by M Krishnan
I do not know why it is so, but when governmental minds think of nature preserves and sanctuaries, they seem to think only of forests or else of the nesting sites of waterbirds and freshwater tanks to which migratory waterfowl arrive in numbers such as Sultanpur jheel, Nalsarovar and even Bharatpur. The importance of lagoons and saline lakes as highly distinctive and valuable wildlife habitats does not seem to be realized by them. Chilka is the largest and most interesting saltwater lake in India, and even its shores have their faunal and floristic distinctiveness. Recently, the human need for wildlife recreation, and the value of habitats with their own, individualistic character, have been realized all over the world. Surely we cannot afford to overlook the most expansive world of flatness in the country in planning our national preserves.
In 1968, utilizing an unforced opportunity that came my way, I suggested to the Orissa Forest Department that it was imperative to set apart a good portion of Chilka lake as a nature preserve, and to protect this preserve efficiently. From my father’s diaries I knew that very early in this century a variety of professional meat-hunters were systematically trapping, netting and shooting the waterbirds at Chilka lake, and I noticed no lessening of this activity in 1968 and further learnt that Calcutta was the main market for these poachers. I could spend only two days on Chilka lake, but made out as good a case as I could for my recommendation from my observations—and nothing came of it. In 1970, finding myself briefly on the Government of India’s Environmental Commission, I again pressed for recognition of Chilka’s claims, and offered to do a field survey and provide a detailed plan—and nothing came of that either. Subsequently, the Indian Navy has acquired certain interests in the lake, and I believe other claims have also been made on its natural richness.
Apart from the fishes, crabs and lesser life of this vast spread of shallow saltwater and its vegetation, it is of major importance as the wintering home of many migratory waterbirds, from plovers and sandpipers to many kinds of duck and both kinds of flamingo—the lesser and the greater. So far as I know, this is the only place anywhere where the Ruddy Shelduck (the Brahminy—the chakwa-chakwi celebrated in our legends) can be found not in pairs and small parties but in teeming flocks. Chilka’s mouth has its own distinctive faunal complexion, featuring the dolphin. And more than everything else, Chilka is Chilka, unique in its charm as a world of vast flatness, where wildlife recreation and organized tourism, for once, need not have any deleterious effects on the wildlife.
I believe some measure of conservation by the state government does now obtain in a part of Chilka, but the sustained and relentless slaughter of the waterbirds goes on still and surely such an extraordinary natural asset merits the assurance of its future being recognized, over an adequate and representative area, as a national park, and protected strictly against poachers.
1979
59
Planning a Park
On 5 December 1945, a small group of people stood on a terrace right on top of Ramgad in the Sandur Hills, and gazed north-westward at the plains beyond. One could see for miles across the flat country, and the cerulean smudge of Narayanadevarakere, beyond the middle distance, dominated the panorama; the nearest haunt of blackbuck lay around it. The Tungabhadra Scheme was then mainly on paper, as you may remember, and the site of the dam was not visible from that terrace; still, the people who were there saw the gleam and ripple of prospective water in that landscape. The present regional secretary for the south of the Indian Board for Wildlife and I were in that group, and everyone was thinking of the great lake that would drown all that expanse of brown earth, and bank against the ancient hill we stood on.
We know that each winter brought many kinds of duck, barheaded geese and other aquatic birds to the small rain-fedlakes in the plains. When all of it was one vast sheet of water, right on their migration route, would more birds settle here? That was a speculative question then. It is still one. But it was as we stood there, staring and speculating, that the idea of utilizing this unique feature for a wildlife sanctuary was born.
There was no Indian Board for Wildlife then, and the territory involved lay in three separate states. Much water has flowed through the Tungabhadra sluices since, and there is no longer any political barrier or uncertainty over the water-spread area of the reservoir. Moreover, thanks to the initiative of its southern regional secretary, I understand the idea of locating a national park here has already been approved by the wildlife board, and that a scheme will soon be drawn up.
This is not that scheme for I have no knowledge of the board’s intentions beyond what I have said. In February this year, I was presented with an opportunity for a reconnaissance of the Tungabhadra area and purlieus to collect further material for this article. I am no stranger to this country and know parts of it intimately, but February is the driest month within the Sandur Hills, and outside them, too, there is little rain, though the water in pools and minor lakes has not yet dried up. It is a good time to study conditions in the field. Moreover, no plan is the poorer for a little spadework, and so I utilized the opportunity to have a good look at the terrain around the Tungabhadra Dam.
What I thought were the basic arguments in favour of a national park here nine years ago still hold. I shall give them to you briefly before giving you more briefly a plan for a possible national park around the Tungabhadra Dam.
