by Pushpa Kurup
8
The Proudest Creature on Earth
I hear thunder in the distance. The sky is overcast. My home is a dry dusty village on the Tamilnadu-Kerala border, where rain is a rare phenomenon. I wait expectantly. As the first drops fall upon the parched earth, my heart fills with an uncontainable joy. I spread out my magnificent fan and begin a slow graceful dance.
I’m an Indian blue peacock, the symbol of the nation, and the pride of the people. My iridescent blue-green colour is unmatched in the animal kingdom. Humans call it ‘peacock blue’. From the dawn of civilization human beings have been fascinated by peacocks. After all, we are among the most beautiful and spectacular birds in the world.
A crowd of urchins gathers around me, shrieking and squealing in delight. I enjoy the attention. I give a spectacular performance, my train of colourful feathers in full display. The crowd gradually grows bigger.
I turn to the smartest chick in my brood. He’s standing by and watching me intently. The rest of the chicks and peahens in our party are foraging in the vicinity. I’m rather annoyed that they aren’t paying attention to my performance.
I speak to my little one, making sure my voice is loud enough for the others to hear, ‘Do you know that only the bird of paradise and the quetzal can match us in splendour?’
The chick is amazed. ‘Oh! What exotic names!’ he cries. ‘Bird of paradise! How I wish they’d called us that! ‘Peacock’ sounds rather stupid, considering our extraordinary beauty.’
I agree wholeheartedly. The rest of the group continues to search for small snakes, insects and scraps of food discarded by humans. Not one of them looks in my direction.
‘And what exactly is a quetzal?’ the chick questions eagerly, ‘Do these two birds really look better than us?’
‘Of course not, silly! You know we are the best!’ I mumble hastily, ‘But I hear these birds are pretty too. The bird of paradise, a native of New Guinea, has striking colors and bright plumage of yellow, blue, green and scarlet. The males look better than the females, just like in our species. They also dance and pose like us and put on an impressive show. No wonder many of them have been wiped out by humans!’
‘That’s sad,’ sighs the chick, ‘Is that why they say pride goes before a fall?’
‘I don’t know, my dear,’ I say, thinking all the while that we peacocks are the proudest species on this planet.
‘And what about the quetzal?’ the chick enquires. ‘Where’s it found?’
‘The quetzal lives in the tropical forests of Central America,’ I inform him. ‘It was sacred to the ancient Maya and Aztec peoples. Today, it’s the symbol of Guatemala. The currency of that nation is called quetzal too.’
‘What colour is that bird?’
‘The quetzal has vibrant blue, green and red colours,’ I explain. ‘The male surpasses the female in beauty and elegance. In the mating season he develops twin tail feathers that form a spectacular three feet long train.’
‘Wow! And what do they eat?’ asks one of the peahens in our group, edging closer now.
The drizzle has stopped. I’ve stopped dancing. The urchins have moved away.
‘Quetzals eat fruit, insects, lizards, and other small creatures,’ I continue, proud of being so well-informed. ‘Their habitats are shrinking and they’re threatened everywhere in their range. And, oh! They have very sweet voices!’
‘That’s not fair!’ exclaims the clever chick. ‘Why did God give peacocks such horrible voices?’
‘My dear, God can’t possibly give everything to everybody,’ the peahen says patiently. ‘He gave us the most beautiful body on earth, but didn’t give us a pleasant voice. We must be satisfied with what we have. Besides, unpleasant voices have their uses too.’
The chick doesn’t seem to be convinced. But he says nothing. There’s a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘What does God look like?’ he asks abruptly. ‘Does he resemble humans?’
I’m stumped. How am I going to find an answer to this one? Revealing my ignorance would amount to a major calamity.
But a sudden event saves me from the ignominy of having to admit I have grey areas too. One of the urchins suddenly reappears and hurls a big stone in our direction. In a flash, all of us run for cover, screaming at the top of our voices.
