In bilateral dynamics, some ideas arrive quietly; others come screaming out for attention not because they solve problems but because they reveal how power chooses to imagine them. The alleged Indian proposal to use crocodiles and venomous snakes as instruments of border security between Bangladesh and India was once easy to dismiss as a moment of bureaucratic excess, a stray thought that wandered too far from reason. But in the aftermath of West Bengal’s dramatic electoral transformation, that idea begins to look less like an anomaly and more like a metaphor for a changing political logic.
The landslide victory of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in West Bengal has done more than redraw the state’s political map. It is set to reshape the language of governance, particularly on issues that lie at the intersection of identity and territory. Borders, once treated as complex spaces of interaction, are increasingly being recast as hardened lines of defence. In such an atmosphere, even crocodiles and snakes begin to sound less absurd and more like misunderstood policy advisors waiting for their moment.
At first glance, the idea retains its dark comedic appeal. One imagines reptiles silently patrolling wetlands, embodying a form of organic surveillance that requires neither salary nor accountability. It is a vision that would have comfortably belonged to satire, perhaps even rejected for being too exaggerated. The deeper one examines the political climate that has followed the West Bengal election, the more this imagination begins to align with a broader shift towards spectacle-driven security.
The border between Bangladesh and India is not a static entity that accepts human attempts at permanence. Rivers meander, lands flood, and communities continue their lives with little regard for lines drawn on maps. Managing such a border has always required patience, cooperation, and willingness to accept ambiguity. The crocodile-and-snake proposal, however, offers a different philosophy. It replaces management with menace, suggesting that uncertainty can be solved by introducing greater unpredictability.
Crocodiles, it must be noted, do not subscribe to national interests. They do not pause mid-swim to verify documentation, nor do snakes politely distinguish between categories of human movement. Their loyalty, if it can be called that, is to instinct rather than sovereignty. But the proposal seems to imagine them as disciplined agents of the state, enforcing boundaries with a commitment that human institutions often struggle to maintain.
The recent electoral developments in West Bengal lend this projection a new layer of meaning. Campaign rhetoric that emphasised infiltration, demographic anxiety, and the urgency of securing the border has now been validated by the right-wing BJP’s electoral success. When such narratives gain legitimacy, they reshape the boundaries of what is considered acceptable policy thinking. The crocodile ceases to be a joke and becomes a symbol, a convenient representation of a desire for absolute control over a fundamentally uncontrollable space. This is where satire begins to blur into reality. The idea of weaponising nature reflects a deeper discomfort with complexity. It suggests that the problem is not merely illegal crossings or administrative challenges, but the existence of fluidity itself. Rivers that change course become suspect; wetlands that resist fencing appear almost conspiratorial. In such a worldview, introducing predators is not just about security but about imposing a sense of finality on a landscape that refuses to be fixed.
There is also a certain philosophical elegance, albeit unintended, in this approach. By deploying animals that recognise no borders, the policy inadvertently mirrors the very phenomenon it seeks to control. Just as people move across boundaries for survival, opportunity, or necessity, these creatures move according to their own logic, indifferent to human constructs. The attempt to harness them for sovereign purposes exposes the fragility of the concept itself. Sovereignty, it seems, requires constant reinforcement precisely because it is never fully secure.
Of course, there are practical concerns that stubbornly refuse to disappear. Ecosystems do not operate according to political directives. Introducing or concentrating predatory species in sensitive environments can trigger unintended consequences, disrupt ecological balances, and endanger local communities. But practicality has rarely been the driving force behind symbolic policies. The value of the crocodile lies not in its effectiveness, but in its ability to signal resolve.
For border communities, however, such signals translate into lived realities. These are regions where livelihoods depend on access to land and water, where daily life is already shaped by uncertainty. Transforming these spaces into zones of heightened danger, whether through aggressive security measures or imaginative wildlife deployment, risks deepening vulnerability. It replaces governance with anxiety, turning ordinary existence into a constant negotiation with risk.
So the irony here is difficult to ignore. In attempting to assert control over the border, the state is considering relinquishing control to forces that cannot be governed. It is a curious inversion of authority, where sovereignty is expressed through dependence on unpredictability. The crocodile becomes both guardian and reminder, a living testament to the limits of human control.
In the end, the story of crocodiles, snakes, and sovereignty is not about reptiles or even borders. It is about the evolving relationship between power and imagination. When faced with challenges that resist easy solutions, societies reveal their priorities through the ideas they entertain. Some choose engagement, investing in cooperation and long-term thinking. Others gravitate towards symbols that promise immediate clarity, even at the cost of coherence.
Recent thinking in India, particularly West Bengal, suggests that the latter path is likely gaining ground. The crocodile waits patiently in this narrative, not as a solution, but as a symbol of a worldview that prefers spectacle to strategy. Whether it becomes something more tangible will depend on how far this imagination is allowed to travel.
H.M. Nazmul Alam teaches at the International University of Business Agriculture and Technology (IUBAT). He can be reached at [email protected].
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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