Why Nature Is My Religion...

It must be the bounty of dragonflies, butterflies, grasshoppers, and crickets thanks to the Vizag monsoon that must have brought them in droves. Off late, I have been seeing the Indian Roller (Coracias benghalensis) everywhere—perched on telegraph poles, lamp posts, and tree tops, “chack-chacking”. The otherwise dull (in appearance), unruffled, and solitary bird has resurfaced in a different avatar—noisier and in company of its own ilk. Chasing each other in flashes of “turquoise and sapphire”, their merriment presents a mesmerising sight.

When the blue jay flew

overhead… the sun caught its wings

and a haiku was born

The Indian Roller has been a fixture on Dolphin Hill, inconspicuous on a perch, in a picture of peaceful solitude. In flight, the dun-coloured apparition transforms into royalty when it unfurls its blue shade-card plumage, deserving of the epithet of Blue Jay or Neelkanth (blue throat, in vernacular lingo). Its languid twirls and swirls on wings make the other sobriquet of “roller” apt indeed.  

The Blue Jay is a bird of the countryside, a friend of the farmer as it is a natural “pest control”. Not for nothing is this beauty the state bird of several states including Andhra Pradesh, Telangana, Odisha, and Karnataka.  Just as I was revelling in its antics comes the news that poachers are all out to net the unsuspecting creature.

http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-national/poachers-go-all-out-to-net-indian-roller/article7646653.ece

Why would anyone want to do so? According to popular belief the bird is sacred to Lord Vishnu and its darshan is supposed to be propitious, particularly on the occasion of Dasshera. The Neelkanth is said to be sacred to Hindus. Likewise, the owl that is denigrated in many cultures as “evil” or “foolish” is revered by Hindus as a symbol of knowledge. Uluka (owl in Sanskrit) is the vehicle of Goddess Laxmi; inherent in this concept of vahan is the idea of conservation. And yet, the owl suffers a similar fate as the blue jay.

We know only too well what ill-fortune befalls snakes towards Nagpanchami and temple elephants that are kept chained or paraded for pelf, routinely. Going by the track record of such barbaric practices one can only imagine the plight of these hapless birds.

Isn’t it a travesty that birds are venerated and then exploited for its “religious” significance?

Unlike many anthropocentric religions which place Man on a pedestal, Hinduism places Nature in the same bracket as humans. The religion preaches love for and worships Nature in all forms—the five elements, animals, birds, fish, even stones.  And yet some of its votaries carry on pernicious practices in the very name of religion.

Man exploits animals for sport and food, for greed and in the name of God. He ensnares, captures, maims, poaches, declaws, defangs, gouges, skins, and slaughters creatures to fulfil imagined desires and fetishes. Vegetarianism is not the bone of contention here, but animal cruelty certainly is. My focus is on unethical treatment of animals and activities that are forbidden by law for being unjust and insensitive. These “criminals” who indulge in trade of animals and animal parts of vulnerable and endangered wildlife often go scot-free and untraced by moribund authorities. Laws such as Wildlife Protection Act, 1972 are mere paper tigers.  

Criminals are deliberate offenders but what about those who seek “darshan” or partake of such rituals because of their blind beliefs? How does one trace or book them and how many will you crucify? This section of “offenders” is a subset of the masses for whom religion is the opium, for which they can kill or instigate killing of animals. Who is to say they may not extend the same discourtesies to humans?

What I do not understand is why don’t any of our more respectable spiritual leaders such as Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and Jaggi Vasudev, to name two, raise their voice against these practices and condemn them as anti-Hindu? Why don’t they take up the mantle of animal rights activists to protect our wildlife and try and stop such inhuman practices in the name of “God”? 

