Assassins in the Garden - Part 2 - The King must die

Though far from unique as coconut palms go, this tree had the character of a pioneer settler, in that it had been planted at a time when the surroundings were overgrazed, fallow and barren. No surprise then, that it announced itself as king of the garden. Growing in stature and girth, it ruled the garden for thirty years, meting out light, shade and rain to its subjects - the many smaller plants and trees. To kill it was like overthrowing a king. Regicide, we discovered, was not easy.

When my father constructed his house in 1980 in what would not be called BTM Layout for another decade, we didn't have much of a neighbourhood to speak of. The colony itself -- or "layout", in parlance -- stood on several hectares of scrubland intersected by the rudiments of roads. The gutters, lined with slabs of unpolished granite, sheltered Rock Agamas (Psammophilus dorsalis) and "bloodsucker" (Calotes versicolor) lizards. Snakes and scorpions abounded. So did kestrels and black-shouldered kites, and shrikes, bushchats and robins. Grasshoppers whirred by day, giving up their shifts to crickets at dusk. Those who owned houses on the fringe of the layout reported jackals yapping at dusk. On one occasion a hare interrupted our cricket match. 

The overgrazed land supported few trees. To the south stood a grove of eucalyptus and guava, beyond which a stately banyan hosted an "apartment complex" that predated the concrete ones to follow two decades later. From the rank, guano-stained ground I have stood for hours gazing into the canopy at a heronry of Little Cormorants, Grey Herons, Pond Herons and Night Herons, along with koels, crows and Spotted Owlets. The park that is now the colony's green lung existed in an undrafted vision document (or probably not). An enormous open well stood at its centre, its cavernous depths echoing with the guttural murmurs of pigeons, and the luminous circle of water deep down below rippled by an opportunistic keelback or cobra in pursuit of frogs.


Ever the constant gardener, my father wasn't content with twiddling his green thumbs. In the corner of the front yard he planted two spindly Ashoka trees, which sheltered small bats and doves. There was a curry tree (Murraya koenigii) and a sugar apple/ Seetaphal tree (Annona squamosa) at the back of the house. He also planted a clump of plantains, a green pomegranate tree, and a number of papaya trees (he was the first to show me the difference between male and female papaya trees). On one side of the house, he planted one of my favourite trees -- a beautiful champak (Michelia champaca), whose blossoms perfumed the air and whose ripening fruits with their hard red seeds attracted mynas, barbets and the occasional flock of starlings. The front of the house was smothered by a bougainvillea thicket. To its right was a white climbing rose (in their flowers lived delicate crab spiders of matching hue), and a creeper that had star-shaped lavender flowers. 

In the sunny garden my parents grew roses -- there were as many as 25 varieties including green roses, button roses and one that was so dark that it was almost black. In the shade my mother tended to orchids, begonias and African violets. Nearly a hundred varieties of potted cacti sunned themselves around rocks and stones. The flowerbeds boasted orange nasturtiums, as well as asters, zinnias, gerberas, anthuriums and dahlias. 

Flanking the rose patch, hedged by crotons, stood two young coconut saplings planted in deep pits. In southern India, the coconut tree is treated with extraordinary respect. And it's not just for the economic value of the fruit, which finds utility in culinary and religious rituals. According to Vaastu Shastra, it is auspicious to plant a coconut tree in the yard. Ergo, every house has one.


One of our coconut trees wilted away within a year (in its place my father planted an Areca palm) but the other grew steadily until it started messing with the electric cables. After causing power outages for many years, it outgrew the electric post and since caused no further damage. 


The tree supplied coconuts for innumerable chutneys, avials, fish curries and desserts. Sometimes we had so many that my father just gave them away to anyone who asked. Since every neighbour had at least one coconut tree, it was pointless to try and gift them to those next door. 


Thirty years into its life, the tree stood nearly 60 feet tall, still heavy with fruit. It was the king of our garden, but every now and then it ruled with a heavy hand. In the summer, dried branches and the occasional overripe coconut succumbed to gravity and came hurtling down, missing passersby by a whisker. Having grown straight for most of its life, it now leaned threateningly. In a storm it would list and creak, its crown trembling. 