Our screams can be really unpleasant to human ears. So much so that they really make an impact. Like now. People emerge from their concrete dens. They scold the urchins for causing a ruckus. By then, we’ve safely parked ourselves under a tree in a nearby mango grove. And God’s face is forgotten. Thank God, birds have short-term memories!
‘Why don’t humans learn to respect us?’ a peahen asks rather sadly. I can see she’s unnerved by the stone-pelting incident.
I try to cheer her up. ‘That’s not true. Humans have always admired us,’ I tell her. ‘From our original home in southern Asia we were first taken to Egypt by the Phoenicians about 3000 years ago. King Solomon had several peacocks in his gardens. We were then transported to China and later to Europe and America. We had reached Athens by 450 B.C., though some believe it was Alexander the Great who introduced us to Europe.’
I’m enjoying the history lesson as much as the audience. Our party is made up of six peahens and fifteen chicks, and I’m their undisputed leader. I continue, sounding as important as I can, ‘Everywhere in the world we were prized for our good looks and our dramatic 1000-eyed feathers.’
‘But didn’t the Romans eat peacocks?’ the peahen persists.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘The Europeans unfortunately ate peacocks until the 16th century, when they imported turkeys from Mexico and found them to be more palatable. Today, civilized humans don’t eat peafowl but prefer chickens and smaller birds.’
‘Thanks heavens!’ shrieks the smallest chick with a sigh of relief.
‘I hear peacocks have pride of place in Greek and Hindu mythology,’ another peahen ventures. I look at her in surprise. She’s rather well-informed. Nobody would call her ‘bird-brained’ for sure.
‘In Greco-Roman mythology,’ I begin, ‘the peacock was associated with the goddess Hera. In Hindu mythology, the god Murugan uses a peacock for transport. Lord Krishna wears a peacock feather on his head. The goddess Saraswathi is invariably depicted with a peacock by her side. Lord Indra once sheltered under the wing of a peacock and later blessed it with a thousand beautiful eyes and freedom from fear of snakes. So you see humans have always venerated us and still do today.’
‘And what’s more,’ the clever chick speaks up suddenly, ‘India recognizes us as the national bird. Sri Lankan Airlines, the national carrier of Sri Lanka has peacock motifs on the saris worn by the air hostesses. In the Unites States, NBC television channel has a peacock logo.’ Now I’m really astonished.
The chick continues, thrilled at the unexpected attention. The other chicks and peahens move closer, eager to hear him. ‘Charles Darwin wrote about us in his celebrated book ‘On the Origin of Species’ and later in ‘The Descent of Man’, he announces pompously.
‘Where did you learn so much little one?’ I ask.
The chick smiles a mysterious smile. I wonder if he has a guru. Then an idea comes to me in a flash. Yes! That’s it! Haven’t I seen him hanging out near a classroom in the village high school? Come to think of it, he’s been doing it almost every day. Is he learning all this from the teachers at the school? No wonder he’s so enlightened!
‘Have you heard of the peacock throne?’ I ask him abruptly, eager to test his general knowledge.
The chick begins enthusiastically, ‘The peacock throne, studded with the rarest of gems, was made for the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in the 17th century. The precious Kohinoor diamond was later inlaid in it. A century later, Nadir Shah of Persia invaded India and returned with the peacock throne and many other treasures in 1739. But after his assassination in 1747, the peacock throne disappeared and was never seen again. The Kohinoor diamond later passed into British
hands and is presently set in the crown of Queen Elizabeth II.’
Gosh! I’m rendered speechless. This offspring of mine is really unique. He’s endowed with brain, brawn and beauty. He’ll grow up to be a spectacular bird. That’s if the village urchins leave him alone. I’ll have to be more careful in future. I know his mother keeps a watchful eye on him to protect him from any potential threat, but henceforth I must be fiercely protective, or else…
Another of the chicks has a question. ‘Tell us more about peafowl. To which family do we belong?’
‘Peafowl belong to the same family of birds as pheasants and chickens,’ I inform the party. ‘The blue peafowl is native to India, Sri Lanka and Myanmar, but feral populations can be seen in Japan, England and the United States. It is bred in captivity in many locations in America. The green peafowl lives in Myanmar, Thailand, the Malaya peninsula and Java. The Congo peafowl lives in Central Africa. On the whole the world probably has a 100,000 peafowl.’
