The winter moon, a waxing gibbous, has risen early. On an ancient mango tree on the edge of the paddyland sits a crested hawk-eagle. The last of the bee-eaters dive for one more meal above the ripening paddy. A red-wattled lapwing is pestering a straggly group of unconcerned cattle egrets in a fallow field. In a shadowy stretch of the stream that flows through the paddy field, a small blue kingfisher sketches a sapphire streak. It’s the time of the year when wild berries ripen on thorny bushes, scandents and climbers on the stream bank. The pale pink ones of panal (Glycosmis pentaphylla), the small shiny black thodali (Ziziphus oenoplia), the blush red-tinged green kotta (Microcos paniculata ) and many more shades, sizes, and flavours. Behind the grasses that have turned golden, the velvety new flush of adakkamaniyan (Sphaeranthus indicus) peeps out. Soon their purple globose flower heads will be out, dotting the bunds of the harvested fields.

The midland paddy fields located in the river basins of short but perennial west-flowing rivers of the Western Ghats in Kerala are a threatened ecosystem. These paddy fields form the lowest feature of a micro-watershed (usually 4–30 m above mean sea level) and are of great hydrological and ecological significance. Numerous first-order streams are born here that then join the main rivers in their middle and lower courses. The fields act as a natural reservoir of water that enrich the local groundwater table and provide ‘rooms for rivers’ when they flood during the monsoons. These modified wetlands created over centuries of ploughing, levelling, and unique land and water management practices, are also among the last safe harbours for floral and faunal biodiversity, in what is not a forested terrain and yet, wild.

Paddy fields fringing gently sloping garden lands were a typical feature of the Kerala midland landscape until the late 1980s. We belong to a generation that witnessed the large-scale conversion and reclamation of this singular landscape into garden lands with perennial tree crops and prime real estate. In a state that is perpetually land-hungry, the paddy fields were also the quick answer to all developmental projects that required contiguous land such as airports, colleges, hospitals, and bus stations. The host of challenges that paddy farming faced during this time—from high labour cost to low produce price—accelerated the pace of the conversion. By the time the Kerala Conservation of Paddy Land and Wetland Act, 2008, came into effect, nearly 80% (6000 sq. km) of paddy fields in the state had already been converted. Four decades of widespread conversions have left us with merely 1900 sq. km of paddylands, which include the larger Kole and Kuttanad lowland paddy systems (1). The fragmented midland paddy fields constitute about half of this.

Hidden pockets of biodiversity

The typical midland paddyland is 10–100 hectares (0.01–1 sq. km), often partitioned by a stream flowing through the middle. Smaller watercourses and manmade canals criss-cross the field for irrigation and drainage needs. The stream networks link together various small ponds within the field and tanks in the bordering garden lands. There are subtle variations in the biodiversity found in and around the paddy fields. Medium-statured trees, shrubs and creepers have established in the pond and field margins, while bamboos and tall grasses abound on the stream banks and bunds. There is a dominance of ephemeral herbs and shrubs that complete their life cycle within a season or two. Grasses and sedges grow on the stream and in-field bunds and in the fields themselves, and get razed by manmade fires during harsh summers. The plants that are found here have successfully adapted to short periods of monsoon flooding. Most herbaceous species seed profusely. The shrubs are hardy, deep-rooted, and are also copious seeders.

Paddy fields provide sanctuary to essentially two types of floral biodiversity—niche plants exclusive to paddy fields, and those trees, shrubs, herbs, grasses and sedges that have been banished from garden lands and homesteads. The midland paddy fields are now arks of biodiversity that were previously abundant in poramboke lands (2), multi-tiered homestead lands, public spaces, and along roads and water courses. With the increase in population and built- up land, regular cleaning drives by the MGNREGS (3) workforce and annexation by more aggressive invasive plants, public and private spaces are now hostile towards unruly, nameless and untamed plants that are ‘weeds’. Weed clumps are now suspect spaces that hide poisonous reptiles, where household wastes get dumped surreptitiously and which mar the ‘neat and safe’ ideal of a living space that is the new aspiration. Live fences where shrub and creeper diversities flourished have also given way to brick and mortar walls. The fragmentation and gentrification of the Kerala homestead landscape, and rapid loss of other public spaces has left a limited homogenous collection of trees and ornamental plants that are deemed ‘useful’, ‘beautiful’ and ‘innocuous’. The paddy fields that survived the conversion and reclamation phase are the only spaces that have remained relatively untouched by this massive taming drive.

Considered ‘useless’, this seemingly unimpressive floral diversity of paddy fields hosts a large faunal population ranging from arthropods and molluscs, to wetland birds, reptiles and amphibians, and mammals like mongooses, civets, and jackals.

Glimpses of human linkages

As socio-cultural commons contained within and surrounding private ownership, the paddy fields had once played an incomparable role in Kerala’s midland life and livelihood sphere. A variety of delectable greens, fish, and molluscs assured nutritional security, especially during the raging monsoons. The herb and shrub diversity contained diverse medicinal plants, which were used for making ayurvedic and home remedies to treat a host of health conditions. Many of the seasonal herbs were treasured for their cosmetic properties and applications in hair, skin, and eye care. The knowledge of plant properties and habitats were passed on orally as evocative plant names, or as oft-repeated adage and lore. Take for instance, the wide variety of edible wild spinach found in this habitat. Common names are suffixed with cheera (spinach), by which they are marked as edible. Often the prefix describes either its habitat (Tottucheera/Parambucheera), its nature (Mullancheera/Maracheera/ Paalcheera)/Kozhuppacheera), resemblance (Nellicheera) or the preparation it is best suited for (Achharcheera/Sambaarcheera). The wild berries and fruits were the staple of rampaging children, who spent summer vacations in these fields, which were transformed into playgrounds for the season. These plants, their nomenclature, uses, and the paddy land pockets that they grow in are being slowly forgotten, with little use and none to treasure them.

Even when privately owned, the midland paddy fields defy strict boundaries of use and ownership. The stream banks, bunds, and live fences are treated as common property, even if they have ownership rights ascribed to them. What’s more, the seasonal nature of cultivation, the indirect benefits of sharing, such as manuring of the field by grazing cattle, the sheer vastness of the area, and the socio-cultural history of use, have fostered a fragile overlapping of property regimes. The absentee-ownership of land during the decline of paddy farming also allowed for an alternate informal steward class to develop, mostly from the socially and economically marginalised communities and castes. These user communities had a seasonal dependence on paddylands, which supported numerous subsidiary livelihoods.

The plentiful and diverse grasses of the fields were an assured source of fresh feed for cows and goats. They were brought to graze on stream bunds and in the fallow fields, during the summer. The abundant fish catch during the monsoons was another income bolster. Transhumance of ducks in the harvested fields fostered migrant livelihoods. Several medicinal plants were harvested in bulk from the paddy fields for supply in the local market. The Pandanus protecting the stream banks from erosion were used in mat weaving. Even flowers of Pandanus, called Ketaki in Sanskrit, were used to perfume wardrobes. The streams themselves were used for retting of coconut fronds that were then used as roofing material. The livelihood dependence seems to have stood the test of time. These paddy fields are the only common grazing lands left for the local livestock, the transhumance of ducks has prevailed, and fishing is still practised. However, mat weaving is rare today, while Pandanus itself is disappearing from the fields—a sad instance of vanishing co-existence.

