Reflections from rescues #310, #311 and #312

Three rescues.
Less than 24 hours.
Two Spectacled Cobras and a hefty Russell’s Viper.

The first was a Russell’s Viper from a village nearly 30 kilometres away. That took a good 3 hours (2 hrs drive), navigating anxious people, tricky terrain and a non-cooperative large Viper. 

The second was a cobra that had slipped past us five days ago at a construction site. We’d searched high and low, then reluctantly called it off. This time, we found it — half-buried in the soil, as if hoping to disappear into the earth itself. It took a coordinated dig with some very puzzled but helpful construction workers.

The third was another baby cobra, at a construction site with curious onlookers.

And yet… not a murmur.

No curious questions. No reactions. No one wanting to know what happened. No “Well done.”
Just — silence.

Which made me wonder:
Has rescuing snakes become so normal for others that they don’t even register it anymore?

Back when I started, every rescue felt like a personal Everest. I’d talk about it. People would ask. Some would even cheer me on. Now, 310 rescues later, the silence is louder. The same act — which hasn’t gotten any easier, by the way — has become… ordinary?

Worse, has it become that normal for me?

I used to feel my heart pound at the mention of a big viper. I would’ve laughed in disbelief if you told me years ago I’d be picking up cobras with my own hands, calmly. Now I just drive, rescue, release, and get on with the day.

It reminded me of something else. The red-whiskered bulbul. Possibly one of the most charming birds around. Red cheeks, mohawk, attitude. Found in almost every garden in South India. And because it’s always there, no birder gives it a second look. Forget photographs. It might as well be invisible.

But say there’s a Bluethroat spotted somewhere. A drab little fellow (some birders are not going to like this) with a tiny patch of blue on its throat. The birding community will drive hours, cross state lines, camp out for a single sighting. Why? Because it’s rare.

We’re wired like that, aren’t we?

Familiarity doesn’t just breed contempt. It breeds indifference.

And it’s not just birds. Or snakes. Or rescues.

It’s friends we’ve always had. A family that always shows up. The ability to breathe without pain. The fact that there’s clean water in the tap. Or that someone checks in on you without an agenda. Or that you still have the knees to go up a hill if you wanted to.

We’re surrounded by gifts disguised as constants.

Until they vanish.

Until the bulbul stops singing.
Until the call for help doesn’t come.
Until the friend gets tired of reaching out.
Until the ordinary reveals its worth by its absence.

Maybe that’s the real rescue — learning to appreciate what’s always been there.