Indian Licorice - Black-eyed beads of death

The red-and-black seeds frequently used in the indoor games of my childhood, I learned recently, are deadly poisonous. Introducing the pretty and dangerous Rosary Pea or Indian Licorice. Now chew on that!


Back when I was a kid visiting my grandparents, dinner would generally be over by 7 pm. The lack of a television at their place meant that we had to spend time together, playing indoor games seated on the cold, red-oxide coated cement floor. Usually, it was a game called "ottayo-irattayo" (roughly translated, it means "Odd or even").


Granddad had a box full of  lovely red-and-black seeds (known in Malayalam as kunnikkuru), which he would distribute equally among the players. The game was to grab random handfuls and make the opponent guess if the count was even or odd. A correct guess corroborated after counting the seeds, would be rewarded with the entire handful being "won" and added to the guesser's pile, and a wrong guess would mean surrendering the same number of seeds to the opponent. The game goes on till one player is out of seeds and becomes a pauper. 


Granddad warned me the first day he taught me the game that at no cost should I eat the seeds or even put them in my mouth. I would vomit blood and die if it was ingested, he warned. Even though I didn't believe it completely (my grandparents carried on about a lot of superstitious beliefs) I was never tempted to chew on one after hearing that.

Even or odd? 

Another memory of this seed is tied to the famous Guruvayur temple in Thrissur, Kerala. Inside the temple premises is a wide-brimmed vessel filled with these seeds. They are there for an interesting ritual: Kids are to grab a handful and drop it back in - this was believed to make them more mischievous. I was really disappointed that they made me drop the colorful seeds back into the vessel; I would have loved to carry some home!

A pod that has already burst open

About 25 years later, I came upon a creeper at Polachira wetlands (near Thiruvananthapuram) that carried a pod that was just splitting open. From within peered five or six of those red peas. I came home immediately and tried to read up on the seed. I realized it was the seed of a creeper called Abrus precatorius, otherwise called the Rosary Pea or Indian Licorice. And my Granddad's warning of toxicity was spot on. The seeds contain a toxin called abrin, which is very harmful to humans even in very small quantities -- it can stop protein synthesis at a cellular level and cause death within 3-5 days. Incredibly, despite its toxicity, it was very popular among children of my generation who played games like ottayo-irattayo. The current XBOX generation would probably never get to even see one.

A small vine, already carrying numerous seeds

Compared to my grandparents' superstitions (among them -- whistling at night invites snakes, and owls hooting at night are harbingers of death), this one turned out to be a piece of local wisdom. I wonder how many more would be proven true with reading and experience. 


Text and photos: Sandeep Somasekharan

Encounter: God, Darwin, Ali and the Blue-capped Rock Thrush

In the foggy ruins of time, most memories can get blurred, or muddied entirely. But not a birder's remembrance of a cherished bird. The story of me and the Blue-capped Rock Thrush involves God, Darwin and Salim Ali -- playing significant bit-parts.

Back in the day when I believed that God had created the world, I honoured periodically a votive my mother had made to send me with my father to Sabarimala, a hill shrine in the southern Western Ghats reached after a half-day pilgrimage on foot from a check-dammed river that curls sluggishly at its feet. I loved the vagabonding, and the uncustomary walk in the forest. It’s been two decades since I last went. That temple – now among this land’s richest, and visited by 300,000 pilgrims daily in the season – occupies more acreage than it did then, what with the permanent habitation enveloping it. That sorrowing forest river, Pamba, swirls now with plastic, detritus and the excrement of pilgrims too blinded by devotion to consider what their ecological footprint has stamped out. It’s another matter altogether that somewhere between then and now Messrs Darwin, Sagan and Dawkins interrupted my religiosity with questions of pressing urgency, eroding it first with guilty discomfort but eventually washing it away albeit without disrespect to the forces worshipped by those who had brought me up. 


