Lalchandji and the tigers

Sounds like something out of a Ruskin Bond book.

I looked up the terrain on Google Maps, and it is just as Raza Kazmi describes it  - Pilibhit is a thin horse-shoe-shaped strip of Terai forest bound by tall sugarcane fields on all sides except for the slender forest corridors connecting it to the Shivalik forests of Uttarakhand to its west, Shuklaphanta national park (in Nepal) to its north and Dudhwa tiger reserve to its east.

The Tiger in my Backyard

The lonely life of a forest bungalow guard in UP’s Pilibhit tiger reserve.

Written by Raza Kazmi | Published: January 21, 2018 12:05 am

“Just as dusk begins giving way to the night, I bolt myself inside the rest house. I have my dinner there and stay locked till daybreak. If someone arrives at the main gate at night, he opens the gate himself, I don’t go out. Tigers and leopards regularly enter the compound and there is just one solar light near the kitchen that works. Everything else is engulfed in darkness. Just a few days ago, two tigers came inside the campus and roared for a good two hours while I was holed inside this godforsaken bungalow all alone, waiting for dawn,” says Lalchandji, the chowkidaar at the Mala forest rest house in Uttar Pradesh’s little-known Pilibhit tiger reserve, as he rakes up the dying embers of the small fire we had lit to shield ourselves from the cold.
His caution isn’t without reason. There is a palpable fear among forest staff and locals all across this tiger reserve that has witnessed, perhaps, the worst spate of tiger attacks in India in recent history. More than 20 people have been killed by the striped cats over the past few months, more than one-third of the fatalities being in a 5 km radius of the Mala bungalow. The conflict is primarily fuelled by the unique geography of this tiger reserve. Pilibhit is a thin horse-shoe-shaped strip of Terai forest bound by tall sugarcane fields on all sides except for the slender forest corridors connecting it to the Shivalik forests of Uttarakhand to its west, Shuklaphanta national park (in Nepal) to its north and Dudhwa tiger reserve to its east. The tall sugarcane provides good cover to the big cats as well as their prey, and, consequently, tigers regularly move about in these fields. Villagers must enter as well to tend to their fields and so the stage for tragedy is set. The forest department asks residents to avoid moving about in and around the forest after dark, and to move in large groups if they must.

Lalchandji, however, has no such safety net to fall back on. The ageing veteran stands guard all alone at the bungalow — except for occasional short visits during the day by fellow staff members — because, as he nonchalantly puts it, “Who else will take care of it if not me?” He isn’t a chowkidaar by designation, though. “I am an ardali [orderly]. I got regularised after working nearly three decades on daily wage. I got posted as an ad-hoc chowkidaar here 15 years ago when the last guy died. They have forgotten me here since,” he says with a shrug.
He would have made his peace with this life, but for the the “damn tigers and leopards”. “They won’t leave me in peace even during the day, sometimes. Just a few months ago, three large tigers walked into this fallow field in broad daylight,” he says, pointing towards a small field, barely 15 feet behind me, that was seasonally used to raise nursery crops. “There I was taking a nice bath in the sun when suddenly there were a few peacock calls. The next thing I know, three full grown tigers suddenly walk out of the forest, casually jump over the barbed wire fence and lie down in this field.” His tone betrays a rare hint of excitement. “I was so flustered I couldn’t even get my clothes on! I ran half-naked into the kitchen and bolted the doors. And don’t even get me started on that rascal leopard who climbed up the roof of my quarter!” he scoffs. I try not to laugh at this amusing tirade, but it’s a difficult task: he speaks of them like a grumpy old man expressing his annoyance at street urchins. “They make my life miserable,” he complains, before lapsing into silence. “But, at least, they give me company on lonely days,” he says.
The deer are a big draw for predators in the area. (Photo: Raza Kazmi)Just as he is finishing his story, his phone rings. He squints his eyes, takes out his ancient phone, and then presses the reject button. “Ye ek aur narak bana rakha hai jeevan ko is saale phone ne.” (This damn phone is another object that is making my life hell), he groans. “People from home keep calling, asking me to come for festivals and functions. I have just had three holidays in the last one year. I even spent Diwali alone here. In the silence of the night, I could hear the faint sounds of celebration from Mala village,” he says, his voice plaintive. “This damn phone rang just then, a call from home. I rejected the call…stupid mobile phones,” he mutters.
I ask him why he doesn’t press for leaves. After all, his home is only about 6 km away and his health has steadily declined over the past two years. “Didn’t I tell you already? Who will take care of this place then?” he says and lapses into silence. “But it is going to be over soon. I will be retiring in two months’ time. Then, I will rest for as long as I want. I have some land, maybe I will start farming again,” he says, as a flock of oriental pied hornbills settle on a fig tree for the night.
The glowing red embers of the fire have begun dying. We retire for the night. The next morning, I find him restlessly pacing around the fire he has lit close to the kitchen. I greet him and he lets out a broad smile. “You are sleeping easy here. A leopard walked right past your head in the night!” he says, showing me fresh pugmarks next to the bungalow’s verandah. “Stupid leopard,” he chuckles.

Raza Kazmi is a Jharkhand-based conservationist and a keen student of India’s wildlife history.

The magnificent Rutland Island that needs to be 'saved' from a defence project

16th April 2017

Continued from here.

The MNS group was visiting the Andaman islands and staying at ANET in Wandoor.  Through the efforts of Mr Shankarnarayan, we had obtained permission to visit Rutland Island!  

We set out, if I remember right at around 6am in the morning.  The sun was up, and we travelled in our van along the thinly populated areas, going east first and then south, hugging the coast of the main island.

There was a little hamlet called Manjery, which amused and delighted me, as there is a Manjeri in Kerala that's famous in the family, but I am digressing. After about 45 minutes, through the tree cover, we spied the waters, and what a lovely sight it was!

We were at Pongibalu jetty, from where we were to take an open motorboat to Rutland.

