Nepal’s tiger population has nearly tripled, earning global praise – but for families eking out a living on the fringes of Banke and Bardiya’s forests, every blade of grass now carries the risk of claws, debt and despair.

In the dusty settlement of Gabhar, of the Rapti Sonari Rural Municipality in Nepal’s Banke district, Pushpa Tamang, 42, sits wrapped in a red shawl on the narrow porch of her modest home. To a passing stranger she looks like any other woman catching the afternoon sun. Only she knows the invisible scars.

A Brutal Encounter in the Community Forest

In June 2019, Pushpa stepped into the nearby Bhawani Community Forest to cut grass for her cattle. Without warning, a Bengal tiger sprang from the undergrowth, slamming into her from behind. Claws raked deep gashes across the left side of her scalp. She collapsed unconscious. Her companions’ frantic screams drove the animal back into the shadows. Rushed to hospital, she needed 60 stitches to close the wounds.

“I might look fine on the outside,” she says quietly, “but only I know the agony I carry within.”

Pushpa survived the attack, yet survival has become its own torment. Chronic headaches, partial paralysis in her left arm and leg, and sudden bouts of unconsciousness have turned everyday tasks into hazards. She cannot be left alone. Cooking becomes dangerous; time slips away from her. Her husband, Mitra Lal Tamang, 45, a carpenter who once worked as a migrant labourer in Malaysia and Qatar, was forced home to become her full-time caregiver.

The first three days of emergency treatment alone cost Rs 50,000. Ongoing medicine runs Rs 3,500 a month, transport to hospital another Rs 1,500. Because Pushpa is extremely sensitive to temperature, the family keeps ice on hand year-round. Their debt has ballooned past Rs 700,000. Their only assets: a small house on unregistered land and four katthas of plot. “I saved my life from the tiger’s mouth,” Pushpa laments, “but living like this is no different from being dead.”

Lives Upended by Injury and Debt

Pushpa’s story is not unique. Across the Tarai, the same pattern repeats. In Bardiya’s Barbardiya Municipality-10, Juna Chaudhary still flinches at the memory of harvesting rice five years ago in broad daylight. A tiger mauled her in an instant. “I was bathed in blood from head to toe,” she recalls. Fifteen days in hospital left her with medical bills exceeding Rs 350,000 and a partially paralysed hand. Her husband, a policeman, supports their family of four on a modest salary. After months of paperwork she received Rs 135,000 in relief from Bardiya National Park – less than half her actual costs.

Nepal’s conservation success is undeniable. The country’s wild tiger numbers have surged from 121 in 2010 to 355 in 2022, fulfilling and exceeding the Global Tiger Recovery Plan’s TX2 goal. Banke National Park now harbours 25 tigers; Bardiya National Park holds 125. Yet this triumph has exacted a human price. In Bardiya alone, 35 people were attacked by tigers between 2016 and 2024. In the fiscal year 2022-23, ten were attacked and six killed.

Echoes of Terror Across the Tarai

The victims are overwhelmingly women and those who venture alone into buffer zones for fodder, firewood and wild vegetables – necessities, not luxuries, for families living on subsistence.

Ajit Tumbahamphe, head of the National Trust for Nature Conservation in Bardiya, calls the rising conflicts “a challenge to conservation”. Tigers do not seek humans, he notes, but growing numbers and shrinking effective habitat increase encounters. Krishna Shah, a nature guide and himself a 2016 tiger-attack survivor, is blunter: “We enthusiastically increased the tiger population, but we never assessed the potential consequences.” He argues the 1973 Wildlife Act is outdated for today’s realities.

Navigating the Bureaucratic Labyrinth

Government relief exists on paper. Under the revised guidelines for distribution of relief against wildlife damage 2023, families of those killed receive Rs 1 million; permanent disability qualifies for Rs 500,000; serious injury up to Rs 200,000. Yet the process is a gauntlet.

Shankar Prasad Gupta, chief of Banke’s Division Forest Office, explains the steps: a police report and ward recommendation within 35 days, followed by medical documents, then approval from sub-division to division office, a special committee, the ministry of forests and environment, and finally the department of national parks and wildlife conservation. Funds trickle back down the same chain. “The money eventually arrives,” Gupta admits, “but the process is painfully slow.” His office holds no autonomous relief fund; every rupee must be requisitioned centrally.

Sushil Subedi, information officer at the same office, concedes the amounts rarely match reality. Private hospital bills and lifelong rehabilitation far exceed official caps. Families sink deeper into debt while waiting.

Conservation’s Unintended Consequences

The irony is stark. Nepal is celebrated internationally for its tiger recovery, yet the very communities living beside the forests – whose daily survival depends on forest resources – bear the cost. Analysis of attacks shows women and lone foragers in buffer zones are most vulnerable.

Conservationist Ashish Chaudhary insists the solution lies beyond merely counting tigers. Habitats must be improved: more grasslands and artificial ponds deep inside forests to keep predators away from human settlements. A single tiger needs roughly four square kilometres, including five hectares of grassland and a dedicated water source. Creating and maintaining such infrastructure costs Rs 1.8 to 2 million per site. “The forest is the wildlife’s home,” Chaudhary says. “We need separate paths for humans and animals. We need fences in high-risk zones.”

There have long been calls for programmes to reduce forest dependency – alternative fodder, energy sources, livelihood options – so that communities living on the fringe do not risk their lives for basic needs.

Paths to Coexistence: Habitat and Livelihood Solutions

Without urgent shifts, the ledger of human suffering will continue to grow alongside the tiger population. Pushpa Tamang’s family, like Juna Chaudhary’s, represents the invisible ledger that international applause rarely mentions: lifelong disability, wiped-out savings, children growing up with absent or overburdened parents.

Mitra Lal Tamang sums up the quiet desperation shared by many: “I have the skills in my hands, but I cannot go to work.” His wife’s monthly medicine and ice are non-negotiable. Their debt mounts. The tiger that nearly killed her still roams the same forest a stone’s throw away.

Image: Hippopx