That said, some nights when I attempt to command my mind to sleep as effortlessly as I did as a child, the temple and the forest surrounding it surface from my subconscious, embellished with shards of innocuous untruth, deliberate fictions that soothe and console the pangs of losses irreparable in this lifetime.


When that comforting reverie takes hold, I feel the moist trampled earth comfort my aching bare feet, the damp of the forest condense on my shirtless back, the overwhelming scent of vegetation. I hear a faraway chuckle, then see the bough of a forest tree bend and swing as it receives the crashing burden of a leaping Malabar Giant Squirrel. I always hear birdsong – the jubilant squeals of Hill Mynas, the sweeching of Scarlet Minivets, the percussion of White-bellied Woodpeckers, the squabbling of Rufous Babblers, the trilling of Chestnut-headed Bee-eaters...


Sans field guide or binoculars, my birding was incidental and a touch surreal. Sometimes the shadowy shape of a bird would announce its presence urgently, fleet past and melt into the jungle. Malkoha? Drongo-Cuckoo? I’d peer, I’d dither, but I could not afford to linger: A pilgrim must stick with his flock. Thus, many sightings were approximated, assumed and, not unwittingly, concocted.


Yet, one encounter I remember clearly. It was December, a few weeks before Makara Jyoti, and our pilgrim party was camped in the muggy shade of a tin-roofed shelter, open on three sides, with the bare ground for a floor. Gruel was cooking on an open fire. Robber-flies were hunting winged things infatuated with my fragrant preteen sweat. Bitten by both, scratching, and tolerating the misery of that tropical afternoon (and dreading the imminent night that would tempt airborne roaches out of uncharted crevices), I gazed longingly towards the tops of trees in the forest verge that began about twenty metres from the shack.


Jungle Crows, sparrows and mynas abounded. Red-whiskered bulbuls overreached to filch morsels. As I watched lethargically, an unfamiliar bird flew into view. It was smaller than a myna, dull, slaty-blue with a rusty brown breast. It lingered, unafraid, doing nothing. It just perched there on the steel beam and looked idly about.


My birder’s eyes, schooled on Collins and field guides of suchlike Imperialistic abstraction, tagged the bird as a thrush. I noticed the aspect, the overall blue appearance, large black eyes, rich rufous chest and belly, white patches on the wings, and the bluish grey head. I watched the bird for a good five minutes before it flew away into the forest. I didn’t see it again until I embarked on informed birding a few years later. I made a mental note then and later an entry in my diary: “Blue-headed Thrush”.


In 1989, when I got my first legitimate field guide – Salim Ali’s 'The Book of Indian Birds' – this was the first bird I looked up. Turning the page feverishly, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I was almost correct. This was Monticola cinclorhynchus, the Blue-capped Rock Thrush.


Every time I see the Blue-capped Rock Thrush – and I have seen it frequently in southern India in winters and in the Himalaya in late spring and early autumn – I am reminded of myself at twelve, a scruffy, itchy pilgrim gazing in rapture at a sprite, a vision, a gift of the forest.


Thank God, or whoever is in charge, for that epiphany.


Text: Beej
Photo: Sandeep Somasekharan


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A jaunt across Mudumalai - Trip Report

Our quick, packed trip to Masinagudi and Ooty yielded few lifers, but it gave us plenty of top-quality sightings

We stood at the junction of two worlds in Bangalore City Railway station. The arched stone buildings on Platform 6 were relics of a distant past and across the tracks were the eye-catching coaches of a new-look Shatabdi Express. Arun, Beej and I were headed to Mysore where Sandy was waiting to join us for our trip to Mudumalai, also his last birding trip from his base in Mysore, which he was to leave in two weeks. Sahastra, away in Uttar Pradesh, joined us occasionally in thoughts and conversation.

The long sighting of the Changeable Hawk Eagle was a highlight of our safari

We arrived at Mysore at 3:45 AM and were whisked away in Sandy’s car towards Bandipur. We entered just after the gates opened at 6 AM and were pained to see the noise generated by the trucks plying through the park. Needless to say, the disturbed environment ensured a drive devoid of any sightings save a few chitals inside Bandipur. 

