Monday, July 20, 2015
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Black shouldered kite at Sholinganallur
Photo by Mr Ramanan |
Elanus caeruleus
A beautiful capture by Mr Ramanan, of a black-shouldered kite, seen on a wire at Sholinganallur. It seems to be fixing Mr Ramanan with a piercing look!
This smaller bird of prey has an interesting habit of hovering, like the pied kingfisher.
On the open plains at Bharatpur, we would regularly see them almost stationery in the sky as they hovered over, looking for small prey like rodents, frogs and lizards.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Salt and Sambhar - a place in need of urgent attention
17th January 2015
We bundled into our cars in Sujangarh, as we reached the last day of our rather interesting week in Rajasthan.
The town seemed to have some south Indian influence, as we saw a familiar gopuram by the roadside.
Lakshmi pleaded that we should have breakfast elsewhere, and so we landed up at Rama hotel, which was a vast improvement to our hotel, and we gorged on parottas, which kept coming from the kitchens.
Our souls were in a better state at the end of that, and we set off on our long journey east to Jaipur.
We were at the fag end of our trip, and it was with some regret, as I realized it would soon be back to work.
As I looked out of the window, I saw the by now familiar lopped Khejri trees, looking forlorn and leafless, standing over fallow fields.
And then suddenly there were these lines of lorries filled with salt.
We were closing in on Sambhar lake, the salt water lake of my childhood textbooks. I remember our Geography teacher droning on about how it was India's largest inland saline depression. I also remember never quite having it explained as to why it was saline!
Never did I think that one day I would actually visit this lake, far removed from the beaten track.
(It has always bugged me as to why it is called sambhar, my favourite gravy. (The same is true for the deer as well. ))
Located between Jaipur in the east and Ajmer to the west, it is now a designated Ramsar wetland.
We crossed a red brick, shabby building which announced the station - yes the lake has a station - and my sense of anticipation grew.
I thought of Pulicat and Chilika, the other estuarine backwater lagoons, with large expanses of water as far as the eye could see.
We turned a corner, and the cars halted at the edge of what looked like the local garbage dump.
Nabeel our guide said we had to walk past a little bund we saw. To my increasing shock and dismay, it seemed we were walking into the local village facility, we seemed to interrupt people in their toilet, and there was garbage and feces everywhere.
I still cannot get over it actually, how this could be a Ramsar site, and be so neglected. More than the birds then, it was the shocking state of the lake that hit me.
There were children playing cricket in these unhygienic conditions - on the dry lake bed, and we spoke to some of them, asking them why it was like this. They seemed to indicate that the village elders were unconcerned, there was not enough of toilet facilities, etc etc.
On my return I also read that there are two PSU salt companies - Sambhar Salts Limited and Bharat Salts - located here and working the salt pans. Why on earth have they not taken on the revival of this historical lake that is part of our ecological and environmental heritage?
Even Pallikaranai seems better off when compared to this lake.
How is this lake saline, though?
We were not unhappy to leave, frankly, a rather strange phenomenon for an MNS group which is always malingering.
I hope that I am able to raise some awareness of the urgent needs of this habitat.
We headed out to lunch and then set off for Jaipur on our way back home.
Further surprises awaited us, as we came to learn from indifferent Air Costa staff that our Chennai flight was cancelled. Of course they were "generous" enough to give us a full refund.
We then were all forced to book tickets on the Jaipur-Bangalore flight, thinking that it is better to come south than hang around there.
Then the question was how do we move from Bangalore to Chennai? A KSRTC bus that left at midnight was found by Kumar's enterprising daughter and tickets were booked online, as we raised a toast to the mobile phone and online booking!
So, deplane at Bangalore, rush madly to baggage claim, and a quick bathroom stop before we caught two cabs urging the drivers to drive us with speed to the bus stand in town.
Then we (in one cab) reach the well marked bus bays, and find a couple of people hanging around on the pavement, and asked them about the Chennai bus. They informed us that it was yet to come, so we hang around with them, while eyeing another bus that was idling ahead of us.
The second cab arrives, with Kumar's daughter, who asks us why we are waiting and not boarding the bus!! She had received an sms with the bus number, and the gents on the pavement were obviously unaware or spreading disinformation! Giggling hysterically, we got on, and made our way to the seats.
We continued to laugh until we dozed off fitfully, reaching the chaos of Koyambedu on the morning of the 18th, boarded a share auto and suffered a bone rattling ride all the way home.