‘Are there white peacocks?’ a peahen enquires.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘but they’re very rare.’
‘Is this village our original home?’ asks another chick, ‘It doesn’t seem to be a nice place to live. The children are very nasty. I don’t understand why they keep throwing stones at us.’
‘My dear, we’re creatures of the forest,’ I explain. ‘But now the forests have been cut down by humans for building their homes and for using the wood as fuel. Being unable to fly very far, our forefathers perhaps had no choice but to remain here and eat whatever was available.’
‘Why do humans treat us like pests?’ a little chick persists.
‘Well, we destroy some of their crops,’ I begin hesitantly, ‘You know we consume plants, flowers, berries and seeds. But we offset the damage by eating pests like grasshoppers.’
‘Humans are ungrateful by nature!’ a peahen intervenes, the hostility evident in her tone. ‘Don’t we rid their surroundings of pests and vermin, not to mention snakes?’
She had been quiet all this while. I look at her in surprise, as she adds hastily, ‘I think we ought to migrate!’
‘Are you crazy?’ another peahen asks. ‘How are we supposed to go? Walking?’
I laugh at the thought. ‘We peacocks don’t need to migrate, since we live in warm areas,’ I explain. ‘Typically we don’t stray far from home. Living in close proximity with humans has multiple benefits. For instance, it ensures that we don’t need to fear predators. And we always get plenty to eat.’
‘Is life different in the forest?’ a chick wants to know.
‘I don’t really know. I was born here,’ I mumble quietly.
One of the silent peahens speaks up. ‘I lived in a forest until I was captured by a man and brought to the neighbouring village. I managed to escape and come here. Then I joined this party as you all know.’
I’m amazed. I wonder why she hasn’t told me this until now.
‘Tell us about life in the forest,’ pleads the smallest chick.
The peahen begins with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘The forest is an exciting but dangerous place. There are lots and lots of animals, birds, reptiles….’ She looks incredibly sad as she continues her narrative. I wonder what makes her sad. Did she leave someone behind?
‘We would emit loud cries to warn others of the presence of predators such as tigers,’ the peahen continues. ‘At dusk, we would walk in single file to a favourite waterhole to drink. When disturbed, we preferred to run away rather than fly. Peahens sometimes carried their chicks on their backs. We nested on the ground but roosted in trees. We avoided the big snakes and ate the smaller ones. Survival was a day to day challenge.’
I can read her mind. She’s in fact saying, ‘Those were the days...’
The clever chick speaks up. ‘I’ve heard that in the Gir sanctuary in Gujarat, peacocks are eaten by leopards and tigers. I wonder why they call it a sanctuary!’
‘I’m not surprised,’ says the peahen from the forest. ‘Everywhere in the world only the fittest survive. Even near human settlements we have to look out for dogs and humans. In captivity, we may live up to 23 years but in the wild 15 years is the best that’s possible.’
‘And yet you like the forest?’ asks a curious chick.
‘The forest is dark, vibrant, and throbbing with life,’ says the peahen nostalgically. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
I nod reassuringly. I’m astonished that she managed to say so much. Once again she opens her mouth to say something, but all of a sudden there is a loud commotion in the street nearby. I quickly run across to investigate.
One of the peahens is perched on the roof of a Toyota car. I hadn’t noticed her leaving the party. I look at the windshield of the car and see that it’s shattered. The peahen has been up to her usual mischief. Or is it an unintended mistake? I decide to give her the benefit of doubt.
Though we’re semi-civilized creatures we sometimes make these mistakes. When we see our reflections in glass we think it’s an enemy. We tend to attack without pausing to think. Perhaps this peahen too is from a forest.
I do some quick thinking. The humans are not going to take this lying down. I have to save the peahen somehow. I run towards the car screaming loudly. This sudden move diverts the attention of the humans gathered around. They turn to look at me, and in an instant the peahen makes her escape, first by flying up into a tree, then crossing over to other trees, and finally running fast across the cricket ground to the mango grove on the other side.