A misty morning at Masinagudi

At Theppekadu, Mudumalai, we embarked on our first safari close to 7:30 AM. As we entered the safari we found a Sambhar lazing in the morning sun; it bolted at the sight of multiple telephoto lenses focused on it. Meandering through the serpentine safari tracks we chanced upon Chitals gilded by the morning sun. Arun and Beej directed our attention to Chitals in the velvet phase of their antlers. Chitals continued to hog the frame for most of the safari that ended with a cameo by a Indian Peacock sunning itself on the trunk of a dead tree.

Indian Peafowl

A baby langur learning to leap

Wanting more we headed out on our second safari, which took us through repulsive patches of lantana shrubs to begin with – not surprisingly, we saw nothing but a Hoopoe (Upupa epops). We started seeing more life as we left the lantana behind; first we came across a troop of frolicking Tufted Gray Langurs (Semnopithecus priam), a pair in the troop was indulging in games of passion. We watched like voyeurs as the langurs went about their pleasures unperturbed.

Hoopoe

Excuse us for intruding into their private life

Our next sighting on the safari was a dress circle view to a performance by the Changeable Hawk Eagle (Nisaetus cirrhatus). We found the eagle on a ground-level perch right in the middle of our safari path. It sat there sipping from a water puddle aloof of the low rumbling sounds from the engine of a gigantic body of metal headed its way. We proceeded gingerly towards the eagle, stopping frequently to observe. The bird held its ground until we were about 15 feet from it. Then it took flight and perched on a branch close to our safari van. An occasional flaunt of the crest, an occasional draw of the nictitating membrane were included in the performance. We moved on towards more chitals and eventually to our dwelling at Masinagudi. 

Changeable Hawk Eagle

Chital Stag with full antlers

At our place of stay we found company in an Intermediate Egret (Mesophoyx intermedia) and a Red Wattled Lapwing (Vanellus indicus), which had taken refuge in a pond nearby. We also found a pair of Small Minivets (Pericrocotus cinnamomeus), which we watched until our lunch was ready. With a satiated appetite and eyes hungry for more we left for the evening leg of our safari. 

Red Wattled Lapwing in flight

We started the evening safari from the Peacock Dormitory side and found a Forest Wagtail (Dendronanthus indicus), a Brown Fish Owl (Bubo zeylonensis), and a cow elephant with a male calf (whose tusks had just begun to appear). The calf made several mock charges – running around in circles, throwing up blades of grass and an occasional grunt. We left leaving the mammoth forest inhabitants to enjoy their peace. As we headed into the last safari of the day, we chanced upon Mr Dayanidhi Maran, the former union telecom minister, in the driver’s seat of an Innova parked by the Mudumalai-Bandipur road. We glanced and moved on; this sighting did not merit a checklist entry.

An agitated male calf

A Brown Fish Owl in its safe haven

After tea at the forest canteen we headed back to Masinagudi. The next morning we left early for Ooty via the Kalatty Ghat, hoping to spot Black-and-Orange Flycatchers and White-bellied Shortwings at the Botanical Gardens. On the way up, we spotted Rufous Treepies (Dendrocitta vagabunda), Brahminy Starlings (Sturnia pagodarum), Indian Peafowl (Pavo cristatus), Redvented Bulbuls (Pycnonotus cafer), Chestnut-headed Bee-Eaters (Merops leschenaulti), Grey Junglefowl (Gallus sonneratii) and Bonnet Macaques (Macaca radiata).

"Click me if you can," teased the Black and Orange Flycatcher

A very hungry caterpillar

After reaching the Botanical Gardens in Ooty we spotted the Black-and-Orange Flycatcher (Ficedula nigrorufa), which dared us to photograph it by frequently hopping around in a hedge. On the way out we spotted a Crested Goshawk (Accipiter trivirgatus) nibbling away at a kill. Oriental White Eyes (Zosterops palpebrosus), Pied Bushchats (Saxicola caprata), and a Pond Heron (Ardeola grayii) all flew in to have their names checked on our list. 