Changes in sociocultural fabric

With decline in commons across the state, the paddy fields now offer rare outdoor spaces for stepping out in the evenings with company, a place to hang out for the elderly and the youth, secluded spots for alcohol consumption, and outdoor locations for wedding photoshoots.

Since the Act of 2008 and the restrictions therein, there is a grudging slowdown in the conversion of midland paddylands. Aided by several government programmes for encouraging rice cultivation in the paddy fallows, widely adopted mechanisation of operations, assured minimum support price for paddy, and guaranteed government procurement, what is left of the midland paddy fields is slowly being cultivated once more. However, threats still loom or are around the corner—potential land acquisitions for petroleum storage facilities, new highways, and airports. The entertainment industry is also beginning to use these paddylands as novel aesthetic spaces.

Yet, hope lies in our collective effort to live consciously and recognize our role in this diverse world, and the many interdependencies and feedback mechanisms that sustain our ecosystems. On a weekend winter morning, black-headed ibises, purple moorhens and western reef egrets forage in the open waters, starlings create patterns in the sky, bee-eaters and drongos feast on insects (pests, we think) above strips of ripening paddy crop. Sitting on the bund is a pair of boys awaiting a fresh catch with their modern angling gadget. An egg-sac of a praying mantis clasps a blade of grass on the trail. What else are these but reminders that we are part of an intricate web of food and life?

Footnotes:

(1) The Kole-Kuttanad wetland system is located 2-3 meters below sea level, contiguous with the Vembanad estuary on its North and South. Paddy is cultivated only during summers by pumping out water from the polders, which are protected by earthen embankments. It is the second largest Ramsar site in India after the Sunderbans.

(2) ‘Poramboke’ refers to unassessed lands outside of revenue records vested with the government. The term is usually associated with ‘waste lands’, even though these were often rich abodes of biodiversity.

(3) MGNREGS or Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme aims at enhancing rural livelihood security by guaranteeing hundred days of wage- employment in a financial year to a rural household whose adult members volunteer to do unskilled manual work.

Can you imagine living in a world without roads? A world where we would be walking through thick forests or deserts, or hiking up and down mountains to arrive at our destination. Probably without realising it, we consider roads to be a part of the positive spaces in which we live. However, have you ever stopped to wonder what we lose when we pave new roads?

While roads connect various types of human settlements, they also form “linear infrastructure intrusions” through natural habitats such as forests, oceans and grasslands. Roads cut through forests forming fragmented patches of what was originally a contiguous natural habitat. This is very disorienting for animals, as roads often become barriers to movement of animals across the landscape. Herds and flocks are often separated by these divisions. For animals with home ranges larger than the given patch, this causes immense stress. They are forced to find all their resources, including food, shelter, and mates, within the smaller area they are left with, thereby exhausting resources, causing inbreeding and the faster spread of diseases. This fate has befallen several animal species that are rare and endemic to certain areas, such as orangutans, which are only found in Borneo and Sumatra. As humans rapidly “develop the land” we run the risk of further boxing orangutans into smaller habitats, ensuring their extinction.

Roads cutting through forests or other terrestrial landscapes are a major cause of animal mortality worldwide. Vehicular collisions with crossing animals are extremely commonplace on highways surrounded by natural landscapes or on smooth roads, where traffic drives at extremely high speeds.

Most of you would have encountered an animal crossing in front of your car, and you may or not have been able to stop, depending on the speed and situation. While conducting research for my masters’ thesis in Madagascar, a biodiverse island along the eastern coast of South Africa, I often found snakes and chameleons crossing the roads. Sometimes I found the snakes near urban areas on heavy traffic roads, while at other times they jumped or slithered away quickly on dirt roads in rural remote areas. So, I have personally encountered situations where I was able to successfully slow down or go around the animal and save them without disrupting traffic or landing in an accident. This was mostly thanks to the island having very less vehicular traffic in most areas and dirt roads in other areas. But I have also had the experience of applying the brakes very suddenly on a smooth single-lane highway to save a bird and its chicks crossing the road, naturally followed by my dad shouting at me, and lots of angry honking from the cars behind me (I am a wildlife ecologist, couldn’t help it!).

In the time after my bachelor’s degree, I was in Coorg, Karnataka, volunteering with the Western Ghats Nature Foundation—an NGO working on wildlife conservation. Considering my love for reptiles, when
I heard from a friend about multiple dead snakes on an interstate highway connecting Karnataka and Kerala, I just had to go and see for myself to get numbers and species names. The highway had been recently renovated at the time of the study and was lined by forested areas on both sides. It cut through
the Brahmagiri Wildlife Sanctuary in the Western Ghats, which is recognised as a global biodiversity hotspot. I would wake up early every day and ask one of my friends from the NGO to take me as a pillion on his bike to this highway stretch. We would let the bike crawl at the speed of a snail and I would scan the road for any dead animals. In a period of just eight days, I found a total of 117 road killed animals on a roughly 18 km stretch of the highway. You won’t believe it, more than 60 (!!) of these were reptiles! This number was the highest amongst all the animal groups I found roadkill for, including amphibians, reptiles, insects and mammals. If lizards and snakes are to be counted separately within reptiles, snakes had higher incidences of mortality than lizards (I have a particular soft corner for snakes, so definitely not good news!). What made it worse was that I found so many beautiful snake species that I had not had the chance to see to date in the wild. Many of these species, such as the hump-nosed viper, the Malabar pit viper, and the Travancore wolf snake are also endemic to the Western Ghats. Being a herpetologist–a person who studies reptiles and amphibians–this was particularly heartbreaking.

Reptiles often cross roads to go from one patch to the other, but they can also be found simply sitting on the roads (Really, what joy is found in doing this?). They are cold-blooded animals who regulate their body temperature by behavioural means. They take shelter in shaded areas when their body heats up and come out in the sun when their body gets too cold. Certain areas, such as rocks or tar roads, are particularly beneficial for them to gain heat (basking in the sun). These surfaces heat up quicker in the day time as compared to the surrounding areas and lose heat slower than their surroundings at night. So, it is possible to find a snake coiled and chilling (actually trying to get warm) right in the middle of the road where the canopy of the forest does not obstruct the sun’s light. I did find a dead snake in exactly that position! It was a beautiful coral snake with a shiny black and red body, a rare one to encounter when you go looking in the forest. But I hope you might now understand why reptiles are particularly at risk of being run over by vehicles on the road. To add to this, there is the problem of their small size, which might render them invisible to vehicles moving at high speeds. And in India, snakes in particular are frowned upon. People often go out of their way to run one over if they see it crossing the road. It is sad, but true. That snake did no harm to anyone and was probably on its way to find a nice chick to hang out with. Alas!

Setting my sadness aside, I mapped out whatever data I had collected and located hotspots on that 18 km stretch of the highway, where more than one snake roadkill was found. I did this because I thought there may be some places with higher probability of snakes crossing the roads. And if we can do something at those locations to prevent roadkills, it would make some difference to these creatures at least. There are several solutions to such animal road mortalities. Some of the simplest ones include introducing speed limits and speed breakers, which allow the driver to slow down in time and may also allow animals to escape; reduction in traffic volume by regulating the number of vehicles allowed each day, especially during festivals and holidays; and temporary closure of roads, such as at night, when a majority of snake species are active, or during the breeding season of vulnerable species when their activity may be higher. Other mitigation measures for reptile roadkills include the construction of underpasses or culverts (underground pipes) along with fences. The fences can help prevent the animals from crossing the roads and direct their movement towards the underpasses or culverts, where they can cross safely. We could also place metal boards on the sides of roads which would heat up like the roads, and may be encountered and preferred by reptiles for basking, before they come onto the road.

