Read an exclusive excerpt from Jennifer Nandi’s dazzling new book, No Half Measures
Without prior warning, our flight to Guwahati from Aizawl’s tiny airport had been brought forward by two hours. Having made a routine call, our local guide announced that we needed to rush! At the airport, ours was the only aircraft on the tarmac, and in full view of the passengers on board, we were hastily ushered into the cabin, even as our luggage was swiftly loaded.
It was a short flight to Guwahati, and Pete built castles in the air, thinking of all the international phone calls he would make on arrival. Telecommunications in the northeast were still problematic in 2010, with protocols that didn’t affect the rest of India. The government had disallowed prepaid SIM cards due to security reasons. At the airport at Guwahati, I entrusted my spare phone to the local contact so that he could, while we were in Manas, file for a new postpaid connection, since only Indian nationals were being allowed to do so. This would smoothen out the wrinkles, making life infinitely easier for Pete. Once we had loaded our luggage and selves into the car, we were off on our way to Bodoland, but first, we needed to reach a telephone kiosk that permitted international calls.
Bodoland, on the north bank of the Brahmaputra, in the foothills of Bhutan and Arunachal Pradesh, was originally a part of the ancient Kamarupa, which subsequently came under the control of a Koch King in the early 16th century, only to collapse under the Ahom-Mughal conflicts a century later, even as the Bhutan kingdom pushed south to take control of the region. The British ultimately ousted the Bhutanese. More recently, a student body had made claims for a separate state called Bodoland, and it had headquartered itself at Manas National Park. Comprising several small militant outfits, they were mostly ineffective, without much striking power. Defunct now, the Bodos have since been assimilated into mainstream politics.
We were told that a distinction needs to be made between the Bodos, on the one hand, and the United Liberation Front of Assam (ULFA), a more menacing insurgent group, on the other. The ULFA had engaged in an armed struggle to form a socialist Assam in the late 80s and 90s. With the support of many indigenous Assamese people of the Brahmaputra valley, money and weapons were collected to further the ‘Revolution’. The ULFA also had a working relationship with the Naga underground outfits sheltered in Myanmar and Bangladesh. This led to mindless violence throughout the state and a subsequent growing disillusionment and anger among its supporters. In the process, owing to the twin factors of increasing pressure by the security agencies and dwindling support among its core sympathisers, its importance in Assam steadily declined, pressuring the ULFA’s commander-in-chief in 2008 to forge a temporary base along the Myanmar-China border.
The clamour of urban life was loud and chaotic as we crossed the Brahmaputra Bridge at Guwahati and headed towards Manas. The journey was going to be at least six hours of driving through snarling traffic. Lunch, therefore, had to be wherever we could find somewhere clean to eat Assamese fare, and our guide knew just the place. With my head out of the car window, I closed my eyes to feel the wind in my hair. Pete was muttering in the background:
“Are we going to be safe?”
“Yes,” I said into the wind that trembled the verdant flat land where bare-shouldered women stood with naked legs in submerged water, sowing rice saplings. It was hard to reconcile this placid scene with the Bodo insurgency that had headquartered itself at the very place we were booked – the Bansbari Lodge. Only recently abandoned, its overhaul and refurbishment had just been completed in 2010 after having been appropriated by the Bodos for several years, and we were to be among its first guests.
Makeshift shops cluttered available space; tangled electric poles leaned menacingly over huddles of old men seated on their haunches, their withered bodies enjoying a smoke after the day’s work in the fields. Their broad hairless foreheads still gleamed with the day’s sweat. Some sat with fixed gazes that took in the welter of daily activity on the road that was being broadened to accommodate a rail-track and serried ranks of lorries.
Jennifer Nandi, No Half Measures
The approach to the township of Manas was one of disarray and disorder. Makeshift shops cluttered available space; tangled electric poles leaned menacingly over huddles of old men seated on their haunches, their withered bodies enjoying a smoke after the day’s work in the fields. Their broad hairless foreheads still gleamed with the day’s sweat. Some sat with fixed gazes that took in the welter of daily activity on the road that was being broadened to accommodate a rail-track and serried ranks of lorries. Masses of wood-piles – a staple of life in this forested part of the world – spilled untidily onto traffic lanes. This sad scene would characterise the northeastern states that lay knee-deep in an extended sentence of conflict. The sky thickened with sundown smoke from hearth fires of coal, ignited to warm a people destined to weather a temperamental climate. The road narrowed along the Manas River. Finally, we reached our destination but not before the headlights picked out the bold outlines of a widely distributed, nocturnal omnivore, the Common Palm Civet.