I watch her through the corner of my eye. The humans are too close for comfort. I dance a few steps and they watch in wonder. Then, abruptly, I too run back to the safety of the grove.
I heave a sigh of relief and give the peahen a warning look.
9
On the Brink of Extinction
‘Careful, sweetie!’
That’s my Dad, calling out to me to take care. It feels so good to be air borne. Yesterday I learnt how to fly. I hated leaving my cozy nest, but once I was in the air my joy knew no bounds. Today I’m trying it again. Mom and Dad are watching me with pride in their eyes.
‘See Mommy! I can fly too!’ I call out eagerly. ‘Just like yoooouu….!’
As I turn back to look at her, I bump into a small bush and fall flat on my beak. As I pick myself up hastily I hear muffled laughter. My cousins must be watching too. Never mind, I assure myself. Such accidents won’t happen again. Soon I’ll have the world at my feet.
I am a Siberian white crane, one of the rarest birds in the world. They also call me Siberian crane or snow crane. I’m tall, elegant and white as snow except for my black primary feathers, delicately pink legs, rather dark beak and reddish face. I may not be as beautiful as the peacock and the swan, but I’m pretty in my own way.
I’m eleven weeks old now. My parents will soon be leaving their breeding ground in the isolated wilderness of Russia to journey southward. I’ve no choice but to accompany them. I understand they’ll be moving to a warmer place in the Yangtze basin in China.
The Russian Tsars, who once reigned supreme in this land, learnt important things from Siberian cranes. They had summer palaces and winter palaces and migrated back and forth every year as the weather changed. Unfortunately, they’ve become extinct now. I hear they were massacred by revolutionaries in 1917 and not one specimen was spared to carry on their lineage. I wonder if we cranes will meet a similar fate.
I see Mommy standing on one leg like she often does. I watch fascinated as she plunges her head under water and comes up with a bunch of aquatic plants in her beak. She feeds all through the day. So does my Dad and all the other cranes in our small flock. We’re primarily vegetarian but we also eat fish, rodents and insects.
For breeding, we usually seek wide expanses of shallow fresh water with adequate visibility. When winter approaches we fly south to a pre-determined location. How do we know where to go? Well, we just follow our parents. And once we go so
mewhere we always remember the way. We’re not dumb like humans. I’ve never understood why the majority of humans seem to have absolutely no sense of direction. Some of them need the GPS even to find their way home!
Mom and Dad are now calling in unison. They’re standing with their heads thrown back and their beaks pointing skyward and emitting a series of coordinated calls. They do this often, and every time I watch them in awe. A day may come when I have to do this too.
The autumn migration will begin soon, and I’m really apprehensive. Mom is now walking towards me. I turn towards her and ask, ‘When do we go to the Poyang Lake, Mommy?’
‘Don’t you like this place?’ Mommy counters. ‘Is it too cold for you already?’
Well, of course, it’s getting colder day by day. Didn’t she feel it in her bones? This is the Arctic tundra and we’re in the Yakutia province of north-eastern Russia, a virtual haven for Siberian cranes. Until, of course, the harsh winter approaches and abruptly transforms everything. That’s when we’re forced to move south.
My parents told me they’d arrived here in May. Mom had laid two eggs early in June. She’d sat on them for days while Dad stood guard. Twenty nine days later one of the eggs had hatched and I’d come out into the world. I’d found myself in a nest built on boggy ground and surrounded by water. At first I’d been terrified, but soon I’d realized there was nothing to fear.
When I’d emerged from my shell I’d been startled to see another egg in my nest. Soon enough the egg had hatched and my brother had emerged.
I don’t want to think about my brother. He died a few days after he was hatched. No, I had nothing to do with it. Believe me! It was the reindeer and the dogs.
Mommy repeats her question, ‘Are you feeling cold? Don’t you like Russia? What makes you so eager to go to China?’
‘Well, if we have to go anyway, why wait?’
