Category: nature

The Report Card Nature Gives Us

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Every year, World Environment Day arrives with familiar images — children planting saplings, speeches about sustainability, green logos replacing corporate blue for a day, and social media flooded with pictures of forests, oceans, and endangered animals.

And then, by the next morning, the world goes back to business as usual.

Factories continue to pollute rivers. Wetlands quietly disappear under concrete. Species vanish before most people even learn their names. Cities expand. Forests shrink. Temperatures rise.

Which raises an uncomfortable question: if every country claims to care about nature, who is actually doing a good job?

Surprisingly, the world has no single official answer.

There is no universally accepted “Nature Conservation Score” for countries. No equivalent of a cricket points table or Olympic medal tally for ecological responsibility. Instead, scientists, universities, conservation groups, and international organisations have created different systems to measure different aspects of environmental performance.

One of the best-known systems is the Environmental Performance Index (EPI), developed by Yale Center for Environmental Law & Policy and Columbia University. The EPI attempts to rank countries using indicators such as air quality, climate policies, biodiversity protection, water management, pollution control, and ecosystem vitality. In essence, it asks a broad question: How seriously is a country managing its environmental responsibilities?

The rankings often produce interesting results. Countries celebrated for economic growth may perform poorly environmentally. Others, less visible on the global stage, emerge as ecological leaders because of stronger conservation policies or lower environmental damage.

But the EPI is only one lens.

More recently, researchers introduced a more focused Nature Conservation Index (NCI) — an attempt to specifically measure how well countries protect biodiversity and ecosystems. Unlike broader environmental rankings, the NCI looks more directly at habitat conservation, threats to species, land-use pressures, governance systems, and future ecological risks.

This distinction matters. A country may have good urban pollution control but still destroy forests. Another may generate renewable energy while severely damaging wetlands. Environmental protection is a complex web of interconnected systems.

Then there is the Living Planet Index, produced by World Wildlife Fund. This index does not mainly rank countries. Instead, it tracks wildlife populations across the planet. And its findings are sobering. Many species populations worldwide have shown dramatic declines over the past decades. The Living Planet Index functions almost like a planetary pulse monitor. It asks: Is life itself becoming richer or poorer?

Another globally influential system comes from the International Union for Conservation of Nature — better known through its famous Red List of threatened species. The Red List categorises plants and animals according to extinction risk: vulnerable, endangered, critically endangered, and so on. When a species enters those categories, it becomes more than a scientific statistic. It becomes a warning signal about collapsing ecosystems.

Meanwhile, the Convention on Biological Diversity, linked to the United Nations, tracks biodiversity targets globally. Countries commit to goals involving protected areas, restoration, invasive species control, and ecosystem protection. These are not rankings in the conventional sense, but they form a vast international attempt to monitor humanity’s relationship with nature.

Why do all these measurements matter?

Because societies pay attention to what they measure.

Governments obsess over GDP growth because GDP is measured constantly. Investors track stock indices daily. Universities chase rankings. Sports teams live by points tables.

Environmental indicators attempt to bring the same discipline to ecological survival.

Without measurement, environmental destruction easily hides behind rhetoric. Governments can announce “green missions” while rivers die quietly. Corporations can advertise sustainability while their activities may lead ecosystems to degrade invisibly. Numbers are imperfect, but they create accountability.

And they also expose an uncomfortable truth: economic success and ecological wisdom are not always the same thing In fact, they are usually contrary..

Modern economies often reward extraction more than preservation. A forest cut down for mining can increase GDP immediately. A wetland converted into real estate may generate investment and jobs. Yet the ecological loss — biodiversity, groundwater recharge, carbon storage, flood protection — rarely appears in economic accounting.

India illustrates the challenge vividly. Few countries possess India’s ecological diversity — Himalayan ecosystems, rainforests, mangroves, coral reefs, deserts, grasslands, and rich wildlife habitats. At the same time, India faces immense developmental pressures: urbanisation, infrastructure expansion, industrialisation, mining, and rising consumption.

This creates difficult questions with no easy answers.

How much forest should be sacrificed for highways?

Can renewable energy projects damage fragile ecosystems?

How should tourism be balanced against biodiversity protection?

Every country now faces versions of these dilemmas.

That is why World Environment Day should perhaps evolve beyond symbolic tree-planting ceremonies and recycled slogans. The real environmental challenge is not whether humanity loves nature in theory. It is whether nations are willing to measure honestly what they are destroying, preserving, or restoring.

Nature conservation measures try to correct this blindness. Because ultimately, these indices are not really judging forests or rivers. They are judging us. They ask whether humanity is behaving like a responsible custodian of the planet — or merely a temporary consumer exhausting an inheritance built over millions of years.

And perhaps the most unsettling reality is this:

Nature does not care about our speeches, campaigns, or hashtags.

It responds only to actions.

–Meena

A Very Sticky Berry: Glueberry

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At a recent visit to a local farmer mela my attention was drawn to some lovely pinkish orange berries neatly packed in a plastic box. The farmer told me that these were a variety of local berries called gunda in Gujarat. While I was familiar with the slightly bigger and green varieties of this fruit which our aunts used to pickle in brine, I had not seen these smaller differently-coloured versions.

