Otterly Enchanting
Rasimanal: 2015
As we descend into the Cauvery
valley, I can feel my excitement growing.
Will we see the superstars today?
There is reason for the optimism:
the forest guards were definite in their assertion. Eight, nine, even ten
otters, Sir, and they are always found in the river by the anti-poaching camp.
We reach the gate - a metal pole on two stands - and enter
the sanctuary in a vehicle. No outsiders
are officially permitted, but there are a few picnics in progress and some
bare-bodied men getting head-and-body massages prior to their dip into the
river. It’s a slow, lumbering drive on a
rough road that runs parallel to the river. The
vegetation is sparse: I learn that the area is in a rain shadow and receives
its share from the North East monsoon in winter. For much of the year, the trees and bushes –
lantana, in particular – have adapted to a hot, dry climate. Our road is apparently occasionally used by
elephants as they amble down to the river for their drink, though in the heat
of the mid-day sun, we are unlikely to encounter any for they rest at these
times.
…and then, we are there, at the
anti-poaching camp, with its watch tower and permanent building at the back. There is no one around, no forest guards, no
sign of life. As we get off the vehicle
and walk down to the river, I can sense my pessimism. In the heat of the day, just what can we
expect to experience?
But, of course, I am wrong. The first experience is a call – that of the
lesser fish eagle. Sanjeev picks up the call immediately and I am grateful, for
it is my first cognitive experience of this astonishing bird. This is a a bird endemic to the Cauvery and
is as endangered as they come. Indeed, if you looked up a couple of ornithology field guides they would assert that this species does not even belong here and should conduct its business in the Himalayan
foothills, but Rishad Naroji, who has studied raptors all his life, knows
better – his book notes the presence of the bird along our river. I know from his writing that the lesser fish
eagle is in deep trouble – on the brink of extinction – with a particularly
virulent opponent: pesticides that accumulate in fish that are eaten by the
bird. The result? When the bird lays eggs, the shells are
brittle and break easily, with unhappy consequences for the species.
I stand under an Arjuna tree and listen to
its call – a plaintive, appealing cry. This is hardly the first
bird species that has encountered pesticides and been an unintended victim;
across the World, many pelagic birds (those that survive on fish out at sea)
have experienced nasty declines as a consequence of large quantitites of
pesticides being released into the oceans from agricultural fields.
A couple of minutes later, I am
at the bank of the river, examining it for signs of otters – pugmarks and
spraints. There are none in the short
stretch in front and I turn to my left to walk along the bank.
It is then that I see, from the
corner of my eye, something leap into
the river on the opposite bank and hear the splash. There is a second, third and fourth splash,
as otter after otter – a pack of four adults – leap into the water, much as a
bunch of trainee swimmers would be coerced into the pool from the diving board. Much as parachuters would drop out of their
plane in enemy territory, weapon and courage in hand.
 |
| Pavaman, who was with me then, captures the otters-on-guard |
The otters - smooth coated otters - seem to be in a belligerent mood: they have seen me across the
river, and disapprove of this needless intrusion. The first two otters are swimming towards us with agility. They exhibit a peculiar
trait, leaping out of water repeatedly, displaying
their impressive size and gaining speed in the process; it is something I have
never seen before, entirely reminiscent of dolphin behaviour.
The otter in front that had taken the first plunge – possibly a male – reaches the middle of the river and, rotating in the
water with his head bobbing up and down, signals to the others to join him
there, which they do, communicating constantly with each other in high-pitched
squeals and barks. The leader swims off
down the river now, but the two that follow him are not obliging; they lounge
around in the middle, facing us directly and staring with suspicion and
concern, all the while squealing and barking.
The last otter – the laggard, so to speak - is undecided on just what he
(or she) must do, but decides to stay closer to the banks on the other
side. Amidst the din that they cause and
their alert observation of the humans watching them is an infectious joy that
never seems to go away, an energised exhibition of life that can lift the
spirit of the enervated.
There is no doubt that there are pups
hidden away on the opposite bank, possibly under the roots of a tree
overlooking the river. The otters are
sending us a clear, unassailable message: buzz off. Stay away from us or we will take necessary
action. It is as comical as it is
fascinating. Mid-day is not when they
are active – they prefer early mornings or late evenings - but when faced with a
potential threat, action is the need of the hour, isn’t it?
But, oh, the otters are
magnificient. What a display! What an extraordinary, supple, coordinated, unambigious
marking of their territory, their no-go zone, their inviolate expanse of
fiefdom! What anthropomorphic expression
of outrage! I am speechless and
over-awed by the experience and can’t believe my luck.
The first otter has disappeared
down the river to our left. We crouch
low and stay motionless in acknowledgement and contrition, the camera our only
limb of movement. And, a few minutes
later, the other three otters have calmed down, placated by our inactivity. With a quick duck into the water, they are
gone. Just like that. A minute later, I see a couple of them,
through my binoculars, by the opposite bank, swimming languidly one behind the
other, making their way along the roots
of the majestic Terminalia Arjunas.
It is time for us to go home as
well.
As we stand up, the lesser fish
eagle that had sounded its call from the top branch of the tree behind us,
takes off. It flies as all eagles do,
with grace and elegance, and settles down on a branch high up on a tree far
across the river.
The Cauvery, along its protected
length in the plains, has three species that reflect its uniqueness – products
of a few million years of evolutionary nuancing - and we have seen two of
them. Otters are the apex predators in
the river (alongwith crocs, of course), just as the lesser fish eagle is the king of the
skies. The grizzled giant squirrel completes this matchless triumvirate. Fittingly enough, one rules the air, the
other the water and the third the arboreal canopy.
And yet, it is worrisome to
believe that we – and our actions – rule their futures.