Wednesday, December 31, 2014


I stand rooted…
            awed by the Red Sand Dunes
            of Erra Matti Dibbalu
            The alchemy of geology
            frozen in space
                                          …in Time
At once:
            A moment in perpetuity
   Eras in ephemerality 

I walk through…
           labyrinths of plinths
           viharas of Thotlakonda
           where lamas breathed
           in the spirit of Buddha
At once:
             Humankind in motion
             Enlightenment in elusion

I grapple... 
Sand slipping through my fingers
Standing on the threshold of time

Dated: Threshold of 2014-15           


Erra Matti Dibbalu are hillocks that look like Chambal Valley ravines, only are of far lesser dimensions. This million years old site of red sand dunes - a geological marvel and scientific storehouse - situated between Visakhapatnam and Bheemunipatnam is tagged as a geo-heritage site by the Geological Survey of India. 

Thotlakonda  are hilltop ruins - structures that once were viharas, chaitya grihas, and stupas of a Buddhist monastery. Coins from the Satvahana period and Buddha pada (Buddha's footprints etched in stone) recovered from here are housed in Visakha Museum. This vihara was known to be active from the period 3rd century BCE - 3rd  century AD! Cyclone Hudhud took its toll on this heritage site which is on the outskirts of Vizag. 

Friday, October 24, 2014



11 October 2014

The wind had started fanning anxiety gently a day prior to the cyclone that was heading towards the East Coast. The intermittent burst of gust that subsided and rose again reminded me of labour pains. I recalled bracing for a similar situation last year—securing windows, putting away garden chairs, and stocking up candles in anticipation of the storm. Cyclone Phailin (that hit Odisha instead, exactly a year ago) turned out to be a damp squib­—no gales or gusts of wind, only suffocating stillness. Cyclones, originating in the Bay of Bengal, are an annual feature on the East Coast, but none had touched Visakhapatnam since 1890. They invariably altered course and made landfall either north of Andhra Pradesh and/or into Odisha or south towards Tamil Nadu. A sense of déjà vu prevailed this time too.

12 October
Sunday morning

There were announcements and advisories prohibiting people to step out of their homes from 7 a.m. onwards. At 9 a.m. Hudhud began fluttering. Winds picked up and were soon accompanied by rains. Being on the first floor, I was under the impression that we would be safe from water ingress. How wrong I was! Rain water started seeping in from underneath the doors and windows and soon a part of our living room and kitchen began flooding. In the initial enthusiasm I got after the water with vengeance, proud of my achievement of beating it at the game. Three hours of lashing winds and rains had us holed up in my son’s room which was on the leeward side of the wind. The flood inside our home had won. The bolted windows seemed vulnerable and we started tying them up for additional backup. India Meteorology Department had predicted that landfall would be anytime 9 – 12. Not aware of such things we expected that the cyclone would hit hardest when ‘landfall’ takes place.

Sunday noon

But by 12 o'clock it was all over. People heaved a sigh of relief, got out of their houses, exchanged notes, surveyed the damage (few trees had toppled), and set about clearing the water inside their homes. I remember thinking, ‘it wasn't that bad after all’.

And then—at 2 p.m.­—the fury unleashed. Suddenly, a stray gust of wind came rushing in and before we could comprehend what was happening it attained ferocity and we were in the eye of the storm. The tandav that began then went on unabated for the next ten hours. Windows rattled, glass panes smashed, awnings went flying through air like missiles, roof tiles were flung about and onto cars parked outside; the wind itself, howled and whistled, moaned and groaned. I have never experienced a cyclone before but a sixth sense told me that the wind speed must be 200 kph. I learnt later that the gusts measured 220! This time the winds came from the opposite direction and we sat huddled in our bedroom, waiting for it to end, hoping and praying that the roof over our heads stayed put. It dawned on us then that landfall was the lull before the storm!

Those ten hours can be best described by Rachel Carson’s portrayal of formation of oceans in her seminal book, The Sea around us: “As soon as the earth’s crust began to cool the rains began to fall. Never have there been such rains since that time. They fell continuously, day and night… They poured into the waiting ocean basins, or falling upon the continental masses, drained away to become sea.” Only this did not feel like a beginning, but the end of the World!    