Apart from reptiles, I found several other dead animals, including monkeys, during the survey. I suspect that the primary cause of higher mammal deaths is the irresponsible behaviour of people passing through the area, who were often observed stopping by to feed troops of monkeys. Such easy access to food would naturally bring the monkeys closer to the roads more often. Unfortunately, this may be particularly prevalent due to the mythological association of monkeys with the Hindu god Hanuman. A simple way to resolve this issue would be to ban the stopping of cars along this forested stretch of the highway, which would require more regular patrolling by the forest department or the local police, both of which have offices nearby.

Most animal roadkill mitigation measures do not require too much effort or monetary funds, and can be introduced before, during, or after road construction. It is our responsibility to at least provide animals safe passage within their natural habitats. Further studies could better inform our decisions pertaining to suitable mitigation measures. Hence, many conservation organisations have come up with phone applications–for example, ‘Roadkills’ and ‘Road Watch’–which let you record roadkills.

So the next time you’re on the road, I hope you have one of these apps on your phone, avoid overspeeding, keep an eye out for wild animals while crossing green areas, and record any roadkills you encounter so that scientists and wildlife conservationists can use the data to save some animals, if not all, from extinction.

P.S. This might also help you see some animals that you may never see during the wildlife safaris you pay heavily for. I once saw an aardwolf (go Google!) while driving on the road in South Africa and trust me, it is one of my most cherished sightings ever!

(Right: Illustration of the process of transformation of natural landscapes due to deforestation and clearing for development of linear infrastructure such as roads)

Further reading

Bansal, U. 2020. A study of reptile road mortalities on an inter-state highway in the Western Ghats, India and suggestion of suitable mitigation measures. Captive and Field Herpetology, 4.

Glista, D.J., DeVault, T.L., DeWoody, J.A. (2009). A review of mitigation measures for reducing wildlife mortality on roadways. Landscape and urban planning, 91, 1–7.

Trombulak, S.C., Frissell, C.A. (2000) Review of ecological effects of roads on terrestrial and aquatic communities. Conservation biology, 14, 18–30.

Sitting outside on a bed frame between my guides and friends, Anirudh Vasava and Niyati Patel, I have a view of the large pond in Traj, a village in the Kheda district of Gujarat, India. We are here to talk to Hemant Ode, the father of a girl who was killed by a mugger crocodile (Crocodilus palustris) at the washing place, a short distance from us. A cow is tethered near us, and four water buffaloes graze nearby. Hemant sits with us, while his wife, Naniben, watches us from the veranda of their house, a few steps away. The smell of wet cow dung, which she has been using to coat the floor, hangs in the air.

Their daughter, Hetal Ode, was washing a large steel pot in the pond. A few other children were swimming nearby. When the pot fell into the water, she had to wade out until she was waist-deep to fetch it. This was when the crocodile seized her by the wrist and pulled her under. Adults were called, and they searched for her without success. After 30 minutes, the mugger surfaced with the girl. The villagers chased it into the shallow water and recovered her body. Hetal was nine years old, the only child of Hemant and Naniben Ode.

The study of such tragic incidents, and the responses of locals and the authorities to them, is a growing topic in conservation science. A new journal, Frontiers in Conservation Science, features a whole section focused on such negative human-wildlife interactions. As a result of climate change, human expansion into wildlife habitats, and successful conservation efforts, encounters with wildlife are increasing. Most studies of such encounters focus on things that go wrong. Conservationists use their knowledge of wild animals to try preventing bad things from happening, and to persuade and help locals to live safely alongside damage- causing wildlife.

While this is important and useful work, it has resulted in a focus on the negative interactions between humans and wildlife—“human-wildlife conflict”—as well as on human-human conflicts over how to deal with these problems. Much of this work focuses on the harm wild animals cause, and on trying to compensate for this through monetary payments or offering economic benefits for tolerating damage caused by wildlife. This means we have not paid enough attention to where things do work well and people coexist with wildlife. In turn, we also overlook the many non-economic dimensions of people’s relationship with wildlife and the natural world.

But what is meant by ‘coexistence’?

Simply put, it refers to a sustainable although dynamic state (there will be ups and downs, as negative interactions will sometimes occur), where humans and wildlife adapt to sharing landscapes. Tolerance can be passive. For example, not killing a predator which kills your domestic animal. Tolerance can also be active, by taking steps to avoid conflict, such as building islands for muggers to bask on safely and reduce encounters on the shore, as done in the village pond at Deva, Anand district, Gujarat. Importantly, human interactions with wildlife must be effectively governed to ensure wildlife populations persist. We believe such governance will only work if it is socially accepted, locals are represented and involved, and management ensures tolerable risk levels.

I came to the Charotar region of Gujarat to witness the coexistence of locals with crocodiles described by regional crocodile experts—Dr. Raju Vyas and Anirudh Vasava of the Vidyanagar Nature Club (VNC). VNC has been running a successful annual Charotar Crocodile Count since 2013, involving local residents, schoolchildren, and wildlife enthusiasts from all over India, in observing crocodiles and learning about their ecological role in the region’s wetlands. In a survey of mugger attacks conducted during VNC crocodile counts (2013–15), Vasava and his team learnt about four attacks on humans between 2009–2014. These incidents occurred in the villages of Traj, Deva and Heranj, and there have been a handful of attacks since then. The VNC survey also recorded attacks on livestock in the villages of Laval, Malataj, Traj, Changa, Heranj, Dabhou, and Dali. Despite these attacks, these communities are widely tolerant of muggers, and there are many recorded ‘rescues’ (16 between August 2013–November 2014), wherein crocodiles were removed from areas where they pose a risk to humans or livestock, and were either released back into the village pond, or transported for release in the Pariyej wetland.

Vishal Mistry, an expert local natural historian and VNC member, brought us to meet Hemant Ode.
I had not come to Traj to hear about conflicts and hatred for crocodiles, but to learn about this man’s extraordinary response to the tragic loss of his daughter, Hetal, to a crocodile. First, it is important to stress that both parents were still clearly devastated by their loss. A head-and-shoulders photograph of Hetal hangs on the front wall outside of their home. A pretty, smiling girl in a blue dress looks out from a wooden frame with a gold rim. A simple glass bead necklace hugs the frame (presumably Hetal’s).

Hemant is 42, a lean man with a lantern jaw. He grew up in the village and remembers no attacks from his childhood. He wasn’t even warned by his father or grandfather to be careful around the crocodiles in the pond. The village committee leases the pond to fishermen, who come every year to net fish. They catch and tether larger muggers on the bank, to keep them out of the way until they are done fishing. The children sometimes come and tease these muggers, and should be more careful not to get nipped, Hemant says.