The king was now an intemperate, moody despot whose wrath was unpredictable. My father made enquiries to see if someone would uproot the tree and cart it away to be transplanted alive. For free, he added. But no one deigned to rise to his bait. 


One day, steadying his voice, he declared that the king shall go. But regicide isn't simple. While killing a mango tree might bleed the heart, bringing down a coconut tree is akin to stuffing a genie back into a bottle. It is a process fraught with potential collateral damage.

The assassins hired to kill our mango tree were also enlisted to fell the coconut palm. But their reverence in this case was far less subtle. They performed an elaborate puja, lighting incense sticks, burning camphor and offering flowers and sanctified water to the tree (it didn't matter that the " head priest" had already sanctified himself with alcohol).

First, the king had to be uncrowned. One of the men shinnied up the tree and began the slow, agonising ritual of lopping off the tender nuts. His comrades and several hangers on fell upon the fruit greedily. Refreshed by the tender coconut water, they hacked away the fronds one by one.

Ropes were fastened to the bare crown. Another man started to incise the trunk midway after the first man descended. The woody bark was prised open, revealing the fleshy heartwood still moist with sap. 

Reduced to half its height, the trunk was marked into segments and chopped down. That once-tall tree, king of the garden, lay in a sorry dismembered mess of fronds and woody trunk. The men chopped away inexpertly at the curly mop of roots, which had drilled deep into the earth. Finally, the base of the tree was excavated. They were finished only when they had pulled down the slender Areca palm, too.

For the next few days, we were silenced by inexplicable grief. In the garden, sunlight streamed abundantly into the yawning wound where once the coconut tree had stood.


The King was dead. Long he had lived. But the uneasy thought gnaws at us still: Could he have lived longer?


READ PART 1: Assassins in the Garden


Text: Bijoy Venugopal
Photos: V Venugopal and Bijoy Venugopal

Raptor Friday - Fly like an Egyptian

The Egyptian Vulture (Neophron percnopterus), also known as White Scavenger Vulture and Pharaoh's Chicken, is easily distinguishable thanks to its unusual plumage. Its large size, creamy white plumage, hook-shaped beak, and yellow face are diagnostic. In flight, the undersides of the wings show a clear demarcation between the black flight feathers and the white underside coverts. They are often seen circling high above dumping yards. A pair is seen regularly near the Infosys campus in Mysore where I work.


Juveniles have dark brown plumage and a paler face.

These vultures are often found near landfills and large trash piles, where they scavenge for carrion and offal. At times they dig their beaks into human and animal excrement - both to get at the grubs they harbour, as well as for the 'pudding' itself.


All vultures play a critical role as scavengers in the food chain. However, a massive decline in their numbers has seen their place left vacant or taken up by dogs and crows. As with other vultures, their numbers have seen an alarming decline in the last two decades due to poisoning by the veterinary drug Diclofenac, which they ingest while consuming livestock carcasses. The drug has been found to cause renal failure in the birds and has been held responsible for the global decline of vultures. Once common in our skies, Egyptian Vultures are now classified as 'EN'- Endangered in the IUCN Red List (BirdLife Species Factsheet).


Text and photographs by Sandeep Somasekharan

Assassins in the Garden - Part 1

For 20 years the mango tree that my father planted had stood its ground. It took less than 20 hours to bring it down. 

"The mango trees are in flower," my father said two weeks ago with an ache in his voice. I caught my breath. On my way to Parambikulam last month, so close to the village in northeastern Kerala where I spent the summer vacations of my childhood, I had noticed that the orchard trees we passed wore glossy crowns of red leaves adorned with sprays of new flowers. Usually, I would have reported that to my father. This time I didn't, because I knew it would break his heart.

My father's love for mangoes borders on the pathological -- though he has no other vices, mangoes weaken his hold on his wallet. He spends like a gambler, seeking out the last fruit from the market long after the season has officially ended. He would save the seeds from the best mangos (after chafing off the last of the flesh) and encourage them to germinate. His experiments didn't quite bear fruit.