The pictures below do not do justice to the natural beauty we saw.  Clear waters,  colourful fish darting in schools, mangroves at the edge, blue skies and a lovely breeze to counter the sharp April sun.

We were lucky to have with us Manish and Sathya from ANET, along with the forest department guide, to take us through what we saw and experienced.

The views from Pongibalu, to the north

South and west, with Rutland Island in the distance.

Once again, the literally earth-shaking events of the tsunami were in evidence.  On the right is the old jetty which has subsided and gone under water.  (Click on the picture to get a better look)  Rutland island has continuous freshwater, and that is the pipe that brings it to the main island.

Two boat trips were needed to ferry us across, and as we waited for our ride, we watched the fishes dart in and out from under the jetty platform, glinting as they caught the sun at certain angles.  There were a lot of garfish or sea needles, and their long needle-shaped snouts made them easy to spot.

Then there were schools of parrotfish! What colours!  Hard as I tried, I could not manage a picture of them, so fast were they in darting in and out.

The boat returned and we set off.

Rifleman island?

We crossed a tiny island called Rifleman, and rounded the Diligence Straits before we saw the jetty on Rutland Island.  We were going to the one inside the cove, not the more exposed one further east.

Looking out from Rutland Island at the jetty

As we moved in, off the beach we learned that there are no original inhabitants (Jangil tribe) anymore, and there is one small village of settlers, but otherwise the island is basically uninhabited, with no roads as such.

That is all set to change as there is an approved plan to set up some defence installations and missile testing.  Really?  Seriously?  Isn't there any other place they could use?  Any other island?

We stayed on the trail and there were TALL garjan trees (Dipterocarpus alatus or are they turbinatus?) that we
had to crane our necks to see.  Magnificent, thats the only word that came to my mind.
I of course had to see every tall tree, and therefore made very slow progress!  The seeds are
what we used to call "helicopters" as kids, twirling down with gravity.  The tree is in the

"Critically Endangered" list of IUCN, one more reason to leave this island alone.

Most of the Andaman archipelago depend on rainwater for fresh water.  However Rutland Island has freshwater streams running through it, and from one such stream, a huge pipe carries water to the main south Andaman island, as was seen in the picture of the jetty.

Our Forest Guide can be seen standing on on one of the chambers along the pipe way.

He explained to us how the forests of the island were dense and covered with cane, bamboo and lianas and creepers, along with the forest giants, and the mixed forest is healthy and vibrant.

The giant evergreens, were just that.  

There are many Dipterocarps it seems!  

Another Dipteorcarpus variety (I think), this one in seed.

The rattan canes (Calamus longisetus) were everywhere.  Manish showed us the 'hooks' that these climbers have by which they successfully climb over everything!

The sun was high in the sky, and the air was humid.  We were all sweating profusely, even though our path was more or less in the shade of the large trees.

The tree species would require several weeks of visits for me to note and identify properly.  There were endemics like Planchonia andamanicus, Padauk - we saw a large fallen tree, Andaman crepe myrtle - Lagerstroemia hypoleuca, besides Siris, Junglee badam and other familiar trees.

The Evergreen Giants

 

The overgrowth 

Shades of Green 

Emerald Gecko!

We found a bus-stop like rain shelter and all crowded into it, to sit and cool off, when Shubha spotted this brilliant green critter on the tree in front.  Phelsuma Andamanesis (Andaman Island Day Gecko) is found only in the Andamans, and we were privileged to spot it.  (Photo by Ramesh)  Click on the picture to see the beautiful colourations in detail.

It moved in and out of view as it circled the bark in search of  its lunch of insects.

We moved off the trail and settled by a little freshwater pond, where Pritam decided that the only way to cool off was to get right in.  So he strode in, and settled in the middle of the shallow pond, (with a surly look on his face which discouraged any smart comments), with only his hat-covered head out of water.  He did emerge in a little while in a better frame of mind it has to be said!

His mood improved even more when he spotted the Andaman Bulbul and Coucal in the foliage by the pond.  There were orioles too.  Watersides always lead to good bird sightings.

After a picnic lunch, we turned back on the trail to return to the jetty. I think the plan was to traverse the entire length of the island, but given the speed of our progress we made it only half way!

I don't think we quite know all the floral and faunal treasures that Rutland Island holds and yet the GOI wants to come in with this defence project.  Call me naive, a bleeding heart, anti-development or whatever, but this whole project makes no sense to me.

If we could move the neutrino project out of the Western Ghats, why not this as well?

Terns awaited our return at Pongibalu. 

That evening, we strolled back to the Wandoor beach, via the Lohabarrack Sanctuary entrance.  The waters are enclosed by a kind of net, and as the sun goes down, the local police are out with their whistles getting the people off the beaches.  The threat of salt water crocodiles is very real.  

As the skies darkened, we engaged in some black humour as we discussed how inadequate those nets seemed in the face of a large saltie.  

It seems we were not far from the truth, as an attack in November 2017 led to the death of one man on that very same beach.

Living vs concrete jungles - Urgent choices

A beautiful essay.  

An ancient rainforest in Kerala teaches us what we’re losing out on in our lonely cities of concrete



By Suprabha Seshan

She lives and works at the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in Wayanad district, Kerala. She is an Ashoka Fellow. In 2006, on behalf of the sanctuary’s ecosystem gardeners, she received the UK’s Whitley Award.