I brought home a box and my husband was most amused to see the packaged product. He recalled picking these in the wild in his childhood, and also how it was a bit of a pain to eat these as they were extremely sticky from the inside and did not make for a pleasant gustatory experience (at least not from him). The fun was in the picking, as part of the summer adventures in a small town. But he did remember that the sticky goo was effective in mending kites (which was a real passion).

Now I was curious. I discovered that the berry was in fact commonly known as glueberry! Its statelier botanical name was Cordia dichotoma, a tree of tropical and subtropical regions. Native to China, the tree is also found in parts of Japan, Pakistan Sri Lanka, Cambodia, and stretching across the South East region all the way to Australia and Vanatua. In India it is found in a variety of forests ranging from the dry, deciduous forests of Rajasthan to the moist deciduous forests of Western Ghats. The tree’s fast growth and tolerance for harsh, arid environments make it excellent for windbreaks, agroforestry, and animal fodder

This is a small to moderate-sized deciduous tree with a short crooked trunk, with a greyish brown bark and spreading crown. The white short-stalked flowers open only at night. The fruit is yellow or pinkish-yellow, shining and spherical, which turns black on ripening.

The bark and the leaves, as well as the fruit have medicinal values. They have been traditionally used in the treatment of stomach aches, coughs, and chest complaints, as well as diarrhea. The nutrient-dense berries are used in Ayurveda and Unani systems to soothe respiratory issues, promote digestion, and treat skin ailments.

The fruit—glueberry, also known as lasoda, gunda or bhokar is used when it is green, as well as when it ripens. The fruit can be eaten fresh, pickled or used as a vegetable. In South Asian cooking the green fruits are prized for making tangy pickles and chutneys. The ripe translucent berries are sweet and edible with a taste described by some as a combination of pineapple and mango.

The fruit pulp contains a sticky, natural mucilage which was traditionally used as a natural adhesive or a binding agent much before the advent of synthetic glues. Its historical significance as a natural, plant-based adhesive is well-documented.

The fruit was commonly rubbed on envelopes to seal them. Its sap was used to bind various materials together. The sticky pulp was also used to trap birds, hence it was also called Bird Lime Tree. And the sticky mucilaginous pulp of the fruit served as a reliable natural glue and was used to bind books, scriptures and manuscripts. And in the less documented uses, children used it to securely repair torn kites.

No wonder then, that the Glueberry truly lives up to its name!

Today this free-growing fruit is travelling from its native habitats, neatly packed and marketed in urban markets. An indigenous fruit sold for its exotic taste!

–Mamata

Nature’s Rule-Breakers: Flora and Fauna That Refuse to Behave “Normally”

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When we are children, nature is explained to us in neat categories. Birds fly. Fish swim. Spiders spin webs. Plants make food from sunlight and quietly stay rooted in place. Mammals give birth to live young.

And then, slowly, nature begins to reveal its mischievous side.

A spider hunts like a tiger instead of spinning a web. A fish walks on land. A plant eats insects. A mammal lays eggs. A mushroom traps worms. The more one studies biology, the more one realises that evolution has very little respect for the tidy boxes humans create.

Take the Huntsman spider, for instance. Most of us imagine spiders as patient architects sitting in intricate webs, waiting for prey to blunder in. The huntsman spider does something entirely different. It stalks and ambushes prey, relying on speed and agility rather than silken traps. In many ways, it behaves more like a tiny leopard than a conventional spider.

It is not alone.

The Jumping spider has remarkably sharp vision and leaps onto prey with astonishing precision. The Wolf spider actively chases its victims across the ground. The Trapdoor spider lives in underground burrows and springs out like an ambush attacker in a war film.

These creatures remind us that even within a single group, evolution can produce wildly different lifestyles.

Then there are mammals — supposedly the most familiar class of animals to humans. Mammals, we are taught, give birth to live young. Except some do not.

The Platypus looks as though it was assembled from spare parts: duck bill, otter feet, beaver tail — and it lays eggs, and it is a mammal! The male even has venomous spurs. Its cousin, the Short-beaked echidna, also lays eggs despite being a mammal covered in fur.These monotremes are evolutionary oddities, survivors from a far older branch of mammalian history. If they were discovered as fossils rather than living creatures, many scientists might have assumed them to be fictional hybrids.

Birds, too, refuse to follow the script.

We instinctively associate birds with flight, yet the Ostrich abandoned the skies to become the world’s fastest running bird. The Penguin transformed wings into underwater flippers and effectively “flies” through the sea instead of air. The Kiwi of New Zealand behaves almost like a nocturnal mammal, shuffling through forests at night with a powerful sense of smell.

And some creatures seem unable to decide whether they belong on land or in water. The Mudskipper spends large amounts of time outside water, “walking” across mudflats using its fins. The Walking catfish can wriggle across land between ponds. The Climbing perch survives out of water for surprisingly long periods.

