriving population of over 300 tigers in Tadoba means very little if there are 55 human deaths in a single year due to tiger attacks.”
What are the concerns which drive your preoccupation with human–animal conflict?
My awareness of human–animal conflict started when I was a child. At my grandparents’ farm near the Pilibhit tiger reserve, where tiger numbers were slowly recovering in the 2010s, life was always lived with an almost palpable sense of fear. I was repeatedly told never to go to the fields alone, and workers leaving after dusk would worry about wild animals on the way. These early experiences made it clear to me that living alongside predators wasn’t an abstract, distant idea but a constant, real negotiation between staying safe and carrying on with daily life.
Growing up, I used to visit national parks all over India with my family and have experienced life in and around these parks firsthand. This concern grew deeper when I started working in villages around Tadoba, the global hotspot for man-animal conflict. I volunteered on a leopard-village conflict reduction scheme, and there I heard stories like that of Bandu Dhotre, a wildlife activist, who described living near the reserve as being in a “lockdown,” not because of a disease, but because of the constant fear of tigers. Daily wage workers avoided travelling between villages, children couldn’t go to school, and even simple things like going to the fields for work became difficult. The fear wasn’t something people talked about—it was something they lived every day.
Alongside the fear, the economic pressures were just as striking. Farmers who work hard to grow their crops often lose everything overnight to wild boars or deer. Compensation hardly makes up for the loss, and delays only fuel frustration. When cattle are killed, families lose more than an animal—they lose the very oxen that plough their fields, putting their entire season’s livelihood at risk. One villager described it as “lava beneath a volcano,” a slow-building resentment that stays hidden until it erupts in tragedy, protests or retaliation.
These experiences made me realise that conservation cannot be judged simply by the number of animals in an area. A thriving population of over 300 tigers in Tadoba means very little if 55 human deaths in a single year destroy the trust of the communities living nearby. Similarly, as I experienced in Namibia while volunteering to build walls around village wells to prevent elephant–human conflict, when desert elephants in their relentless search for water destroy the only sources that villages depend on, resentment grows. Conservation policies that focus only on protecting animals while ignoring the struggles of local people will not work in the long term.
I am an animal conservationist at heart. What drives me is the belief that conservation has to consider everyone involved for it to truly succeed. My documentary Roar and Resiliencereflects this belief by showing that ecological debates cannot remain species-centric. Unless the voices of those living on the fringes of wildlife are heard and respected, and development policies around the park include proper corridors and habitats for wildlife, conservation efforts will only create mistrust and conflict. True sustainability comes from coexistence, protecting wildlife while also safeguarding the dignity and well-being of the people who live on the boundary of nature and civilisation.
The tiger reserve that you used as a case study is an important region and there are many others. Why did you choose that reserve in particular?
Having grown up visiting India’s national parks and later volunteering abroad with EHRA in Namibia for navigating conflict between humans and animals, I wanted to highlight the struggles of communities living on the fringes of wildlife sanctuaries. I chose Tadoba-Andhari Tiger Reserve because it is one of the world’s hotspots for human–tiger conflict. With one person killed by tiger attacks almost every week, Tadoba epitomizes both the success of tiger conservation and the acute challenges that success creates for nearby communities. My prior volunteering experiences with ECO-PRO, a local NGO based in Chandrapur (Tadoba), gave me the access and insight needed to tell this story authentically.
“Bhavani had gone to the fields at dawn and never returned. Her story is one of many that reveal the human cost of coexistence.”
“Ignoring local communities fosters distrust against the system and retaliation against wild animals, ultimately undermining conservation itself.”
“Tadoba is a microcosm of the larger struggle between conservation success and social justice.”
Was it easy to communicate with people who live in the areas around the reserve?
Communication was one of the hardest aspects of the project. I interviewed local villagers, village heads, forest guards, government officials, NGOs, filmmakers, and tourist guides. Many officials and villagers were hesitant to speak on record, fearing controversy. Interviews often required repeated visits, countless phone calls, and a slow process of building trust. The language barrier also meant relying on interpreters to bridge Marathi and Hindi. But once trust was established, the conversations became deeply personal and moving.
As the interviews began, the emotional weight of what I was asking became clear. The film was, at its heart, about the tragic loss villagers had suffered through tiger attacks. I was asking bereaved families to revisit their most painful memories—not for their own sake, but for the purpose of my film. I had to approach each conversation with deep sensitivity and care. I will never forget one interview with a particular group of villagers:
Chickens clawed the earth, and the bells of the local temple rang out. In each resolute eye, there was an air of loss, which I did not need the Marathi to Hindi interpreter to understand. Towards the end of the encounter, one man cleared his throat and introduced himself as Haridas. One balmy day, he told us, his mother, Bhavani, went out alone to work in the cotton fields. But in the evening, she did not come home. A search party tracked her for more than a mile before finding her. She had succumbed to the wounds inflicted by a tiger.
I could never fathom this man’s suffering. But in the final film, his quiet words spoke the loudest. When I named it Roar and Resilience, I was thinking of him.
Can you please elaborate on how the sophisticated technology you have used was necessary for your film?
In truth, the film relied less on sophisticated technology and more on determination, planning, and the generosity of others. I built relationships with local people who guided me to key locations, and some rare footage came directly from villagers who captured incidents in real time. A local guide even offered his drone, which allowed us to include striking aerial shots.
I rented essential equipment such as cameras, microphones, tripods, and lights, and worked with a small team of two cameramen. Over 21 days across three visits to Tadoba, we filmed from early mornings to capture golden hours of filming and peak wildlife activity time. In between, I kept modifying my script and writing new interview questions according to the situations we encountered each day. In total, we gathered over 60 hours of interviews and B-roll of villages, landscapes, and daily life, which added up to nearly 3TB of material. I had to buy expensive extra storage devices to manage it all.
Extreme heat often caused our cameras to overheat, forcing us to retake the same shots many times. On some days, with temperatures reaching 47°C, sweat clouded my vision and even simple narration became exhausting. At the same time, there was the constant fear of wildlife. We filmed on foot in areas where tiger attacks were possible, and sloth bears, known for their unprovoked aggression, were an ever-present danger. Several times, I had to face the camera with my back to dense jungle, fully aware of the risks.
Over 60 hours of footage had to be edited down to 30 minutes that comprised the final film. The editing process, done using Premiere Pro and After Effects, took two months and required immense focus. The software handled the technique, but what held it together was persistence.
“We filmed on foot in areas with fresh pug marks and a constant fear of an attack.”