Manas is now a recognised UNESCO Natural World Heritage Site, along with the Royal Manas National Park in Bhutan. When it was first declared a Wildlife Sanctuary in 1928, Manas was a small Reserve Forest that held an unsurpassed density of tigers. Pushing into the Bhutan foothills, the park lies across the Manas River and its tributary, the Hakka. As we would soon discover, this narrow strip of land has an unparalleled diversity of habitats. Across both borders, great herds of elephants migrate into forests with a high density of rhinos, wild buffalo, gaur, and swamp deer. The river Manas flows for 104 kilometres in Assam before joining the Brahmaputra and eventually drains into the Bay of Bengal.
“Let’s take a walk along the river,” I suggested to Pete on our first morning in the park.
“We need to get a feel of the place.”
With a firm nod of agreement from Pete, we slung our binoculars of hope around our necks and went looking for moments of high drama in the bird world. Instead, all along the river, there was human traffic. Young children, with budgets of firewood carried easily on their little heads, accompanied us. Lesions of human activity scarred the landscape, and of course, there were no birds. With sighing voices, we suggested to our local guide that he head back for lunch. But we didn’t consider the possibility of abandoning our bird quest. Such a thought might precipitate failure!
We set off on an afternoon jeep drive into the forest with sweet longing filling my very being. Our first stop was a soon-to-be-dry waterbody, ideal habitat for rails and crakes. These birds, found in marshy habitats, are mainly terrestrial and are great at skulking. They are reluctant to fly at signs of danger and would rather bolt for cover in the thick undergrowth. So, we had to be lucky indeed to set eyes on them. We stood motionless and waited. A Slaty-breasted Rail and a Ruddy-breasted Crake ventured out from their reedy shelter for a quick snack, and we trained our binoculars on them. Although both are widespread residents, they are not common birds, and yes, we were fortunate indeed to have seen them.
We made our way driving slowly northwards, towards the Bhutanese border, taking in the forest inhabitants, and Pete remarked,
“This is just what I like, Jennifer, a languid, late afternoon of contemplation!”
We stood on the cliff edge at the northern end of the road, looking down onto River Manas which separates India from Bhutan. On the Bhutanese side, we could see small breeding populations of the beautiful Golden Langurs. Their tasselled tails hung from the tall, riverine, evergreen forest trees where they were feeding.
Indian biochemist Pranay Lal, in his seminal work on the natural history of India, describes the origins of these beautiful monkeys in his book, ‘Indica’. He reveals how the Brahmaputra, and its tributaries in the east, isolated the ancestors of Grey Langurs between two fast-flowing mountain rivers, the Sunkosh in Bhutan and Manas in Assam. The two isolated populations evolved into the Golden Langur and the Capped Langur, both quite distinct from their ancestor, the Grey Langur. Their fur is a sun-kissed orange, with long golden cheek whiskers and a golden matching cap.
Disrupting our meditating gaze, our guide hollered at us with two cups of really horrible tea which we politely drank. Dusk was falling as we drove back to the lodge; the jeep driver took out a cumbersome headlamp to scan the darkening forest. Our list of wildlife lengthened to include a porcupine and a nightjar – that crepuscular bird with a wide gape to snap up insects. That evening after dinner, I sought out the manager of the Bansbari, to strategize a plan to achieve our goal of possible sightings of the Bengal Florican.
The Bengal Florican is a dainty bustard of tall grassland. The male’s brown back is finely pencilled with black that look like arrowheads. The female is wholly intricately patterned in buffy brown. The male’s neck and underparts are a velvety jet black, culminating in a loose mop of black on its head. Exposed parts of its wings show up as a glistening white patch until it flies at grass-top height, with broad white wings stroking the air rhythmically. It stretches its long neck and carries its legs tucked underneath, not trailing behind as a stork does. We were outside the breeding season so wouldn’t see its spectacular leaping display flight.
The Bengal Florican is a dainty bustard of tall grassland. The male’s brown back is finely pencilled with black that look like arrowheads. The female is wholly intricately patterned in buffy brown. The male’s neck and underparts are a velvety jet black, culminating in a loose mop of black on its head. Exposed parts of its wings show up as a glistening white patch until it flies at grass-top height, with broad white wings stroking the air rhythmically. It stretches its long neck and carries its legs tucked underneath, not trailing behind as a stork does.