Eyes are white, lovely sight -- An Oriental White-eye

We finished with the Botanical Gardens and headed back to Masinagudi via Pykara. After a quick lunch we sped back to Mysore, making it just in time to catch our bus to Bangalore. With not even enough time to accord Sandy a sentimental farewell on his last birding trip ex-Mysore. But then again, we Ogres have tough layers. Sniff!

Trip List:

1. Grey Junglefowl (Gallus sonneratii) 
2. Indian Robin (Saxicoloides fulicatus) 
3. Laughing Dove (Stigmatopelia senegalensis)
4. Blue Rock Pigeon (Columba livia)
5. Malabar Parakeet (Psittacula columboides)
6. Rose-ringed Parakeet (Psittacula krameri)
7. Vernal Hanging Parrot (Loriculus vernalis)
8. Common Myna (Acridotheres tristis)
9. Jungle Myna (Acridotheres fuscus)
10. Brahminy Kite (Haliastur indus)
11. White-browed Bulbul (Pycnonotus luteolus)
12. Purple Sunbird (Nectarinia asiatica)
13. Purple-rumped Sunbird (Nectarinia zeylanica)
14. Oriental Magpie Robin (Merops leschenaulti) 
15. Intermediate Egret (Mesophoyx intermedia) 
16. Small Minivet (Merops leschenaulti) 
17. Red Wattled Lapwing (Vanellus indicus) 
18. Black and Orange Flycatcher (Ficedula nigrorufa) 
19. Rufous Treepie (Dendrocitta vagabunda) 
20. Ashy Drongo (Dicrurus leucophaeus) 
21. White Bellied Drongo (Dicrurus caerulenscens) 
22. Pond Heron (Ardeola grayii) 
23. Ashy Woodswallow (Artamus fuscus) 
24. Black Headed Ibis (Threskiornis melanocephalus) 
25. Changeable Hawk Eagle (Nisaetus cirrhatus) 
26. Crested Goshawk (Accipiter trivirgatus) 
27. Brown Fish Owl (Bubo zeylonensis) 
28. Blue Faced Malkoha (Phaenicophaeus viridirostris) 
29. Plum Headed Parakeet (Merops leschenaulti) 
30. White Throated Kingfisher (Halcyon smyrnensis) 
31. Chestnut Headed Bee-Eater (Merops leschenaulti) 
32. Hoopoe (Upupa epops) 
33. Indian Peafowl (Pavo cristatus)
34. Jungle Babbler (Turdoides striata) 
35. Forest Wagtail (Dendronanthus indicus) 
36. White Browed Wagtail (Motacilla maderaspatensis) 
37. Grey Wagtail (Motacilla cinerea) 
38. Brahminy Starling (Sturnia pagodarum) 
39. Red Whiskered Bulbul (Merops leschenaulti) 
40. Red Vented Bulbul (Pycnonotus cafer) 
41. Oriental White Eye (Zosterops palpebrosus) 
42. Pied Bushchat (Saxicola caprata) 
43. Spotted Dove (Streptopelia chinensis) 
44. Velvet Fronted Nuthatch (Sitta frontalis) 
45. Pale-billed Flowerpecker (Dicaeum erythrorhynchos)
46. Chestnut-bellied Nuthatch (Sitta cinnamoventris)
47. Hair-crested Drongo (Dicrurus hottentottus)
48. White-breasted Waterhen (Amaurornis phoenicurus)
49. Common Flameback (Dinopium javanense)
50. Brown-capped Pygmy Woodpecker (Dendrocopos nanus)
51. Common Kingfisher (Alcedo atthis)