Stressed out by the suspense and with nothing to do but wait it out in the darkness that had enveloped us we drifted into a drowse. By the time we woke up the next morning the wind had died down. The scene outside was overwhelming. Everything around us lay in shambles. Electric poles and mobile towers had keeled over, so had lamp-posts. All around us we could see buildings—naked and exposed—which until now had been cloaked in green cover. Trees were razed to ground, some bent and broken—the winds had shorn them of their foliage. Even the low-lying shrubs and hills looked bald. It was exactly what a newspaper described it: a war zone. But what struck me most was the silence. ‘Sannata’ as the Hindi word describes it aptly.

There was no electricity, no water, no fuel, and essential items such as milk and bread and Maggi (some success story this) dried up instantly. We would have to rely on our larder with its provisions and dry foodstuff for the next few days. Mercifully, we still had the cooking gas.

Roof tiles and awnings blown off
Only sticks and twigs

The first lesson I learnt in this natural disaster was the importance of water and its indispensability. We could live without electricity, sweltering in the heat, but it was unimaginable to go on without water. On the first day, post-cyclone, my son scooped mugs full of rainwater—collected on the terrace—into the overhead tank. We did not have the luxury of waiting for clean water. With no fresh water flowing through taps we were back to basics—to buckets and cans.

Somewhere, a source of water was discovered (we were told that gravity aided its flow at that water point) which was tapped by all. Navy’s is a hierarchical structure, but for once you found everyone standing in line for water with no privilege for rank or position. The second lesson:  Crisis such as this can be a great leveller.

If you can't have water, drink coke; if you can't have coke, drink champagne. That was the situation in many of our homes. The bar was choc-a-bloc and there was no dearth of good company after sun down! 


I have seen natural disasters played out on television news and what struck me odd was how people went about salvaging their possessions. I would wonder how could anyone think of something so trivial as picking up meagre items from debris after such life-threatening calamity; do possessions matter more than one’s life? But now I realize that it is when you can hold onto the most inconsequential or smallest thing in life, find comfort in it, you feel ‘alive’.  

We were lucky: we had few broken windows, a damaged washing machine, dish antenna beyond repair, and some soaked-to-bones wooden furniture, books, clothes and mattresses. We did not have the hurricane pass through our living room stranding us in the bedroom and severing access to the kitchen like our neighbours! We were spared the ordeal of holding onto entrance doors for dear life. People had their cars smashed, air conditioners sucked out, garage gates gouged out, front doors coming off their hinges, grilled windows detaching from their frames, glass panes shattering sending shards into the house, rooftop water cisterns and solar panels blown off. Even more unfortunate were the denizens of Yarada village from where come our domestic helpers and security guards. Their entire rations of rice and modest belongings rotted in water as they did not have a roof left over their heads.

True to the military motto of ‘Service before Self’, the Indian Navy jumped headlong into relief and rescue work in town, in setting up community kitchens for Vizagites, and getting electricity and airport services operational. In the absence of menfolk, in Dolphin Hill­­—a naval enclave of more than 1000 families, women soldiered on regardless. Mothers with children in tow were seen ferrying water bucket by bucket on Scooty from a central water point. This while being the 'handymen', tackling ‘cleanship’ of home and neighbourhood, and providing food for the family—some with babies, small children, and aging parents.

Not the ones to be cornered or pinned down, the ladies also found an innovative pastime to while away the gloomy evenings: spontaneous tea parties by candlelight extending right up to dinner time. 

A fantastic symbiotic relationship surfaced between the DH community and the Yarada denizens that saw each other get on to their feet quicker than would have been possible otherwise.


On Dolphin Hill, we were cut off from the outside world. Of course, we had our parent service—the Indian Navy to look after us. But for all practical purposes we were quarantined. The entire 10-km stretch from our residences to the main gate at the base of the hill was unrecognisable. Hillsides had eroded and trees had blocked the roads at every bend. With roads carved out of hills to make way for this residential colony there was already threat of landslides; this will only get worse come summer of 2015.

For a day, the fallen trees remained green but soon the landscape has started resembling a ravaged savannah. With the tree cover gone, the sun bears down harsh and the glare is unbearable. The dry bush poses a fresh hazard: that of forest fire. Fireworks have been banned this Diwali; not a bad thing at all, I would say.

