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A not at all exhaustive list of colours in Anshi

field notes| Priyanka Hari Haran | 12.3

Immediately, arrestingly, there seems to be serene, unadulterated green. But look a little closer, and you’ll see that it’s a mishmash of many greens all co-existing, as they have for years and years.

From a rocky outcrop, you see the landscape of jade, emerald, moss, and seaweed, and you can’t help but marvel at their sheer diversity. In the senescence of the full grown tree’s leaves, you see not just green, but also the strangest shades of red and brown. They cling on desperately, so close to the gentlest, shyest of greens. The green that is so new to the world, and is growing resolutely every day. Then there is the green that strikes fear in your heart, because when you walk through a dense patch of Carvia, you know you don’t walk out alone. Dozens of ticks have come out with you, on your pants, on your hands, on your legs – you’ve walked through a veritable metropolis of their homes. There is the excellently camouflaged vine snake who makes you stop short and notice his slender body, his grace as he watches you gawk at him. You move, he moves. He doesn’t like any part of the vibrations you’re causing. You’ve made him leave his spot in the sunlight now, slithering away into the undergrowth. The leafbird who forages high in the canopy has no time for you. She will not let you get a good look at her, even if only to watch her and make your observations. She’s busy, she merges into the trees. You see some greens that have invaded this land – the dull grey-green of the Casuarina and the white-green of the dying Acacia leaves. You walk past them many times a day, in the village.

Then there is that astonishing blue of the sky, which robs you of all thought for a second, when you duck out from under the canopy. Or, more beautiful still, when you catch glimpses of it amidst the green. It’s hard to imagine that any photograph could capture the startling contrast in all its glory in that visceral way the human eye can. But blue flies through the forest too. The monarch, with his petite black cap, calls in seemingly every flock of birds you see. The fairy bluebird suns himself on top of a leafless tree with his partner for a while, and with a final sharp call, they’re off. The bright blue of the flycatcher who wags his tail up and down as he sits on a branch for minutes on end – only to dive at the ground to catch a flying insect – will keep you entertained as long as he is around.

There are those purple flowers that stubbornly grow on well-walked trails, wild and obstinate. But also bold in the brown of the forest floor and the green of the undergrowth. Later, you see it take over rice fields abandoned for the season, unknowing of what is to come in the following summer when the crops are planted again.

The flashy yellow and orange of the spider that painstakingly builds a web across shrubs. A large web, hoping for a multi-course meal. You walk right into her sometimes, and by then it’s too late. You’ve torn the web apart and she must rebuild it. The orange of the minivet biases you, because what bird wouldn’t look dull next to that plumage? The abundant fulvettas of the forest stand no chance – their nondescript browns are no match for that orange that begs the question, ‘Hasn’t this bird heard of a little thing called camouflage?’ The female is no quieter in her yellow plumage, only smaller than the oriole of a similar shade.

The flameback woodpeckers work in pairs, trying to crack open Entada pods with their strong beaks. You hear the racket from quite a distance away. They do not care – they are determined to get those insects that are theirs only to claim. But you certainly see the rapid movement of that red crest as they work their way through pods larger than their whole bodies. Not far away, you see ripening berries in shades of red and yellow hanging on a tree that is being overrun with doves and bulbuls galore.

The lonely brown that signifies death in a tree, termites feasting now on the fallen giant. What a spectacle it must have been, the day this tree fell to the quiet forest floor! How the mighty have fallen indeed. You look in awe at the stately trees still standing around you, and then your eyes travel back to this one, crumbling slowly to powder and dust.

Crunch. Crunch, crunch. That’s you walking on the forest floor in your heavy shoes, unlike the quiet cats of the forest with their velvet pads. Whoever knew there were so many colours of decay? There is green, grey, red, yellow, orange, purple and brown. And mottled black where you see fungus feeding on the remains. There are dead leaves choking small streams, deceiving you into thinking you can step on them.

There is black and white too, you know. Black in the thieving drongos, in shimmering bronze, ash, and long racket-tailed. They swish and swash from the canopy to the forest floor, everywhere at once, and incite a flurry of activity in every flock they steal from. On a lonely road near a one-house village, you see ten cattle grazing. They must be ushered through the forest, back home, from where they’ve strayed. And as they herd onto the path, you see that last one is white, with an oval patch of black on his bottom. There is no way this cow will leave without eliciting that smile from you, as he trots merrily away with his friends.

