I can remember only one instance when Rom let me walk ahead of him in a forest. That was more than a decade ago in Havelock, Andaman Islands. It was mid-morning when I came upon a green snake on the path and I exclaimed, “Look!” Rom ordered urgently, “Catch it.” But by that time, the snake had whizzed past. A few minutes later, there was another snake on the path and I couldn't help myself. “Look,” I cried. An exasperated Rom demanded, “Instead of saying “Look,” why can't you jump on it first? I can always ‘look' later.”
Leaping on snakes is not hardwired into my reflexes and I was defensive. “Why do you have to go after every snake you see?” I demanded. “Can't you just watch it? Do tiger people catch every tiger they see?” He replied, “It's impossible to watch snakes like you would mammals. And the only way to identify the species is to catch and examine it.”
That's true. Many species look identical, while some species come in a range of colours and patterns. Hence herpetologists (those who study reptiles) do not usually trust the looks of a snake. If anyone had the temerity to describe, “I saw a brown snake with bands,” the experts would retort disdainfully, “There are so many; what's the scalation?”
During the early days of my association with Rom, I'd often step into his office and overhear a group of snake people engaged deeply in conversation. This is how it would go.
“The pre-frontal is fused with the loreal.”
“Are the 3rd and 4th supralabials touching the eye?”
“It has one anterior temporal.”
“What are the scale row counts?”
“17:17:15, 170 ventrals, anal divided, 50 subcaudals.”
It sounded vaguely like English. Eventually I learnt experts count the number of scales in a row, down the length of the belly, and examine their arrangement on the head in order to identify the species. No allowances are made to this hands-on approach to identification even when dealing with venomous species.
For instance, herpetologists cannot identify some species of pit vipers by looking at the scales alone. The only way to tell one from the other is by everting the hemipenis (snakes have two joined at the base) which looks like a sado-masochistic tool – covered in spines, bumps, cups, calyces, and folds. Or it may be boringly smooth. I fear for the sanity of the nerdy herpetologist who catches a female of one of these troublesome species. He may never be able to tell her apart from her cousin, that's enough to drive him battier still.
In their efforts to classify and organise snake species, herpetologists will go to tortuous extremes. In June 1947, Angus Hutton, a nineteen-year-old tea planter working in the High Wavy Mountains of the Western Ghats, discovered two young grassy-green pit vipers wriggling their little red tails amongst the leaf litter. Some snakes use this trick to attract frogs and lizards. When the prey comes close, the vipers shoot out and sink their fangs. Two years later, Malcolm Smith, the father of Indian herpetology, described the two as a new species and named them after its discoverer. Since then no other specimen of Hutton's pit viper has been found. This is unusual but not unheard of.
But strangely, not only is this pit viper's closest relative found in Southeast Asia, it is identical to Wagler's pit viper in looks and scalation. We don't know what the former's hemipenis looks like as the specimen hasn't been dissected. The only distinguishing character: the tail of one is longer than the other. Woe betides the herpetologist who finds one with a tail almost the same length as the related species. I, for one, am convinced that the obsession with scales, hemipenis and tail lengths warrants classifying snake people as a different species. Besides, I have caught one and examined him in fairly great detail.