It was a bright morning in late October, with a light breeze and no mist. Crinkled woody seeds of todayan, a beautiful tree with upturned leaves, cracked open underfoot as I walked through a rainforest at the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in Wayanad district, Kerala, where I live and work. Balsam capsules sprung open on touch. In the course of a few minutes, I had bumped into myriad creatures, such as assassin bugs, bagworms, hoverflies, fire ants and pill millipedes; a variety of spiders such as a giant wood spider, an ant-mimicking spider, a jumping spider, a tree-stump spider and a funnel-web spider; and birds such as bulbuls, drongos, fairy bluebirds, flowerpeckers, leafbirds and scarlet minivets. The breeze became stronger as the sun rose, tossing the tops of trees, while multi-coloured frogs leapt out of my way. I stopped to admire kattan kara trees, close relatives of the todayan, in full flower.
Of the 67 acres of land in the sanctuary’s care, seven acres consist of old-growth forest, namely an ancient forest that has never been clear-felled and has grown largely undisturbed over time. Every time I walk in this forest, I cherish the fact that this tiny stretch is primeval. Rainforests are the worlds’ most ancient terrestrial biomes, or communities of distinctive plants and animals. Scientists estimate them to be 200 million years old, perhaps more. I tell children who come to the sanctuary for nature-immersion programmes that they are setting foot in one of the most ancient natural communities on the planet.
The rest of the Gurukula land is secondary forest, vegetation slowly recovering from clear-felling. Recovery began when each piece of land came under our care; the first pieces are about four-and-a-half decades old. From barrenness to baby forest, we have been witnessing the miracle of a forest reviving. More than 100 species of trees grow where once there was lemongrass or a ginger plantation. More than 400 species of herbs, shrubs, creepers, climbers and epiphytes have established themselves on this once-denuded land. Here too live 150 to 200 species of mosses and liverworts, while 240 species of birds have their homes or their annual wintering grounds on this land. Dozens of frogs, rare and fragile species, breed here, as do many lizards, snakes and mammals. I cannot even begin to describe the insects, except to say that we see new ones all the time.
The sanctuary is contiguous with a reserve forest in the custody of the Kerala forests and wildlife department. This area, which is a couple of hundred square kilometres in size, consists of some old-growth forest, a much larger area of secondary forest, and other parts that had been cleared by the department a few decades ago to make way for plantations. The first logging in this part of Wayanad was undertaken more than 120 years ago by the British colonial administration, which cut ironwood trees to make sleepers for railway lines. Subsequently, the forest department’s management practices have included clearing native trees for plantation species such as eucalyptus, acacia and mahogany.
Ecosystem gardening at the sanctuary, and wherever it is practised the world over, has some basic ecological premises. The first premise is that nature evolves diversity over immense periods of time, a fact established by science. Diversity differs from biome to biome and habitat to habitat. It also changes with time and under different forces acting on the landscape, such as the reach of glacial sheets during the ice ages. On the flipside, diversity also influences climate and ecosystem processes.
The second premise, which has also emerged from numerous studies by evolutionary biologists, is that diverse species depend on each other to survive and thrive. Every level of life, from cellular to planetary, has communities of interrelated beings, each performing a unique function, together forming a whole, from genome to biome. In a rainforest, for example, the cool cover of vegetation on the land leads to water condensing. This gives rise to more plants, which in turn support more animals. Indeed, a primary rainforest, which has grown undisturbed for millions of years, like the one in our sanctuary, is among the most diverse places on earth. This is partly the work of time, and also the result of each species creating possibilities for more species.
A third widely shared premise among scientists is that diversity leads to resilience at different levels: of each species, of the whole community and also of the planet. Resilience is the capacity to survive challenges of different kinds, to maintain integrity of form and function through periods of adversity. Diversity, for instance, leads to multi-layered forests that are healthy; they do not succumb to outbreaks of disease.
“The first line of evidence is born out of Charles Darwin’s ideas,” explained Antonio Nobre, an earth systems scientist from Brazil, in an email. “Putting it roughly, natural selection has functioned over aeons to select organisms that correlate with environment stability. Individual fitness depends on group success, which depends on environmental stability. There is no other explanation for the observed climate stability on earth over billions of years.”
Living laboratoryAt the sanctuary, I daily witness the three ideas working together. I walked on that morning to admire lichens, which are symbiotic organisms consisting of an alga, a plant, and a fungus, which is neither a plant nor an animal. Lichens grow on rocks or barks of trees, sustained by minerals and organic debris. Snails graze on lichens. Cormorants pick up snails. Eagles hunt cormorants, and bacteria, beetles, rats, worms and vultures feed on eagles after they die. So the feeding goes.
I then stopped by some Oberonias, a strange-looking genus of epiphytic orchids, with flat leaves growing fan-like from a sheathed base, and slender pendulous inflorescences. I find orchids to be great starting points to explore interdependence in nature. I examined a few closely, to look at their seed pods, which had taken weeks to mature. A few had split open. Orchid seeds are just motes of dust in the understorey, the layer of the forest beneath the canopy. Where they land, a specific fungus must grow or else they will not germinate. This is because orchid seeds lack an endosperm, the food package that starts off most flowering plants, like beans, corn and jackfruit, on their new life.
Oberonias grow on trees in the Western Ghats, following a lifestyle that is free of soil, deriving their minerals and organic matter from decomposed bark dust, and their water from rain and mist. Hence the term epiphyte, meaning a plant that grows on another plant. Oberonia flowers are two millimetres in length, and dozens can grow on a stalk. Each is a perfect miniature orchid. There are more than 20 Oberonia species growing in the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary’s orchidarium, many named after botanists.
Every orchid species has a unique association with one or more fungal species known as mycorrhizae, meaning fungal roots. The seed swells when there is sufficient moisture, then releases a hormone, signalling the fungus to cover it with hyphae, which are filaments that behave like root hairs for the seedling. The fungus brings sugars, minerals, proteins and water to the seed. Germination happens, a cotyledon and radicle emerge, then a leaf shoot and root. Sunlight strikes the tender plant, and it grows.
Only when the plant grows bigger does the fungus receive its rewards in the form of carbon. Some biologists think that the fungus does not receive any benefits, but others disagree. This association between orchids and fungi is the reason you will never find orchid seeds for sale. It is impossible to grow them without the aid of micropropagation techniques and sugar solutions to replace the fungus’s role in a germinating seed’s new life.
“Saving any one of these orchids saves another species too, an insect perhaps,” said Suma Keloth, my colleague and an ecosystem gardener who has been growing and conserving hundreds of species of orchids for more than two decades at the sanctuary. Her wards are challenging, each one attuned to a precise set of conditions in the rainforest, and each one demanding attention, understanding, skill and sustained care. The proof of Keloth’s extensive knowledge of conservation gardening and plant diversity in the Western Ghats is tangible all around. Hundreds of species now self-propagate in mixed communities in the various habitats that she and other ecosystem gardeners have created in order to grow the plants.
Bryophytes, namely mosses and their relatives, offer another vivid example of interdependence. Rory Hodd, a visiting plant ecologist from Ireland, explained why they are crucial for the rainforest. Many of the bryophytes at Gurukula are epiphytes. They provide a substrate and home for many other organisms, and retain moisture that would otherwise be lost. Bryophyte colonies take time to grow. Once established they provide moist, stable conditions for orchids and ferns to germinate. They provide a home and food for fungi, algae, insects, which in turn are fed upon by frogs, birds and small mammals.
“In an ecosystem, everything is interconnected,” Hodd said. “If you remove an organism from the ecosystem, it loses its balance and, even if it’s not apparent to the observer, becomes less resilient to change. If this continues, and diversity of organisms continues to be lost, or if a major change to the ecosystem occurs, it ceases to function and catastrophe ensues.”
Piggybacking of organisms on other organisms reaches dazzling levels in the rainforest. My walk yielded many examples. An oak leaf fern grows on a karivetti tree. Its sterile fronds make baskets on the tree, trapping falling leaves from the canopy. The leaves break down with rain and wind, and form a natural compost. Its stiff leaves are tough and protective. In this compost live fungi, beetles and worms, further transforming it. Frogs sometimes take up residence here too, feeding on the worms. Snakes come to feed on the frogs. Little seedlings of various flowering plants and even some trees can often be seen growing in the compost of the oak leaf fern perched high up on a tree.
Human factor
I think of the rainforest as a living Matryoshka doll. I see insertions upon insertions, extraordinary degrees of inter-nestling, myriad beings snuggling up inside each other, or upon one another, or under, or over, or intertwined. Sometimes life here can feel like a carnival, with crowd behaviour modulated by a fine sense of etiquette, arrived upon by mutual consent, by zillions of creatures feeding. Every space is busy, full of action: bacteria, worms, ants, spiders, trees, mosses, maggots, eggs, seeds, filaments of fungi, cohabiting creatures forming close-knit interdependent communities.
I have been learning that our bodies are quite similar; we are but giant Matryoshki. Far from being single individuals, we are instead fabulous ecologies, consisting of more than 10,000 species of tiny organisms. An ambitious Human Microbiome Project of the United States’ National Institutes of Health investigates how microbes contribute both to health and disease in humans. These organisms number 100 trillion within a single human body, and supply more genes beneficial to our survival than our own human cells do: each one eating, each one metabolising, each one living and dying, so we all can be.
Yet modern humans live as if they do not need the natural world in all its astounding variety, revelling instead in the array of gadgets, machines and objects of consumption that proliferate in industrial civilisation. It is this civilisation that is destroying the diversity contained in the natural world. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, 150 species are going extinct every day, which is around 50,000 species a year. Although species have been going extinct since the beginning of life, the current rates are between 1,000 and 10,000 times faster than every previous extinction event. To calculate this, scientists track how many died out each year and compare this with the rate of disappearance of species from the fossil record before humans evolved. This erosion of diversity, experts agree, poses a huge threat to the survival of all life.
Regrown forest replete with native species, such as ferns, mosses, orchids, rattans, kurunjis, balsams, aroids, gingers and an assortment of shrubs, lianas and trees, is a powerful way to put ecosystem properties back on the land. But it can never replace old-growth forests, which have taken millions of years to achieve their stability, at scales that support planetary resilience.
Does this mean that the whole world should be a rainforest? By no means. Paradise could be an alpine meadow, or a temperate taiga forest, or a Mediterranean oak savanna, or a small still pool full of aquatic plants and animals. I am not an ecosystem or habitat supremacist. One habitat is not better than another, and we cannot say that any part of the natural world should be better protected than another because it harbours more species.
But I do declare my abiding love for my home in this rainforest, which gives me lessons on how time and diversity are related. Give a place at least 100 million years, and see the diversity that unfolds. I live in a neighbourly sense with creatures that have emerged over this vast span of time. They teach me what ancient really means.

The Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary, close to the Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary which we visited recently.  Another private sanctuary.  Must visit..

Living vs concrete jungles - Urgent choices

A beautiful essay.  

An ancient rainforest in Kerala teaches us what we’re losing out on in our lonely cities of concrete



By Suprabha Seshan

She lives and works at the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in Wayanad district, Kerala. She is an Ashoka Fellow. In 2006, on behalf of the sanctuary’s ecosystem gardeners, she received the UK’s Whitley Award.

It was a bright morning in late October, with a light breeze and no mist. Crinkled woody seeds of todayan, a beautiful tree with upturned leaves, cracked open underfoot as I walked through a rainforest at the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in Wayanad district, Kerala, where I live and work. Balsam capsules sprung open on touch. In the course of a few minutes, I had bumped into myriad creatures, such as assassin bugs, bagworms, hoverflies, fire ants and pill millipedes; a variety of spiders such as a giant wood spider, an ant-mimicking spider, a jumping spider, a tree-stump spider and a funnel-web spider; and birds such as bulbuls, drongos, fairy bluebirds, flowerpeckers, leafbirds and scarlet minivets. The breeze became stronger as the sun rose, tossing the tops of trees, while multi-coloured frogs leapt out of my way. I stopped to admire kattan kara trees, close relatives of the todayan, in full flower.
Of the 67 acres of land in the sanctuary’s care, seven acres consist of old-growth forest, namely an ancient forest that has never been clear-felled and has grown largely undisturbed over time. Every time I walk in this forest, I cherish the fact that this tiny stretch is primeval. Rainforests are the worlds’ most ancient terrestrial biomes, or communities of distinctive plants and animals. Scientists estimate them to be 200 million years old, perhaps more. I tell children who come to the sanctuary for nature-immersion programmes that they are setting foot in one of the most ancient natural communities on the planet.
The rest of the Gurukula land is secondary forest, vegetation slowly recovering from clear-felling. Recovery began when each piece of land came under our care; the first pieces are about four-and-a-half decades old. From barrenness to baby forest, we have been witnessing the miracle of a forest reviving. More than 100 species of trees grow where once there was lemongrass or a ginger plantation. More than 400 species of herbs, shrubs, creepers, climbers and epiphytes have established themselves on this once-denuded land. Here too live 150 to 200 species of mosses and liverworts, while 240 species of birds have their homes or their annual wintering grounds on this land. Dozens of frogs, rare and fragile species, breed here, as do many lizards, snakes and mammals. I cannot even begin to describe the insects, except to say that we see new ones all the time.
The sanctuary is contiguous with a reserve forest in the custody of the Kerala forests and wildlife department. This area, which is a couple of hundred square kilometres in size, consists of some old-growth forest, a much larger area of secondary forest, and other parts that had been cleared by the department a few decades ago to make way for plantations. The first logging in this part of Wayanad was undertaken more than 120 years ago by the British colonial administration, which cut ironwood trees to make sleepers for railway lines. Subsequently, the forest department’s management practices have included clearing native trees for plantation species such as eucalyptus, acacia and mahogany.
Ecosystem gardening at the sanctuary, and wherever it is practised the world over, has some basic ecological premises. The first premise is that nature evolves diversity over immense periods of time, a fact established by science. Diversity differs from biome to biome and habitat to habitat. It also changes with time and under different forces acting on the landscape, such as the reach of glacial sheets during the ice ages. On the flipside, diversity also influences climate and ecosystem processes.
The second premise, which has also emerged from numerous studies by evolutionary biologists, is that diverse species depend on each other to survive and thrive. Every level of life, from cellular to planetary, has communities of interrelated beings, each performing a unique function, together forming a whole, from genome to biome. In a rainforest, for example, the cool cover of vegetation on the land leads to water condensing. This gives rise to more plants, which in turn support more animals. Indeed, a primary rainforest, which has grown undisturbed for millions of years, like the one in our sanctuary, is among the most diverse places on earth. This is partly the work of time, and also the result of each species creating possibilities for more species.
A third widely shared premise among scientists is that diversity leads to resilience at different levels: of each species, of the whole community and also of the planet. Resilience is the capacity to survive challenges of different kinds, to maintain integrity of form and function through periods of adversity. Diversity, for instance, leads to multi-layered forests that are healthy; they do not succumb to outbreaks of disease.
“The first line of evidence is born out of Charles Darwin’s ideas,” explained Antonio Nobre, an earth systems scientist from Brazil, in an email. “Putting it roughly, natural selection has functioned over aeons to select organisms that correlate with environment stability. Individual fitness depends on group success, which depends on environmental stability. There is no other explanation for the observed climate stability on earth over billions of years.”
Living laboratoryAt the sanctuary, I daily witness the three ideas working together. I walked on that morning to admire lichens, which are symbiotic organisms consisting of an alga, a plant, and a fungus, which is neither a plant nor an animal. Lichens grow on rocks or barks of trees, sustained by minerals and organic debris. Snails graze on lichens. Cormorants pick up snails. Eagles hunt cormorants, and bacteria, beetles, rats, worms and vultures feed on eagles after they die. So the feeding goes.
I then stopped by some Oberonias, a strange-looking genus of epiphytic orchids, with flat leaves growing fan-like from a sheathed base, and slender pendulous inflorescences. I find orchids to be great starting points to explore interdependence in nature. I examined a few closely, to look at their seed pods, which had taken weeks to mature. A few had split open. Orchid seeds are just motes of dust in the understorey, the layer of the forest beneath the canopy. Where they land, a specific fungus must grow or else they will not germinate. This is because orchid seeds lack an endosperm, the food package that starts off most flowering plants, like beans, corn and jackfruit, on their new life.