Then there are colours that cannot possibly be described. To call the sunlight golden as it bathes the trees in the morning and warms the forest seems somehow inadequate. Can sunlight be a colour? In its absence, the forest has so very solemn a glow to it – you begin to understand where the fairy tales learnt to describe their forests from. You look around, and there you are, in all the most ethereal ones, all at once. Colours cascade around you, as they have for millennia.

Priyanka Hari Haran is currently a research assistant at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment
(ATREE). This piece draws on her master’s dissertation work with mixed-species flocks of birds in Kali Tiger Reserve.

Maanasa Ganesh is a designer, Japanese aficionado, and ardent bird enthusiast. As travelling and studying new cultures
refreshes her creativity, she is shifting her base to Tokyo to explore and absorb the design landscape.

A not at all exhaustive list of colours in Anshi

field notes| Priyanka Hari Haran | 12.3

Immediately, arrestingly, there seems to be serene, unadulterated green. But look a little closer, and you’ll see that it’s a mishmash of many greens all co-existing, as they have for years and years.

From a rocky outcrop, you see the landscape of jade, emerald, moss, and seaweed, and you can’t help but marvel at their sheer diversity. In the senescence of the full grown tree’s leaves, you see not just green, but also the strangest shades of red and brown. They cling on desperately, so close to the gentlest, shyest of greens. The green that is so new to the world, and is growing resolutely every day. Then there is the green that strikes fear in your heart, because when you walk through a dense patch of Carvia, you know you don’t walk out alone. Dozens of ticks have come out with you, on your pants, on your hands, on your legs – you’ve walked through a veritable metropolis of their homes. There is the excellently camouflaged vine snake who makes you stop short and notice his slender body, his grace as he watches you gawk at him. You move, he moves. He doesn’t like any part of the vibrations you’re causing. You’ve made him leave his spot in the sunlight now, slithering away into the undergrowth. The leafbird who forages high in the canopy has no time for you. She will not let you get a good look at her, even if only to watch her and make your observations. She’s busy, she merges into the trees. You see some greens that have invaded this land – the dull grey-green of the Casuarina and the white-green of the dying Acacia leaves. You walk past them many times a day, in the village.

Then there is that astonishing blue of the sky, which robs you of all thought for a second, when you duck out from under the canopy. Or, more beautiful still, when you catch glimpses of it amidst the green. It’s hard to imagine that any photograph could capture the startling contrast in all its glory in that visceral way the human eye can. But blue flies through the forest too. The monarch, with his petite black cap, calls in seemingly every flock of birds you see. The fairy bluebird suns himself on top of a leafless tree with his partner for a while, and with a final sharp call, they’re off. The bright blue of the flycatcher who wags his tail up and down as he sits on a branch for minutes on end – only to dive at the ground to catch a flying insect – will keep you entertained as long as he is around.

There are those purple flowers that stubbornly grow on well-walked trails, wild and obstinate. But also bold in the brown of the forest floor and the green of the undergrowth. Later, you see it take over rice fields abandoned for the season, unknowing of what is to come in the following summer when the crops are planted again.

The flashy yellow and orange of the spider that painstakingly builds a web across shrubs. A large web, hoping for a multi-course meal. You walk right into her sometimes, and by then it’s too late. You’ve torn the web apart and she must rebuild it. The orange of the minivet biases you, because what bird wouldn’t look dull next to that plumage? The abundant fulvettas of the forest stand no chance – their nondescript browns are no match for that orange that begs the question, ‘Hasn’t this bird heard of a little thing called camouflage?’ The female is no quieter in her yellow plumage, only smaller than the oriole of a similar shade.

The flameback woodpeckers work in pairs, trying to crack open Entada pods with their strong beaks. You hear the racket from quite a distance away. They do not care – they are determined to get those insects that are theirs only to claim. But you certainly see the rapid movement of that red crest as they work their way through pods larger than their whole bodies. Not far away, you see ripening berries in shades of red and yellow hanging on a tree that is being overrun with doves and bulbuls galore.

The lonely brown that signifies death in a tree, termites feasting now on the fallen giant. What a spectacle it must have been, the day this tree fell to the quiet forest floor! How the mighty have fallen indeed. You look in awe at the stately trees still standing around you, and then your eyes travel back to this one, crumbling slowly to powder and dust.

Crunch. Crunch, crunch. That’s you walking on the forest floor in your heavy shoes, unlike the quiet cats of the forest with their velvet pads. Whoever knew there were so many colours of decay? There is green, grey, red, yellow, orange, purple and brown. And mottled black where you see fungus feeding on the remains. There are dead leaves choking small streams, deceiving you into thinking you can step on them.

There is black and white too, you know. Black in the thieving drongos, in shimmering bronze, ash, and long racket-tailed. They swish and swash from the canopy to the forest floor, everywhere at once, and incite a flurry of activity in every flock they steal from. On a lonely road near a one-house village, you see ten cattle grazing. They must be ushered through the forest, back home, from where they’ve strayed. And as they herd onto the path, you see that last one is white, with an oval patch of black on his bottom. There is no way this cow will leave without eliciting that smile from you, as he trots merrily away with his friends.

Then there are colours that cannot possibly be described. To call the sunlight golden as it bathes the trees in the morning and warms the forest seems somehow inadequate. Can sunlight be a colour? In its absence, the forest has so very solemn a glow to it – you begin to understand where the fairy tales learnt to describe their forests from. You look around, and there you are, in all the most ethereal ones, all at once. Colours cascade around you, as they have for millennia.

Priyanka Hari Haran is currently a research assistant at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment
(ATREE). This piece draws on her master’s dissertation work with mixed-species flocks of birds in Kali Tiger Reserve.

Maanasa Ganesh is a designer, Japanese aficionado, and ardent bird enthusiast. As travelling and studying new cultures
refreshes her creativity, she is shifting her base to Tokyo to explore and absorb the design landscape.

A Bold Tusker’s Tale of Timidness

field notes |Nachiketha Sharma|

Pre-monsoon showers at the start of May, drenching the charred ground, filled the entire forest with the aroma of wet mud and brought a huge sigh of relief from the thirsty wild animals. This beautiful forest was changing her clad from grey to green. The sight of blooming lush green grasses could captivate any onlooker.  The beauty and the fragrance in the forests were aided by the orchestral sounds from rutting gaurs, alarm calls of spotted deer, mating pea-fowls, and chirping birds. It seemed to me that the entire forest was rejoicing the upcoming festival of ‘monsoon’.

I was on our regular routine of monitoring elephants in the jungles of southern India. Since the first shower in the forest, we tried our luck to locate our identified herds. Given that water was plentiful in all the waterholes and streams, elephant herds were not travelling across the forest, making them difficult to sight.  I decided to position myself near a source of perennial water, hoping that elephants would visit either in the noon or the late evening.

Everything in the forest had been revamped as was this waterhole which got its water from the check-dam at one end and spread its charm engulfing and drenching the bed of small and tall grasses. Thus grabbing the attention of elephants, who came to drink and then munch some grasses. As I was busy in my thoughts, observing the ripples in the pool, at around 4 pm, I saw a herd marching towards the waterhole. I got alerted and counted the members. Initially, there were five of them;  an aged female, a young female with a very small calf and two juvenile tuskers who were about five years old. This herd was followed by another 15 elephants who came to the waterhole in three groups. Now, there were 20 elephants altogether! They walked with utmost caution and with supreme elegance, interacting with each other by sniffing, touching their mouths, temporal and genital regions with their trunks, to identify each other or exchange greetings!

 

Amazingly, the elephants, after their tactile communications, coordinated well and entered the waterhole in batches.  After spending some quality time in the water, groups started adorning themselves with their own natural cream of mud. All of them glittered brilliantly.  

 

The herds started grazing. All was calm and quiet. Juvenile tuskers were playing and sparring with each other. Calves followed their mothers, imitating them by plucking a single blade of grass, often failing in doing so. Sub-adult females not only grazed but were also vigilant.

Engrossed in observing them, I did not realize that it was already nearly 5 pm. Traversing the tall grasses, a 15-year-old sub-adult tusker (I named him ‘Krishna’) entered the scene. With his distinct short and parallel shinning tusks, I could see that he was at the onset of ‘musth’ (a sexually active state in male elephants). It could have been Krishna’s first experience of being in the musth! He headed straight to the grazing females, sniffing their reproductive signals, perhaps searching for the best partner!

After a bit of sniffing and examining the females, Krishna seemed to lose interest in his mate-searching activity, and turned towards the juvenile tuskers. Upon seeing him approaching, the juvenile tuskers were reluctant to face him.  Surprisingly, he had other ideas in mind. He held the tail of a juvenile tusker with his trunk and pulled the youngster towards him, while another juvenile stood stunned.

He did not stop his unwelcome brawl. He wanted to take young tuskers on. He started poking the rear of the juvenile with his short tusks to initiate a fight. He locked his tusks with a young one, and by lifting head, pushed the young one back on and on. As the young tusker retreated, he pressed the hind legs of the youngster to the ground, forcing him to ‘cry’ for help!

 

After winning his self-initiated wrestling and establishing his hierarchy among the young tuskers, he then marched valiantly towards the waterhole. As Krishna approached, he sensed a slight movement and ripples on the pool. He became cautious. I too was curious. It was a turtle! As the tusker came closer, the turtle rushed into the water from the mud-puddle. And then came the surprise. Seeing the turtle slipping into the water, this tusker lifted his tail and ran for his life as if some giant threat had emerged from the water. He did not return to the waterhole!

I was left perplexed and amused. After showing his strength to his subordinates, how could a ‘bold’ tusker fear a tiny turtle? Like human beings, elephants too have personalities. A few studies on semi-captive elephants showed how elephants differ in terms of how brave, friendly, social or aggressive they may be.  To observe their contrasting personalities in the wild is, indeed, fortunate… 

 

Spiritual values can augment bat conservation

field notes | Dr. V. Mahandran | 12.1

My work on bats often takes me to faraway locations with exotic tropical vistas. On one such field trip, in June 09, 2013, I was exploring the Kuthumkal cave system, situated in Idukki district of Kerala, India. This extensive cave systemonce served as the roost for many thousands of the Indian fulvous fruit bats,Rousettus leschenaulti. Sadly, as of this day, only a few hundred individuals remain due to frequent cave vandalism and wanton slaughtering of bats for bushmeat consumption. Furthermore, this adds to significant littering in and around the caves. Previously, I had heard stories of bats being consumed by locals in the belief that it cures asthma.

Group of Indian fulvous bats (Rousettus leschenaultii) killed by vandals in the Kuthumkal cave, Idukki, Kerala

However, visiting the caves and witnessing these events and the aftermath for me was a truly harrowing experience. Their modus operandi was simple. A group of individuals would enter the cave and block potential bat escape routes with thorny acacia branches. Many of them were carrying country-made rifles using which they would shoot the roosting bats. I observed them consuming the bushmeat along with liquor (Fig. 1 and 2). I interacted with them and tried in vain to convince them to leave the bats alone. The horrible memories of this incident would be etched in my mind for years to come, filling me with disgust at the mere recollection.

Feeling utterly helpless, I finally found a ray of hope in a quaint corner of Tamil Nadu,where cave-dwelling bats are actively conserved by the locals because their spirituality is centred around the belief that bats are the messengers of the deity, Lord Muthaiyan, and hence sacred. Amongst visions of vandalized caves full of blood and dead bats, this ‘cave-temple’ was a breath of fresh air.This cave-temple roost with ~3050 bats is located in Hogenakkal forest. Devotees visit the cave temple and it appeared to me that neither human presence nor religious practices like burning of camphor and/or ringing of bells pose any disturbance to roosting bats (Fig. 3).

Location of killing and processing the bats for bushmeat consumption by vandals

The cave-temple has existed for more than 90 years wherein humans have not just coexisted peacefully with the bats, but even protected them, as a consequence of their spiritual values. Communal roosts located at caves and mines seem to be the most vulnerable ecosystems as they are generally not covered under any the standard protected area networks. Anthropogenic activities have been reported as major factors affecting bat populations across the globe. Hence, conservation of bats, which are significant pollinators and dispersers of fruiting trees, along with their roosting habitats is of critical importance. It is in fact likely that certain traditional beliefs and practices of worship can augment conservation of bats and their roosting habitats. This exemplary cave-temple of Hogenakkal may be regarded as a kind of sacred grove providing a safe haven for these rapidly disappearing flying mammals.

Written by: Dr. V. Mahandran, Postdoctoral Fellow, Behavioural Ecology Lab, Department of Biological Sciences, Indian Institute of Science Education and Research Mohali, Punjab, E-mail: m16.mahi@gmail.com

Photographs by: Dr. V. Mahandran

Postcards from a distant island

Meenakshi Poti| 11.3| Field Notes

Lakshadweep left this marine researcher captivated, both underwater and over land;
Meenakshi Poti

For four months last year, I had the opportunity to live on the islands of Lakshadweep. Imagine,
from walking between throngs of people in the shadow of concrete towers, I was transported to a
place with turquoise water as far as my eye could see, coconut tree skylines and a handful of
people I would get to know by name.

Today, thousands of miles away from that wondrous abode where the sea, the sky and the
inhabitants seemed to care for me like I was one of their own – my bond with the islands has
only grown stronger.
Lakshadweep is India’s smallest union territory, located in the Arabian Sea. It is an archipelago
of 36 islands — 12 atolls, three reefs, five submerged banks and ten completely uninhabited
islands. Before my time there, I had never been to an island before. I applied for a research
permit, and two months later, I boarded a ship from the port of Kochi. It took two days to reach
the Agatti and Kalpeni islands, where the population is a mere ten thousand.

I was there to study the foraging habits of endangered green turtles – a species that is relatively
under-studied compared to Olive Ridleys and Leatherback sea turtle populations in India. Green
turtles are the only herbivorous sea turtles. They feed predominantly on seagrass found in the
shallower parts of the sea.
In fact, the region around the Lakshadweep islands supports the largest population of green
turtles in the Indian subcontinent. But the situation here is quite complex. Fishermen blame the
decline in their catch on these foraging turtles. They believe that fish stocks have fallen because
the seagrass meadows – which act as fish nurseries – have been overgrazed. This has led to an
increase in fisher-turtle conflicts in the recent past.

 

My focus was on studying how the decline of seagrass in the lagoons would influence the turtles’
diet. I mapped the seagrass distribution across the Agatti and Kalpeni lagoons, and sought to
understand how their diets shifted in areas where the seagrass densities were low. An
understanding of the green turtle foraging ecology is integral to their conservation, because of
their endangered status.
Every day in Lakshadweep, I would wake up early, as it gets uncomfortably hot after sunrise.
But for me, it wasn’t only the heat that urged me awake, it was the excitement to get to my
‘office’ and observe foraging green turtles over seagrass meadows, busy fish over the reefs, rays
flying by and an occasional shark. I would speed down the narrow streets of Agatti on my
dilapidated Ladybird cycle, with my research equipment – snorkel, mask, flippers, weights,
GoPro, and makeshift writing pad – sticking out of the front basket.

Weaving past bunches of busy hens and galloping goats, I would arrive at Jaffer’s house. Jaffer
played the role of friend, boatman, chef and island newspaper. I hired his boat, Nihla Fathima for
my work in the lagoons. She was a high-tech, swanky thing, with great speakers (I often heard
Coldplay and Dire Straits while Jaffer was cleaning his boat).

My dives involved taking counts of seagrass in the lagoon – quite a challenging task as it
involved laying transects and plots all across the lagoon. Each plot would take me a minimum of
three hours to finish, as I would “duck dive” to the base of the lagoon to take seagrass counts by
laying down small subplots made out of PVC pipes. Despite the rigour and intensity of
snorkeling for close to six hours every day, I enjoyed my fieldwork thoroughly.
After I surfaced from my dives, I would have lengthy conversations with the rest of the boat
crew – mostly in broken Malayalam, hand signals and my facial expressions – which would
leave them endlessly amused. All of them were involved in pole-line tuna fishing, but they
would make some forays out on the water for tourists too.

They would lay out a plate of khaddi (assorted snacks) for me after I surfaced from a dive, with
fresh lemon juice, kattan chaiya (black tea) or tender coconut water. Sometimes, Jaffer would
make delicious fish biryani while I worked underwater. (Although I went there as a vegetarian, I had no choice but to switch to a fish and chicken diet as vegetables, shipped from the mainland,
are not very easy to get a hold of. Once, we spotted carrots in the local store after several weeks,
but they refused to sell it to us as these were “advance booked carrots”.)
After long days out on the water, I would spend the evenings on the beach, chatting with the
women and children, with a cup of kattan chaiya in hand. The women of Lakshadweep are quite
reserved and are not allowed to swim in the azure waters that surround them because of their
religious beliefs. They were always curious about what I saw underwater, and would imagine the
marine wildlife in their backyard through my stories and descriptions. Later, when I was alone, I
would reflect on the stories that were exchanged with wonder.

There were so many special moments I wanted to share with my family and friends back at
home. But throughout my time on the islands, I had very limited internet and network coverage.
I’m not too talented at photography, so I documented whatever I could through art. I decided to
make postcards to send to people back home. This way, I would remember the features of the
organisms I was seeing or the landscape I was living in vividly.

Each postcard took me around a week to make, because I would usually be exhausted after
fieldwork. The first set of postcards never made it to my friends – I was so disappointed. So I
decided to write inland letters instead. I sent letters to some friends and my family. Funnily,
some of them reached long after I returned from the islands! As for those handmade postcards, I
feared losing even more somewhere over the sea, so I handed them over in person, once I got
home.


I can easily say that some of my closest friends now, I made in Lakshadweep. Even though I
haven’t been back for a year, I still receive messages from the locals to enquire about me and my
family. And of course, I still paint, write and dream of Lakshadweep.
To read more about sea turtle and marine conservation projects, visit www.dakshin.org

This article was originally featured in Nature inFocus