Friday, November 30, 2012

Save Flamingo city - letter to Hon'ble Minister, MoEF


28 November 2012

Smt. Jayanthi Natarajan
Minister, Environment & Forests
Paryavaran Bhawan
Lodi Road 
New Delhi 110003


Dear Smt. Natarajan,
Sub: Flamingo city

I write to you once more to strengthen your hand in your laudable efforts to protect our country’s unmatched wilderness areas. This time it is in support of your battle in Gujarat, where that fantastic oddity of the natural world, the flamingo, is threatened by a proposed road whose purpose is dubious, and for which, if it must be constructed, there is an alternate that will fit the original intent—and, vitally, by-pass Flamingo city, sparing this natural pink-city of India, which is also the expressed intention of your ministry.
            There are Indians who question your stand, bringing up an overused, but generally effective bugbear—is the safety of flamingos above the defense imperatives of our country?
            The vehement answer, Smt. Natarajan, is a resounding YES. The perpetrators of the query are myopic. Their concern for our country’s safety is single-minded, not multi-pronged. They assume external aggression as the only threat we face.
It is an universal truth often forgotten amidst the intoxication of our hubris, that the boundaries of all political entities are protected not only by forces raised from within human society, but that the land itself defends us from within by the mesh of its physical features, its rivers, forests, grasslands, estuaries, lakes, hills and mountains, deserts, etc. These may seem barriers to our lebensraum, but they most definitely are part of the natural defense systems of our land, mantling us protectively within their ecological clockwork. No such natural area is ever sanitized of its inhabitants to be replaced permanently by an unnatural one, without the rending of the fabric of our country’s ecology, and hence safety. It cannot be. That is a simple rule of the cosmos. To try and sanitize a habitat, by superseding its incomprehensibly intricate vitality by a shortsighted, short-termed goal, be it a road that will enhance our country’s security, is a folly with insidious ramifications. One whose domino effect, the successful foisting of a single agenda, external threat, as a panacea for bulldozing projects through ecologically sensitive areas, will lay bare, one by one, each and every vital physical organ of our country, as though she were inflicted with an auto-immune disease, and destroy her from within.
            Flamingo city is one such natural phenomenon. It cannot be conceived as a simple tree in a forest; one among many. It is a standalone wonder, unrivalled on Earth, like the Gir forest, pride of Gujarat, is. A duplicate does not exist. Gujarat guards the Asiatic lion with all her teeth. She should also be made to understand the irreplaceable worth, the intrinsic value, the immense cultural connotations, and the responsibility that comes with authority, of safeguarding of Flamingo city and its denizens.
In a much-loved literary classic, wherein flamingos too figure, an adventurous young girl arrives at a crossroads, and asks of a rabbit, which path she should take. That depends, he replies, on where you want to be.
Gujarat, and indeed, every corner of our glorious land stand at just such crossroads. Every decision will hinge on the rabbit’s pitch. Where do we want to be?
We cannot sacrifice the remnants of our natural defenses, the internal bastion of stability vital to our survival, for the demigod of external threat. We must take a stand upon the grounds of reason and convince our fellow citizens that a façade of safe political boundaries, protected by interventional infrastructural solutions, is not prudence but a charade of public-deception unless the natural resources of our country are also safeguarded.
I support you wholeheartedly in your defense of Flamingo city.

Thanking you,

Yours truly,


Aasheesh Pittie

Friday, July 06, 2012

Narcondam Hornbill: My letter to Smt. Jayanthi Natarajan MoS Environment & Forests


26 June 2012

Smt. Jayanthi Natarajan
Minister of State for Environment & Forests (Independent Charge)
Chairperson, Standing Committee of the National Board for Wildlife
Ministry of Environment & Forests, Government of India
Paryavaran Bhavan, CGO Complex, Lodi Road
New Delhi 110003


Dear Smt. Natarajan,

Sub: Narcondam Hornbill

I write to you, as I am concerned about the future of the ‘Endangered’ Narcondam Hornbill Aceros narcondami. I glean from the media that there is a proposal from the coast guard to set up a manned radar station and supporting power generation plants on Narcondam Island, citing security of the nation as their prime, and laudable reason.

Members of the NBWL would, no doubt, have apprised you about the inherent fragility of island ecosystems. I would just like to emphasise that Narcondam Island is so small a rock, comprised of such a shallow surface of volcanic soil, that any violation of its ecology by an alien invasive species, whether by design or by accident, is almost certain to trigger a cycle of events that might spiral towards disaster for its denizens. The coast guard’s proposal is a recipe for such a catastrophe, given the nature of the project, the size of the entire island, and the natural diversity at stake: construction crews, feeder roads, clear-felling, support staff, maintenance crews, accessibility infrastructure, etc. The possibility of unwanted seeds of weeds, like parthenium or lantana, reaching the island via construction sand is very real. The aftermath of such an eventuality is scary. You know that Narcondam Island suffered an explosion of feral goats in the recent past. This menace has been controlled with great difficulty, and the island’s vegetation is slowly recovering from their depredations.

What will happen to the endemic hornbill, which does not exist anywhere else on Earth, if its unique island home becomes another cog in the machinery of human civilization? India has the proud and immense responsibility of ensuring its safety in its present pristine state of existence, for we are answerable to ourselves and to future generations as to how we treat our planet. How will we justify the strange paradox that we erected this large eye to spy on the world, while we lost sight of what was in our backyard?

Dear Madam, the greater issue here is not the security of the state, but the safeguarding of a unique life form, evolved over millennia, super specialised to exist upon that single dot of terra firma called Narcondam Island. I am sure that if your ministry unequivocally upholds Narcondam Island as inviolate, you would not only nudge the coast guard to look for appropriate locations elsewhere, thus fulfilling their security concerns, but also ensure the continued existence of an exquisite form of life unique to a part of India—an enduring legacy indeed.