Text: Anand Yegnaswami
Photos: Arun Menon and Anand Yegnaswami

Encounter: Cyclone Thane, Pondicherry

To those of us sitting in Bangalore, Cyclone Thane is just a cold, wet day to grumble about. Or perhaps even enjoy as we huddle (or perhaps cuddle - but don't let us give you any ideas) amid cups of tea. But out on the east coast of India, the cyclone's fury was at its peak early this morning. In Pondicherry,  winds tore trees off the ground, hurled dustbins afar, snapped coconut trees like matchsticks, ripped windows out of their hinges, and tossed catamarans and boats ashore. Gigantic, furious waves washed up boulders onto the esplanade and raging winds smashed the doors of the French Consulate with debris. Sahastrarashmi, who is running on erratic broadband on his last minutes of electricity, sends these unsettling pictures from Pondicherry.

Pictures by Sahastrarashmi

In the kingdom of the Lion-tailed Macaque

In Valparai the endangered Lion-tailed Macaque inhabits tracts of dense evergreen forest hemmed in by tea plantations. It lives, literally and alarmingly, on the edge

We were driving down from Valparai along one of the remaining patches of tropical evergreen rainforests, soaking up their sounds and feel. We'd had a very good weekend trip, despite not getting to sight anything special besides a couple of Nilgiri Tahr on our way up. The road leading up to Valparai cuts through critical habitat of the Lion-Tailed Macaque and Great Hornbill. We had seen boards screaming "Lion Tailed Macaque are active here. Please drive carefully" and were discussing Kalyan Varma's roadkill photo that had been etched into our minds. 


Ladder-like bridges between canopy trees had been fashioned to ensure that the arboreal primates move freely without having to get down on the road. The extensive clearing of rainforests in Valparai had been started by the British administrators and kept up zealously by their Indian sucessors. Many of those areas are privately owned tea estates now. What remains of rainforests are islets, isolated but protected fiercely by the Nature Conservation Foundation. 


We stopped at a bend on sighting a female scarlet minivet sallying to catch insects. As we were about to get back in the car, Swaheel spotted a primate standing on a near horizontal tree branch, at eye level, about 15 metres away from the road above the downhill slope. "LTM," someone whispered. The animal stared at us for a second or two and walked unhurriedly into the canopy. We thought that was all, happy for the sighting but then we heard movement. Treetops were swinging and black forms moved in and out of branches. And there materialized LTMs of all sizes, and suddenly the forest came alive with whoops and squeaks. We were in the middle of a huge troop of monkeys. They moved down the road. We parked and followed them, careful not to step off the road.

We reached another clearing and were waiting for the monkeys to emerge from the canopy when suddenly Swaheel hissed in my ear: “There, there!" I looked and saw nothing – the canopy was thick with little light penetrating it. He pointed closer and I saw a huge male on all fours on a broken branch. A finger of light illuminated his white mane. Soon, there were macaques everywhere. They were of all ages and sizes -- babies clinging to mothers, juveniles, large males. I spotted another individual barely 3-4 meters from the ground and we spent a satisfying photographic moment.   Vehicles passed us. We had prior warning from Bijoy who had told us the area was very disturbed and we should refrain from attracting a crowd under any circumstances. So, every time we heard a vehicle approach, we pretended to be taking a leak! 


The monkey on the branch was reasonably well camouflaged. We left him alone. Others were trying to cross a gap between trees. What followed was an amazing display. The LTMs on this side of the gorge climbed to the tip of the outcropping branch one at a time. They would shake the branch to make it sway to provide ample thrust for launch. Then the monkey would leap, sailing through the air and latching onto branches on the other side.


They did this one by one -- the first one missed the branch on the other side, and we could hear a crash as it got a foothold further down. Each one of the others made the jump smoothly, including the last one – a mother with a clinging baby.


At this point a minibus from Chalakudy arrived, blaring music, and stopped to partake of the scene. Its occupants pointed at the LTMs and shouted despite our pleas for silence. That was enough irritation for the monkeys, which retreated further into the forest. 


We drove for another 300 meters from that point when we came to a clearing -- and the very verge of the dense evergreen forest. We were in a tea plantation, and it gave us the impression that these threatened primates were living, literally, on the edge. LTMs seldom cross through these plantations, which means they are boxed into these last stretches of evergreen forest with no way out, hoping that whatever little habitat they have would not run out of space, shelter and food.


Text and photos: Sandeep Somasekharan

On hobbled knee across the Nandakini

In the final episode of her Bedni Bugyal travelogue, Jennifer Nandi crosses a bridge and a river into another consciousness, one that holds the tranquility of the Himalaya and perturbation over its future in delicate balance

The snow-clad flanks of the hills reflected in Bedni Kund was a vision that sustained us on that trying and redeeming journey

The day breaks warm with birdsong. Always and every time, new and irresistible distractions wake us early. It is a good thing we are birders since the rooms are saturated with dust and stale odours. So, we escape the fusty accommodation to strain our ears at the muted lisps of birds fussing in the underbrush near the sun-baked mud hut of our host. With permission we approach, and watch her deft use of primitive tools to prepare our meal for the day.


The locals gather around and we learn their hazardous ways. They complain of diminishing reserves of fuel wood for cooking and heating homes, depleted soils, and overgrazed pastures. This surely suggests worsening conditions for life in the mountains. It brings notice to the linkage between alpine deforestation and lowland floods. The degraded forests hold less soil, catch less runoff and stabilize fewer slopes. Rapid weathering renders the soil fragile. Nature at odds with its environment can’t thrive; and when the depredation is ruthless, no seed can survive in such uncongenial ground.

Amid the balmy verdant forests are vast monocultures of blue pine

Water is a fragile commodity – the scarcity of drinking water in the villages is growing. In 2007 there was a high rate of run-off because of the variability of precipitation. The monsoon-like downpours we experienced in early May that year caused higher sediment loads in the rivers which must have surged in floods onto the Ganges plain – washing our future into the sea. The fragility of the biota is compounded by bedrock shifts. The Himalaya are dramatic testimony to the relentless power of drifting continents. In this context, is the Himalaya described as a high-energy environment. 


Yet, the basic life-support systems – soil, water, and biota, the limiting factors in the mountain ecosystems – have failed to restrict this village community of Kanol in their dreams. Half a dozen of its young men have joined the armed forces. However, scarcity and degradation forces them to live frugally. We wander out alongside the terraced hillsides. A little path leads toward the forest. Spring flowers that feed the spirit clutch at the hillsides – wild gerberas, forget-me-nots, geraniums, and daisies like the different colours of the sunlight. Nature surely blunts even the worst excesses of man. It seems our path is strewn with flowers. But our hearts are heavy with the burden of knowledge that we inevitably soil our most precious resource. These sanctuaries of forest and reason on which civilization depends are ultimately made inefficient through degradation.

Water, clear and clean, appears abundant in the Himalaya but we saw enough to learn that its future is uncertain

It is approaching late afternoon. Devidutt is nowhere to be seen. He has consumed a powerful soporific to keep him insensate for the next three hours. We eat without him. His casual camp procedures have overwhelmed us. We neither look in horror as he wipes the skillet with a dirty rag before cooking; nor at his complete disregard for clean plates and cutlery. 

Without our capricious guide Devidutt, seen here making tea in the hollow of an oak to keep the winds from snuffing the fire, our journey would have been wanting for character or anecdote

In failing light we gather for quiet reflection, meditation and thanksgiving. It is our last night together as a trekking team. We rejoiced in the simple thought that we'd had both a challenging and an enjoyable time. We were also safe.


The next day arrives too soon. There is much traffic on the way down. The history of human settlement in the Himalaya is marked by regular mobility for purposes of trade, resources, work, pilgrimage, or social exchanges. Travel has been an ongoing feature of these mountains. The intricate network of walking trails, resting places, and the cultural traditions of inn-keeping and porters, testify to that. 

