Category: nature

Purple Tongues and an Ancient Land: Why India Was Once Called Jambudweep

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This has been a spectacular year for jamuns. Friends have been arriving at my doorstep with bowls of freshly picked fruit. Street vendors are doing brisk business. The paving beneath our neighbourhood tree is squishy and squashy with purple. Even the birds appear to be celebrating. Bulbuls squabble noisily over the ripest fruits, parakeets descend in unruly flocks.

As always, theories abound. “It mean there is going to be drought,” says one person with great confidence. Another attributes it to the delayed rains. A third insists that trees produce more fruit when they are stressed. But horticulturists point out that fruiting depends on a complex interplay of weather, flowering, pollination, soil moisture and tree health. A dry spell at one stage may help fruit set; a prolonged drought at another can reduce it. Hence they caution against any simple cause-and-effect attributions.

Whatever the reason for this year’s abundance, it has reminded me how easily we overlook one of India’s most extraordinary native trees.

The jamun (Syzygium cumini) has grown on this land for thousands of years. It belongs here. Long before apples arrived from colder climates or kiwis and dragon fruit found a place in our supermarkets, the jamun flourished in forests, along riverbanks, in village commons and temple courtyards. It asked for very little in return. A mature tree can withstand fierce summers, survive erratic rainfall, provide generous shade and still produce an astonishing crop of fruit when the monsoon arrives.

Its flowers feed bees and other pollinators. Its dense canopy shelters birds through the hottest months of the year. When the fruits ripen, they become a banquet for parrots, barbets, bulbuls, mynas, fruit bats, monkeys and squirrels. The fruits that fall to the ground feed insects and enrich the soil. A single old jamun tree supports an entire community of life, quietly performing ecological services long before we coined terms such as “biodiversity” and “ecosystem services.”

For us humans, the jamun has always been more than a seasonal treat. Rich in antioxidants, iron, vitamin C and fibre, it has occupied a respected place in Ayurveda for centuries. The seeds are traditionally dried and powdered, particularly for managing blood sugar, while the bark and leaves have found their way into a variety of medicinal preparations. Modern science continues to investigate many of these traditional uses, and although not every claim has been conclusively proven, there is little doubt that the jamun deserves its reputation as one of our healthiest indigenous fruits.

Yet what fascinates me most is not its nutritional value or even its ecological importance. It is the extraordinary honour that our ancestors bestowed upon it.

There was a time when this land was known not only as Bharat, but also as Jambudweep.

The name is deceptively simple. In Sanskrit, jambu means the jamun tree, while dvipa refers to a great landmass or continent. Put together, the name means “the land of the jamun.” It appears in Hindu Puranas, in Buddhist texts and in Jain cosmology. Each tradition interprets Jambudweep a little differently—sometimes as the central continent of the known world, sometimes more specifically as the Indian subcontinent—but all recognise it as the land associated with the magnificent jambu tree.

So even today, every sankalpa begins with “Jambudweepe, Bharata Varshe, Bharata Khande”. A Sankalpa is a formal intention or vow made by a priest or an individual before starting a puja, homa, or vrat. We can think of it like a cosmic address. Just as you use a GPS to pinpoint your exact location on Earth, a Sankalpa uses ancient geography to state exactly where and when you are performing the ritual. It tells the universe your location on a grand, cosmic scale before focusing on your specific name, family lineage, and current location.

An entire civilisation identified itself with a tree.

Modern nations usually derive their names from tribes, kingdoms, rivers or rulers. They commemorate conquests, dynasties and political boundaries. Ancient India, on the other hand, also chose to remember a tree that must have been so widespread, so familiar and so deeply woven into everyday life that it became a symbol of the land itself.

The old texts speak of gigantic jamun trees growing on mountain slopes, their fruits so abundant that the juice flowed into nearby streams, tinting the waters a deep purple. No one imagines these accounts to be literal descriptions. Ancient literature delighted in metaphor and imagination. But beneath the poetry lies an important historical clue. Vast stretches of the subcontinent must once have supported thriving populations of jamun trees, making them one of the defining features of the landscape.

It is a reminder that our ancestors viewed trees not simply as resources to be harvested or obstacles to development. They were companions in daily life, providers of food and medicine, landmarks for travellers, gathering places for communities and, occasionally, symbols worthy of naming an entire civilisation.