Thanking you,

Yours truly,


Aasheesh Pittie

Trustee, New Ornis Foundation
Editor, Indian BIRDS

Thursday, June 21, 2012

My kind of birding


In recent years I have often heard a refrain that one sees the same species of birds on field trips. Initially I would get cross at such an observation, which was remiss of me, for everyone does not think the way I do, and that’s okay. Later I was bemused, for how could new species be ordered up for a birder? Now I am concerned, for I think this is a symptom of a deeper malady.
            I have been birding for a little over three decades, and never have I been put off by the prospect of seeing the same common species on a birding outing. When something new turned up during outings or a rare bird was sighted, we were ecstatic. The excitement ignited a sense of awe in the entire group. But I cannot recall even one instance of a birder complaining about the lack of species novelty. So this lament is new to my ears.
            I feel that it is a symptom of a syndrome often called boredom, which is particularly prevalent in the digital generation for whom the predilection to channel-surf through life’s situations is an overpowering need, and this gives them a false sense of control over their lives, of the desire to change a situation at the mere press of a button. The downside of this is an ever-decreasing attention span. If this phenomenon begins to seep into one’s very nature, then activities that are not considered ‘essential’ in the life of a person, say leisure, inevitably fall prey to a ceaseless, futile hunger for novelty in whatever one does. Given such a bent of mind, and with the mind-bending peer pressures rampant today, how long will it take, I often ask myself, before this malady leaches into the more essential areas of the fabric of one’s life? I see signs of it daily in traffic snarls. Tempers flare at the avoidable inconvenience, but people do not hesitate to slip out of their lane on spotting a chance for a quick exit. If everyone stuck to traffic rules, the flow would, undoubtedly, be smoother.
            Leisure activity, as I was saying, is the first victim of such aberrant behaviour. I am of the firm belief that the constant desire to spot at least one species never seen before, and the paradoxical moaning that follows the no-show of a new species is a symptom of the channel-surfing mindset. I am concerned about such an overpowering desire for novelty, when a dynamic activity like birding, becomes suspect of being mired in stagnation, and the disgruntled birder actually begins to wonder whether it would be worth the while to spend another mundane morning tramping through the countryside, chasing the same old birds!
            Bird watching is not an eternal quest for rarity, though no birder denies the thrill of sighting one. It is not about racing all over the landscape and tallying a century of birds before lunch, though no birder will deny the special joy of such a ‘ton.’ It is not twitching for the most number of species seen, though there have been many that have basked in the sunshine of that self-indulgent high-life (they truly miss the woods for the trees).
            Bird watching, in its essence, is the fine art of becoming invisible; of merging into the surroundings in such a manner that the breath which Nature has held back upon your entry into Her parlour, is joyfully exhaled, and normal respiration restored; in such a way that the frozen statues of animate wildlife, interrupted by your brashness, are coaxed into resuming their activities; in such a way that your aural and visual senses are drenched with the buoyancy of life; in such a way that you get outside yourself and become a part of the pageant around you.
            This does require the cultivation of a patience that slows down your pace to that of the elemental cycles dominating the flow of life in an immaculate world run entirely without human help. It requires the marshalling and re-aligning of vision, and a new focus of hearing so that you absorb every single sound and identify its source, and gradually its nuances, its cadenzas. It demands the preoccupation with stillness.
            What are the rewards of this exercise? I can think of at least two that will last you a lifetime. One, you would have begun to notice things about your surroundings that you never knew existed, bringing you immediate, immeasurable joy. Two, you would have wound down your restless inner dynamo to such an extent that you would discover a quietude, a stillness within you; a fount for a fresh view of your surroundings, a new approach to life, based on re-energised sensitivities. But first you must do this.
            Then suddenly a new world opens its doors to your mind’s eye. You remain standing in front of a fruiting neem, while the large group of birders moves on, having identified one or two species. You inhale the aroma of its foliage. A fluty whistle from its canopy leads your eye to the Iora. He is dressed in breeding regalia—jet cap and coat, deep canary shirt, white epaulettes. He courts a hen iora with song, he postures, he patrols; his aria persuades her and dissuades rivals from his territory. You do not exist in his scheme of things, just in your own sensory world, as a witness. You stay with him as he perambulates the leafy canopy, lifting his warbling beak skyward, fluffing his velvet beret, vibrating his dark tail, standing on tiptoe in the fervour of his operatic song. You are trapped by its intensity. You are mesmerised by its elemental simplicity, by the realisation that the Iora’s entire world, in that moment, is its song, and that he has enmeshed you in it, albeit momentarily, till your focus expands to take in the larger picture, the shining curved leaves of the neem, the soft yellow fruit-pods, the darkened bark, damp from last night’s rain, the tangled undergrowth.
            A movement you spy, from the corner of your eye, and realise it is an Ashy Prinia that’s flown into the Iora’s neem, and you stay with it. As your senses expand, your absorption of the drama around you becomes acute and before you are aware of it, you are invisible to yourself, a part of the very landscape you’ve come to partake, all eyes and ears, inhaling its scents, feeling it on your skin. If you become aware of yourself, the spell is broken and the pageant melts away into simple, mundane, two-dimensionality. The trick is to be yourself invisible, but completely present in your surroundings. Now you are on the path to my kind of birding.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Bibliography of South Asian Ornithology

I am thrilled to announce that my bibliography on South Asian Ornithology went online yesterday! The team that made is possible comprises Suhel Quader, Anush Shetty, and Pavithra Sankaran, with inputs from Sainath Vellal.


