A trip to the Nilgiris

  Part I - A taste of Bangalore

A few years back we were on a family vacation in the Nilgiris. It was our first trip to these southern Indian hills and I was very much looking forward to it. There are several endemic species of flora and fauna in the area of which I had prepared lists in anticipation of what I could hope to see in and around Ooty.

 We kicked off our trip with a few days of rambling through Bangalore and Mysore. 

So here goes…

 We have a home-stay apartment on the top floor of a building in Berlie Street. The rooms open onto a large terrace where a number of potted plants attract birds and butterflies. Daily showers leave puddles on the floor where dragonflies patrol their territories chasing away intruders.

 At the end of the terrace large ficus saplings sprout from a row of planters. These are now fruiting exuberantly. The foliage is dense and green. Even though the breeze this first morning is almost negligible, one fruit-laden branch is trembling. Tiny drops of rainwater clinging to leaves, sparkle in the sunlight as they sprinkle down. I know there is a bird there but it is well camouflaged. A few moments earlier the calls of a barbet have echoed amongst the trees nearby.

 I make not the slightest movement. The branch shakes again, rather more vigorously this time, as if a fruit has been plucked successfully. I wait. Then from a tiny gap in the greenery a large white-ringed eye peers out at me. Ever so slowly the whole head now appears. It is a barbet of course. But it is not the common brown-headed species which has a pan-Indian distribution. This is a white-cheeked barbet, its southern Indian cousin. The white eyebrow and cheek frame a glittering dark eye. Soon part of the body is visible. Like most barbets the overall plumage is green but the throat and breast are splotchy white. It is not a small bird but despite its size it is difficult to see as it blends in with the verdure of the ficus.  Seemingly satisfied that I pose no threat it goes right back to gorging on the fruit. I am glad to have re-acquainted myself with this species.

 Across from our home-stay is one of the arterial roads of Bangalore, choked with traffic, which leads into the heart of town. The road is lined with mature specimens of the rain tree which feature low spreading branches and wide umbrella-shaped canopies. The trees are coming into flower with bunches of pale pink blossoms. The usual assortment of urban birds keeps flitting around, to and from perches. There are red-whiskered bulbuls, purple-rumped sunbirds, and other species of whose calls I am familiar with. Yet that morning I am quite puzzled by the insistent and penetratingly loud high-pitched calls that seem to be emanating from the trees. It takes me a while to locate their source. These are calls of the three-striped palm squirrel and are quite different from the calls of the five-striped squirrel towards which my ears are more attuned. The branches of the rain trees are, of course, highways for the squirrels. The squirrels fall silent when a beautiful adult brahminy kite makes a series of passes overhead, its russet plumage contrasting superbly with its white breast and head.

 Early one morning we decide to visit the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. It is the month of May and for several species of trees and shrubs the ‘darling buds’ have already matured into gorgeous flowers. A neat line of java cassia trees, immaculately manicured, are in full display.  Whorls of pink blossoms are slowly turning white in patches. Fallen flowers carpet the grass below the trees. There are a few enormous specimens of the semul, the fruit pods splitting in the heat to release seed-carrying tufts of cotton-wool that float in the wind. There are scores of exotic species, first brought here and planted by Hyder Ali and his son Tipu Sultan in the 18^th century.

 The park itself is far too large for us to cover in a couple of hours so we walk leisurely, soaking in the sights, sounds and aromas.

 All at once my attention is drawn to an old lady who has stepped off the path a few paces ahead of us. She is clad in a plain-coloured sari. Balanced in one hand is a small wicker basket containing fresh flowers, incense sticks and a roll of string. Ostensibly, she looks like someone who is on her way to a temple. But there is no temple in the immediate vicinity. Curiosity forces us to stop and watch. She stops by a tree and bends to set the basket on the ground. Her face is calm and serene, her movements graceful. She places the flowers carefully against the base of the trunk. After lighting a few incense sticks she presses them gently into the soil. She unspools the string and wraps it twice around the trunk. Only then do we notice the tattered remnants of other sacred threads hanging down from the fissured bark of the tree. The whole process could not have taken longer than a minute or so. It is an extraordinary moment of devotion and tranquility in the middle of this busy urban park. As we walk away, the sights and sounds of the morning walkers intrude on the senses once again. From a short distance away I turn and look back. The lady has disappeared. The tree, now that I can see the shape of the canopy, does look familiar. I’m quite sure it is a khejri- one of the commonest trees in Rajasthan where I live. Indeed, later I learn that here it is called the banni mara. This species of tree is a true ‘desert specialist’, hardwired to survive in hot dry arid conditions. In Bangalore, with its salubrious climate and fertile soil, the fact that the banni is venerated by some is truly surprising.