Remarkably, following the loss of his daughter, Hemant has not campaigned to have the mugger killed or removed from the pond. He is nevertheless afraid to go near the water now, and says you should be cautious of crocodiles. “If you tease them, harm will come to you,” he says. Removing muggers known to locals will result in new and unknown muggers moving in, he reasons. Hemant does not have negative feelings towards crocodiles. In fact, he has become a mugger mitra, joining a ‘crocodile’s friend’ scheme and advising people on staying safe around crocodiles. He has even participated in two mugger rescues– capturing and removing crocodiles from places where they might pose a threat to humans.

Myth, message, meaning

Hemant tells us that a good strategy for raising local awareness is through the Hindu goddess Khodiyar, who is always shown riding on the back of or standing next to a mugger. The story of Khodiyar originated in Gujarat around 1,300 years ago. Of magical birth, she got her name through an injury to her foot, while on a journey to fetch a remedy for her brother, who was bitten by a snake. Limping, she was helped by a mugger crocodile, who carried her on its back, and for this service she came to be worshipped as Khodiyar maa. She is still widely worshipped in the region, answering prayers, healing and protecting her adherents (not specifically from crocodiles).

Hemant and Naniben were eventually paid a small amount of compensation for the loss of their daughter, but this had minimal impact on their attitudes towards crocodiles. Studying the situation at Traj as a conflict would miss quite a lot of what is happening here. More recently, an old man named Lakshman Chavda was killed by a crocodile in the same village pond. He had been advised against getting into the water, but continued to take long baths in the pond. Later, in the office of the village sarpanch (mayor) Ajay C Patel, Lakshman’s son, Manish, told us that nobody is to blame because it is well-known that crocodiles are present and the responsibility to be careful lies with people. Manish told us he wasn’t angry with the crocodile when the attack occurred, but only anxious to recover his father’s body (Lakshman’s body was recovered the morning after the attack, bitten but not consumed). The sarpanch, a stocky, active man with close-cropped hair, says that crocodiles have lived in the pond for a very long time, and are a part of local life. Fishing is allowed in the pond, but enough fish are left for the crocodiles. The mugger that attacked Lakshman Chavda was caught (there was some debate over whether the right one was caught!), and removed to a nearby wetland, Pariyej. Warning signs have been erected and the village council has applied to the Forest Department for a Crocodile Exclusion Enclosure.

In our recent paper published in the journal Conservation Biology, Anirudh Vasava, Saloni Bhatia, and I argue that it is in shared landscapes such as these Indian farmlands, that human-wildlife interactions should be studied, rather than in and around conservation’s more traditional focus—protected areas. Coexistence does not mean there isn’t any conflict. We spoke with villagers in the neighbouring Vadodara district, who didn’t want crocodiles living nearby. Some hinted at wanting to kill them, but feared prosecution. Coexistence occurs where there are ways of dealing with the occasional harmful event in ways acceptable to locals, and where there is tolerance for the animals responsible for them, as demonstrated by the remarkable villagers of Traj. Of course, this doesn’t just involve studying how humans interact with wildlife, but also studying how animals like large crocodiles have adapted to living (for the most part), peaceably alongside humans.

Studying coexistence with wildlife requires different skills to those usually used by conservation scientists. It is important to think through what it means to interact with local people, often with different customs, spiritual beliefs, social norms, and economic status. Researchers have an ethical duty to ensure no harm comes to those they work with. Asking people about traumatic events requires empathy and tact, and putting the feelings of interviewees first. This kind of research takes a long time, and is best done in collaboration with local experts and field workers. It is important to approach communities in the proper way, get necessary permissions and earn people’s trust, while also taking into account the concerns of local institutions and the government too.

Management recommendations for human-wildlife conflict scenarios mostly focus on prevention and one-off or short-term compensation measures, but we should remember that people’s lives may be changed forever, and attitudes deeply affected in the long term, by traumatic encounters with wildlife. Researchers should also remember that after they have gone, or their papers have been published, it is the locals and the local authorities who continue living with wildlife. In areas of the world where significant wildlife persists outside of protected areas, these populations still exist largely because of varying degrees of long-term human-wildlife coexistence.

Studying coexistence where it occurs in the world, respectfully and using the appropriate methods, will greatly enhance our understanding of the ways in which humans and wildlife can coexist. It can reveal how different values systems and cultures promote tolerance of wildlife. It can also highlight other dimensions to consider, besides rational decision-making based on calculations of costs and benefits. In these challenging times for biodiversity, it will also (while acknowledging harms and conflicts) bring us stories of hope, and grounds for optimism that we can coexist with wild animals.

On my way back to Ahmedabad at the end of my visit, I received a text from Vishal Mistry with a photo of Hemant Ode next to the trap they had used to catch the crocodile that had attacked Lakshman in the pond at Traj. It had been on its way home, from where it was released in the Pariyej wetland. We have much to learn about managing human-crocodile interactions, but this story gives me hope that we can do so in ways that allow both to flourish together.

Further reading

Pooley, S., S. Bhatia and A. G. Vasava. 2020. Rethinking the study of human-wildlife coexistence. Conservation Biology, Early View: https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13653

Vasava, A. G., D. Patel, R. Vyas and V. Mistry. 2015. Crocs of Charotar: status, distribution and conservation of mugger crocodiles in Charotar Region, Gujarat, India. Vallabh Vidyanagar, India: Voluntary Nature Conservancy.

It was Jeeha Tacho’s favourite time of the day. All was quiet in the tiny village of Etabe, where he lived. The family had finished the work for the day, and he sat with his grandmother by the fire. “Naya, what story will you tell me tonight?”

Jeeha loved Naya’s stories. Naya’s stories were the stories of his people, the Idu Mishmi, passed down from generations. Jeeha’s favourite stories were about the animals that lived in the forests and the mountains that surrounded his tiny village.

Naya’s face glowed in the reflection of the fire. “Let me think. Today, I will tell you about the ākrū.” she said.

“What is the ākrū, Naya?”

“The ākrū lives in the high mountains. It is a strange-looking animal, like a mix of a goat and an antelope. It has a heavy, hairy body, and hunched shoulders with a thick short neck. But it has short legs and a short tail. What makes it look even odder is its nose, which looks like a swollen black bulb.”

Little Jeeha closed his eyes and painted a visual picture of the ākrū as Naya described it. “Does it have horns, Naya? Like the màcō (sambar) and the māāy (serow)?”

“No”, said Naya, “The ākrū’s horns are not like theirs.” She pointed to the short curved horns on the animal skull board. “The ākrū’s horns were not always curved like this. They say that a long time ago, they were long and straight.”

Jeeha’s eyes widened. “How did they become curved then, Naya?”

Naya’s focus deepened. “Many years ago, Idu Mishmis were very confused about the ākrū. ‘What kind of animal is this ākrū’, they wondered? One of the Idu Mishmi men said, ‘Look at its slanted back, no other animal has a back like this’.

Another man said, ‘Look at its face. It looks like a goat, but is it a goat?’
Another one said, ‘But see, its horns are not like that of a goat’.
A young one said, ‘This animal looks like it has been put together from different parts of different animals!’ Everyone laughed.

The old hunter said, ‘Do not make fun of the ākrū. Ngōlō, the mountain spirit, will get angry. All the ākrū belong to him, no?’

‘No! They belong to us, the Idu Mishmi people’, the others said.”

“Then what happened, Naya?” asked Jeeha, slowly lying down and placing his head on his grandmother’s lap.