Please visit at: www.southasiaornith.in

Tuesday, August 02, 2011

University of Hyderabad: of birds and a menhir


I begin scratching in my notebook no sooner we’re parked, the birding stuff taken out, and the cars locked. The ears direct my pencil, more than the eyes; the birds, of course, are always around, either visible, or audible.
Our large group troops behind today’s guide, Prof. KSR, meandering through a filigree of vegetation, towards a promised water body. I lean against a boulder and jot my tenth species, when a newcomer peers at the notebook and timorously enquires whether all those birds were seen today! His disbelief at my affirmative is expected. Most rookies do not even register birdcalls when they begin, considering them a part of background noise. He staggers away, following those who have vanished behind a screen of thorny foliage. The noisy chatter and laughter from that direction is discouraging, disturbing. Unwritten birding law frowns upon such audible excess and sudden violent movement. Breaking it is counter-productive for the birds are scared off by loud talk. But its okay I guess, for this is a day of fun birding.
I too move towards the hullabaloo and arrive at an opening in the vegetation that widens into the Gundla-kunta, a small shallow pond, with floating vegetation, and partly bouldery shores. Our group stands on some flat rocks, on its north-eastern corner. With the sun behind us we have perfect light for birding. There are a number of species actively engaged in feeding, and other activities. It is an idyllic scene. Well, almost.
This little glittering wetland, so endearing to the birds that use it, is also a dumping ground for sundry items of garbage, and a popular graveyard for that peculiar symbol of mindlessness, the shattered beer bottle. The place is littered to the gills. Empty bottles float, open-mouthed, all over the dimpled surface of Gundla-kunta. Shards of glass glint on the shores and the rock we are gathered upon crackles with it underfoot.
This act of utterly avoidable irresponsibility shocks and angers me, for it is an indignity meted to that which I revere. This was, after all, an institution for higher studies. Educated people, yes, even in the tenets of a civil society, live and study here. Does this fact absolve them of civilised behaviour and its collective, social responsibility? The wanton defacing of a public place needs a special germ of callousness to start it. The first bottle which is brought out into this pristine (read devoid of garbage) landscape, packed with care lest it break, and leak what it holds, once emptied of its contents, becomes a burden to take back for proper disposal. Chucked or shattered it simply catalyses similar future indiscretions. Such a sacrilegious act of despoliation soon assumes the dirty patina of a regular dump. Subsequent visitors see this ‘convenience’ rather than the natural beauty of the landscape beyond, which it besmirches. And before one realises what is happening, the blight takes hold.
Should not a society that permits unrestricted access to public places also demand that such areas be left in the same, clean state they were found? The self-discipline that achieves this is a social prerequisite, and really small change, in terms of the effort required, for the solace of unblemished landscapes. So what does one do to remedy the scourge? To my mind, the only solution that might last is the involvement of the perpetrators to clean their own backyard. Yes, in this case, finding the polluters might be difficult. So involve the entire campus. Let the USP of the exercise be pride in a clean campus! If this involves the teaching staff, local celebrities, environment groups, etc., so much the better! Do this every six months and I am sure it will make a huge difference, a marked shift in attitude, instil a sense of belonging to the place.
While we stand for an hour and watching birds, the excitement and enjoyment is palpable—and why not? We spot over 25 species from that one spot. Besides their ‘normal’ activities of flying around, feeding, swimming, and perching, there is some hilarious act-like-something-one-is-not, to confuse the smug birders. There are personal highlights for me—a family of dabchicks comprising fussy parents, and three precocious black baubles cavorting in the water; both species of jacanas, in different parts of the pond; and, the rare darter (two!) planing overhead in absolute abandon.
Now there are those who will argue that this diversity illustrates the indifference of wild nature to the minor callousness of devil-may-care citizenry. But that is just a senseless, myopic argument, from those who are happy to accept the visible, immediate present, as the only reality. Unfettered pollution, let it be clearly understood, ultimately wipes out entire life-cycles found in such ecosystems, big or small, gouging out the soul of a landscape, leaving behind a pauperized state of barrenness. A ‘wilderness’ overtaken by the detritus of an insensate community is a sad reflection of the state of a collective conscience, an objurgation of the right to call ourselves sentient beings.
Prof. KSR leads us northward, circuitously, through a fallow green field of rough ankle-high grass, to the earthen bund of Gundla-kunta. As soon as we scramble up its sloping side, an aura of an ancient presence, an antiquity, not so much geographical, as civilisational, is sensed. The tamarind trees leaning away from the slope are old. He says there is archaeological evidence from this very campus of millennial human occupation, even of the cultivation of millets, that much-ignored cereal. It is quite likely that this very kunta irrigated nutritious crops for several generations of Dravidians. To desecrate and pollute sacrosanct ancient sites of historical import is as sacrilegious as graffiti-scrawled monuments. What conscience permits such a strain of cultural defacement?
The atmosphere of the kunta, is so different from the bund. Angled sunlight shines on its surface. Sounds are muted under these brooding old trees, on a ground carpeted with several seasons’ leaf-fall. Wonder borders awe, and a strangely elating joy laces with deference, as though we have chanced upon a tiny gem of a marvel here, which each of us, from the glint in our eye, seems to carry away.
The walk to the nursery tosses some more birds in our path. Jaunty-tailed Indian robins, electrifying wagtails, a mysterious lark, a pair of amorous munias, and a fervently pleading plaintive cuckoo.
Tea follows, in the university’s canteen, and then, near the entrance to the campus, Prof. K leads our motorcade into an abandoned plantation of lanky-boled, thinly foliaged trees. Parking the vehicles we walk to what turns out to be the most amazing sight of our trip—at least for me: a four thousand year old granite menhir, a pre-Iron Age monolith to honour the dead. It would have taken gargantuan brawn to make it stand, or remarkable ingenuity. We shoot pictures of the group around this gigantic tombstone. Then we disperse.
Walking back to the cars, we are appalled at the lamentable repetition of litter. All around this historical monument, this irrefutable evidence of four millennia of human life, lie the same shameful broken bottles, epitomising the complete erosion of respect for culture and history, of a complete lacking of any sense of propriety that collective responsibility demands, of the lack of even a modicum of shame at negating personal margins of social obligation and behaviour.
I depart with mixed feelings: exaltation in the sense of perspective that history and archaeology provide; wellbeing from a morning spent outdoors chasing birds; utter shame at the insensitivity of fellow humans. But towering over all these emotions is a sense of rage—and the realisation that ultimately, an education only leads the horse to water.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Bikram Grewal interviews me …

This interview by Bikram Gewal was first hosted on www.kolkatabirds.com. The text below contains three questions, and answers, that were deleted from that website.

Question: How did a young boy from a business family in Hyderabad get involved in the world of birds?