A good bath, and a morning cup of strong filter coffee, and all was once again well with the world!
Rajasthan was now a memory.
We bundled into our cars in Sujangarh, as we reached the last day of our rather interesting week in Rajasthan.
The town seemed to have some south Indian influence, as we saw a familiar gopuram by the roadside.
Lakshmi pleaded that we should have breakfast elsewhere, and so we landed up at Rama hotel, which was a vast improvement to our hotel, and we gorged on parottas, which kept coming from the kitchens.
Our souls were in a better state at the end of that, and we set off on our long journey east to Jaipur.
We were at the fag end of our trip, and it was with some regret, as I realized it would soon be back to work.
As I looked out of the window, I saw the by now familiar lopped Khejri trees, looking forlorn and leafless, standing over fallow fields.
Further east, and the trees were in leaf, as also the mustard fields. |
We were closing in on Sambhar lake, the salt water lake of my childhood textbooks. I remember our Geography teacher droning on about how it was India's largest inland saline depression. I also remember never quite having it explained as to why it was saline!
Never did I think that one day I would actually visit this lake, far removed from the beaten track.
(It has always bugged me as to why it is called sambhar, my favourite gravy. (The same is true for the deer as well. ))
Located between Jaipur in the east and Ajmer to the west, it is now a designated Ramsar wetland.
We crossed a red brick, shabby building which announced the station - yes the lake has a station - and my sense of anticipation grew.
I thought of Pulicat and Chilika, the other estuarine backwater lagoons, with large expanses of water as far as the eye could see.
We turned a corner, and the cars halted at the edge of what looked like the local garbage dump.
Nabeel our guide said we had to walk past a little bund we saw. To my increasing shock and dismay, it seemed we were walking into the local village facility, we seemed to interrupt people in their toilet, and there was garbage and feces everywhere.
I still cannot get over it actually, how this could be a Ramsar site, and be so neglected. More than the birds then, it was the shocking state of the lake that hit me.
There were children playing cricket in these unhygienic conditions - on the dry lake bed, and we spoke to some of them, asking them why it was like this. They seemed to indicate that the village elders were unconcerned, there was not enough of toilet facilities, etc etc.
On my return I also read that there are two PSU salt companies - Sambhar Salts Limited and Bharat Salts - located here and working the salt pans. Why on earth have they not taken on the revival of this historical lake that is part of our ecological and environmental heritage?
Even Pallikaranai seems better off when compared to this lake.
From Google maps |
How is this lake saline, though?
Greater flamingoes - yes, they were the main attraction and they stood in the middle of the lake, probably in half a foot of water. |
A pied Avocet tried to make the best of a bad deal scrounging in the murky waters. |
As we watched a train came rattling by on the track. The track dates back to British India, and was the line for transporting salt out of the region. |
The flamingoes decided they were better off in the air at this point, and circled in formation until the train passed. |
They came settling back down only after the train had moved on. |
At one point in the eighties there used to be lakhs of these birds, I read, not so anymore. Not enough water is reaching the lake as the frehwater channel/rivers are choked |
Lapwigs, stilts and godwits mucked around disconsolately (I thought). |
We even spotted a snipe |
And a wagtail |
I hope that I am able to raise some awareness of the urgent needs of this habitat.
We headed out to lunch and then set off for Jaipur on our way back home.
Further surprises awaited us, as we came to learn from indifferent Air Costa staff that our Chennai flight was cancelled. Of course they were "generous" enough to give us a full refund.
We then were all forced to book tickets on the Jaipur-Bangalore flight, thinking that it is better to come south than hang around there.
Then the question was how do we move from Bangalore to Chennai? A KSRTC bus that left at midnight was found by Kumar's enterprising daughter and tickets were booked online, as we raised a toast to the mobile phone and online booking!
So, deplane at Bangalore, rush madly to baggage claim, and a quick bathroom stop before we caught two cabs urging the drivers to drive us with speed to the bus stand in town.
Then we (in one cab) reach the well marked bus bays, and find a couple of people hanging around on the pavement, and asked them about the Chennai bus. They informed us that it was yet to come, so we hang around with them, while eyeing another bus that was idling ahead of us.
The second cab arrives, with Kumar's daughter, who asks us why we are waiting and not boarding the bus!! She had received an sms with the bus number, and the gents on the pavement were obviously unaware or spreading disinformation! Giggling hysterically, we got on, and made our way to the seats.