‘No, my dear,’ Mommy chides gently. ‘There’s a time for everything. Aren’t you aware of the Indian concept of ‘muhurtam’ or auspicious moment? When the time is ripe, our entire flock will leave together. And we’ll follow the same path we took last year and the year before. We usually arrive at the Poyang Lake in November-December.’
‘Is it going to be a non-stop flight?’ I ask, unable to keep the fear out of my voice.
Mom senses my distress and quickly reassures me, ‘Don’t worry, dear. We have transit points where we stop briefly before starting our journey again. Now let me tell you about China….’
I settle down in the nest and get ready to listen. Mommy comes nearer and begins her narrative. Dad’s nowhere to be seen.
‘China has an ancient civilization,’ Mom explains, ‘Today it has the world’s largest human population of over 1.3 billion.’
My eyes pop out of my head in surprise. We Siberian cranes are hardly 3500 in number! How did humans become so numerous? They must be clever creatures indeed! They sure know how to multiply! Never mind if they can’t find their way around!
Mommy continues, ‘Poyang Lake covers 400,000 hectares and is the biggest lake in China. An estimated eight million people live around it. 98% of all Siberian cranes winter at Poyang Lake. But severe drought caused the lake to shrink drastically in the last decade. Now humans are building large dams and diverting the water for their own use, unmindful of the fact that we cranes have nowhere to go. The red-crowned cranes used to come to Poyang but now they winter on the Yellow Sea coast.’
I wonder whether we too will have to abandon this site soon.
‘Do our cousins in north-western Russia have similar problems?’ I ask. Mom had once told me that there’s a Western population of Siberian cranes that used to spend their winters at the Keoladeo National Park in the State of Rajasthan in India.
‘Yes, they have more serious problems than we have.’ Mom explains. ‘For centuries they had wintered in the states of northern India. But owing to pollution, pesticide use and hunting, they had to abandon all but one single location. And their numbers came down to single digits.’
‘Holy cow!’ I gasp. ‘Then what happened?’
‘Finally in the last decade they had to discard Keoladeo and settle for a safer place on the southern coast of the Caspian Sea in Iran,’ Mother sighs. ‘Keoladeo in fact has artificially impounded wetlands that were once built by an Indian Maharaja to support duck hunting. I wonder which of our ancestors was stupid enough to choose this dangerous place.’
‘Is it true that India too has over one billion humans?’ I ask.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Mom agrees. ‘And so has China. India’s population is growing at a faster rate, so by the year 2025 there may be more Indians than Chinese on this planet.’
I’m baffled. No wonder we’re compelled to find places where humans don’t live!
‘I think I can understand why the penguins stick to Antarctica,’ I remark petulantly. ‘It’s the only continent without humans.’
Mommy nods sympathetically. ‘If we had warm coats like them we could have gone there too. But Mother Nature has another design for us, and we have to make the most of our natural endowments.’
She continues, smiling broadly now, ‘Incidentally, the Western population of Siberian cranes makes the longest migrations in the crane family.’
‘How far do they fly?’ I ask incredulously.
Mommy makes some quick calculations in her mind. ‘A distance of 4000 miles, perhaps,’ she says finally. ‘But Arctic terns travel a mind-boggling 11000 miles, from the Arctic Circle to Antarctica by a circuitous route. ‘
‘Jesus!’ I exhale loudly. ‘How do they do it?’
Mommy smiles mysteriously. She continues, ‘Humans have recently been tracking the migration paths of Siberian cranes using satellite telemetry. They’ve discovered one of the stopovers on the eastern edge of the Volga delta.’
‘And where does the Western population breed?’
‘In Russia, of course! At a place called Kunovat in the Ob River basin, east of the Ural Mountains,’ Mommy elaborates. ‘Perhaps that’s why Siberian cranes live so long. Many humans in this region live more than a hundred years. The Guinness Book of World Records mentions a Siberian crane named Wolf, who died at the age of 83, setting a record of sorts for the entire crane family.’