Twenty years ago he brought home a sapling and planted it a few feet away from the western compound wall. He tended it lovingly until it asserted its place in the garden. It occupied a flank between the vegetable patch and the little copse formed by the pomegranate tree next to it, separated from the underground sump by a compost pit. In the shade of the neighbour's gooseberry tree, which hogged most of the sky, the sapling remained stunted and undernourished. A thicket of plantains, nearly always burdened with fruit, flourished nearby. 

Many summers passed. The house next door changed owners and the gooseberry tree became a casualty of renovation activity. Thriving on the sudden gift of sun our tree grew taller than the house. The bedroom upstairs, where I slept, offered a vantage into its dark canopy. From this comfortable indoor hide I'd watch tailorbirds and warblers flick away the dead bark for insects. Slithery vines gripped the trunk, threatening to strangle it, but the tree held its own. Columns of weaver ants marched along the boughs, their translucent bodies glistening a threatening shade of orange-red. Koels took refuge from crows after violating their nests. Shikras perched in the tangle of branches, dismembering rodents, lizards and the occasional pigeon. Squirrels raised broods of fluffy youngsters that chased each others' tails through the jungle-gym of boughs. Rats used it as an escape route. One year, a storm-tossed male Paradise Flycatcher strayed into our garden and flitted about the tree. Crows were already mobbing it.

Even as other mango trees flowered in the neighbourhood, our tree remained fallow. With homemade vegetable compost my father encouraged the tree to fruit but to no luck. One day he wondered aloud if it was time to cut down the mango tree. The tree heard him. That year it flowered. Just a few, scattered blooms but enough to evoke a celebration. We had no fruits but the following year we got a handful of mangoes after the birds and squirrels had eaten their fill. The yield got better with the years and my father proudly gifted his hard-won mangoes to friends and relatives. A few Bonnet Macaques trooped in once and polished off a few but we still had enough to spare.

A tree plunges roots, seeking out water veins. A crack in the wall of the sump demonstrated that our tree was rather thirsty. Roots were also wedged in the foundation of the house, threatening its durability. After years of painful procrastination, my father made a decision: The tree would have to go.


Last year it fruited copiously. We ate its offering with guilty gratitude, quiet but for noisily licking the dense yellow juice as it dribbled over our fingers. That, as it were, was the funeral feast. 

A party of three hired assassins arrived to cut the tree. One was punch-drunk, as executioners often are. Hacking, sawing, chopping... they went about their jobs with businesslike detachment, but not before offering obsequies to the spirit of the tree they were about to fell. Still, the job took four days to accomplish. As the assassins invaded the tree with axes and picks, its defenders burst out in a last savage attack to defend its sovereignty. The men hollered with pain as the weaver ants set upon them, stinging as if there was no tomorrow. In fact, there wasn't. Stung to sobriety, the men relented. In due course, the canopy came crashing down. Then the trunk was hewn away and eventually, the stump was hacked off.

I could not but be reminded of Gieve Patel's immemorial poem, On Killing A Tree:

It takes much time to kill a tree,
Not a simple jab of the knife
Will do it.

It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out if it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leprous hide
Sprouting leaves...

Coward that I am, I stayed away from the gruesome scene, pretending to be otherwise occupied. My father phoned when the end came. I shut my eyes and let the truth sink in, and allowed a swathe of childhood to slip into the dark swirl of memory. This year the mango tree will flower in our consciences alone.


Photos by V Venugopal and Bijoy Venugopal

Wordless Wednesday - Purple Heron amid Bulrushes

Photo: Sahastrarashmi

In the Flat Forest, Abode of the Frogmouths

Thattekad Bird Sanctuary, also known as Salim Ali Bird Sanctuary, is located between the branches of the Periyar River in Ernakulam district of Kerala. The great birdman Salim Ali had surveyed Thattekad in 1930 and described it as the richest bird habitat in the peninsula. He later urged the Kerala government to notify it as a sanctuary. In 1983, it was thus declared.