WWF was the great trigger. Its Andhra Pradesh representative, late Capt. N. S. Tyabji, spoke about birdwatching in my school, which was an eye-opener, as I did not even know such a term existed! It was also the age of WWF’s posters. They issued a slew of endearing ones of tiger, and leopard cubs, etc. I became a WWF member, enrolled in its Nature Clubs of India movement, and through its newsletters (I still have all the copies) learnt much, including about Dr Salim Ali, and the BNHS. I persuaded dad to buy me Salim Ali’s Book of Indian Birds, which he did, and also made me a member of Bombay Natural History Society! Then I looked at birds through binocs, and was permanently hooked.
Despite my interests seeming an oddity in society, my parents were my anchor and support. I was a sort of introvert, and liked the world of books. Birding too, like reading, is a hobby that can be pursued entirely by oneself, with a great deal of satisfaction. Gradually I realised that birding had enough in it to not just interest me for a lifetime, but was also an avenue for channeling my energies in stuff I am fairly good at, like, research. We are happy humsafars.

Q: You have been at the helm of affairs, for some time, of the Birdwatchers’ Society of Andhra Pradesh. It is a very vibrant group. One of the criticisms about the group is that they do not play an activists’ role. Your comments.

Activism requires a great deal of dedication, knowledge, and time, besides knowledge of the law. It also demands a kind of stability that comes from simple infrastructure like an office (an address), and at least a few people who are constantly available and willing for such work. The membership of BSAP is always in a state of flux. Its main aim is to spread the joy of birding among people. Not activism. It has a varied membership comprising people of all ages, and diverse lifestyles. We were always clear that we would not get into activism but support it from the outside by supplying information about birds and their habitat to both, activists, and the government. There are several committed activist groups out there and they are doing a great job. Lets just say that there are activists and there are birders, and we belong to the latter bunch.

Q: What is your opinion of the current state of birdwatching in India today? How has it changed over the years?

Birdwatching, happily, is in a robust state of growth in India today. The past three decades have seen enormous changes in the way people communicate and learn, through digital technology. The Internet is a great smorgasbord of floating information free for use, available at the touch of a key and the speed of light. This is a metamorphic leap. Increasingly scientific journals and period books are available as PDFs online. Email has brought the entire worldwide community into easy contact. The gathering of information is child’s play, but the conversion of that into knowledge is every single person’s privilege.
The best part of the contemporary scene is the fact that it has truly fledged from the BNHS, and spread its wings across the country. In Dr Salim Ali’s time, anything to do with birds was either equated to the great man, or the BNHS. Not so any more. Scientists who graduated from BNHS or WII have begun small institutions all over the place and are driving research. Amateur ornithology was never stronger in India. Citizen scientists wield notebook and binoculars with great felicity. Suhel Quader has pioneered citizen science through MigrantWatch and SeasonWatch. Satish Pande and his group in Pune are involved in bird surveys, education, species-specific studies, ethno-ornithology, and publishing. C. Sashikumar and his colleagues in Kerala carry out systematic land, and pelagic surveys. Bishwarup Raha’s conservation and education efforts in and around Nashik are laudable. Nitin Jamdar has worked for more than a decade with Trevor Price on warblers. BNHS, of course, continues its ornithological commitments—conservation of endangered species, migratory bird studies, etc. There are so many more I would like to name! Other institutes have sprung up too, doing equally laudable work—SACON, NCF, NCBS, etc.
One amazing phenomenon revolutionising Indian natural history in general, is the resurgence of photography—again an offshoot of the digital age we live in. Whether for pleasure or for scientific documentation, photographers have produced an amazing catalogue of our fauna and flora, as witnessed by portfolios on websites such as India Nature Watch, and Oriental Bird Images. Photographers are combing the country for pictures of the unique and the undocumented. It is a fantastic time for Indian ornithology.

Q: You are the Indian representative of the International ornithological Committee in India. What do they do here in India?

The International Ornithological Committee was recast as the International Ornithologist’s Union in August 2010, during the last International Ornithological Congress in Brazil. Actually, I am an Associate Representative—a person whose name has been proposed for membership, but who is not yet elected, and so has no voting rights. However India has six member ornithologists in the IOU, since many years. Till this change of focus and formation of the IOU, the IOC comprised a body of 200 eminent world ornithologists, and its main work was conducting the four-yearly Congress. Now, having broadened its scope to include different categories of memberships, its objectives and purpose have been substantially enlarged to encompass a wider range of issues, among which are dissemination of information, promotion of international cooperation among organizations, strengthening locally-based research, and reaching out to amateur ornithologists. A fund has been mooted for the first time to meet envisaged expenses.
More than a decade ago there was an effort to form an organization in India, called the Ornithological Society of India (OSI), with Shri Zafar Futehally as its Chairman. Despite several meetings, it petered out. One of its objectives was to try and get the IOC to hold a Congress in India. However, the future of cooperation with the IOU looks bright, and organizations, and individuals should contact them directly.

Q: You attempted (With Ranjit Manakadan) to standardise common and scientific names of the birds of the Indian Subcontinent. Subsequently Tim Inskipp and then Pam Rasmussen came up with their versions. How relevant is your version in today’s date?