Plants provide perhaps the most startling examples of all because we rarely think of them as active or predatory. The Venus flytrap snaps shut on insects with startling speed. Pitcher plant species lure prey into liquid-filled traps where victims drown and decompose. The Sundew uses sticky tentacles to ensnare insects. The underwater Bladderwort employs tiny vacuum traps. These carnivorous plants evolved in nutrient-poor soils where ordinary plant life struggled. Instead of relying solely on the earth for nourishment, they turned to meat.

Some plants go further still and become outright thieves. The parasitic Dodder wraps itself around other plants and steals nutrients directly from them. The Indian pipe is ghostly white because it lacks chlorophyll almost entirely.

Even fungi refuse to stay within expectations. Certain fungi trap microscopic worms using tiny snares and digest them alive. The common Oyster mushroom can behave like a microscopic predator. Ophiocordyceps unilateralis goes a step further, infecting ants and manipulating their behaviour before killing them in locations ideal for fungal growth.

Nature’s rebels are not limited to these. The Electric eel generates electricity powerful enough to stun prey. The Leaf sheep, a tiny sea slug, steals chloroplasts from algae and briefly becomes “solar-powered.” The New Caledonian crow manufactures tools, while the Naked mole-rat lives in colonies resembling ant societies, complete with a queen.

The deeper one looks into nature, the clearer it becomes that “normal” is mostly a human invention. Evolution does not work toward ideals or categories. It experiments endlessly. If a strange adaptation improves survival — whether that means a spider abandoning webs, a fish walking on land, or a plant eating insects — nature keeps it.

In fact, these biological rebels may teach us the most important lesson of all: survival often belongs not to the strongest or fastest, but to the adaptable, the unconventional, and the creatures willing to break the rules.

–Meena

Pic: Hunstman spider, Meena Raghunathan

Shades of a Purple Summer

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The Indian summer is when our trees put up the most spectacular flower shows. Flame of the Forest—Butea monosperma whose flowers arrive in blazing orange. Different in tone, is the gulmohar—Delonix regia, with its wide, umbrella-like canopy and bright red blooms. The golden counterpart to these reds is the amaltas—Cassia fistula. Long cascades of yellow flowers hang down in late spring and early summer. The ubiquitous neem–Azadirachta indica has small white flowers which are easy to miss, but their scent. And they are an important part of New Year celebrations in many states.

Among all these are the purples. Three of them are commonly seen–the Pride of India, the loosely termed Indian Princess Tree, and the jacaranda form a quiet sequence of lilac and violet. Less flamboyant, but with gravitas.

The Pride of India or Lagerstroemia speciosa, is both widespread and rooted. Native to the subcontinent, it thrives across peninsular and eastern India, and is deliberately planted in northern cities. It is a familiar presence along older avenues, institutional campuses, and residential roads—part of an earlier approach to urban planting that valued seasonal change as much as shade.

It flowers in dense clusters of lilac, mauve, and pink when most trees recede. The effect is immediate. A single tree can alter the look of a street. The name reflects thatm rather than any scientific classification—an attempt to capture abundance and presence.

After flowering, it produces dry capsules that split open to release light, winged seeds, dispersed by wind. The process is largely unnoticed but effective, allowing the tree to regenerate in suitable conditions. Its flowers attract insects; in turn, birds move through its branches while foraging. Species such as the Red-vented Bulbul and Common Myna are frequent visitors, while others use it as a perching and nesting site, especially in dense urban areas where such cover is limited. In peak summer, its canopy becomes a resting space—shade functioning as habitat.

There is another layer to its presence. The leaves of Lagerstroemia speciosa—often called banaba—are used in traditional medicine, particularly in managing Type 2 Diabetes. They are associated with blood sugar regulation, as well as anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties. This makes the tree unusual among urban ornamentals: it is not only seen and inhabited, but also used.

The Indian Princess Tree, often linked to Paulownia tomentosa, sits less comfortably in place. Despite the name, it is not native to India and is only sporadically seen—mainly in cooler hill regions or curated landscapes. The “Indian” prefix reflects randomness in naming rather than origin.

Its appeal lies in its restraint. Pale violet flowers, broader leaves, and a more open form create a softer effect than the Pride of India. The “princess” is probably drawn from this visual delicacy.

Its biology, however, is less restrained. After flowering, it produces capsules filled with thousands of fine, papery seeds, designed for long-distance wind dispersal. Given open ground and the right climate, these seeds germinate quickly. The tree grows fast, which explains both its horticultural appeal and its reputation, in some regions, as invasive. In India, its presence fortunately remains controlled and limited.

Ecologically, it plays a lighter role, probably because it is non-native. Its flowers attract insects, and birds may use it for cover or occasional nesting, but it is not a significant food source.

Between these two sits the Jacaranda—Jacaranda mimosifolia—not native, but now visually embedded in cities such as Bengaluru. Its lavender-blue flowers arrive earlier, often bridging spring and summer. For a brief period, roads are edged and sometimes carpeted with fallen blooms, before other trees come into flower.

Jacaranda’s role is largely aesthetic, but not only. Its spreading canopy provides filtered shade, and like the others, its flowering attracts insects, drawing in birds that follow.

