A Strange Bird

Of late, I'm teaching myself to identify birds from their calls. Cornell Lab has Merlin, a useful app to identify birds from photographs and calls.

भोपाल की प्रमुख पक्षी प्रजातियाँ: फील्ड गाइड (Bhopal ki pramukh pakshi prajatiyan: Field Guide)—written by Dr. Sangeeta Rajgir and Mohd. Khalique of ‘Bhopal Birds’, and published by M.P. State Biodiversity Board, is also very informative and handy.

(On the Cover: Doodhraj (Indian Paradise Flycatcher), 

State Bird of Madhya Pradesh)

I'm quite familiar with the song of Blue Rock Pigeons, who have chosen, from among the many houses in our colony, our modest house for their residence. As rent, they insist on serving streaming music, as though they were the Spotify of the Avians, offering us their Free Service. Sometimes, around midnight, I wake up to their coos, purrs, and grunts.

But why blame the innocent birds? The male, I imagine, is in the mood and exclaiming, 'What a wonderful night this is, with the salubrious breeze dripping with amour! Don't you agree?'

'Of course,' concurs the female, 'all is well with the world, and we are such a happy, blessed couple.'

Entering the Eco Park for my morning walk, I turn right and walk along the narrow jogging track marking the eastern boundary. I'm readily treated to a minor symphony: the excited warbling of Ashy Prinia, Jungle Prinia, and Red-vented Bulbuls, who perch in the bamboo grove, dart out to grab flying insects, and thereafter break into a brief celebratory song. From a discreet distance, hidden in a leafy tree, the Greater Coucal plays his booming bass.

A little ahead, I hear the shrill call of the Gray Francolin from the bushes. Sometimes, I spot a bunch of them feeding on the ground, but they take off in a short, swift flight to the nearby trees or to the bushes away from the walking strip.

The Laughing Doves hum gutar-goon between feeding sessions. They are unafraid of human presence. No one tries to trap or hurt them, and some human friends serve daily breakfast: millets, broken wheat or rice, roasted gram, peanuts, and even biscuits.

Black Drongos screech intermittently. They are agile fliers, find enough insects to feed themselves, and look down on the lesser birds, especially the Laughing Doves, for their dependence on humans for food even when nature is bountiful.

At the small pond dug by the park authorities, a lone White-throated Kingfisher perches on his favourite boulder on the little mound in the middle. He whistles when not waiting for prey, and when in the mood.

The deciduous forest in the hilly, rugged landscape offers a stage with backdrops that change with the seasons, and the birds are happy to perform their varied music from dawn to dusk. Sometimes, the same bird has such a range of calls that even an ornithologist might struggle to decipher them.

Why do the humans who frequent the park play loud music on their phones in speaker mode, engage in acrimonious debates on local and national issues, and miss the amazing avian orchestra playing all the time in the background?

The other day, a little before the end of my morning walk, on a forlorn track, I spotted a young walker, maybe in his teens, who wasn't really walking but pacing agitatedly up and down a stretch of about ten feet.

I had no intention of snooping, but his loud declamation easily reached me:

मोहब्बत तो लाजवाब की थी हमने, मगर साथ चलने वाली धोखा दे गई।

Mohabbat toh lazawab ki thi humne, magar saath chalne wali dhokha de gayee.

He repeated it several times, each recitation fading a little as I walked on towards the exit.

Who was he? A jilted lover expressing his anguish in an idiom borrowed from a film or a cheap anthology on LOVE? Or was he a budding poet? Many, unlucky in love, embrace poetry. Was he recording a Reel with nature in the background to be sent to the unfaithful beloved, or practising for an upcoming audition?

Back at home, I sang the shayari to my spouse.

"Your composition?" she asked. Maybe she wished to say, 'So trite,' but refrained.

"By the way, who was the lucky girl?" she continued.

I smarted at the unkind jab, but took it in my stride.

"No, not mine. Overheard at the park."

"Oh, nowadays it's fashionable to be in love and hop from affair to affair. During our years at a co-ed college, rarely would a girl speak to a classmate except to borrow a book or a notebook."

"Wasn't that often a charade for furtively exchanging love-notes?" I ventured.

"I never borrowed a notebook!"

Even after breakfast, I kept thinking about the jilted lover, especially about the quality of his shayari, assuming it was his own composition. The mohabbat was lazawab, self-certified by the poet-lover; why, then, did the love fail? Did the girl cheat, or simply dump him?