I am an avowed spiritual Hindu who takes pride in the ideals of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam and sarva dharma sama bhava; a jnana yogi, if you will. I distance myself from rituals, symbolisms, and idol worship. I go to a temple to “see” its art and architecture, learn about local deities, and not necessarily to pray. I am not a “practising” Hindu or a “believer” in the traditional sense. Having said that let me add: I am enamoured by Hindu epics, mythology, rituals and festivals for the stories and significance behind them. I am besotted by the pantheon of Hindu Gods and Goddesses—some in animal avatar and others with their animal vehicles—for the million manifestations of mankind. I am completely smitten by images and symbolisms, therein, for the sheer ingenuity and artistry.  The universal principle of Sanatan Dharma appeals to me intellectually.

In recent times though, some political “Hindus” are giving the religion a bad name. I don't identify with that kind of collective, institutional brand of militant Hinduism. I wish to reclaim the pristine nature of my religion. I much rather worship trees, birds, animals, sun, moon, stars…that exist, if it will help break barriers, than create Gods, label them, and form a cult. Nature—the Earth—has existed for eons and is universal to humankind irrespective of geography, history, and borders. You just have to look at a tiger or an elephant, watch its behaviour in the wild, to know what Satyam Shivam Sundaram stands for.  

Look at the serendipity. As I was anguishing the roller birds’ fate and mulling over this piece, I happened to see the life-changing Marathi film, “Dr. Prakash Baba Amte—The Real Hero”, on television.

A blog will do not justice to his life-story. Let’s just say that here is a man who not only won the confidence of isolated Adivasi of interior Maharashtra and changed their lives, but also that of orphaned wild animals such as lions and leopards. For Dr. Amte, whose life and work is phenomenally inspiring, Nature is the binding factor for all humanity. It is mother, teacher, provider, healer et al.  Dr. Amte chose Nature over man-made religion to establish peace and harmony in his karmabhoomi, Hemalkasa, which is an El Dorado, of sorts.

The extreme right-wing elements of the party in power and the fringe will do well to remember that they are doing the biggest disservice to Hindu religion—to its inclusive nature—of which they proclaim to be custodians of. They better back off soonest.

TERMS EXPLAINED:

“...the turquoise and sapphire-tinted splendour of his wings…" -  description of a roller from JL Kipling’s, “Animals in India”

Haiku: A three-line verse of Japanese origin usually with Nature as its theme

Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam: The World/Earth is one big family

Sarva dharma sama bhava: All religions deserve equal respect

Jnana Yogi: A “seeker” or one who follows the path of Knowledge, one of the four paths to attain salvation 

Vahana: Favoured vehicle of travel of Gods and Goddesses according to Hindu mythology

Santana Dharma: It is not a faith, but an idea that there is no beginning or end to Universe and that Truth—whether we know it or not—is universal and eternal 

Satyam Shivam Sundaram: Truth, Divinity, and Beauty

Karmabhoomi: The concept of “land of work” where one’s purpose in life is to be fulfilled 

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG AND WEBSITE ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/COPYRIGHT.

WAITING IN THE WINGS

MICRO LIFE WITH MACRO LENS

When one shutter closes, another one opens.

Like any birder, I started birdwatching by procuring a decent pair of binoculars and a bird guide. This was two decades ago, in India. Then came a time, during my Kenya sojourn, when I would reach for my camera sooner than the binoculars; my birding trips were rarely complete without my Canon PowerShot SX100.

The PowerShot was my first camera and, like a faithful friend, I  tagged it along everywhere. With an effective focal length of 360mm, it served me well for wildlife photography to seal in memories of once-in-a-lifetime (figuratively speaking) safaris. Of course, it fell woefully short in the face of the “bazookas” tourists of all hues flaunted there. Thankfully, I was not shooting wild African lions and elephants with a cell-phone camera like a visiting friend once did!

That is when there was a paradigm shift.

Passionate birders believe that binoculars are all you need for birdwatching. They maintain that a camera is a redundancy, a distraction at best. They believe that in the pursuit of obtaining the perfect picture, birder-photographers sacrifice acute observation and pure pleasure. The keen birder in me sees the point, but the bird-photographer in me has her own infallible logic.