Together, these trees complicate their own names. One is called “of India” and is largely at home. One is called “Indian” and is not. One carries no such label and yet feels entirely part of the Indian landscape. Naming suggests belonging; ecology tells a more precise story.

These three trees also differ in how they are encountered. The Pride of India tends to define a street, its flowering visible from a distance. The Princess Tree, where it appears, is noticed more gradually—through proximity, through shade. Jacaranda sits between the two, its colour spreading outward, often first seen on the ground before it is traced back to the tree.

What they share is timing. Each blooms when the landscape offers little else. Their flowering is staggered, creating a sequence rather than a single event. Jacaranda fades as the Pride of India strengthens; elsewhere, other species take over. The effect is not continuous bloom, but continuity of change.

In older Indian neighbourhoods especially in Bangalore, such trees point to a different planning logic. Streets were planted not just for shade but for variation—for shifts in colour, density, and light across months. As urban density increases and tree cover becomes more functional than expressive, these older plantings remain as records of that intent.

A shift in colour. A canopy that briefly interrupts heat. And, overhead, a dry capsule opening—unseen, but already carrying the next season forward. That is the Indian summer.

–Meena

Rainbow Island: Hormuz

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Just over a month ago, the name Hormuz did not mean much for a large population of the world. Today the word is making headlines across the globe. The blockade of the Strait of Hormuz is having a ripple effect far from the waters of the Persian Gulf. Sadly, its claim to fame is rooted in the fall-out of a war that the world did not, and does not need.

For centuries ships have been sailing through the waters of the Persian Gulf, carrying people and cargo, and perhaps, not as visibly, culture. These waters are not just transporters, they are also the space for small land formations, many of which are unique in their geology and biogeography. One such island is the island of Hormuz.

Hormuz Island is a part of the Hormozgan Province of Iran. Located about eight  kilometres from Bandar Abbas on the coast of Iran, and 18 km from Qeshm Island in the Persian Gulf, it is strategically perched where the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman meet. Hormuz island covers an area of approximately 42 square kilometres.

The ancient Greeks called it Organa; during the Islamic period it was known as Jarun, and later took the name Hormuz from a significant mainland port of Ormus. It is believed that around 1300 A.D. the ruler of this town and its inhabitants shifted to the island in order to evade attacks by Mongolian and Turkish troops. Thus they called their island home New Hormuz. Today it continues to be recognized simply as Hormuz.

Its strategic location at the entrance of the Persian Gulf has historically made Hormuz Island a key trading post. It was an important stop for traders on the Silk Road. In the 15th century a Russian merchant described it as “a vast emporium of all the world”.  

It was part of a flourishing kingdom during the medieval period. This attracted the attention of the European powers. In the early 16th century it was taken over by the Portuguese who established a fort there, which helped the Portuguese to control strategic trade routes between Europe, India, and the Far East, and dominate the spice trade.

It remained a Portuguese colony for almost a century and a half, before being taken over in 1622, by the Safavid Empire, run by a powerful Iranian dynasty. It has been a part of the Persian empire since then, and is today a part of Iran.

Even today the island’s culture and customs reflects a blend of the Arab influences from neighbouring countries, as well as past interactions with Portuguese, English, and Indian merchants. The island today is home to Persians Arabs, and the indigenous Hormuzis, each contributing to the rich cultural mosaic.

What makes Hormuz Island unique are its dazzling geological features. It is one of the biggest salt domes—where a mound of salt layers rises up through overlying layers of rock. The formation glows with brilliant shades of red, yellow and orange. This palette is created by the deposition of minerals which constitute the layers of shale, clay, and volcanic rock. Geologists believe that hundreds of million years ago shallow seas formed thick layers of salt around the margins of the Persian Gulf. These layers gradually collided and interlayered with mineral-rich volcanic sediment in the area, leading to the formation of the brilliantly coloured soil and mountains. The high percentage of minerals, including iron, gypsum, oligiste, apatite and quartz has given colour to all the geographical features—ochre-coloured streams; beaches with sand ranging from white, silver and gold, to crimson; the Rainbow Mountains whose vibrant colours range from deep reds and oranges to purples and yellows, and natural salt caves that resemble vibrant works of art. The beaches are covered in crimson sand, and when the waves wash over these, the water also takes on reddish and pink hues. Because the beach’s red glow could be spotted from far out at sea, sailors once used it as a natural navigation marker in the Strait of Hormuz.

The geological formations on the island include the Valley of Statues, a surreal landscape with natural rock formations; Silence Valley which is has an eerie landscape of salt formations and is completely silent; and the Cave of the Salt Goddess formed over thousands of years by water erosion and salt crystals, the walls of which shimmer with vibrant shades of whites, blues, purple and pinks.

In this stunning landscape, the Red Mountain stands tall. This is even more unique because not only is its soil is bright red, it is also edible!  

The red soil is caused by haematite, an iron oxide which comes from the islands volcanic rocks. The mineral is valuable in the production of cosmetics, paper, plastic, stainless steel, ceramics, tiles, pottery and glass, and was exported for this, but the exports have now been reduced to prevent overexploitation. This soil is found nowhere else in the world; however it is not permitted to carry any samples out of the island, even as a souvenir.