Should the strange bird have borrowed, I wondered, from a very different bard, Mirza Ghalib:

हम को उन से वफ़ा की है उम्मीद
जो नहीं जानते वफ़ा क्या है

Hum ko un se wafa ki hai umeed / jo nahin jaante wafa kya hai

***

 

Ganesha Sculptures from Madhya Pradesh

Udayagiri, Vidisha

The oldest rock-cut sculpture of Ganesha, dated 401 CE, is at Cave No. 6 of the Udayagiri Caves near Vidisha, Madhya Pradesh. The carving shows a seated Ganesha—with a heavy-set body, an elephant head leaning to the left, simple naturalistic ears and trunk without complex ornaments—characteristic of early Gupta craftsmanship.

(Source: Gemini: Rare Book Society of India)

Bhumara, Satna

A red sandstone Ganesha sculpture from an ancient, ruined Shiva temple in Bhumara, Satna, M.P., dated late 5th century CE (Gupta Period) is in Indian Museum, Kolkata. The sculpture features early classical proportions, broad ears, a single tusk, and a snake sacred thread (yajnopavita) running across his torso.

(Wikimedia Commons)

Sunari, Vidisha

At Sunari village of Basoda Tahsil, Vidisha, there is a five-feet tall red sandstone sculpture of Ganesha of the Parmar (10^th -11^th century AD) period.

(Source: The Architectural Splendour of Udaypur by INTACH, Bhopal)

Celebrating Ganesha: The British Museum

 For an excellent online exhibit, here is a link:

Celebrating Ganesha is a Spotlight tour by the British Museum.

The exhibition toured across the UK from June 2015 for two years to several museums and galleries:

https://artsandculture.google.com/story/jwWxaGE_2ddqIg

Links for my previous blogs:

Ganesha in India and Beyond: https://www.pkdash.in/2023/09/ganesha-in-india-and-beyond.html

Om Ganeshaya Namah: https://www.pkdash.in/2023/09/om-ganeshaya-namah.html

 

May Vighnaharta remove all hurdles. May Ganesha bless us with Buddhi (intellect), Riddhi (prosperity), and Siddhi (fulfilment).

Hearty Greetings on Ganesha Chaturthi, 2026.

 

Madhurashtakam: Musical and Meditative

Madhurashtakam, composed by Vallabhacharya, the early 16th-century Vaishnava saint-philosopher and poet, is one of the most beloved Krishna stotras. Eminent singers—from M. S. Subbulakshmi and Pandit Jasraj to Madhvi Madhukar Jha and others—have rendered it in their own distinctive styles.

On Janmashtami, I listened to the song, and thereafter, read the poem more mindfully than ever before. I was struck by the extraordinary beauty and sweetness of the prayer.

It is simple, musical, and memorable. The poet builds the entire stotra around one word: madhura—sweet, pleasant, charming, and delightful. Derived from madhu, meaning honey or nectar, madhura carries meanings far beyond taste: aesthetic, emotional, and spiritual.

And what does the poet find sweet, charming, and attractive? Everything relating to Madhuradhipati, the Lord of Madhurya— Sweetness, Beauty, Charm, Benediction and Grace. The lips, smile, eyes, speech, movement, flute, feet, garments, and companions… every aspect of Krishna becomes madhura. The gopas, Yamuna, gopis, and cattle are all blessed by the sweet presence of Krishna.

The repetition of madhura is itself enchanting. Each verse meditates upon aspects of Madhuradhipati, creating a rhythm that draws the devotee deeper into love.

There may even be a hidden numerical play. Across its eight stanzas, madhura and its derivatives are chanted 64 times. Krishna is traditionally associated with 16 kalās, the attributes of His complete divine manifestation (Purnavatar), and 64 kalās, the arts and skills He mastered during His student life under Sage Sandipani.

This stotra is usually accompanied by music, but even when merely chanted, it creates its own sonorous cadence. Set in the rhythmic 16-beat Pajjhatika meter, each line feels like a sequence of dance steps in sync with the poetic structure.

Vallabhacharya was versatile in Sanskrit, capable of composing dense, ornate hymns in the classical tradition. Yet in this hymn, he chose not to let erudition stand in the way of a devotee’s direct meditation upon the Divine. The poem, by design, is unpretentious. There is no complex vocabulary or artificial ornament—a lover’s adoration for the beloved needs no artifice.

Madhurashtakam is a prayer with a difference. The singer is no supplicant, seeking no boon, not even moksha. She is simply enamoured with Madhuradhipati—the epitome of all that is sweet, graceful, and enchanting in the universe. The prayer is an unadulterated celebration of divine charm.

Remarkably, it does not name Krishna. Not once.

There is no "Krishna," no "Vishnu," nor any of the thousand formal names of the Supreme Lord. Yet, as the devotee sings along, she discovers precisely for whom the prayer is meant.

Her beloved Madhuradhipati.

Krishna.

***

Stories the Dead Tell

 

Stories are not always spoken. Sometimes, they lie silently in the middle of the road, in a forlorn track, or beside a stream.