How things have changed! We get excited about imported blueberries and Californian cherries, discuss the merits of avocados with great seriousness and happily pay premium prices for fruits that have travelled halfway around the world. Meanwhile, the jamun arrives quietly every monsoon, sold from baskets lined with newspaper, accompanied by a small paper packet of salt and chilli powder. It stains our fingers, our lips and invariably our clothes, yet never complains about the lack of sophisticated marketing.

Sadly, many of the old jamun trees have disappeared. Expanding cities, road widening and shrinking open spaces have claimed countless mature specimens. Because the fruit bruises easily and has a short shelf life, it has never become a commercial superstar in the way that mangoes or apples have. And so, without quite noticing, we have allowed one of our most remarkable native trees to fade into the background.

This year’s generous harvest, whatever the weather’s role in producing it, feels like a timely reminder. We should celebrate the jamun not merely because it is delicious or healthy, but because it is part of our natural and cultural inheritance. Every old tree that survives deserves to be protected. Every new one that is planted is an investment not just in shade and fruit, but in biodiversity, history and memory.

So the next season when you buy a paper cone of jamuns from a roadside vendor, savour them slowly. Let your tongue turn gloriously purple. Watch the birds helping themselves to the fruits higher up the branches. And remember that you are tasting a fruit so deeply embedded in India’s landscape and imagination that it once lent its name to an entire civilisation.

Jambudweep—the Land of the Jamun. It is an ancient name, but perhaps it still has something important to teach us about belonging, gratitude and the quiet grandeur of a tree we have too often taken for granted.Summary

–Meena

Twiggy: The Quirky Bagworm Moth

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At first glance, it looks like a tiny piece of dried grass crawling across a wall.

Or perhaps a bundle of twigs that has mysteriously come to life.

Look closely, and you may be witnessing one of nature’s most ingenious engineers—the bagworm moth.

Bagworm moths belong to the family Psychidae, a group of over 1,300 species found across the world. India alone is home to more than a hundred recorded species, many of which remain little known outside scientific circles. Despite their modest size, these insects display a level of architectural skill that would put many builders to shame.

A House You Can Carry

Unlike most caterpillars, a bagworm larva begins life by building itself a portable home.

Using silk as mortar, it gathers whatever materials lie nearby—tiny twigs, dry leaves, grass blades, bark flakes, seeds, even grains of sand. Every species has its own choice of materials and characteristic style. Some create neat spindle-shaped cases, others make rough bundles of sticks, while tropical species may construct surprisingly elaborate structures.

The result is a camouflage masterpiece.

To an unsuspecting bird, the moving caterpillar looks like nothing more than a fragment of the tree itself.

And unlike a snail that outgrows its shell, the bagworm keeps enlarging its home as it grows, carefully adding fresh material throughout its larval life.

India’s Hidden Diversity

Bagworms occur throughout India—from the Himalayan foothills to the Western Ghats, from dry deciduous forests to urban gardens.

Entomologists from the Zoological Survey of India have documented more than 106 Indian species, although many more almost certainly await discovery, especially in biodiversity hotspots like the Western Ghats and Northeast India.

Several Indian species belong to genera such as Eumeta, Cryptothelea, Clania, Mahasena and Eumasia. Many feed on a wide range of plants, while others specialise on lichens growing on tree trunks.

People commonly refer to them simply as “bag caterpillars,” “case moths,” or by descriptive names equivalent to “leaf-bag insects” or “twig-case worms.” In Hindi, for instance, ‘jhola illi’ may be used; in Marathi, ‘pishvi ali’; in Kannda, ‘chila  ulu’; in Tamil, ‘pai or kuudu puzhu’, etc.   Generally, they are recognised more by the little bags hanging from trees than by the moth itself.

The Caterpillar That Never Really Leaves Home

The story becomes even stranger when adulthood arrives.

Male bagworms emerge as small, winged moths with feathery antennae, flying actively in search of mates.

Many females, however, never develop wings at all. Females of these species spend virtually their entire lives inside the protective case they built as caterpillars. They neither fly nor wander. Instead, they remain inside the bag while releasing pheromones that attract males. After mating, they lay eggs within the same case, and the next generation begins life inside the home built by their mother.

Nature has produced many unusual lifestyles, but few are as remarkable as an adult moth that never truly leaves its childhood home.

Forest Engineers in Miniature

The bag is much more than camouflage.

It protects the caterpillar from birds, parasitic wasps, spiders and sudden changes in temperature. Some cases are even pretty rain-proof.

