My book showcased in World Birdwatch March 2013

When you finally decide to publish your birding notes!

There will invariably come a juncture in the life of a birdwatcher when the desire to record, for posterity, what has been seen and experienced in the field becomes almost overpowering, and that enthusiastic moment, when the observation gets transformed into the black and white cement of print, is vital for ornithology, for the note will now join the library that forms the rank and file of recorded bird study.

But when this journey of the observation, from the mind’s eye to the pen hovers over a blank sheet of paper, it does pay to pause and ponder the very process. What should comprise the framework of the note?

You would have some written notes about the encounter in your field notebook—these should form the very backbone of your paper. If you did not commit to paper or to pixel what you thought was unique and worthy of reporting, then you are on slightly shaky ground, for memory is truly a flighty bird in the bush. So always jot down as many details as you possibly can on the spot. Try and sketch the bird, if a photographic record is not possible. Do not bother about it being pretty, but always aim for accuracy of description. These are your primary data and therefore the very bedrock of your tryst with the printed page.

Once you are convinced that you have something novel to share with fellow ornithologists, you need to bolster that conviction with historical support, for science is indeed the process of building upon earlier blocks, with the inviolable premise of general integrity being the primary ethic of the ornithologist. Search published literature for more information on your theory or observation. Assess the past objectively, logically, dispassionately, and weigh in the balance of fact versus ‘flight of fancy’ whether what you thought was new is truly so. Ponder if what you observed substantially adds to the sum of knowledge. Does it provide any fresh insight? These are the points you will have to ruminate over. Perish the thought of publishing, if it is not so, treating the exercise not as one in futility, but educative.

But if it is true, then zoom out and observe the entire overall picture, to re-assess how your unique observation fits in the larger jigsaw puzzle. Once you are convinced, plunge in and try to go to the source of every available and relevant past record. If this entails delay and tribulations, so be it. For the fruit always tastes best when ripe. Summarize clearly and cogently what you have researched, for you must cite references in appropriate places to support your marshalled data. [The citations should correspond to an alphabetically, chronologically arranged bibliography listed under a references section at the end of your paper.] Do not fear if you plough up more of the field than required, for at least you will have the satisfaction of not leaving any stone unturned. Now separate the cheese from the chalk and prudently select only the most relevant references for your paper.

Conclude with a succinct discussion, about your theory or observation, to arrive at what you have deduced. This is your framework, a foundation based on fact, supported with historical documentation, and a discussion that positively clinches your point of view.

Your work is done, or so you presume. But it is only half the battle won. You need to study the ‘house-style’ of your target journal. By this I mean, begging the indulgence and presumption of the wizened, the way the journal crosses its ‘t’s and dots its ‘i’s; the way it uses capitalization; the lay of geographical terms; the style how citations are inserted; the precise method of the reference section; the taxonomic style; the English and scientific nomenclature it subscribes to, and so forth.

The best way of doing this is to look up any guidelines to authors that the journal might carry within its pages or on its website. You must also try and get a previously printed issue of the journal to help you to study the style of articles published within its covers.

When you have legitimate facts, have completed your homework, and have fully understood the house style, you are finally ready to put pen to paper. When it’s done, sleep over what you’ve written. Review it afresh. Show it to your peers and professors. Encourage constructive criticism with a view to improvement. Badger them to assess the scientific rigour and to comment on language—for your aim is to write in a way that conveys a primarily scientific or semi-scientific subject to a lay, non-scientific readership with both simplicity and accuracy. Trust me, when I say, that your harshest critic at this stage is your best friend, compared to the talons that will inevitably slash your note in the peer review, or worse, the beaks of sharp readers that will slice you like a thrush dispatching a worm.

A paper that is authentic, that has veracity, that has followed the house style of the journal, and whose language is clear and simple, immediately attracts the attention of the perpetually harassed editor, who picks it from the morass of misguided manuscripts littering the desk, joyously recognizing your efforts in making it what it is, and sending it off to one or more peer reviewers—that tribe of gurus who can be either the bane or the benediction of a manuscript, relegating it to the dreaded TO DO pile, if it is tardy, or fervently pouncing on it with zealous red-inked pens if it is not.

