Anthropo-why?

Over the past couple of years, I've stumbled over, actively pursued and devoured several books on the topic of animal behaviour and cognition. It's a field that seems to be spoken about more frequently in books, which can be passed off as extended opinion pieces, rather than in factual, objective, scientific papers. Perhaps that's also because most long-time behaviourists find it easier to put their thoughts out into the larger, more accepting public than have them critiqued in the cautious world of scientific journals. The primary reason for this discouragement of juicy, emotional material in the academic world is one giant, taboo word - anthropomorphism.

I've wanted to write about this for nearly two years, but haven't because I was constantly reminded of the several unread, cognition-based books lying on my shelf that could change my mind about the topic. What I've found instead, with more reading, is nothing but mounting evidence for why the constant cautiousness regarding anthropomorphism may be unneeded. I received a final push to support the 'Of Course Animals Have Emotions!' team after reading what Carl Safina had to say about the matter.

"Evidence and logic can be trustworthy guides. In fact, one term for evidence+logic is: 'science'." 

This is the stance that seems to be lacking in the community of behaviour scientists who look solely at descriptive ways of recording behaviour and actions without attempting to interpret them. It is widely accepted to say, "The elephant approached her dead calf, ran her trunk over him slowly, and stayed with its carcass for three days before joining her herd that had moved on" but not to say, "The elephant was experiencing grief". By fearing that one is anthropomorphising an animal in doing so, one is being all the more anthropocentric.

I've finally learned that there is a wealth of undeniable evidence, from a cumulative of several hundred years of observations, of intelligence and emotion in the animal kingdom. This, combined with the logic that any scientist (or layman) who has been exposed to certain species for several years possesses, could come together to produce wonderful science, finally laying the foundation literature that better understanding of animal cognition must rest upon. An unnamed scientist once loosely mentioned, "I have no way of knowing if that elephant is any more conscious than this bush". I feel compelled to point out that elephants are known to make decisions, care for their offspring and, perhaps even more interestingly, share nearly the same nervous and hormonal systems as human beings. This is just one of many cases of ignoring hard evidence in the hope of remaining an objective, well-reputed researcher.

One of the reasons why most scientists only tell stories and write articles or books about their evidences for feeling and emotion in animals is that such 'stories' or 'anecdotes' fail to fit the scientific framework of collecting empirical data, analyzing it, and producing statistical evidence for or against their hypotheses. But, quoting an eloquent professor of mine, "there's no such thing as anecdotal data". This is further substantiated by an uncomfortably small niche of literature like this one. If more behaviourists or ecologists began publishing isolated instances of interesting behaviour, even if purely descriptive and non-inferential in nature, these so-called anecdotes could potentially collect over time to produce the statistical support needed to validate them within that very scientific realm. The collective support of past researchers who took the effort to inform the world about their chance anecdotes could encourage others to look closer for similar (or identical) behaviours, together building upon the subject and enriching it.

From Jane Goodall who speaks of emotion in chimpanzees to Rick McIntyre who studied wolves, multiple researchers and authors have passionately advocated for the recognition of emotion in the animal kingdom. A recent book, 'The Hidden Life of Trees', speaks of how trees, too, communicate and feel. The fact that animals perceive and respond to others around them and feel fundamentally physiological emotions like pleasure and grief, or feel the need to play and relax may be more readily accepted among the pet-owner community. I highly doubt that anyone who's known a dog, cat, pig, bird or any other (hopefully non-exotic) pet disagrees with the fact that animals can make bonds with other living beings and emote in ways that we can, at least partially, understand. Whining dogs or spitting cats are understood by their owners, behaviourists or not.

To truly understand an animal, we must delve into topics like consciousness, awareness, intelligence and emotion. None of these, however, have any standard definitions. Each of these could mean different things based on the fields we come from, and so, sentience - an amalgamation of all of these - remains undefined as well. We distance ourselves from these topics, trying to have an objective, outsider view of things, but this seems to me like losing valuable data. We are already on the inside. We share so much of the physiology that a plethora of other animals have, that we ought to be using our knowledge of how emotions manifest in our minds to better understand that of other beings.