Researchers believe the bags also reduce water loss during hot weather and provide insulation against cold nights.

The silk itself is extraordinarily strong. Scientists have noted that bagworm silk possesses impressive durability, making it of interest in materials research.

Friends…and Occasionally Foes

Most Indian bagworms quietly recycle plant material and form part of healthy forest ecosystems.

A few species, however, can become agricultural or horticultural pests when their numbers increase dramatically. They feed on leaves of ornamental plants, fruit trees and plantation crops, occasionally causing noticeable defoliation. Fortunately, such outbreaks are relatively uncommon, and natural predators usually help keep populations under control.

More to Come!

As recently as 2023, researchers described a previously unknown bagworm, Eumasia venefica, from Kerala. Unlike many relatives, its larvae have a close association with lichens and possess unusual case-building habits, reminding us that India’s insect diversity still contains many surprises.

Watch out for those walking twiggy bundles! Who knows if you will stumble on a new one!

–Meena

The Golden Mystery: Amber and the Lost Amber Room

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Every year, 26 June is observed as International Amber Day, a celebration of one of nature’s most extraordinary creations. Unlike gemstones that are forged under immense heat and pressure deep within the Earth, amber begins life as something far more ordinary—sticky tree resin. Over millions of years, this resin hardens and fossilizes into a warm, golden substance that has fascinated people across cultures for thousands of years.

Amber is often called “sunshine trapped in stone.” Its rich honey, butterscotch, cognac, and cherry hues have inspired myths, jewellery, medicine, scientific discoveries, and one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries—the disappearance of the legendary Amber Room.

Nature’s Time Capsule

Amber is not tree sap, as is commonly believed. Sap carries water and nutrients within a tree. Resin, on the other hand, is a protective substance produced when a tree is injured, sealing wounds and defending against insects and disease.

When resin flows over small insects, spiders, feathers, leaves, flowers, or even tiny lizards, these organisms can become trapped. If conditions are just right, the resin is buried under sediments and, over millions of years, transforms into amber. Unlike most fossils, which preserve bones or shells, amber often preserves entire organisms in astonishing three-dimensional detail.

These inclusions make amber invaluable to scientists. Tiny air bubbles reveal the atmosphere of prehistoric forests. Preserved pollen helps reconstruct ancient ecosystems. Even microscopic bacteria and fungi have survived inside amber for tens of millions of years.

For palaeontologists, amber is less a gemstone than a perfectly preserved archive of life on Earth. In fact, amber entered popular imagination through Jurassic Park, whose opening premise is that a mosquito that had fed on a dinosaur millions of years ago becomes trapped in sticky tree resin, which later fossilizes into amber, supposedly preserving the dinosaur’s blood—and its DNA—inside the mosquito’s abdomen. Scientists in the story use this DNA to clone dinosaurs, making amber the unlikely hero of one of cinema’s most iconic scientific adventures. While the preservation of insects in amber is entirely real, the survival of usable dinosaur DNA for 66 million years is not supported by modern science. Even so, the film brilliantly transformed a little-known fossil into a symbol of prehistoric mystery, inspiring countless people to take an interest in palaeontology and the natural world.

The Gold of the Baltic

Although amber is found in several parts of the world—including Myanmar, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, Canada, and even parts of India—the finest and most abundant deposits occur around the Baltic Sea.

For over 5,000 years, Baltic amber travelled across Europe through the famous Amber Road, an ancient trade route linking northern Europe with the Mediterranean. Long before the Silk Road became famous, merchants carried amber southwards in exchange for wine, glass, spices, and precious metals. The Romans valued amber so highly that it sometimes fetched prices exceeding those of gold by weight.

Many cultures also believed amber possessed healing powers. It was worn to ward off illness, ground into powders for medicine, and even carried as a protective charm.

The Eighth Wonder of the World

If amber itself is remarkable, its most famous artistic creation was extraordinary.

The Amber Room was one of the most lavish interiors ever built.

Constructed in the early eighteenth century in the Kingdom of Prussia, it featured over six tonnes of amber painstakingly carved into intricate decorative panels. Craftsmen combined amber mosaics with gold leaf, mirrors, gemstones, and exquisite carvings to create walls that glowed with warm golden light.

In 1716, Frederick William I presented the room as a diplomatic gift to Peter the Great, symbolizing growing ties between Prussia and Russia.

