The gaur drifts through the field with an expression of bovine content.
It pauses, bends down and wrenches a mouthful of grass. Then it raises its head and sniffs the air; it turns and looks at us, watching it from the jeep, briefly, before turning back to its pasturing: we are not of concern to it.
From the distance it seems docile, the horns on its head ornamental, even. But these animals are wild. Missteps too close to them kill people each year, because docility does not belong in nature. They are wild and strong and beautiful, as they should be.
Its rippling muscles are highlighted by the light for a moment, and the image of them does not leave my head even as we drive away.