Riding on the back of a Tiger Survivor - BANDHAVGARH

 Riding on the back of a tiger survivor

BANDHAVGARH

ASHIM CHOUDHURY *

Umaria is the nearest railway station to Bandhavgarh, less than 30 kilometers away. It is also one of the tidiest. Auto-rickshaws and taxis parked outside the station can take you to the tiger sanctuary, but for a small fraction of the price, Rs 30 per head, we hop onto a local bus. It was during that hour-long bus ride that we heard our first tiger story. ‘You are going to Bandhavgarh?’ The shy co-passenger with a baby in her arms asked. I nodded and she got chatting, saying she had seen tigers several times just outside her house. ‘They are not harmful, and do not attack you,’ she said when asked if she was not afraid. An hour later the park director, Mridul Pathak confirmed what that village woman had said, that Bandhavgarh tigers were human-friendly. During the next morning’s jeep-safari, I was surprised to see lone forests guards on bicycles with nothing but a stick for defense.    

Pathak who, like the controversies, was surrounded by fawning listeners that included a journalist, two researchers, a photographer, a couple of rangers and some hangers on, was full of stories. “There are so many tiger stories, but it’s for you to decide what story you want to tell,” he said dramatically when asked for a suggestion. ‘First you take a look and then decide,’ he suggested. It was nearly two in the afternoon and we still had not had our lunch at the quiet forest guest house. Pathak added that morning safari had “better chances of spotting a tiger.”

So our safari was fixed for the next morning.

After a heavy lunch we sauntered out of the forest guest house. The main road at Tila wore a deserted look, dotted with empty grocery and a few souvenir shops. We took the mud road that branched off into the village, ending up in a blind alley where the women, bent over the day’s chores, laughed at us saying, ‘You have barged into our home.’ After browsing through some narrow alleys, and evading cows, we finally found a resting place on a ledge adjoining a mud house. When a young man materialized and we asked him for water he headed for the well across the alley. We drank the water hesitantly but were soon delighted by its sweet taste. As we returned the steel tumblers and settled down Dinesh Kumar Baiga said he was a casual labourer whenever work was available, which was rarely.

A trained guide, he had undertaken the three-month training offered to locals in 2017. But unlike some of his friends he had not found a placement with the forest department or the private tour operators. That made him sad. As more locals joined us the inevitable question cropped up: Had they seen a tiger? ‘Oh yes, right here where you are sitting,’ said Dinesh. ‘It jumped over that fence,’ he said. And we noticed a small enclosure where vegetables were growing. ‘It had a calf in its jaws, and dashed in the direction of the forest that lay behind the village. The tiger killed three more cows that fell on its path,’ he said. The time was around 2-3 in the morning. ‘It was summer and most people were sleeping outside in their courtyards or roof tops,’ Dinesh added. A half-drunk joined our conversation and I enquired if he could get us some mahua the local brew. Happily, he parked his bike and led me into a house on the lane.

Inside the courtyard children were running around and women were rushing between wood fires cooking the evening meal. In this melee I was handed a steel glass filled with mahua. It smelled fine, tasted divine. But I felt embarrassed with the women studying my face for signs of approval. Outside the house, in the distance, the forested mountains rose gently above the horizon. Many of the trees inside the core area of Bandhavgarh were mahua, attracting locals during summers when they flowered. Another tree that enticed local people to breach the wired fencing was the tendu trees whose leaves were used in beedi making, a common source of income. ‘Bandhavgarh, is one place where the human-animal conflict is at its highest,’ I recalled the forest director telling me earlier in the day. That night we went to bed early.

Next morning we woke up to loud knocking.

‘It’s six, the driver is ready,’ the caretaker told us, handing us a tray of tea.

It was still dark, when we mounted the open Gypsy, excited about our impending date with the big cats. Soon a middle-aged Gujarati couple, from California, climbed the jeep, and dampened our spirit. ‘This will be our third safari without any tiger sighting,’ the lady said. ‘Maybe you’ll be third-time lucky,’ I said, spreading some cheer in that cold, hazy morning. Minutes after we entered the core area we came upon a string of gypsies blocking our path. The driver spoke in hushed tones. Ahead of us people were pointing in a particular direction. We scoured every bit of the landscape through which a stream passed. But there was no tiger to be seen. After spending several minutes training our eyes on the invisible, we left, taking a desolate path.

Our first wild sighting was a spotted cheetal for which we stopped to take pictures. Soon we found ourselves in an open meadow with large herds of deer feeding on the grass. I could not help admiring the natural beauty of Bandhavgarh’s landscape, wide meadows and rising hills. Ram Avtar, our ageing and loquacious guide informed there were nearly a hundred adults and 28 cubs in the 716 square kilometer core area, making Bandhavgarh one the likeliest place for spotting a Royal Bengal tiger. The core was scattered among three places Tala, Magadhi and Khatauli.   But where were the tigers? We finally came upon a small stream crossing where two gypsies were parked. Our heart missed a beat. But there was no tiger, just a majestic looking sambhar, drinking from a pool. A little ahead we came upon another group watching something in hushed silence. It was a large fish owl perched over a stream.

