Country notebook:m.krishnan

[Sabyasachi Patra]

The description of Shri Krishnan is so lovely, the imagery so vivid, the scene dances in front of my minds eye. Flawless observations and lucid style. One can learn from him that to write or photograph wildlife, it is not mandatory to go to the jungle. I am writing this because yesterday I was talking with a friend from bangalore who told me that he had been to Jungle Lodges in Bandipur and he was cramped in a jeep with four other people all of whom had long tele lenses, each elbowing the other to get more space. We all can learn from Shri M. Krishnan.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

"I USED to know a Mahratta head-mali with decided ideas on seemliness. He would come to work in a crisply-starched khaki coat and a magnificient turban of tiger-striped mull, and was superior to messy digging or work on rough shrubs- such things he left to underlings. Each day he would spend hours on the lawn, quartering it systemetically to locate weeds, inspecting each blade of grass with a dignified, critical decline of his beturbaned head. I have never seen a man look and behave more like a Hoopoe.

You will not find hoopoes away from open spaces. They seemed to suffer from a mild form of claustrophobia, for though given to perching on trees and the occasional reconnaissance of shrubs, they will not enter thick cover and are happiest pottering about some stretch of unconfined turf. What they like is short grass, and just now with plenty of it in garden and scrubland, hoopoes are common birds.

Most of the time they are on their feet, looking for grubs, worms and insects in the grass. The zebra-patterned wedge of the horizontal body and tail hides the trotting feet, so that a curious, clockwork effect marks their movements. Other low-to-ground creatures, whose short legs are hidden by the bulk of the body, also convey this impression, but perhaps it is most noticeable in the hoopoe. The jerky mannerisms of the bird and its habit of scuttling over the ground in brief dashes, accentuate this illusion of mechanical propulsion.

The very full crest is spread out into a flamboyant fan, and suddenly shut tight into a spike counterbalancing the curved line of beak, this gesture being repeated again and again, as if to relieve the tedium of the long, pedestrian search for food. There are many birds with highly emotional tails, but here it is the head which wears the crown that is uneasy. The folding and unfolding of the volatile crest express the entire emotional range of the bird, and each passing mood.

I have seen a hoopoe indulge in this play with its crest six times within a minute, for no reason I could discern, but there are rules regulating its conduct on certain occasions. When the bird probes the earth in search of prey, or when it takes of from the ground, the crest is shut close, and just before alighting from flight it is fanned out as fully as it can be.

Some of the most fantastic frills and fancy touches are to be found among birds- great casques, racket-tails, grotesque wattles and spurs, streaming pennants, bright bibs and redundant tail-coverts- as a rule these barbaric ornaments are associated with love, and are on display during courtship.

But the hoopoe on the lawn is as strikingly decorative as any bird of strange plumage, though it is fulfilling a daily need and being useful to us- how rarely does beauty go with routine need and utility! As the bird moves forward on invisible feet, the slanting sun touches it, turning the fulvous sienna of its breast and crest to liquid gold, revealing fully the emphatic contrasts of the black and white in the back. Then suddenly the crest is shut and the bird shoots up on slow, fluttering, broad wings, patterned even more rhythmically than its body.

Yes, hoopoe has claims to remarkable looks, and like others with such claims it is at its best in public. For its domestic life is a shocking contrast to what one might expect from a bird so richly plumaged and such a patrician love of lawns. It nests in some recess, may be in a crevice in the roof of an outhouse; the less said about the foul mess that is its nursery the better. The phrase is often used in a prefatory way, to hold forth at length on an unsavoury topic, but I shall be literal- I shall say nothing about that nest."

- M.Krishnan

This was first published on 25 January 1953 in the Sunday Statesman

#Sketch of the bird not reproduced

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

"FOR the past month. I have been hearing the thin, high, petulant "Ki-kiyu" of the SHIKRA and occasionally I have seen the bird in the dazzling midday sky- whirring along on quick, blurred pinions, then sailing in an ascending circle on still, round wings, the long tall spread like a half-shut banded fan. There are two of these hawks about that call and answer in the same querulous tone, though they seem to keep a certain distance apart.By these tokens they are a courting pair that will later nest somewhere near, probably in the clump of mangoes a quarter mile away.

Ordinarily, the shikra is not given to high jinks and public appearances, for it lives by thuggery and thugs do not proclaim themselves. It lurks in obscuring foliage, waiting for the unsuspecting victim to approach before pouncing down on it, and when it goes from tree to tree- its passage announced by shrill twitters of little birds and alarmcheeps of sqiurrels- it keeps low and flies direct and fast. Even when it goes coasting the fields, as it does at times, it hugs the contour of each dip and hollow and takes good care to keep below any line of trees so that it may arrive unexpectedly at the next field.It is capable of determined pursuit and speed over a short distance, but furtive means and attacks from ambush are what it favours.

But just before it pairs and breeds, it takes freely to the air and goes soaring on high. Its harsh, grating voice then changes to a high frequent "K-kiyu", a call that is exchanged all day from the wings and even from perches between the courting pair. To human ears, few bird calls are more expressive of tantalised impatience at a slow, tedious progress of love imposed by nature! However, the call is used at other times. I have heard an angry shikara, attacking crows, repeatedly indulge in this call- it seemed louder and less plaintive then, with a challenging ring in it, but this was probably because I heard it from so near/ When the sun sinks behind the trees and night is imminent, sparrows and other small birds flock to their roosts and the shikra is well aware of this opportunity.