Nobody can deny the immense contribution of photography in recording and documenting vital and subtle information. In many instances, logging of bird-sightings thus has aided in accurate identification of species that has confounded even a seasoned birder. Having said that, bird photography, like any other form of photography is, primarily, a "fine art" and not just means of documentation.

There is a breed of bird-photographers, as distinct from purist birders, that has to compulsively and obsessively entrap birds in its lens-eyes. This breed suffers from an irresistible itch to immortalize the subjects and aims to give it its best shot.  

For a while, I managed with the PowerShot, but soon it lost its appeal and application and I knew it was time to move on to a DSLR. As a greenhorn in creative photography, I settled for a crop sensor camera more out of consideration of budget than desire. I landed an incredible deal in a Canon EOS 700D with a kit lens combination—of standard lens and a macro telephoto. The entire kit cost less than the price of a good camera-body alone; what's more, a macro lens costing nearly Rs. 10,000 was virtually thrown in!  But as is wont with "interchangeable-lens cameras", without an appropriate lens I am still nowhere equipped for birding photography. Reaching for a camera-body was easier; it was the lay of the lens that had me in a fix.

Birding lenses which are super telephotos are the most expensive accessory of all photography gear. Of course, there are relatively cheaper versions, but they are not a patch on the “original” ones. I surveyed, researched, and discussed with friends and photo-enthusiasts the merits and demerits of birding lenses. I deliberated on the possibility of third-party lenses with relatively smaller reach to fit my pocket size, but nixed it presently.

In my book of photography, image quality is sacrosanct. For bird photography, smaller reach is akin to getting to the doorstep of the bird-world but no further. What I have my sights on is the latest version of the enduring Canon “100 – 400 mm” zoom, a technology marvel. But there is a blip between the eye and the lens. For a hobbyist, it is an extravagance ill-afforded, and I don't see me indulging myself; not yet. Of course, if I had my way I would go in for the best prime lens! There is no end to greed and need in photography, an expensive hobby if there was one.

As I bide my time for the perfect birding lens, I am out experimenting with the macro telephoto. My birding trips are now enhanced to being wholesome nature trips. In the process, I have stumbled upon butterflies and bees, dragonflies and damselflies, and chameleons and crickets.  Butterflies are always creating a flutter in Dolphin Hill where I reside, but now I am able to “see” them better with the "55 – 250 mm" appendage. The fresh “eyesight” has brought me closer to these insects-on-wings for I am discovering their habits and habitat, now. As I hover over butterflies trying to focus, I naturally latch onto dragonflies—dainty creatures with gossamer wings—in scarlet and sunset yellows.

With my macro lens, I am unravelling micro life.

After ornithology, I am drawn into entomology.

Birding and photography make for a captivating combination. Among nature- and photo-enthusiasts, birds and birding photography are perched high in wildlife hierarchy. It was my passion for birding that led to photography and that in turn has sparked interest in insects, anew. Delegated to low life, the insects were waiting in the wings for their moment in the sun. In my eyes and lens, they are now elevated. For their part though, they were always content in the knowledge—or perhaps oblivious—of the invaluable part they play in the web of life. 

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG AND WEBSITE ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/COPYRIGHT.

POCKET BIRDING

There are long stretches when I cannot go birding early in the morning, out on field trips. But that does not prevent me from watching the backyard banyan or snatching time to search pockets in my neighbourhood—whenever, wherever. It is like what the doctor orders: when you cannot spare time for a full-fledged workout, take the stairs or stretch in the confines of your office!

A word about my neighbourhood: I stay on a hill where the tapering topography gives me a clear and unhindered vista of the bay by the foothills. My block is also wonderfully ensconced in an isolated lane giving it a fantastical world-of-my-own feel. Precisely because of the vast expanse, it is not easy to spot birds from the perch of my balcao, particularly now in the post-Hudhud (cyclone that visited us last October) phase when the tree cover and the shrubbery has whittled down.