The soil plays an equally important part in local cuisine! Known as Gelack, it is an important ingredient, in local cuisine. It is used as a spice, especially in the traditional fish curry called sooragh. A rare edible soil that is a valued spice in itself!  

If Hormuz Island is renowned for its geological features, it is equally rich in biodiversity. A patch of mangroves at its northern end adds a touch of green to the vibrant palette. The island ecosystem harbours a rich variety of bird species, and the waters are home to thriving marine life.

With its kaleidoscope of natural colours, Hormuz aptly deserves the title of Rainbow Island. Sadly the rainbow is today eclipsed by the dark clouds of war.

-Mamata

A Dazzle of Zebras

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Black on white, or white on black? This is the question that is most commonly asked about the zebra. The striking black and white pattern on a zebra is its most distinguishing feature. If it were not for this, a stripe-less zebra may well pass off as a sturdy mule! What the zebra does have in common with a mule and a horse, is that all these are equines. What makes zebras different is their patterned coat, and the fact that they are found in the wild only in Africa. Three main species of zebra are found across different countries of the African subcontinent. Plains zebras have wide stripes set far apart. They are found in grasslands across much of eastern and southern Africa. The Mountain zebra, the smallest species, lives in dry upland plains and is native to Southern Africa, Namibia and Angola. Grevy’s zebra, is the largest and most distinctive, with thin stripes, and lives in dry, sparsely wooded areas in Kenya and southern Ethiopia.

Zebras are not just known for their striking appearance; they also hold a unique place in the animal kingdom with respect to their social structures and behaviors. These herbivores are highly social animals, often forming large herds that provide support, and protection against predators. Within a herd, zebras tend to stay together in smaller family groups. Families are generally made up of a male, several females, and their young. Mutual grooming by standing close to each other and pulling loose hairs off each other is a way of strengthening bonds between members. The friendly grooming may turn aggressive in mating season when the males may use bites and powerful kicks to combat their rivals in order to obtain a mate.

Zebras also graze in groups. They are herbivores and often spend up to 18 hours daily feeding in the wild. As a zebra grazes, it uses its sharper strong front teeth to bite the grass, and then uses its duller back teeth to crush and grind. A zebra’s teeth keep growing for its entire life, because constant grazing and chewing wears them down. They have special digestive systems (hindgut fermenter) which can break down highly fibrous plants, twigs and even bark!

Within the herd, these animals have a range of communication systems, with distinct vocalizations that include whinnies, barks, snorts, and huffs. They also use body language, such as ear positioning, to express emptions. When feeling threatened, zebras flatten their ears against their heads; whereas ears pricked forward indicate that they are alert to something. They have exceptional hearing and eyesight which serves to sense danger early. A two-syllable call warns the herd of approaching predators. This is also the signal for the herd to take off and run for their lives. And they can move incredibly fast, reaching speeds of 65 km per hour. Zebras rely on this speed as well as their agility and stamina to help them outrun predators. One trick they use, is to run in a zigzag direction to confuse other animals. Another asset that helps is their ability to sleep while standing. This is possible because of locking joints–they can subconsciously lock their knees into position while they doze, without fear of toppling over. This means that they save time in getting to their feet and running in case of a threat. For deep sleep they need to lie down.

While zebras need to move fast to save their lives, they also have to be on the constant move in search of fresh grass and water to sustain the large numbers. In the dry season, they join other grazers and browsers like wildebeest, in huge herds of hundreds of thousands, for a humongous migration. One of the most famous of these is the Serengeti migration.  

While zebras may look identical from a distance, each one has a distinct pattern, much like human fingerprints. There are several theories about the role of stripes. One is that these can help individuals recognize each other within the herd. A single zebra stands out in the landscape. But when the striped herds move in unison, it makes for a dazzling optical illusion that makes it difficult for predators like lions and hyenas to single out individuals, thus providing a critical defense mechanism. It is most appropriate then that  the collective noun for a group of zebras, is a dazzle of zebras!  

Colours aside, the pattern also blends with the tall wavy lines of grass and help to conceal the animal in the wilderness. It is also believed that while the white stripes reflect light and keep the zebras cool while they stand and graze in the hot African sun all day, the black stripes absorb heat from the sun and warm up the animals in the morning. Some other researchers think that zebra stripes may have evolved to protect the animals from horsefly bites.

While scientists continue to research ‘why’ the zebra has stripes, African folk tales creatively imagine ‘how’ the zebra got its stripes. A popular Zulu story explains this.