At that precise moment Dad suddenly makes his appearance. He looks disturbed. Mom turns to him angrily. ‘What happened? Why did you disappear abruptly?’
‘Well, there was a bad accident,’ Dad explains. ‘You’ve seen those power transmission lines passing overhead, haven’t you? Today my cousin collided with one of those and he was electrocuted within seconds. I went to console his partner and chick. When his brother came with the message I left in a hurry and forgot to tell you where I was going.’
Mom now looks sad and remorseful. She moves closer to Dad and tries to console him. I’m overcome with fear and sorrow and I lower my head to hide my distress. Mom and Dad quickly come to my side and try to cheer me up by telling me stories.
Dad tentatively introduces a new subject. ‘Do you know who was responsible for the first known illustration of a Siberian crane that now adorns the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg?’ he asks me. I glance at Mom. She looks blank.
‘No, tell me,’ I plead, my curiosity awakened and my sorrow forgotten.
‘It was made in the 17th century by Ustad Mansur, an artist and musician in the court of the Mughal Emperor Jahangir,’ Dad enlightens us. ‘But the truth is we Siberian cranes have been on this planet for a long time. We even survived the last Ice Age. But today we are endangered as never before in our long history.’
‘Why is that?’ I ask anxiously.
‘Humans have been reclaiming wetlands for cultivation, and bogs and marshes are fast disappearing,’ Dad explains. ‘Gas and oil companies are creating a nuisance everywhere. Climatic changes are taking their toll on water birds. It seems Siberian cranes have already become extinct in India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Turkmenista
n. Today we can be found only in Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, and Uzbekistan, besides Russia, China and Iran.’
How tragic! I wonder if Dad’s getting his facts right. He always seems a little absent-minded and forgetful. Mom is the alert one, always so sure of herself.
Dad continues, a serious expression in his reddish yellow eyes, ‘For centuries, we’ve been hunted all along our migration routes.’
‘Why can’t we change the route?’ I want to know.
Mom intervenes quickly. ‘We can’t keep changing the routes because then we’d get lost. Finding new routes is a daunting task.’
My heart sinks. ‘Then what are we to do? Is there no hope for us?’
Mommy opens her beak to say something. But Dad is quicker. ‘Hunters often put out nets to catch us,’ he says smiling. ‘But we’re smart enough to avoid the nets.’
‘Times have changed,’ Mom says, sounding optimistic. ‘Humans have realized that we may become extinct soon. Now they’re making frantic efforts at damage control. In the last few decades they’ve managed to breed several hundred birds in captivity. They’ve set up captive breeding centres at various locations, including Wisconsin, USA and the Oka Nature Reserve near Moscow.’
‘Were these efforts successful?’ I enquire.
‘Yeah. From 1991 to 2010, they released 139 Siberian cranes at breeding grounds, wintering grounds and migration stopovers. They expect these birds will join other wild birds and learn the migration routes.’
Dad now speaks up. ‘What’s more, the Americans have developed techniques to train captive-bred birds to follow aircraft along a traditional migration path.’
‘Wow! That’s incredible!’ I burst out excitedly. ‘They must really care for us otherwise they wouldn’t take so much trouble, would they?’
‘I suppose so,’ says Dad, a doubtful expression on his face.
‘And the birds would actually be following humans through the skies?’
‘Following the humans instead of their parents,’ Mom mumbles in a low tone.
‘I guess it would amount to that.’ Dad’s looking rather confused now.
‘What else are the humans doing for us?’ I want to know.
Dad tries to explain. ‘They’re trying to preserve the wetlands in Asia that are essential for water birds. Since 2002, Crane Day Celebrations have been held in many countries. Eleven countries, including India and Pakistan, have signed a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) for our protection.’
‘Thank heavens!’ I’m unable to hide my relief. ‘So if humans make up their minds they can really make a difference?’
‘Yes, of course!’ Dad agrees. ‘Let me tell you what happened to the red-crowned crane on the Japanese island of Hokkaido. A hundred years ago the island population was believed to be extinct, but in the 1930s a few birds were sighted.’
‘Interesting! Where did they come from?’ Mom enquires.
‘Wonder of wonders!’ Dad gushes effusively. ‘They had hidden in the remote marshes and survived the bitter-cold winters by nesting in fast moving streams that did not freeze.’
‘Wow! How clever of them!’ I remark.
Dad goes on, ‘In two decades their numbers rose to 33. But then in 1952 a major catastrophe occurred.’ He pauses for dramatic effect. Mom and I wear a concerned look.
Dad continues, ‘The winter that of year was exceptionally harsh and even the fastest moving streams froze. The birds could find nothing to eat. The prospect of starvation loomed large.’
I pull a long face but I’m full of expectation. I know my Dad’s penchant for pulling rabbits out of his hat – to use a phrase that humans are fond of using. Sure enough Dad has something up his sleeve.
He looks at Mom and me in turn, building up an air of suspense. Then he lowers his voice in a conspiratorial tone. ‘But then a miracle happened!’
‘What was that?’ Mom enquires, looking puzzled. I open my beak in awe.
Dad dons a knowing smile. ‘When the birds faced starvation, the local people fed them grain!’
‘Oh! How kind and generous of them!’ I’m jumping up and down in my excitement.
Dad wears a beaming smile. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. The birds survived. And thereafter they were fed by the humans every year during the winter months.’
‘And then?’
‘Today there are over 1300 red-crowned cranes in Hokkaido,’ Dad announces triumphantly. ‘And what’s more, they don’t bother to migrate!’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to my niece Sarisha Kurup for modifying the story of the African grey parrot by bringing in a black cat. I wish she had worked on the other stories as well but somewhere along the way she diverted her attention to her studies and other interests, so I had to go it alone. My dear friend Uma Rao read and approved the draft, while Praveen V P pitched in with the pictures.
SELECTED REFERENCES
www.nationalgeographic.com
www.bbc.co.uk/nature/life
www.wikipedia.org
www.learner.org
www.worldwildlife.org
www.wwfindia.org
www.allaboutbirds.org
www.birdlife.org
www.sevennaturalwonders.org
www.theswansanctuary.org.uk
www.falcons.co.uk
www.livescience.com
www.natureseychelles.org
www.nhm.ac.uk
www.thehindu.com
www.thenewindianexpress.com
www.deccanherald.com
Other Publications by Pushpa Kurup
Donkey’s Dreams and Other Animal Tales
E–Book co-authored by Pushpa Kurup & Sarisha Kurup
A little donkey rues his condition as a beast of burden and dreams of a better life. A panda is captured in China and shipped to the United States. A red fox and a wounded dog strike up a strange friendship. A squirrel family is adopted by a tender-hearted teenager. And a lioness in the Serengeti prepares to lead her pride on a thrilling hunt. If only fate had not intervened…
Stars and Saplings - A Biography of Dr. G Viswanathan
(Founder and Chancellor of VIT University, Vellore, Tamilnadu. Former Tamilnadu Minister, legislator and Parliamentarian.)
The remarkable political journey of a man known in academic circles worldwide as a tireless crusader for higher education in India.
Causing a Flutter & Other Tales
The migrating monarch butterfly, man-eaters in the Sunderbans, one-horned rhinoceroses in Kaziranga, orangutans in Sumatra, armadillos in Paraguay, hippos in Uganda, and dolphins swimming off the coast of Australia are only some of the exotic characters in this delightful collection of animal stories. An environment friendly book relished by both young and old.
THE AUTHOR
Pushpa Kurup has decades of richly varied experience in Information Technology, Corporate Training and Insurance. She holds a Ph.D. in Management, a Masters in Public Administration and a Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry. She studied International Business Strategy at the London School of Economics (LSE) summer school.
Dr. Kurup is the Managing Director of Vitalect Technologies India (P) Ltd., the Indian subsidiary of an e-learning company based in California, U.S.A. She was previously on the faculty of Tata Consultancy Services Global Training Centre, and a senior manager in the Life Insurance Corporation of India. She lives in Trivandrum, India.