We now stare into smoggy winters and sultry summers. What horrors of climate calamities wait ahead, no one knows. Some suspect that cyclonic disturbances will only rise with the rise in temperature and absence of carbon sinks. The industrial pollutants now have no buffer and we are all the more at the mercy of greenhouse gases and coal dust.

It is ironical that in all these years Vizag was shielded from cyclones by this very Dolphin (Nose) Hill!

What saved us from Hudhud’s wrath as we were holed up in our bedroom was the ficus right outside the window. It had spread indiscriminately like a giant darkening my room but providing privacy. That day it bore the onslaught throughout— twisting, turning, contorting, and protesting; not a leaf was left on its dense crown. It stood its ground and kept our windows on.

A similar feat was enacted by the coconut trees outside the living room windows. The twin palms had blocked my bayview, earlier. If it were not for them, I would have a brilliant view of the bay from the low-lying windows from the luxury of my couch.  This day they took the lashing, swayed this way and that, but did not yield.

The ficus and the coconut—both of Indian nativity and antiquity—had saved the day for us. Ironically, I now get an uninterrupted view of the Bay (it looks forlorn) from my living room window and the patio, but I miss the trees. On DH, trees survived due to their flexibility as they are of relatively recent vintage, but the veterans of Naval Park (some more than 50 years old) at the base of the hill were uprooted viciously.   

BEFORE: Ficus outside my bedroom window
AFTER: Not a single leaf left

The biggest casualty of this cyclone was the trees. Vizag has lost 80% of its green cover according to an estimate. I feel a tremendous sense of bereavement at this loss. I hope people realise that Vizag’s trees were sacrificed in the process of protecting the buildings and the people. But now the city lies defenceless. It will be years before the green lungs emerge robust enough to protect us from the industrial pollution that is Vizag’s bane. The hill took pride in being a 'silence zone', but now noise pollution is making itself heard. Without trees as shock absorbers, I am suddenly more aware of clattering vehicles and braking buses.  

Artificial plantation, at best, has been a controversial issue. Usually, exotics such as copperpod or eucalyptus are preferred for swift greening results but their roots are not strong and they are water guzzlers. It is the native banyans, neem, mangoes and coconut that are good for the soil and the habitat. Naturalist M. Krishnan believed that afforestation was not necessarily a good idea; a denuded forest or hillside is best left to its own devices for it to regenerate to its original vegetation. It is not trees alone, but even shrubs and scrub that hold soil together and prevent erosion.

Given the circumstances I am not sure what the best solution is. But it is heartening to see that most of the standing trees have started sprouting leaves. The same spirit of resilience is evident among men and women who have risen up to the task of rebuilding their lives.

In the aftermath, bird calls fell conspicuously silent, but their presence is being felt like never before. A plum-headed parakeet strayed from its flock and was walking dazed under the staircase. A young bunting—or was it a juvenile munia—wandered into our verandah flapping exhausted, seemingly, after a long flight. A mynah was curiously examining her regular shrub trying to assess the damage. “What were the birds trying to salvage?” I wondered.

The ficus outside my window had been home to two pairs of spotted owlets. Now there are only three and they have shifted camp to a thicket by the compound wall. In the harsh daylight, in the absence of natural shade, the pixies take refuge in a hollow pipe embedded in the wall. Territorial and spunky, they have been shooing away crow pheasants and treepies—birds twice their size—from their territory with a belligerence that belies their size.

BEFORE: Spotted owlet on ficus
AFTER: Shifted base to a nearby thicket

Bluejays, shrikes, shikras, treepies and even the usually skulking coucals can be seen perched atop tree skeletons. I saw a paradise flycatcher wander about openly which is a rare sight indeed. Like insects and rodents, they have been flushed out of their habitats. It is ironical, but I have photographed more birds in the last ten days than what I have seen in the past one and a half year of my birdwatching here!

With no place to hide they are exposed, but they also seem to be more trusting of humans now. After trees, they were the hardest hit in the Hudhud havoc. Newspaper reports tell us that nearly 30,000 birds perished in that gale. Even more ironic is the fact that Hudhud, the ogre that preyed on the birds, was named after a gentle, hoopoe-like bird !

When it returns it is the incessant chattering of the mynahs that breaks the spell of doom first, reassuring us. The chirp, chip, and caw of the birds ring out like a balm.