Long, long ago, a big fierce Baboon came to live on the banks of the river where all the animals in the grassland came to drink water. But now Baboon declared himself the sole proprietor of the area, and declared that no other animal could drink from the river. Several animals tried to remind Baboon of the shared rights, but no one could stand up to the big bully who bared his long sharp teeth and flexed his might. Until a brave young zebra decided to challenge him to a fight. In those days, zebras were pure white. Baboon was a veteran of many battles, and was so confident of winning that he agreed, with the condition that the loser would be banished to the barren land across the river. And so the fight began. Zebra used his sharp hooves and strong kicks, Baboon attacked with his fangs. Baboon gained the upper hand and threw zebra backwards into the blazing logs of a fire. The flames seared Zebra’s white coat. In dreadful pain, but in a huge burst of final strength, Zebra gave a mighty kick to Baboon that sent him flying across the river. Baboon fell with such force onto a sunbaked rock, the hair on his behind was singed away. And till today, baboons have a bald red patch on their behind. As for the zebra, the flames charred permanent black marks on his white coat. Since then zebras wear their striped coats with pride, and a tribute to the brave zebra! So instead of pondering the “black on white or white on black” conundrum, let’s just say that zebras are black and white!

While zebras are still found in large numbers, as with all wildlife, they too face threats from loss and degradation of their natural habitat, human-wildlife conflict, and poaching.

31 January is marked as International Zebra Day. A good day to learn more about, and to celebrate this striking animal.  

–Mamata

Madhav Gadgil: The People’s Scientist Who Helped Win India’s First Environmental Struggle

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Madhav Dhananjaya Gadgil (24 May 1942 – 7 January 2026) was a towering figure in Indian ecology — a scientist, policy-maker, mentor, and grassroots environmentalist whose work reshaped how India understands the links between nature, people, and development. Often called a “people’s scientist,” Gadgil blended rigorous ecological science with deep respect for local communities, popular movements, and democratic participation in environmental conservation.

Silent Valley: India’s First Environmental Movement

Gadgil played a key role in one of the defining moments in India’s environmental history–the Save the Silent Valley Movement in Kerala during the late 1970s and early ‘80s. The state government had proposed a hydroelectric dam project that would have submerged a pristine stretch of rainforest in the Western Ghats, home to unique biodiversity. Local communities, scientists, poets, students, and activists mobilized against the project, marking one of India’s earliest and most influential environmental movements.

While many voices led by the Kerala Sastra Sahitya Parishad (KSSP) contributed to the struggle, Madhav Gadgil’s role was pivotal. His ecological research, field surveys, and clear articulation of Silent Valley’s extraordinary biodiversity helped transform localized protest into a nationwide call to protect forests and biodiversity.

He was a member of the high-level committee set up by the Government of India to take a call on this issue. The multidisciplinary committee was chaired by Prof. M. G. K. Menon, former Secretary to the Government of India. Gadgil served as a member of this expert committee, contributing ecological assessments that highlighted the valley’s irreplaceable biodiversity and the risks of irreversible ecological loss. His scientific input helped strengthen the case against the dam and gave credibility to what was, at the time, an unprecedented challenge to state-led development.

Equally significant was Gadgil’s engagement beyond formal committees. He worked closely with activists and civil society groups, translating complex ecological arguments into accessible language. Silent Valley demonstrated that science could empower people, and that environmental decisions could be contested democratically. The eventual shelving of the project and the declaration of Silent Valley as a National Park marked a watershed — proving that ecological reasoning and public mobilisation could alter national policy.

The success at Silent Valley is widely considered India’s first major environmental movement, catalyzing grassroots activism and inspiring future campaigns from the Narmada Bachao Andolan to forest rights movements across the country. Gadgil’s engagement with activists and communities during this period helped to define the approach for the environmental movement in India — one that bridged science, social justice, and grassroots mobilization. 

Early Life and Academic Foundations

Born in Pune to economist Dhananjay Ramchandra Gadgil, Madhav Gadgil grew up with a curiosity for nature that would shape his life’s work. After earning his Ph.D. from Harvard University, he returned to India and joined the Indian Institute of Science (IISc), Bengaluru, where he founded the Centre for Ecological Sciences in 1983 — one of the country’s first research institutions dedicated to ecology, conservation biology, and human ecology. He helped usher in quantitative and rigorous ecological research in India, while challenging scientists to see humans as part of ecosystems, not apart from them. He has over 250 scientific papers and several influential books.

Championing Community-Centric Conservation

Long before “community participation” became a buzzword in environmental policy, Gadgil argued that local people must be placed at the center of conservation efforts. He believed that traditional and indigenous ecological knowledge — from sacred groves to tribal land management — holds the keys to sustainable stewardship of ecosystems.

Western Ghats and the Gadgil Commission

Gadgil’s commitment to community-centric conservation reached a new peak in 2010 when the Government of India appointed him chair of the Western Ghats Ecology Expert Panel (WGEEP) — later known as the Gadgil Commission. The panel’s 2011 report recommended that nearly 64 % of the Western Ghats — one of the planet’s most significant biodiversity hotspots — be designated as ecologically sensitive areas (ESAs), with varying restrictions on development activities. It emphasised not only environmental safeguards but also community empowerment and sustainable livelihoods. 

Although the report was met with political resistance in several states and its recommendations were later diluted, its bold scientific and ethical vision sparked intense public debate and ongoing legal and civic activism. Subsequent environmental crises, including major floods in Kerala and Karnataka, vindicated many of the panel’s warnings about unchecked development and ecosystem fragility. 