Jennifer Nandi, No Half Measures
Restricted to tiny fragments of grassland scattered across the Indian subcontinent, the Bengal florican is listed as Critically Endangered. Especially since the conversion of land to intensive agriculture, its population has decreased dramatically in the past decades. This now highly-fragmented florican population is limited to protected areas of Uttar Pradesh, Assam and southern Nepal.
In the quickly-dissipating fog of the following early morning, we assembled at the elephant station, where the mahout, or elephant driver, was waiting for us. And he knew just the place where we might get lucky. The elephant rumbled its discontent as the mahout snagged its ear with a metal prong. We settled onto the still-rumbling elephant’s back, eagerly morphing into two frenzied florican-finders. The gentle giant strode out into the just-awakening national park.
The ‘birder’ in me experienced an enhanced enjoyment of the everyday. Rather than be a victim of baulked hopes, I choose to luxuriate in the utterly normal practice of looking. This skill has served me well! No matter how bleak and trite it seems to the uninitiated, the quiet enjoyment of just looking at things in the outdoors adds value to my life. These are my Zen moments – with no purpose – just a state of Being. Pete had stopped sighing so audibly, and I guessed he had found a Zen moment of his own.
After two hours of lumbering through burned-out fields on elephant-back, Pete still had his camera at the ready. I kept reminding myself of all my philosophical thoughts and skill sets to not feel exhausted of interest or freshness. Just then, a short and stout – much like a pig – handsome, male, three-tined antlered Hog Deer stepped out from the grass to stand and stare at us. Another two, not as darkly glossy, also ventured out to peer at us but quickly scurried back into the protective vegetation. The male provided many photo opportunities before he too was enveloped by tall grass. There were lots of Hog Deer and very few birds. I was beginning to think our plan for sighting the Florican was becoming unstuck. Glumly, I scheduled a jeep ride for the afternoon, but to no avail. The floricans were deliberately hiding from us. Then Pete lifted my spirits with,
“Don’t despair. This is what we do; this is how we like to live our lives.” Reassured, I chalked out a strategy with the local guide for the next day, and we committed to a dawn-to-dusk marathon of vigilance!
Savouring the next morning’s freshness, both client and guide grinned broadly at each other as they stepped into the jeep with renewed hope and a shared indomitable spirit. The jeep lurched and shuddered before it began crashing through secondary forest. With one hand on the overhead bar and the other steadying the opened bird field guide on my lap, Pete and I re-visited our wish list and, for a while, were utterly oblivious to the fact that the jeep had halted and our bird guide was frantically addressing us. So preoccupied were we with trivia – with the academic exercise of ticking and writing – that we almost missed the morning’s celebratory chorus! There were birds everywhere. High up in the crowns of trees, we picked out the Little Pied Flycatcher in company with other small, insectivorous species. Ever on the move, it took most of its food on the wing, making short fluttering flights to catch tiny insects. To do this, it had to make a sortie outside the canopy, and this was when we got good views. We were in luck. Had we visited the park a month later, the guide informed us, the bird would have already left. Even though summer is mild in these parts, and the monsoon arrives by the middle of June to continue till September, the Little Pied Flycatcher begins its ascent to higher altitudes and denser forests by mid-March, making its way slowly northwards to its summer grounds.
Hunting in the lower branches of the trees, sometimes spreading its tail as it flicked it upwards, was a warbler, olive-green in colour upon first sighting. Two black stripes on its crown accentuated its very yellow eyebrow. Under its tail, the yellow on its throat was contrasted by the white belly. It was not a common bird at all, and we looked incredulously at what we identified as the Yellow-vented Warbler foraging with other insectivorous birds.
A Pin-tailed Green Pigeon came into sight, first showing off its lovely lime-green rump and then revealing its breast washed with just a dab of orange. There were raucous calls of Parakeets, twittering of Tits, the butterfly-like movements of Yellow-bellied Fantails, and the rattles of Nuthatches. We tore ourselves away only to stop abruptly. A Snowy-browed Flycatcher flitting among the bushes close to the ground decided to hop out onto the jeep track. We picked out its field characteristics – the short white eyebrow of this rather compact, slaty-blue bird, with its rufous-orange throat and breast that faded towards the belly.
What a beauty! We watched with calm delight. This was indeed a rare and sudden joy at the utterly unexpected. After each bout of birding, I’ve noticed that I’m filled with an unexplained spirit of comity, as though the birds themselves, in their sharing and giving and taking, compel the same behaviour in me. That’s how it was that morning.