Wildlife preservation in every country has certain common ideals, but the practical layout and working of sanctuaries and parks must vary from country to country. This fact, I am afraid, is not always appreciated even by the small minority of people interested in our wildlife. It is all very well to talk of vast tracts being reserved for the herbivores in America, the sowing of buckwheat for the animals and the carefully regulated shooting permitted to prevent overpopulation—yes, they do things very well over there, in America and Africa and other countries, but those methods may not suit our country. No man truly interested in a country’s fauna will deny that the ideal is where there are no parks or preserves, but where the beasts and birds are ceded territory and unmolested by virtue of a highly informed national consciousness. I myself am convinced that our traditional modes of agriculture and transport are quite as much to blame as firearms for the alarming decline in our wonderful fauna, and the rapid increase in our human population is unquestionably the most potent cause for this decline.
The fact remains that now and in our dominantly agricultural country, the scattered small holdings and network of cartways sustain human life, that the public (both literate and unlettered) has no interest in the great national heritage of wildlife, of which it knows little and for which it cares less, and that our cultivators will bitterly oppose all attempts to consolidate their dispersed holdings. But in one cause the government has no hesitation in dispossessing the cultivator, even in dispossessing entire villages. This is when a river valley project is taken up. Here is a great opportunity, then, for adding a small margin to the area already resigned to the water spread of the dam’s reservoir, and so to benefit the creatures of the open country.
Leaving out the Bombay state area, with which we are not concerned, the Tungabhadra Reservoir claims 75½ square miles in the Mysore area and 57½ square miles in the Hyderabad area with the elevation of 1,630 feet at the dam. Now, all these 133 square miles of flat land were not agricultural fields before they were marked for submersion. The fields were here and there, and only dry crops were grown on most of them. How about the fields outlying the present water-spread line? They, too, are scattered and only dry crops are grown on most of them. If we add a half-mile margin all round to the present water-spread boundary, no great damage would have been done to agriculture in the area. And a truly reviving belt would have been created for the fauna of the plains.
The second main argument for the founding of a national park here is the topography of the place. Just look at the land, or even at a map of it! At the dam there are buildings on either side and all things necessary for accommodating and attrac
ting tourtraffic; good roads, superb views and easily seen country. The Dam must be the centre of any proposed national park.
Now for the barest possible outline of the proposed park. I reiterate that these are only my suggestions; no doubt whatever is ultimately done will be much better done. The broad principle here followed is that the proposed boundary line should go along the almost continuous belts of reserved forests and hill forests, so as to encroach as little as possible on cultivation. Starting from the dam, this boundary line could be carried south-east, almost in a line with the axis of the dam, along the inner foot of the Ramgad Hill in the Sandur area till it meets the Narihalla (the stream that cuts through the Sandur Hills south-westwardly); the boundary could then turn west, at right angles, and follow the stream to the southern edge of the Bandri Reserve Forest and proceed along that edge to the Sivapuram Reserve Forest and proceed along the edge of that forest around it and then northward, to the north-western corner of the Nandibanda Reserve Forest; from this point it could be carried along the reservoir’s south-western contour to Basarakodu, crossing the Tungabhadra here to Mattur in the Hyderabad region. This would be the main body of the park in the Mysore region.
In the Hyderabad region, the boundary could be carried more or less around Mattur, Nirligi, Katarki, Hyati and Mundergi (i.e. along the north-eastern contour of the reservoir), then north to Hire Bhogamhalu and east to Lingapur, then right around the northern edge of Agoli State Forest and then south along the eastern edge of Benakal State Forest, then further south to the Tungabhadra. Recrossing the Tungabhadra into the Mysore area, the river could then be followed back to the dam, so as to include Hampi within the park’s ambit. All this is roughly shown in my map.*
The above proposal would include not only a margin of flat country around the reservoir (both in the Mysore and Hyderabad regions) but also many forests. These are hill forests or else reserved, so that cultivation will not be seriously affected by their inclusion. Moreover, these forests should be guarded against decline, and, therefore, should be included. Every February, manmade fires rage across the Sandur Hills, devouring the undershrub and saplings. These fires spread far out along the Bandri and Nandibanda forests. On 24 February this year I saw them roaring across the jungles around Chilakanahatti, when I passed that way. These fires are started by men for the sake of the young grass and beedi leaves (the leaves of a species of ebony) that sprout in their wake, and can certainly do no good to the large forest tracts they scorch. Further, the cutting of greenwood by contractors on licence is not conductive to silvicultural welfare in places where there is little active plantation and where the wood depends for its existence on natural regeneration. Apart from faunal considerations, these forests should be included in any national park scheme if their ancient charm is to be saved.