Soon, we had done several forest tracts and had nearly given up hope of seeing a tiger. Gopal Singh, the driver meanwhile announced teatime and soon we came upon a clearing with bamboo and tin shops selling tea, pakoras and omelet-bread. As we gorged on the food the California couple made plans with the driver and guide to take an elephant ride. The driver made frantic calls to get hold of the mahout. After tea as we got out of the clearing two elephants appeared along the gypsy track. One of them was a massive male, nearly twice as tall as the accompanying juvenile. Our driver and the mahout confabulated for a while but the latter would not allow anyone to mount the elephants without permission from his bosses. After a long wait, disappointed, we went away. In between guide Ramavtar told us the story of the mahout and his elephant Ashtham, how they had warded off a tiger attack.

Two tigers had fought viciously and one of them, injured badly, withdrew into a hideout. Neelam, the mahout, riding high on Ashtham, the elephant, was tasked with bringing out the injured tiger from its hideout. Chances were that if the tiger was not assisted, it would succumb to its injuries. ‘Neelam was assisted in this project by Binod Pakhale, and another forest guard,’ Ramavtar said. But despite their experience the three, waiting for some 20 minutes for senior officials to arrive, were not quite prepared for the sudden attack from the injured tiger. It leapt on the hind legs of the elephant scratching and biting. Ashtham swung around. But the tiger would not let go of his grip. The elephant spun around several times, finally shaking off the tiger. But as the elephant spun around, Neelam and the two beat guards were also thrown off the elephant’s back.

Pakhale, badly injured by the metal scaffolding on the elephant seat, ran for his life. But then he fell and never got up again. Neelam, also badly injured, lay on the ground, managed to fend off an attack by the tiger. But it came back. ‘Ashtham who saw his master under attack quickly stepped in, trampling the tiger under his heavy legs. The elephant, badly bleeding, survived the ordeal,’ the guide said as if the incident happened in front of him. Neelam and the other guard carried Pakhale’s body onto the ambulance that had arrived by then. 

Much of this story I overheard, snatching bits and pieces of the conversation between the guide Ramavtar and the lady from California. Forest guides, apart from sensing tiger presence, also have an uncanny knack for sniffing out rich NRIs who they know will tip them generously for tales told well. I wondered if the elephant and mahout we had seen were actually Ashatham and Neelam. 

 Soon we were close to the wire fencing and Ramavtar explained how some time back a tiger stole a cow from the village across, flung the carcass from above the 15 foot fence into the forest before jumping in himself. However, in front of us, instead of a tiger, all we saw was a forest guard on a cycle coming from the opposite direction. Our driver asked him for leads. He had none to offer.

Sensing our disappointment Gopal Singh, the driver decided to take us to Rampur hill. It was a steep climb, a less used road, often taken as a last resort to spot the elusive feline. Singh suddenly stopped and looked down. We thought he had finally seen a tiger. Instead, he showed us a pug mark. ‘You see the large size, it’s a male,’ he said. Saying that it had gone in the same direction we were taking he stopped at many twists and turns, pretending that a tiger was somewhere round the corner. Then he showed us a scratch on the ground and even a dollop of tiger scat. But by now we were clearly tired of seeing telltale signs instead of a real tiger. But then, all of a sudden, the jungle opened up and we found ourselves on a rocky elevated tableland that gave a panoramic 360 view of the forest below us and the rising mountains beyond. The view was simply breathtaking. Just for this our visit was worthwhile.

Descending from our perch, just below we came upon caves, manmade. These were over hundreds of years old and were a part of the kingdom that once ruled from the ruined fort believed to be from third century BC when the Mauryas reigned. The caves scattered over the hills were made for soldiers to hide and surprise enemies. With no tiger sightings we visited one such cave. By the time we were finished it was time to return. We were a tad upset leaving the park without seeing a cat. Sighting a brightly coloured wild rooster somewhat lifted our sagging spirits. Then the driver’s phone rang and electrified the air with expectancy.

‘The elephant is waiting for us,’ Gopal Singh announced.

Then he turned the gypsy and drove in the opposite direction. Were we going back into the forest just for an elephant ride? The lady from California whispered into my ears, ‘They have sighted a tiger.’ That quashed all opposition as the gypsy hurtled along the bumps nearly throwing us into the air. ‘Hold the railing tight,’ the driver cautioned as he drove along uneven paths we had crossed a while ago. Other gypsies, returning to the gates, were surprised to see us going back. Meanwhile, the old guide went into raptures about how Neelam had been rewarded by the park authorities. That is when I asked.

‘Are we going to see the man you’ve been speaking about?’

‘Yes,’ the lady from California said.

There was a strange understanding between her, the guide and the driver. Had she taken a safari ride with them before too? But I brushed away my misgivings, at the prospect of finally seeing a tiger. After a frantic drive the massive elephant came into view. Our gypsy slowed down. Words were exchanged and soon, one by one, we stood on the bonnet frame of the gypsy and were finally whisked onto the elephant’s back with the help of a hanging ladder and a helping hand from the mahout. After swirling in midair for a few seconds when I finally made it to the top my first gasping question to the mahout was, ‘Are you Neelam?’

The, dark, young well-built man smiled and nodded self effacingly. As the elephant strode into the uneven jungle I had the strange feeling of being astride a moving two-storied house. Dodging tall trees from which Ashtham plucked branches I managed to ask Neelam if he had indeed faced a tiger attack. He smiled and said that it was some six years around 2012 when he was barely 28. He was walking to the camp to get the elephant. With a friend was following close behind him, he noticed male pugmarks. He followed the trail and in front of him, 20 meters ahead, stood a tiger. Their eyes met and suddenly the tiger leaped and was upon him. But young Neelam held his nerve. He also held up the stick in both hands as a shield.