Ranjit was preparing a list of English names of birds for the BNHS, and I realised that it was a good opportunity of adding to it the correct, and full scientific nomenclature of each species, thus making it a proper checklist of the birds of India, something that was lacking in such a compact form. Asad Rahmani, Director of the BNHS, agreed that this was a good idea, and encouraged us. Ranjit’s part was preparing the list of English names; mine, of compiling the full scientific nomenclature of each species, including binomen, author, and year of publication. Though I say it myself, I think we produced a neat document that was published in Buceros. It should be updated periodically, for nomenclature and taxonomy are both in constant flux these days due to the revolutionary techniques of studying DNA to determine the status of avian taxa in the phylogenetic tree.
Though Indian ornithologists began using ‘our’ list extensively, the BNHS itself seemed uncertain: their The book of Indian birds by Salim Ali (13th edition; editor, J. C. Daniel) converted all English and scientific names to our Buceros list, while their periodical publications seem to have tilted towards the Grimmskipp names. The Manakadan & Pittie list, as it is known, is in a unique position of adapting to the latest changes quickly, as it is now an online document. Like other countries, India too needs a credible ‘national’ checklist that is monitored and tinkered, and followed by ornithologists and scientific publications in our country.
I believe that the naming game is tourism driven. Birding has become a global phenomenon and the global birdwatcher does not like to confuse bird names. This move towards standardisation has robbed us of localised English names that have been in use for decades, and introduced some hilarious names in their place. In the final analysis, however, I must confess, it is the names given in popular field guides in circulation today, whether Ali, Grimmett et al., or the Ripley Guide, that will prevail.
In the second edition of our list I had written, “Change that benefits everybody is good. But change for the sake of change is another thing. The globalization of bird names impoverishes the unique culture, history, character and literature, the very fabric, of a nation’s ornithological history. Indian English names of birds are as cherished by us as are American English names by the Americans and UK English names by the British.”

Q: Your ‘dictionary of scientific bird names originating from the Indian region’ is personally fascinating to me. Are their many people in India who are really bothered with larger aspects of bird, other than just watching birds?

The meaning of words is a fascinating subject, especially if you are using a name regularly, without knowing what it means. I was always interested in etymology, and when I got a copy of James A. Jobling’s wonderful Dictionary of scientific bird names, it was a great revelation. I realised that there were so many birds that carried Latinised names that had originated from the Indian Subcontinent, that compiling them together would make an interesting document. I scoured the indices of the FBI and Handbook, listed names that sounded from this region. Then I tracked the original papers in search of etymology. Often the meaning was not given, and I had to search various ethnic dictionaries, query friends for suggestions, and trawl the Internet. It was a thrilling journey, and I still consider it time well spent.
The BNHS recently co-published a dictionary of bird names, authored by Satish Pande. I am sure their survey revealed a market for this type of book. But to answer your question, there is an increasing number of birdwatchers nowadays who go beyond birdwatching, by researching various aspects of a bird’s life, or general aspects of ornithology. This is possible because of the humongous amount of information available on the Internet, and the ease of communication that the digital revolution has brought about. Unlike the nineteenth century, when it could take up to six months for ornithological news to travel from Europe to the orient, or vise-versa, today, if a bird is sighted where it has not been recorded before, the entire world knows about it in a second! And ornithology is, after all, an evolving science, and so its history is always gripping.

Q: I had recently the pleasure of browsing through your personal collection of bird books, which must rank amongst the best personal collections. What do books mean to you?

My library is far from representative. It lacks several period works, which are now rare and cost a king’s ransom. I started collecting books on South Asian ornithology when I realised that there were hardly any comprehensive collections in India. I may be wrong here. I know for a fact that my friends Harkirat Sangha, and Rishad Naoroji, collect this genre, and I know that you have one of the finest libraries, but these are not enough, and the more access we have to books on the ornithology of our region, the firmer our foundations for future generations. I try to collect all editions of a book. Over the years books have assumed a huge importance in my life. I spend time with them, I browse them often, I rely on them, and I even simply sit in their company, with a sense of exquisite belonging, and kinship with the authors!
I am a book worm and read across several genres like, natural history, world history, literature, books on books, modern literature, historical fiction, WWII, etc. Books are my constant companions. They never complain, are never tiresome, and when I do not wish to hear them, all I have to do is shut the volume. Books decorate and furnish my room, my living space. I cannot imagine a world without books.

Q: You are India’s leading bibliophile when it comes to birds. Did this obsession grow with your passion for books?

Actually it grew out of my desire for readily available information. When I began birding, two publications contained papers and articles on birds, the JBNHS and the NLBW. The only book in fashion, and available, was SA’s BIB, and the expensive HB. But I realised that fresh information was pouring in constantly through the journals. I began indexing these under species’ names, and area, so I could keep up with new insights. Initially I maintained longhand foolscap sheets, filed alphabetically in a ring binder. Then I graduated to 5”x3” indexing cards, then computers. Somewhere along the way, Tim Inskipp, who incidentally might be the leading ornithological bibliophile for the Indian Subcontinent, advised that my database was shaping into an important archive, and that I should try and include everything published on birds. So everything has gone in, including books, journals, theses, newspaper articles, unpublished reports, Internet reports, etc. I feel that ultimately, a user has to decide what he/she wants from my database.
I have been able to compile this database because of two things. I am a touch typist, and I persevered, despite the hours upon hours spent pouring through libraries and their contents, juggling scientific names, counting pages, and plates, and scouring text and art with a critic’s eye.

Q: Your book “Birds in Books” is one of the most impressive documents I have seen in recent years, what were the traumas and travails involved in the writing and production of the book?

My friend, Ravi Singh, CEO of WWF-India, had often heard me talk about my bibliography, and how I wanted to put it online. Once he told me, “Forget the online stuff. What you need is a book on the shelf.” Frankly, that was what I too wanted, and so I began to think about how my large database could be converted into a book. That I could limit it to just books on South Asian ornithology came to me some time later, and I began working towards it.
Though pretty voluminous, this book was not traumatic, in that it got written over twenty years, as I collected and filed information on bird books. Computer software makes this process seem so easy. So in the final stage, there was no trauma. My friend, Rishad Naoroji, who has published the fantastic Birds of prey of the Indian Subcontinent, introduced me to my publisher Rukun Advani, who readily agreed to publish the book under his imprint, Permanent Black. I was fortunate in my meticulous editor, Rivka Israel, who smoothened the text. But the greatest help I received was from two people. One was Edward Dickinson, in the UK, and the other, Murray Bruce, in Australia. I have had the pleasure of meeting the former, but the latter, never. Murray and I communicated over email, and he shared his knowledge extravagantly with me. Edward took the manuscript on a holiday to Scotland, and worked on it there! Both of them hugely improved the work in terms of accuracy and content.
In a way I was also working on shaky ground. There were no extant bibliographies for South Asia. Those that did exist were family monographs or area specific databases, and either fragmented, or dated. The search for what was published in the interregnum was a fantastic journey.
I also had to learn the art of describing the physical geography of a book, an entire world with its own terminologies, and technicalities.

Q: Tim Inskipp pointed out that the one big omission from your book was the books published by the Zoological Survey of India. What were the reasons for this?

The only reason they are not in is that I left them for the end. That was my mistake. You see whenever I came across ZSI publications in libraries, I was sure that they would be easily available when I wanted to buy them, and that I would enter them into the bibliography after owning copies, from the comfort of home. But unfortunately the ZSI sales office in Kolkata is a dinosaur when it comes to selling their books. I sent several reminders and waited over a year for them to respond, to no avail. And then the book just had to get printed. I decided that I would go ahead, for I did not know when I would get hold of copies. Ultimately I had to request relatives in Kolkata to buy the lot and send them to me.

Q: After a controversial start, INDIAN BIRDS seems to have stabilized under your editorship. What are the problems you face in steering this ship?

It could be said that IB was born as a result of a controversy, but once it was launched, initially as the Newsletter for Ornithologists, we were quite clear about our goal. We wanted to raise the bar of ornithological reporting / writing in India, of course, in the amateur/citizen scientist segment that our publication fitted into. Very soon we realised that we filled an important niche, and that people really looked forward to every new issue. It is now seven years, and IB is doing well on the contributor’s front, i.e., we have a full file, but I would there were more subscribers.
My greatest problem is that I cannot keep up with the flood of articles and papers, and often disappoint contributors with delays. Most are patient, and understanding, but some get restless, which is to be expected.
We had also decided, when we began, that we would assist people with their manuscripts and try to use all qualifying contributions. This is a time consuming business, and at times really painstaking. But ultimately the results are rewarding.
I think that printing full colour issues has paid off, and we at IB have to thank all the generous photographers for this emulatory largesse.

Q: Who are the great influences in your birding life? And how did they shape your interest?

The late Pushp Kumar IFS, who retired as the PCCF of the AP Forest Department, was a man ahead of his time as a forester, and wildlifer. He was a birder par excellence, and I was lucky he steered the BSAP, as its President, and I could learn from him. He was an extraordinary influence.
So was the late Capt. Nadir S. Tyabji, the Hon. Rep. of WWF-India. I learnt a lot from him.
The ebullient Humayun Abdulali was a great influence too. He had a reputation of sorts that was legendary in the BNHS for his purported vitriolic nature, but either it was unfounded, or he never used it on me. I learnt basic things from him: how to file notes on index cards; how to be exact about spelling, and taxonomy, “A mistake in print is almost inerasable”; and how to go to the source of everything I was tracking. Whenever I was in Bombay, he would take me birding, calling up, and stating abruptly, “Free tomorrow to birdwatch? Come to the main gate of the Raj Bhavan, we’re going in!” He would write in longhand, on inland letters, and once wrote to ask, “What were those things flying around on the cricket field?” He had seen this on his TV, while watching a 50-over match between India, and another country. His inquisitiveness was insurmountable.
From the indomitable Zafar Futehally, I learnt more about character, and fortitude, than anything else. I learnt about the dignity of the human spirit and the deep satisfaction of quiet, diligent pursuit of passion.
Edward Dickinson has been a great mentor. He has the singular ability to make you comfortable in the labyrinths of ornithological taxonomy and history. He has the wonderful grace of imbibing one with the confidence to tackle complicated issues of dating names.

Q: What are your plans for the future and what mountains do you have yet to climb?

I have long wanted to place my full bibliographic database online, at the disposal of the birding community, and am happy to tell you that some friends are making this dream a reality. There is no point in sitting on such a lot of information without sharing it. It is also of the nature that requires constant updating, and therefore the Internet is the best option as a searchable database. Keeping abreast with publications on the ornithology of South Asia is a full-time affair, and needs constant attention. I still have to work a great deal on the database, adding keywords, annotations, etc.
Indian BIRDS is an ongoing labour of love, and my goal is to strengthen its subscription base.
I would like to make the BSAP a truly vibrant and contributory organization, whose members are committed citizen scientists and help strengthen Indian ornithology.
I am turning a couple of ideas in my head. Lets see what transpires.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Why I birdwatch

The water floats about 400 ducks. It is still, and a dark grey-blue, under a perfectly clean January sky. Four of us are huddled behind a mound of earth, on a man-made earthen bund. Large-canopied tamarind trees line it along the water’s margin. We have come to this little wetland to count birds, driving from Hyderabad for two hours, the landscape pouring away from our speeding car; and now this sudden stillness is very welcome. Its grounding elemental stability, and the warm sun on our backs are comforting.


As we settle into the basic mathematics of a census, the southern sky is suddenly stitched with uneven lines of ducks. Skeins approach this lucid earth’s eye, floating like motes from one end of its curving firmament to the other, turning in tight formation, tugged back by the instinctive bond with their swimming brethren, as though an elastic band were stretched to its maximum, and then relaxed. Twice they circle the water at breakneck speed, with a completely mad effortlessness; then two peel off, making for the water. A cohesive tension in the flock breaks, and the entire lot plunge in comic pell-mell. Their sharp descent rips aloud the blue sky-cloth, and in the enveloping silence, the tearing sound of wind forced through curved feathers is an astonishing aural delight.


Is there a palpable joy in these returning anatids? Open-mouthed I gape as one, then three more flip in their descent, turn-turtle, belly-up in their plummeting fall through ether, up-righting last minute to belly-flop in the water. It’s a remarkable feat of contortion. While the body rotates upwards, twisting at the neck, the head is held straight to retain orientation. Why would a bird do this? I grope for logical answers; then settle for anthropomorphism—for the sheer thrill of it. Happiness may not, after all, be an entirely human privilege.


From the moment I spot them, through their fantastic airmanship, the magical rending of sky-cloth, to the jubilant bushel splash of sparkling water, I sit mesmerised by the beauty of the moment. It burns indelibly on my mind’s eye, etches itself upon my heart, and I think, this is reason enough to watch birds.