Policy Influence and National Legacies

Gadgil helped shape India’s environmental legal framework. He was one of the key architects of the Biological Diversity Act (2002), which created mechanisms like People’s Biodiversity Registers to document and safeguard local biological knowledge. He also contributed to implementation of the Forest Rights Act, strengthening community claims over traditional lands. His advisory roles included membership on the Scientific Advisory Council to the Prime Minister and various national conservation bodies. 

Honours and Recognition

Gadgil’s work garnered some of the highest honours in science and conservation, including the Padma Shri (1981), Padma Bhushan (2006), the Tyler Prize for Environmental Achievement, the Volvo Environment Prize, and the UNEP’s Champion of the Earth award in 2024 — the United Nations’ top environmental accolade. 

In an age where climate, biodiversity loss, and development pressures intensify, Gadgil’s ethos — that science must serve society and empower its most vulnerable — continues to inspire generations of environmentalists, scholars, policymakers, and citizens alike. 

We are blessed to have had such a dedicated eco-warrior, teacher and scientist.

RIP Madhav Gadgil

–Meena

The Call of the Mountains: Nan Shepherd

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December 11 is marked as the International Mountain Day. Mountains have always fascinated human beings not only for their sheer scale and majesty, but also as a natural element that offers a challenge, as well as a test of physical and mental strength, and the thrill of scaling the peaks. There are numerous narratives of expeditions that describe these challenges and achievements, most of these by, and about men.

The Cairngorms

A different perspective, and approach towards mountains reminds us that there is more to mountains than the thrill of conquest.

This was lyrically described by Anna (who called herself Nan) Shepherd, a Scottish poet, writer and explorer of mountains. Nan was born in February 1893, close to Aberdeen on the North East coast of Scotland. When she was one month old, her family moved to nearby Cults and lived in a house with a garden overlooking the hills. Nan continued to live in the same house almost till the end of her life. As a young girl Nan was encouraged by her father, a keen hill walker, to explore the nearby hills, and this planted in her a lifelong love for nature and the mountains. Nan was an equally avid reader, and from her early teens she would fill notebooks with passages that inspired her from the wide spectrum of her reading. After completing her schooling in 1912, Nan joined the University of Aberdeen in the first decades after women were allowed to do so. She was an outstanding student, and graduated in 1915 with an MA in literature. Following this she taught English literature at Aberdeen Training Centre for Teachers, and continued to give enthralling lectures until she was well into her eighties. She was not only an inspiring teacher but also a role model for her students, as an early feminist. She wryly described her role as “the heaven-appointed task of trying to prevent a few of the students who pass through our Institution from conforming altogether to the approved pattern.”

Although she had always enjoyed walking in the hills, Nan Shepherd became deeply engaged with climbing in the period between the two World Wars. She was thirty years old when she began her explorations in the Cairngorms in 1928. This experience was the start of a passion that came to define both her life and her writing. From then on, she sought to escape into the Cairngorms whenever her job would allow. Often she would walk alone, camping out, and wading into hidden lochs. Occasionally she was accompanied by friends and fellow walkers from the local Deeside Field Club, or by students from the university.

By the 1940s Nan had scaled some of the highest peaks in the Cairngorms, among the wildest landscapes in the British Isles. However Nan’s expeditions were not about ‘reaching the top’ but rather a spiritual journey to ‘understand herself and the world’. She became fascinated by what happened to mind and matter on this journey up and down the mountain slopes.

These experiences were reflected in her literary work. The harsh landscape, as well as the people and places she knew well, provided the background to her first three books, published while she was teaching. These novels focussed on the harsh landscape which made for a harsh way of life, and within these, complexities of women struggling with maintaining traditional roles in a dawning age which was opening up new opportunities

But Nan Shepherd never wrote for recognition. She wrote only when she felt she had something worth saying. “I don’t like writing, really. In fact, I very rarely write. No. I never do short stories and articles. I only write when I feel that there’s something that simply must be written.”

For her teaching was as, if not more, important than her writing. However she continued to document her explorations of the Cairngorms, which came together around the end of the Second World War, under the title The Living Mountain. She combined her knowledge of the mountains, her observations of their rugged beauty, and her literary skills to muse on the philosophical and spiritual offerings from mountains. She wrote of the Cairngorms as “friends” that she “visits”, and with whom her imagination is fired as if “touched by another mind.”

 Nan Shepherd completed her book in the summer of 1945, and sent her manuscript to a novelist friend. He cautioned that it may be hard to find a publisher of a book of this nature. Nan put the manuscript away in a drawer where it remained for 30 years. Towards the end of her life, Nan retrieved the manuscript from her drawer and felt that it still resonated in many ways. Given her long association with Aberdeen University, she submitted it to Aberdeen University Press. The Living Mountain was finally published in 1977.

The Living Mountain threaded together, beautifully geography, geology, history and philosophy, along with everything that she herself had experienced in the mountains that she had fallen deeply in love with. For Shepherd, the mountains were living beings, and her book describes how she nurtured her relationship with them by walking. She wholeheartedly believed that only through walking and experiencing could insight be gained. “The more one learns of this intricate interplay of soil, altitude, weather, and the living tissues of plant and insect … the more the mystery deepens.”