Three dead creatures I encountered recently near Laharpur, Bhopal, told me three very different stories—not merely about themselves, but about how little we know about the wild creatures that live around us.

Near Ecological Park, Laharpur

Returning from our morning walk at Eco Park, I thought I saw a dead snake in the middle of the road not far from the park gate. The sky was overcast, visibility a little poor, and a fine spray of raindrops had made the windscreen hazy. Maybe, no snake, but a stick, I thought; but after dropping my spouse at home, I returned to the site.

My hunch was right. A snake, crushed by a passing vehicle. I took a few pics on my phone.

What snake is this? I asked a man­—possibly a migrant worker from a nearby village.

“Do-muha saanp,” he said.

The Red Sand Boa (Eryx johnii) is popularly called do-muha or “two-mouthed snake” because its short, blunt tail resembles a second head. In fact, upon sensing danger, the snake offers its blunt tail to confuse the predator. Harmless and non-venomous, it has nevertheless been persecuted and illegally trafficked because of persistent myths about its supposed powers.

I uploaded the pic and asked Gemini, “Identify the snake, and age.”

“Rough-scaled Sand Boa (Eryx conicus / Gongylophis conicus), also commonly referred to as the Russell's Boa. A juvenile, likely under a year old.”

A road-killed Sand Boa near the entrance to Laharpur Ecological Park, Bhopal

Interestingly, the non-venomous Sand Boa resembles the highly venomous Russell’s Viper in its colour and markings— maybe a mimicry, offering the harmless snake some protection from predators. No wonder it has sometimes been called “Russell’s Boa”—a name that can itself cause confusion.

How did it get killed?

Possibly, its burrow was flooded, and the reptile was crossing the busy city road, an alien jungle, in search of a safe shelter. Sand Boa crawls very slowly, more so on smooth, asphalted surface.  

The snake knew how to survive in nature; it had no way of knowing that mechanical predators kill without warning.

I showed the pic, and asked Rajesh and Lakshmi, both from rural areas of Madhya Pradesh.

“Dingad,” they said. “Very venomous. A mere puff kills. The victim's body swells. It bursts open.”

In rural regions of Madhya Pradesh, the term "Dingad" (or Dhingad / Dhingra) typically refers to the Common Krait (Bungarus caeruleus).

“Google says it is non-venomous,” I told them.

“Google ko kya pata hai?” they sneered.

I wasn't sure which of the three of us knew.

Inside Eco Park

A few days ago, I took a forlorn track for my morning walk. A motorable earthen road, but not much in use. The generous droppings of cattle which grazed here, and the abundant rains had encouraged thick growth of weeds and grasses in the fields and the track.

The track ran from west to east demarcating the park’s southern end. No morning walkers on this track; so, numerous birds sang merrily undisturbed by human cacophony. Terrestrial birds, much shyer, hastily ducked inside the thick bushes.

A foul odour brought my attention from the trees to the ground. A dead animal in an advanced degree of decomposition. From a little distance, I took a pic on my phone, moved away a few feet from the unbearable stench, and asked Gemini, ‘Which snake?’

‘Not a snake. It’s a Bengal Monitor Lizard. Zoom the pic to see the paws and nails.’

I did. Of course, it’s a Bengal Monitor Lizard. In Hindi, it’s called gooh (गोह), in Sambalpuri gue, and in Odia, godhi.

A dead Bengal Monitor Lizard on a remote track inside Laharpur Ecological Park.

During occasional trips into the forests from our village, the older boys easily spotted gue burrows. Once it enters the hole, no one can pull it out, so strong is its grip on earth, they said. I had no occasion to pull at the protruding tail of a gue inside its hole, so I never got to test the claim. But folklore stories maintain that in ancient and middle times, monitor lizards were trained to climb fort walls, reach the top, and grab the rampart. A rope fastened to its body helped a soldier to scale the impregnable fort.

“Who might have killed it - a predator, a human, or a passing vehicle?” I asked a wildlife expert.

“A few months ago, I had seen a dead monitor lizard in Eco Park. Could be a fatal disease;” he replied, “so, I had suggested a pathological analysis. But the concerned officer possibly forgot my request.”

I sent the photograph to a senior forest official; and later in the afternoon, a park official called me. I had clicked a Google Map location of the corpse which I shared with him. You may consider a pathological examination, I suggested.

I haven’t heard from him.

Beside Laharpur stream

I spotted it during our post-dinner stroll. The streetlight in front of our home had died a few weeks ago; the Nagar Nigam Call Centre had assured that the problem would be fixed in 72 hours at most, and I’m still waiting for that.   