The red-headed pochards bob like cork in the eddies their landings create. There is great excitement and agitation in the manhandled raft of Anatidae. Drakes rear up in the water, stallions on hind legs, flailing wings vigorously. This flotilla of punks, dressed up in luminous orange headgear, and candy pink beaks is riveting. Gradually peace returns on the waterscape, and ripples plane out. A jostled breeze sighs through a million tamarind leaves. Wind bourne come the whistles of wigeon, flaunting their sandalwood paste-smeared foreheads in the distance.

It is a wonderfully idyllic setting. In the lee of the bund stretches a square patterned paddy tapestry, embroidered with glinting still waters. Its miniature dykes patrolled stealthily by rapier beaked pond herons, its sky-reflecting water frogeye dimpled. Forlorn toddy palm clumps stand abandoned in scattered disarray across this quilted landscape.


Screaming palm swifts tail each other, swing around fronds, arrow from clump to clump, boomerang back on slender fluttering wings. Green bee-eaters catch prey with an audible snap of mandibles, and float down to a telegraph wire to dismember a bee of its business end, or disrobe a butterfly roughly, tearing off its wings, tossing the naked body down their gullets. The buoyant colourful wings, plucked and discarded, bereft of direction, abandon themselves to the wayward breeze.


Bullock carts clatter past to a village at the end of the dirt road. A skeletal bare-footed toddy-tapper pedals his spare bicycle towards lanky trees, in the crowns of which he has tied a neat cluster of earthen pots, to collect oozing liquid that gradually ferments into toddy. He travels light; loincloth, turban, circle of climbing rope over one shoulder, to hoopla around the thinly corrugated palm, sickle, and the throat-scratching packet of rolled beedi leaves. He passes by trailing a haze of mild fermentation.

Birding takes me to such serendipitous settings where the zeal of citizen science takes a back seat and my senses absorb an essence of landscape I otherwise rarely imbibe. It creates wonderful opportunities to delve deep into myself, stilling a futile search for life’s meanings in an increasingly fractious world that we are urbanising at catastrophic speed, taking away from a generous land the solace of open spaces.

Friday, April 29, 2011

A review of my book by Carol Inskipp, in The Auk


Birds in Books: Three Hundred Years of South Asian Ornithology—A Bibliography.—Aasheesh Pittie. 2010. Permanent Black, Ranikhet, India. xxi + 845 pp. ISBN 81-7824-294-X. Rs 795. Distributed by Orient Blackswan Private Ltd. (www.orientblackswan. com).

Published in The Auk: 128 (2): 433–434.

This volume is an outstanding work of meticulous research documenting for the first time the ornithology of South Asia and nearby political areas: Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, the Maldives, Myanmar, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Tibet. The region encompasses both Oriental and Palaearctic realms.
            The published literature on ornithology in the region is vast, spanning almost three centuries and recording over 1,200 species of birds. Aasheesh Pittie points out that as early as 1713–1750, about 15 books relating to South Asian ornithology had been published; this number had soared to over 1,700 by the end of 2009!
            In this bibliography, a comprehensive list of books that contain information on the birds of South Asia is provided. Scholarly, popular, as well as relatively obscure texts, are included to present a complete as possible picture of ornithological publications on South Asia. Taxonomic texts dealing with the classification and nomenclature of birds, travelogues, picture books, field guides, works published as monographs within journals, bibliographies, biographies, autobiographies, country handbooks, regional avi-faunas, multi-volume ornithological works, art folios, catalogues of museum collections, and simple checklists are all included.
                  The books are mainly in English, except for certain period literature that is in German, French, Latin, etc. A few works in Indian languages (Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi, Malaylam, etc) are also included, though the author states that these may not comprise a complete representation of existing work in regional languages.
                  The general arrangement of the works is alphabetical by author and chronological by year, under author.
                  Three indices are provided, facilitating easy access to the entries. The first is a general index of places, subjects, and taxa; the second, an index of new names proposed by authors; and the third an index of co-authors and or co-editors.
                  Twenty-one pages of introduction detail a fascinating chronology of books published on South Asian ornithology and is complemented by an interesting timeline of books from 1713 to 2009 listing the dates of key works.
                  This bibliography provides a window on a massive bank of scientific and popular knowledge that is invaluable to contemporary ornithologists, both amateur and professional. It is a landmark publication of South Asian ornithology and belongs in all university and museum libraries and in those of anyone with a keen interest in birds in the region.

Carol Inskipp, 1 Herneside, Welney, Wisbech, Cambridgeshire PE14 9SB, United Kingdom; e-mail: inskipp@btinternet.com.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Birding K. B. R. National Park, Hyderabad: 17 April 2011


Sometimes it is invigorating birding with beginners. Their enthusiasm rubs off on ‘old hands’ like me, whose airy mantle is scrubbed off with the vim of fresh blood.
This trip to KBR has a flock of juvenile birdwatchers flexing the pinions of their new hobby. Some are photographers with forbiddingly long lenses, no doubt a handy tool even for seasoned birders. A photograph gives me the privilege of armchair identification. Others bring less extravagant equipment, their palpable enthusiasm.
Early morning perambulators goggle our motley lot in disbelief, as though we are knights of Arthur’s table. But we are used to this attention, and invariably win the day by mist-netting one or more gawkers who succumb to our intriguing behaviour and unrestrained joy at sighting a bird; so that they join us.
The first stop is near a flowering tree. It is a-whirr with wings. A family of Indian golden orioles; purple sunbirds in various stages of dressing-up, resplendent shimmering males, demure hens in mute olives, and an eclipse-dishabille male in just a necktie; a ménage-a-trois of Indian robins; a self-consciously pink-billed Tickell’s flowerpecker, peering at the world through polished beady lignite eyes; a dapper cock Tickell’s flycatcher glistening in the recessed shadows, lisping a droll whistled cadence. Too the commoners—chattering redvented-, and white-browed bulbuls, crooning spotted doves, the distant clarion of a grey partridge cleaving all noise with its shrill urgency. Shot arrow sprays of rose-ringed parakeets tearing the blue sky above, giddy house-swifts chasing each other’s dazzling white rumps.
Where does one begin with a cheeping novice? With the first bird. Sometimes it is even more basic—how to use, no, with both eyes open (!), the shiny new binocs. There, look to the right of the tree trunk, half way up, or better, imagine the face of a giant clock in front of you, and look at 3 o’clock.
To point out the pastel orange, off-white, and blue bundle that sings upon the bough, and give it a name to hold on to, identify with, and watch the visible pleasure, the disbelief-impregnated gasp, is my reward. My hope is that a life-long appetite for birding has been ignited.
Thankfully no one argues when I point out a black-coloured male Indian robin, as one had many years ago, “A robin has to be blue,” a-la, Robin Blue garment whitener advertised in various media. His shock at learning the truth was colossal, and for the rest of the trip he looked positively let down by the demigod the media has become.
One asks how I remember birdcalls. The only way I know is to follow a sound, to cut a direct path towards it, then to stop and stare at the songster, to allow its song to drench you, soak into your very skin, become a part of your existence, your charmed private landscape.
An invisible iora whistles variations on the theme of “shaubheegi.” It blanks out my world, deafening in its lilting simplicity, it pulses into every green fibre around me, ricochets in canopies, distils the breeze, sings a glorious morning.
In the leafy world around me an intense drama is enacted, covering the ambit of essential human emotions—sex, food, and territory. I am an unseeing spectator, an aural witness.
A barbwire tangle of dry thorny branches snares an iridescent star. A cock purple sunbird, glistening in burnished purple has lit upon a twig, pouring in the breeze a cascade of exuberantly tripping notes. Its hidden golden-yellow epaulettes erupt into brilliantly contrasting searchlights, as it sings its heart out. In the circular field of my binocs a blue canvas holds jumbled thorny bush, and the mesmerising radiance of the tiny songster. As it swivels fervently, now bowing, now stretching on tip-toe with head thrown back, intent upon proclaiming territory, or enticing a coy hen, light dances its plumage into a coruscating iridescence.
A few “good” birds, those that are seen well, enjoyed thoroughly, listened to carefully, and thrilled in, give me greater joy than the endless pursuit of variety, fleetingly glimpsed, abandoned, unabsorbed, and unimbibed. The insatiate twitcher is ever hungry. Here is another thought for a beginner. Allow birds to come to you and savour their individuality, bird by bird.
If I were to choose a seductress from the common birds, to tempt someone into the birdwatcher’s fold, it would be a tantalising golden oriole. A resplendent male dazzles us as it feeds on the green berries of a tree. Light bounces off him with almost artificial effulgence. Unaware of his magnetic attractiveness, he paces the branches in showy preoccupation. His glistening black primaries and masquerade ball mask contrast spectacularly with his golden-yellow plumage. His strangely flesh-pink bill is an untarnished, pure appendage that is inserted delicately into nectar-sweetened flowers.
A few of us just cannot move on. We stand hypnotised by this aurum creature. Words are few and far. What can one say in the presence of such beauty? All are awed into a hushed silence of admiration. Thoughts are voiceless, internalised. All the senses combine into a single invocation, which at such times, overwhelms, despite stoicism, or temporal belief, and leaves us stranded amidst the glacial progress of civilisations, the upsurge of cultures, alone, in the presence of untarnished natural sublimity. Each one of us imbibes an oriole moment in those fractional seconds, in absolute solitude.
The path meanders towards a shrunken wetland that draws annual rafts of waterfowl, in winter, when it is augmented with monsoonal runoff. The authorities have been moving earth in their wisdom, deepening the trough to catch and hold more water. Excavated mud is piled up as a causeway on one side. Now the water is a shallow pool, its margins, atrophied in the increasingly hot days, fringed with cooling reeds. Rounded boulders lie scattered on the shores, some under an umbrella of stunted scrub. A couple of them form convenient islands in the water, on which some birds rest.
The group is tired, and hungry, sinking to the ground, under the leafy trees. Breakfast is passed around, throats quenched. Gradually conversation re-surfaces, and laid-back birding takes hold of satiated birders.
Dabchicks float placidly upon the still water. One or two are in breeding plumage. There are a few juveniles, precociously swimming behind adults. One, albinistic, sits on a rock in the water, foxing our rationality. Only when it slips into the liquid do we realise our folly … and it is not an albino! On the opposite shore a grotesquely long-toed jacana flashes its cuprum wings, as it scampers, as best it can on toes that have evolved to tread floating leaves. In the process it uses its wings like the balancing pole of a tightrope walker. Still, it is difficult to see, and the newly minted birders learn another trick of the trade. Do not move yourself, but spot movement. The next time the lily-walker flutters for balance, it is spotted. Its white eye-stripe is an instant hit. Two eternally questioning red-wattled lapwings stride about confidently on yellow legs, on the dry foreshores, yelling their lungs out. Much ado about nothing, or is it? Nature abhors wasted metabolism. A purple heron sails in on cupped wings, legs dangling for a foothold, planeing towards a small clump of reeds on the near shore, touching down gingerly, before folding wings over its back with visible relief. It is in brilliantly fresh plumage—ever a delight to behold. A few minutes later, its cousin, the grey heron appears in a slicked descent to the trembling margin. The ‘essed’ neck, ending at the rapier beak, is tensed up and back, like a reined-in stallion, stilt legs lowered to gently touch down into the pond-smelling ooze of its preferred terra infirma. This individual feels the heat and wades into the water no sooner it lands, letting the stagnant marsh rise to soak its belly. It looks comical, walking thus, as though swimming! But herons hunt in different ways, and this is one, wherein prey is consciously disturbed by the wading bird, and snapped up.
Our way back is partly strewn with dead leaves. The cataclysmic orgy of spring, the colossal putting-forth of leaves, the landscape transforming green foliage, lies in absolute ruin all around, devastated by the stealthy turn of seasons. Stark and bare trees surround us. Not to worry, I philosophise, this annual cycle is the engine of rebirth that is as old as the earth itself. It sustains life.