The sanctuary covers around 25 sq km of tropical semi-evergreen and tropical deciduous lowland forests. Hence the name (Thattekad literally translates to 'flat forest' in Malayalam). Our guide Sudeesh (a crack-shot at spotting) explained that excluding the settlements inside the forest the sanctuary is all of 15 or 16 sq km of actual forest cover. But that's the most intriguing part: Within this small area reside over 250 species of birds, a density almost unheard of in the south.

Our stay at Thattekad was short (one and a half days and 77 birds spotted). Our first birding day began only at 8:30 AM. Sudeesh took us around past several estates that border the sanctuary. Despite that we spotted Ashy Woodswallows (Artamus fuscus) and the Mottled Wood Owl (Strix ocellata). Sudeesh took us to the tree where it usually roosts. The bird was so well camouflaged that it took me a while to locate it. Another raptor that we saw was the Crested Serpent Eagle (Spilornis cheela).

Ashy Woodswallows

Crested Serpent Eagle

At one of the estates, I saw a lizard steadily working its way up the trunk of a tree, all the while catching insects that it found on the bark. I paused for a second wondering if it could be the dragon that I've always longed to see. And the next second, when it exposed its yellow gular pouch, I knew it was the dragon - Draco dussumieri or the Western Ghats Flying Lizard! And although I couldn't get a shot of it in flight, I did see it glide gracefully for a span of approximately 12 feet from one tree to another. It landed on the trunk, very close to the base of the tree and started moving up in the same fashion as it had done with the previous tree.

Western Ghats Flying Lizard. The skin membrane used for gliding is clearly visible

Later in the evening we took the Salim Ali Nature Trail. This area was well-wooded and we encountered species like the Emerald Dove (Chalcophaps indica), Eurasian Blackbird (Turdus merula) and the Malabar Trogon (Harpactes fasciatus). Fellow-birder George saw a Mouse Deer (Moschiola meminna) run across the path just a few feet in front of him!

The next morning's birding was productive with quite a lot of sightings. Around 7 AM, Sudeesh took us to a rocky outcrop near Kallipara that overlooks the core area of the sanctuary. This was an extremely good vantage point. All you had to do was select a suitable spot, sit and start watching. The birds were pretty good at running their show. Here we saw the Grey-headed bulbul (Pycnonotus priocephalus), Brown-capped Pygmy woodpecker (Dendrocopus nanus) and the Green Imperial Pigeon (Ducula aenea) among many others. We also spotted a Malabar Giant Squirrel (Ratufa indica) resting in the canopy.

The rock served as a good lookout point

Hill mynas high in the canopy

After spending a couple of hours there we proceeded on our final mission - to see the Sri Lankan Frogmouths (Batrachostomus moniliger). For this, Sudeesh took us to Urulanthanni. After alighting from the bus, he led us along the road and, leaning on a very thin tree, turned around and said, "On this tree, there are three frogmouths." It took me a second to decipher what he had said. My jaw dropped as I looked above us. There, just three or four feet above where he stood, were three Frogmouths huddled together!

The camouflaged Frogmouth family

The experience, though short, was great. An important thing I noticed about Thattekad was the absence of plastic waste. Nowhere on the trails did I find discarded plastic or other garbage. The forest floor was filled only with dry leaves. The people that I interacted with -- the guide, cook, home-stay owner -- all seemed to be aware of this and accept the fact that the birds are the actual source of their livelihood. They knew the importance of protecting the birds and the environment that they live in. This is the kind of spirit that local communities around a protected area should be encouraged to develop.

Photographs of the river and Kallipara rocks by George Tom

Text and photographs by Arun Menon

Sundarbans Diary - Oh Calcutta!

Jennifer Nandi bids goodbye to the Sundarbans and acclimates to civilisation as she traipses the streets of crowded Kolkata

The famous bridge over the Hooghly River in Kolkata

January 12 - Leaving for Kolkata

During the three-hour-cruise to the jetty, from where we will be transferred by car to Kolkata, we are surprised by thousands of ducks - hundreds of Wigeon and Tufted Ducks on open water, and Lesser Whistling Teal huddled against the comparative safety of the reeds. Our eyes devour these sights of the Sundarbans - a landscape full of colour and incident for the vigilant visitor.