‘But both the tiger’s paws landed on my shoulders and I was badly wounded. But, fortunately, he did not bite me and just ran away. Without the stick the impact of his paw would have fallen on my neck and I would not survive,’ Neelam said. The tiger ran away and Neelam, with the help of his petrified friend managed to bandage his bleeding wound with the help of a gamchha, a thin towel. The veins were cut and he bled profusely. His hospitalization lasted 15 days before he was discharged. To prove that he was not fibbing Neelam unbuttoned his shirt to show the blackened marks of his wounds, now his trophies.

What about the story about the guard and Ashtham, was it made up? I put the question to Neelam.

‘Oh, that one…,’ Neelam smiled. ‘It was about four years back in 2014. We went searching for the injured tiger and tracked it down. For 20 minutes we waited for the senior officers to arrive when, suddenly, the tiger attacked Ashtham this elephant. It spun round and round. I didn’t realize when I fell on the ground and injured myself. If it was not this fellow I would have been surely been dead. He stepped upon the tiger killing it instantly,’ he said. Binod Pakhale, one of the forest guards accompanying him, suffered serious injury to his ribs, and died soon.

There were more questions to be asked but with the land rising and falling and crossing of streams it was not easy keeping up a conversation with Neelam. We were more preoccupied balancing ourselves on the elephant’s back. That afternoon despite the vantage of Ashtham’s sturdy back we could see no tiger. But I was glad having met Neelam the heroic survivor of two tiger attacks and the handsome Ashtham.

Later that afternoon, outside the park, as we sampled Tala’s famed milk sweets, gulabjamun with rabri, the shopkeeper was amused to learn of our failed bid to spot a tiger. ‘Arre, only yesterday this woman from the village, Ram Devi, who was going to relieve herself in the late afternoon came back screaming,’ he said. Then, pointing in the direction right behind the shop he said, ‘There was not only a tiger, a little ahead there was a leopard as well.’

Returning to Umaria, I kept looking out of the bus, hoping to catch a stray tiger in the passing buffer zone. And I wondered about the irony of our crappy luck. The woman who went crapping got to see the tiger, while the woman who had come from across seven seas got to see just that, tiger crap.

‘Tigers are their own masters, not obliged to make an appearance for visitors like us,’ the lady from California had said as she had pressed a few crumpled green notes into Ramavtar’s reluctant palms. ‘It’s for the children. Buy them sweets,’ she had said.         

ENDS

*Author, ‘The Sergeant’s Son’

             

   

 

A story from Pithoragarh, Uttarakhand...

Gorang Valley battles water woes as perennial springs retreat

Drying streams in this region of Pithoragarh district in Uttarakhand have made life difficult for women as they wait for efforts at watershed management to bear fruit in a couple of years

• Ashim Choudhury
• Oct 24, 2016
• Gorang Valley, Uttarakhand

The women of Nakina village relate their water woes. (Photo by Vikram Singh Negi)

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Not long ago, Pithoragarh district in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand was fed by a network of perennial springs locally called chasmas. It was a well-integrated natural system on which the people depended round the year. All that is changing now and water stress during summer months has become common for the far-flung villages.

A visit to the Gorang Valley, some 10 km from Pithoragarh town, was revealing. The valley, drawing its name from horses that once grazed on its sloping meadows, is still beautiful although much of the old forest cover has given way to farming and other human incursions. The rolling lush beauty camouflages an ugly side, the water woes faced by villages in summers.

Nakina village on the right flank of Gorang valley is 6-7 km from Chandak, where the valley begins and winds down for a further 15 km. The Gorang valley has 53 springs. During peak summers, many of them are reduced to a mere trickle or dry up completely. The drive to Nakina passes through thick forests of oak, pine and some rhododendron.

Water crisis

Jagdamba Prasad, chief of Nakina’s village council, and a few women residents recount that water crisis they face every summer. “In summers all our seven springs dry up. Our whole day is spent in collecting water. Water for washing and bathing becomes a luxury,” the women say. While half of the villagers go to the river about a kilometer away, the other half goes to the next village that has a spring 2 km away. Summers are backbreaking for the women and girls as they have the basic responsibility for fetching water. Nakina now has some 50 households, down from about 200 about a decade ago.

The rest, leaving behind their homes and land, have fled to greener pastures. Yet the summer water crisis in Nakina has only worsened over the years. Nobody knows why exactly despite the lush surrounding forests. A few handpumps in the village would be a great boon, but drilling machines cannot be transported down to these hilly villages.

Reviving the springs

The GB Pant National Institute of Himalayan Environment and Sustainable development (GBPIHESD) and its civil society partners have started working with the villagers, making efforts to revive the springs. Like Nakina, Digtoli village, situated behind the steep mountain towering above Nakina, faces a similar problem. From the road above Nakina, it is a 15 minute drive to Digtoli past a majestic 300 year old oak tree that once identified the village from distant mountains. Digtoli also offers a panoramic view of the Himalayan range, and the Nanda Devi and Panchachuli peaks.

Efforts of watershed management are being made at Digtoli village. (Photo by Vikram Singh Negi)

Opposite Digtoli, clambering uphill one can see troughs dug and saplings planted along the hillside to reduce rainwater runoff and reduce soil erosion through plantations. Digtoli’s 70-odd households scattered among the slopes depend on 13 springs. In peak summers most of them dry up, except one downhill, which is called Shivalaya. Without water peak summers are difficult to endure. P.C Patni, an old villager, says, “There have been minor changes since the water conservation efforts have begun. People are now also contemplating rainwater harvesting at the individual level.’”