It lies in wait, huddled in some thick-leaved trees, and if a little bird alights nearby it makes its plunge, flinging itself bodily through twig and leaf. Often enough the quarry escapes, and then the hawk may fly swift and low to another tree, or lurk on in the same ambush. There is no rule governing its behaviour on such occasions, except that it fails quite frequently in itsdusk hunting. One February evening I followed a shikra from 6.25 p.m till close on 7 O'clock- it made three attempts to snatch its dinner in that time and, having failed, flew away over the horizon when it was almost dark.

The shikra is capable of fine courage, too, when there is need for courage. It can tackle mynahs and birds almost as big as itself, as the old-time falconers knew well, and it will fight even larger birds on occasion. Once I was watching a shikra eating a bloodsucker on the branch of a neem, when first one jungle-crow and then another came up and settled on a branch close by. The hawk resented their covetous glances and their sidling closer, and abandoning its prey it flung itself at the intruders with a torrent of "Ki-kiyus" - I was amazed at this onslaught, for the crows were larger birds and by no means incapable of fighting, moreover there were two of them.

So impetuous was the attack that all three birds came tumbling down in a frantic ball of black and barred feathers, that rolled about on the ground below for a moment before resolving itself into two crows that fled for dear life and an angry, open-beaked hawk. Both crows must have been grabbed simultaneously, one in each taloned foot, for this to have happened, but incredible as it may seem, it did happen.

I would much like to tell you how the victor returned to the hard-won meal and consumed it in triumph, but in fact this incident ended more like a story. For while the hawk was routing its enemies, a third crow made an unobtrusive appearance on the scene, by a rear entrance, and flew away with the dead lizard, even more unobtrusively!"
- M.Krishnan

This was first published on 8 February 1953 in The Sunday Statesman
#Sketch contained in the article not reproduced

Please post this one as the last word has been edited.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

"EVERY evening at half-past six, the CATTLE EGRETS fly southward over my roof to their roosting trees by the water.They go past in a broken string, five or six in a compressed Indian file, flying low, then a long break, then five or six again following the same diagonal course over the roof and trees, picking up threads of the flight that went before. Their flight is round-winged and leisurely, heads drawn in, yellow beaks pointing forward and black legs trailing behind: the full curved wings never stroked in vigorous flaps but moved in a unhurried rotary action, like boats rowed slowly with broad, bent oars.

There is grace enough in their slow white flight against the slaty sky, and a steady aim, but no hint of power or speed. Twelve hours later, soon after sunshine, they are back in the sky again, flying no longer in a set direction but circling in small parties, for they are now seeking feeding grounds. Their flight seems even weaker now, as they row around indecisively on hollowed, dazzling wings, gliding occasionally before settling in some field. They look even more like curve-winged white birds of Japanese screens in the sun than they did at dusk.

Bird flight can be very deceptive. Butterfly-winged hoopoes are capable of steep speed when pursued and long-distance migrants, like wagtails, often have a weak-seeming dipping flight. But the lassitude of wings of cattle egrets is not illusory- they have not even fugitive speed.
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It is true that the cattle egret is far less dependent on frogs and fishes than its cousins. It belongs to the tribes of egrets and herons, professional anglers, and has the wading legs and dagger bill of extensive neck of the fraternity, but it lives mainly on the insects of green field. It is a pastoral bird, much given to following in the wake of grazing cattle; it is adept at seizing grasshoppers and other insects that their hooves scatter, and everyone has seen it picking ticks and flies off cattle. Still it has not lost its tribal love of water, as its nesting and roosting trees will show, and occasionally it reverts to angling for tadpoles and small fry at puddles.

One would think that the birds that seek their meat in the air, like the peregrine, would find this slow-winged egrets easy prey, but I believe it is not often that a cattle egret dies this way. The POND HERON, which flies faster and higher, sometimes meets this fate- the ancient Tamil curse, "May you fall headlong like the pond heron struck by shahin", is best on the fact. For one thing the cattle egret never flies far except going out to feed and when returning to the roost, and even at such times it flies low- the hunters of the air prefer prey that will seek escape in flight, providing a depth of air below to make giddy swooping safe. Moreover, when the air is cold and slow, early in the morning and late in the evening, that cattle egrets undertake their flights- birds of prey are rarely on the wing then, for they like plenty of light, and warm air currents for soaring.

I must make it clear that I make no suggestion of intelligent apprehension, or dominant motive, in saying this, but I have been watching peregrines lately, and it seems to me that cattle egrets choose their journey safely. There is no need to presuppose reasoning in a bird for development of a habit that is beneficial to it, but, of course, it is quite possible that the flight habits of cattle egrets have nothing to do with the habits of birds of prey."
- M. Krishnan


This was first published on 1 March 1953 in the Sunday Statesman

#The sketch as contained the article not reproduced
A small portion marked (...) not reproduced

[Mrudul Godbole]

Amazing observation of the details of the flight pose of the egrets. It is interesting to know that even due to its slow flight it is not preyed by birds of prey. Thanks for sharing.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

"SUMMER has taken us by surprise in these parts. Usually this advent is both gradual and sudden; it creeps up through February and March with occasional halts during showers, and then in April, leaps in with a formal little pounce. This year, however, the pounce was early and savage. In the last week of March we were congratulating ourselves on a slow summer, in spite of dry weather, when one day the temperature shot up by almost 10 degrees, overwhelming us with a grasping lassitude. The optimistic, their senses enervated and lax, talked of a heat wave- but with the coming of April and little abatement in the heat, it is clear that this is no passing wave, but summer in all its glory.