Ferrying hay in the Sundarbans - note the toilet at the back of the boat

Sadly, the Sundarbans are also the recipient of eroded topsoil and silt. In their downward flow from the Himalayan regions, rivers and streams -- the primary agents of soil erosion -- drain the Himalayas, eroding large quantities of soil in their upper courses. During the monsoon, unsorted sediments clog reservoirs, turbines and irrigation works and are deposited over agricultural fields and settlements by the swollen rivers. As the sun's intense radiation accelerates the rate at which snow melts in the uplands, the increased erosion causes water levels to rise to flood proportions, sweeping away unwary people and animals. 


In fact, Nepal exports to India the one commodity that it can least afford to part with – its topsoil. This affects the lives and property of several hundred million people in Gangetic India and Bangladesh. The Bay of Bengal is the eventual sink for this sediment. The Bengal Fan, at over 20 km thick, is one of the thickest accumulations of sediment in the world. Indeed much of the country of Bangladesh is built on top of the fan, which lies on top of the oceanic crust. Truly, in the face of deforestation, the rivers wash our future into the sea.

Our 3-hour drive back to Kolkata feels like, according to Ken, a Kamikaze run! Too much frenetic traffic, too many people, too many obstacles that should never have been on the road! Warmly embraced by the hospitality of the Oberoi Grand Hotel, we luxuriate in it till early evening when we set out to buy books and, in general, to gad around the city streets. We pass on the option of eating elsewhere, so happy are we with the fare at the Oberoi Grand.

After our sojourn in the wild Sundarbans, exploring the postcolonial wilderness of the City of Joy was actually pleasurable

January 13 - Kolkata


For much of our city tour, photography is banned. Police shepherd photography-intentioned, gawking tourists away from the imposing edifices that line Kolkata’s colonial streets. The Writer’s Building, built in 1780 for the East India Company’s bureaucracy, is the most glorious. BBD Bagh, renamed after the nationalists who attempted to assassinate the British Lieutenant Governor Lord Dalhousie, was once a central reservoir that supplied Calcutta’s water. It is not uncommon to hear locals refer to it by its old colonial name, Dalhousie Square. The other equally imposing edifices are the Standard Buildings and St Andrew’s Church. Across the road, on the ruins of the original Fort William -- the site of the ‘Black Hole of Calcutta’ -- stands the truly grand, domed General Post Office built in 1866. There is a 1902 Black Hole Memorial, sequestered in a corner on the grounds of St. John’s Church. It is an interesting church, but lacks the extraordinary majesty of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Here, the pews are original and the stained-glass west window is by Edward Burne-Jones.

The stately Victoria Memorial stands in memory of a dead queen

Although built for a dead colonial queen, the Victoria Memorial is an incredibly beautiful building. We pose in its well-tended gardens and photograph its magnificence over and over again. Only then do we enter the interior galleries that trace the history of the city.

We are overawed by the city; there is much that we haven’t seen – the Metropolitan Building of the colonial era, and Tipu Sultan’s Mosque. All this and much more will have to wait for another time. Meanwhile, we come away with an untroubled feeling. No pushy hawkers, no lewd remarks by passing men, no blank belligerent stares which women in Delhi are routinely burdened with.


That night we dine at “Oh Calcutta!” - a fitting end to a rather interesting day. As we feast on excellent Bengali cuisine we shelve thoughts of packing to be done that night – the hotel will graciously permit us to leave behind luggage so that we travel light onwards to what for me is the highlight of the whole trip.


Text and photos: Jennifer Nandi

Raptor Friday - Crested Goshawk versus Crow

Hunters 1 Freeloaders 0, at least that was the score when I left a Crested Goshawk to eat its meal in peace. The crows had to be content with looking


I was at Sim's Park, Coonoor, after a casual day-drive with my wife and a couple of friends. As I scrambled behind a Black-and-Orange Flycatcher, I heard Nikhil hiss from behind: "Sandy, raptor." 