Slow trickle

The idea of conserving water is slowly trickling down. Yogesh Barola, a young geologist working in the area, says how the current spring and watershed management efforts will take time to make a visible impact. Reacting to skepticism, he says, “It is a precise science, geological and hydrological mapping that feed into spring recharging efforts. New oak plantations will also augment water conservation efforts.” Oaks, locally called banj, are known to conserve water.

Circumventing Digtoli, there’s a steep climb over the village past the local primary school. On reaching further up, one notices gashes and trenches dug up along the slope. These have been made for directing rainwater into large troughs or dug wells that store water and recharge the groundwater. The collected water also quenches the thirst of cattle and horses grazing on the hill slopes.

After more climbing one reaches a cusp, a meadow called the Antola depression. Nakina’s Jagdamba Prasad is waiting here. The former army man shows an artificial embankment dug up by people from his village. “It was voluntary work done over several weeks,” he says. The district administration has promised to release some funds for the work, he adds.

Eventual recharge

The embankment will store a considerable amount of water that will eventually recharge some 20-25 springs that serve five villages on either side of the so-called water tower. But it will not help reach the springs of Nakina whose people have dug the trench.

For them, on the upper reaches of the depression, Prasad shows another artificial embankment built by the villagers. Rain-fed, this resulting lake will in subsequent years feed the springs in Nakina and nearby Bhurmuni villages.

It could be a long parched wait in summers, as long as 7-8 years, says Rajesh Joshi, lead scientist from GBPIHESD who is overseeing the spring shed management. “The soil here is porous, so water does not stand for very long; it seeps down. Small changes are already visible, though, like there is reduced soil erosion along the drainage channel. Less erosion will mean lesser chances of the road being blocked by landslides,” he says.

To speed up the spring recharging efforts, Ranbeer Rawal, senior scientist of the Almora-based GBPIHESD says, “We have shared our spring shed management plans with various line departments. We offer scientific inputs and linkages to various government departments for a holistic approach.”

Women pressure

But the bulk of the pressure to get the work going comes from the community itself particularly the women, who have formed self-help groups. “We approach the officials from time to time. They listen to us. We are hopeful our water problem in summers will be solved. Yes, the wait might be a little long,” says Gita Joshi, 37, a resident of Nakina village.

But Prasad, now into his eighties, has little patience. “Between April and June, life becomes hell here. The government should lift water from the river through a pump, at least during the summer months,” he says.

Ashim Choudhury is a Delhi-based writer.

Guests in our balcony

The purple sun birds were regular visitors at our third-floor balcony garden. Other avian visitors, like pigeons, mynahs and sparrows, also came but there was something special about the not-so-common sunbirds. Unmindful of the Delhi summer they would appear from nowhere tweet sweet nothings, steal nectar from the conical buttercups, nestaciums, nayantaras and then disappear. They were a couple, the female yellow and grey, and the male a deep iridescent blue that glistened like a gemstone in the sun. Their visits were fleeting as the sunbirds never sat in one place, more often hovering like hummingbirds as they sucked the nectar from flowers. Flitting from this flower to that they would disappear into the nearby neem and jacaranda trees as soon as we appeared on the balcony. It made me proud that these birds were regular visitors at our hanging garden.

Then one day I noticed the pair hovering in our balcony rather frequently. They had become bolder too, no longer fleeing on seeing me. “Are they looking for a nesting site,” I thought. The plants and creepers in the balcony-garden had formed a bower, a canopy of sorts, it was a micro forest, a tiny ecosystem in itself. It could be an ideal place for nesting. “But then why should the pair choose a concrete balcony when they had a mini forest right beside our building blocks?” I reasoned. For two full days the tweeting couple kept frequenting the balcony like prospecting tenants, unable to decide. By the third morning my fears were confirmed when I saw the female fixing tiny thread like materials on the bamboo bridge that held the ivy branches.

I was thrilled. This was the ultimate tribute to my garden. “The sun birds are building a nest in our balcony!” I announced to Sangita and the kids. My excitement was contagious and I had a hard time holding back the family from disturbing the winged visitors. Soon I declared the balcony out-of-bounds. “No one will disturb the birds,” I ordered firmly. Luckily for us, the netted doors ensured that we could watch the birds while they couldn’t see us. It became our new pastime, watching the birds building their nest. Sorry, not birds, it was just the female that made tireless sorties carrying tiny threads and shreds of cotton wool in her beak. I kept wondering, “What happened to the male? Had he abandoned his wife? Perhaps he was collecting the building materials at the other end…Worst, perhaps, he had found another female.” I felt sorry for the lady sun bird. Male sun birds were generally monogamous. Was this fellow an exception?

Then on the third afternoon the male suddenly appeared, inspected the balcony, then the half-built nest, twittered and vanished. Just like all other males, I thought. But it was some solace; the thought that when the kids came out of the eggs their father will be around. “Dad, where will she lay the eggs?” it was my kids asking, breaking into my reverie. Even after three days the nest was just a rag-tag blob hardly resembling a home. But seeing the hard working female I was sure there would soon be a proper nest where she would lay her eggs. “Had the pair cohabited or would they do so only after the nest was ready,” I asked Sangita. She laughed. By day four the nest had taken a bulbous shape. Days five, six and seven the female bird spent most of her time bringing small cotton-like feathers that she padded inside the nest. The newborns would have a soft comfy home!   

