Flight

What I love about birds is their undeniable grace. There's something beautiful about flight. I admire how they surrender their bodies to the wind and float weightlessly. It must be liberating to throw themselves into zero substratum and find that an invisible cloud of nothing catches them mid-suspension, only to carry them closer to their destination. I wonder what it feels like to be propelled by something you cannot see, or to flap in unmoving air and not plummet. I wonder what it feels like to be affected by gravity only when chosen to be.

I want to spread my arms along a sea shore and be lifted by the breeze, being thrown in every direction but my own. But I wonder if I'd handle that kind of total surrender with ease. After all these years of treading my own path and falling (mostly) consciously, I wonder if I could truly let my body go. I wonder if a hatchling that jumps to its first ever flight feels the same way a bungee jumper does before taking off. I imagine a young being, barely feathered, throwing itself into adulthood, and I'm baffled by the strength of instinct that makes them embody courage. And, after those first few awkward flaps, when the young bird takes to the sky for the first time, grace seeps into its feathers and stays there. When something as fluid and seamless as air supports them, how can their bodies be any different?


~ These are some scribbles from my bird-book, last maintained three years ago. I miss the pure, unfettered joy of birding ardently, and rediscovering these notes made me crave it again all the more. I leave these here as a thank you to Tarun, who's steadily bringing the birdsong back into my life.

Mansi - The Chirput.

Field work was full of surprises, as often happens when your subjects of interest are two incredibly intelligent primate species. Of all, the best one was discovering that I would help take care of an abandoned infant macaque - affectionately named Mansi by the local Forest Department.

I was working on field one annoyingly sunny afternoon, when my troop decided to scale two cliffs and make me work up an even heavier sweat. They were just settling down into a clump of Pandanus trees for an afternoon snack and siesta, when a family I had come to know ambled along. They were there to lop some wood in that secluded forest patch, and they brought their bumbling, black-and-white dog along to keep watch. The dog, however, promptly hurtled towards the snoozing macaques, wagging his tail eagerly in hope to play. The macaques found in him a play thing rather than a playmate, slapping his snout and then jumping just out of his reach.

While the husband and son dodged the monkeys and got down to their business, the wife hid behind me, worried that the large male near my feet would jump up and swipe her. While she hid, she asked me if I had seen the Forest Department's "new baby monkey". She wasn't the first one to mention its existence, and I was beginning to take this rumour seriously. There was an air of secret celebration, as though the fertile Department had borne an infant to the island.

Before I knew it, I was brought face-to-face with this fragile, wrinkled, scrawny thing. She looked alone and crinkled in her makeshift cage. While I held onto the still-solid portions of my melting heart, I scooter-ed off to the marketplace where I found some milk powder, overripe bananas and a mother-macaque-sized soft toy. I whizzed back to the piddly one with these items to find her clutching the cane that formed the mesh of her cage. Her wet, brown eyes looked up at me with piercing longing, melting all that was left of my cardiac muscles.

I opened the door and offered her my arm, which she took with all four of hers and held onto with resolve. I could feel the thirst for contact in her grip, which seemed only to tighten with time and trust. She swung from my clothes, body and hair - never losing hold of me. I was starting to understand directly how these infants cling onto their mothers as they leap between trees and rooftops. With fingers and wrinkles which provide arboreal certainty across media, any movement was possible, no matter how petite. I remembered the way my sister wrapped her hand around my finger as a baby, and couldn't help wonder about how unimpressive human babies are when compared to our evolutionary sisters.

She clung for three hours - initially playing and eventually falling asleep. She climbed her way up into the inside of my shirt collar and slept in the warmth of my neck. I cupped her thin body with my palm, enveloping her entirely, as I felt her chest heave against me. She hugged my neck with her delicate, long, pink fingers. Her skin felt as soft as a newborn's, but had the texture of someone much older.

I felt a fierce protectiveness towards Mansi instantly. Spending that time with her felt more profound than I thought it would be. This young macaque had lost her mother, and somehow found her way into the human realm. Not so different, albeit larger, I found how I was a plushy candidate for the role of 'mom', and wanted nothing but to give her the best care within my control. If I was there only for another few months, I was going to try to do what was best by her.

When I peeled Mansi away and returned her to the enclosure, I felt cold and bare where she had been resting. I left her that night hoping ardently that she survives to an age where a troop would accept her. In the following days, we grew increasingly fond of each other, and I watched with hope and pride as she grew more dexterous and agile. I selfishly rejoiced on the inside when she preferred my arms to others, but always felt the bitterness of having to leave her island home soon.