Wild geraniums poke out of the understorey

Early in 1991 when I had climbed to Kuari Pass, the public bus dropped us by the roadside at Nandaprayag. We then walked to Ghat and upwards to Kuari. Now the newly built roads have opened what had been inaccessible terrain to vehicular traffic and to new economic markets all over the range. Such efforts both materially and symbolically convey to the remote villages the opportunities and risks of the wider world.


The stony, steep descent to the River Nandakini has all but crippled us. Sunita and I lag behind the men. At last, with the river in sight, I walk to sit on the bridge. Sunita finds her way closer to the river. Clearly, she is in no mood to talk. I give her space. 


Soon, we are joined by three German trekkers with their guide. The guide comes up to importune me with questions. After I had explained that we were birders, he asks what ‘equipment’ would one need to engage in bird-watching. 


“Just your eyes,” I say lightly. 
“No, no, one must have binoculars too.” 
“Ok,” I say, “And a field guide.” 
“What else,” he asks. 
“A basic creative principle,” I say facetiously. 
“Where can I buy that?” 
Such simple-mindedness. 
“One has to learn to observe – that’s the key. Birders must notice everything in its full, detailed richness.” 
“Where can I find such people?” he asks. 
“On a hillside, just watching,” I reply. 


He dismisses me with a disbelieving look on his face. What a fortunate breed we are with an endless succession of surprises in life, by just engaging in the challenge of identifying.
It is now my turn to probe with questions. I walk up to this alpine leprechaun to ask why his legs were green. In the torrential rain of yesterday, the colour of his pants ran! 


I turn toward Sunita to share the joke. She has finished smoking and is now inspecting her nails. She needs more time. The joke will have to wait. Now I wait for some signal of her readiness. She upturns her water bottle to her parched lips. That’s my cue, some physical sign of preparedness.

The Nandakini, one of the Ganga's little-known tributaries, is one of the most beautiful of Himalayan rivers though our passage across it, over a quivery single-log bridge, was fraught with apprehension

Devidutt has been haranguing me to hurry up. He beams when we follow him. He is very encouraging. Our trek is nearly at its end. Sitel is in sight. Though it has begun to rain once more, we shelter in a shed while the men negotiate for a taxi. The women pile in with the driver and a couple of his friends. We have no clue what’s going on in the back. Fifteen men with all our luggage and theirs, sacks of village wealth, all pack into the back of the ‘tempo’. We didn’t hear a word of complaint from our fellow-trekkers, not even from the eternal comedian, Bijoy. We shall all miss this superb mimic. And I will always remember Sahastra, whose appreciation of visual delights was not just an indulgence, but rather an ennobling of ordinary need.

Leaving the Himalaya brings on the pangs. What traveler can forget the dark, silent shape of a Plumbeous Water Redstart as it flirts its fiery tail against the stone-grey foam of a rushing river?

While we wait to board the train at Hardwar, pilgrims laden with Ganga-jal jostle for a place to sit. I recollect reading somewhere that we must be “steady in what we do, not blown like feathers at the wind’s discretion, nor think that every water cleanses you.” I shall remember opening my pores to bathe in Nature. I shall remember the flirting tail of a Plumbeous Water Redstart, the Ultramarine Flycatchers confabulating on the quantity of gossamer needed for the nest, the shrill green of the parakeets – their colour as loud as their calls. Design in nature is a concatenation of accidents – chance genetic changes but so culled by natural selection that the result is not just effective but beautiful as well as to seem a miracle of purpose. 


Thoreau once wrote, “In wildness is the preservation of the world.” A century later, Wendell Berry proposed this necessary corollary: “In human culture is the preservation of wildness.”

By Jennifer Nandi


Photographs: Sahastrarashmi and Bijoy


Odyssey to Bedni Bugyal, a travelogue in ten parts, is now concluded. Follow these links to read previous episodes:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9