The room was eventually installed in the magnificent Catherine Palace, where generations of visitors marvelled at what many described as the “Eighth Wonder of the World.”

Sunlight reflecting from thousands of amber tiles created an almost magical glow unlike anything else in European architecture.

A Treasure Lost During War

The Amber Room’s greatest chapter is also its saddest.

During the Second World War, German forces invaded the Soviet Union in 1941. Conservators attempted to protect the fragile amber panels, but the material had become too brittle to dismantle safely. Instead, they covered the room with wallpaper in the hope that occupying forces might overlook it.

The attempt failed.

Specialist German units removed the entire room in just over a day, packed it into dozens of crates, and transported it to the Königsberg Castle, where it was publicly displayed once again.

Then, it vanished.

As Allied bombing intensified and the war drew to a close, the Amber Room disappeared. Whether it was destroyed in fires, hidden in underground bunkers, loaded onto ships that later sank, or concealed in forgotten mines remains unknown.

Despite decades of investigations across Germany, Poland, Russia, and the Baltic region, no verified trace of the original Amber Room has ever been found.

The mystery has inspired countless books, documentaries, archaeological expeditions, and treasure hunters. Every few years, reports emerge claiming that the room has finally been located in caves, tunnels, castles, or shipwrecks. None has yet been confirmed.

The Amber Room remains one of the greatest missing treasures of the twentieth century.

Recreating a Masterpiece

The story, however, did not end with its disappearance.

In 1979, Soviet conservators embarked on an ambitious project to recreate the Amber Room using surviving photographs, architectural drawings, and traditional amber-working techniques.

The painstaking restoration took more than two decades. Craftsmen had to relearn skills that had nearly disappeared, sourcing thousands of kilograms of Baltic amber and hand-carving each decorative panel.

The reconstructed Amber Room was formally inaugurated in 2003, coinciding with the 300th anniversary of Saint Petersburg.

Visitors today can once again experience something close to the original splendour, even though the fate of the authentic masterpiece remains unknown.

Why Amber Still Matters

On International Amber Day, perhaps the greatest lesson is that the most valuable treasures are not always those that glitter the brightest. Sometimes they are those that preserve the memories of worlds long gone—whether hidden inside a tiny fossilized drop of resin or concealed somewhere, perhaps still waiting to reveal the final chapter of the Amber Room’s remarkable story.

–Meena

PIC: SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE

A Pesky Problem: Pest Management

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This week we have been exploring quaint expressions that describe human situations using animal analogies. Sometimes these become ‘bees in our bonnet’ as new analogies and comparisons buzz around in our imagination! One of these analogies is our description of someone as a “pest”, and our irritated response to such a person “Don’t pester me!”

Why is the word associated with persistent irritating behaviour in human beings? For that we need to go back to nature.  

A pest is defined as any living thing which humans consider troublesome to themselves, their possessions, or the environment. This includes plants, pathogens, invertebrates, vertebrates or any organism that harms an ecosystem. In its broadest sense a pest is a competitor to humanity. Pests can cause issues with crops, human, or animal health, buildings, and wilderness areas.

Looking at insects alone, it is estimated that 900 million insect types can be ‘pests’ not in nature, but in a world where humans have modified nature to suit their own requirements. And the human species has always found ways, though not wise at times, to tackle insects and other living organisms that they did not like, or want around them. From the earliest times, the battle between humans and ‘pests’ has taken many forms.

Cave dwellers probably swatted mosquitoes or used smoke to ward off the bloodsuckers. As far back as 2500 BC, people used sulfur compounds to control mites and insects. In 1200 B.C., the Chinese deployed predatory ants against pests such as beetles and caterpillars.

With growing populations, and crowded and insanitary living conditions bed bugs and rats proliferated. One of the first publicly advertised pest control companies was the 1690 company H. Tiffin and Son Ltd. in London. The company promoted rat and bed bug control using methods and chemical compounds they invented. Their trademark was “Bug Destroyers to Her Majesty and the Royal Family.”

Probably one of the hardest pests to control are rats. Over the ages, methods to control rats have tried everything from chemicals, plant extracts, prayers, chants, terrier dogs, and music. Ratsbane was one of the first chemicals used. Barbers sold it in the Middle Ages. Then it became a popular item sold by street vendors. Vermin exterminators became a legitimate and in-demand profession. Till date, rats continue to pose a cheeky challenge to every counter measure to control them, and proliferate even in the most sophisticated cities of the world (New York has a serious rat infestation issue).  

