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The Joy of Restoring a Rainforest

The Joy of Restoring a Rainforest

A view of the Western Ghats. Photo: PTI.

A stream flows gently by, and the clouds cannot quite decide how much leave they should give the Sun today. The wind is making ripples in the water below – gently, from the falling of leaves that are too tired to hold on any longer, in the receding twilight of their lives.

I watch, mesmerised by the scene, quite content with my life. It is one of those moments when all of life seems to be rhythmically, harmoniously at peace. Bulbuls, mynas and parakeets abound, and the occasional kingfisher streaks through the air, its bright blue plumage stark against the green of the foliage. I spy a shy waterhen at the edge of the stream, hiding behind tall reeds. I think back to the day I saw a pair of pond terrapins here, lounging on a log, picturesque over the tranquil stream.

I am shaken from my reverie by the arrival of very purposeful-looking people. In a flash, they come and take over the scene. Today is a day of tree-planting, and the people are here this cloudy morning to take hundreds of saplings from where they were born to where they were always meant to be. They are here now because the monsoon is coming, bringing with it the torrential rains these parts receive for months on end.

We are all at the Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF) nursery in Valparai, in the heart of the beautiful Western Ghats. (Editor’s note: The author works as a research assistant with the NCF.) Here, there are about 80,000 saplings. They’re not just any saplings: every one of them is a rainforest tree species, one of many that have been here millions of years before us. The seeds they came from have been collected from all over the plateau, but not one comes from the forest floor, where they might grow to be trees. Painstakingly, people walked along roads and trails bordered by the majestic parent trees to find them, and bring them here.

Elephants in a rainforest fragment. Photo: Ganesh Raghunathan/NCF

And here they raised them. They brought them to life, in brown earth that they kept moist every day. These species, in all their evolutionary history, have only ever known how to live in the rainforest, where there is a surplus of moisture to sustain them for most of the year. So people coax them out of their seed coats here, feed them with compost and tend to them every day. For years they nurse the young plants, moving them from one part of the nursery to another as they grow, to make space for new entrants.

Today, there is a buzz of activity at the far end of the nursery, where the oldest plants stand proudly, leaves buffeted by the light wind. A human chain is formed, and efficiently, plants in their polythene covers are handed down the line, into the maw of a waiting truck. In about half an hour, the cold metal truck is chock-full of life.

We follow the vehicle as it chugs along the winding roads of the plateau. I catch myself smiling in one of the simplest joys I have known: it looks like the plants are having such a merry time, riding in the back of that truck, so excited to finally go to the place to which they belong. They will become trees that elephants will stand under in a decade or two. They will be the refuge hundreds of birds will roost in at the end of a long, tiring day on the wing. They will slowly make the fruits and flowers that will sustain troops of macaques, sprightly giant squirrels and a thousand insects.

We arrive and are greeted by a troop of Nilgiri langurs who are bounding fearlessly from tree to tree. They watch us curiously as our party unloads the saplings from the truck. Had the langurs been around earlier in the day, they would have seen other humans come in and dig foot-deep pits in the ground all around the forest fragment. A week ago, they would have seen men come and clear the ground of weeds that would otherwise choke a young plant.

A truck full of rainforest saplings waiting to be planted. Photo: NCF

Also read: How Do You Help a Fragmented Forest Recover?


Today, we hope to plant 300 saplings. I am filled with a quiet excitement, and I hurry along to a pit in the ground. I use a blade sheathed in pink to slice open the bottom of the heavy cover containing a Cullenia sapling. One of the most prominent trees here, this species produces spiky, ball-like fruits that endemic lion-tailed macaques gorge on. Now, I put the two-foot high sapling into the earth after displacing a bi-coloured frog from the waiting pit. The frog, grumpy about her unceremonious eviction, refuses to leave my hand for the nearest plant. I have to give her a gentle nudge before she deems it fit to move.

I turn my attention back to the sapling. There is mud waiting to be packed into the pit to hold the plant securely, immovable expect for hopeful roots exploring their new home. The soil coats my hands, finding its way into crevices I didn’t know I had at the edge of my fingernails, and masking every crease on my fingers. I lose my balance a little, and ‘squelch’ goes my knee into the wet earth. I quickly begin to look like a child who had a day of it at a pottery class, unsupervised by an adult. I love it.

A child whose mother would be horrified by what else is happening to me: it has begun to rain, and a thirsty leech has crawled up my arms and attached itself to the only skin he could find. The leech is probably sighing happily from the warmth he has found at the nook of my neck and shoulders when I pluck him out and throw him back into the ground. Nothing atypical of working in a rainforest, or in this case, working to restore one to its former diverse glory.

I move to the next sapling, a healthy Vernonia with large leaves. This is a fast-growing species, at least in rainforest-tree terms. I look around and take note of the species waiting to be planted around me. Rainforest trees are typically shade-loving, so the mature trees that make a great forest often cannot survive in open landscapes. To prevent this, these species are only planted under the shade of existing plants, where they stand a fighting chance. In open areas, species like the Vernonia, more tolerant of disturbance and light, are planted.

Malabar grey hornbill in a restored fragment. Photo: Ganesh Raghunathan/NCF

I gather a handful of dead leaves and spread it on the fresh dirt covering the roots of my sapling. I reach with muddy hands into my pocket and grope about until I find a bright pink tag that I tie to the stem. The biodegradable tags for as long as they remain will help us monitor the plants we place here and check in on them as the months go by. But we will only ever visit them to watch them grow. The time they have spent in our care is over and they must brave the world on their own. They are home now.

For two decades now, NCF has planted trees in this complex landscape of tea, coffee and forests. The forest fragments here are still a stronghold of an astounding amount of wildlife, from hornbills to orchids, from gaur to tigers. Birds and butterflies found nowhere in the world but the Western Ghats can be sighted before breakfast here. I wake up to the never-repeating melody of the Malabar whistling thrush singing just as the mist rolls into the hills and a drizzle picks up in the distance. The wildlife reserves all around the plateau are never far away, and the ancient rainforests within always remind us of what to strive for, in the forest fragments we restore.


Also read: The Special Ingredient That’s Kept a Rainforest Tree Going: Elephant Poop


This 20th year of planting trees, we hope to plant 12,000 saplings during the monsoons. I am here now studying the effect the restoration has had on avian communities in the forest’s remnants in the plateau. We are hoping that rainforest birds that once lived in every part of the plateau will return to the forests.

The road here for the ecologists, scientists and dedicated locals carrying out the restoration has been so full of trials and errors. No one knew how to raise rainforest plants, or whether they could survive on their own in a degraded forest. But they had faith, and they kept at it through the years even as funding waxed and waned.

I stand up and dust my hands, roused to my feet by the clamorous call of a Malabar grey hornbill, calling from a restored forest fragment not far away. She is home now too.

Note: This article was updated on June 16, 2020, to include the pictures.

Priyanka Hari Haran works as a research assistant with the Nature Conservation Foundation.

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