And, quite possibly, it is also spring, the loveliest and least defined of seasons in our hill-dotted plains. We know when it is the rainy season- it is when the monsoons arrive, and their tardiness or prematurity only changes its timing. There is a brief winter in December; even autumn, if one goes by a certain mellow serenity in the air, is a definite season in many places, about October. But when is it spring?

The vernal season:

Mere botanical knowledge cannot answer this question, and knowledge of the flowering peaks of garden plants is even less helpful since we are not concerned with a horticultural season. Spring has symptoms celebrated in the classics, and it is futile considering it apart from its classical background. The setting of a gentle fragrant southern breeze, a restive amatory urge and blossoming of certain trees and the voice of koel are the accredited tokens of the vernal season. The gentle southern breeze is a reality more refreshing than poetic fancy can ever be, as those who have been out on a sweltering day in April will know, but it is local in its balmy range.

Other trees like 'Asoka', and even shrubs like 'jesmine', are listed in description of spring but undoubtedly the 'mango' is most symptomatic of them. And this year, in places far apart, I found the wild mango in lavish bloom in the middle of February, when the numerous koels of those tracts were resting their voices for a while! Nor are the Hindu festivals more specific in fixing the season- right from Holi (end of February), to the Tamil New Year Day (in the second week of April) each of them has some vernal connotation.

Peak in flowering:

Perhaps this gives us the clue. Spring is an extensive season, marked by a florescent urge in nature. The herbaceous vegetation is in bloom for many months, but probably December-January marks a peak in their flowering. By March most herbs are drying up, and from February to June a number of forest trees burst into flower with dramatic extravagance. The voice of the koel, also representative of the season, varies with locality as much as the flora, but I have never heard the cock in full voice before mid-April. Spring proper seems to begin before summer, and to coexist with its earlier months.

Not all trees that flower in summer are conspicuous, and some, like the 'neem', commence to bloom in February and go on till April. The chaste, white blossoms of the neem are used in vernal festivals, but it is red flowering of certain forest trees that seems most expressive of sultry, provocative spring. Some of these red-flowered trees are traditionally associated with the season, and quite three of them are known, vaguely and descriptively, as "flame of the forest".

Recently I was in a block of jungle which has its own character, no doubt, but which is so wholly uninfluenced by climatic extremes or any attempt at forestry that one can take its naturalness for granted. The jungle was dry and brown, most of the trees leafless, but there was vivid declarations of spring here and there. All the three trees are called or miscalled "flame of the forest" are found here- and hotter flames as well. Forest fires, unchecked except by the conformation of hills, water courses and prevailing winds, take toll of the under-shrub every year. There was an extensive fire on the night of my arrival here, a magnificent and saddening sight.

The 'Asoka (Saraca indica)' is the most delicate of all red proclamations of spring, and is intimately associated with the season traditionally, but the tree is not to be found in the jungle. From early in February the 'Indian Coral tree (Erythrina indica)' was in blossom- an ugly tree, to my eyes, too florid and thick-branched, but the pure scarlet of its flowers is probably unmatched for brilliance. The Coral's bloody crown is enhanced by lack of leaf- but then, most trees flowering in the heat are leafless. The true "flame of the forest", 'Butea frondosa' is unforgettable when seen in the jungle. It was later in bloom than the 'Erythrina', but by mid-March it was in full flower and, of course, without leaf. The rounded crown of orange-red flowers, with dark calyces, looks Chinese vermilion against the sun-brown hillsides, seen from afar- somehow, in an avenue, the tree never has scope for its vivid charm. The 'Gul Mohur (Poinciana regia or delonix regia)' was still in leaf when I left. In May it will be in extravagant bloom, its flat flaming crown spread on outflung branches, blazing fiercely in the forest. This, too, required a wild setting for its flame- I have always thought it a pity that people should plant it along the roadside. Incidentally, the 'Poinciana' has no association with spring in poetry or tradition- but the flamboyant 'Butea' has.

I will mention only one other tree that I saw here. Late in February we were going up a hill-road laboriously. A recent fire has scorched the earth, there were heavy, black rocks on either side, and the sparse jungle was brown and seemed withered beyond redemption. Round a bend in the road we came suddenly upon a group of 'Yellow Silk Cotton' trees- three crooked little trees, with burnt, gnarled trunks and tortured branches, the very tips of which alone were purple and turgid with life, and bore great, opulent yellow flowers of the purest aureolin, with hearts of red-gold stamens. I cannot describe the contrast of gracious, unstinted beauty of those flowers against that ground of charred and twisted desolation- we stopped wordlessly in our tracks to stare, unmindful of all else. To one blessed with greater faith than I, the experience could have been a revelation; surprised by such loveliness, a poet could have found a lasting joy in the sight, in a recollective, Wordsworthian manner.

