Splashes of red dot the evergreen canopy, like blood on green canvas. The canarium, stately white and tall, holds a red flush of new leaves above verdant, multi-hued forest.

Skimming spectacularly over the trees, a great hornbill brushes grandeur onto the canvas. In the company of hornbills, a new year dawns on an unsuspecting rainforest.

The red flush is the flag of an ancient rhythm: a rhythm of renewal, carrying the cadence of nature’s annual cycles. In the rainforest, the tree has endured months of sharp dry weather followed by lashing rains. It has stoically retained its space amidst a thousand species, its leaves buffeted by many winds, aloft in sun and in rain, for another year of its decades’ long existence. It has provided fruits for the hornbill, leaving seeds for hungry rodents or to germinate in a secure nook, and oozed resinous dammar from a cut. Drawing in the air with the breath of humanity, richer now in carbon dioxide, the tree has returned oxygen and thousands of litres of water to enrich the air and seed the clouds. As the second monsoon withdraws, leaving clear skies, spent clouds, and a winter chill, nature’s seamless cycle enters another human year. There is now a renewed challenge of life in the environment, with other lifeforms of the forest, and with people in the wider landscape.

From the perspective afforded by the forests where the canarium tree stands, here in the Anamalai hills, one can take a sidelong look at events of the recent past and prospects for the year ahead. Local, national, and global change all have their imprint in this microcosm within a planet impacted by human action like never before.

Bolstered by a legal framework centred on conserving tigers, the state governments of Kerala and Tamil Nadu firmed-up existing wildlife sanctuaries, declaring the Parambikulam and Anamalai Tiger Reserves. Stretches of remarkable forest with threatened and endemic wildlife gain renewed recognition and, hopefully, better protection and improved management. In addition, valuable Reserved Forests, languishing in deliberate or benign neglect, are in the forefront as thousands of hectares are included within buffer zones. At the larger landscape level, these areas greatly add to the conservation potential of existing reserves and help reduce the threat of forest fragmentation. Stung by past failures that aimed to exclude local people from conservation, efforts are being made to involve communities in the plantations and agricultural lands in the buffer zone. Overcoming suspicion and doubts to constructively engage these communities is essential to gain support for conservation and address pressing issues such as human-wildlife conflicts. This is no easy task, but efforts are underway, here, as elsewhere.

The people who share these forests of the canarium, the tribal communities of the Anamalais, are also at a crucial juncture. Respected for their forest skills, the kadar, in particular, have been partners in conservation of species such as hornbills and provided crucial support for wildlife research and forest protection. The Forest Rights Act (FRA) and the tiger conservation plan, both yet to be implemented, bring them promise and peril. Over the year, detractors of the FRA have learned how it has been invaluable in fighting conservation battles against mining and forest diversion, where other environmental laws have failed. Can government, civil society, and tribal communities work together to deliver on the promise, while averting the perils of relocation, forest conversion and degradation?

The hills here are named for the Asian elephant, a species that better represents present conservation challenges. Elephant conservation implies thinking about swathes of land larger than our fragmented reserves, of corridors and agriculture, of people and property. The year gone by saw a laudable initiative, the Elephant Task Force, of the Ministry of Environment and Forests (MoEF), culminating in a thoughtful report that promises to gently but firmly transform our view of the elephant and ultimately its conservation. The elephant has become, deservedly, our National Heritage Animal. A wider cross-section of society, good scientific understanding, and more transparent management shall be involved in elephant conservation. Movement routes and habitat fragments, including on private lands, shall gain additional attention, bringing benefits to myriad other species in the landscape including threatened hornbills and macaques, endemic amphibians, reptiles, and native plants. We shall no more be owners of captive elephants, only responsible guardians. Awareness of the need to phase out the demeaning existence and abuse of elephants in captivity is dawning. Now the elephant obtains a renewed place in our culture and consciousness. A position that recognises and respects elephants as social, sentient, intelligent, and sensitive individuals and families, with whom we are privileged to share spaces.

Growing environmental consciousness is also driving changes in tea and coffee plantations in the landscape. Informed consumers are creating market demand for produce from farms that adopt responsible social and land-use practices. Consequently, certification programmes, such as Rainforest Alliance, require farms to protect natural ecosystems, revive native shade tree species, avoid toxic agrochemicals, and safeguard waterways. These promise to bring benefits both to the industry and environment.