Revere the bloodstained shreds of your manuscript when they finally return from their dreaded baptism by editorial fire. Dress all the wounds carefully, meticulously, and lovingly—snipping, stitching and applying salve. Leave no wound unattended for it will surely fester till you are forced to nurse it back to health.

After the mandatory period of convalescence, when you sleep over your handiwork, revisit it once again, calmly and dispassionately, before marching it off once again to the editor.

When finally the printed journal is in your hands, and you see only one name in its many pages, the trauma of labour is instantly forgotten and you, once again, take up your mighty pen.

Review: Of birds and birdsong

Of birds and birdsong. 2012. New Delhi, India: Aleph Book Company. Hardback (15 x 23 cm), pp., [1–10], 11–328. Editors: Shanthi & Ashish Chandola. 

It was my friend, Shiva, who introduced me to the writing of M. Krishnan, pointing me to his iconic fortnightly column, ‘Nature Notebook,’ in The Statesman. We were starved for nature writing in the early 1980s, and though, frankly, a wait of fifteen days between each hungrily-devoured column was surviving on starvation rations, it brought inexplicable succor to those who yearned for a glimpse into the familiar-unfamiliar world of urban and suburban wildlife; into the entirely unknown universe of forest life; into the mysterious realms of animal behaviour; into the elemental earthiness of natural history—all of which existed at a pace that defied the clock, but communicated by Krishnan in a style of writing that has endured tick-tock’s inexorable march through the decades of our lives.

There was no other naturalist of his day, as ‘compleat’ in his métier as Krishnan—writer, photographer, artist, conservationist, visionary, critic, and litterateur.

I was left dumbstruck one Wildlife week, when I entered the celebratory hall and was confronted by a life-sized monochrome enlargement of a gaur, gazing at all those who entered with the still deep eyes of a creature not chained to the concept of time. Only Krishnan’s consummate skill in jungle craft could have allowed him to take that picture.

Krishnan’s pen-and-ink sketches had the character of rustic woodcuts that encapsulated the essence of the creature he depicted. He had the knack of using surroundings to enhance the grain of that essence to great effect.

Krishnan’s dry humour was legendary. When the candid Krishnan met the redoubtable Sidney Dillon Ripley Jr., he purportedly confessed, “Mr Ripley, frankly I do not know whether to believe you or not,” punning with telling effect on the syndicated column.

What is it about his writing that it has endured the fickle vagaries of time, endearing itself over the years, to a larger, hungrier readership? Krishnan’s quill was steeped in an inkpot of “quiddity”; it spoke from the leaf-littered jungle floor, it wafted from the mango-blossom scented recesses of deep shaded groves, it thrummed from the toad-croak-rippled reedy swamp margin, it swayed from the wind-swept grasslands of the Deccan Plateau, with the conviction of first-hand knowledge gained from hours spent with his wild subjects, wherever they chose to reveal themselves, be they animal, plant, bird, insect, amphibian, reptile; or be they commensals—endemic canine breeds, or cattle, or poultry.

He absorbed the living non-human world, through senses sharpened during jungle forays, when he entered realms where the only skill that mattered was alert stillness. He honed that essentiality and used it with telling effect in his art.

The editors of this delightful anthology, Shanthi & Ashish Chandola, no newcomers to Krishnan’s work, have here compiled 87 essays on birds, and summed up the collection with two biographical reminiscences on Krishnan. They deserve the birding brigade’s gratitude for resurrecting this fascinating array of Krishnan’s avian wrenditions.

To quote him, to paraphrase him, to try and improve him, are all foolish pursuits deserving MK’s caustic reprimands. All you have to do is to sit down, and read this wonderful collection of his essays on birds, where every page shines with joyous insight! To me, this beautiful volume, caped in scarlet endpapers, is as essential on my birding bookshelf, as are the field guides.

[Published in Indian BIRDS]

Symphony of the air

The great virtuoso pianist, Van Cliburn, has passed on. I read his obituary in The Economist in a state of shock … that turned to elation for the talent of the man and the joy his music brought to my life.

How many numberless hours had I spent spellbound at the sound emanating, soaring, from a spinning long-play record, during my growing up years! That music spread to the tingling tips of my being till the world took an irrevocably aurum hue. Unimaginable emotions welled up within me ignited by that astonishing, that phenomenal power and intricacy of music.

Years later, by an inexplicable preordaining of innumerable coincidences, the love for ornithology and music found kinship with R and on a music drenched evening, I recalled to him the lost bars of Cliburn’s heart-stirring performance through the gleaming Grundig, smelling of warmed wax when its lid was lifted, in dad’s room. Too many years had passed, and I could not recall that heartbeat of opening bars … till R spoke of Richter and we watched that massive Russian sink his immense hands into a grand piano and draw from its innards such sinews of golden sound that I was pinned to my chair, tears smarting from unblinking eyes, the hair on my nape and upper arms set aflame by a resonating chord! That giant Russian virtuoso brought back Rachmaninoff’s immeasurably memorable 2^nd Piano Concerto … the very symphony of the air that I was enslaved to during my teenage years—a recording of Cliburn’s unbelievable performance that conquered Soviet Russia’s cultural heart.

The flood gates of emotional attachments need a mere stirring of memory to let loose a roaring deluge of days gone by … what bliss follows then, ruminating.

Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2

The bookstore that changed my life

One morning in the seventies, I lay raging with fever, and dad, apparently in a mood to alleviate my distressed spirits, enquired what would cheer me up. I have no books to read I answered. That evening, ten or twelve books were set at my bedside, much to my unconcealed joy.

They comprised a wide variety of genres: history, war, crime, boy’s stories, animal stories, westerns, biographies, and sport! Two days later he asked me whether I had selected the ones I wanted to keep. Yes, I responded unhesitatingly, all. Now I realize what made me want to keep all the books. I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to own them for their intrinsic worth, for the mesh of words they held, and the pictures that illustrated the stories they narrated, an urge to pour over these for extended lengths of time or simply to hold and handle them; flip through the gracefully fanned pages; inhale the aromatic letterpress ink, the spine’s glue. I was mesmerized by the geometric patterns books created when handled, or merely resting, horizontal, diagonal, or vertical. Since then books have been my constant companions.

Mom understood, thank goodness for mothers’ perceptiveness, that my thirst for words had become unquenchable, and started giving us, for my sister too had been bitten by the reading bug, and mothers are impartial in their largesse, Rs 30/- as monthly pocket money for, and here was her caveat, nothing but books. 

The only bookstore of repute in those days was A. A. Husain & Co., in the shopping area called Abids, and it belonged to dad’s close friend, Riyazat Husain Arastu, who ran it along with his twinkle-eyed son, Showkath. To us they were Husain sahib and Showkath bhai.

I met Husain sahib for the first time rather timorously, for even dad addressed him with the ‘sahib’ honorific, and I realized he respected him not simply as an elder, but because there was more to him than being a vendor of books. I learnt this however, over time, during subsequent visits to his bookstore. The gleam of interest in his eyes, when he spotted us climbing the two-three steps into his store, was because we were children, not because he knew father. I warmed up to him from day one, for in the inimitable way of the Hyderabadi, he responded fluidly to my hesitant, self-conscious aadaab, and held out both his warm hands for a handshake!

He quizzed our interests, peering at us with sharp, intelligent, bespectacled eyes. Upon hearing a title or author or even a genre, he nodded or raised an eyebrow towards a bookshelf, and an attendant scampered to gently ease out a book, and offer it to us reverently. This gesture, a common denominator between master and assistants, endeared me to the store. I had seen books being treated worse. The reverence was neither towards us, nor was it because books were their bread-and-butter. It was because they dealt with the intellectual sum of civilization; with the one inert item that when opened and perused had the power to transform the reader into the shapes of it desires. And they respected that strength of the inanimate letterpress in the way they handled books, presented them to customers, spoke about them.

Husain sahib was dissatisfied merely selling us books, and eventually enslaving us to the printed word. He was a natural hobbyist, a born collector, and a meticulous cataloguer, of stamps, coins, postcards, matchbox labels, and other ephemera of modern civilization. And he pressed these pastimes upon us as a natural corollary of reading. He fervently wished we transformed our bookish knowledge, our insatiable inquisitiveness beyond the world of books, into another realm that imbibed human ingenuity, endeavor, enterprise, engineering, and entrepreneurship — all through the simple tactile method of collecting stuff. We must husband our resources to understand the why fore and the whereof of say, a postal stamp, or a coin. His aim was to light a spark that unleashed a raging, flaming thirst for knowledge, circumscribed human intellect and quenched itself in the stream of infinite satisfaction that an absorbing hobby could become.

Did Husain sahib succeed? I do not really know the answer to that. But this I know: I’ve been an avid bibliophile, a crazy bibliomaniac, and an intensive birdwatcher for the past three decades, and I read constantly.

The reason for reading as though my life depended upon it, was Showkath bhai’s charming influence. He was an intuitive tuning fork to a reader’s vibrations. He never pushed an author at you, but suggested one with wonderfully restrained subtlety, as though introducing a friend. Invariably he succeeded, for he followed closely the meanderings of my growing reading preferences, keenly listening when I responded to his probing queries. He encouraged me to read Leon Uris, urging me to ignore the thickness of the paperbacks. I was enthralled by the history of the people of Israel, by Ari’s saga, by the human emotions, frailties, ideals, and values that had to be beaded like jewelry on a single golden thread of storyline. All stories comprise the interplay of these recurring subjects and themes, and I read, dumbstruck at the kaleidoscopic handling, the unique word play of different men and women of letters, as they struggled in their own smithies to forge these phenomena into captivating stories.

When I asked for the novels of Wilbur Smith, a fleeting hesitation shadowed his eyes, but he quickly pulled out the entire shelf and bade me select. I began with the panoramic saga of the Courteneys, and spent days in a stupor, drugged by the power of the tale, by the gift and art of this magnificent storyteller.

Through the various sub-genres of fiction, Showkath bhai whetted my quest with an amazing lineup of authors whose works I took to like a fish takes to water. He then added two genres from the non-fiction shelf: philosophy, and history. He must have pulled out Will Durant’s The story of philosophy at least on three–four of my visits, till he finally convinced me to take a copy home and return it if I did not like it. I read it only a couple of years later, and have been fascinated ever since, by the subject itself, and by Durant’s incomparable style. Like Husain sahib, Showkath bhai too was keen to promote the reading habit, rather than sell books. He would withdraw, after preliminaries, and allow me the run of his store. Time was never of the essence and I recall one or two evenings when I was the last customer to leave. I was so engrossed in the books, I’d forgotten myself.

Over the years I read Hemingway, Steinbeck, Maugham, Greene, Conrad, Conan Doyle, Updike, Wallace Stegner, Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell, Alistair Maclean, Desmond Bagley, Agatha Christie, Peter Mathiessen, Willa Cather, Thomas Hardy, Ayn Rand, and many more. To be fair to him, Showkath bhai accepted with grace when I declined any of his suggestions, and I particularly recall James Hadley Chase, Perry Mason, and Hammond Innes among those I turned from. I would try and read all the books of an author, and almost all were bought off Showkath bhai’s shelves. 

A. A. Husain & Co., was a veritable fairyland for an ogling teenage bibliophile, but it had restricted display space, only two large glass windows on either side of its entrance. All one could see of books, once inside the store, were their spines. For some reason I never asked Showkath bhai why all his books were shelved horizontally. I studied them and was so familiar with their layout that I was able to say if a book had been moved. Patterns fascinated me, and a theme on the covers of books by one author, published by a single publisher often stuck in my mind. The solid shelf of black spines, of Penguin Classics’ iconic paperbacks always snagged my eye. It was such a pleasure browsing titles and their legendary authors. I was blessed in having this father and son duo as mentor and guide when I began to read passionately. A. A. Husain & Co., held the charm of the proprietary bookstore run by a knowledgeable, approachable, conversational, owner who effused an endearing personal touch, which is almost unheard of in the glittering corporatized world book business has become. The transformation of the trade, from friendly neighborhood bookstore, to glitzy, multi-cloned pan-continental chain stores has shriveled the passionate bond that existed between the reader and the bookseller. Now dog-eared stackers and speed-reading cashiers people these temples of learning, and browsers are often labeled loiterers.