But after the first glad stare, what came to me was no sense of rapture or thankfulness, but only a sharp memory from a painful past, when I had been at the foot of the systematic botany class. I turned to my comrades in triumph; "Cochlospermum gossypium," I announced to them, with finality. However, they did not hear me, or if they did, they were wholly insensible to the bathos of my remark- they just stood there, staring. There are times when the impercipience of others is merciful."

- M.Krishnan

This was first published on 12 April 1953 in The Sunday Statesman

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

"IN a story that I read recently,the climax is reached when the narrator, in his boyhood, has to cross a haunted pathway in the dark. The suspense mounts as he nears the place. Then, unable to face it, he turn away from the horror and walks backwards, his senses taut with apprehension. "My ears were pricked up, ready to listen to the slightest rustle. A leaf dropping, the NIGHT HERON darting into the still night with its shrill call 'tweet, tweet, tweet' would have seen me dropped on the ground."

Having done most things the hard way all my life, I fear I will have no easy death, but even I would get a pretty considerable jar were I hear a night heron rise into the obscure silence with a shrill "tweet, tweet, tweet!" But were its cry far more eerie, a sudden, raucous, floating "w-a-a-k!" from above, I wouldn't turn a hair, for that is the bird's call.

In many Indian languages, the night heron's name is onomatopoeic- in Tamil, for example,, it is called "Vakka". Perhaps it is most identifiable of the lesser herons and egrets, a dumpy heron with a black crown, nape and back. There is a silky crest of long black feathers drooping over the humped shoulders, but neither this nor the colour of the back is visible as one views the roosting bird from below or eye level, though the black crown is prominent. In fact, it is after sunset when the sky turns a neutral tint, that one usually sees night herons, and in that light it is a wholly dusky bird with even the characteristic white of the under parts a lighter shade of grey.

However, it is not by observing details of plumage that one knows this bird- the heavy, dark contours of head and beak, the blunt hollowed wings rowing a steady path through the dusk, and the hoarse, airborne "w-a-a-k!" are unmistakable.

Being nocturnal and crepuscular, night herons spend the day in heavy repose in their chosen roosts. But when they breed, they are day herons as well, for the ceaseless yickering of the young drives the parents to seek food for their insatiable brood throughout the night and day. Breeding is a wearing pastime with most birds- with night herons, it is positively exhausting of all concerned, including neighbours.

Usually the breeding sites and roosting trees are well away from human habitation, and often near water, but the birds do not hesitate to locate their nesting colony in a built-up area if other conditions suit them. In June 1946, a colony of some 150 night herons nested in mango trees in the backyard of a house in the heart of congested Madras- there was a tidal creek not far away and a sluggish canal right at the back, ample inducement to the hard-worked birds to pitch on the spot.

The sustained clamour of the young and continuous arrivals and departures of the adults rendered sleep almost inpossible for the occupants of neighbouring houses. After futile private attempts to move the birds, the residents lodged a complaint at the local police station. Our unsung police force, which are capable of dark feats of public duty, rose nobly to the occasion. A constable with a shotgun visited the scene of the offence and fired a few rounds into the loud and thick trees, bringing down a number of birds, and the rest of the colony took wing in a hurry, never to return to the homestead.

In contrast to this feverish whole-time activity of the breeding night heron, I must add that occasionally the bird sleeps soundly through the night, in spite of its name- when the hunting has been good in the evening and early hours of darkness. One of the most vivid recollections of my youth is the capture of a slumbering night heron on the parapet wall of my house, around midnight.

It stood on one leg, its head lost in its huddled shoulders and fluffed plumage. It was so fast asleep that when I switched on my powerful terrace lamp, right above it, the sudden glare failed to get through to its drowsing senses. Only when I took it in my hands did it awaken with a loud croak of protest. I held it as one holds a pigeon, with its flanks and feet pinioned between my fingers so that it could not use them, but it got away by an undignified and smelly manoeuvre, being abruptly and fishily sick.

Best to let sleeping night herons sleep."
- M.Krishnan

This was first published on 28 June 1953 in The Sunday Statesman
*Sketch of a flock of three birds in flight not reproduced.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

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COUNTRY NOTEBOOK: M. Krishnan : The ' DOUBLE-JUMP' technique : The Sunday Statesman 07 Dec 2014
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THE 'DOUBLE-JUMP' TECHNIQUE

"THERE were three Jackals in the cage and at my near approach to the bars they became excited as caged jackals often do. Some zoo animals are supremely indifferent to close human scrutiny, some (many of the Cats, for example) resent it and try to get at the onlooker through the bars, but Jackals get frightened.

At one end of the cage there was a shallow trough in the cement flooring and one of the Jackals crouched in this depression, only its head showing above, another crouched in the opposite corner of the cage, but the third Jackal was moved to a futile exhibition of flight. It scurried across the cage to the trough, leaped at the end wall, got its forefeet on the wall and then, by a thrust of its hind legs against the floor, hoisted itself higher up the wall so that all the four feet were momentarily on the vertical surface, kicked out with its hind legs against the wall and through itself back on the floor from this kick - then it scurried across the other end of the cage, turned, and rushed back to the trough to leap again at the wall at its end. I was fascinated by this tactics, for I knew what that frantic Jackal was trying to do - had it not been a sheer, smooth, plastered wall that it leaped against but a rock face offering the least purchase to its feet, it would have gone higher up from the kick against the vertical surface (instead of throwing itself away from the wall) and have cleared the top of the rock.