Now, nearly 2000 kilometers away from her, with only sporadic updates about her health, I miss her ardently. Regardless of whether I see her again, the intensity in her eyes, the softness of her fur and the smell of her pee will forever remain etched in my mind.

Mansi, you lanky bit of jet-black hair, I hope you keep hanging on.

Ek chai toh peekar jao

The island of Great Nicobar is speckled with modest settlements. People from Bengali, Tamilian, Telegu, Ranchi, Punjabi and Maharashtrian communities left their homes in Peninsular India from 1969 onwards to colonize and gradually develop the island, originally occupied by Nicobarese and Shompen societies alone. Ever since then, they’ve cut down slivers of forest along the eastern coast to build homes alongside their allotted land, surrounded by paddy fields and coconut plantations. Within 30 years of their arrival, they collectively started schools and medical centres, set up a Forest Department, an Agricultural Department and several police stations – all distributed across a long road that ran along the coast, originating at Campbell Bay and ending at Indira Point, the southernmost tip of India.

Then, in 2004, a tsunami hit, washing out decades of hard work and development, not to mention hundreds of lives and homes. Ever since, the survivors have crawled back to a semblance of what once was, aided by Government subsidies and rations. Today, the previously spread-out habitation has shifted to a clumped distribution of nine villages along a new road – running along the coast and through forested hills for 35 kilometres.

When I came to the island to study human-macaque interactions, I had planned to divide my work into behavioural observations of the monkeys, and one-on-one interviews with the local communities to better understand their take on the issue, their experiences and collective histories. For the past six months, I’ve been regaled with tales of the monkeys I’ve grown so fond of. Simultaneously, though, I’ve been caught in an endlessly looped battle of wits – that of the peoples’ plight and the macaques’ actions. Picking a side can never be part of a scenario like the one present here – my heart wishes to be parted like my methodology, lending complete sympathy to both the people and the macaques.

Despite this, a new itch has been occupying my mind off-late, one of metropolitan disgust and guilt.

Having grown up in a place like Mumbai, where trust is scarce and home exists behind two closed doors bolted tight, places like the Andaman and Nicobar Islands seem like a confusing paradox of society at first glance. Here people enjoy company, the notion of having visitors arriving unannounced, making tea for a crowd, sharing meals and lives. Here, time is a gift that’s meant to be shared, not a constraint within which life seems fleeting. People from the metros shy away from interaction; we shield ourselves behind the illusion that sparing a moment to hear someone out will eat into our minimal allotment of cosmic time. Where did this manic selfishness arise? Or rather, when? Perhaps our fear of the unknown is further exacerbated by our unwillingness to learn more about the people around us. In a society where people are more numerous than our cranial capacity to retain, and where everyone is a stranger living by an unwritten code of order amuck observable chaos, could one open their arms wide and share tea, food and time? Even the eternal optimist within me leans towards a resounding, ‘‘no’’.

I’ve been to nearly 200 homes here in Great Nicobar. Most of these homes are left ajar, often with a flimsy curtain hanging by the doorframe. The shuffle of my feet and some stirring barks from nearby dogs attract the residents’ attention. Immediately a chair is produced, chai is placed over the stove and conversation is struck – all before knowing who I am or where I’ve come from. I was worried about being an intruder, an inconvenient blotch on their routine days. This anxiety didn’t last long, though. I soon found that wondering if a family would rather I didn’t visit is an insult to their culture of hospitality. Rejecting an invite to come in, have some nimbu paani or chai, or to stay for lunch is an offence akin to outright rudeness. I began to relax, welcome the hospitality, home-cooked meals and willing company with open arms, and it transformed the way in which the locals perceived me too. I became one of them, one who held onto no pretence or inhibition, and who partook of their characteristic islandic gossip. I have the families here to thank for my own personal growth – these lessons and realizations can’t be shaken irrespective of where I go from here.

When people who have so little, who’ve lost so much, can give so voluntarily without batting an eyelid, what is it if not arrogance that makes the privileged so stingy with their time, courtesy, respect and love? Sure, I may not welcome strangers into my home without a care in the world from here on out. But I know my conscience will sting deep if I fail to extend at least a shred of the decency that has been showered upon me through my travels. 

Trust

It’s been five months since I arrived on the island of Great Nicobar. I’m here to collect data for my Master’s thesis, which is focused around the Nicobar long-tailed macaque and its interactions with people. Much like the macaques in Southeast Asia, these guys have been creating steady havoc by raiding coconut plantations and vegetable gardens all over the island, and I decided to study their behaviour and the locals’ perceptions of the issue at hand. This is one of the three Nicobar Islands housing the rotund, grey, furry monkeys that have created a reputation for being intelligent, sneaky, dangerous and annoyingly prolific. Most people still stare at me in disbelief when they learn that I travelled ‘all the way from Bangalore’ to study what seem like every day, common pests.