We continued to laugh until we dozed off fitfully, reaching the chaos of Koyambedu on the morning of the 18th, boarded a share auto and suffered a bone rattling ride all the way home.
A good bath, and a morning cup of strong filter coffee, and all was once again well with the world!
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Carcasses and vultures
15th January 2015 began at Phalodi, and the Demoiselle cranes at Kichan.
It ended rather differently.
"Turn right on the Jeypore highway."
"You have reached your destination."
The electronic GPS lady-with-an-American-accent informed us that we were at our destination - the Jorbeer carcass dumping site. But we were at the end of a T junction in the middle of nowhere, and quite lost.
We then did our navigation the old-fashioned (and for India the more effective way quite often), rolled down the windows and asked a local trundling along on his bicycle.
We arrived a little too late in the evening, and the sun was already low in the sky. On the outskirts of Bikaner, we were at this large empty semi-desert acreage, where the city dumps its cattle carcasses.
Tractors come and unload the cattle carcasses of the city and the neighbouring towns here. There are piles of meat, which are then picked clean by the scavenging birds on duty, increasingly in competition with feral dogs.
The scenery is unattractive, and there is an odour of rotting flesh. We kept a safe distance from the carcasses, and so we were not overpowered by the stench or the flies.
We kept together, and one of us kept an eye on the dogs, which are aggressive and territorial.
Egyptian vultures, European griffins, Steppe Eagles - all migrants - abound. We also saw Cinereous vultures.
And flitting in the undergrowth, camouflaged in the brown of the sand were a flock of Isabelline wheatears as well.
I read that they feed on feaces to get the carotenoid pigment that gives them those yellow faces, which is a sign of good health. How gross is that?!
More than the ground, it was the show in the sky that was riveting.
A large Eurasian Griffon came into view, making the Egyptian vultures look small.
Gyps fulvus - we saw it ride the thermals, gliding effortlessly with its large wing span, its white head and long neck, reminding me of the vultures in Jungle Book.
These Gyps are also probably affected by diclofenac poisoning, and their numbers are on the decline.
And then came the even larger Cinereous Vulture into view!
And then it was back to the eagles -
A great place for idying vultures is here.
The light was fast fading, or rather had faded, and the dogs appeared even more menacing, and we decided to leave.
A strange and unattractive place, and I ruminated as we trundled along in the car that I would never have known of this place but for the MNS group.
Across India, there are dumps like this, it seems, where cattle carcasses are dumped after removing their hides. The fall in vulture populations has caused a serious problem in their disposal. The diclofenac seems to affect the Gyps vultures more, which could be the reason why the Egyptian vultures seem to be in greater numbers.
Vibhu Prakash of BNHS has documented their decline.
*********
Some others had gone to the camel research centre nearby, and ofcourse Dhruva had to do the last of his disappearing act as he wandered off to buy camel milk from the National Camel centre!!
Sheila's birthday and Shobha and Vijay's wedding anniversary - what an eventful day! Forgotten havelis at Phalodi, Demoiselle cranes by the thousands at Kichan, mustard fields and khejri trees, vultures and a carcass dump, a bone-rattling drive to Sujangarh, and finally dinner at Rich Garden Sujangarh, which had no garden to speak of!
The next morning, it was another eventful day as we headed to Taal Chapper.
It ended rather differently.
"Turn right on the Jeypore highway."
"You have reached your destination."
The electronic GPS lady-with-an-American-accent informed us that we were at our destination - the Jorbeer carcass dumping site. But we were at the end of a T junction in the middle of nowhere, and quite lost.
We then did our navigation the old-fashioned (and for India the more effective way quite often), rolled down the windows and asked a local trundling along on his bicycle.
We arrived a little too late in the evening, and the sun was already low in the sky. On the outskirts of Bikaner, we were at this large empty semi-desert acreage, where the city dumps its cattle carcasses.
The air was filled with raptors, as too the ground. |
Tractors come and unload the cattle carcasses of the city and the neighbouring towns here. There are piles of meat, which are then picked clean by the scavenging birds on duty, increasingly in competition with feral dogs.
The scenery is unattractive, and there is an odour of rotting flesh. We kept a safe distance from the carcasses, and so we were not overpowered by the stench or the flies.
We kept together, and one of us kept an eye on the dogs, which are aggressive and territorial.
Egyptian vultures, European griffins, Steppe Eagles - all migrants - abound. We also saw Cinereous vultures.
And flitting in the undergrowth, camouflaged in the brown of the sand were a flock of Isabelline wheatears as well.
Steppe eagles in plenty, as at Taal chapper. |
On every shrub, every mound, there seemed to be the Steppe Eagles, as common here, as crows in Madras, it seemed! |
A steppe eagle soared by |
And the Egyptian vultures sat around, everywehere, roosting communally on top of bushes like this..... |
.... circling in the sky, distinctive with their wedge-shaped tails...... |
...feeding on the carrion, the juvenile blacks and the adult whites..... |
....unbothered by the dogs... |
Neophron percnopterus - looking like they could do with a good wash to clean themselves! They are or were seen across the Indian sub continent. |
More than the ground, it was the show in the sky that was riveting.
A large Eurasian Griffon came into view, making the Egyptian vultures look small.
The rufous brown underwings have a pale banding across. |
See the stout bill, and this was probably a juvenile as the bill was greyish. It looked all grown up and fierce to me though |
They are probably a resident population, moving to the Himalayas in summer. |
See the larger Cinereous |
Aegypius monachus - this is the largest vulture species, appearing all black in the sky. |
They hold their wings quite often in this arched fashion, and have a slow flapping, given their broad wing spans. |
Tawny Eagle - with the gape line extending only until the eyes, and not beyond like the "smiling" Steppe eagles. |
Another one sat on the ground in the distance. |
A rib cage picked clean by the scavengers - clear evidence of their role in the natural world. |
A strange and unattractive place, and I ruminated as we trundled along in the car that I would never have known of this place but for the MNS group.
Across India, there are dumps like this, it seems, where cattle carcasses are dumped after removing their hides. The fall in vulture populations has caused a serious problem in their disposal. The diclofenac seems to affect the Gyps vultures more, which could be the reason why the Egyptian vultures seem to be in greater numbers.
Vibhu Prakash of BNHS has documented their decline.
*********
Sheila's birthday and Shobha and Vijay's wedding anniversary - what an eventful day! Forgotten havelis at Phalodi, Demoiselle cranes by the thousands at Kichan, mustard fields and khejri trees, vultures and a carcass dump, a bone-rattling drive to Sujangarh, and finally dinner at Rich Garden Sujangarh, which had no garden to speak of!
The next morning, it was another eventful day as we headed to Taal Chapper.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Sunday, June 7, 2015
The Demoiselle cranes of Kichan
We found ourselves in the town of Phalodi on Sankranti this year. Here were we, more than 2,000 kms from our home in Madras, where I grew and schooled. I discover that two of my classmates have their ancestral roots here. It somehow blew my mind then, and continues to do so now, as to how families just upped and moved across the continent. Their migration similar to the long one that the cranes undertake it seemed.
We trundled in to the neighbouring town of Kichan on the evening of 14th to see the visiting Demoiselle cranes at the lake in the town.
This was our first sighting of these birds, as the sun was setting. The local villagers and children seemed to pay no notice to them. |
And neither were they bothered by us. Coming all the way from Mongolia every winter and familiar to the locals as koonj. |
Supposedly in Hindi litereature of old, a beautiful woman was compared to the koonj, with its graceful neck! |
The little lake had other residents - lapwings, stilt, shovellers, godwit, kingfishers, little grebes - but of course the cranes were the big attraction for us. |
As the sun dipped we could see the spire of the local temple. |
Rakesh and Mukesh who befriended Sekar. They quite charmed him, as he gave them his camera and made them click a couple of pictures! |
The chugga ghars of Kichan were our destination the next morning.
And because he is a better narrator of stories,
Sekar writes
Phalodi is a nondescript town on the Jodhpur-Jaisalmer
road. As you enter the town and drive
past the railway station, you are assaulted by the sights and smells of small
town India. Cattle, goats, pigs,
two-wheelers, autos, lorries, cars, buses and pedestrians all jostle for space
on pockmarked remnants of roads. Sewage
spills out of the open drains, there is litter everywhere as is that bane of
today’s India: plastic waste.
We entered the town at dusk, past long lines of dimly lit
shops, establishments selling auto parts jostling for space with eateries,
godowns, money lenders and recycled waste peddlers.
Why would anyone want to live in a place like this? Why does an entire town need to look like the
contents of a dustbin? And why this
cacaphony of trade and traffic? And, as
with every Indian town crowded with right-angled concrete pillar and beam
structures, why this complete lack of aesthetics?
Quite abruptly, we turned into a narrower lane complete with
open sewer, and with much less room to manouevre. No pigs and dogs here: only cattle occupying
the middle ground and daring vehicles to bump them as they attempted to squeeze
past. As we drove further into the lane,
it struck me, one, that the noise levels were lower; two, that we were in a
residential part of town; and three, that the residences themselves were not
unadorned concrete and brick rectangles.
Dusk was nigh and the light fading, but we could see that house after
house had red sandstone facades, many with elaborate carvings. Some houses had small overhanging balconies.
Elaborate carved doors and windows faced the street. The buzz and noise of India were largely absent
and this was puzzling.
We had a little time early the next morning and decided to
explore.
School girls, smartly dressed in their winter uniforms, went
by on bicycles, wishing us good morning and wanting to know if we needed
directions. It was nice to see such good
cheer on a dull, cold, and foggy morning.
We walked past a shabby fort with crumbling walls, modest by Rajasthani
standards. Advertisements and graffiti
covered the lower ramparts.
Mere
antiquity without history or aesthetics is meaningless it seems. I wondered how long it would be before the
real estate the fort enclosed fell victim to modern development.
We then turned into the street with the sandstone facades.
This part of town was indeed different. The houses we had seen the previous evening
lined both sides of the streets like books on a packed bookshelf. There were no trees on the street and no
front yards or gardens: the houses opened directly onto the street. The houses themselves were in various states
of repair. Some were derelict and
unoccupied; others locked up but clearly being maintained; and yet others with
open doors, drains emptying into the open sewers, and people going about their
early morning business.
We could see
courtyards, some with trees or little gardens, through the open doors.
The stonework adorned the first floors in most
cases. The windows were framed with
elaborate carvings and topped with varied overhanging eaves all in the same red
sandstone. The houses looked broadly similar:
two stories in most cases, similar windows and doors, and the same red
sandstone faces. Details marked each one
from its neighbour. They differed in
size, though. Modest buildings with a single
pair of windows flanking their doors stood next to grand havelis that stretched
half the length of the street.
One in particular stood out, both for its size
and the richness of its ornamentation.
Built by the Dadha family more than a century earlier, it has been
lovingly restored by the family and is now part hotel and part museum
The story of the family and the house they built echoes that
of Phalodi. The town was once (and I’m
told still is) a centre for salt trading.
The elaborately decorated houses belonged to merchants, usually Jains,
who made their fortunes as salt traders.
The salt trade continues, but it is not what it once was.
The days when an unjust tax on salt could
inspire a march to the sea at Dandi are long past. Other opportunities beckoned, and people
migrated to Calcutta, Madras and Bombay, the administrative and business centres
of the British presidencies.
Members of the Dadha family moved to Madras, eventually setting up a chemicals business. They retained their Phalodi roots even as, over the years, the shoots they had put down in their new homes prospered and grew, and even as they acquired the languages and customs of their new homes. In many cases (as with the Dadhas), only the family homes remain as reminders of their past in Phalodi.
Even today, we occasionally had the sense of being in a ghost town.
Kichan, not Phalodi, was our real destination. We spent the night at Phalodi only because
Kichan, five kilometres away, lacked even the most basic of hotels. And we were at Kichan because of the birds.
Many species of birds winter in India. Rajasthan is home to large numbers (and many
species) of these winter migrants, and draws bird lovers and ornithologists
from around the world. Kichan, with a
few open fields and a couple of small ponds, is on the face of it an unlikely
destination for either birds or birders.
There are plenty of large water bodies throughout Rajasthan, and the state
itself has become greener over the past several decades. And yet it is Kichan that boasts of perhaps
the most spectacular display of feeding birds.
Birds, Demoiselle Cranes mostly, have been
coming here for centuries. About a
century and a half back, some local Jains began leaving grain in the fields for
the avian visitors. Over the years the
numbers of birds grew, and today Kichan is home to over 20,000 demoiselle
cranes every winter.
By itself that would be a magnificent sight: cranes are
graceful creatures, even if their version of birdsong tends to the
raucous. What makes Kichan special is
that the cranes follow an orchestrated schedule: you know where they are going
to be at any given time of day and for a birder that is a huge blessing.
We arrived at Kichan the previous evening, an hour and a bit
more before sunset, just in time to see the last of several flocks finish their
evening feed near a small lake before taking off for the night. There were plenty of other birds going about
their business in the lake: pintails, grebes, stilts, lapwings, herons and many
others, but the cranes, congregated by the opposite shore, caught and held our
eyes. We caught our first glimpse of
their behaviour as a flock. At some
point, they gathered together, turned in the same direction and started moving
purposefully, almost as though they were readying for a takeoff. And takeoff all together they did, the flock
flying together towards the setting sun.
We were awed, but this was the merest appetiser for what we were to see
the next morning.
‘We need to be in position by 8.30 latest,’ Nabeel, our
guide, informed us. ‘We need to be on
the move by eight.’
Our quick recce of the Phalodi havelis and a hurried
breakfast done with, we drove through still sleepy streets and, some fifteen or
twenty minutes later, parked on a nondescript street next to an empty,
fenced-in, plot of about half an acre.
Single story houses stood on either side and elsewhere on the street.
Sewaramji (left) and Nabeel, our guide |
It was a dull, overcast day, but the sharp cries of the
cranes was very evident and as we looked up, we saw flock after flock wheeling
overhead. We were welcomed into a small
courtyard by the very appropriately named Sewaramji. A stocky, uniformed man with a stud adorning
each ear, Sewaramji is the person responsible for spreading out the birds’ feed
– jowar – around the empty plot. This is
a substantial task. Twenty thousand and
more cranes fly in around late August to mid September and leave for their
Mongolian and southern Siberian summer homes only in March.
They consume around 600 kilos of feed every
day. Various Jain charities pay for all
this and Sewaramji and his helpers ensure that the food is ready when the birds
are.
The Chugga Ghar. The light brown patches are the grain spread on the ground. |
And then, with an immense fluttering, a huge flock of pigeons flew past, circled the field once and then landed to begin a feeding frenzy amidst much frantic cooing and clucking. We had come to see the cranes, not pigeons. Just wait, Sewaramji assured us, the pigeons always feed first and leave and only then do the cranes come for their feed. So we waited – and waited – while the pigeons leisurely had breakfast. Even bird lovers find it difficult to like pigeons and there was much grumbling and noticeable annoyance all around. In the meanwhile the cranes continued to mass on the open areas all around while small groups circled overhead crying all the while.
The pigeons arrive |
Quite abruptly, a third of the pigeon flock took off, then a
second third, followed very quickly by the rest leaving only five greedy
stragglers and a cat that had strayed into the ground.
A lone crane made the short hop from the open ground over
the fence and into the feeding ground. The cat eyed it and made as if to approach
it.
A few more cranes followed, then
even more, and before our eyes the plot began to fill up.
Soon there were thousands of feeding birds
and the cat withdrew in some confusion and alarm.
Their long necks are extended in flight with their feet tucked back. Perhaps because it was the feeding hour, they were noisy even in flight. |
Known locally as Koonj,
these birds are said to have inspired Valmiki’s poetry and are a metaphor for
faithful loving couples in the legends and literature of North India.
They were clearly social birds. The way they flew in flocks for the feed, the
way they congregated as they fed with a minimum of jostling and quarreling but
with plenty to say as they fed, they way they left in batches as they finished
and the way the entire lot moved from place to place around Kichan all
suggested strong social bonds.
But the sight (and sounds) of them feeding! I’ve never seen anything like it and, judging
from their comments and loud exclamations, neither had anyone else. For one thing, there was the sheer number of
birds packed into the field, and the racket they were making. Then, how close we were to them. Most birds are shy (crows and pigeons
excepted of course!) and observing and photographing them requires patience,
knowledge of their habits, and heavy duty equipment. And yet here we were, less than ten metres from
the closest birds which were going about their feeding completely oblivious to
our presence.
Artificial? Perhaps yes in that the feed had been
deliberately laid out by human hands.
But the birds’ migration, their presence in Kichan, and their social
behaviour as they fed were all for real: nature showcasing herself for us.
The local populace takes pride in the birds’ presence; they
are aware of their movements, timings and habits and ensure that they are
protected. The birds themselves go about
their routine unconcerned about the humans they share their space with. Kichan is not an official sanctuary. There are no guards or rangers here, no
prohibited areas or protected spaces.
And yet, because the people here have let them be, the Demoiselle cranes
come here year after year, increasing in numbers as the years go by. Perhaps that is a lesson for all of us: there
is no reason why we – humans – and they – everything else – cannot peaceably
share this land we have all been born into.
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