Three blocks sit in my lane and at the last the road curves in a U-turn; there is a children’s park nearby, a patch of neglected woods and overgrown scrub beyond the fence. The other day, saddled with excessive work, I had to forgo my customary evening walk and could step out for a quick stroll only at dusk. Just as I crossed the blocks and turned the corner, I saw a nightjar squatting in the middle of the road right under the noses of the noisy children at the park. I could barely make out its form in the fading light until it took off. It sallied and swooped down to the same spot again and again with a chuk-chuk call.

Nightjars are funny creatures… unlike most other bird species they will not turn tail at the slightest human presence. They stay put mid-road, sometimes at the peril of being crushed under wheels, and take you by surprise if you get too close unawares, before taking off.

I moved closer without unsettling this one and sat on the parapet watching its sorties, mesmerized. It was a magical moment stolen from a mundane existence. Few days later, I set out on the same trail around the same time hoping to see the Grey Nightjar (Caprimulgus indicus)—or was it an Indian Nightjar (Caprimulgus asiaticus)—once again.  Birds, you see, are creatures of habit and routine. Imagine my excitement at spotting not one but two nightjars. A few more rounds and I was rewarded by a huge apparition of a Eurasian Eagle Owl (Bubo bubo) atop a lamp post. Hoo-hooing softly, it peered down at me wide-eyed and for a moment our gaze locked. In that instant, it took wings, and ever so lightly, disappeared into the descending darkness. Birding like this without the encumbrances of binoculars, cameras, guidebooks etc. is ‘pure pleasure’. 

After sundown a new world was coming alive. Nocturnal birds were blinking sleep off their eyes, stretching their wings and embracing the dark. It made me wonder what orgies play out when we are safely tucked in and fast asleep in the dead of the night. Nightlife such as porcupines, foxes, civets, even leopards—who knows—must be lording it over! An aside: In the savannas, tourists on safari have to be strictly inside the safe havens of the resort by 6 pm. Unless you go on a night safari, there is no way of knowing what happens in the pitch black yonder. But once in a while a streak of lightning lights up a zebra herd huddled in the open plains, or a hyena cackles close by or worse, a lion strays outside your room or a hippo by your tent! It is a sneak peek into an alternate world.

Female Blue Rock Thrush 

Some days back, in the morning the park had another visitor, literally and figuratively. Perched on the fence wall was a dull brown heavily streaked bird, a lifer for me. Going by its stance and general appearance, it seemed to me to be a female Blue Rock Thrush (Monticola solitarius). Its unmistakably blue counterpart was nowhere to be seen. This is a winter migrant from Europe and national bird of Malta, I learn. Also present was a pipit, not sure which sub-species (need to cross-check with my expert birder friends). Just a small patch of neighbourhood slightly off the beaten track had thrown up extraordinary and innumerable possibilities.

Similarly, the banyan in the backyard is a transit point for koels, treepies, orioles, besides being home to a pair of Spotted Owlets (Athene brama). From my bedroom window, unbeknown to them, I can pry into their ‘bedroom’ and watch them snuggle up to each other—grooming and kissing.

Who says you need an earmarked birding hotspot or dense woods to indulge in birdwatching! The smallest of space—a tree (banyan flush with figs, mango in bloom or silk cotton bursting with cotton pods), a playground, a modest water body, roadside wasteland, pockets of deadwood and debris (like that generated after the cyclone and still lying about), and of course, a house garden – all can be fertile birding sites, no less. In fact, more neglected the pocket the richer it is likely to be in birdlife.  

One of my most unusual birding experience was at the Tiger Hill (War Graves) Cemetery in Coonoor, Nilgiris in South India. The cemetery entrance was a charming, compact stone building with an arched doorway and lancet windows housing the graves of WWII soldiers. Weeping cypresses and firs towered over the dwarf facade and dry leaves littered the ground providing a haven for lower life. Nilgiri verditer flycatchers could be seen weaving in and out of the gravestones that also served as props for other avifauna. With not a soul around, the place seemed dead, and yet, with plenty of birds, so alive, that it was a surreal experience just to be standing there!

**************************

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

A RESIDENT PAIR OF SPOTTED OWLETS IN THE BACKYARD 

HUDHUD DIARIES

BLOW BY BLOW ACCOUNT

CYCLONE

11 October 2014

The wind had started fanning anxiety gently a day prior to the cyclone that was heading towards the East Coast. The intermittent burst of gust that subsided and rose again reminded me of labour pains. I recalled bracing for a similar situation last year—securing windows, putting away garden chairs, and stocking up candles in anticipation of the storm. Cyclone Phailin (that hit Odisha instead, exactly a year ago) turned out to be a damp squib­—no gales or gusts of wind, only suffocating stillness. Cyclones, originating in the Bay of Bengal, are an annual feature on the East Coast, but none had touched Visakhapatnam since 1890. They invariably altered course and made landfall either north of Andhra Pradesh and/or into Odisha or south towards Tamil Nadu. A sense of déjà vu prevailed this time too.

12 October

Sunday morning

There were announcements and advisories prohibiting people to step out of their homes from 7 a.m. onwards. At 9 a.m. Hudhud began fluttering. Winds picked up and were soon accompanied by rains. Being on the first floor, I was under the impression that we would be safe from water ingress. How wrong I was! Rain water started seeping in from underneath the doors and windows and soon a part of our living room and kitchen began flooding. In the initial enthusiasm I got after the water with vengeance, proud of my achievement of beating it at the game. Three hours of lashing winds and rains had us holed up in my son’s room which was on the leeward side of the wind. The flood inside our home had won. The bolted windows seemed vulnerable and we started tying them up for additional backup. India Meteorology Department had predicted that landfall would be anytime 9 – 12. Not aware of such things we expected that the cyclone would hit hardest when ‘landfall’ takes place.

Sunday noon

But by 12 o'clock it was all over. People heaved a sigh of relief, got out of their houses, exchanged notes, surveyed the damage (few trees had toppled), and set about clearing the water inside their homes. I remember thinking, ‘it wasn't that bad after all’.

And then—at 2 p.m.­—the fury unleashed. Suddenly, a stray gust of wind came rushing in and before we could comprehend what was happening it attained ferocity and we were in the eye of the storm. The tandav that began then went on unabated for the next ten hours. Windows rattled, glass panes smashed, awnings went flying through air like missiles, roof tiles were flung about and onto cars parked outside; the wind itself, howled and whistled, moaned and groaned. I have never experienced a cyclone before but a sixth sense told me that the wind speed must be 200 kph. I learnt later that the gusts measured 220! This time the winds came from the opposite direction and we sat huddled in our bedroom, waiting for it to end, hoping and praying that the roof over our heads stayed put. It dawned on us then that landfall was the lull before the storm!

Those ten hours can be best described by Rachel Carson’s portrayal of formation of oceans in her seminal book, The Sea around us: “As soon as the earth’s crust began to cool the rains began to fall. Never have there been such rains since that time. They fell continuously, day and night… They poured into the waiting ocean basins, or falling upon the continental masses, drained away to become sea.” Only this did not feel like a beginning, but the end of the World!    

AFTERMATH

Stressed out by the suspense and with nothing to do but wait it out in the darkness that had enveloped us we drifted into a drowse. By the time we woke up the next morning the wind had died down. The scene outside was overwhelming. Everything around us lay in shambles. Electric poles and mobile towers had keeled over, so had lamp-posts. All around us we could see buildings—naked and exposed—which until now had been cloaked in green cover. Trees were razed to ground, some bent and broken—the winds had shorn them of their foliage. Even the low-lying shrubs and hills looked bald. It was exactly what a newspaper described it: a war zone. But what struck me most was the silence. ‘Sannata’ as the Hindi word describes it aptly.

There was no electricity, no water, no fuel, and essential items such as milk and bread and Maggi (some success story this) dried up instantly. We would have to rely on our larder with its provisions and dry foodstuff for the next few days. Mercifully, we still had the cooking gas.

Roof tiles and awnings blown off

Only sticks and twigs

WATER

The first lesson I learnt in this natural disaster was the importance of water and its indispensability. We could live without electricity, sweltering in the heat, but it was unimaginable to go on without water. On the first day, post-cyclone, my son scooped mugs full of rainwater—collected on the terrace—into the overhead tank. We did not have the luxury of waiting for clean water. With no fresh water flowing through taps we were back to basics—to buckets and cans.

Somewhere, a source of water was discovered (we were told that gravity aided its flow at that water point) which was tapped by all. Navy’s is a hierarchical structure, but for once you found everyone standing in line for water with no privilege for rank or position. The second lesson:  Crisis such as this can be a great leveller.

If you can't have water, drink coke; if you can't have coke, drink champagne. That was the situation in many of our homes. The bar was choc-a-bloc and there was no dearth of good company after sun down! 

PEOPLE

I have seen natural disasters played out on television news and what struck me odd was how people went about salvaging their possessions. I would wonder how could anyone think of something so trivial as picking up meagre items from debris after such life-threatening calamity; do possessions matter more than one’s life? But now I realize that it is when you can hold onto the most inconsequential or smallest thing in life, find comfort in it, you feel ‘alive’.  

We were lucky: we had few broken windows, a damaged washing machine, dish antenna beyond repair, and some soaked-to-bones wooden furniture, books, clothes and mattresses. We did not have the hurricane pass through our living room stranding us in the bedroom and severing access to the kitchen like our neighbours! We were spared the ordeal of holding onto entrance doors for dear life. People had their cars smashed, air conditioners sucked out, garage gates gouged out, front doors coming off their hinges, grilled windows detaching from their frames, glass panes shattering sending shards into the house, rooftop water cisterns and solar panels blown off. Even more unfortunate were the denizens of Yarada village from where come our domestic helpers and security guards. Their entire rations of rice and modest belongings rotted in water as they did not have a roof left over their heads.

True to the military motto of ‘Service before Self’, the Indian Navy jumped headlong into relief and rescue work in town, in setting up community kitchens for Vizagites, and getting electricity and airport services operational. In the absence of menfolk, in Dolphin Hill­­—a naval enclave of more than 1000 families, women soldiered on regardless. Mothers with children in tow were seen ferrying water bucket by bucket on Scooty from a central water point. This while being the 'handymen', tackling ‘cleanship’ of home and neighbourhood, and providing food for the family—some with babies, small children, and aging parents.

Not the ones to be cornered or pinned down, the ladies also found an innovative pastime to while away the gloomy evenings: spontaneous tea parties by candlelight extending right up to dinner time. 

A fantastic symbiotic relationship surfaced between the DH community and the Yarada denizens that saw each other get on to their feet quicker than would have been possible otherwise.

HILL

On Dolphin Hill, we were cut off from the outside world. Of course, we had our parent service—the Indian Navy to look after us. But for all practical purposes we were quarantined. The entire 10-km stretch from our residences to the main gate at the base of the hill was unrecognisable. Hillsides had eroded and trees had blocked the roads at every bend. With roads carved out of hills to make way for this residential colony there was already threat of landslides; this will only get worse come summer of 2015.

For a day, the fallen trees remained green but soon the landscape has started resembling a ravaged savannah. With the tree cover gone, the sun bears down harsh and the glare is unbearable. The dry bush poses a fresh hazard: that of forest fire. Fireworks have been banned this Diwali; not a bad thing at all, I would say.

We now stare into smoggy winters and sultry summers. What horrors of climate calamities wait ahead, no one knows. Some suspect that cyclonic disturbances will only rise with the rise in temperature and absence of carbon sinks. The industrial pollutants now have no buffer and we are all the more at the mercy of greenhouse gases and coal dust.

It is ironical that in all these years Vizag was shielded from cyclones by this very Dolphin (Nose) Hill!

TREES

What saved us from Hudhud’s wrath as we were holed up in our bedroom was the ficus right outside the window. It had spread indiscriminately like a giant darkening my room but providing privacy. That day it bore the onslaught throughout— twisting, turning, contorting, and protesting; not a leaf was left on its dense crown. It stood its ground and kept our windows on.

A similar feat was enacted by the coconut trees outside the living room windows. The twin palms had blocked my bayview, earlier. If it were not for them, I would have a brilliant view of the bay from the low-lying windows from the luxury of my couch.  This day they took the lashing, swayed this way and that, but did not yield.

The ficus and the coconut—both of Indian nativity and antiquity—had saved the day for us. Ironically, I now get an uninterrupted view of the Bay (it looks forlorn) from my living room window and the patio, but I miss the trees. On DH, trees survived due to their flexibility as they are of relatively recent vintage, but the veterans of Naval Park (some more than 50 years old) at the base of the hill were uprooted viciously.   

BEFORE: Ficus outside my bedroom window

AFTER: Not a single leaf left

The biggest casualty of this cyclone was the trees. Vizag has lost 80% of its green cover according to an estimate. I feel a tremendous sense of bereavement at this loss. I hope people realise that Vizag’s trees were sacrificed in the process of protecting the buildings and the people. But now the city lies defenceless. It will be years before the green lungs emerge robust enough to protect us from the industrial pollution that is Vizag’s bane. The hill took pride in being a 'silence zone', but now noise pollution is making itself heard. Without trees as shock absorbers, I am suddenly more aware of clattering vehicles and braking buses.  

Artificial plantation, at best, has been a controversial issue. Usually, exotics such as copperpod or eucalyptus are preferred for swift greening results but their roots are not strong and they are water guzzlers. It is the native banyans, neem, mangoes and coconut that are good for the soil and the habitat. Naturalist M. Krishnan believed that afforestation was not necessarily a good idea; a denuded forest or hillside is best left to its own devices for it to regenerate to its original vegetation. It is not trees alone, but even shrubs and scrub that hold soil together and prevent erosion.

Given the circumstances I am not sure what the best solution is. But it is heartening to see that most of the standing trees have started sprouting leaves. The same spirit of resilience is evident among men and women who have risen up to the task of rebuilding their lives.

BIRDS

In the aftermath, bird calls fell conspicuously silent, but their presence is being felt like never before. A plum-headed parakeet strayed from its flock and was walking dazed under the staircase. A young bunting—or was it a juvenile munia—wandered into our verandah flapping exhausted, seemingly, after a long flight. A mynah was curiously examining her regular shrub trying to assess the damage. “What were the birds trying to salvage?” I wondered.

The ficus outside my window had been home to two pairs of spotted owlets. Now there are only three and they have shifted camp to a thicket by the compound wall. In the harsh daylight, in the absence of natural shade, the pixies take refuge in a hollow pipe embedded in the wall. Territorial and spunky, they have been shooing away crow pheasants and treepies—birds twice their size—from their territory with a belligerence that belies their size.

BEFORE: Spotted owlet on ficus

AFTER: Shifted base to a nearby thicket

Bluejays, shrikes, shikras, treepies and even the usually skulking coucals can be seen perched atop tree skeletons. I saw a paradise flycatcher wander about openly which is a rare sight indeed. Like insects and rodents, they have been flushed out of their habitats. It is ironical, but I have photographed more birds in the last ten days than what I have seen in the past one and a half year of my birdwatching here!

With no place to hide they are exposed, but they also seem to be more trusting of humans now. After trees, they were the hardest hit in the Hudhud havoc. Newspaper reports tell us that nearly 30,000 birds perished in that gale. Even more ironic is the fact that Hudhud, the ogre that preyed on the birds, was named after a gentle, hoopoe-like bird !

When it returns it is the incessant chattering of the mynahs that breaks the spell of doom first, reassuring us. The chirp, chip, and caw of the birds ring out like a balm.

SHIKRA

RUFOUS TREEPIE

LIFE AFTER…

The other comforting sound after the stunning silence was that of hack-saw cutting fallen trees and the voices of men at work.  All of us chipped in with shramdan in clearing the avenues and public spaces. It was a humbling and numbing experience. Gandhiji’s words came to mind: “Intellectual work is important and has an undoubted place in the scheme of life. But what I insist on is the necessity of physical labour. No man, I claim, ought to be free from that obligation. It will serve to improve even the quality of his intellectual output.” Physical labour of this kind has been missing from our lives in excessive pursuit of an intellectual path.

Normal life as we knew it seems distant. No walk, no run, no gym, and no swim—there is simply no time; even the trail and pool are not open for these activities anymore. More time is spent in doing household chores. I am relearning the art of cooking fresh meals in view of shortage of provisions and absence of refrigeration.

Clean potable water has become a luxury. We have to filter and boil water for drinking and cooking; for other household jobs we manage with a mucky, smelly cocktail. Water now is conserved like never before. Milk is still rationed and so is electricity. No television, no washing machine, no air conditioners, and no computer or cell phone connectivity. I, for one (can't say the same of my family), do not miss electricity as much as I miss the sense of security of life. We have a roof over our heads, we survived, but something changed forever that day.

Day after day, we wake up despondent to a treeless existence at the mercy of the elements. We have to deal with new menace in the form of rats and stray monkeys. DH has had civet cats, porcupines, monitor lizards, and mongoose, but no monkeys. Wildlife from other wilderness areas of the city and outskirts has taken a hit and animals that survived would naturally be looking for ‘greener’ pastures. Snake-bites are on the rise, we hear. Snakes too are bound to wander about listlessly. In the event snakebite is a real danger, but I fear for their safety more. Butterflies have all but vanished. DH's biodiversity has taken a beating. 

And yet, in a strange sense, I feel privileged to have been in the eye of the storm. I felt that Nature had honoured me by showing its ‘other’ side. Till now, I had been basking in its beauty and glory, now it let me into its fury.

HUDHUD – THE METEOROLOGICAL PHENOMENON

Newspaper reports proclaim Hudhud to be the first urban cyclone disaster. Given that tropical cyclones originate in the Bay of Bengal regularly and that East Coast falls in the line of its ire every year, Vizag has surprisingly escaped unscathed for nearly 125 years! The city’s unique topography and the feature of Dolphin Nose Hill are touted to be reasons for this.

The fall of the pressure at the centre of this ‘very severe cyclone’ (Category 4 Hurricane) was 950 millibar. Seamen tell us that, at sea, when the barometer starts showing a dip below 1000 their hearts start racing. They know that—to use a Conradian phrase—"uncommonly dirty weather" is round the corner.  

During the cyclonic winds, I recall a moment when suddenly out of the blue, the rough weather—lashing winds and rain—cleared and a shaft of pure sunlight streamed through. It seemed unnatural and out of place, almost surreal... some sort of divine intervention. But in technical terms it was nothing as fancy. This was literally the eye. Wikipedia tells me, in strong tropical cyclones, the eye is characterized by light winds and clear skies, surrounded on all sides by a towering, symmetric eyewall. The eye of Hudhud was narrow, approximately 20 kms, which is another indication of the severity of the storm.  I wouldn't have dared to peek outside to check the cylindrical eyewall!

BEFORE AND AFTER PHOTOGRAPHS

A spotted owlet seeks shade from the sun

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG AND WEBSITE ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/COPYRIGHT.