Then there was no sign of the birds for an entire day. Another day and they were still not visible. I hurled accusations at Sangita. She had this habit of hanging the wet clothes in the balcony despite my express orders not to disturb the birds. She felt guilty. I had a sinking feeling that the birds had abandoned the nest. That’s when I spotted them cohabiting in the neem tree. So they built home first before planning the children. ‘Smarter than us humans, what do you say?’ it was my wife looking at me sarcastically. The next day the female was back at the balcony, bringing us relief. From that day the female started spending time inside the nest. Only its small head and large beak would protrude out of the nest. Spying on whether she was present in the nest became a new pastime. Her tiny head holding a disproportionately long hooked beak always peeped out of the nest. “I think she’s laid the eggs,” Sangita gave her opinion. One afternoon while she was away I climbed onto a chair and peeped inside the nest. There were no eggs in sight. “Perhaps they are deep inside the hollow,” I tried to explain.

Several days went by and the children began to protest, being unable to visit the balcony without drawing their father’s ire. Sangita too resented the idea of not being able to have her evening tea under the ivy. I had a difficult time trying to convince them. “Why don’t you understand, your presence will scare the bird!” I tried to explain to the children. They mocked, “Why don’t you understand, this is our home.” In trying to help the sunbirds raise a family, I was alienating my own. I wondered how many more days it would take for the eggs to incubate. And then I had a flash; “Google it!” The answer was found, ‘14-15 days for a yellow breasted sunbird’. That meant we had another ten long days or so to go! Those were long and hot days. The female would spend most of the afternoons away from her nest as though she had lost interest in her eggs. It was only in the nights that she sat without break in the nest, warming the eggs.   

During those days the male was never seen, and just when we thought he had abandoned his wife he appeared one afternoon, tweeted raucously, announcing that he was still the master of the house.. er nest! “Just like all men,” the thought crossed my mind yet again. Meanwhile, it took so long for the eggs to hatch we nearly lost interest in the nest and its occupants. And then the torrid summer heat prompted us to take a weekend break in the hills. Friday night we talked and Saturday morning we were gone. In six hours we were in a different world, dodging clouds that had invaded the hills impairing my driving visibility from time to time. For two days we had forgotten all about our Delhi home including the sunbirds. When we returned on Monday night, tired, the birds were the last thing on our minds. When I woke late the next morning there was no sign of the birds. I looked at the forlorn nest and was convinced that the birds had abandoned it.

“Tweet, tweet..” It was the mother bird! She was there, carrying a speck of food, a tiny green worm, in her tiny beak. And then she hopped onto her nest and clung to it, disgorging the food she was carrying. “The babies are born!” I screamed as wife and the kids huddled outside the verandah door to get a look. No we couldn’t see the newborns nor hear them. Perhaps they were too young even to squeak. But I was convinced they were born. Moreover, there was a perceptible change in the mother sunbird’s behaviour. Earlier she would “tweet-tweet-tweet…” a hundred times before entering the nest with a short “tit”. Now her tweets were more like a whisper, and she was more circumspect in entering the nest, making sure that the chick’s location was not revealed to predators such as us humans. There was another surprise confirming the addition(s) in the family. Like his wife, father sunbird too was ferrying tiny worms and insects for the little ones. “So he’s not exactly as uncaring as I thought,” I told myself. And he was no longer loud and raucous like earlier. Parenthood mellows you!

For the next few days we watched the parents disgorge food into the nest with unfailing regularity. It’s only on day four after our return that we noticed the open beaks of the young ones. There were two. Like a magic box they would spring into life, open mouthed, the moment one of the parents arrived. Food taken, they would disappear inside the nest. It was strange that the newborns were started on a high-protein non vegetarian diet when most of their adult life they would be living on the nectar from flowers. While mother sunbird spent the entire day foraging for food, in the evenings she would return to roost in the nest. It was a marvel how three birds, however tiny, could fit into that little bulb of a nest. Soon our interest in the routine of feeding the chicks began to wane; until they were exactly a week old.

It was Sunday. And to break the monotony of the week I made myself a screwdriver, vodka spiked with orange juice and ice. The heady feeling had just begun to soak in when I was jolted out of my wits. I sprang to my feet and screamed. The nest was being raided by a hawk! By the time I barged into the balcony shooing, the startled hawk had flown back into the cover of the neem and jacaranda trees across the small park in our housing society. I saw a few tender feathers floating down the air, a result of the scuffle as the hawks wings got caught in the clothesline. Then the defiant hawk began to scream furiously as though annoyed by my action. The nest was damaged but only slightly. I took a chair and peeped inside it. The chicks were not visible. Our family was visibly upset. The parent sunbirds meanwhile were at the neem tree screaming “tit.. tit.. tit….” The drama went on for several minutes until the hawk flew away. When the mother sunbird returned to the nest we saw the two baby-sunbirds popping out their open beaks. They were alive and unharmed.