Further downstream from where the canarium stands, the ill-advised Athirapilly project, opposed for years on many good environmental and social grounds, finally comes close to being scrapped. Partly, this stems from a welcome turn of events, with the Indian government finally appointing an environment minister, Mr Jairam Ramesh, who seems keen to uphold the environmental laws of the land. In a short span, Mr Ramesh has transformed the rubber-stamp position of his Ministry to one that his detractors, even in more powerful ministries, are forced to take notice of. From aspects such as making the MoEF website one of the best government repositories of information, to taking clear executive decisions on dams, roads, airports, ports, forest diversion and exploitative industries, Mr Ramesh’s efforts have revitalised India’s conservation movement and the dignity of his ministry. His approach, mostly well-informed by ecology, is balanced by political pragmatism. The stance and strictures on preventing the proliferation of dams on the Ganga, on Bt Brinjal, Vedanta, POSCO, and coal mining, are battles that, if not won outright, are at least well fought. Like the stoic canarium tree, he has many troubles to weather yet, to hold his present position.

Forces even further afield also impinge on the canarium. Climate change is a decisive factor already affecting species, landscapes, and people’s lives. The year 2010, poised to be the hottest year on record, was also marked by more heat than light in the aftermath of international climate conferences at Copenhagen and Cancún. Responses such as REDD (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation in Developing Countries), and voluntary, national, and international carbon markets are developing. Efforts are being made to recognise economic and other values of our natural capital and ecosystem services to move from an exploitative development trajectory riding on flawed and uni-dimensional measures such as GDP to sustainable development valuing social and environmental goals. One can argue that these are too little too late or that forests are better REDD than dead, but time will tell if these are adequate responses to humanity’s greatest global challenge.

Out in the Anamalai hills, as the flag of the canarium flutters red over the hill slopes, there is a sense of timelessness to the upheavals of life. And there are both storms and sunshine ahead.

An edited version of this article, titled Rhythms of Renewal, which appeared today in The Hindu Magazine is available here.

Photographs by Kamolika

A bizarre encounter with a couple of wild dogs recently etched an indelible mark on my mind. Wild dogs are generally known to be averse to human presence. But our recent encounter with this beautiful canid is bit different. Commonly, naturalists and wildlife photographers take pains to watch them from a distance and photograph them. But this time, roles were swapped. It was their turn now. They watched us …..from a distance.

This anecdote goes two-three weeks back when the rain gods had mercy and Valparai got a breather from the heavy showers that engulfed it during the past one month. It was a sunny day with intermittent showers and the weather seemed perfect for a long drive. We unanimously decided to undertake a long drive and zeroed in on Shekalmudi as the destination, at a distance of about 30 kilometres from Valparai.

We passed through several tea estates, stopping for brief photography sessions on the way. At Solayar dam, we topped to catch a quick bite. Post-lunch we crossed a small market place after the dam and just when we were out of its din and entering the tea estate again, we caught sight of a wild dog sitting on the edge of a tea garden.

The tea garden was about six feet above the level of the road and the mud around perfectly blended with its reddish brown coat but it was the green tea bushes in the background that gave it away. It was late in the afternoon, say 2.30 p.m. The wild dog was watchful and appeared to be on guard resting behind a stone. It was totally unprepared for our sudden intrusion. It must have seen many a passer by, but none who would stop and watch it and least of all pull out gadgets and click pictures.

Fearing it would flee at our unanticipated appearance, without much ado we clicked as many pictures of it as possible till the dog started becoming wary and uneasy at our presence and very reluctantly walked into the bushes. We peeked through the bushes lest we miss out on some other member of its pack, but there were none in the vicinity. Contemplating various reasons why a wild dog opted to sit at the edge of a tea garden looking out on the road, we hypothesized that probably there was a kill in the tea bushes yonder there which it was guarding. The air around was rent with a foul stench of dead meat, which further strengthened our supposition.

After the wild dog left, we decided to move on towards our original destination – Shekalmudi. Words cannot express our emotions after this extraordinary but pleasant meeting. It was indeed a close encounter with a wild dog, the closest we’ve had so far. The lush green around was mesmerizing. The silence of the hills was occasionally broken by the melodious song of the Malabar Whistling Thrush. A heavy but short-lived downpour mid-way and warning by a passing estate worker of poor road conditions due to a tree fall ahead prevented us from going any further. At the nearest suitable point we made an about turn and headed back. On the way back, we jokingly remarked that while returning, we must be on the lookout for the ‘wild doggies’. It was as if the wild dogs could read our mind. This time the sentinel encountered earlier was accompanied by a second one and both the wild dogs seem to maintain a strong vigilance.