However, that is only my theory. An elderly gentleman, who stood beyond the rails narrowly watching both the Jackal and my attempt to photograph it, seemed to take a different view. After staring hard for a couple of minutes, he walked off, flinging a comment at me over his shoulder as he went away in the manner of elderly gentlemen.

"Mad!" he pronounced. " Stark, staring mad! "

I am sure he was referring to the Jackal's behaviour and not mine.

Years ago, writing in this column about the ability of the common or garden Cat to scale a vertical surface by leaping at it and then propelling itself further up by a quick kick of hind legs against the wall or other sheer surface, I pointed out how certain light-footed creatures were able to ascend heights which they certainly cannot clear at a jump, by this means. To a large extent, it seems to be a feat that only agile creatures, with powerful but deft hind legs, can perform, but if the vertical height is not too much, even heavy animals can manage it.

Years ago I had a beautifully balanced Poligar hound and a massive stout-hearted Labrador. My compound wall, which was just four feet high, was no limiting factor to Chocki the Poligar _ she could clear it easily with inches to spare. But the Labrador, who was a great wanderer, had to leap at the wall, get a purchase on the top momentarily with his paws and then project himself over the wall with a kick of the hind legs against the base. That is not quite the same thing at leaping at and then up, a wall face, though it was a remarkable feat in an animal weighing all of 70 lb - I shall return to this difference later. Incidentally, that Labrador could climb trees after a fashion if the bole was not too high and sloped sufficiently for him to scramble up to the lowest fork.

I have seen a Jackal in the scrub streaming up a boulder that was taller than I, at that time I thought that the animal has reached the top in one leap, but now realise that it must have jumped at the side of the boulder and then projected itself upward with a kick. I have repeatedly watched Cats perform this trick. So deft and quick is the movement that unless one watches for the kick with the coupled hind legs against the wall, one is apt to miss it altogether and gain the impression that the animal reached the top of the wall in one clear leap.

Surely this is why Panthers cannot be confined by high walls or a deep moat - being extraordinarily agile, they have no trouble leaping into the moat, and then clearing the outer wall by the " double-jump " technique. No doubt the marvellous ability of klipspringers, chamois and other light-footed animals in jumping to the top of high steep rocks is also due to this trick.

During the past year, I have observed young goats jumping to the top of a wall, using this technique - the mother goat was not able to do so. When I kept milch-goats, I noticed that while the compound wall was high enough to confine the heavy buck, the big cross-bred does, the kids and the trim little Surti does had no difficulty getting to its top.

Lions and Tigers and other heavily-built beasts no doubt find their weight against them though they are so wonderfully swift and fluid in their movements and cannot leap against a sheer wall and then over its top from a quick downwardly directed kick against its side with the hind legs. The distinction between this trick jump and climbing or scrambling up a vertical surface has to be kept in mind - the "double-jump" trick may seem only a speeded-up extension of a swarming movements upwards, but it is not.

Quite massive animals like bears can climb expertly and I believe my Labrador was by no means unique in its ability to scramble up walls and fences and that other dogs of the breed are equally given to it. But that is not the "double-jump". I have carefully watched such expert climbers and scramblers as Monkeys and Squirrels attempting to go up vertical surfaces such as walls - where they succeeded ( they failed many times ) it was by scrambling upward using all four limbs to grip a surface sufficiently rough, not by a swift projection of their bodies but by a kick with the hind legs against the wall."

-M. Krishnan

This was first published on 25 May 1958 in The Sunday Statesman


#The photographs documenting the trick of the Jackal not reproduced here.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

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COUNTRY NOTEBOOK: M. Krishnan : THE GIANT SQUIRREL : The Sunday Statesman : 23 November 2014

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" The Malabar Squirrel, in spite of its name, is by no means confined to Malabar. It is found in the Ooty area and in Mysore, in Karwar and in the foothills of the Himalayas - in many places in India where there are forests, especially semi-deciduous forests. Away from tall trees growing fairly close together, it is useless looking for Giant Squirrel ( as it is much happily named ), for it is highly arboreal creature that rarely comes down from the treetops.

The way it can race along the forest top, leaping from tree to tree, clearing the intervening air with easy grace, and deftly balancing itself on thin twigs, is truly amazing. It can hang upside down from the toeholds of its hind feet, and its great bottlebrush tail, which is fully half the length of the yard-long squirrel, is flung up as a balancer when it jumps from bough to bough.

When frightened by a too-close approach, it usually panics and bolts, and one has little chance of catching up with it again. But at times, when the sun is hot and it is not feeding or resting, it does not flee from scrutiny but climbs to the topmost boughs and hides in the foliage.

It can be comical in its comical in its concealment. As a rule, it is quite efficient in hiding, putting so much leaves between itself and the watcher that it is no longer visible. But occasionally it hides merely by stretching itself flat on its belly along a bough, and poking its head into the cover of leaves _ the fluffy, conspicuous, white-tipped tail hangs down like a banner, and the rich brown body is clear against leaf and bark, but having buried its head in the foliage, it feels secure! The Giant Squirrel can beat the Ostrich of the legend.

