I’ve been birding for five years now and rescuing snakes for over three. That’s enough time for patterns to emerge. Enough to sense not just change, but disappearance. Not the loud, announced kind—but the quiet fading out of species you suddenly realise you haven’t seen in a while. The pipits. The larks. The Spotted Owlets. Gone, not in drama—but in silence.

You’d think I live in a concrete jungle. But no, I live in what is often considered the “outskirts.” A thoughtfully planned community, GoodEarth Malhar, which genuinely tries to leave space for flora and fauna. And yet—even here, in this harmony of design and nature—I find myself running out of places to release snakes. Open plots are now sealed. Vacant spaces have turned into villas. Coconut groves into clubhouses.

Just last month, I was releasing a snake into what used to be a common release patch—a vacant plot filled with dry coconut trees, a favourite for Owlets, Barbets, Mynas, and Parakeets. As I gently slid the snake into the underbrush, a man walked up and asked, politely but firmly, “Could you please release it far away? There’s a church here.”

Right. Because God loves all creatures, except if they slither far far away.

How far is far enough when every direction is shrinking?

Even Dead Trees Are Alive

Those dry coconut trees? To us, they may look like expired landscaping. But to the birds, they are real estate gold. Owls nest in the hollows. Barbets drill homes in the dead bark. Even decay serves a purpose in nature.

Meanwhile, we humans cut down the dead because it “looks untidy.”
Do we use anything that’s dead?
We bury it. We burn it. Or we label it “waste.”
Nature doesn’t do that. It composts. Recycles. Reclaims. A dead tree becomes a condo. A fallen branch becomes furniture for beetles.

But what if—just what if—we flipped the blueprint?

Reimagining Cities: Designed by the Species We Ignore

Let’s run a little experiment in absurdity (or maybe foresight): What if our cities were designed, not around our convenience, but around the movement patterns of other species?

Each species has its own logic, flow, and purpose. Instead of zoning by commercial and residential use, we zone by crawlspace, wingspan, or pheromone trail.

Here’s how that might look.

Snake Urbanism

The serpentine city

• Roads? No, thanks. Winding, shaded corridors instead.
• Pavements are layered with cool stone and moist mulch.
• No sudden vibrations. No drilling after 8 AM.
• Every building comes with a “sun slab” for regulated basking.
• Drainage pipes are for slithering, not choking.

A city of sinuous lanes that curve through clusters of trees and open courtyards. No edges, just movement.

Bird-Centric Design

Where balconies are for more than potted money plants

• No high-rises taller than the average canopy.
• Buildings come with built-in mud patches and nesting ledges.
• Only native trees allowed within a 100-meter radius.
• Sound pollution is measured by decibels and decency—horns replaced by bird call imitation alerts.

Every street lined with fruiting trees. Your window view? Not skyscrapers. But parakeets.

Ant Architecture

Decentralised, efficient, and absolutely no U-turns

• Every road has at least three exits.
• No VIP lanes. No flyovers to nowhere.
• Waste is repurposed instantly.
• Communication lines are underground and organic.

A hyper-connected labyrinth of lanes that’s chaos-proof, ego-free, and built entirely on cooperation.

The Elephant Clause

Corridors that can’t be bought, sold, or blocked

• Wide, uninterrupted ground-level passages.
• Humans take the overpasses.
• Weekly reports to track corridor violations.
• Real estate ads now read: “Near Elephant Way. Corridor Compliant.”

A map where the widest roads are green corridors, not expressways.

This Isn’t Just a Thought Experiment

It’s easy to treat this as a clever fantasy, a fun way to jab at bad town planning. But behind the satire lies a creeping urgency. Our cities are not designed for life. They’re designed for immediate human needs. Movement of vehicles, not species. Parking slots, not perches.

The irony is this: we market gated communities with butterfly parks and “nature-themed” playgrounds, while simultaneously cutting down the very trees that gave butterflies a reason to show up. We outsource co-existence to landscaping firms.

If I, just one guy with binoculars and a snake hook, can feel the change in five years—what must the squirrels, kites, frogs and snakes be sensing?

Design for Life, Not Just Lifestyle

There’s no need to romanticise going back to the forest. But there is a desperate need to reimagine the cities we’re building—at speed, and at scale.

Urban development doesn’t have to mean extinction by blueprint.

It can mean cohabitation by design.

We just have to ask different questions:

• Where does the bird sit?
• Where does the snake bask?
• Where does the elephant pass?
• Where do the ants escape to?

Until then, we’ll keep calling every rescue a rescue.
When really, we’re just rescuing them from ourselves.