Since we were on the lookout for them, they were easy to spot. They were lying apart from each other in the same place, where we had seen the first wild dog. The time elapsed between the first encounter and the second was roughly about an hour. While one withdrew into the bushes as soon as we stopped the car, the second one, which was perhaps, the one we had encountered first, refused to budge. While we both went berserk clicking as many pictures as possible, this wild dog sat there watching us intensely from its perch without batting an eyelid and with an expression of amusement that can best be described in the following words. “It is business as usual for us…but …who are these two intruders?”

We admit our guilt of intruding as unwanted visitors during the possible meal time of these two dogs but we assure you that their sight was irresistible and most nature lovers would choose to absolve us of this guilt.

After being contented that we had had as many pictures as possible, it was time to say farewell to the wild dog that had so patiently obliged us and kept us company without withdrawing. It had been nearly twenty minutes that the wild dog and we had been together and not for a moment did the wild dog shift its gaze from us. As we were getting ready to move, the silence was broken by sounds of laughter of children coming from a distance. The voices seemed to draw closer and a group of three to four school children came into sight. The wild dog twitched its ears, look towards the direction of the sound and with one last look at us, slowly but reluctantly retreated into the tea bushes.

Following closely on the heels of the school children was a stray dog. We feared that if it smelt the rotting meat, it might search for the source, which could give rise to a possible tiff between the wild dog and its domestic counterpart. We left the wild dog behind and moved on. About 50 metres away, in the adjacent garden, a group of female estate workers were busy engaged in plucking tea leaves. We volunteered to warn them about the presence of wild dogs nearby. They disclosed a surprising fact. They told us that the presence of wild dogs was not new to them. The spot was a regular haunt for these wild dogs that waited every afternoon for chicken waste to be dumped in the thick vegetation across the road. The waste was dumped by a broiler shop in the market nearby. The foul smell, which we earlier presumed was from a kill in fact emanated from the chicken waste.

Laughing at our own theory of wild dogs guarding their kill from stray dogs and other animals we moved from there. Once we were clear off the tea gardens and entered the crowded market place again, we saw an interesting signboard on a broiler chicken shop, which read as follows:

 ‘More taste, less waste’.

A fifty-six year old farmer. You live in Maguvinahalli, a village on the northern edge of the famous Bandipur National Park.

Every year, at the end of summer, you till your meagre 4 acres, sow some jowar and some sunflowers. For weeks you work in the baking heat. Once the monsoons arrive, you continue working, in the pouring rains.

Once the seeds have sprouted and you have a crop, you don’t relax, no sir, you don’t. You build a thorn fence around the field. And a machan (platform) on the peepal tree in your field for you to sit up on, all night. Waiting and watching for the elephants.

Yes, the elephants. They come from the forest, to feast on your precious crop. Last year, your brother Murthy lost everything in a single night to a herd of 9 elephants. It happened at the very end of the season, a few days before the harvest. He still owes the moneylender 14,000 rupees.

So for several weeks you get no rest at all. Night after dark night you sit up on the machan, shaking your head and muttering to yourself to keep sleep away. They are eerily silent, these elephants. You have to be alert all the time.

You look out of the machan, moonlight outlines the distant hills. The silence is broken by the roar of a speeding vehicle on the highway. It used to be a small dusty strip when you were a boy. Now it is dangerous to cross with all the tourist traffic.

You have heard the tourists pay 3000 rupees for a day at the hotel at the edge of your village. You could buy seeds for a whole season with that! Why would they spend so much just to see some elephants? They could instead sit up in your machan, for free.

The gentle breeze lulls you into a dangerous calm. Your head tilts. You sleep.

Krrrshhk! You are suddenly wide-awake, but it is too late. You fumble for the match and light a firecracker. The wick forms an arc of light, then bursts. Your hand is shaking as you throw another. It is louder than the last. One of the elephants lets out a cry. You can feel the earth shake under you.

As quickly as they came, they are gone. But the silence is not comforting. You sit numbly, not wanting to move.

Dawn arrives and reveals the damage. In the ten minutes they spent in your field, the elephants have taken half your crop.

Lead settles in your stomach, you can’t even feel anger. Slowly, you tuck the matchbox and firecrackers into the folds of your dhoti. And walk home.

The dawn chorus of forest birds breaks the heavy silence.