Most of the time, though, it is watching you, although its immobility might suggest you that it has gone to sleep - it peeps at you through chinks between leaves, and should you try to get close it will bolt. The best way to look at this handsome squirrel is to scout around and find a tree in which it has built its football-sized nest of woven twigs and leaves and fibre.

This nest is more often used for siestas than for the security of the next generation, and you often find several nests in the same tree. Provided and unhurried, casual and totally non-furtive approach is made, one can sit down ( much better to sit down when watching wild things - somehow this serves to reassure them ) not far from such a tree and study one's squirrels at leisure.

Giant Squirrels are often found in the same tree with the Common Langur, both animals being extremely tolerant of each other. I have seen a baby Langur, no bigger than a kitten and still clad in dark fur, playing about on a bough on which a Squirrel lay comfortably stretched, while the mother Langur sat in a crotch nearby, exhibiting not the least concern for her progeny.

The voice of the Giant Squirrel is in keeping with its size, a loud, metallic, rattling call, clearly audible a furlong away.

Sometimes the call is abbreviated to what corresponds to a cheep or two of the familiar striped squirrel, but recently I was surprised at the sustained silence that these big rodents can maintain when they want to be silent. In a week spent in forests where there were plenty of Giant Squirrels, I saw dozens but never heard one, they fled in silence at my approach, or else hid in the treetops, but not once did they sound their alarm. I remember how loud they were in their alarm calls, on previous encounters. I wonder why all the Squirrels of the area were so silent this time - I can think of no likely explanation."

-M. Krishnan

*This was first published on 4 May 1958 in The Sunday Statesman.
#The photograph of a giant squirrel hanging up-side down in the cage not reproduced here.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

I am so pleased to inform our readers, that from his subsequent writings, I could learn that Late Shri M. Krishnan did succeed to get a sight of the Ratel ; Mellivora capensis (Schreber) in Hazaribagh N.P. ( erstwhile Bihar) on February 4, 1970.
Kind regards,
SaktiWild

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

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COUNTRY NOTEBOOK: M.Krishnan: THE RATEL: The Sunday Statesman : 09 November 2014

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( THE HONEY BADGER )

"IN the old days there was a theory about the peculiar colouring of the Ratel, which is silvery-grey on the top and black below - the usual rule for a beast to be light-coloured ventrally and dark dorsally. Explaining the unorthodox colour scheme of the Ratel, people said that it helped this nocturnal animal in escaping observation by moonlight. They argued that the broad , silvery black blended so perfectly with the bright moonlight, and the black legs and underside with the shadows, that the ratel becomes almost invisible.

Now that is a theory that can satisfy armchair naturalists. It is true that the ratel is nocturnal but, unlike the Chukori of Hindi lirics, it is not active and happy only when there is a moon. In fact, I suspect that the ratel's reputed fondness for moonlit nights is due to the fact that on dark nights people were unable to see the animal as it roamed abroad, and that it was observed only when the moon was bright enough for visibility. I must confess that I have never seen a ratel wild, by moonlight or any other light, but I have no doubt that its colouring renders it less clearly visible by moonlight than a beast that is dark all over. Those who have seen the ratel wild (usually on a riverbed or along some forest path) seem to have no great difficulty in spotting it.

The scientific explanation of the ratel's colouring is more interesting. Broadly speaking, the ratel belongs to the group that includes the Badger, the skunk (very ratel-like in its colouring) and the wolverine. The ratel, which belongs to Africa and Southern Asia, is closest to the badger and is, in fact, the Honey Badger. In this interesting loose group, many animals are dark below and light on top, or else conspicuously marked with white on the face or on top of the head, these creatures are very tough and quite formidable, in spite of their medium size, and many of them (the skunk and the wolverine, for example) have potent stink glands in addition - I should add that the wolverine, which is admittedly one of the toughest animals in creation, is not conspicuously marked in contrasting tones but is more or less whole-coloured. A characteristic that these beasts have in common is that they seem to fear no enemies and go about quite openly, not effecting the catlike stealth of typical predators, or the furtiveness of the hunted; living on small prey and partly on vegetables, they do not need to be silent in their movements, though some of them hunt expertly.

It is said that the toughness and stink of these creatures, advertised by their bold, contrasty colouring, give them a certain immunity from attack by larger animals - that their pattern of colouring is a "hands off" signal. In short, the scientific explanation is more or less Warning Colour.

Now, I have always felt a guarded distrust of Warning Colour as an explanation, but it is so very logically complete, and the more I see of life the less less logical does it seem to me. I believe that the sight and details of colouration play a much less important part in casual encounters between wild beasts than they do in our lives. For one thing, animals go more by movement than by pattern or colouration in spotting one another, again, they are so much more sensitive to sound and smell than we are: moreover, sight, at night and in the scrub or jungle, cannot be a completely revealing sense, and remembering how colours fade in poor light, and the the majority of animals are colour-blind, small touches of colour or tone can have no significance - and the theory of Warning Colour is so very dependent on the apprehension of vivid markings is obnoxious, small creatures by their potential enemies, which enemies have no instinctive apprehension of the unpleasantness of warningly coloured creatures, but must learn to avoid them by experience! And what happens when a certain colour pattern, said to be of a powerful warning nature, is pointed out in a perfectly harmless creature? The pundit, far from being perturbed, is actually delighted - he lectures you on how mimicry exists side by side with Warning Colour.

