One April, I found myself standing in the dust and heat of an elephant stable in southern Nepal, unaware that I was about to encounter a partnership that would quietly change everything I had previously experienced regarding working human–elephant relationships in the area. I had been working alongside another researcher whose focus was on the bonds between elephants and their mahouts, and I wanted to introduce her to several colleagues at the National Trust for Nature Conservation. Among them was a wildlife technician known affectionately as Mr. Larina, a man whose enthusiasm for all species was matched only by his talent for storytelling.
When Larina learned of our interest in elephants and co-working relationships, his eyes lit up. He told us he had something special to show us and immediately led us toward another elephant stable, where patrol elephants were housed when not working in the forest. As we approached, we noticed a man walking calmly toward a shower house. A young elephant followed a few paces behind him, matching his movements. When the man paused, the elephant paused. When he turned, the elephant turned. Even when the man stepped inside the shower house, the elephant attempted to follow (but was refused entry), as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
Larina called out, and the pair turned toward us. He introduced them as Gurju, a government mahout, and Sanani Gaj, a young male elephant. Male elephants in Nepal are given the surname Gaj, in deference to Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu God. Gurju gestured for us to sit on chairs inside one of the open stables. Once we were seated, he handed Sanani a flower lei. Without hesitation, the elephant walked directly toward us. I remember a flash of nervous laughter and anxiety as I realized just how large his tusks were and how close they were coming to my head. I tried to remain still, as Mr. Larina had never previously put me at risk. Sanani gently placed the lei over my neck and dropped the tip of his trunk against my shoulder in what Gurju explained was a blessing.
What struck me immediately was not only the fear, followed by gentleness in the moment, but what was absent from it. There was no shouting, no stick, no hook, no visible force. Gurju did not touch Sanani at all. Instead, he used a small whistle, producing short, soft cues that the elephant responded to quietly. I was stunned. In that instant, it appeared I was watching an elephant trained entirely without punishment, in a country where dominance-based methods are widely considered the only viable approach.
Gurju (allegedly) spoke little English, so Larina and a supervising mahout helped translate as we sat down to talk. The story that followed was not one of deliberate innovation, but of improvisation and necessity. Sanani, it turned out, was one of Nepal’s rare twin elephants, born at the breeding center near Chitwan. His brother was born first, and handlers believed the birth was over. Several hours later, Sanani arrived, unexpectedly and immediately famous. Tourists flocked to see the twins, and their mother was treated with unusual reverence.
As a male born at the breeding center, Sanani was destined for g patrol work. Normally, he would have begun training when he was still very young. But staff shortages delayed this process, and by the time he was assigned to Gurju, Sanani was already seven years old—far older than most elephants beginning formal training. Gurju had previously worked with Sanani’s twin, but a death in his family took him away for a period. When he returned, he was paired with Sanani instead.
The turning point came because of another elephant in the stable, a female who despised Gurju. If she heard his voice, she would demonstrate her discomfort—throwing objects, damaging the stable, and appearing to attack Gurju. Soon, her aggression extended to Sanani simply because he was so closely associated with Gurju. To avoid provoking her, Gurju simply stopped speaking entirely while nearby. In the silence, he discovered that Sanani responded readily to nonverbal cues: clapping, gestures, and eventually the sound of a whistle. When Sanani followed these cues, Gurju rewarded him with affection, treats, and calm attention.
There was no grand theory behind it for Gurju. He did not know that what he was doing resembled positive reinforcement training as practiced in Western zoos. He and Sanani simply adapted to avoid being placed in a dangerous situation. When I explained that this approach was well established elsewhere, Gurju was genuinely shocked. To him, it was not a method—it was the natural extension of a relationship.
After our formal interview ended, the supervisor and Larina stepped away. Gurju stayed behind and quietly asked me to remain. In fluent English, he explained that other mahouts mocked him for his approach to working with Sanani. They believed force was the only way to ensure elephant obedience and therefore, their own safety. Gurju listened to their teasing but refused to
change. He and Sanani worked just as hard as any other pair, and in his mind, that was proof enough that ‘their’ method was effective.
Over the years, Gurju has kept me updated on Sanani’s life. When I returned to Nepal in 2019, I visited them again. We sat together on the grass, and Sanani stood nearby, rumbling softly as Gurju spoke. At one point, I felt the vibration of his voice resonate through my chest, an involuntary gasp escaping me. It felt less like an interview and more like a conversation in which
all three parties were participating.
Not everything was idyllic, however. Sanani had grown to his adult size, and during work hours he was chained by one foot in the stable, in accordance with typical local practice. Gurju explained that when Sanani was off duty, he still had the freedom to follow him, but more rules had been enforced as the elephant grew. The teasing from other mahouts continued, though visitors were increasingly supportive of Gurju’s non-dominance methods. Guests were often
brought specifically to see Sanani, and their interest brought Gurju pride and resentment from his peers (but a good deal of ‘tips’ to his pocket).
Gurju believes working forestry and patrol elephants live better lives than privately owned ones in Nepal. They spend long hours in the forest, have access to rivers, fresh forage, and days off to graze freely. Yet uncertainty hangs over the pairs future. Sanani is still young and has not yet experienced musth, the intense hormonal period that can make adult males unpredictable. Gurju
hopes their bond and communication will carry them through it, though he admits there are no guarantees. Gurju fears that Sanani may become simply too large, and too independent, to ‘handle.’
When I asked whether he would use the same non-dominant training methods with another elephant, Gurju laughed. Sanani, he said, was special. What worked with him might not work with anyone else, so he didn’t intend to try. It was a moment that left me conflicted—hopeful about what was possible, and acutely aware of how fragile such possibilities are.
Watching Gurju and Sanani together, it is clear their relationship is different. Sanani is allowed more agency, more expression, and more freedom than most elephants in similar roles. Gurju, in turn, seems calmer and less burdened by the constant need to assert dominance. Their partnership is not perfect, nor is it a simple model to replicate. But it stands as a quiet reminder that care, patience, and mutual respect can emerge even in the most unlikely circumstances.
Sanani’s story is not just about one elephant or one mahout. It is about adaptation, chance, and the small acts of kindness that can reshape lives. In a system built on violence and control, Gurju and Sanani found another way—one whistle and one step at a time.