Oberonias grow on trees in the Western Ghats, following a lifestyle that is free of soil, deriving their minerals and organic matter from decomposed bark dust, and their water from rain and mist. Hence the term epiphyte, meaning a plant that grows on another plant. Oberonia flowers are two millimetres in length, and dozens can grow on a stalk. Each is a perfect miniature orchid. There are more than 20 Oberonia species growing in the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary’s orchidarium, many named after botanists.
Every orchid species has a unique association with one or more fungal species known as mycorrhizae, meaning fungal roots. The seed swells when there is sufficient moisture, then releases a hormone, signalling the fungus to cover it with hyphae, which are filaments that behave like root hairs for the seedling. The fungus brings sugars, minerals, proteins and water to the seed. Germination happens, a cotyledon and radicle emerge, then a leaf shoot and root. Sunlight strikes the tender plant, and it grows.
Only when the plant grows bigger does the fungus receive its rewards in the form of carbon. Some biologists think that the fungus does not receive any benefits, but others disagree. This association between orchids and fungi is the reason you will never find orchid seeds for sale. It is impossible to grow them without the aid of micropropagation techniques and sugar solutions to replace the fungus’s role in a germinating seed’s new life.
“Saving any one of these orchids saves another species too, an insect perhaps,” said Suma Keloth, my colleague and an ecosystem gardener who has been growing and conserving hundreds of species of orchids for more than two decades at the sanctuary. Her wards are challenging, each one attuned to a precise set of conditions in the rainforest, and each one demanding attention, understanding, skill and sustained care. The proof of Keloth’s extensive knowledge of conservation gardening and plant diversity in the Western Ghats is tangible all around. Hundreds of species now self-propagate in mixed communities in the various habitats that she and other ecosystem gardeners have created in order to grow the plants.
Bryophytes, namely mosses and their relatives, offer another vivid example of interdependence. Rory Hodd, a visiting plant ecologist from Ireland, explained why they are crucial for the rainforest. Many of the bryophytes at Gurukula are epiphytes. They provide a substrate and home for many other organisms, and retain moisture that would otherwise be lost. Bryophyte colonies take time to grow. Once established they provide moist, stable conditions for orchids and ferns to germinate. They provide a home and food for fungi, algae, insects, which in turn are fed upon by frogs, birds and small mammals.
“In an ecosystem, everything is interconnected,” Hodd said. “If you remove an organism from the ecosystem, it loses its balance and, even if it’s not apparent to the observer, becomes less resilient to change. If this continues, and diversity of organisms continues to be lost, or if a major change to the ecosystem occurs, it ceases to function and catastrophe ensues.”
Piggybacking of organisms on other organisms reaches dazzling levels in the rainforest. My walk yielded many examples. An oak leaf fern grows on a karivetti tree. Its sterile fronds make baskets on the tree, trapping falling leaves from the canopy. The leaves break down with rain and wind, and form a natural compost. Its stiff leaves are tough and protective. In this compost live fungi, beetles and worms, further transforming it. Frogs sometimes take up residence here too, feeding on the worms. Snakes come to feed on the frogs. Little seedlings of various flowering plants and even some trees can often be seen growing in the compost of the oak leaf fern perched high up on a tree.
Human factor
I think of the rainforest as a living Matryoshka doll. I see insertions upon insertions, extraordinary degrees of inter-nestling, myriad beings snuggling up inside each other, or upon one another, or under, or over, or intertwined. Sometimes life here can feel like a carnival, with crowd behaviour modulated by a fine sense of etiquette, arrived upon by mutual consent, by zillions of creatures feeding. Every space is busy, full of action: bacteria, worms, ants, spiders, trees, mosses, maggots, eggs, seeds, filaments of fungi, cohabiting creatures forming close-knit interdependent communities.
I have been learning that our bodies are quite similar; we are but giant Matryoshki. Far from being single individuals, we are instead fabulous ecologies, consisting of more than 10,000 species of tiny organisms. An ambitious Human Microbiome Project of the United States’ National Institutes of Health investigates how microbes contribute both to health and disease in humans. These organisms number 100 trillion within a single human body, and supply more genes beneficial to our survival than our own human cells do: each one eating, each one metabolising, each one living and dying, so we all can be.
Yet modern humans live as if they do not need the natural world in all its astounding variety, revelling instead in the array of gadgets, machines and objects of consumption that proliferate in industrial civilisation. It is this civilisation that is destroying the diversity contained in the natural world. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, 150 species are going extinct every day, which is around 50,000 species a year. Although species have been going extinct since the beginning of life, the current rates are between 1,000 and 10,000 times faster than every previous extinction event. To calculate this, scientists track how many died out each year and compare this with the rate of disappearance of species from the fossil record before humans evolved. This erosion of diversity, experts agree, poses a huge threat to the survival of all life.
Regrown forest replete with native species, such as ferns, mosses, orchids, rattans, kurunjis, balsams, aroids, gingers and an assortment of shrubs, lianas and trees, is a powerful way to put ecosystem properties back on the land. But it can never replace old-growth forests, which have taken millions of years to achieve their stability, at scales that support planetary resilience.
Does this mean that the whole world should be a rainforest? By no means. Paradise could be an alpine meadow, or a temperate taiga forest, or a Mediterranean oak savanna, or a small still pool full of aquatic plants and animals. I am not an ecosystem or habitat supremacist. One habitat is not better than another, and we cannot say that any part of the natural world should be better protected than another because it harbours more species.
But I do declare my abiding love for my home in this rainforest, which gives me lessons on how time and diversity are related. Give a place at least 100 million years, and see the diversity that unfolds. I live in a neighbourly sense with creatures that have emerged over this vast span of time. They teach me what ancient really means.

The Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary, close to the Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary which we visited recently.  Another private sanctuary.  Must visit..

Senna spectabilis overgrowth in Wayanad sanctuary

During our Pongal visit to Wayanad sanctuary, we went for a safari, entering from the Muthanga gate, only to find growth of this invasive species, which the forest department is struggling to deal with.

On our return, I was trying to determine the species - it seemed like a Cassia.  It seems to be Senna spectabilis.

The, rather serendipitously, I saw this article:

Showing the world they care - The Hindu: 

Sanjari, a collective of youths in the State, has set a model for similar organisations in the State by undertaking an eco-restoration drive inside the Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary.
The two-day programme, which concluded on Monday, was organised with the support of the Forest Department and Wildlife Conservation Society, India, in the Tholpetty range of forest under the sanctuary.
The wild growth of invasive alien plants such as Hypoestes phyllostachya and Maesopsis eminii is posing a threat to wildlife and indigenous plants in the sanctuary, which already faces threats from invasive plants such as Senna spectabilis, Mikania micrantha , Lantana, and Eupatorium.
According to sanctuary sources, the spread of Senna spectabilis is more dangerous than other exotic species owing to its quick growth.
A recent survey of the Wildlife Trust of India shows that the plant is widely distributed in the Muthanga, Tholpetty and Sulthan Bathery range of forests under the sanctuary. Moreover, the Kerala Forest Research Institute (KFRI) has identified 22 invasive alien plants inside the sanctuary.
Though the KFRI has found effective measures to eradicate the alien species, the department is yet to execute the measures effectively owing to dearth of fund. However, as many as 56 youths from across the State took part in the drive and they uprooted as many as 4,158 Senna spectabilis and hundreds of other alien plants inside the sanctuary.
More such drives“We are planning to launch a similar drive in the Muthanga, Sulthan Bathery and Kurichyad range of forests under the sanctuary in the coming days,” Arul Badusha, who coordinated the programme, said.
The youths also removed plastic wastes disposed by travellers on both sides of the Kattikulam-Tholpetty stretch of the Madikeri-Mananthavadi Interstate Highway passing through the sanctuary.
They also sensitised travellers by distributing pamphlets to them to the impacts of discarding plastic wastes in the sanctuary and the significance of conserving the wildlife habitat.
The sanctuary officials organised a trekking inside the forest and a class on ecology for the youths.

Hopefully, the invader does not destroy the local species of the sanctuary that supports so much wildlife, including tuskers, one of which we saw. 

The hills of Bramhagiri - a classic example of shola forests and montane grasslands

The Western Ghats is an amazing place.  The more I see it, the more marvellous it seems.  Those magnificent trees, the streams, the grasslands, shola forests... every visit is memorable.

The Bramhagiri hills in the border between Kerala and Karnataka is one such WG hotspot of biodiversity, and I have had the privilege of seeing these mountains from both the Coorg side and from Wayanad on trips organised by The Madras Naturalists' Society.

In April of 2015, we visited SAI sanctuary, a private sanctuary that is the efforts of Pam and Anil Malhotra, on the Coorg side, and more recently in January of 2018 we were in Wayanad.  The SAI Sanctuary trip was memorable in many ways - the glow worms, the walks, the meals, the skies filled with dramatic lightning, scorpions, snakes and much more.  So much excitement that I didn't know where to start, and I have postponed its telling by a few years!

This one is about the Bramhagiris, where you find the grassland-forest mosaic, characteristic of a lot of the Western Ghats ridges above 1500m.  It seems that over the last decade or so, these grasslands have seen a very strong and significant decline, as we have treated them as "poromboke", and a lot of it has been built over or converted to plantations.  A study in the Palani hills was reported in an article in The Hindu.

Researchers from Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment (ATREE) in Bengaluru collaborated with a team from IISER in Tirupati, Botanical Survey of India, Vattakanal Conservation Trust and Gandhigram Rural Institute used satellite imagery to tabulate changes in the hilly landscape over nearly 530 sq.km. of the range which is popular for the hillstation, Kodaikanal.
If in 1973, shola grasslands spread across 373.78 sq.km. of the landscape, four decades later in 2014, it had shrunk to just 124.4 sq.km., marking a 66.7% decline. The reduction is seen even in native shola forests, whose area has declined by a third to 66.4 sq.km.
“These declines caught us by surprise, particularly considering that these dramatic changes have been occurring only around two decades ago,” said Milind Bunyan, Coordinator at the ATREE Academy for Conservation Science and Sustainability Studies, and the lead author of the paper that was published in PLOS One.
These drastic declines are particularly stark in shola grasslands (which are stunted forest growths of diverse grass species), and seem to be accelerating through the decades.
For the shola forests, however, the decline seems to have been arrested since 2003. Does this imply better conservation strategy for the woody forests, accompanied by a neglect of the grassland?    

The article also reports on the concomitant growth of timber plantations and agricultural land replacing these grasslands.


April 2015

The Bramhagiri hills in the distance, from the SAI sanctuary

These grasslands were similar to those on the peaks

Wherever we travelled in lower Coorg, the hills were always there, as were the leeches!

With overcast skies, and pre-monsoon humidities, we took a trip to the Iruppu Falls, part of the Bramhagiri sanctuary

The lush green forests were a sight for our summer-filled Chennai roasted eyes, as we entered the sanctuary.

The Bramhagiris sanctuary was legally notified in 1974, and is about 180 sqkms, and adjacent to Nagarhole (which we had driven through), and is an important elephant corridor.

The border runs through it as was evident from the mixture of Kannada and Malayalam signboards.

A lot of treks start from the Iruppu Falls, even a 9 kms one to the Bramhagiri peak, which we reached from the Thirunelly side this year. If we had done the Iruppu Falls-side trek, it would have been along the path of the Lakshmanthirtha river and the shola forests.

It was obviously popular with the bathers and tourists

At the start, a grand Peepul tree stood welcoming us, and a board informed us that it
was the "Peepul God".  I paid my respects.

The water flow was weak, being April, but the air was full of bird call, and there were
butterflies everywhere. They mud puddled in the wet soil, and I wondered why
they were not targeted by the leeches, hmm.

Malabar Banded Peacocks are endemic to the WG, and they were everywhere on the trail, as were Paris Peacocks.

This stream flows down and eventually joins the Cauvery.  i

Travancore wolf snake - Photo by Prasanna

Back down, and more excitement.  Fellow MNS traveller Prasanna felt a friendly lick when she put her hand in her backpack, which upon further investigation turned out to be a snake.

The bag was hurriedly taken to the edge of the forest and then with much instructions shouted from everyone, was turned upside down, and the pictured Travancore wolf snake slithered away at lightning speed.  Most of us, including me did not even get a look, so fast did it vanish!

Now, this incident had a telling effect on our driver from Mysore, a volley of nervous kannada, much gesticulation and a thorough cleaning like never before of his car!

We visited the Thirunelly  Vishnu temple briefly, after clambering up the necessary steps.  The temple is believed to be built by the Cheras, and the Papanasini river flows down from Bramhagiri, providing water to the temple and the town.  One our visit to the hills this year, we would often come across the pipe through which the water thundered down to the temple.

The grasslands interspersed with dense shola could be seen on the surrounding mist-laden hills

On to Kuruva Island in the Kabini delta.  Uninhabited it said, but we arrived to find it teeming with tourists and very much habited!  Do not expect to see much birdlife amidst the human cacophony, but the trees are majestic, and we were lucky to see a ....

...Flying lizard.  You will find it in the middle of the picture, and as I trained my binoculars on it, it soared to the next tree, and for that one sight, it was worth a visit!

In July of 2015, on a visit to Valparai, we saw the Grass Hills of Annamalais in the distance.   

The forest-grassland ecosystem of the Grass Hills in the Annamalais, seen from Valparai.

Jan 2018

A close encounter with the grassland-forest ecosystem had to wait until this year, when we were part of the MNS trip to Wayanad district.  We camped at Sultan Bathery over the Pongal weekend, and on Jan 14th, we left the KTDC's Pepper Grove at 530 am to drive down to Thirunelly to take the Thirunelly-Bramhagiri trek.  We began in darkness, and dawn emerged slowly, with the morning mist hampering the visibility.  We were almost at the Thirunelly station, when at 720am, just as we turned around a bend,     we caught a glimpse of a tusker munching his way though the forest.  It had its back to us, and preferred it that way obviously, as it continued to retreat and move into the forest.  

