The Land Was Listening Long Before We Arrived

A Reflection on Stewardship, Development, and Learning to Share the Landscape at the Royal Establishments of Hanumanteshwar

By HH Prince DeAndre, Duke of Hanumanteshwar

When I first became part of the life of Hanumanteshwar, I understood the property largely through the same things most people notice when they arrive somewhere new. I saw the buildings, the river, the trees, the areas being cultivated and the spaces that could one day become something more. I saw history, family, possibility and an enormous amount of work ahead.

What took me longer to understand was that the land already had a life that had nothing to do with our plans for it.

Long before we began deciding where something should be built, where a path should go, how an area might be used or what the next stage of development should look like, animals were already moving through this landscape. They knew where to find water, where to rest, where to hide, where to raise their young and how to move from one part of the property to another.

The longer I have lived with Hanumanteshwar, the more that realization has changed the way I think about stewardship.

We may be responsible for the Royal Establishments of Hanumanteshwar, but responsibility is not the same thing as believing that everything here exists for us.

Sometimes the first responsibility of stewardship is simply learning to pay attention.

Learning to See What Was Already Here

One of the easiest animals to notice at Hanumanteshwar is the gray langur.

They move through the trees and around the buildings with a confidence that immediately tells you they understand this landscape differently than we do. I have watched mothers carrying their babies, groups traveling together and individual langurs sitting quietly above human activity as though they were observing us just as carefully as we were observing them.

They were never invited here.

They were not placed here for visitors.

They are wild animals living within a landscape that also happens to contain our homes, buildings and daily routines.

That distinction matters to me.

It is easy to look at wildlife from a human-centered perspective and say that an animal has "come onto the property." But the more time I spend at Hanumanteshwar, the more I question that language. A langur moving through a tree may not be entering our space at all. We may have built our space inside a landscape it already knew.

The same lesson becomes even clearer along the Narmada.

For us, the river is part of the beauty and identity of Hanumanteshwar. It shapes the atmosphere of the property and connects us to a much larger landscape beyond our boundaries.

For crocodiles, the river means something very different.

It is habitat.

Over the years we have seen crocodiles along the river environment, including areas associated with nesting and young crocodiles basking near the water. Those encounters have always required caution. A crocodile is not something to approach casually or romanticize simply because we appreciate nature.

But recognizing danger does not require pretending the animal does not belong there.

The river existed before our plans for the land, and the animals that depend upon it are part of that story.

The Wildlife We Do Not Always See

Some of the most important residents of Hanumanteshwar are far less visible.

Monitor lizards appear and disappear. Snakes can occupy an area without anyone realizing they are there. Pythons and cobras are part of a landscape where vegetation, water, agricultural activity and wild habitat exist alongside one another. Wild boars move through the property, sometimes as family groups with their young following behind them.

Then there are the leopards.

A leopard changes the conversation immediately because coexistence becomes more than an idea.

We have known leopards to move through the grounds. Dogs have been taken. We have seen that even fencing designed by people does not necessarily create the kind of boundary that wildlife recognizes. There was also an area behind what had once been the cow shed where we came to believe a leopard was repeatedly resting.

That observation stayed with me.

To us, that area carried a human history. It had been connected to cattle, work and the changing use of the property.

To a leopard, it may simply have offered quiet, shelter and cover.

The same land can mean two completely different things at the same time.

That may sound obvious, but it has become one of the most important lessons I have learned at Hanumanteshwar.

Human Maps Are Not the Only Maps

Human beings organize land by drawing lines.

We create property boundaries. We install fences. We decide that one section is residential, another is agricultural, another is recreational and another might someday be developed.

We make maps, plans and categories because that is how we organize our world.

Wildlife follows another map entirely.

Animals follow water.

They follow food.

They follow temperature, breeding cycles, shelter and instinct.

They follow paths that may have existed long before the structures around them.

A leopard does not know that an area has been designated for human use. A snake does not understand that a structure has changed purpose. A wild boar does not recognize ownership documents or the line where one parcel of land ends and another begins.

Their map is written through movement.

We may not be able to see that map on paper, but tracks, repeated sightings, nests, resting areas and encounters begin to reveal it.

Once you understand that, development looks different.

Development Is Also an Ecological Decision

Hanumanteshwar is a living establishment, not a property frozen in time.

Development has been necessary and will continue to be necessary.

People live here. People work here. Infrastructure is required. Sanitation, water systems, access, safety and maintenance all require decisions about how the land is used.

Even something as practical as determining where septic systems should be placed changes the physical environment around them.

Every decision has an effect.

Removing vegetation may also remove cover.

Adding lighting may change what happens in an area at night.

Installing or modifying fencing may interrupt an animal route.

Increasing activity in one section may push wildlife into another.

Changing drainage, vegetation or access to water may alter patterns we have not yet fully understood.

That does not mean development should stop.

It means development should listen.

There is an important difference between the two.

Responsible development does not require us to leave every inch of land untouched. It requires us to recognize that we are making decisions inside an existing living system.

When an Empty Space Is Not Empty

One of the biggest changes in my thinking has been understanding how easily humans misread land.

We look at an area of tall grass and call it unused.

We see a cluster of trees and imagine what might be built there.