From a little distance, I saw on the road a little shiny creature in a half curl. Surely, a snake. Is it dead or alive? I wasn’t sure. I took a pic from a safe distance. Rajesh, our domestic help, took a little stick, and went near.

“Don’t. It could be poisonous,” I said.

He didn’t pay heed, and poked the tail. No movement. It was dead. Zoomed the pic. Yes, a road-kill. Its intestines had spilled out at two points.

The mysterious road-kill beside Laharpur stream—identified variously as an earthworm, an arboreal snake and several species of snake.

“Is this a venomous snake,” I requested ChatGPT.

“Not a snake, it’s an earthworm,” declared C, and offered several paras to support its finding.

“No, it’s a snake,” I snubbed C.

“The pic is hazy. Please upload a better pic, including the head,” demanded C, a little offended maybe.

The head had been crushed. Anyway, I uploaded a clearer pic.

“Arboreal snake,” said C.

Checked with a snake expert, a human, who thinks it could be a Wolf-snake, or a Checkered Keelback, or even a Brahminy blind snake.

I’d take a clearer pic tomorrow morning. I made a mental note.  

By morning, the corpse had disappeared.

Who had carried it away? A rat, a street dog, a cat, or perhaps a jackal?

The dead, it seems, do not remain dead for long in nature. One creature's death becomes another creature's meal. Even a road-kill has a second life.

Perhaps that is another story the dead tell us, if we pause long enough to listen.

Bhopal Ecology Journal

This reflection is part of my ongoing Bhopal Ecology Journal, where I record everyday encounters with the wild lives around Bhopal. Each entry is a reminder that nature speaks in many voices—sometimes through the living, sometimes through the dead. I hope you’ll join me in future instalments as these stories continue to unfold.

***

Kabuliwala, a Song, and a Boy Who Became a Migrant

How Tagore’s Kabuliwala, an iconic film song, and a childhood memory made me rethink what it means to be a migrant

An Iconic Song

On Independence Day—15 August 2026—among the patriotic songs played on the public-address system at an event not far from my home, I heard Ae Mere Pyare Watan*, the evergreen song from the 1961 film Kabuliwala. The poignant song effortlessly tugs at the heart whenever I listen to it.

I had never thought of myself as a migrant feeling nostalgic for my motherland. Why then is the song so appealing? Is it Prem Dhawan’s thoughtful lyrics, Manna Dey’s soulful singing, Salil Chowdhury’s creative music, or its perfect placement in the film?

The Song: Beyond Patriotism

If you have watched the film, you would agree that the song is more nostalgic than patriotic. Picturised on Wazir Mohammed Khan, a Pathan of Afghan origin, with Balraj Sahni and other Afghan migrants listening to the plaintive song, it is a heart-aching remembrance of a distant homeland.

Interestingly, W. M. Khan had sung the very first song, De De Khuda Ke Naam Pe, in India’s first sound movie, Alam Ara (1931). Playback singing technology was still a few years away. W. M. Khan was a singer and, acting as a fakir, sang the song live on the set to the accompaniment of a harmonium that he hung from his shoulder.

Ae Mere Pyare Watan transcended the specific linguistic and cultural context of the film to become an iconic, universal anthem of migrants. In fact, the song reinterpreted the character of Kabuliwala.

In the original story, he was a father sorely missing his little daughter left behind in distant Afghanistan. In the 1961 film, he was a doting father and also an economic migrant in a far-off country, hoping to earn his way out of grinding poverty and living every migrant’s dream of a better life.

Vatan, the Urdu word, is of Arabic origin. It originally referred to one’s place of birth, village, or hometown, and later acquired the wider meaning of a nation with the emergence of the modern concept of nationhood.

Vatan is grammatically masculine and is often translated as “fatherland”—a conception significantly different from the idea of the motherland embodied in Bharat Mata or Vande Mataram.

The Story

I had read Tagore’s famous story in Odia at school, in English at college, and, after listening to the nostalgic song, in a Hindi translation.

How would the story feel in Gurudev’s original Bengali? I tried reading it, but struggled with the text.

After briefly mulling over the challenge, I found an excellent Bengali recitation on YouTube—the next-best experience to reading the story in Bengali. Then, voilà! I listened to the recitation once again with the transcript in sync and loved it. The story embraced me like Vagdevi—the Goddess of Speech, Learning, and Music—in Odia, English, Hindi, and Bengali. A multilingual immersion and benediction!

Kabuliwala is a touching story of filial bond, the economic compulsion of long-distance migration, and the anguish of a migrant for family and home.

Tagore was only 31 when he published Kabuliwala, yet the story is a fine example of his masterly storytelling.