At first I thought that it was a Shikra (Accipiter badius), the common, sparrowhawk-like raptor. Peering closely, I saw a tiny crest of feathers on its head. This was the Crested Goshawk (Accipiter trivirgatus), and it was making a meal of a small snake from its perch on a low branch.

With the kill

As we watched, it took off from the tree, disturbed by tourists approaching the tree on which it was perched. We thought we had lost it but my wife spotted it on another tree close by, still clutching its prey. We crept up to it from another side and watched the bird as it tore off pieces of the snake with its bill as it stretched itself to full length.

Snapping the noodles!

Presently a Large-billed Crow invited itself to the feast. Not keen to share, the goshawk voiced its displeasure with a series of shrieking calls. The crow was persistent and that forced the raptor to take off with its kill and shift base to some peaceful place.

Sorry, no freeloaders!

Text and photos by Sandeep Somasekharan

Encounter: The Demoiselles of Khichan - Part II

Demoiselles, like other cranes, suffer on account of habitat loss and degradation throughout their breeding and wintering ranges. With the spread of agriculture in the Eurasian steppes a large swath of the species' breeding territory is threatened on account of disturbance, grazing and hunting.

In India, where the cranes winter, the primary problems are population increase and the resultant erosion of farmers’ tolerance for this crane. Cases of death from poisoning – both deliberate and inadvertent (pesticides) – are on the rise.


For cranes migrating to India another major threat along the migration path comes from hunting, which is prevalent in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The USGS website describes a hunting practice known as “soya”, which is used on the migrating Demoiselles: "Following traditional hunting practices, the crane hunters in Pakistan station themselves in valleys where the cranes pass on migration and use tame cranes to lure wild birds within range of rock-weighted slings (known as soya). Hunters hurl the soya into the air to entangle the flying cranes. In recent years, increasing numbers of hunters have taken up this traditional practice, while firearms have also been used with greater frequency. The Eurasian Crane and the critically endangered central population of the Siberian Crane are also affected by this practice. As many as 5000 cranes of all three species (10%-15% of the total population of migrating cranes) have been shot or captured in Pakistan in a single season, and the popularity of the sport continues to grow."

The next morning I am at the Chuggaghar (the feeding centre set up by the residents of Khichan). It is dark but the last few stars bravely twinkle on. The desert air is cool and crisp. Khichan is still asleep and the Demoiselles can neither be seen nor heard. Behind the Chuggaghar, the desert begins. After a shallow nullah I can see the dim shape of the dunes.

A few hundred yards ahead, I have crossed the patch of Babool bushes and have reached the base of the first dune. From behind them, I can hear faint but unmistakable crane sounds. The Demoiselles are roosting somewhere behind the first row of dunes. I take off my slippers and climb the dunes – at this early hour in late February the sand feels cool and moist, like the clay on the banks of a river. I sit down facing east and wait for the sun. And the Demoiselles.

I do not have to wait long. The sounds increase steadily and creep closer. In an inspired choreography of nature, the bluish-hued pre-dawn desert slowly fills up with crane calls behind me as the sky before me fills up with the reddish glow of dawn.

The first cranes fly in from the north. They come in a long line flying over the dunes, the line dipping near the centre giving a faint impression of a V, mirroring the Vs of the soft pre-dawn contours of the dunes. They fly over me and pass over the Chuggaghar and then beyond it towards the sun. Soon, there are cranes flying in from all sides – all in the same long lines with a hint of a V at the center. They fly from over the dunes towards the Chuggaghar. Some of them fly past the Chuggaghar and then turn back towards the desert and start settling over the dunes. Others descend in the Chuggaghar to feed. By now, the sun is up and I am completely surrounded by cranes. For a brief moment my world dissolves in a symphony of white sand, blue sky, red sun and the beautiful silver grey of the Demoiselles.

Read the first of this two-part post

Text and photographs by Sahastrarashmi