We look at an old structure and think about what it could become.

We see agricultural land and think primarily about what it produces for people.

But another species may see shelter.

A predator may see a resting place.

A bird may see nesting habitat.

A snake may see protection from heat and exposure.

A small animal may see the vegetation that keeps it alive.

Sometimes what looks empty to us is already occupied.

Sometimes what looks unused is already serving a purpose.

That does not automatically mean nothing can change. It means we should understand what exists before deciding what should replace it.

There is wisdom in observing a landscape before attempting to improve it.

Rethinking Who Has a Stake in the Land

In business and governance, we often use the word "stakeholder."

A stakeholder is someone affected by a decision. Someone whose interests should be understood before major choices are made.

Living at Hanumanteshwar has made me think about that word differently.

There are obviously human stakeholders here. There is family. There are staff members, guests, volunteers and community members. There are people involved in the long-term future of the establishment and the programs connected to it.

There are domesticated animals whose safety depends upon decisions we make.

But there are other lives being affected by those decisions as well.

The langurs do not attend planning meetings.

The leopard cannot object to a new fence.

The crocodile cannot explain why a particular section of riverbank matters.

The python cannot tell us what vegetation provides shelter.

Wildlife communicates differently.

Animals move.

They return.

They disappear.

They leave tracks.

They establish patterns.

Sometimes they force us to notice them only when an encounter becomes impossible to ignore.

Part of stewardship, I believe, is learning to recognize those signals before conflict becomes the only way we understand them.

Coexistence Does Not Mean Ignoring Danger

It is important not to turn coexistence into sentimentality.

Wildlife is wild.

A leopard is a predator.

A crocodile is immensely powerful.

Cobras require serious caution.

Wild boars can be dangerous.

Large snakes and monitor lizards deserve space and respect.

Protecting people matters.

Protecting staff matters.

Protecting guests matters.

Protecting domestic animals matters.

But conservation and safety do not have to exist on opposite sides of the conversation.

Understanding where animals move can improve human safety.

Knowing which areas they repeatedly use can influence development decisions.

Better observation can reduce unnecessary encounters.

Thoughtful landscaping, lighting, waste management and access planning can help reduce conflict without treating every wild animal as something that must automatically be removed.

Sometimes the most responsible response is intervention.

Sometimes it is distance.

Sometimes it is simply leaving enough space for another living thing to continue moving through a landscape it has probably known longer than we have.

Ownership and Stewardship Are Not the Same Thing

Legal ownership gives people rights.

Stewardship asks what we are going to do with those rights.

That difference matters.

When people acquire or inherit responsibility for land, there is often a natural tendency to think about potential.

What can we build?

How can we use this area?

What can this property become?

Those are reasonable questions.

I have simply learned that another question should come before them.

What is this place already doing?

Before clearing a section of land, what uses it?

Before increasing lighting, what moves there at night?

Before changing a riverbank, what depends upon it?

Before deciding that an animal is entering our space, did we build across a space that animal was already using?

Those questions require patience because the answers are not always immediately visible.

They also require humility.

The land does not always reveal itself according to our timetable.

Listening Before Changing

Hanumanteshwar will continue evolving.

That is part of its future.

The Royal Establishments are connected to history, family, community, service and a vision that continues to grow. They should not remain frozen simply because the landscape also contains wildlife.

But I hope our development becomes increasingly informed by what we have learned from the land itself.

We can remember where animals have repeatedly appeared.

We can document sightings rather than treating them as isolated events.

We can consider wildlife when planning fencing, lighting, landscaping, water systems, waste systems and new construction.

We can pay attention to the places where human activity and wildlife movement overlap.

And sometimes we can decide that an area does not need to become anything more than what it already is.

That, too, can be a form of development.

Development of understanding.

What the Land Has Taught Me

I have spent years watching Hanumanteshwar change.

During that time, I have also changed.

I am less interested now in the idea that responsible stewardship means controlling every part of a landscape.

I am more interested in understanding the relationships already taking place within it.

The langurs moving through the trees.

The crocodiles along the Narmada.

The wild boars traveling with their young.

The snakes disappearing into vegetation.

The monitor lizards crossing between spaces.

The leopard finding quiet behind an old cow shed.

Each encounter tells us something about the property that an architectural drawing cannot.

It tells us that Hanumanteshwar existed as a living landscape before we began imagining its future.

Our responsibility is not simply to decide what comes next.

It is to understand what is already here well enough that what comes next does not require us to erase everything that came before it.

There will never be a perfect balance.

People will continue living here.

Buildings will change.

Community programs will grow.

Infrastructure will be built and maintained.

Wildlife will continue moving according to patterns that do not always align with ours.

There will be moments of tension, surprise and occasionally danger.

Stewardship is not the elimination of those realities.

It is learning how to hold them together responsibly.

The longer I know Hanumanteshwar, the more convinced I become that land does not have to speak in words to tell us what it needs.

Sometimes it leaves tracks.

Sometimes it returns to the same resting place.

Sometimes it moves through the trees above us.

Sometimes it appears along the river.

Sometimes it simply waits quietly in a place we had mistaken for empty.

The land was listening long before we arrived.

Maybe stewardship begins when we decide to listen back.