The Living Mountain, continues to be timeless, since its publication 30 years after Nan Shephard wrote it. It provides a rare lens into a world that has been viewed mainly through the eyes of male climbers, who focus on the challenges, and the conquests. Nan Shepherd’s lens is that of a naturalist and poet, one of contemplation, reverence, and an exploration of the profound. The book suggests that the summit should not be the organizing principle of a mountain; it urges the practice of not walking “up” a mountain, but rather “into” them, so as to explore not just the physical forms but also ourselves, peering into the nooks and crannies.

Today, mountains across the world are facing their own challenges. Climate change is melting glaciers and distorting landscapes; the surge of climbers are leaving behind manmade mountains of garbage that threaten to bury the real mountains. This is a good time to remember The Living Mountain, and a mountain lover who looked beyond the ascents to the journeys within.

–Mamata Pandya

Birdwoman Jamal Ara

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12 November marks the birthday of Salim Ali the Birdman of India. Much has been written and published by, and about, Salim Ali. However very little is known about a young woman who was recognized as the first Bird Woman of India by Salim Ali himself. This was Jamal Ara, a path breaker in more ways than one.

Jamal Ara was born in 1923 in Barh, Bihar, in a conservative Muslim family. She could study only until class ten before she was married off at a young age, much against her wishes. She moved to Calcutta with her husband where a daughter, Madhuca, was born. Sadly her marriage broke down, leaving her in dire straits. Fortunately a cousin who was in the Forest Service in Bihar, came to her aid and Jamal and her daughter moved to Ranchi. As a forest officer, her cousin was posted to different forest divisions of Bihar, and Jamal often accompanied him on his trips. This sparked in her a great love for wildlife, and Jamal would spend hours observing the flora and fauna in her surroundings. The English wife of a senior forest officer encouraged her to keep notes of her observations, and helped her to hone her writing skills. As her proficiency grew, they also encouraged her to turn her notes into articles and send them for publication.

Jamal Ara spent many years doing extensive field work in what is now Jharkhand, and her study of birds in the Chota Nagpur plateau was comprehensive and detailed. She meticulously documented her observations, and wrote prolifically from 1949 to 1988.  She contributed over 60 papers and articles to the journals of the Bombay Natural History Society and Bengal Natural History Society. She could communicate equally well with a lay audience. She wrote for The Newsletter for Birdwatchers, which was popular with amateur as well as seasoned birdwatchers, and also a book for children, Watching Birds which was published by National Book Trust, and translated into many Indian languages. I remember this book as being one of my own early introductions to nature study.

Jamal Ara was a multi-faceted writer. She wrote fiction, translated stories, and worked as a journalist for a short time. She also did programmes for All India Radio. Jamal Ara was also much more than a birdwatcher. She saw birds as an integral part of a healthy ecosystem, and advocated for a balanced conservation approach, something that was not common in an age when shikar was also a popular pastime.

After such an intense involvement in ornithology, and a prolific contribution to the field, in 1988, Jamal Ara suddenly vanished from the Indian ornithology scene. Her contributions stopped, and she herself disappeared. It is believed that a series of personal losses and setbacks affected her badly. She stopped writing, and after a few years also burnt her notes and photographs. She died in 1995.

Gradually Jamal Ara’s name and contributions sunk into oblivion. She would have been lost to the history of Indian conservation if not for a young researcher Raza Kazmi, who stumbled upon a story by Madhuca Singh, a celebrated basketball coach of Ranchi who mentioned Jamal Ara, her mother, who was a great bird lover. Raza Kazmi was intrigued by this mysterious bird lover, and embarked on a search for this woman and her work. After chasing numerous leads, he finally connected with Madhuca who shared her mother’s story.

It is thanks to Raza Kazmi’s single-minded pursuit, and the publication of Jamal Ara’s story in the book Women in the Wild edited by Anita Mani published in 2023, that we can join in celebrating this enigmatic, but brilliant bird woman of India.

It is also heartening that whatever had remained of Jamal Ara’s original work has been collected and digitized as part of the Archives at NCBS, a public centre for the history of science in contemporary India. The Jamal Ara Collection has archival papers relating to her life and work from 1940s to 1980s, including correspondence, unpublished manuscripts, field diaries and notebooks, and drafts of articles.

This week, as we celebrate Salim Ali, as well as Jamal Ara, both passionate bird watchers, here are a few words from them that remind us of the simple joys of bird watching.

”A bird’s song is a sound that touches the soul; it reminds us of the beauty of nature that we must protect. For me, birds have always been the greatest source of joy and inspiration.”  Salim Ali

“Even if you are not a birdwatcher and are not even faintly interested in them you cannot barricade yourself successfully against fugitive but striking impressions that the sight of a bird invariably leaves. The impression is not altogether fleeting although the sight may have been. It persists in memory. Colour, song, manner of flight, the build or some aspect of physiognomy may have thrust itself into your consciousness and nestles there pleasantly. That is why there is no person entirely uninterested in birds. Most persons are unattentive but a few helps to their stored memories and they start taking an interest in birds. They become attentive and surprise themselves by evolving into birdwatchers.” Jamal Ara 

–Mamata