“Guys I declare the balcony open once again, we have to keep vigil against the predator hawk,” I declared. My wife announced to the children, “Your father has gone mad.” The children laughed. Shaken, I wasn’t really surprised by the raid on the nest. I had been watching the hawk for the past few days and it actually did cross my mind, “What if it attacks the nest?” I had seen it create a flutter among the peaceful pigeons. The next few days were spent keeping a tab on the hawk. It wasn’t difficult. The moment it came on the neem or jacaranda tree the sunbirds would hover around the large bird as though challenging it, giving out loud warning calls “tit, tit, tit…tit, tit” until the hawk got irritated and flew away. The sun birds also had an ally in the form of a crow who also had a nest to defend in the neem tree. They, the crow and the hawk, would often spar on the branches of the tree until the hawk flew away. Looking out for the hawk became my new preoccupation. And as a precautionary measure, I slung a towel on the clothesline so it acted as a cover for the nest. Honestly, I was never too sure we could defend the fledglings from the preying hawk.   

Two days later I was woken by the alarm calls of the sunbirds in the distant jacaranda tree. When I woke up and got out of bed, I looked out for the hawk. It was there, surrounded by the paren sunbirds that raged ‘…tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet…!’ In the balcony I saw the female sitting motionless on the branch of a little tree on the balcony. Its breast was like a coat of fresh cream colour. But it looked different, I soon realized. ‘It’s the baby bird!’ In the same breath I asked, ‘Where was the boy?’ I looked towards the red jacaranda tree for an answer where the parent sunbirds were creating a racket around the hawk that was perched like a statue. Then I peeped into the nest and saw nothing. I hoped this time too I was wrong in thinking it was stolen. But there was something ominous about the unrelenting chaos in the Jacaranda tree where the sunbirds went,  “….tit, tit, tit….!” When the hawk flew away the parent sunbirds flew after it in hot pursuit. Much later the mother returned to our balcony.

Paying little heed to the female baby, she peeped into her nest. This time there was no magic-box appearance of the hungry, open beak. The mother peeped in several times but the young male was nowhere in sight. Then came the blue father bird. He too peeped into the lifeless nest and came back disappointed. Then both parents hopped around the living baby bird that suddenly whirred its wings and flew into the sky. The parents followed. And I thought I would see no more of the guests in our balcony. But a while later, the mother returned to her nest and called out to the baby boy. So did the father. They kept returning. There was something helpless and painful about their tweets now as if they were calling out to their lost child. On one or two occasions the birds came and sat silently on the clothesline. After that they were gone. “Forever..” I thought. But two days later, early morning the mother came again, inspected her nest hoping to see her stolen son.  The nest, that had until recently symbolized birth and life, dangled lifelessly.     

(The story doesn’t end there though. Next April, just before summer began, the pair returned again to our balcony looking for their old nest. Perhaps they wanted to inhabit it again. But the nest that had been dangling earlier was now lobbed on to the ivy bower. The birds discovered it; but finally chose not to nest it. Instead, they pecked away all the building material that was there in their old nest and used it in their new nest, nearby. “It was surprising, even birds reuse and recycle,” I told myself.)     

http://www.asianage.com/international/soils-blowing-wind-875

Soils: Blowing in the wind

Dec 29, 2015 

As the International Year of Soils (2015) draws to an end it may be pertinent to ask, how clean is our soil. Soil and clean? Sounds like an oxymoron. Perhaps that is why, while we speak of clean water or clean air, there has been very little talk about soil contamination. Like air and water, soil too has a direct bearing on the health of the people as 99 per cent of the food we eat grows on soil. Along with the food, we are also ingesting pollutants from the soil. Yes some of the pesticides and chemicals from the soil have entered our food chain. Before we go into more details, some facts about soil.

Soils are not inert. They are dynamic living systems. In fact, nowhere in nature are living species so densely packed as in some soil communities. Many insect species are soil dwellers for at least some stage of their life-cycle. A typical healthy soil is home to several species of vertebrates, earthworms, 20-30 species of mites, 50-100 species of insects, tens of species of nematodes, hundreds of species of fungi, bacteria and other organisms. Soil biota are central to decomposition processes and nutrient cycling. Soil is one of nature’s most complex ecosystems and one of the most diverse habitats on earth. Organisms inhabiting soils form a complex web of ecological activity called the soil food web that makes all life possible.
Take the humble earthworm, for instance. They ensure good, healthy soils, tirelessly digesting leaf litter and other biomass along with soil. In so doing, every 24 hours they produce one and a half times their weight of rich compost, high in all plant nutrients. The earthworm’s night soil has bacterial population that is nearly a hundred times more than in the surrounding soil. While burrowing they till the land, making it porous and easy to breath for the roots. By increasing the soil’s capacity to hold air, moisture and aggregates it helps to resist erosion. Like earthworms, other organisms living in the soil also nourish it. On good soils depends our world’s food security: let us not mindlessly trample upon them.
Ironically, actions we took, or are still taking, to make land more productive in order to meet the food requirements of our growing population have caused immense damage to our soil. The harm caused by excessive use of pesticides and chemical fertilisers has been so extensive that it could pose a real threat to our food security. And by 2050 the earth’s population will bulge to 9.6 billion. Unfortunately, much of this “bulge” will come from India, besides China and neighbouring South Asia. The world will need 60 per cent more food. India, for sure, will need to arrest the bulge and reverse land degradation. A third of India’s land is already degraded, putting a question mark on the sustainability of its food production.
According to (2010) estimates of the Indian Council of Agricultural Research, of India’s total area of 328.73 mha, about 120.40 mha is affected by various levels of land degradation. Nearly a quarter of India’s land is affected by desertification. As water and wind erosion is widespread across India, some 5.3 billion tonnes of soil gets eroded every year. Of this, 29 per cent is permanently lost to the sea, 10 per cent is deposited in reservoirs reducing their storage capacity, and the rest 61 per cent gets shifted from one place to another. Desertification or soil erosion, mainly caused by wind and rain, are natural phenomena we can mitigate by providing forest or other vegetation cover.
Where we need to bring about a major change is in the judicious use of pesticides and chemical fertilisers. Currently, many of the pesticides that India produces and uses extensively have been banned in other parts of the world. For instance, Monocrotophos, banned in the US because it killed birds and a wide variety of non-target insects, is still being used in India without any supervision. Excessive use of chemical fertilisers and pesticides is particularly high in the north-western part of the country and is one of the major reasons for soil degradation. A fallout is that the pollinator population — bees, butterflies, insects and even birds — has dropped drastically, a fact borne out by the Global Pollinator Project that was implemented by FAO, GEF and UNEP in 12 countries including India.
Reviving soils or pollinators will require an ecosystem approach to farming. It’s time we realised that farming is part of the eco-system and that soils have to remain sustainable for future generations, also keeping in view its important role in carbon sequestration. For now, the responsibility for soil health lies somewhere between the MoA, MoRD, and the MoEFCC. Their energies need to be synergised and the ministry of chemicals and fertilisers, responsible for all the pesticides and chemical inputs, needs to be brought into the discourse of soil health. It has to be an integrated approach.
The country’s recently launched Soil Card programme may, to a certain extent, solve the problem, provided it is backed by extension services to farmers. While a wealth of knowledge and research on soils exists in the country these need to be communicated to farmers. Unfortunately, simple measures like using leguminous plants in nitrogen fixing through crop rotation or mixed cropping are not being practised extensively. The results are there for all of us to see. Perhaps it is still not too late to make interventions that prevent or even reverse land degradation. We need to remind ourselves, it takes a thousand years for 1 cm of soil to be formed. Let’s prevent our soils from being blown away in the wind.
Shyam Khadka is the India representative of the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation

The untouched forest of Pawalgarh: wildlife in Uttarakhand...in Outlooktraveller

Ashim Choudhury 

Sighting a tiger is something of a ‘luck by chance’ at the new tiger conservation reserve, Pawalgarh in Uttarakhand. But nonetheless, the virgin forest is worth exploring.

Pawalgarh, recently anointed a tiger conservation reserve, is to be found 18 kilometres beyond Ramnagar. Just after you meet the olive green Maruti Gypsy ‘trekkers’ in Ramnagar (who jam the way and pester you with, “Corbett, sir…Corbett?”), ignore them and take a right into a deceptively narrow road. This is actually the highway to Nainital. After about 12 kilometres down this route, which is intermittently interspersed with forests and farms, you come to a village that goes by the name of Bail Parao. We took a left, ducked under a forest check post and entered a teak forest. After driving onward for a little over six kilometres, we were in an open, flat land, painted green with wheat farms and dotted with homes on either side of the still-narrow road. This was beautiful Pawalgarh. We drove along a freshwater stream and finally entered a gate to our right. It was love at first sight with the forest bungalow here, built in 1902—with its colonial architecture, and the khansamas attending to the kitchen, it was like living in the days of the Raj. We even had a lit-up fire in the fireplace!

Subhoranjan Sen

The scenic Corbett Falls

That afternoon we hopped on to a ‘trekker’ to go to the conservation reserve across the road. Soon, we descended onto a sandy route through a thicket of sal, silk-cotton and other trees. In no time, we were upon a vast white expanse of sand and boulders. Dodging the round rocks, we soon crossed a stream…and then another stream. Our guide, Range Officer Kripal Singh Bisht, informed us, “We’re crossing the Dabka River.” It’s barely a stream now, but quite a fierce sight in the rains, when it turns brown in colour.
Would we get lucky enough to see a tiger? That was the thought uppermost on our minds as we were about to enter the Pawalgarh forest. Our ‘close encounter’ with the tiger had begun at Bail Parao. Just before taking the turn for the Pawalgarh Conservation Reserve, we had enquired about lunch at the wayside Annapurna restaurant. We retreated when we learnt that it was vegetarian, but the young owner entreated us to stay back. He would prepare ‘non-veg’ for us as long as we were discreet about it. And believe me, the pepper chicken at the vegetarian restaurant was among the tastiest chicken curries we’ve ever had!
As we ate, the young manager of the outlet, Ganesh Thakur, got talking about tigers. Pointing to a garden umbrella in front of his shop, he said, “There was a tiger standing here at this very spot about a month ago.” I took his tiger-on-the-main-road claim with a pinch of salt. But then I had to believe his story. “It was dark…around 4am in the morning,” he said. “The milk truck had come to deliver milk. When the driver saw the tiger, he called us on the phone, warning us not to get out of the house.” The tiger hung around for over 15 minutes before vanishing into the fields. No, Thakur had not seen the tiger with his own eyes, but he was ready to call the women of the house across the road—they had seen it. “Should I call them?” he asked. I had to stop him physically. Thakur concluded philosophically: “Seeing a tiger is luck by chance.” He recounted how a young couple, tourists who had eaten at his restaurant, spent a full day at Corbett looking for a tiger, in vain. “But they finally saw a seven-foot-long tiger on their way here,” he exclaimed. “It is luck by chance!” That was his credo.
Thakur’s story of sighting a tiger was given credence by two local women a day later, when we were buying groceries at Bail Parao. They had seen a tiger in the sugarcane fields just a little beyond the main road. “We were on our way to the primary school,” they said. And they giggled, tickled by the very thought.
But as we crossed the bumpy river bed that cuts through the Pawalgarh forest, looking out for the striped cat, there was only disappointment in store. Our only source of joy was tiny black fish in a pool of water formed by the sparse river. The water in the river, the forest guards informed us, was not from melting snow but from springs in the mountains.
We were by the edge of the thick forest, on the other side of the river now, when another piece of good news reached us. We were just taking a bend into the forest when Range Officer Bisht ordered the vehicle to stop. Pointing to a path that led in the direction of the river, he said, “This is where we saw a tiger—it walked away majestically and it was so large. We got the scare of our lives!” Bisht said it with a sense of self-importance, as though he were showing us a real tiger. Was it a male or a female? Bisht and his guards were not sure how to distinguish a male from a female tiger. But, yes, the pug marks can be revealing (longish for the female tiger; round and larger in males).