“Then? Both Ngōlō and the Idu people claimed that the ākrū belonged to them. For a long time, this continued. Then it was decided that there would be a competition between Ngōlō and the Idu people to decide. There would be a tug of war!

The Idu people invited everyone from Dibang Valley to take part in this competition. On that morning, Ngōlō and the Idu people met at an open ground, where the ākrū stood at the centre of the field.

All the Idu people took their place at the rear end of the animal, and their strongest hunter grasped the tail of the animal in a firm grip. The rest of the clan clamoured behind him, one after another, holding the one in front tightly by the waist. The mountain spirit Ngōlō, bravely stood alone in front of the animal and held its straight and long horns, one in each hand.

Both sides started pulling the animal towards themselves. The ākrū was also strong and stocky. It held its ground firmly as it was pulled in two directions. It was a tough competition between Ngōlō and the Idu.

Ngōlō kept a steady grip on the horns, even though the ākrū was tossing its head back and the Mishmis were pulling with all their might from behind. As it was being pulled forward, the ākrū’s heavy horns slowly started curving backwards and upwards.

The Idu people struggled with all their combined might to hang on to the tail. But they were no match for the powerful Ngōlō. By the time the ākrū’s horns had curved, the tail began slipping out of their hands, and suddenly, with a snap, most of it came away in their hands, leaving only a stub attached on the back of the ākrū!

Ngōlō won, and from then on Ngōlō claimed that the ākrū belonged to him.

And so, the tale goes—this is how the ākrū’s horns became curved, and why it has a body that slants downwards, and why it has a short tail.”

“Naya, have you ever seen the ākrū?” asked Jeeha.

“Very few people have seen the ākrū. Hunters who have trekked up to where the ground is covered with snow, often talk about the ākrū.

Some say they move in large numbers, even groups as large as 300! Who knows if this is true? I have never seen one,” said Naya.

Jeeha was now very curious to see this ākrū. He decided that one day, when he was older, he would trek up the Dibang mountains with his father, and who knows, maybe he would see an ākrū! And he fell asleep on Naya’s lap, dreaming of the ākrū, and the snow-covered mountains.

This is one of the many tales told by the Idu Mishmi. With the lack of a written script, most of these stories are orally passed down through generations. Idu Mishmi lore is rich with tales about mammals, birds, grasshoppers, and frogs, which also tells us a lot about their natural landscape.

The takin is one of the animals that appears in the mythological stories of the Idu Mishmi. Locally called the ākrū’, it is a wild goat-antelope found in parts of Arunachal Pradesh, Myanmar, China and Bhutan. One of the four subspecies is the Mishmi takin (Budorcas taxicolor taxicolor). In Arunachal Pradesh, the presence of takin has been recorded on the higher peaks and ridges of Tawang, Siang valley, Lower Dibang valley, Anjaw, and southern Lohit districts. According to the IUCN, it is categorized as ‘vulnerable’, indicating that their population is decreasing. The Indian Wildlife Protection Act (1972) classifies the takin as a Schedule I species, a status similar to that of the tiger.

The Idu Mishmi are one of the three subgroups of the Mishmi–one of the 26 major tribal groups of Arunachal Pradesh. The Idu Mishmi live in the Dibang Valley and Lower Dibang Valley districts of Arunachal Pradesh, with a small population in the Upper Siang district. The Dibang Valley district is the least populated district in India, with a population of about 14000 Idu Mishmi. The region is known for its rich wildlife, beautiful snow-clad mountains, and high altitude wetlands. The Idu Mishmi are primarily dependent on swidden cultivation and forest produce: Life in the high mountains adjoining the Sino-India border is tough, because of the rugged terrain and harsh weather conditions. Animals are an integral part of their culture and life.

This is one of the stories narrated by Ananta Meme, a friend, an Idu Mishmi, and a resident of the Dibang Valley district. We have retold the story so that it can be shared with a wider audience.

Dedication

I (AA), met Jeeha Tacho in 2012 when I started my PhD fieldwork in Anini, the district headquarters of Dibang Valley of Arunachal Pradesh. I stayed with his family, in Jeeha’s home for a year. He was 10 years old. We became good friends and spent time birdwatching, plucking fruits, and cooking. In 2017, Jeeha’s life was cut short in a tragic accident close to Etabe village. This story is dedicated to him.

Mist curls in rising ribbons from the Northern Michigan lake early in the morning. The sun peaks over the horizon just as the world awakes. As I watch this breathtaking sight, I notice something moving in the underbrush along the shoreline. A family of North American river otters emerges from the shrubbery and enters the crisp early spring water. This was one of my first encounters with the subfamily Lutrinae. Watching this cute little family swimming together had me hooked.

I have crossed paths with otters many times since, and my love for them has only grown. As I grew older and advanced my knowledge, I learned that their peaceful existence is anything but. Water quality around the globe has become a pressing concern for all of Earth’s inhabitants. No country is immune to issues concerning the quality of the water we drink and that which is in the ecosystems that surround us.

Of the thirteen extant species of otters in the world, all but the North American river otter is either threatened or endangered. The life history of the subfamily has uniquely tied them to aquatic regions, and nothing is more integral to their survival than the quality of the waterways in which they reside. Otters have evolved over millions of years specifically for aquatic life. Their relationship with water places them in a prime position to be the spokes-family for water quality conservation.

The issue

Nearly one third of the world’s population is drinking from water contaminated with feces and other pollutants. This is not restricted to third-world countries either. Even in the developed world, this remains an issue. During severe weather in most cities, sewer systems discharge directly into waterways without being treated. I remember living in Traverse City, Michigan, and being unable to go swimming in the bay due to heavy rains and E. coli being found in the water. This is a common occurrence in many cities as older sewage systems are unable to keep up with demand especially in larger cities and dump untreated wastewater directly into waterways.

Our relationship with water is very unhealthy. It is the second most important thing to our survival yet we have such a disparaging report with our water resources. Regulation is often lacking and, in many cases, difficult as much of the pollution entering the waterways is from nonpoint-source pollution. This pollution does not have a single source like the discharge from an outflow pipe. There are many places in the world where people are simply struggling to survive every day and don’t have the forethought to worry about longevity when the immediate is much more pressing.

As decreased water quality becomes more prevalent, especially in impoverished or indigent societies, ecosystems deteriorate causing a compounding calamity. The ecosystem’s health declines leading to decreased resources causing the inhabitants to make more catastrophic decisions, thus accelerating the decline. This is where otters can play a crucial role, but it is imperative to understand their evolutionary history to comprehend their significance today.

Evolution of the subfamily

The origins of the subfamily lie somewhere between 13.5 million and 14.1 million years ago. Sivaonyx was the initial genus that arose and diverged from the Mustelidae family around this time in Southeast Asia, based on fossil evidence. A lot of speciation and emigration occurred during this time period as the newly formed subfamily moved westward following aquatic ecosystems. It would reach all the way into Africa and Europe during the same time. The largest ever species of the subfamily was found in Africa, and weighed between 200 and 400 lbs.