A wild elephant sighting for me is always special.  It cheers me, fills me with delight and awe and yet, makes me introspective and humble, and in a way I can't explain I feel a little shameful. Ashamed at what I as homeo sapiens have done to these magnificent creatures, provoking them into conflict, crowding them out of the planet that belongs to them as much as me, isolating herds, blocking off their corridors of access, chaining them in my temples, maiming and killing them for their tusks.

I was greedy for more such dracaenas, but it was not to be.  On this trip.  

We reached the starting point of the trek and had a upma breakfast before starting our climb through the forests.  We had our leech socks on, and of course not a single leech did we spy on the whole walk!

Blue skies and tall trees.  That was all my soul needed it seemed!

Our forest guide was Raju whom we learnt was a local Paniya tribe, and he told me that he goes up on this trek every day!  He was patient and seemed to manage a smattering of Tamil, of course knew Malayalam.  We also met Muneer along the way.  He was from the  Ferns Naturalists Society, and he pointed out the Malabar Trogon which was perched on a branch in the shade, just a little while into our trek.  Many of the group did see it, not me of course, which is par for the course as far as my birding goes.  For me, the birds have to sit there, out in the open (carrying a name board if possible), and I would then spot it!  

To my eternal astonishment, I did see the Brown Breasted flycatcher, the Malabar barbet, White breasted blue flycatcher  and the Chestnut headed bee eater.  Each one a beauty, but the barbet was the best, sitting high up in the crown of a tree, with the sun catching the red and blue!  The Chestnut-headed bee eater put on quite a show for us, diving for insects before coming back to the same perch.

Of course, all this bird activity and the marvellous trees meant that I malingered a lot.  Without my dear husband to hurry me along (he didn't make this trip), I was of course at the rear of the group.

Looking up at the blue skies, I was struck by how this is almost a forgotten memory.
Yes people, thats how blue the sky should be.  And no, there is no filter on this picture
and no colour correction.

Was this a Rosewood?  I could not get a confirmation.

A stately Benteak - "Naked mermaid of the forest" - with its peeling bark.

Running vertically down the hill was a  water pipe, and the thundering water was a direct reminder of the importance of these hills and forests to the freshwater requirements of the plains.

Suddenly, we emerged out of the shade and canopy of the forest, and we caught out first glimpses of the hilltops around.

The sunbathing grasses waved us on.

The path and the stunted trees

So this was how it looked at close quarters.  Those "bald" hills were not actually bald, but were grasslands.

The sun was up, and so were the butterflies.  Sailers, Fourrings I could identify, and the smaller grass blues and yellows.
But there were many others that I could not identify.

We reached the end of the gentle incline.  It ended in a super tall watch tower. The breeze was stiff, and we were told that those of of us who were interested  could do the last little bit to the summit, from where the views were even better.

Climbing the last bit.

It didn't seem a lot when we started.  The breeze was stiff and the sun not too harsh,
so off we went.  

There were several types of grasses - Alloteropsis, goose grass,  Supposedly 28 types of grasses are found here.  There were some with a purple hue, some that looked golden, and green of course.  I thought I smelt lemon grass, but I was too busy focussing on the path and making my way up to stop and take pictures.  Also, the wind was so strong, I felt quite vulnerable trying to walk up a path which seemed at 60 degrees!  Raju of course made his way up like a Nilgiri Tahr!

When we reached what we thought was the top, I realised that it was not really the top and there was another peak to be climbed.  I maybe should have returned at this point, as did many others, but Raju was very encouraging and seemed to indicate that it was not that much more!  Walkers who were returning also said the same thing, so on I went!  

We could see the islands of forests up close.  I assumed that this vegetation peculiarity was due to very thin soil cover, and the trees were growing where the water collected, but it seems that that is not as straightforward as that, and there is a more complicated reason for the forest-grassland formation,

Peak 1 and 2 done!  And now a gentle climb up 3 and 4!  I could not have made it without the helping and reassuring hand of Raju, who could probably walk up the path blindfolded, so many times has he done it.

It is the first time in my life that I have been higher than the surrounding hilltops.  I particularly liked this view of the single grassy bald peak amidst the forested ones.

Still further up.  There was elephant dung all the way up here.  My superego encouraged and reasoned that if the elephant could make its way up, so should I.  My id pointed out to me that the elephant has four feet.  Raju reasoned that I had come thus far, and it was not right that I give up.  So on I went  

The beautiful grasslands.  Up close you could see there were little shrubs, and many varieties of grass.  

Grasses are important.  Wheat, rice.... very important.  

More views

Looking down into Coorg, Karnataka

That's Thirunelly down there.  

1215, and this was the top of the Bramhagiri peak.

Elumalai soaking it in, the sun, the wind and the blue sky.  Butterflies rushed past our noses, swept away by the wind.  A black eagle did not seem in control of its flight.

One last look around before we descended, after a half hour stop.  Dhruva managed a phone call down to the others - BSNL of course!

Back under the trees, bruised toes and creaking knees, legs like jelly, the descent always more painful than the ascent!

We filled our bottles with the cool and fresh waters of the stream before heading down.  Sadly my 2 litre camelback came apart, and all that sweet and cold water went sloshing into the earth.

Raju hurried us down, no lingering he said, fearing that elephants were close.  We fell silent and for once the MNS lot were fast and disciplined and stayed together.

It was close to 3 when we trundled in to Thirunelly looking for some lunch.  Ambika Lunch Home was out of food, and we were saved by Anupama Lunch Home - Rice with sambar and mor kuzhambu keerai poriyal and papadam. Best lunch!  Topped with a nendram banana.

While our driver Iqbal steered us back to Sultan Batheri, I for one fell into an exhausted snooze.  It was past 6pm and dusk was falling.  A hot bath and dinner awaited.