The other comforting sound after the stunning silence was that of hack-saw cutting fallen trees and the voices of men at work.  All of us chipped in with shramdan in clearing the avenues and public spaces. It was a humbling and numbing experience. Gandhiji’s words came to mind: “Intellectual work is important and has an undoubted place in the scheme of life. But what I insist on is the necessity of physical labour. No man, I claim, ought to be free from that obligation. It will serve to improve even the quality of his intellectual output.” Physical labour of this kind has been missing from our lives in excessive pursuit of an intellectual path.

Normal life as we knew it seems distant. No walk, no run, no gym, and no swim—there is simply no time; even the trail and pool are not open for these activities anymore. More time is spent in doing household chores. I am relearning the art of cooking fresh meals in view of shortage of provisions and absence of refrigeration.

Clean potable water has become a luxury. We have to filter and boil water for drinking and cooking; for other household jobs we manage with a mucky, smelly cocktail. Water now is conserved like never before. Milk is still rationed and so is electricity. No television, no washing machine, no air conditioners, and no computer or cell phone connectivity. I, for one (can't say the same of my family), do not miss electricity as much as I miss the sense of security of life. We have a roof over our heads, we survived, but something changed forever that day.

Day after day, we wake up despondent to a treeless existence at the mercy of the elements. We have to deal with new menace in the form of rats and stray monkeys. DH has had civet cats, porcupines, monitor lizards, and mongoose, but no monkeys. Wildlife from other wilderness areas of the city and outskirts has taken a hit and animals that survived would naturally be looking for ‘greener’ pastures. Snake-bites are on the rise, we hear. Snakes too are bound to wander about listlessly. In the event snakebite is a real danger, but I fear for their safety more. Butterflies have all but vanished. DH's biodiversity has taken a beating. 

And yet, in a strange sense, I feel privileged to have been in the eye of the storm. I felt that Nature had honoured me by showing its ‘other’ side. Till now, I had been basking in its beauty and glory, now it let me into its fury.


Newspaper reports proclaim Hudhud to be the first urban cyclone disaster. Given that tropical cyclones originate in the Bay of Bengal regularly and that East Coast falls in the line of its ire every year, Vizag has surprisingly escaped unscathed for nearly 125 years! The city’s unique topography and the feature of Dolphin Nose Hill are touted to be reasons for this.

The fall of the pressure at the centre of this ‘very severe cyclone’ (Category 4 Hurricane) was 950 millibar. Seamen tell us that, at sea, when the barometer starts showing a dip below 1000 their hearts start racing. They know thatto use a Conradian phrase—"uncommonly dirty weather" is round the corner.  

During the cyclonic winds, I recall a moment when suddenly out of the blue, the rough weather—lashing winds and rain—cleared and a shaft of pure sunlight streamed through. It seemed unnatural and out of place, almost surreal... some sort of divine intervention. But in technical terms it was nothing as fancy. This was literally the eye. Wikipedia tells me, in strong tropical cyclones, the eye is characterized by light winds and clear skies, surrounded on all sides by a towering, symmetric eyewall. The eye of Hudhud was narrow, approximately 20 kms, which is another indication of the severity of the storm.  I wouldn't have dared to peek outside to check the cylindrical eyewall!


A spotted owlet seeks shade from the sun


Saturday, September 20, 2014


September 20, 2014 - International Coastal Cleanup Day at RK BEACH, VIZAG

Today, early morning, I went for ‘coastal cleanup’ to Vizag’s most famous landmark, the RK Beach. To be honest, I can’t say I jumped out of the bed thinking: “yaay, coastal cleanup”. It wasn’t like getting up at rooster call, trilling: “yaay, birding time”.  I grumbled, I groaned and groped for an excuse but I knew I would go.

The third Saturday of September got designated as International Coastal Cleanup Day somewhere sometime as these days are wont to and Indian Navy being the custodian of seas saw it as its bounden duty to jump into the fray. A brief official function was organised Navy style to ‘inaugurate’ the event after which the fraternity began picking garbage in earnest.
So there we were—men, women and school children, with black gash bags and gloves in tow, picking up coconut shells, flip flops (wonder why footwear constitutes one of the largest recognisable waste components after bottles and polythene bags), rotten vegetables that the hawkers must have left behind and other riff raff. You can’t discriminate dirt; it is largely the same everywhere—rotten food, paper, polythene, etc., but there was one major difference here. The venue was one of the most scenic ‘dumpyards’ I must have picked garbage at (not that I go picking garbage at public places)! Few naval ships dotted the horizon even as stray fishing boats plied closer to shore. There was much churning in the seas due to yesterday’s downpour and the sound of the waves proved a great aural accompaniment.