Subhoranjan Sen

A trail through Pawalgarh forest

A few minutes later, we climbed up the forested hill and entered the Hathi Galiyar elephant trail. Elephant herds, we were told, often take the same path, from which they rarely stray when travelling from one ‘elephant corridor’ to another. I was struck by the sheer size of the sal and other trees. Pawalgarh is a virgin forest with very little sign of human incursion.

Subhoranjan Sen

Nilgais at Pawalgarh

The only sign of human activity was at a clearing. Trees had been cut down to make way for grasslands. With winter just ending, the shoots of grass were still not out. But when fully green, they would be grazing grounds for the hundreds of spotted deer in Pawalgarh, and thus hunting grounds for tigers and leopards. Besides the chital, Pawalgarh is home to other antlers like the nilgai, and kakad, a small goat-like deer. There were also hares, wild boarsand langurs. Pawalgarh also has over 350 species of birds. Among the birds found here are the black stork, the Great Slaty Woodpecker, and a variety of hornbills.
It was in the mornings and evenings that birds were most active, even around the forest guesthouse. In the afternoon, we spotted a serpent eagle circling in the sky. But what was most heartwarming was the sight of (now endangered) vultures. Feeding on a carcass by the river bed, they looked like giants of the sky when taking off on their large wings.
In Hathi Galiyar, we saw elephant dung lying around a waterhole built by the forest department. Fresh water is brought through a pipeline connected to a spring some three kilometres away in the nearby forest. There is one more pipeline that feeds another waterhole a few hundred metres away. An elephant’s footprint was still fresh on the edge of the wet ground around the waterhole. Trap cameras were strapped to the branch of a tree, yet we saw neither elephant nor tiger anywhere near the waterhole. The evening light was fast fading. But stories from the forest guards accompanying us came thick and fast. “A few weeks back, the grey tusker came charging at the CCF,” said a guard pointing to the spot from where one walks towards the waterhole. ‘The grey tusker’ was an angry ageing male that was known to be particularly intimidating. “Never run away from an elephant—stand your ground and it will go away,” the guard informed us. “That’s what the CCF sahib did. And the grey tusker quietly turned away.” Stories about the Chief Conservator of Forests, Kumaon Range, Paramjit Singh, are legion. Considered the moving force behind the creation of Pawalgarh CR, Singh also heads the anti-poaching task force.

Subhoranjan Sen

The quaint forest bungalow at Sitabani

We returned from the first waterhole and clambered on to the trekker. This time round, we took the path further towards Sitabani. Suddenly, the trekker swerved from the path and turned left into the thick forest. We were feeling lost when, winding through the jungle, it finally stopped at a barrier. We were at another forest clearing, at another artificially created grassland with a waterhole. Our sudden arrival in this secluded place apparently scared the grazing chitals. They darted into the air and scampered into the forest on the other side of the grassland. Another herd, caught unawares by our presence, literally flew into the cover of the thick forest. Pawalgarh in many ways is a virgin forest in that the animals, unlike in neighbouring Corbett, flee at the sight of humans. Besides deer, we saw flocks of tiny parrots, flying across the clearing. By the time we got back to our trekker, it was close to nightfall.
At night, the forest takes on an ominous air. We were watching out for that lurking elephant or crouching tiger. With nothing to feed our fear and curiosity, we wanted to go to Sitabani, a few kilometres away. “It’ll not be safe to go to Sita Bani,” Range Officer Bisht told us. Animals, particularly elephant herds, could threaten our safety, he said. I looked at my kids in the back of the trekker, urging me to take the risk. I was in two minds: one asking for adventure, the other for safety. But Bisht, responsible for our safety, had already made up his mind. So we abandoned our plans to go further into the forest.
Instead, we retraced our path through Hathi Galiyar. After the darkness of the thick forest, the opening of the river afforded us some light. As we were crossing the river, my keen eyes caught a black piece of shit on a boulder. “What’s this?” I asked Bisht. I didn’t realise I had spotted the most precious piece of animal poo in my life. He got out of the trekker, took a close look with his torchlight, and announced, “Scat, tiger scat…do you notice the hair?” Yes, the scat has hair as well, because tigers eat their prey along with the fur and skin. By now, I was also out of the trekker to inspect the poo. Never in my life had I cared so much for a piece of poop. But this was no ordinary shit. In animal biology terms, we had hit upon a gold mine. Of the 46 tigers that inhabit Pawalgarh, a figure that the CCF vouches for, all we got to see was scat. Nothing more. I was reminded of Ganesh Thakur, the young restaurateur at Bail Parao. He was right. Seeing a tiger is luck by chance only!