The Pliocene saw an immense explosion of diversity, especially in Europe. Many species evolved, with a large majority going extinct. It appears that the subfamily migrated to North America and spread down to South America from Asia. Much like a large portion of the fauna that came to the Americas, otters crossed the land bridge of Beringia. Later during the Pleistocene, much of the extant species arose. At some point during this time, they developed fur that had water resistant qualities helping them move more easily in water, and shed water upon exiting. In the case of otters living in cooler climates, they even developed natural “dry suits” with the outer fur protecting the underfur and keeping it dry. Their paws also developed webbing to help them swim in water. A commonality as a species that arose and went extinct is their proximity to aquatic ecosystems. Nearly all of them were located in or near aquatic ecosystems. The subfamily had become uniquely adapted to riparian regions, and a very effective predator within that region. There are two distinct groups, those that are bunodonts (crab-eating), and those that eat fish. They fill a role much like the wolves in Yellowstone National Park and Isle Royale. As a small predator, they control overpopulation by prey species and prevent the collapse of many ecosystems. They are very efficient hunters and due to their unique semi-aquatic nature, they are able to maintain healthy populations within their communities and stabilize the ecosystem. Unfortunately, a majority of the species are in decline. One cause of this decline in temperate climates is due to poor water quality leading to unsuitable habitats.

Creating a flagship

Temperate climate otters have positioned themselves to become the primary flagship species for discussing water quality. Water quality can be discussed with tropical otter species too, though threats such as hunting or poaching and habitat loss are more considerable. Should otter species in general be turned into the flagship for water quality, it could afford tropical species some protection from these threats.

Millions of years of evolution has created a charismatic species that can be utilized to engage citizens and organizations in the development of better water quality and ecological conservation efforts. The subfamily allows for people to engage in the discussion of water quality and conservation in a different way. It also allows for a symbiotic relationship between human health and ecosystem health. As communities engage in increasing their water quality for their own health, otters will benefit from the cleaner waters and healthier ecosystems. Increased attention towards otters will enhance the protection of waters used for drinking by citizens.

This new symbiotic relationship can be used to create new relationships across the globe and create a cohesive program to protect and revitalize the world’s water supply. As threats to the ecosystems of the world and human health increase, developing flagship species that can turn the tides are pivotal to conservation success. The need for such a species is great, and investing in one that has tangible benefits for humans is an easy sell for gaining organizational and governmental support. Otters are primed to be the flagship to save our planet.

Further Reading

Geraads, D., Alemseged, Z., Bobe, R., and Reed, D. 2011.
Enhydriodon dikikae, sp. nov. (Carnivora: Mammalia), a gigantic
otter from the Pliocene of Dikika, Lower Awash, Ethiopia. Journal
of Vertebrate Paleontology 31(2): 447-453.

Kruuk, H. 2014. Otters: Ecology, behaviour and conservation.
Oxford: Oxford University Press. National Geographic. 2019. Otters. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/group/otters/.
Accessed on September 22, 2020.

“Tell me a story about the wolf, mémé lé?”

I request the old man sitting next to me in the Ladakhi rebo (traditional yak hair tent) as I sip on the delicious butter tea to soothe my rumbling stomach.

“I recall a story about a wolf and three goats,” he says. “A lone wolf encounters the first goat and asks her, ‘What is on top of your head?’ The goat answers, ‘These are my horns.’

Then the wolf asks, ‘What is it that covers your body?’

‘My wool’

‘What is it on your feet?

‘My hooves.’

Unsatisfied with the answers, the wolf eats the goat. He moves to the second goat, who answers similarly. She, too, meets the same fate. Finally, the wolf faces the last and youngest goat. Readying for his third meal, the wolf asks the youngest goat, ‘What is on top of your head?’

‘A knife to kill you,’ she says. ‘What covers your body?’ ‘A rope to tie you.’ ‘What covers your feet?’ ‘My hooves to kick you.’

And with that, the goat pierces her horns into the wolf, binds him with her wool, and kicks him with her hooves, which eventually leads to his death,” concludes the old man.

I am not sure how to respond to this story, but I accept the laughter that pervades the room, smiling tenuously. The anthropologist in me is fighting the conservationist. I am here to record folklore around wildlife for my doctoral research. Folk stories, some argue, are a way for people to make sense of their world by transferring moral qualities to the animal or the ‘more-than-human’ world, as some anthropologists refer to it. Anthropomorphising, that is assigning human emotions to animals, serves as a tool to affirm social norms and behaviours.

I find the wolf story insightful in that it demonstrates how the predator is perceived by the Ladakhi people. I wonder if it is a parable about how some humans conceptualise power, and its subversion by the underdogs (‘undergoats’ in this case). Perhaps it is an example about the thin line between justice and revenge.

When I first encountered the cold deserts of Ladakh in 2013, I questioned my concept of space, mountains, and time. I had previously worked in rainforests, grasslands, agricultural, and urban spaces, but never had I ventured into a landscape so stark and naked, as though the cloak of vegetation had been stripped off abruptly. One must really like nothingness to be able to appreciate a place like this.

High altitudes, that is areas above 3,500 metres in the Western Himalaya, are a world of their own. They are not as remote and disconnected as one would imagine faraway places to be. Instead, they are alive and interconnected through networks — both ecologically and culturally —difficult even for the technologically-savvy to imagine.

Ladakh, for instance, played an important role in the days of the Silk Route trade, which provided people an opportunity to barter for essential as well as luxury items from Central Asia, Tibet, and Mongolia. Even today, it is a place where unpredictability is complemented with ingenuity; the harshness of the landscape is complemented with cooperation, and challenges are complemented with resilience. There are no guarantees about the weather, the high passes, the road, or the mode of transport, but there is usually a way around these even at the most hopeless of times.

Over the six years that I did my research here, I learnt how to work on faith, rely on instinct, and most importantly, memorise a few basic rules — sometimes the hard way. No car? Hitch a ride. No ride? Walk. Snowing? Keep walking. If indoors, have cha (as the Ladakhis called chai). Roads closed?

Have more cha. Cannot leave? Make conversation. What did my research involve? Conversations. My world revolved around cha accompanied by endless chats.

Our conversations touched upon a range of topics from local inventions, such as the potential for agriculture at impossible altitudes, or ice stupas to conserve water, to communal and caste politics; to the state of education in government schools, to wildlife, to culture, to agents of social change. Cha being the sole constant. Cups of cha eventually gave way to endless glasses of chaang (fermented barley) as conversations deepened or lightened up, depending on how one looks at inebriation. They would last for hours, during which time long-forgotten folk songs and gory tales of adventure, hunts and battles were narrated animatedly. Like the conversation I had with mémé lé in the summer of 2016.

Or the lines that an apo from Kargil (apo=grandfather), who was very dear to me, recites while his wife showcases a handmade vintage hookah made of argali horns. The song is about the transitory nature of life, conveyed through references to two predominant carnivores, the snow leopard, and the wolf:

“You are a sly creature, you hide between the rocks to kill your prey, But when you grow old, your cleverness will be of no use. The top of the mountain is inhabited by an arrogant wolf, But when it grows old it will not be able to kill a single lamb.”

During the research, we managed to unearth and record many stories, songs, anecdotes, and proverbs, revolving around wild animals from choughs to gazelles to snow leopards. The work involved hundreds of conversations/ interviews, countless visits to libraries, relentless pursuit of suitable (and interested) transcribers who could help us translate the stories from Ladakhi to Hindi/English. Naturally, our efforts were punctuated frequently with solja — an honorific reference to tea in Ladakhi.