In just a few sentences, Tagore creates the special bond between Mini and Rahmat, the character sketches, a word-picture of distant Afghanistan, the home of a bhadralok Bengali writer, and the here-and-now of Calcutta.

Rahmat is dressed in a soiled, loose-fitting dress, a big turban on head, a jhola on his back, a few boxes of grapes in hand, a very tall man, walking the streets in long, measured steps. A complete portrait through minimal words!

The beginning, middle, and end are immaculately crafted. The story begins with Mini’s endless chatter, her rapid-fire queries, her demand for conversation and play, and her enchanting innocence. Her initial fear is dispelled by Kabuliwala’s warm affection and throaty laughter.

The stabbing and arrest are dealt with in a sentence or two, and the story moves swiftly towards its climax. Rahmat, upon release from jail, visits Mini’s home on the day of her marriage.

Why Rahmat is so very fond of Mini is revealed only at the end, when he shows Mini’s father the black imprints of the little palms of his daughter on a piece of paper which he has always kept close to his chest.

The ending is poignant. Rahmat realises that his little girl would also have grown up, and that his meeting with his daughter on returning home would be very different.

Time changes everything. The innocence of childhood, unconditional love, and uncomplicated friendship are transient. Adults relate differently, children relate differently, and a child and an adult bond differently.

The Films

Tagore’s story, published in 1892, has been translated into several languages and adapted into films, television shows, and stage plays.

Among the films, the 1956 Bengali Kabuliwala, directed by Tapan Sinha, is widely regarded as a masterful cinematic adaptation. Chhabi Biswas’s emotive performance and Ravi Shankar’s memorable music gave the film a lasting place in Indian cinema. It won the National Film Award for Best Feature Film and the Silver Bear Extraordinary Prize at the 7th Berlin International Film Festival in 1957.

The 1961 Hindi Kabuliwala, produced by Bimal Roy, remains a beloved classic. Balraj Sahni’s deeply poignant portrayal of Rahmat is celebrated as one of his finest performances. The film is also famously remembered for Manna Dey’s soulful Ae Mere Pyare Watan.

(Balraj Sahni as Rahmat in the 1961 Hindi film Kabuliwala)

Balraj reportedly lived with the Kabuliwalas of Calcutta for some time to know more about them, learn a little Pashto, and observe their intonation and mannerisms. Manna Dey’s Ae Mere Pyare Watan and Hemant Kumar’s Ganga Aaye Kahan Se accentuated the migrant’s anguish and yearning for home and homeland.

Tagore visualised the two different worlds through vocabulary; the films expanded and enriched those worlds through audio-visual inputs. The Bengali story and the Hindi song speak in very different registers, yet both make the distant homeland palpable.

Making of a Migrant

The story and the song raised a question I had not seriously considered previously.

When does one become a migrant?

Is it necessary to live in a foreign country, or does one become a migrant in one’s own country—a Malayalee in Delhi, a Marwari in Mangalore, a Bhaiya from UP in Mumbai, or an Odia in the Hindi heartland?

I was eleven when I left my village for high-school education, after which I visited the village only during the summer vacation, and briefly during festivals.

Yet to make friends at the new school, I missed my sisters and grandfather at home, and friends in the village. I missed Jira river, Palsha Jor, Bada Dongri, Luhura Mal, Kanta Bandh, Shundhi Bandh, and Shyam’s aam burei.

I missed the dust from the village roads in the dry season, and the mud during the rains. I missed the thick darkness that drew me into her lap when the kerosene lantern was extinguished after early dinner.

The Project Colony where I lived had a little park with swings, slides, and tubular trees. Alas, the creaky swing was not half as much fun as the grandfather banyan’s aerial roots, and the park was a poor cousin of the vast open play-world that the hills, rivers, and forests of the village offered.

I had lost the world I had known since birth, and the new world was yet to grow on me.

Looking back, I realise I became a migrant at that tender age. Little did I know then that I had left my village for good, never to return.

Deshantar Gaman

Among my father’s novels and magazines was a slender blue notebook with a few pages of handwritten notes in ink. A horoscope chart, drawn by an unnamed astrologer—possibly a colleague of my father—contained brief notes regarding the future prospects of the boy whose Jataka name was xxx. That was my name, so I read the entries, skipping the horoscope diagrams which made no sense to me.

I still remember one of the forecasts: deshantar gaman—migration from homeland.

Did it come true?

It depends on how I look at it. I did not migrate to a foreign country, but spent the better part of my life far from my place of birth, in a region with a different language and a different culture.

During my work years, I had no place I could call home and lived for brief periods in several towns.

Perhaps migration is not always about crossing a national border. Sometimes it begins much earlier—when a child leaves the landscape in which he grew up and discovers, years later, that he has never quite stopped longing for it.