Within no time, the gash bags had swollen up and the beach looked unusually clean. There was the ‘photo op’ formality to be dispensed off—for the benefit of the media—which was done by the top brass with élan. Sceptics may have their doubts about such 'tokenisms' or may be derisive about the publicity, but at the end of the day, such symbolic gestures do go some way in raising awareness and the bar in changing mindsets. 

As a woman, as a lady of the house, I have put my fingers in dirt on countless occasions earlier, but I cannot say that I 'enjoyed' the experience then or that I did it now. I can’t even say that I felt happy doing this kind of ‘public service’. Au contraire, cleaning someone else’s muck is not my thing. I will soonest tell off an offender who thoughtlessly tosses a banana peel or a cigarette butt onto the streets, but would think twice before wallowing in filth. I believe in Gandhiji’s philosophy, but I am no Mahatma! If I were to be politically correct, I would say, “I was glad that I went and cleaned up the beach”. But hell no, I was not glad. I was angry. Angry—that as Indians we do not have the basic civic sense not to litter in the first place. That we cannot move ten feet to chuck garbage in trash cans and would rather fling dirt as though it were fair game. Angry—that we are not revolted by filth in our streets and neighbourhood, in our cities and country. ...That we accept it as a natural part of our landscape – stench and all.  

Here’s a thought: Why is it that men openly urinate in public? Is it really because we do not have public toilets? Think again. If that was the case we would have women doing it too. No, the answer is that men are simply not ‘toilet trained’!

Similarly, Indian public is not ‘trash trained’. High time it was. I, for one, am elated that for the first time we have a Prime Minister who is determined to turn that.  

Friday, June 20, 2014

Slow Dance of The Elephants

The Aberdare Experience

Aberdare Ark is a modern-day machaan, except that it is a building (shaped in an ark) with all amenities afforded to tourists for a comfortable stay! It sits next to a natural salt lick in a clearing within the lush Aberdare tropical forests of Kenya. The Ark has a viewing gallery in the basement where one is level with the waterhole, a terrace which gives one an overhead view and a mezzanine lookout which is barely clear of the tallest elephant’s height!

When we reached the Ark it was approaching sunset, a perfect time for animals to congregate at the waterhole before they called it a day. An elephant parade was lined up, with some African cape buffaloes blending in, almost as though to welcome us. In the awed hush all we could hear was the odd rumble and rustle, an overwhelming assertion of life! Unlike other safaris where we encountered elephant herds browsing and feeding from time to time and took pretty pictures, the Aberdare experience was one to watch elephant behaviour and bonding, intimately, in their natural habitat.

From the terrace, I spotted a cow with a calf huddled by its side; other young ones came to caress and pet it, all the time ensuring that it was well-flanked and protected. Two juveniles from different clans came upon each other, touched and twined their trunks, and indulged in boisterous play for a while. One of the young adults had something hanging loose at the end of its trunk; it took me a while to figure that the trunk itself was mutilated and a part of it was hanging by a lip! It seemed like an old wound and the mammal was able to adapt it beautifully despite the deformity.

Elephant herds of varying strength were trooping in and out of the thicket to the waterhole. One of the young male was wounded with blood oozing from its face. You could see, it was desperately seeking attention and commiseration from others, like a little child. It would go close and try to touch every other elephant that came out of the bush. I was shocked to see that it was being shunned by one and all! To my mind it seemed like a case of adults chiding, “I told you so”, for “not listening” to sane counsel! Or maybe there was some other explanation that we have no way of knowing.

As the day wound to a close, I shifted my observation post to the open balcony by the path where the animals had to retreat into the thick vegetation. There was an embankment of boulders - two feet wide - below the balcony to keep the elephants from straying too close. Every time an elephant approached my side and passed by, it would, unfailingly, lift up its trunk sniffing my presence. But their reactions were different. Some were wary, some baulked and some actually bolted, timidly, tail in the air. I wondered how much of my olfactory signature was imprinted on their memories and if I were to encounter them out in the wild would they recognise me!