Over another cup of cha and some more cajoling, a reticent api lé (api=grandmother), a proud Shamma (inhabitant of western part of Leh), sings a beautiful folk song about the ibex’s ‘magnificent brown horns, teeth shining white like a conch’. And another about how the horns of a blue sheep when seen from atop a mountain ‘make all carnivores happy’. I remind myself that I need to be a neutral observer, but this delicate, nuanced observation overwhelms me. I can picture these wild ungulates peacefully munching on grass as evening descends and a young snow leopard stalking its prey, heart in its mouth.

I look around api lé’s summer shack. There are yarns of sheep wool hanging on nails, an assortment of brass ladles and the claw of a bird of prey, most likely an eagle. I am told it is a good luck charm. “So, some wild animals bring luck?”, I ask naïvely. “Yes, sighting a fox at the start of the journey is considered good luck by many,” says api lé. “By extension, some others bring bad luck then?” “Yes,” she says, “In many villages in Kargil, people believe that if blue sheep and ibex come down to the village from the mountains, then one can expect a natural catastrophe, for example, floods. It happened in 2013. Have some more butter tea, nomo lé.” (nomo=daughter)

“Calamities in the village…. happen when the lha is upset?” I remember asking ajhang lé (ajhang=uncle), a local schoolteacher, about a week before. “Yes,” he said, “when the village or an individual angers the deities, especially the temperamental ones, they can take the form of wild animals like the snow leopard or wolf, and attack livestock.” “How does one rectify it?” I ask. “Pray. Ask for forgiveness. Make a peace offering.” Things that people are expected to do to placate those they may have hurt. I ponder over the complexities of our relationship with what we call the ‘wild’. Do we anthropomorphise animals or animalise humans? Perhaps the dichotomy is arbitrary or even superficial. In a world where animals can have ‘human-like qualities’ and humans can have ‘animallike qualities’, this question is moot. Take for instance, Kinnara and Kinnari —half-human and halfbird deities in Tibetan Buddhism, one of the two predominant religions in Ladakh (with the other being Islam) — that are believed to protect humans.

The worldview we share about wild animals and wild spaces affects their existence and survival (and ours). For instance, a wolf is typically associated with qualities like greed, slyness, stupidity, and trouble. Such cultural biases against the carnivore can fuel much resentment and sometimes retaliation, especially when they prey on people’s livestock. How then, must one frame conservation messages that resonate with people, whilst also enabling them to minimise their losses?

To me, the answer can be arrived at by listening to and appreciating all the divergent perspectives on animals and their potential/ preferred fate. We have innumerable ways of responding to the untenable question of what makes us human and what separates us from the rest of nature (if at all such a thing exists). We can weave a tapestry of imagination out of nothingness. Our stories need to be heard as much as they need to be told.

As I sip my cha several thousand kilometres away from Ladakh, I think about life in the cold desert. I realise that Ladakhi people’s resilience and ingenuity is mirrored in their culture. I think about what got me interested in this seemingly barren landscape. Nothingness. It was nothingness. Once the initial discomfort faded, it offered me the rare privilege to understand that what I perceived as ‘nothingness’ was akin to béyul (mythical and magical hidden land), which was pulsating with stories, imaginations and experiences that were waiting to be unpacked.

The journey is still ongoing, with documentation being the first step. Moving forward, I hope that the stories can be incorporated not only into conservation, but also reach the youth, who are the ultimate torchbearers for this landscape.

Meanwhile, locked down in Bombay, I reminisce about the savoury butter tea, almost feeling the soupy flavour on my tongue. I go into the kitchen to make a strong cup of adrak chai, a close second to solja khante (butter tea).

Weekend getaways to refresh oneself in the lap of nature have become an increasingly common occurrence. However, what if one were told that cities are, in fact, teeming with diverse life forms if we ever stopped to notice? What if the simple act of growing edible food in small pockets around the city could become tiny hotspots of wilderness? Rather than seeing nature as something separate from human habitation, what does it mean to understand and appreciate the ecosystems existing in cities? We reflect on these questions through our own experience of urban farming and attentive walks around the city of Mumbai.

If you look at it long enough, there is a strangely hypnotic quality to a spider’s web. We have spent countless moments mesmerised by the poise of a signature spider, as if deep in meditation. Its uniquely patterned web glistens in the sunlight like fine threads of silver. The trance is broken soon enough by the emphatic alarm call of the tailorbird that is fiercely guarding its nest in a nearby balcony. Tailorbirds, though tiny, produce loud calls that are heard all over the city. We were amused to see something that small being so loud. And there are many others like the tailor bird, who may be small and “insignificant”-looking, but their presence is felt through the many signs they leave for us in the form of songs, feathers and nests.

Contrary to popular belief, cities nurture much more than human life, and can do even better with a little participation from our side. Often, the simplest way to make space for nature in cities is by observing it. This has proven to be true in several ways during the lockdown period, as people find themselves paying attention to spaces that often go unnoticed. The black kite that usually soars up high in the skies is seen relishing an assortment of prey with each passing day, ranging from rats to lizards, birds and fish! With all kinds of wilderness encounters across different cities featuring in the news, the promise and possibilities of urban biodiversity hide in plain sight.

Right before the lockdown, we were caught off-guard at the sight of a young jackal foraging near some trees in suburban Mumbai. It was difficult to say who was getting more attention, us or the jackal, for both spent several minutes following the other, until the jackal finally decided to disappear amongst the thickets. Our non-human companions give us company, even if we do not notice them most of the time; like the rose-ringed parakeet who secretly munches on all the guava fruits on our institute campus on the hottest of afternoons.

One of our favourite evening walk routes goes through a now largely abandoned residential area in the city. Apart from a group of wild pigs and dogs, the area is home to coppersmith barbets, Tickells’ blue flycatchers, Indian silverbills, common ioras, scaly breasted munias, ashy and plain prinias! Once, we spotted a spectacled cobra lazily cross a road and enter a garbage dump, perhaps having made a quick meal of another snake or a rat. In fact, once your senses are attuned to picking up signs in the environment, it is incredible how much a simple morning or evening walk can reveal!

Not just a concrete jungle

Apart from passive observations, it brings us no small measure of joy to witness things growing. Growing edible plants is a uniquely rewarding activity as one gets to experience various connections involved in the journey of food. Pay close attention, and the soil comes alive with hundreds of critters engaged in constant action. A million more are not even visible to the naked eye. We never knew how beautiful okra flowers look, or how the Amaranth plant yields thousands of small, round, shiny black seeds. Digging for tubers felt no less exciting than a treasure hunt, and the resilience of an ash gourd vine that had endured the trauma of being trampled upon as a sapling surprised us no end. It eventually bore over 10 ash gourds weighing between seven and 18 kg!

As the plants have grown in a tiny corner of the academic campus, relationships have become more apparent too. Ants can be seen stroking the underbellies of aphids to stimulate the secretion of plant sap that the aphids feed on. Plants are not silent spectators either. We always wondered how ladybirds would invariably be seen on plants that had too many aphids on them. Numerous studies now show that plants release volatile compounds that attract predators of the pest, and can also warn neighbouring plants! There is much that goes on beyond our sensory perception, but close attention can allow us to appreciate things that we would otherwise miss.