Our evolutionary relationship with animals is sadly misinterpreted due to years of convincing ourselves that "humans" and "animals" are two completely separate categories. It's us versus them. Although we train animals to work for us, share diseases and living space, it's near impossible to believe or even imagine that we fall into the same bracket of beings. Our insecurities as a species are beginning to creep into our science and hinder it from progressing.

So sure, we may be one of the only species to feel sadness, happiness, love or pain in the poetic sense. But it's time we realized and acknowledged that these emotions do exist in other species that we've spent decades studying. Even if their grief is different from ours, it still exists. Truly comprehending the nature of these emotions is a huge task which will probably require the use of future advancements in science, but admitting that they exist is the first step towards it - one that we should have taken a long time ago.

Cynthia Moss, who spent over 50 years studying elephants in Amboseli National Park, had this to say:

"I'm interested in them as elephants. Comparing elephants to people - I don't find it helpful. I find it much more interesting trying to understand an animal as itself. How does a bird like a crow, say, with so small a brain, make the amazing decisions it makes? Comparing it to a three-year-old child - that doesn't interest me."

This is our biggest clue to overcome our ingrained fear of objectivity in studying animal cognition. We need make inferences about the animals we study without bringing to them our own emotional baggages and insecurities. Anthropocentrism, if not dealt with soon, could plague our research for good. The qualities and characteristics that we so staunchly believe are purely human, like friendship, compassion, sorrow, happiness did not suddenly come into existence with the evolutionary step into a world of Homo sapiens. These are deep-rooted in times that predate mankind. Our brain's origin is inseparable from that of other species'. Just like our mind.

Chameleons

After weeks and months of zero-break workload, a couple of friends and I escaped over our unusually long weekend to a patch of forested paradise, also known as the CFL school in Bangalore, for 17 hours. Now, several deep breaths of non-polluted air and two chameleon sightings later, I feel like a brand new person.

While chameleons go about their days doing their best to be inconspicuous, with their slow and calculated behaviour, they can't always escape seasoned eyes of the likes of The Great Chandy (see below, looking pretty in a tree). Thanks to said eyes and expertise, we contained our glee as the chameleons showcased their unintentionally comic personalities. We got to see young chameleons turn from solid green to striped, move their eyes independently and hang surreptitiously off of swaying branches. We got to feel their unsmooth, textured skin as one held the corners of our palms with delicate-yet-firm grip.

The Great Chandy

This was the first time I've ever seen or held a chameleon, and it may have just been one of the most exciting 'lifers' I've ever had. Now that I've been initiated into this world of tiny, odd, green wonders, I hope to see many more henceforth.

Colouration that lasted but a few seconds after we put him back on the branch.

Found this guy hanging by his tail.
For a long time.
A long, long time
Until he plopped onto the branch and carried on.

A review of 'Environmentalism: A Global History'

Delving into over two hundred years of literature, policy and philosophy, Ramachandra Guha’s book ‘Environmentalism: A Global History’ succinctly follows the trajectory of environmental thought across the world. By segregating the history of environmentalism into two broad stages – the first encompassing ideas of scientific conservation, wilderness and returning back-to-the-land, and the second speaking of the transition of thought and criticism to movements and debates – Guha places thinkers, scientists, governments and environmental movements into chronological and political categories. This is one of the key characteristics of his book that makes it a welcoming textbook of international environmentalism, providing a basic background required to understand the philosophies of conservation today.

This book makes for an interesting read not only because of its broadened outlook towards the world of environmentalism, but also because of the author behind it. Guha, an award-winning historian, is the first Indian to have attempted to document the history of environmental thought spanning both space and time. His commendable effort to synthesize a world of literature began as an idea when he was first exposed to different kinds of environmentalism at Yale University in the 1980’s. As he broadened his own horizons in nations apart from his own, he discovered that environmentalism began with the advent of industrialization among the thinkers, novelists and poets of the 18^th and 19^th centuries. This period marks the beginning of his book, wherein he gives new life to the long-written words of John Ruskin, John Clare, MK Gandhi, Charles Dickens, William Wordsworth and others. By interweaving his own writing with excerpts from these personalities’ works, he illustrates how, ironically, industrialization was the ‘generator’ of environmentalism, kickstarting what would become a whole new field in the centuries to come.

Guha separates the two stages within his book by talking about three misfits who were, perhaps, before their time in the journey of environmentalism. Patrick Geddes, Lewis Mumford and Radhakamal Mukherjee were the first of many to come who looked at growing industrial and economic issues from the perspective of tomorrow, rather than yesterday. By looking into the future rather than an abstract past like the thinkers who preceded them, Guha suggests that their pragmatic outlook towards the environment and the people who constituted it were too radical to gain momentum at the start of the 20^th century. Their modern, yet unappreciated ideologies remained in the side lines, making way for the ‘age of innocence’, which continued until the 1970’s. Guha strategically calls the readers’ attention to these milestones, and the years following them up to 2014, when the book was last revised, unfold captivatingly.

The age of innocence, which overlapped with the blind technological advancements during the second World War, led to an ‘age of affluence’, when Rachel Carson’s book ‘Silent Spring’ marked, as stated by Guha, the most pivotal time for environmentalist action across the globe in 1962. The affluent society began rallying for the environment, despite the fact that it was their effluents that were contributing to its constant degradation. An outburst of activism in Denmark by its enraged youth in 1969 has been documented in this book as the turning point in the history of environmentalism, after which every rung of society – across genders, ages and classes – became intimately involved in the cause. With his eloquent narrative of events and episodes, Guha grips his readers though the latter half of the 20^th century as the environmental movement transcended boundaries of religion and nations.

After having read this book, I’ve come to realize that environmentalism is a vast umbrella, under which an evolution of attitudes and ideologies nests. By describing various schools of thought, movements and events, Guha helps understand that there is no set definition for what environmentalism is, nor does he attempt to explain it at any point. Environmentalism has blossomed, along with industrial development, from a romanticized and often unattainable desire for the natural world to a holistic mentality that takes both peoples’ and the environment’s needs into consideration. It has transitioned from being the naïve, albeit powerful, voice of the literate elite to the rustic, oft desperate, cries of all society. Taking cues from feminism, socialism and nationalism, environmentalism has grown into what can only be called a belief system, whose community is ever-expanding.

Although this book is replete, cover to cover, with events and personalities from this world’s ecological history, it proves to be an easy read, devoid of unexplained terminology or indecipherable language. While it is heavy in its content, the manner in which it has been written allows the reader to absorb it entirely, without losing track of what the author is conveying. In addition, he has incorporated the writings of other authors, poets and politicians into his book seamlessly, making it seem as though several great minds have worked in unison to create this historical account of environmentalism. This book is thus, undoubtedly, a comprehensive, compelling yet concise read. It provides a gamut of information to anyone embarking upon this field for the first time, and insight to those who are environmentalists themselves.

In his book, Ramachandra Guha has done what any good historian ought to; without nudging the reader towards either side of the environmental argument, he has instigated thought and inquisitiveness by simply laying out the facts as they panned out in history. Having a clear image about the occurrences of any given time period against the context of its economic and political situation allows the reader to understand the workings of the environmental movement for themselves. For example, Guha provides a comparison of environmentalism in developed versus developing countries implicitly, simply by categorising them in different stages of his book. I’ve begun to realize now that the onslaught of environmentalism as a response to development in countries like India and Brazil was more effective than that of the 19^th century in Europe, simply because they had the knowledge of the destruction that comes with industrialization, and of how passive indignation did little good as retaliation, before delving into it themselves. It is, in that respect, truly a global history, where nations have constantly been learning from each other and building upon existent ideas – both to perfect the notion of environmentalism and keep up with corresponding developments in the world of economics.

This also lends itself to the realization that environmentalism is a global phenomenon as no nation or region functions in isolation without influencing or being influenced by the happenings of the world surrounding it. Changes in environmentalism cascade through time and geography, and, could even occur simultaneously, co-evolving under similar circumstances. Environmentalism is global in its history and in its present uproar that is more synchronous than sequential. Perhaps the next edition of this historical account should be titled ‘International Environmentalism’ to better represent the intricacies of the book.

Compiling a history as colourful and heterogenous as this is nothing short of ambitious, especially when envisioned at a global scale. Ramachandra Guha has succeeded in his bold venture with admirable eloquence and clarity. This praise, though, also forms my only strong criticism of his book. For all the literature and records that he combed through in order to produce this book, I feel cheated out of finer details and deeper information. This book has definite scope to be richer in the knowledge it disseminates, making it a tad more than a quick read, yet more welcoming than a historical textbook. Were this book more extensive in its discourse, a reader would scarce need to look elsewhere.

One Fish Bold Fish Red Fish Blue Fish

Pale as pale can be rested the Beta, in a tiny bag the size of a twelve-year-old's palm. His dramatic yet limp fins lay clumped together in an attempt to keep within the water line. I say 'rested', as though he had a say in the matter. The slightest movement would have thrown his breathing resilience out of the water and into a tiny pocket of air keeping the bag afloat. Bred to be magnificent and bold, the Beta lay imprisoned with his talents, teased by those around him. He was, in a way, a fish out of water. A bird hung from a just-so cage in a forest of freedom.

Swooped out of his miserly dwelling with a swift exchange of cash, he was bobbed along to what strove to be liberation of his beauty and personality. Once nudged out of his solitary confinement, he sprung into his own, opening out each crumpled, folded fin and swishing it within the cool water. He swam, for the first time in far too long, first cautiously and then carelessly, around his new home.

As he breathed new meaning into his small, yet flamboyant body, colour returned where there was once none. As I watched him, more captivated than I've been with any form of humanity, I saw shades of red I didn't know any fish could parade. With a natural, effortless iridescence, he flashed reds from wine to clotted blood, adding to the intimidation that comes with facing him directly. But he wasn't done just yet. Shooting from his body, radiating outward through his broad, red fins that resemble exaggerated, Seussian feathers, were streaks of electric blue. He was now complete - radiant, gorgeous and graceful. How often are creatures of terror this beautiful?

I dipped a finger into the water to test its temperature, only to alert him. He responded immediately, encircling my immersed fingertip, sizing it up, before drawing himself up to his full, undiluted proportions. His gills stood on end, like the fur on an agitated cat's tail, and all his fins were drawn to attention, perpendicular to his body, making him fill more of the bowl than I thought he could. Although he kept his distance, I knew not to invade his privacy or doubt his ability to protect it.

Today, Red is accustomed to my face, which must seem so much rounder to him from within. He swishes his fins now in recognition of me and my fingers, all the more so just before a meal. I have a tiny monster for family in my hostel room, and I'd like to believe he thinks of me with similar fish-like affection, even if it's merely his acknowledgment of my existence as a giant and harmless food dispenser. 

The Bandra Canvas

Growing up in Bombay kept me away from the career I am now pursuing - wildlife biology. Our Sanjay Gandhi National Park is but a bubble that I wasn't allowed to explore alone until I was older. All my exposure to the serenity of the world beyond clogged civilization was restricted to short vacations around Mumbai and later, the internships that I landed during and after college. In many ways, this made me feel more at home in the wilderness, in areas that were a complete antithesis of the metropolitan that is Bombay. I found myself running away from associating myself with a city that reflects so little of my personality.

But I'm beginning to wonder otherwise. When I delve into my memories of the city itself, I realize how it nurtured me in little ways, simply by supporting me in my growing years. It is more than its cacophonous reputation to someone who has built a life there. Having lived there for 20 years before breaking gravity, Bombay forms the context to all I see. This sense of realization of where I come from isn't always on top of my mind, it's fleeting, cushioned and beckoned by momentary remembrances. But it exists, and it ought to.

I found this collection of images from two years ago lying abandoned in my drafts, much like my love for Bombay. These are images from in and around Bandra, a place made up of a concoction of cultures and religions. It's increasingly becoming a place of expression in the city, where people are free to dress the way they're most comfortable, make fashion statements, or showcase their talents. One such form of expression is seen boldly plastered across its ageing walls and streets in the form of graffiti or street art. At times, these 'vandalisms' are white-washed to restore normality, while some places cherish and flaunt them as pieces of art. Chikoo (another one of my treasures from Bombay) and I armed ourselves with our own creative weaponry and began photographing these colourful streets together. These images remind me of all the time that Bombay gave me to pursue my interests, explore the lesser spoken of gems that the city holds, and nurture friendships that I would hold onto for years to come. Consider this my minimalist tribute to where I grew up.

Reclamation in Great Nicobar

Ladakh and the Andaman Islands

(All photos and/or videos to be added at a later date once stronger internet connection is obtained.)

Since 2013, I’ve been fortunate enough to have worked in and/or visited several places; twelve, to be exact. Of all these wonderful places in India, two have stood out with auras of emotional flamboyance – Ladakh and the Andaman Islands. Lately I’ve been wondering what it is about two places so completely different in their position, biodiversity and climate, that captured my attention so adhesively, and have come to realize they have more in common than what meets the eye.

ONE: Getting there can be challenging, yet beautiful.
Three things can come in the way of traveling to both Ladakh and the Andamans. (1) Weather – snow or rain, (2) prices – being spontaneous burns a deep, deep hole in your pocket, and (3) their exotic reputation – a sense of it being an unusual place to simply go to. But once you get there, good lord, it tugs at your breath better than Rowling’s dementors. Whether it’s the vast expanses of the Himalayas that throw the skies and land open as far as the eye can see, or the dense forests of the islands that filter sunlight and rain several-fold before they reach you, they’ll force you to stop and absorb them.

TWO: It’s expensive to get there, but cheap to live there.
Which is why I’ve devoted large amounts of my thinking time to figuring out ways in which to get there and never leave. Renting a small flat in Ladakh is a fourth of the price (if not lower) than that of an equivalent space in Mumbai. In the Andamans, it’s about a third. Either way, it makes up for the cost of getting there, and in return you get the serenity of nature with enough amenities to get you by over long periods of time. It’s perfect.

THREE: Developed, but not entirely.
Both places have a central, developed town/city which has restaurants and some hotels for tourists, small food shacks which are frequented by the locals and a bunch of general stores. Ladakh has its quintessential marketplace in Leh where anyone can buy woolens and household items, eat at a handful of restaurants or buy souvenirs from handicraft emporiums. The markets in the Andamans that compare are in and around Port Blair, but they are certainly more city-like than the quaint shops that line the streets of Leh. Sanitation, electricity and internet are available across both areas, though they are never entirely reliable. As Calvin’s Dad would say, these kinks in the global definition of ‘development’ build character and add to one’s learning of the places’ cultures and strife. I’ve learned more about life and work from my time in these places than I have living in Mumbai, and I’ve come to treasure those bits of me.

FOUR: Land-locked, sea-locked, remote and isolate.
The Himalayas that fall in Ladakh rise tall around the modest strip of runway at the Leh airport. Flying into Leh is gorgeousness, for it feels like gliding over a giant raster of geographic elevation, occasionally obstructed by blindingly-white clouds. The skies are always a limpid blue and the mountains are continuous and unrelenting. Layer after layer of peaks make you wonder where you’d ever land and about all the animals you’re flying over. When the little buildings and fields emerge from the landmass, they seem desolate and, in personification, content. Flying to the Andamans gives you the same feeling of gaping vastness and detachment from familiarity. The ocean is the same bright blue of the Ladakh sky and the coastlines gleam with their slivers of sand. Every island is a cluster of bright green vegetation – something I hope will hold true even years into the future. Both places are distant – in time if not in kilometres.

FIVE: Un-capturable landscapes.
You cannot photograph the Himalayas or the Andaman seas and forests without losing their overwhelming presence. No photo can capture the way these landscapes envelope you and stretch far out to the horizon. A photograph is 2D, but what you see with the naked eye is beyond 3-dimensional. It’s several added dimensions of wonder, intimidation, smells and sounds, which are completely lost once your shutter goes off. That being said, one can never take a bad photo of the mountains or sea. It’s a limbo of oomph, but a compromised oomph.

SIX: Tourists, people, and their animals.
Both these places are tourist hotspots and function seasonally, given their unfavourable summers and monsoons. If you go to Ladakh between December and June or the Andamans between September and March, you’re bound to meet a range of tourists – from loud joint families to solitary observers. The descendence of these tourists have come to dictate the lives of the locals, and now, their livelihoods rotate around these months. You'll find a clear distinction between the locals and anyone else who attempts to integrate. The people of the land are a humble, helpful and self-assured kind, dotted with colourful and unforgettable personalities. From caring for up to fifty domestic animals per household to dealing with feral dogs and animals, being a local comes with its share of challenges. I refrain from calling the people from these places simple, for that’s an unfair label to give them. Even though they don’t live in metropolitan cities or drive swanky cars, they lead complicated lives which are often harder than we realize. Visiting and living with them have taught me a great deal, and I’ve come to criticize and value various aspects of my life ever since.

SEVEN: The elusiveness of their wildlife.
The Himalayas are known for their large mammals, however, the snow leopard isn’t its only ‘ghost of the mountains’. It’s a landscape full of camouflaged wildlife that isn’t easy to track or spot. The Andamans house far fewer mammals, but is teeming with bird life which isn’t the easiest to find amidst its dense trees and vines. In both places, the wildlife teases you, with calls and signs, poop and tracks, but rarely graces you with its presence. If one of these wonderful creatures does show itself, live the moment. Don’t fumble for cameras or tripods or lenses, for that moment won’t last. Simply absorb it, etch it in your mind, make it a memory that you’ll hold onto forever.

EIGHT: No matter where you are, a picturesque landscape is never more than 15 minutes away.
This is a virtue of point THREE above. Perhaps this will change with time, as the Border Road Organization hacks away at the mountains or as deforestation progresses in the islands. But until those sad times befall us, these landscapes are always nearby, waiting to be gawked at.

NINE: There’s more to be known about them than is known already.
Ladakh and the islands are rich in ecological and social history. There are traditions and biodiversity that are yet to be explored and scrutinized. As time passes, more and more researchers seem to be showing interest in these scientifically uncharted fields, and rightfully so. Both places pique my curiosity more than places like the Western Ghats simply because there’s so much we’re yet to learn about them.

TEN: Disconnection from the rest of the world.
Finally, these places give you the option of unplugging every electronic device and living in the present. Disconnection from the world isn’t necessarily a direct result of poor internet or telephone towers. These places tend to make you cherish the option of switching off and using your phone and email only for the essential few communications. You can rely on newspapers for news and wave goodbye to social networking. And the best part is that you don’t miss it. Even slightly (disclaimer: this could be only my perspective). I maintain that the less my friends and family hear from me, the fewer pictures I have and the more notebooks I fill, the more fun I’m having.

I hope fervently that things stay this way even in the years to come, however romantic or idealistic that hope may be.

In the Andamans - with 2% internet

04/06/17

It’s five in the evening and it’s pouring. I’m seated in a dimly lit cottage inside ANET (Andaman and Nicobar Environmental Team) with three dogs curled up under the table and the smell of wet mud and wood filling the air. The sounds around me are a cocktail of raindrops falling on broad leaves, pond water, slushy mud and tin roofing. The trees are vibrant, as though tweaked for maximum contrast, with their dark, damp barks glistening against a palette of greens. It is mucky, icky, noisy beauty.