Mind, I do not for a moment that warning colouration does not obtain in nature, or that mimicry is not a provable fact (and mimicry has no value apart from warning colour) - I only say there has been a tendency in the recent past to resort to this theory too freely. I do not think the ratel's parti-coloured coat can be explained on the basis of warning colouration. The skunk, notorious for its stink skin, is silvery on top and black below, somewhat like the ratel. The ratel, too, has a sub-caudal stink gland, though it is less potent than the skunk's. But so far as I can ascertain, the ratel does not use its stink gland when it is is fighting aggressors.

Dunbar Brander, and after him Champion have rightly called the ratel the bravest animal of our jungles. It is absolutely fearless, and its strong loose skin covered in harsh hair, its elastic muscles and its indefatigable zest for life makes a formidable combination along with its powerful jaws and useful claws. Instances are on record of ratels fighting and routing dogs which set upon them in the jungle - I have observed captive ratels carefully when they were "fighting" their keepers. The stink gland (which presumably has a social function in the ratel's free life) were never used on these occasions.

The Ratel is not only the bravest beast of our wild beasts, it is also one of the most playful. Full-grown ratels turn somersaults and indulge in frisky gambols - even ratels shut up in a small cage will find amusement in turning head over heels within the narrow confinements of bars. The ratel is really tough, and full of tireless energy but it is essentially crepuscular and nocturnal and cannot stand the sun - more than one captive ratel that I knew died of sunstroke. The name Honey Badger seems to have been well earned - the amimal certainly does not have a sweet tooth. I always feel fascinated by it when I see a ratel in a zoo but cannot help feeling sorry also - it seems such a shame to continue a nocturnal wanderer so fond of open spaces and roving afield, and to exhibit it by the harsh glare of the sun."

-M. Krishnan

This was first published on 30 March 1958 in The Sunday Statesman

#Two photographs forming part of the article have not been reproduced.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

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The Common Langur : M.Krishnan : The Sunday Statesman : 31 August 2014
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THE COMMON LANGUR

"IF the Common Langur were less common, I am sure it would be thought one of the handsomest monkeys in the world. Elsewhere in Africa and South America, there are monkeys far brighter in colour and more picturesque in looks; even in India we have a monkey with a richer softer pelt and another with a cascading mane. But the contrast between the black of the langur's face and extremities and the grey of its coat is most pleasing and effective and a few other monkeys have such a dignified and distinguished bearing.

It is in the cold North in the foothills of the Himalayas that the Common Langur attains its best size and pelage - its thick coat is silvery grey there. In the South it is a smaller animal and its grey is no longer silvery but smoky warm shade. But everywhere the contrast between the grey of its coat and the black of its face, offset by a fringe and a peak of almost white hair, has a strong but sober contrast, lending the animal remarkable distinction. Moreover, no other monkey has such a graceful tail in action and repose.

So dark is the facial skin and so deep brown the eyes beneath the shading peak of hair that photographers find it extremely hard to get the features of the flat face in a direct front view. These sombre eyes, incidentally, amongst the sharpest in the jungles and generations of shikaris in India have been guided by their acuity when seeking to recover or follow up wounded tigers and panthers.

This brings us to an interesting question. As everyone knows, the guttural, hysterical swearing of langurs (and other monkeys) is usually a quite reliable sign that they have sighted a dreaded enemy (most probably a feline) but it is sometimes indulged in at other creatures and sights. Langurs will swear themselves hoarse when they see a dead panther being carried away, or even at a panther skin, and once I had the amusing experience to their reaction to a boldly-patterned black-and-yellow sari that my wife was wearing.

That sari was not marked in black, imitative rosettes on a tawny ground, but undoubtedly its pattern did suggest a panther's coat. We were motoring down a ghat road in an open car and passed several groups of langurs on tall roadside trees. All these monkeys are accustomed to the sight of passing humanity and cars but everyone of them swore at the sari !

I had the opportunity to observe closely the response of the Common Langurs to the appearance of a tiger on the scene. On seeing the tiger, they went up tall trees but were silent till their enemy approached their trees directly.

Then they started swearing, the vehemence of their demonstration and its abrupt cessation once the tiger passed on suggesting an uncontrollable reaction that is probably why these monkeys, which are not at all unintelligent, swear at the sight of a panther skin or even a "panther" sari - it is not that they cannot make out the difference between a panther and a human being but the sight of a too proximate appearance of the dreaded coat sets them swearing in uncontrollable fear and hate; remember that when they see a panther skulking through the bushes in poor light, what they would be seeing from their treetop stances would only be patches of skin. We are unquestionably the most intelligent of all living things but we have been known to act quite foolishly in a panic, at times fatally foolishly.

Panther and other big cat that hunt monkey depend on this panic-reaction for success in their hunting. They can never hope to catch the much lighter quarry if it stuck to the treetops - for one thing, the monkey could climb up slender branches that would snap under the hunter's weight. However, monkeys chased up a tree and with the hunter following them up the bole, or on demonstrating at them, leap down to earth and seek to escape by galloping to some other tree when the panther has no difficulty overtaking and pulling down a victim. I have never met anyone who has seen this happen but presume that on such occasions there were no nearby trees into the top of which the monkeys could leap.