Termites seem busy at work, decomposing layers of organic mulch almost as fast as we can add it. We often spot the common Mormon butterfly hovering around the curry leaf plant to lay eggs.

A wasp quickly catches a leaf miner and flies away, before it becomes a meal itself for the ever-watchful bee-eater. The orb-spider patiently waits for a grub to get caught in its web. A family of mongoose stick their heads out of a burrow, perhaps as curious about us as we are about them. We play a staring game with them being absolutely still and rejoicing quietly when we win. Winning here essentially means the mongoose are no longer wary of our presence and go about their daily activities ignoring us. We make peace with the monkeys who have developed a taste for our brinjals and cabbages. We are thankful that they usually leave our beloved tomatoes alone! After all, we are newer occupants of the land that they had inhabitied long before us. We rarely encounter snakes on the farm, but they let us know of their presence through several feet of (shed) snakeskin lying close to the rough surface of the building wall. The web of relations continues to grow.

Rewilding our cities

There is an old mango tree in our neighbourhood. Apart from its majestic canopy, it is well known as the roosting site of hundreds of black-headed ibis, night herons, glossy ibis, and cattle egrets! The timing of the ibis is impeccable. They arrive in flocks of 10—15 from nearby wetlands and circle around their favourite tree. They soon settle on the tree, occasionally fighting off crows or black kites. It is a mystery how and why they choose those particular trees. Some explanation might exist somewhere, but it won’t do justice to the sheer experience of watching these beautiful birds gathering around the tree at dusk, as if it were calling them to rest for the night.

There is no dearth of life even in what we may consider the filthiest of habitats in the city. Amidst the murky waters of the sewers and gutters we find between railway tracks, we see tiny frogs popping their heads out. In garbage dumps, we find the opportunistic cattle egrets scavenging along with the crows. And in wetlands that are greasy with oil and cluttered with trash, we find waders filtering the food from the rubbish. Some of these areas are invariably flecked with pink as they become the wintering grounds for many lesser and greater flamingos. The migrant populations of birds visiting the city time and again give us hope that we can, perhaps, share this space with them. Even in the darkest corner of a building, an owlet moth mesmerize us with its psychedelic patterns.

However, we must recognise that we can’t take their companionship for granted. As in any relationship, this needs some work from our side. We can actively create habitats that allow diverse species to flourish, even as our hearts and minds expand through such efforts. From balcony gardens to terrace farms, river banks to wetlands, every ecological niche makes a difference. Distant hills and forests are undoubtedly alluring places, but cities need not be bereft of wonder either. In rewilding the spaces in our city, we might find the humanity that is often missing in it.

Anapantham is a name familiar to those who have done the trek from Parambikulam National Park in Kerala, India, down into the western valley following the historic Cochin Tramway, an engineering marvel built during the British times. Historically, these forests along the western face of the Anamalais were called Cochin State Forests and were heavily exploited for timber. The indigenous Kadar people, for whom these forests and rivers are part of the ancestral domain, were in fact hired by the British for a range of plantation and other developmental activities in the region, the Tramway construction being one of them.

Following a landslide in 2002, the Kadar folk of Anapantham were rehabilitated to a settlement called Shastampoovam on the edge of a degraded forest. Life in the upper catchment of Karuvannur river, for the Kadar, is sustained by the forest they were born into. Men, women and children in this new settlement go in search of honey, resin, medicinal plants and wild food. In the olden days, they may have traded and bartered with people in the plains for forest produce. All of the summer months are spent traversing the mountains, and most honey and resin is harvested before the monsoon intensifies. The produce is sold to the Forest Development Agency based on fair prices and a profit sharing mechanism.

It is a cloudy morning in early July. Chandrika and Shaju are headed into a patch of forest close to their home to gather fruits of the Eendh tree, called Queen Sago in English and Cycas circinalis in Latin. I am out with them on a photo documentation of non-conventional nontimber forest products (NTFPs), as part of the community enterprise building carried out by the Conservation and Livelihoods Team of River Research Centre in Kerala. Their two dogs zig zag across the trail, run back and forth, making sure they keep an eye out for anything dangerous. I remark on how the path is overgrown and looks unused, and Chandrika quips, “No terrain in the wild is unfamiliar for us; we wouldn’t get lost even in the dark.”

The Cycad is a gymnosperm from Jurassic times, and is endemic to the Western Ghats. The trunk bears permanent leaf scars, and the leaves resemble palm leaves. Across the Western Ghats the species is subject to heavy harvest pressures from exploitative commercial trade of seeds, male cone, leaf and pith. The fruits are toxic to wildlife, so the natives of Anapantham know there are no competitors and always plenty for people. Queen Sago is a staple food in the traditional diet of indigenous communities, quite a favourite delicacy among the Kadar people, often favoured over rice.

Apparently it is only the fruits that are not sought after by wild creatures! The leaves of Cycas cirinalis are host to the mellow looking Plains Cupid butterfly. The larvae secrete a sugary liquid with amino acids. Ants living on the Cycad feed off this secretion, and in turn protect the larvae from predators. One is intrigued how ancient this association might be…were the Plains Cupid butterflies in search of this Cycad even during the Jurassic times?! For now, Chandrika and Shaju are out to find an adult Cycad, and we have crossed two perennial streams. Once we get to an adult with profuse fruiting, the harvest is rather quick. Shaju climbs on the crocodile-like scaly bark of the trunk and plucks off bunches of fruits. The collection is bundled up in a dhoti (a large piece of cloth – like a sarong – traditionally worn by men) and carried back to their home on the edge of the forest.

Preparing Eendh to eat is labour intensive. After removing the fruit’s hard shell, the seeds are halved and left to dry over a woodstove for a couple of days. They are then tied in a jute sack and immersed in flowing water in a stream for 5-7 days to get rid of the toxin, cycacin. For this leaching process one must choose a stream that is not populated with crabs for they can come and nibble on the seeds right through the sack.

One final step of drying over the woodstove, and then the seeds are ready to be cooked and eaten with meat. Well dried, smoked seeds can be saved for more than three years. Sometimes they are stored in powder form to make a porridge, or a jaggery and coconut based delicacy!

Today, Queen Sago it is eaten far less than in earlier times, either because it is considered less sophisticated than mainstream food or because harvest and treatment is an arduous task. By reviving some of these food ways and finding niche markets for wild food it might be possible to not only secure indigenous livelihoods but also keep alive the knowledge of local resources and their ecology and distribution. Through establishing a relationship with harvesters, the effort is to inculcate sustainable harvest protocol for NTFPs and practices

that help protect species such as Cycas circinalis in the long run. The project hopes to demonstrate that it is possible for native communities to take on conservation stewardship roles and use forest rights in meaningful ways, alongside conserving ethnobotanical knowledge.

Further reading:

Krishnamurthy V., L. Mandle, T. Ticktin, R. Ganesan, C.S. Saneesh and A. Varghese. 2013. Conservation status and effects of harvest on an endemic multi-purpose cycad, Cycas circinalis L., Western Ghats, India. Tropical Ecology 54(3): 309-320.

L.W. Wu. 2010. Elucidating origins of the Cycad Blue (Chilades pandava): a threat to cycad plants worldwide, with a discussion on the evolution of Cycas feeding behavior. PhD thesis. National Taiwan Normal University, Taipei, Taiwan.

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