I ventured outdoors in the calmness of the morning after panicking for a full evening and night within the confines of my ‘safe haven’– that is my own house. As I walked curiously on the clumsy road, my eyes met the marks that yesterday’s cyclonic storm had left on the landscape. I wandered through the streets, my eyes wide with wonder and my heart heavy with the weight of what I saw. The devastation was a physical manifestation of the storm's raw power.
The suburb, once a tranquil haven, now resembled a war zone, with uprooted trees strewn about like matchsticks, their trunks snapped like twigs, their leaves shredded, and their branches tangled in a mess of lamp posts, wires, and debris.
The roofs of houses, once sturdy and secure, now lay scattered, their thatch and tin sheets ripped apart like paper. The tin sheets that had once formed the roofs of homes now hung from lampposts, flapping in the gentle breeze like metallic flags of surrender. The thatch, once a proud and sturdy material and a subject of décor on the artist’s canvas, now lay in tatters. The wind had torn through the neighborhood with an unrelenting ferocity, leaving behind a trail of destruction.
As I walked, I couldn't help but think of the people who called this place home. It was not that there had been no pre-warnings. It was not that there were no announcements for evacuation. Yet, there were a few who had stayed back, thinking that their households were strong enough to weather the storm. I thought about those families who had huddled together in fear as the storm raged on, praying for the storm to fade away. I thought about the children who had shrieked with every scream of the wind, their fearlessness shattered by the fury of the storm. I thought about the elderly who had clung to their loved ones, their faces etched with worry and concern.
While some stayed back, many people chose to evacuate to designated shelters for safety, abandoning their homes to the storm. The profound shock they would experience returning to find their houses ravaged was understandable – roofs torn off, exposed wooden beams dangling like skeletal fingers, belongings strewn about. Seeing the miserable shape of those very walls that used to ensure protection would shatter their sense of safety. They stood as a symbol of the storm's destructive power.
As I stood there, a sense of gratitude washed over me – gratitude for the sturdy shelter that had protected me, for the loved one who had weathered the storm along with me. Last evening it seemed that even the concrete structure would collapse under the assault of the howling wind and the lashing raindrops. As the tempest raged on the thought of flying debris shattering a windowpane and exposing us to the storm's raw power scared us. The power outage plunged us into darkness, the blackness punctuated only by the flashes of lightning that illuminated the turbulent sky.
The storm finally passed, the drizzle paused, and everything was quiet in the night.
I felt a deep appreciation for the simple things in life, the things that I often take for granted, the things that often fade in comparison to those of my peers – just a roof over my head, a warm meal, and a safe and secure shelter. That safe roof over my head and those protective four walls are a part of my house inside a gated complex located in a suburb of the Deep South from Kolkata. That lies close to Canning town, referred to as the gateway to the UNESCO World Heritage – Sundarban Mangrove forest on the vast expanse of the delta or estuary region on the Bay of Bengal.
The coastline is dotted with countless small islands and holms (landmass on water) – as if some invisible painter has painted an exquisite picture sprinkling countless dots with his brush alongside the entire coastline. What a natural beauty – numerous rivers get divided into countless streams and pour their waters into the Bay of Bengal. What a treat to the eye – Mangrove forests spontaneously spreading from the shores and creeks, making their way into the hinterland, creating a huge ‘estuary-based’ ecosystem.
The delta region, also known as the Sunderban Delta and widely considered to be the largest delta in the world, is formed by the confluence of the Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna rivers and spans over a length of 400 of Kilometers along the coastline from the westernmost tip of South 24 Parganas district in India to the easternmost tip of Noakhali district in Bangladesh.
The devastating cyclone, which I got to witness so closely, is known by the name Amphan, which had its fearsome ‘landfall’ during the afternoon of 20th May 2020 in the vicinity of Sagar Island – a deltaic island and a holy pilgrimage site, lying barely 110 Kilometers from Canning township.
That is a small distance in the context of the Super Cyclone which had passed away last night, enabling me and many others to come out and do the reconnaissance simply out of curiosity.
As I loitered The Sun was shining brightly in the eastern sky, promising a bright sunny day ushering in. The salubrious climate made yesterday’s havoc seem an illusion and the tempest a nightmare.
More ravages of the storm’s fury came to my notice – colossal trees uprooted and strewn across the roads, blocking passage and traffic. Relief vans, ambulances, and rescue vehicles stood stranded, their efforts thwarted by the sheer scale of destruction.
The municipality's delay in arriving with the necessary tools and implements to clear the wreckage only exacerbated the frustration. Yet, amidst this backdrop of disarray, a curious observation caught my attention. A majestic Shagoon tree, renowned for its yield – valuable Teak wood for furniture, which I saw during my morning walk only yesterday, was missing! The conclusion was obvious: opportunistic timber mafias had swooped in, spiriting away the fallen treasure with promptness. While the public waited indefinitely for the authorities to clear the roads, the thieves worked with impunity, their greed transforming a crisis into a lucrative opportunity. It was a stark reminder that, in times of chaos, the unscrupulous often capitalize on the situation, while those entrusted with duty falter. The contrast was striking – the slow pace of officialdom versus the swift efficiency of those driven by sheer avarice. As I stood amidst the wreckage, I couldn't help but think about a dark aspect of human nature – in the act of performing a similar task, those driven by ‘greed’ outperform those driven by ‘sense of duty’.
As I strolled further, I witnessed a scene that touched my heart and stirred my soul. Some people were gathering fragments of broken idols, once worshiped under the shade of trees, now lying shattered and scattered. With tender care, they pieced together the shattered remnants, rejoining them with clay, their faces etched with devotion. Their priority seemed not to gather their scattered belongings, but to restore the idols to their former glory. It was as if the restoration of these sacred objects was paramount to their well-being, their body language conveying a deep-seated fear that failure to do so would invite sin and suffering. Priests, too, were present, ringing bells, sprinkling holy water, and chanting traditional mantras in Sanskrit, infusing solemnity to the atmosphere:
"Srishti Sthiti Vinashanam Shaktibhute Sanatani …..”
This hymn dedicated to Godess Durga, the symbol of strength and power, as far as I knew, reflects the philosophical concept of the three fundamental aspects of the universe in Hinduism: Shristi (creation or birth), Sthiti (preservation or sustenance), and Vinasha (destruction or dissolution), which are cyclical and eternal.
I couldn't help but reflect on the significance of the mantras, the idols – symbols of the divine, and wondered what role these intangibles played in the lives of these underprivileged poor people. Their ritual was a testament to the enduring power of faith under extreme conditions. Could they play the same role in my life, too? I asked myself. As I stood there, observing this scene, I felt a sense of reverence for the ‘unknown’ – The ‘behind the scene’ preserver and destroyer. For years together thereafter, my analytical mind strived in vain to find a tangible manifestation until the day I saw the preservation role in Mangroves:
A magnificent example of nature's engineering is seen in mangroves. Their underground roots secure the soil, preventing erosion, similar to how TMT rods reinforce concrete. At the same time, the trees act as a living barricade in both the shoreline and shallow waters, facing powerful waves and wind, much like guard rails are positioned to withstand a tumultuous mob.
But despite all such natural engineering, unrelenting and unstoppable cyclones like Aila, Feni, Bulbul, Amphan, and Yash have arrived with menacing strength beyond the resistance of those Mangrove walls. A Cyclone or hurricane is a destructive force of nature that uproots even those very protective walls that nature has itself built!
The idea of an unseen power wielding both destructive and protective forces remained unconvincing until the self-sustaining growth of mangrove forests was explained. This natural phenomenon, free from human intervention, transformed the perspective, convincing of the existence of a preserving force, even if not necessarily a destructive one.
During a motorboat trip to the Sundarbans, as the boat traced the edge of the forest line, a botanist traveller provided a clear explanation of the ecological processes at play:
Normal seed germination involves a period of dormancy after the fruit falls from the tree and decomposes. The seeds then germinate once they come into contact with the soil. Mangroves, however, use a unique reproductive strategy called vivipary, an adaptation to their harsh environment, where seeds germinate while still connected to the parent plant. These developing embryos, called propagules get nutrients from the parent tree. They grow into elongated, pencil-shaped seedlings with special tissues that help them float. When mature, the propagule detaches and enters the water. It may float horizontally, moved by currents, sometimes for long distances. As the propagule absorbs water, its buoyancy changes, and it gradually becomes vertical, with the root end pointing down. This position allows the propagule to settle in the muddy seabed of shallower, less salty waters near the shore. Rapid root growth secures the propagule, and soon the stem and leaves appear above the water, starting a new mangrove tree. The remarkable journey of a mangrove seedling, likened to a tiny submarine exploring the ocean floor, can vary in length from a mere few feet to hundreds or even thousands of kilometers, depending on ocean currents and the suitability of the destination.
For example, consider two mature mangrove seedlings that detach from a tree branch in Fraserganj, an island situated near an estuary, and simultaneously fall into the water. Driven by currents, they begin their eastward journey, potentially harboring a shared future – to settle side by side, grow, and thrive together. However, as they drift, one seedling absorbs enough water to become negatively buoyant. It then shifts to a vertical position, with its pointed root end oriented downwards, and quickly sinks, anchoring itself like an arrow in the shallow waters near the shore.
Nature, in this instance, has dictated the endpoint of its journey irrespective of whatever they had wished. The other seedling, still afloat, is carried further away by the currents, unable to alter its trajectory or reconnect with its companion. This solitary voyage continues for a considerable distance, roughly four hundred kilometers underwater, before this propagule also begins to sink. Eventually, this intrepid traveler emerges as a thriving mangrove plant on the easternmost island near the estuary, Nijhum Dwip, which translates to ‘Tranquil Island’.
Nijhum Dwip, a tranquil island in Bangladesh, bears a name that perfectly reflects its essence. Here, a sense of solitude and serenity is woven into the very fabric of its natural beauty. Each year, as a specific season arrives, this tranquil stillness is punctuated by the arrival of the Indian Skimmer – graceful migratory birds embarking on an epic 2000-kilometer aerial journey. They traverse the vast expanse from the banks of the Chambal River in Central India, leaving behind a land etched with ravines and arid hills for the verdant, life-affirming embrace of Nijhum Dwip's lush greenery. This stark contrast, a transition from challenging wilderness to a realm of flourishing natural beauty, is not only captivating for these avian travelers but also draws the admiration of humans seeking solace in nature's embrace.
The Chambal River basin, in stark contrast, is marked by a landscape of deep ravines, towering arid hills, and impenetrable thorny thickets. Historically, this unforgiving terrain offered refuge to outlaws and bandits, earning the Chambal region a reputation for its wild and lawless nature. But what is the story behind this stark difference? Why has nature seemingly cast a different hand for these two distinct landscapes?
According to popular folklore, Yudhishthira engaged in a final, fateful game of dice against Duryodhana, wagering Draupadi at the palace of the villain Shakuni. As was always the case, Yudhishthira lost the bet during this game, which supposedly took place on the banks of the Chambal River. A moment of unparalleled humiliation ensued when Draupadi was publicly stripped of her garments in the crowded royal court. This act is widely considered to be one of the most despicable ever witnessed in human history. As if reflecting the shame of the moment, the natural world itself reportedly shuddered, and birds cried out in fear. Yet, despite their marital bond, the five Pandava brothers stood by silently. Their silence was mirrored by the valley dwellers, who as guests, also remained unresponsive in the audience. The disrobing of Draupadi in the royal court, an act of extreme humiliation against womanhood, fuelled her burning desire for vengeance. Legend has it that the tears of the insulted Draupadi, falling upon the ground, eventually transformed into countless streams of water. These streams, over time, eroded the valley soil, creating vast networks of ravines and rendering once-cultivable land unusable. Areas previously inhabited by people became desolate, leading to mass migrations of terrified residents. Thus, the devastating consequences of Draupadi's curse unfolded, dramatically altering the landscape of the Chambal valley.
“According to Geological explanation, a landscape like that of the Chambal is formed by extremely slow but continuous erosion of soil. Soil particles in semi-arid regions have weak bonds due to the lack of organic matter. Such soil in contact with scanty and infrequent rainfall undergoes extremely slow deterioration. Over long periods of time, small but persistent streams of water erode the loose soil. This process, taking millennia, forms the deep ravines as in the Chambal region, which is called ‘Bihad’ in Hindi.” I was astounded beyond words at the stunning analogy between the scientific explanation and the popular folklore. The narrator, a geologist by profession, happened to be a co-passenger in a train journey from Gwalior to Agra, our next tourist destination. As the train sped along, the Chambal landscape seemed to rush past in the opposite direction, carrying along with it its captivating stories...
Paradoxically, what proves a curse to humans can become a blessing in disguise for the natural world. What causes a slow dissolution to human habitats can become a cause for rejuvenation of pristine nature. I saw the embodiment of the power of destruction and preservation in the same entity. I got my answer!
The air of the undisturbed Chambal Valley, free from human noise, pollution, and waste, saw its air purify. Its river, the Chambal, flowed pure. This pristine environment drew numerous rare species, notably the migratory bird central to this narrative. Though these birds possess an unknown ability to navigate vast distances, even they, like humans, are prone to mistakes.
Separated from its flock, a bewildered bird once flew frantically, desperately searching for its companions. Exhausted by its frantic flight, it finally landed on a large mangrove branch.
"Have you seen my partner anywhere, brother?" it pleaded.
"Have you seen my partner anywhere?" the mangrove echoed in return.
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