When I first came to the Andamans two months ago, my stomach was tingling with pure, unhindered excitement. I had no expectations, I simply knew I’d love whatever I found once we landed. I was right – I was met by more raw nature than I’ve been exposed to in the past. I realized that wilderness isn’t defined by the animals that one finds or how densely forested a place is. It’s defined by how unhabituated to people and civilization, how removed from familiarity, and how untouched a place and its biodiversity is. The Andamans is that place. A place that’s been changing and interacting with humanity for years, yet a place that maintains a tinge of feral within it. I went away feeling like the land tamed the people there, rather than the other way around, despite its growing villages and towns.

Today, I set off for ANET once more, but this time, my stomach was in knots. Knots of twisted excitement. This time, I had expectations, and worries about whether they’d be met. I embarked on this trip as a reconnaissance survey, to pursue a couple of research ideas for my Masters’ thesis. Now, I have to learn how to focus on a research question and on how to answer it in addition to gawking at the place I’m in. Seated in my plane, the glistening blue waters that shone at me didn’t help my gastric symphony of buzzing bees. After two months of craving, ideation and dreaming, I was going back again – hoping to find enough potential and purpose to keep going back.

The trip from the airport to ANET was familiar and greener than when I last remembered. More fields seemed waterlogged now that the monsoons had arrived, despite the patchy rain over the last few days. I was taking turns in my head before we made them, and was pleased to know I still knew my whereabouts from the last visit. When the car pulled up outside ANET, my knots untied and I immediately relaxed. There’s something about the calm of this place that prohibits worry. Crusoe, Tweemo and Tweepa – the dogs of ANET – greeted me heartily, and in that moment, I knew I had only good things to look forward to.

I’ll close now and watch the light fade.

Untouched, or, less touched.

The Andaman Islands house trees that could squash me like an ant if only they could lay a corner of their ginormous buttresses on me. Each tree is history. Walking through wooded areas reminded me of how puny, insignificant, trivial, inconsequential I am. Of how people are unimpressive in every way. Of how my (literal) footprint could never be as deep set as the valleys in the mud created by a single, archaic tree.

I use the large, overshadowing tree as a metaphor for the islands themselves. Despite the tar roads that weave through villages and the occasional electric line overhead, passing through them is reminiscent of another time. There’s an overwhelming anachronistic nature to the place that swoops in, swallowing all my preconceived notions of beauty and replacing them with itself. The Andamans – over land and underwater – has me seized by the collar, endearingly, and its grip is far too strong to ignore. 

More to come.

What is a woman?

I say ‘what’ and not ‘who’ because objectification is the path we’ve taken as a society to build gender stereotypes. This afternoon, I asked a friend, jokingly, about whether I qualified as a woman, given the fact that I’m rarely ‘feminine’. Then, I stopped. I realized that unknowingly, I let myself lapse into the norm of femininity. Being one who criticizes the way sexes are put in boxes, I found that I too was a victim of what can only be termed as brainwashing since I was a child.

Asking anyone to state the differences between a man and a woman (setting aside the obvious anatomical separations that one would most likely see) yields painfully predictable adjectives. Understanding, intuitive, gentle, caring, strong, dominant, protective, athletic, analytical. I can confidently leave those there and leave you, the reader, to put them into their typical categories – whether you personally agree with them or not. This is the bread and butter we’ve been brought up with – the girls having been taught how to butter the bread while the boys to eat it.

This isn’t an article about feminism. It’s but one of speculation and unfortunate observation.

Impassioned online activists would be appalled by my passivity, but I stem from a staunch disagreement with most of the sex-related aggression flying around. The fact that women are classified the way they are isn’t wrong. Sure, we are gentle creatures, however, the definition is incomplete - dangling from its poor architecture. With Women’s Day coming up, so are the various empowerment posts and articles – not to mention the angry ones about how there isn’t a Men’s Day for want of equality. The fact that these articles need writing or that there are battles in need of settling lend hand to how far our world is from fundamental equality.

The human race, for all its intelligence, virulence and dominance, is wonderfully diverse. We’ve spent eons putting ourselves on pedestals that balance tactfully on the point of every food pyramid. Why, then, can’t we offer ourselves enough credit to share our adjectives between genders and truly appreciate the multitude of combinations that are born from them to produce billions of inimitable individuals?

I leave here an old poem I once wrote about homosexuality, which, I now sadly find, holds true even in light of this post.

We put people into boxes and pack them away

Label them with thick, black markers

And stow them under strong tape.

Until being boxed up eats at their muscles

Causing their minds to atrophy

And their limbs to ache from cries for freedom.

Until their tired fists pound hard enough

Against the feeble cardboard,

Bogged down by insults and spite

Bogged down by hatred and judgement

By the weight of fear.

Until those pounding fists meet fresh air

Contaminating it with the beating blood

Of someone hungry for love.

Wodehousian guilt

Books that hold letters of popular personalities, both personal and professional, are often published posthumously in an attempt to immortalize them. I enjoy reading letters and think they give me an insight into what a person truly was like - especially if they were writers or actors who portrayed only a part or none of their real selves in the public realm. It’s an intimate way of getting to know and, maybe, fall in love with those personalities even more than I did through the work I know them for.

Two months ago, I found 'Life in Letters', a book that put together all of P. G. Wodehouse's letters chronologically. Needless to say, I bounded with the kind of antiquarian joy that cannot be contained in a quiet bookstore, so I wielded my puny cash and clasped the goodness to my beating heart.

While reading the introduction to ‘Life in Letters’, I found it mentions that compiling this volume of letters comprehensively took a long time to achieve, and that this is the first time his life has been put in any kind of biographical order. PGW was a private man, hated intrusions into his life, and, even in his character sketches and writings, refrained from drawing parallels from his own life. He claimed that biographical evidence was irrelevant to understanding a work of art, and didn’t think his private life influenced his work in any way.
Despite the fact that this is a man of historical significance to the field of literature and that there are thousands of people eager to know what he actually was like, is it fair to abuse what he preserved all through his life simply because he’s long gone? By being famous and popular, does one automatically sign an unwritten contract to be stripped down bare and investigated? I'm worried about how unethical this is.

I feel Wodehouse frowning down on me for prying into his life and personal letters - letters that he probably wrote in the privacy of his home, that he was certain would find the eyes he intended them for alone. The cover of this book sports him smiling broadly, but I doubt that’s how he feels. I’m still wildly excited to know more about his life, to know what made him come up with the characters I’ve grown up reading, what drove the stories he created, how the brain of this genius of wit functioned. I want to put myself in the shoes of every recipient and fantasize about how it feels to hear from that beautiful mind - but this goes against his wishes. PGW, being someone I have respected, looked up to and loved for years, is haunting my conscience, and I'm convinced that I'm committing sacrilege.

You missed a comma.

There's a little bit of my grandfather in people all around me. In the vegetable seller outside my hostel, the night watchman, or even Dr. George Schaller.

Perhaps it's only when you lose someone dear to you that you realize how well you had memorized every bit of them - their mannerisms, their eccentricities, the way they held a pen, the way their eyes crinkled around the edges, or how they meticulously handled groceries. There's a lot more to a person than their interests, careers and legacies. A lot more than the objects they leave behind or the stories people share about them. We build our lives around goals and careers, and hold those ultimate targets higher up in our minds and hearts than our true everyday lives. But it's the little things that make us who we are, who made them who they were. The language, the gestures, the slow blinks of reassurance and unwarranted criticisms.  And, although this seems clear today, it's only in retrospect.

It's the reason why I watch an elderly biologist giving a lecture, know he reminds me of my Thatha keenly, but still have no idea why. It's a constant feeling of I-know-you-but-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-how feeling, where flashes of familiarity draw my attention and leave me perplexed as I wonder about what I'm missing so ardently. I find that I miss the presence and nuances more than the whole. The emptiness comes from a space of lacking interaction rather than physical vacuum. Little can replace a stray fit of laughter from a well-placed bad joke or the silent introspection from receiving a lengthy sermon.

With time, it's the laughter I remember more than the tears.
How can it not be so?