The jumbos had called it a day and all the resident tourists too retreated to their cubby-hole cabins for a doze. Being claustrophobic, I had to wait out the night somehow. Somewhere around 2 or 3 at night, I must have drowsed only to be awakened by a sixth sense. I went to the balcony to gulp in fresh air just in time to see a faint trickle of pearly grey masses coming out into the open. In the still moonlit night, for the next hour and a half, a slow dance-drama unfolded - for my eyes only - leaving me completely dazed.

A matriarch with a calf, few females and some sub-adults began confabulating by the pool. Soon the calf lay at its mother’s feet to rest and three-four grown-ups stood in a semi-circle forming a protective cover. 

The mater moved away closer to the water’s edge, sniffed the wind, and kneeled down as though checking the depth of the pool with its probing trunk. It tore away the grass growing at the edges and gobbled it. Soon it had rolled onto its side, raised its trunk, and was contorting its body! My first impression was that this animal was sick; that it might have a tummy problem. For an instant it almost seemed like it was in throes. I hadn’t seen anything so bizarre all my life! The matriarch wallowed and writhed as the herd watched respectfully from a distance, not breaking her trance.

She then strode back to its family by when the calf was up and rejuvenated. Then a slow, deliberate, rhythmic ritual ensued… trunks entangling, twining, and feeling each other. The entire herd stood still in a wedge formation with its trunks touching. After a long while, the formation turned inside out with the bottoms now jostled together. Was it a family get-together where they were narrating stories and anecdotes, trading notes and even, joking?

The calf and the sub-adult were left out of the loop, surprisingly, left unprotected behind their backs! When the calf attempted to pry from behind, curious, the matriarch without so much as a look gave it the boot sending it scurrying out of the charmed circle! With no perceived threats and comfortable in the privacy of their circle, they could now afford to keep the pesky young ones out of their adult “bedroom” conversation!

The herd stood in varied patterns and formations (interminably, it seemed!) and changed positions at intervals. If that one hour could be filmed, fast forwarded and reduced to a 15- 20-minute clip, then I would be witness to a rhythmic gyration, a slow ballet.

Was it a spiritual ceremony or a cult ritual? Or I wondered if the herd was mourning having heard and read so much about elephant’s graveyards and death rituals.

Benson, the in-house naturalist, discounted it saying that in the 40 years of the lodge’s existence no elephant had died or was buried there. He had this to say: “Elephants are highly evolved social creatures and with a lot of research being done on their memory and behaviour, scientists haven’t finished yet. I would think we haven’t begun yet.” 



The news item of the barbaric slaughter of Satao - a rare bull with nearly 50 kg of tusk (each) grazing the ground – by poachers caught my eye and made my heart bleed. Visions of African Elephants - tuskers and matriarchs, calves and juveniles – that I had seen in the diverse ecological habitats of Kenya - from the plains to the forests - swam in front of my eyes. Satao was a Tsavo bull and it was here in the vast historic savannas of Tsavo that I had my initial tryst with the species Loxodonta Africana.


En route from Mombasa to Nairobi early in our Kenya sojourn, we decided to take a detour into Tsavo territory. Tsavo National Park is Kenya’s largest, divided into East and West, East being the wilder and less frequented of the two.

In the lazy noon hour, the park seemed devoid of animals though the bush was buzzing with birds. We had almost given up hope after a few hours when the elephant parade began! Being intimately acquainted with the Indian elephant, which is grey-black, the first sight of (brick) ‘red’ elephants was truly exceptional. It is Tsavo’s rich volcanic soil, ochre in colour, which gives elephants that distinctive hue when they wallow or bathe in mud.

In the blazing equatorial sun, we came upon a “nuclear” family trying to shield them under/near a sparse shrub, barely managing to tuck their heads in! That classic sight was a testimony to the species’ qualities of tolerance and accommodation of others.  

Much later, when we visited Tsavo West, the trails we followed threw up elephant hooves, intermittently, but not their owners. Bare boles of acacias stripped of leaves and twigs stood as signs of elephant ravages, but the perpetrators of carnage were nowhere in sight. That is how it is in Tsavo country, the excitement lies more in the suggestion than in the spotting.