Further into the park, we approached what looked like a freshly-tarred road, sparkling where snags flustered its surface. But it was a trick of light – the river Manas that separates us from Bhutan is still young, having originated in the glacial systems of the Himalaya, it flattens and broadens as it flows through Manas. The sand gleamed white, driftwood had piled on a slow bend, and we chose an idyllic spot for breakfast. How perfect. It was a herculean task to wrench ourselves away from the view. But our local guide did a superb job of it!
The afternoon’s foray into the forest was altogether different. From a ridge, we looked down onto Black Storks, Lesser Adjutants, and Grey-headed Fish Eagles. These were all the birds we had hoped for. And we placed a higher value on them than the birds we were assured of seeing! But more was to come. The late-afternoon sun yawned across the river, gilding the leaves of the trees along the shore, piling up against the low Bhutan hills until they brimmed over with setting sun and then descended to flood the valley with a tide of light. We were at the unmanned checkpost of the Bhutanese border. We crossed with ease and then edged towards the clayey precipice. Peeping over the cliff-side, we saw a Wallcreeper industriously investigating its walls for a light dinner. Our guide instructed us to wait for the Great Hornbills that would make their flypast into Bhutan territory after foraging in India’s jungles. A female Chestnut-bellied Rock Thrush stayed with us, sitting unperturbed on a low branch of a nearby tree.
As the evening sun sank, it lost its brilliance, and we shamelessly pulled out the gin. Like coaxed candles lighting up, the anxieties of yesterday’s florican search vanished in our broad smiles. Savouring our drinks and munching on delicious snacks, we watched in awe as those great birds, like heavy aeroplanes, whooshed their way across the canopy to their Bhutanese roosts. On our way back to the lodge, we spotted a Leopard Cat that stood its ground, then slowly turned and walked into the deep night of the jungle.
It was a trick of light – the river Manas that separates us from Bhutan is still young, having originated in the glacial systems of the Himalaya, it flattens and broadens as it flows through Manas. The sand gleamed white, driftwood had piled on a slow bend, and we chose an idyllic spot for breakfast. How perfect. It was a herculean task to wrench ourselves away from the view. But our local guide did a superb job of it!
Jennifer Nandi, No Half Measures
Still entranced with yesterday’s adventure, we sat astride an Elephant the following day, completely in the thrall of what Manas had to offer. And Manas didn’t fail. It yielded not one but two sightings of the rare Bengal Florican. The mahout’s estimate was indeed an accurate assessment of the bird’s practice of feeding in burnt-out patches of grassland in the early mornings and then retiring into thicker cover as the morning advanced. When woodland encroachment is strong, controlled burning by March is undertaken by the forest department so that the year’s offspring are not harmed.
We were in an area of open, short grasslands, interspersed with regions blackened from recent burning. There was no tall grassland nearby to conceal the Florican, so when we emerged within its sight, the wary bird spread its broad white wings, tucked its legs and feet under its body, and flew towards sparse vegetation with its neck outstretched. As it landed, it continued to run some distance. But we found it again, close to cover and therefore less wary, permitting us more extended views — a fitting end to our pursuit of this magnificent bird.
It had taken us five hours to reach Guwahati from the National Park at Manas. We had an exciting itinerary ahead, yet were mired in quotidian details – our hotel, the best Guwahati had to offer, was constrained by muddling state security measures, which adversely impacted routine check-in procedures. It had been a good decision to leave my spare phone with the local contact. Whilst we were in Manas, he had filed for a new postpaid connection, so that over the next month, we could use a SIM card belonging to a member of the local handling office.
Our one-time-zone country comically frustrated Pete. The sun rises a lot earlier in the northeast of India than in the west of the country. People gear themselves into inactivity while bright daylight hours pass under-utilised until the rest of the subcontinent sounds the reveille. Only then does the northeast shake itself awake. This cultural acceptance of a non-industrial concept of time unnerved Pete, though he did eventually find it rather charming.
After checking into our rooms, we couldn’t wait to leave for the outdoors. This time, though, it would be for a spot of sightseeing. Pete was disinterested in visiting the Kamakhya Temple, but with some cajoling, he agreed. We had to tick off some culture. The cajoling included the information that the temple was an important centre for 10th-century sensual tantric worship of female spiritual power! Of course, I left out the part about offerings to the goddess being usually flowers but might also include sacrificed animal bits. Positioned at the top of Nilachal Hill, the temple is dedicated to the worship of Goddess Kali, the consort of Shiva. The Kamakhya Temple itself, and the rock-cut sculptures in the vicinity, indicate that the temple was built and renovated many times between the 8th and 14th centuries, and perhaps even later. Its current form from the 16th century onwards gave rise to a hybrid indigenous style that is sometimes called the Nilachal type – a temple with a hemispherical dome on a cruciform base.