 As we approach a corner of the park the unmistakable fragrance of mangoes grows stronger. A banner is being unfurled. A ‘Mango Festival’ is just beginning. A number of stalls have already started displaying their wares. Sellers are busy opening wooden crates in which nestle a myriad of varieties of mangoes. Neatly labelled cartons are being stacked on wooden trestle tables. Very quickly business commences. Many of the sellers appear to be displaying produce from nearby orchards- they are identified only by names of places, not by types of mangoes. Meanwhile, local citizens are arriving in droves accompanied by attendants and drivers. Crates are being carted off. We try and make our purchase both from the appearance and from the scent of the mangoes - for the sake of novelty we select those which are the most unfamiliar to us.

 Having read about the ‘oldest rock in India’ I just have to visit it at Lalbagh. It is not difficult to find. A large gently rounded dome is located near one of the entrances to the park. The locals don’t appear to quite appreciate what they have here - it is treated like a bit of a picnic spot with the usual rubbish littered around. I have to remind myself of the geological significance of this rock formation. It is more than 3 billion years old. It is something called peninsular gneiss, being an exposed part of the very bedrock upon which the Deccan plateau has been raised over millions of years. Elsewhere in India such ‘basement rocks’ are buried far below the surface and are topped by younger rocks which are visible. I have to admit that the rock is unable to hold my attention for long. I place my hand on its abrasive surface and close my eyes for a moment. But there is neither an epiphany nor a blinding flash of insight into the mysteries of the universe. How disappointing.

 I am re-visiting Bangalore after many decades. Previous trips have included a fishing expedition to the Cauvery river for mahseer, and once to play a golf tournament. On neither trip was I able to explore much of the city. However, I do remember ducking briefly into a lovely bookstore on Church Street. Or was it on Brigade Road? So, one evening when the family is indulging in some retail therapy in that area, I resolve to try and find that bookstore.

 Church Street is quite charming.  Now, I believe, it is a pedestrian-only area on weekends which must provide an enormous relief from Bangalore’s horrific traffic. Perhaps the authorities were experimenting with similar regulations in 2018 because I walked in the middle of the street looking for bookstores on either side. A number of boutique stores, tony cafes and pavement stalls lend vibrancy to the market. There are a few bookstores that I do find. Naturally none of them appear familiar. Many bookstores across the world have faded away and disappeared. I try my luck in an establishment occupying several floors of a multi-story building.  Numerous aisles are flanked by steel shelves stacked with books, both pre-owned and new. Often these are two rows deep and one can see the dust just daring the browser to draw out a tome. Obviously if I’m going to find anything worthwhile here I’m going to have to tie a handkerchief over my nose and roll up my sleeves. (Those were pre-mask days!) And that is precisely what I do. An hour later I have been able to ferret out a stack of books with which I can sit down in a corner and make a final selection. The proprietor is gracious enough to give me a discount from the quoted prices for at least two books after I point to their less than pristine condition. A pretty young lady waiting near the check-out counter is intrigued enough by the off-beat titles I’ve selected to ask about one of the authors. Before I can engage her in a discussion an older lady, perhaps her mother, interrupts brusquely to say that they’re getting late…

Here are a couple of extracts from Edward Lear’s Indian Journals from his travels in India in 1873-74. In Bangalore he visited the Lalbagh Gardens and these were his impressions:

 

(The journal extracts are from the digital collections of the Houghton Library, Harvard University.)

Ed Lear, of course, is not only the talented 19^th century painter of landscapes, birds and animals, but also the beloved writer of nonsense verse.

Lear painted a few water-colours of Indian trees. Here is a mango tree.

In Part II we will travel to Mysore and then onwards to Ooty. See you then...

Sahdev Singh

8th August 2021