After hours of following the red dirt tracks through the acacia-commiphora woodlands all we could see was a herd of elephants walking into the horizon. Should a small herd of elephants walking away into distance - a pastiche at once of mundanity and mystery - be any less thrilling than an elephant at close quarters posing for a photograph? For me, this is a more intimate portrait, almost as if the elephants were leading me into their private domain, if only I exerted my imagination and followed them there.



It was March of 2009; the year of drought in Amboseli. Nyika or African bush is largely treeless and hence can be punishing in its natural elements at the best of times. In such a parched landscape, the scene that stayed with me was this: a long-shot of lumbering herd of elephants with young ones in tow cutting through the simmering heat of the dustbowl in search of water. 

This family would have to walk for miles to get to the receding water sources and it would have to do it as fast or slow as the pace of the youngest calf. We, who simply reach out for bottled water or a can of coke in the middle of nowhere, to wet our lips or soothe our parched throats, cannot even begin to imagine the herd’s predicament. The poignancy of the scene lay in the realization of that harsh reality of life in the wild.

As the herd approached our vehicle the calf buckled under sheer exhaustion and lay down to rest: the clan simply stayed put in some sort of protective formation. They stood freeze frame for what seemed like an eternity and we waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. As my son interpreted the scenario, the calf that was resting was the unlikely king, and the family of adults, the servile subjects who had to wait it out. I felt as though the earth had stopped spinning and that instant was IT… for the elephants there was no past, no future; the essence of existence was the present moment – poised between life and death.

The elephant herd would pause for as long as it would take the calf to regain its energy before resuming their long march. We, however, had to move on so as not to overstay safari propreity and had no way of knowing the fate of the calf or of the clan. But, possibly, the entire family would have had to go without water longer than their tolerance threshold, or perhaps I was underestimating their patience and endurance.


The sight of an imposing lone tusker is worth more than a pride of lions (so to speak!) and we were lucky to see one at a distance near the Olokenya swamp. (Later through the film “Elephants Memories” by Dr. Cynthia Moss we got to know that this was the legendary Dionysius). 

The mammoth, his tusks tending to ground, emerged out of a thicket like a chimera. Surprised or simply gauging our mood as we were trying to sense his, he stood there looking directly at us. Even from that distance we could feel his brute presence, a colossus striding the earth like royalty. Suddenly, contrary to its nature, it darted into nearby bushes and simply vanished before our eyes. It was as though the mask had been ripped off his face and the blinkers off mine as I realized how vulnerable that lone ranger was. No companion, no family, no herd – a persona non grata eking it out in an unfriendly world.



Even as we had started on our game drive in Lake Manyara National Park in Tanzania, two young frisky elephants feeding by the roadside blocked our path. I was consternated at the sight of one of them fanning its ears menacingly and for once the cocoon of our vehicle seemed vulnerable. What a contrast, I couldn’t help comparing, with Ian Douglas Hamilton’s (Lake Manyara was this elephant-expert’s playing field) bravado in undertaking the hazardous task of photographing elephants with ears spread out, for identification, at times crouching on trees or even on foot!

Not wanting to antagonise them, the driver backed off. Finally, they slipped into the thicket clearing our way. Back at our resort, the hotel staff was emphatic that no game strayed in there as the lodge was outside the National Park, though we had seen some bushbuck stroll below our balcony.

By dusk, after the game drive, elephant blockade fresh in mind, we sauntered into the lodge chatting away walking up to the room. Fellow lodgers - a couple – waved a hello or so we thought; instead they greeted us, saying: “Look there, by the (swimming) pool… Elephants”!

My heart stopped beating as I saw two grey apparitions appear over the curve of the hill. They walked towards the same direction as us, parallel to us, the lodge rooms dividing our paths. Our friends turned to their room leaving us alone to decide our fate. Silently, we kept walking, praying, and managed to reach our rooms safely.  The wind Gods had aided us. 

From the first floor balcony, just in time, we caught a herd of three, including a calf, within whispering distance! I shudder to think, what would have happened if our family of three (me, my husband and son) had come face to face with the elephant trio.


It was much later in Kenya’s Aberdare forests that I was lured into the secret universe of the elephants where I was witness to their legendary bonding.  

Read Slow Dance of the Elephants