These monkeys have faces that seem astonishingly readable at first glance. Unlike some of the other macaque species, they have long hair on their faces, but none around their eyes. Their eyelids are several shades lighter than the rest of their skin and body, and they stand out distinctly under their thick, bushy eyebrows. Their eyes tend to be a caramel brown – piercing when directed at you. When I first began following them, I was the one being observed. It took a month of respectful distance and nonchalance on my part for the troop to relax in my presence. During this period of habituation, I began to notice personalities and tendencies of several individuals and discover their responses to my body language. I took notice of them taking notice of other passers-by, but not of me. I realized at this point that they either trusted or tolerated me, and I was keen to know which one it was.

Initially, I found that I couldn’t sit down during the day. Every time I did, I suddenly became accessible; a curio that the larger males and enthusiastic sub-adults would make a beeline for, probably hoping to raid me for some food. They’d be abruptly aware of me, as though I appeared out of nowhere, and this bothered some of the more timid and cautious individuals in the group. Just as you’d find in a social gathering of people, within the troop, some monkeys take longer to warm up to you than the others, some are ever-suspicious, some are eager and inquisitive, and some simply don’t care. Soon, I found that majority of the troop fell into the last category. Having moved from an unwanted intruder that prompted an angry chorus of alarm calls through the forest patches to one of unexciting, repetitive and uninteresting demeanour, it felt like an achievement. Never before had I been as happy to be the one not worth noticing.

This being said, I’ve come to share some tickling moments in close proximity with those whose lack of concern for me led them to attempt interaction. On one such day, I sat down in the grass, tired from having walked after them for nearly eight hours. I put my clipboard in my bag and watched the monkeys groom themselves lazily in the cloudy afternoon haze. I suddenly felt one of the monkeys grip my shoulder. It was Tripod, one of the more dominant males of the group. Having made contact with me uneventfully, three other sub-adult males, a female and another adult male made their way up to me. From their casual strides and relaxed eyebrows, I felt rather confident that they meant no harm. They seated themselves around me; a couple leaned against me and began to doze off. My heart was thumping against my chest and I could feel the pulse in my neck – I was elated. Just then, their little hands began touching my arms and legs. They lifted my shirt sleeves to inspect underneath. They began to pick ants off of my pants and pop them into their mouth. Tara, another male, used his teeth ever so gently to pull off some scabs on my arm. I was being groomed. This lasted no longer than five minutes, before a female some feet away seemed to disapprove of the gathering. She raised her eyebrows rapidly, sounding low alarm calls while shooting glances at several individuals around me. I rose and stood back slowly, and the female went back to grooming her infant, as though the whole thing never happened.

On another day, I was standing fairly close to the troop while noting down some data, when a huge fight broke out among the monkeys. Nearly every adult ran frantically to the centre of conflict and the air filled with their calls of skirmish. I was left standing amidst those who opted out, now some distance away from most of the troop. As the ruckus died down, the adults slowly sauntered back to where I was. There was palpable tension in the air that I couldn’t shake; it seemed like they couldn’t either. Several monkeys searched me with their eyes as they passed by, something that was rather unusual. A couple of them sent rapid signals to the others, and several began grunting at me. The males pulled themselves up to their full, impressive height and advanced towards me in an unamicable fashion. A couple yanked at my pants and bared their teeth. Once more, I silently backed away, and they settled down almost instantly.

I realize now that even if what they have toward me is tolerance, they trust me to understand their signals. In both the occasions I related (and some more which I didn’t), the monkeys could have easily torn me to shreds with their remarkable canines and hardy nails; they have with others in the past. They could have chased me far away from where they rested; again, they have with others in the past. Instead, they chose to provide me with a minimalistic warning and let me off easy. Maybe they were okay with having a human amidst them who hadn’t tried to harm them thus far, unlike nearly every other person they encounter each day. Whatever the reason, these events help me stay grounded and remember never to take their acceptance for granted. I have utmost awe and respect for these animals, no matter how amusing, strange and quirky they can be at times.

These fantastic, wild creatures are complicated. They have moods, personalities and emotions; and I don’t feel presumptuous for saying it anymore. Watching them day in and day out for these past few months only convinces me of this further. Perhaps the data I collect will fail to portray this, with only numbers telling tales of their behaviour, but the experiences I’ve had with them will remain more fascinating and dear to me than can be statistically discernible.