***

* Manna Dey singing the song in a studio: https://youtu.be/91WEGN-KwO4?si=sLgrSxxDGur4wQdr

A Fable and A Journal: Home-Schooling by Mother Jackal

A Fable and A Journal

Home-Schooling by Mother Jackal

A Fable

Once upon a time, Bhopal, like most habitations on Planet Earth, was ruled by homo sapiens — the self‑styled ‘wise men’. They were mostly self‑centred and greedy; but in rare, contrite moments of compassion for other animals had created a city forest and grandiosely named it Ecological Park.

The Rulers had posted a Notice in big, bold letters Strictly Prohibiting pet dogs, vehicles, and littering inside the park. An inept painter, having won the tender by quoting the lowest rates, had painted on a few boulders in lurid colours a few animals which could be identified only from the textual declaration under the painting. Not far from a Kripaya Shor Na Karen signage met a Laughter Club every morning. Calling their morning ritual noisy would be a gross understatement! But why blame the LC; the murmur of the leaves of the gently swaying trees, and the twitter of birds were drowned as many morning walkers put their smartphones in speaker mode and listened to NEWS, spirited radio discussions on why CJP and intellectual Naxalites must be banned forthwith, Bollywood hits, and devotional songs.

Amravat Khurd village stood on top of the hillock at the north-eastern end of the forest. The villagers refused to use the new road that the forest department had built for them and continued to use the ‘No Public Thoroughfare’ road inside the park. Vehicular traffic – school buses, vans, jeeps, and two-wheelers plied throughout the day.

In this Park, there lived a pair of jackals – mates for life - who had made two adorable babies. Inside a dense grove, they had expanded an abandoned porcupine hole and camouflaged it to create a safe haven to raise their little ones. They took turns to keep vigil, with one parent foraging for food while the other stayed at home.

As per jackal custom, they homeschooled the cubs for elementary lessons. When ready for the bigger, tougher lessons of life, they must run with the parents, and travel far from home.

The cubs were happy when mother returned home, for they were hungry. After feeding them, she licked to groom the cubs, and then it was time for study.

“Do you remember yesterday’s lessons?” Mom asked.

I do, said the eager boy. Me, too, said the girl, not to be outsmarted.

Ok, you go first, she asked the boy.

“Lesson One?”

“Stay at home when parents are out.”

“Correct. Why so?” She asked the girl.

“Danger.”

“Exactly. Lesson 2?” She asked the girl.

“Keep silent but keep listening. Shall I recite the full lesson?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes Open, Ears Open, Mouth Shut – EO EO MS – for easy recall.”

“That’s right. But, why?”

“No one must know we live here. Top Secret.”

“Excellent. New lesson for today.”

“After dark, time to bark;

In the morning, return to hiding.”

“Why must we hide, Mom?”

“To keep safe.”

“Where to hide?”

“In our home, the Den, or deep in the bushes.”

“Okay, today’s session is done. Time for a little snooze. Before that, you may ask questions, if any.”

“Mom, why do we howl? Why not stay silent at all times?”

“The howl is our anthem. We sing:

Heed our howl,

Don’t play foul;

Forest is our home,

Night our time;

Don’t mess with us,

As we don’t mess with you.”

“Once upon a time, this forest belonged to us and other fellow forest dwelling animals. Those two-legged animals are very, very hungry; they chewed away our jungle. That’s why we howl in protest.”

“Mom, why do those animals howl strangely, each in a different tone and volume? Haven’t they been taught to howl in sync like us? And why are they so noisy, yapping endlessly when in a group, and muttering even when alone? No danger for them?”

“No, they’re the dangerous ones.”

“Do they bite?”

“No, worse, they are very, very dangerous. They use their upper legs to throw stones, hurl lathis, and hurt us with other strange weapons.”

“Can I go a little closer, and take a peep?”

“No, better not. Best to stay away from them.”

A Golden Jackal

An elderly couple began their morning walk at Eco Park on August 22 at 6.15 AM, a little earlier than usual. The sky was overcast, the dawn lingered, though darkness was slowly fading away.

The monsoon this year had been generous with Bhopal, the trees and plants swayed gently in gratitude, the birds sang in myriad tunes, and the animals were happy, too.

They took the track at the eastern periphery, and reached their favourite strip connecting the central circle to the Amravat Khurd road, on which the man was walking N-S, and the lady from the opposite direction, when she whispered, “A jackal!”

He turned around, and noticed a morning walker, at the northern end of the strip, shooing off an animal. He caught a glimpse of the jackal with a shiny brown coat and thick, furry tail disappearing into the bushes. He walked on the village road for a few metres hoping to see a little more of the jackal. No luck. He resumed walking, still keeping an eye for movements, if any, in the bushes.