Langurs are much more given to treetop life than the Macaques and their overdeveloped hind limbs serve them well in climbing and bounding from bough to bough. However, they are quite at home on the ground, too, and I have never seen them flipping up water from a hollow in a bole and branch and then licking the water from their palms, as macaques do at times. When they do need a drink, I presume langurs come down to the water, I have watched them drinking many times, crouching low to the edge of a pond or tank with the arms spread out and sipping the water.

Very little is known of the feeding habits of the Common Langurs in the wild state. They are said to be exclusively vegetarian but nowhere can I find a detailed account of their buds, fruits and tidbits. In many jungle-side villages and temples, these langurs live quite close to humanity. Those living in such places have a wonderful opportunity to observe and report the dietetic and social habits of these fascinating monkeys."

- M. Krishnan

This was first published on 22 September 1957 in The Sunday Statesman

# A photograph of the Common Langur has not been reproduced here.

[Saktipada Panigrahi]

COUNTRY NOTEBOOK : M.Krishnan : Call Of The Hunted : The Sunday Statesman :14 September 2014
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CALL OF THE HUNTED
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"IT is the hunted creatures, and not the hunters, that are commonly given to alarms. When a typical predator, such as a leopard or mongoose or an otter, sees an enemy, it tries to get away, and may demonstrate at the intruder, but it raises no alarm. The common or garden cat usually climbs a wall or a tree, and from the safety of its elevation hisses at the enemy, sometimes it champis its jaws quickly and silently together in a most expressive but soundless gesture of anger and hate - however, this is usually indulged in when it is disappointed rather than it is frightened, as when a bird it is stalking moves beyond reach.

Even among the hunted, it is the creatures that live in cover that sounds alarms - the animals of the open spaces, like antelopes and hares, flash silent danger signals with their tails, or by some sudden movement that displays a warning pattern in their coats or plumage. It is unwise to be too sure in such matters, for in the nature the variations of pattern and behaviours are infinite, but this is only a broad generalisation.

Generally speaking, it seems to be true that it is the hunted creatures that live in cover that indulge in alarm calls. Usually these are sociable animals, like monkeys, chital, palm-squirrels, babblers, bulbuls, crows and mynahs - however, animals that go about singly or in small parties like sambar, muntiac and giant squirrels are equally veciferous when they sight danger. No hard and fast rule can be led down about these alarm calls; they differ in expression and reliability, as one might expect, from species to species. But all these alarmists are understood, not only by their own kind but also by others, and all of them face the sighted or suspected source of danger when calling.

There are many palm-squirrels in my meagre, semi-wild garden and I can hear them practically throughout the day. But I always know when a predator has arrived by sudden change in the calling of these squirrels. At once the cheeping takes on a sudden note of urgency, and is voiced quicker and more excitedly. When the squirrels see a Cat, they do not seek refuge in topmost boughs - invariably they climb down to a bole, if they are in the treetop and hanging head down and facing the enemy, shrill directly at it; when the cat moves to one side of the tree, the squirrels shift around, keeping the hated foe very much in sight, while they chatter their frenzied alarm. Similarly, when a Jungle Crow,with intentions towards a baby squirrel, alights on a tree, the older squirrels face it directly while scolding it. A Shikra circling low over a tree usually sends them into silent hiding, but if they give voice they look up at the bird while calling. Squirrels cease their alarm the moment predator moves out of sight.

Monkeys at treetops also face the enemy, and cease swearing at it when it has passed their range of vision. But Deer on the forest floor, with vision much restricted all around, seem to call both at the sighted predator and at the spot where they suspect it is hiding. They too face the apprehended danger while belling or barking.

Birds seem to go entirely by sight, but many of them will follow a retreating predator, calling loudly at it, when the enemy cannot fly - say, while screeching at a cat or snake, but not at a Hawk. From this loud pursuit to mobbing may be but a step, though it is a long step. How far fear and nervous reaction activate the mobbing of an enemy by birds is a question that one can not answer easily - unless one were a bird. However, in emotional and instinctive reactions (as opposed to intelligent action) there is so much in common between widely different animals that we may guess there is a fear motive behind such mobbings, though it may not be logically explicable.

I believe it the arboreal alarmists, which can see a predator clearly and which look directly at it while sounding their alarms, that are the most reliable "indicators". However, we should always remember that what excites them is the sight of some enemy that they fear - not what man fears. Many creatures that indulge in alarm calls have wrongly been termed unreliable, because of failure to appreciate this simple truth. I remember a beat where a rather high-strung shikari and I (I do not shoot) elected to sit in a bush on top of a mound. We had an uninterrupted directly in front, but could see nothing to either side.

Presently we heard an excited swearing of bulbuls to our left - then a palm-squirrel, that had been feeding on the ground in front of us, raced up a tree, turned sharply around and, hanging head down, looked to our left towards some approaching enemy, and shrilled in hysterical frenzy. Remembering that squirrel do not chatter at Pig, I whispered "cheetah" to my companion's ear, and he sat up tensely. When a lean , grey cat finally appeared, my friend felt utterly disgusted, and nothing I could tell him could make the man see that a cat represented a more dreaded enemy to bulbuls and squirrels than the largest of leopards."
-M. Krishnan

This was first published on 20 October 1957 in The Sunday Statesman

#The photograph of a squirrel not reproduced here.