Beyond the Nandibanda forest begins the flat country, skirting the reservoir. Here is the sanctuary of the future for blackbuck, foxes, a few wolves, floricans, sandgrouse and the Great Indian Bustard. I have mentioned animals known to have lived here not long ago, and the Great Indian Bustard (threatened with extinction) is still to be found not very far from this area. The country is ideal for blackbuck, especially on the Hyderabad side. On the Mysore side it should be possible to establish belts of mangrove in the tracts periodically inundated by the water spread, to make up for the cleared wood (practically every tree has been cut here) and to provide roosts for the waterside birds. Strangely enough, we found far fewer waterbirds around Narayanadevarakere this February than in past Februaries, though the water was so very much broader. However, the birds will come back when conditions are more settled. I think the Barringtonia (the tree that sustains bird life at Vedanthangal, near Madras) would do very well here, and attract ibises, storks, spoonbills, herons, egrets and birds of like feather. But beware of the Prosopis!
Introduced into Hagari to bind the sandy, shifting soil, the Prosopis did all that was asked of it and more, then proceeded to the conquest of the neighbourhood. Goats do not eat its finely dissected foliage, but they munch its fleshy legumes and scatter the seeds abroad. I saw these spiky, bushy trees flourishing in the Tungabhadra Dam area recently, where they had not been on a previous visit some two years ago. As a food plant for blackbuck Prosopis has not many claims, and given half a chance it will inherit the earth.
One last word. Whatever else is done or not, let not the chital (spotted deer) be introduced into the future park. Chital are undoubtedly beautiful (many think them the loveliest of all deer), and now that the water supply is assured, they should certainly do well in this area and get quickly established. But for all that, and the additional fact that there are predators here that will limit their numbers, I think it would be wiser to take a conservative stand, and not bring any animal into the country not known to have been an authentic native till recently. Chital, like the Prosopis, rather tend to inherit the earth.
In fact, there is only one interesting importation that could be made, and that too was definitely known to have lived in these parts not so long ago. I refer to the cheetah or hunting leopard, now virtually extinct in India. If a national park is founded around the Tungabhadra Dam, and after it has been developed for some years and the blackbuck are well settled and prospering, the hunting leopard could be imported from Africa and released here in a tract long known to it and for many years its stronghold.
1955
* * *
* Not reproduced here.
60
Animals of the Dwindling Forest
Over the past thirty-five years, India’s wildlife has dwindled to a mere fraction of its former strength. The decline began much earlier, but was so insidious between 1900 and 1935 that it was hardly noticed even by most of those concerned with the country’s wildlife—the officers of various regional forest departments, taxonomists doing stupendous work on the flora and fauna of India, and the more experienced hunters interested in the forests and their animals.
In animal populations, the tempo of decline accelerates after a gradual fall to a low level; once the local population of a species is much reduced its ability to recoup deteriorates progressively, and with the fall in numbers often the factors of depletion gain lethal potency. Broadly speaking, the main factors causing depletion of wildlife in India are: greatly increased demands on the forests by people and governments as a consequence of the great increase in human population, the destructive exploitation of natural forests to serve political ends and the recognition of village rights in the forests, sustained and poorly controlled wood and flesh poaching and (to a lesser extent) licensed shooting, and industrialization and its consequences. These factors have become stronger during the past thirty-five years, and it is in this period that the decline in the country’s wildlife has become flagrantly noticeable. Many common species have become locally extinct and a few (the cheetah or hunting leopard is the best known example) extinct altogether in India.
It was during this same period that in the more depleted West a widespread feeling for wildlife was developed, gaining impetus from a war that left people profoundly disillusioned with the sophisticated norms of civilization, and that a number of national and international organizations for the conservation of nature were established. Whether or not it was inspired by the growing concern for nature abroad, it was only after independence that a national body for wildlife was set up in India (the Indian Board for Wildlife), as also state wildlife boards. However, there were already some fine sanctuaries established in what was then British India, and in a few of the princely states.
All that has been said so far is well known and undisputed, and is a brief introduction to the assessment here attempted of India’s current wildlife crisis and its probable future course. Before proceeding further, two things must be stated. First, it will be necessary to go back to the past again to trace some of the trends of depletion that have led to the present crisis; second, the lack of reliable statistics will have to be explained, and made good to the extent possible.<
br />
Although the flora are as integral and important a part of the wildlife of any region as its fauna, in this note (if only for considerations of space) a heavy faunal bias has been adopted intentionally. However, to explain the lack of the statistics that could provide a more objective basis for assessment, and also to explain the main cause for the dwindling of the fauna, it is necessary to consider the flora first.
During the past four decades thousands in India must have noticed the deterioration of large tracts of forests into barren scrub and wasteland, and their conversion into plantations, roads, agricultural holdings, human settlements, depots and the like—I speak of forests directly in the charge of the state forest departments (as almost all forest land in the country is), most of them reserved. Many examples of such denudation, and the conversion of natural forests to other uses, can be cited from all over India. And yet, allowing for territorial adjustments following the formation of new states and changed interstate boundaries, and also the taking over of zamindari and princely state forests by governments, the astonishing conclusion emerges from official records that there has been hardly any change in forest area in any state over the past four decades, and even earlier. That is to say, there are no official records to show the denudation of forests by departmental exploitation, or wastage by the public or other agencies.