In a few minutes, the jackal was peering at him from behind the bushes. When their eyes met, it hastily returned to hiding. Probably trying to cross the walking strip, he thought, and stood at a safe distance. Luckily, there were no other walkers on the road. The jackal noted his presence, concluded that it was safe to cross, emerged from the bushes, but instead of swiftly crossing it, turned right and gently sprinted on the open road for a few metres heading north, and thereafter, turning left, entered the undergrowth leading to a thick grove.

(Somewhere in this grove, a jackal couple might have a den with their cubs. Photo by Blogger)

When the jackal was on the road, the man could have shot a video, which he missed. But he noted her swollen teats. Probably, a nursing mother, returning from her nocturnal forage to suckle her cubs, hiding somewhere amidst the bushes.

The lady had seen a jackal at this same spot a few weeks ago, but for the man it was a first time. He was delighted.

For the elderly couple, that fleeting glimpse of the mother jackal was more than a sighting; it was a reminder that the meagre, dwindling forest still holds hope for many creatures, who school their young in silence, vigilance, and resilience.

Most humans have forgotten to listen, yet the jackals haven’t given up. They continue with their communal howl – a sad and solemn tune of protest and plea, often heard in several fringe areas of Bhopal.

***

Searching for a Grass: Tracing Bhopal’s identity through a humble weed

 

Searching for a Grass

Tracing Bhopal’s identity through a humble weed

Who's Looking for a Grass?

Who's looking for a grass, and why?

Why keep the reader in suspense? This blogger readily pleads guilty: he's searching for Johnson's Grass, aka Sorghum halepense—Barru for older Bhopalis who may look like fossils to the generations that crawl social media day and night, hold digital confabulations, and launch nation-wide agitations.

But why search for a wild, invasive weed hated by farmers? Is he a saboteur scheming to ruin MP's agricultural prosperity? No, he simply wishes to spot a tall and robust Barru and cut it to lay irrefutable claim to the precious title—Barru-Kaat Bhopali.

Having lived in Bhopal for more than two decades, yet not able to brag of being a BKB rankles; but what could he do since the Housing Board allotted him a small plot on a bald hillock with no Barru or any other grass on it, only stubborn boulders.

Barru-Kaat Bhopali

If you've watched Sholay, the Bollywood blockbuster, you might recall Jagdeep's buffoonery as Soorma Bhopali, a timber merchant and patia-baaz—the teller of tall tales. But beyond cinema buffoonery, the phrase “Barru-Kaat Bhopali” carries layered meanings in local lore.

Three hundred years ago, when Dost Mohammed Khan, the Afghan adventurer, obtained a lease from Rani Kamlapati, the Gond ruler, and established Fatehgarh Fort (now Gandhi Medical College), the adjoining hills and vales were sprawling forests with rich grasslands skirted by a large wetland. Barru (Sorghum halepense), cousin of edible Sorghum bicolor but one of the world’s invasive wild weeds, grew abundantly in this terrain.

                Barru (Sorghum halepense): Image by CoPilot

Barru (Sorghum halepense): Video shared by Mr. Fazil Rashid.

Invited by the Afghan Chief, his clan and followers settled near the Fort, clearing the Barru forests and building modest houses. Barru, a sturdy grass, also provided cheap and durable roofing.

When someone proudly declares, “I’m a Barru-Kaat Bhopali,” he’s vindicating his status as an original settler; when someone says, “Oh, he’s just a Barru-Kaat Bhopali,” it’s a slander for someone rude, rustic, poor, and unsophisticated.

The grass also made Barru-Kalam, a reed-pen—an essential instrument for intellectual pursuits before the advent of fountain pens.

When animals supplied food and mechanical power to man, the grass beeds were valuable resources. Fodder from the expansive beed from Shyamla Hills to Bairagarh fed the horses and elephants of the royal stables. The grassland from Roshanpura Naka to Arera Hills was named Naulakha Beed—not because it yielded nine lakh bundles of grass, but because it fetched substantial revenue from annual auction.

The workers and estate managers estimated the yield in local measure—phula (bundle), gadheiya (50–100 bundles), and ganji (large stack).

“Does gadheiya mean a load carried by a donkey?” I asked Mr. Rashid. He smiled, “I don’t think so.” Yet the word instantly recalls a popular Bhopali proverb, often used by braggarts:

“तालों में ताल भोपाल ताल, बाकी सब तलैया;

रानी में रानी कमलापति, बाकी सब गधैया।”

Here, gadheiya means a she-donkey; to embellish by contrast the eminence of Rani Kamlapati, the Gond Queen who ruled from Ginnorgarh Fort, now in ruins inside Ratapani Tiger Reserve.

Grasslands of Central India

But why such lengthy discussion on Barru? Ah, thereby hangs a tale!

Recently, the Saturday Club, Bhopal hosted a Talk on India’s Savannas: Forgotten Grasslands of Central India by Mr Fazal Rashid, an Ecology Restoration Practitioner. He mentioned Barru, and I got to learn a little more about this grass and the rich ecosystem of grasslands.

Which grasses are critical to human existence? He counted the major ones—wheat, paddy, maize, millets, sugarcane, bamboo, and others.

India’s grasslands are tropical savannas; designating huge tracts of the country as wasteland or degraded forest is a serious case of misclassification. These grasslands constitute ONEs (Open Natural Ecosystems), and are critical to a wide variety of plant and animal life, argued Mr Rashid.

After that Talk, during my morning walks at Eco Park, Laharpur, I’m a little more mindful about the many varieties of grasses, creepers, plants, and trees in this sprawling grassland. Google Lens helps in identifying the varieties, though sometimes it goofs up. Can’t blame it, for its responses carry a disclaimer—AI can make mistakes!

An Old Man

Every morning, the old man comes to Eco Park, walking in slow, unhurried steps, dressed in a dhoti draped in rustic dehati style, a loose long white shirt, a big light-green turban on his head, and a self-made walking stick in hand even though he walks erect and doesn’t need it. He fills the sakore - earthen bowls hung on trees for birds - every day except on rainy days.

When I first saw him cleaning the sakore of moss and filling it with water carried from home, I thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

“Do you live in Amrawat Khurd?” I asked. That village on the hilltop skirts the Park. He nodded. “What’s your name, please?” “Name doesn’t matter, does it?” he asked.

Every day, I greet this kind old man who is reluctant to share his name, and my heart is filled with gratitude.

        The old man of Amrawat Khurd: Photo by the blogger.

Today, I asked, “Is there Barru grass in this area?” “No.” He’s a minimalist! “Is it found in khet?” “Sometimes.” “Do cattle eat this grass?” I pointed at a patch with mixed grasses and amorphous plants. “That, yes; but not that!” (American Mint, Google Lens identified for me).

Grass Is No Mere Weed

The search for one grass revealed a whole world of them. Grass is no mere weed beneath our feet. Grasslands sustain insects, butterflies, snails, reptiles, birds, and burrowing animals—and, ultimately, the larger food web. What looks like vacant land to us may be a living ecosystem to countless other creatures.

Perhaps the search for Barru is less about grass itself, and more about discovering Bhopal’s layered identity—where even a weed becomes folklore, a badge of belonging, and a whisper from the city’s past.

Someday, I’ll go to Van Vihar, or the swampy backwaters of Bhoj wetland to continue my search. Till then, I remain a Bhopali, but alas, not yet a BKB!

***

Postscript

Bhopal Taal & Chittorgarh

A senior colleague tells me that the original proverb was:

तालों में ताल भोपाल ताल, बाकी सब तलैया; 
गढ़ों में गढ़ चित्तौड़गढ़, बाकी सब गढ़ैया।

Bhopalis tweaked the second line to honour the Gond Queen who ruled the territory before the advent of the Afghans.

Barru Kalam

Munna Goyal of Nimach, a friend, shared the following cute note:

A Childhood Memory Rekindled

Your beautiful blog, “Searching for a Grass: Tracing Bhopal’s Identity Through a Humble Weed,” brought back a wonderful childhood memory—especially the passage:

“The grass also made Barru-Kalam, a reed-pen—an essential instrument for intellectual pursuits before the advent of fountain pens.”

I was instantly transported back to my school days. Once a week, we were taught to write with a Barru Kalam, and I remember being fascinated by the beautiful, almost calligraphic character of the writing it produced. There was something wonderfully graceful about the flow of ink from that simple reed pen.

The memory goes even deeper. At my grandfather’s shop, the accounts were meticulously maintained in large, red, cotton-covered Bahi-Khatas. The ink was kept in traditional bronze inkpots, which I would happily borrow at home for my Barru-Kalam homework!

I am delighted to say that I still have those very inkpots in my collection. They have survived the passing decades and today seem to me much more than mere objects—they are little vessels of memory, carrying a piece of the world of my childhood.

And, as a small contribution to your search for Barru, I am enclosing a photograph of a Kalam fashioned from Barru grass.

Your search for a humble grass has, unexpectedly, made me rediscover a beautiful chapter of my own childhood. Perhaps that is the magic of such writing: while tracing the history of a place, it also awakens the histories quietly preserved within us.

Thank you for bringing Barru back to life—and with it, a cherished piece of my childhood.

Barru Kalam - Photo by Munna Goyal

    Bronze Inkpot for Barru Kalam - Photo by Munna Goyal