Pests are a major threat to health worldwide. Many insects are the primary or intermediate hosts or carriers that transmit debilitating human diseases, ranging from malaria, to Lymes Disease, to Zika. Rodents and birds are also secondary hosts for a large number of diseases transmitted by the parasites that they carry into the human environment — ticks, lice, fleas and mites.

Crops are also at risk from pests which include aphids, caterpillars, whiteflies, locusts and mites. These insects cause damage by feeding on foliage, sucking plant sap, or transmitting diseases. These pests can devastate agricultural yields, reducing quality and quantity, and leading to significant food shortages.

Pests are equally threatening in human habitations. Termites, wood-boring beetles, carpenter ants, and rodents Termites, wood-boring beetles, carpenter ants, and rodents are the primary pests that destroy buildings by compromising structural integrity.

The universal frustration to successfully manage and control pests in every sphere of life, spurred a global effort to increase awareness about pest-related challenges and professional pest control solutions.

On 6 June 2017 the Chinese Pest Control Association hosted 300 participants including industry experts, media representatives, researchers and academic professionals to discuss how to promote awareness about the role of pest management in public health protection. In 2018, the Global Summit of Pest Management Services for Public Health and Food Safety was held in Portugal, and it was agreed to accord international recognition to an annual World Pest Day.

Since then World Pest Day is observed annually on June 6th across the world. The initiative aims to improve public, government and media awareness, strengthen the professional image of the pest management industry, encourage scientific pest control and highlight major threats caused by small pests. The day promotes scientific and responsible pest control practices while creating awareness about the threats posed by pests worldwide.

Sadly, in the past decade the threat of pest-borne diseases is growing due to climate change, international travel, globalization of trade and increasing urbanization taking over the natural habitats of disease-bearing pests. A better understanding of these diseases is essential for managing them in the future.

Parallely there is ever-growing need to produce more food, fodder, fibre and wood. The lifestyles of a number of insects seem to clash with people’s economic interests. There is a competition for resources and humans tend to describe all competitors as pests that have to be fought on a war footing. When the ‘wonder drug’ DDT was invented in 1939 we thought that the war against pests had been won. But soon insects developed a resistance to pesticides. Fighting pests with chemicals alone is not the answer as we have also learned that these chemicals can have terrible side effects on all living things including humans. We can neither turn back to a chemical-free earth, nor can we continue to poison ourselves.

While technology and researches in more effective chemical measures to counter pests continue to advance, what is perhaps being lost is a better understanding of the ‘pests’ and some traditional, and less toxic ways of meeting the challenge. One way is to take a closer look at pest species and their interaction with the environment, especially in agriculture. A combination of cultural, biological, physical and chemical techniques to manage and control pests is called Integrated Pest Management (IPM).  

IPM is an eco-system-based long-term strategy that minimizes economic costs while protecting human health and the environment by using chemical pesticides only as a last resort.  Effective IPM aims at a synergistic integration of five main methods.

Making the environment inhospitable to pests through crop rotation, planting pest-resistant crop varieties, and proper sanitation (removing food and water sources).

Using natural predators especially certain birds, parasites, or pathogens to manage pest populations (e.g., introducing ladybugs to eat aphids or utilizing bio-pesticides).

Using traps, barriers, netting, or temperature manipulation to physically block or remove pests.

Applying synthetic or natural pesticides in a highly targeted manner taking care to minimize unnecessary environmental impact.

Using genetically modified, resistant plant hybrids or crops (like Bt corn) that naturally deter specific pests.

IPM provides a sustainable, eco-friendly alternative that keeps pest populations in check while preserving ecosystem harmony.

“Pest” is a word conveniently created by us to describe whatever we perceive as a deterrent to our well-being. In Nature every creature has a role to play, the distortion of the role begins when we disturb or alter the natural balance.

In an age when technology seems to be the panacea for all ills, it would be wise to stop and remember, as well as respect, that the health of the ecosystem is the key determinant for the health of all living things.

–Mamata

The Bee’s Knees and Other Curious Creatures of Language

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Language is a strange and wonderful thing.

Every day, we use expressions that roll effortlessly off the tongue without pausing to think about what they actually mean. We wish people the “best of luck,” promise to “keep an eye on things,” and complain when life becomes “a rat race.” Most of the time, these phrases do their job so well that we never stop to examine them.

But every now and then, an expression invites a second look.