Down a hundred steps, we were just a few feet from the hot, humid inner sanctum.
“I must remind you, Pete, how fortunate you are to be permitted into the inner sanctum. Remember how you were censured in the temples in south India for being a non-Hindu?” In response, Pete bared his teeth at me.
So I declined to add how unfortunate he was to arrive in time for the conclusion of a sacrificial ritual of some poor goat. Goat debris was being swiftly removed, and the floor hastily washed down by Hindu priests in ceremonial dress, going about their everyday business of cleaning up the sacrificial blood. The atmosphere was celebratory, and worshippers crowded around. We waited patiently for the crowd to thin and then ventured into the inner sanctum.
“The floor is still sticky”, Pete admonished me with a punishing look.
“Yes, the stickiness is because of the mustard oil used by pilgrims in their offerings”, I lied.
After the visit, I procured a couple of plastic bags to keep our soiled socks, and we slipped into our shoes for the ride back to the hotel. I should be inured to such practices, especially as a guide, since this was part and parcel of the ‘Indian experience’. Yet I wasn’t. The conflict of having to juxtapose my experience of modern India with rituals upholding egregious, casteist practices unnerved me. The feeling stayed for a long time.
I hadn’t yet sprung the surprise of visiting the ancient pilgrimage centre of Hajo on Pete. With his fears of stepping into sticky messes allayed, I lured him into the adventure I’d planned that afternoon with our local guide – to Hajo, full of mythological importance, revered among devout Hindus, Buddhists, and Muslims. On the banks of the River Brahmaputra, just 25 kilometres from the city of Guwahati, it not only houses several ancient places of worship but is famous for its bell metal industry. It is also the most prodigious producer of silk in Assam. Hajo is still a seat of ancient Tantrism, and there was enough evidence of occult practices. Centuries ago, when Assam was a hotbed of Buddhism, Nagarjuna, a leader of Mahayana Buddhism, purportedly erected a memorial in Hajo in the 1st or 2nd century CE. Subsequently, this was converted into a Hindu temple. Some scholars say that Xuanzang, the Chinese Buddhist monk, scholar, and traveller who arrived in India in the 7th century, had observed the esoteric practices of Tantrism during the reign of Bhaskarvarman, who travelled with Xuanzang to the court of King Harsha in Kannauj to attend a wide-ranging Buddhist conference.
Our visit to Sualkuchi, some 32 kilometres from Guwahati, was particularly interesting to Pete. His appreciation of textiles is considerable, going by his purchases of carpets and silk fabric on our travels. Dedicated to silk-weaving, the village of Sualkuchi cultivates the ‘Som’ (Machilus bombycina) and the ‘Sualu’ (Litsea polyantha), on whose leaves the Assam silk moth caterpillar feeds. Harvested for Monga or Edu silk, which is very different from the silk found in the rest of India, the ancient sericulture in Assam first finds mention in Valmiki’s Ramayana, where the region is referred to as ‘the country of the cocoon rearers’. Even the political literature of the 3rd century BCE, Kautilya’s Arthashastra, for example, references the production of silks such as Tussar and Moonga. The knowledge of sericulture probably arrived with the Tibeto-Burman groups that entered the subcontinent from China around 3000-2000 BCE. And the Southwestern Silk Road from China passed through Burma and Assam, connecting with the main Silk Road in Turkmenistan. According to the Sanskrit text Harshacharita – the biography of the ruler Harshavardhan written by the court poet Banabhatta in the 7th century – among the many precious items the King of Kamrupa gifted Harshavardhan were pieces of silk, the colour of butter.
Xuanzang, too, in his sojourn in India in the 7th century, wrote of the use and trade of silk. In ancient times, traders from different parts of Tibet, Central Asia, and China flocked to Assam through various routes, mainly trading in silk. The town of Sualkuchi is said to have been established in the 11th century. So, on our return to Guwahati, we went out shopping that evening and bought several pieces of silk, the colour of butter.
Jennifer Nandi is on Instagram as @quantumgrandma
This book chapter is reproduced verbatim, and without edits, with kind permission of Jennifer Nandi, who asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the book, NO HALF MEASURES. No part of this text may be copied, reproduced, excerpted, or sold without the express permission of the author in writing.
Cover photograph: Bengal Florican by Nejib Ahmed, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons
