Meraki: A Piece of Soul in the Forest
13th January 2023. Somewhere under the fog blanketing the IISER Thiruvananthapuram campus that morning, a centipede slowly but surely makes its way across the road. It heroically brushes aside the speeding bike carrying an extra-early mess worker.
As I climb up the hill, I stop to look at the Lord Road Crosser.
What with the entire campus overflowing with centipedes, with at least one of my friends almost stepping on one, followed by apologetic looks at the creature, we had come up with a highly complex family chart for all the centipedes on campus—my math major friends providing the most input based on size and body pattern.
This one looks like Grandad Mcqueen.
***
Nestled in the heart of the Western ghats, IISER Thiruvananthapuram is a lush ecosystem teeming with life. Amidst the concrete buildings and manicured lawns, quite a large patch of forest thrives, offering refuge to myriad flora and fauna. That morning, I would experience something beautiful in this earthly heaven.
It's almost breakfast time when I see the text from one of my more ecology-minded friends inviting me to go with her and a couple others to set up a camera trap.
I am immediately excited. I have been hearing about camera traps for so long, and have watched the recordings of all the sightings they've caught, but this was the first time I would get to be there.
Camera traps are a curious device. As an aspiring microbiologist myself, I am curious whether such a device could be developed for specific bacterial or viral species, but that's a thought for another day. Today, I will see how it's done.
***
We are a group of four—them three "experts" in my head, all of them similarly dressed in sensible beige shorts and ecology-themed merchandise tees. I feel out of place wearing my bright pink cap and a similarly bright t-shirt.
The gate, as usual, is closed. Forbidden to student entry, the forest seems imposing, but to my friends, this is familiar territory —this would be their second camera trap set up here. One of them gives up on climbing the gate and takes a roundabout through the fence, finding a broken patch and climbing over it. I follow excitedly.
By the time we're all inside, I suddenly become aware of the layers and layers of fallen leaves. I think how each of those leaves is an ecosystem in itself, and hesitate to walk over them. But there's no gravel path, so leaves it is. They crunch below our careful steps as we make our way to the stream inside.
We keep walking, and walking, and walking. I don't mind—in fact, it's been so long that I have felt so much at peace. We hear the calls of various birds—the call of a coucal blends seamlessly with the chirping of the common tailorbird, while the bulbuls' melodious song fills the air. We come across small ponds here and there. The water is murky, but I can see tiny fish darting in and out of the shadows. I worry my bright coloured cap is detrimental to our walk in this forest with its faded greens and yellows and brown and blacks. I make a mental note—to go back and learn how ecologists are supposed to dress.
We move on, looking for an even better spot.
***
"An agama!", I cry out excitedly, my finger pointing at the orange head that is fast to hide under the rock.
We have now reached one of the more rocky parts of the forest. The stream trickling its way under all the rocks is our aim. We slip, we dust our backs, we get up, and we walk again. We joke about how every rocky place is a good picnic spot and then spend some time in silence, sunbathing, breathing, and listening to the trees breathe.
We click photos. Not just of the agama, but also of poop. So. Much. Poop. We settle on one such spot near the stream.
We find a rock to tie the trap around, and intent on the task at hand, all of us fall silent. As we work at it—them with practiced hands, and me watching with excitement—I feel the stillness of the trees around me, the whisper of leaves in the breeze, and the flutter of tiny wings. There, in the dappled light, we finish setting it up, hiding it from view.
And then we retreat, leaving the forest to its own rhythms. We wait for the moment when the camera will catch a glimpse of the animals who live in this wild and secret place. Perhaps it will be a Sambar deer, graceful and majestic, or a wild boar, swift and loud. Perhaps it will be a bird, brilliant and elusive, or a squirrel, nimble and quick.
***
We start heading back. Now that the excitement of my first camera trap has slowly faded away, I am once again in awe of the lush greenery around me. I am struck by the beauty and resilience of the ecosystem. Despite being situated in the heart of a bustling campus—almost a metropolis in itself—the forest has managed to retain its natural charm and has continued to thrive. I am filled with so much admiration and respect for the forest, but also admiration and respect for my own friends, who have managed to ingratiate themselves into this ecosystem without trouble.
As we exit, and spot the first buildings, I feel downcast, jolted back to reality. Classes and assignments await me down there. But I'm also hopeful—for I have just been inside a living testament to the fact that we can build our cities and still preserve our natural heritage. We have left a piece of ourselves in there, hoping it will allow us to watch over it.
***