Take the phrase “the bee’s knees.”

If someone describes a new restaurant, a favourite book, or a clever invention as the bee’s knees, they mean it is excellent—something special, perhaps even the best. Yet the moment one stops to think about it, a question arises.

Why a bee?

And why its knees?

Bees are many things. They are hardworking pollinators, builders of intricate hives, and producers of honey. But their knees do not seem especially famous. No one admires a bee and immediately thinks, “What magnificent knees!”

Yet for more than a century, English speakers have happily used the phrase without demanding an explanation.

The story begins in the United States during the roaring 1920s. It was an age that loved novelty. Jazz filled dance halls, fashions changed rapidly, and language became a playground for creativity. People delighted in inventing colourful slang. Something impressive might be called “the cat’s pajamas,” “the eel’s ankle,” “the monkey’s eyebrows,” or “the bee’s knees.”

These expressions were not meant to be logical. In fact, their appeal often came from their absurdity. The more unlikely the combination, the more amusing it sounded.

Most of these phrases disappeared as fashions changed. Yet a few survived. The bee’s knees buzzed on while many of its companions faded into obscurity.

Perhaps it endured because bees themselves occupy a special place in the human imagination.

Across cultures, bees have long been symbols of industry, cooperation, and diligence. Ancient Egyptians kept bees. Greek philosophers admired their organisation. Medieval monasteries prized beeswax for candles. Farmers depended on pollination long before anyone fully understood the science behind it.

Today, we know that bees are among the most important creatures on the planet. Their daily work helps pollinate crops, wildflowers, fruit trees, and countless other plants. A world without bees would be a poorer and less colourful place.

And in an amusing twist, bees do have something noteworthy on their legs. Worker bees collect pollen in specialised structures on their hind legs known as pollen baskets. If you have ever seen a bee carrying bright yellow clumps of pollen, you have witnessed one of nature’s most efficient collection systems at work.

So while the phrase was probably invented as nonsense, modern biology has accidentally given it a touch of credibility.

The bee’s knees are, in their own way, quite remarkable.

The phrase also reminds us of something larger: language is filled with animals.

Consider how often creatures appear in everyday speech.

When we hear information directly from the original source, we get it “straight from the horse’s mouth.” The expression likely comes from horse traders, who could estimate a horse’s age by examining its teeth.

When someone raises a false alarm repeatedly, we say they “cry wolf.” The phrase traces its roots to one of Aesop’s famous fables, in which a shepherd boy repeatedly tricks villagers into believing a wolf is attacking his flock. When a wolf finally appears, no one believes him.

If a person sends us on a pointless errand, we call it “a wild goose chase.” The expression was popularised by Shakespeare, who used it in Romeo and Juliet. Today, it describes any pursuit that is unlikely to succeed.

Then there is the curious warning not to “look a gift horse in the mouth.” Once again, horses are involved. Since age and health could be judged from a horse’s teeth, examining the mouth of a horse that had been freely given was considered ungrateful.

Some animal expressions are easier to understand.

Someone who is “busy as a bee” needs little explanation. A person with “eagle eyes” sees details others miss. A “social butterfly” moves easily from one conversation to another.

Others are delightfully baffling.

Why do we have “ants in our pants” when we are restless? Why are secretive people said to be “as sly as a fox”? Why do difficult situations become a “dog’s breakfast” in some parts of the English-speaking world?

The answer often lies in history. These phrases are linguistic fossils, preserving traces of old occupations, folk tales, observations of nature, and forgotten jokes. Long after the original context disappears, the expression remains.

In this way, language resembles an attic filled with heirlooms. We continue to use objects whose stories have been partly forgotten. Their meanings survive even when their origins grow hazy.

That may be why expressions such as “the bee’s knees” continue to charm us. They remind us that language is not merely a tool for communication. It is also a record of human imagination.

Generations of speakers have played with words, invented absurd images, borrowed ideas from animals, and passed them on. Most vanished. A few endured.

And among those survivors is a tiny insect whose unlikely knees have become a symbol of excellence.

Not bad for a creature that was probably never consulted on the matter.

The next time someone describes a book, a meal, a holiday, or a grandchild as “the bee’s knees,” spare a thought for the strange journey of that phrase. It has travelled through jazz-age slang, survived changing fashions, outlived dozens of rival expressions, and settled comfortably into modern English.

That, one might say, is the bee’s knees of linguistic success.

–Meena

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