Bamboos are a diverse group (Bambusoidaea) of evergreen flowering plants in the grass family (Pocaea), to paraphrase the start of the relevant article in Wikipedia. I’ve seen sentences like this ever since I became interested in mass flowerings. But somehow, my mind never grappled with the idea. I continued to think of all bamboos as the same. So, when I couldn’t get a nice photo of bamboo flowers in Tadoba Tiger Reserve last November, I continued to take photos in the next months. Even after I got a good photo in Kanha NP in May, it took some time before I began to examine it.
Comparing the photos, it becomes clear that the flowers do not belong to the same species. The silhouette in the center was taken in November in Tadoba, the first photo (and the featured image) was of bamboo flowering in May in Kanha, and the third photo was of bamboo flowering in early April in a garden in Lonavala. I wish I’d bothered to do the due diligence that every botanist chides me about: photograph the plant, not just the flower. I suppose the only way to redeem myself is by learning to recognize bamboos a little better. It would work best if there were a geographically appropriate field guide, but until I find one something like this generic guide will have to do.
It had been another futile day in Tadoba tiger reserve. We’d spent the whole afternoon looking for tigers. There’d been a single report of a sighting in a park full of people during a respite in the pandemic. As we trundled back to the gate, we passed a tree with a tribe of the near threatened Alexandrine parakeets (Psittacula eupatria). These had so amazed Alexander of Macedonia on his trip to India that he took many back with him, and seeded them through southern Europe. They are among the largest of parakeets, and their call is pretty distinctive. The closer one in the pair is a female, the one turned away is a male. You can tell that by the rosy band on the neck, and by a black stripe on its cheek which would have been visible if it had turned its head. The female lacks both markings.
The light was beginning to fail, and even the parakeets in the high branches could no longer catch a direct light. We continued driving slowly along the dirt track which skirted a big grassland just outside a thick forest. Across the grass was forest again. It was getting too dark to see things well. Suddenly our guide said “Stop. Tiger.” We stopped. We looked. “Where?” asked The Family. The guide pointed to a thicket on the far edge of the jungle. “I saw something red there.”
We scanned the area with our binoculars. Nothing. “I saw it move,” the guide insisted. We scanned again. “It must have sat down,” he said. We decided to wait. I’m used to that. Tigers are secretive. I’ve had some wonderful sightings after a wait of an hour or two. But this time I was not sure whether the guide had really seen anything. The light at dusk is deceptive, and disappointment can make you believe that you have seen what you would like to see. Nearby was an interesting sight: a four-petaled flower. There aren’t too many of them, and I’m sure if I look it up I’ll be able to identify it pretty easily.
I watched the sun go down. When you are waiting you notice little things to pass your time. Is there always such a wonderful transition from reds and oranges to blues in the sky at sunset? How is it that I’ve never seen the “green flash“? I wasn’t likely to see it today. Ah look, I can get a great silhouette of that tree as the sun falls behind it. You have to pass your time without fidgeting. Tigers have sharp hearing, and they know that at sunset all they have to do is to wait you out.
I had the time now to look around and try to take photos in a minimalistic style in this low light. You can get all kinds of experiments done while you wait. I think these blades of grass were a good subject. I only wished I could have moved to choose an angle for my shot. I was pretty sure there was no tiger around. But we must wait as long as we can, on the chance that we see one.
The sun had been down for a while already. The guide was sure that the tiger had hunkered down in a particular spot. Everyone else was skeptical, but you never know. We kept watching the spot. It is interesting to see the light change at this time: the colours change very rapidly. I could understand why Monet was enchanted by the change of colours in a haystack through the hours. Soon the light was too bad for human vision. If there was ever a tiger here then it was more patient than us. We moved on to a hot tea. At least I’d had a bit of practice in low-light photography.
Halcyon Smyrnensis is a wonderful name for the white-breasted kingfisher. The OED says of the halcyon that it is “a mythical bird said by ancient writers to breed in a nest floating at sea at the winter solstice, charming the wind and waves into calm.” It certainly charms me to a halt every time I see it. The bright flash of blue on the back and the large white bib bracketing a chestnut colour that cascades down from its head, and the red beak and legs, are something that always makes me raise my camera for a shot. I was very lucky with the light near Tadoba lake. I got the glint in its eye as it turned its head.
Izmir, formerly known as Smyrna, is perhaps where the earliest reports of this bird to reach Linnaeus originated. That seems to be the origin of its specific name. It is found in Turkey and a broad band eat of it all the way to Indonesia, avoiding only the desert to the south of the Gulf of Oman. I see scattered records of sightings down the Red Sea, in Alexandria, Mecca, and Medina, even in Riyadh and Muscat. I’m not really surprised, since I’ve found it eating all kinds of things: snails, insects, and even stolen scraps of meat.
Late mornings are times when you can sit in a garden and watch butterflies. They are not early risers, they would have woken and stretched their wings to the sun while you have breakfast, and will be out late in the morning for a few sips of nectar. The common crow (Euploea core) is one of the easiest to photograph. It is disdained by predators because the plants that it has fed on as a caterpillar fill it with distasteful chemicals. As a result it can afford to fly slow and sit on a flower for long times.
Even though it is so dark, pay attention. When it sits on a flower in bright sunlight you can see its glossy wings reflect the flower. I was very happy when it decided to land on marigolds. As I’d expected, at one point it turned. and I could capture the reflection of the marigold in its wing. If you can see it from India east and south all the way to Australia, but not on the islands of the Philippines, Borneo, or Papua and New Guinea. There must be an interesting story to follow up there another time, when I have another photo of the crow.
Drying clumps of tall bamboo (Bambusa balcooa) were visible all through the core area of Tadoba national park. I didn’t pay much attention to it the first day, since I’ve seen drying thickets of bamboo on nearly all my visits to national parks. But the next day it struck me that this was not summer. The rest of the forest was green, but the clumps of bamboo were not just a dry yellow, but were an ashy dead colour. I took a photo or two in passing. In a forest full of life, dead branches are a common sight. I looked at clumps of tall dead bamboos, and my sight slid over them.
It was only when we drove on a narrow track through what was once a bamboo forest that I realized the extent of the dead bamboos. In that patch of forest it became impossible to ignore what I was seeing: all the dead plants had flowered. I should have thought of this. After all, bamboo is famously a mass flowering plant. Many species of bamboo flower once in a long time, and die after flowering. All the plants in a forest flower at the same time, and so seed and die at once. This gregarious flowering, mast seeding, and death triggers a local ecological crisis. This has been seen repeatedly in different parts of India. The literature on bamboo quotes flowering periods of between 2 and 120 years, depending on the species. I’m sure there are large errors in estimating a cycle of 120 years, and I would not be surprised if in another three centuries that number is revised substantially. The next year will be an interesting time to visit Tadoba.
Gregarious flowering of B. balcooa has been recorded, but the estimates of its period are all over the place. I found a report which said its cycle is between 40 and 100 years. It is not clear that different populations of this species flower in the same year, or even have the same period. There’s a similar confusion about mast seeding of different plants too (follow the tags “mass flowering” or “mast seeding” for more on that). Reports also say that most flowers of B. balcooa do not produce pollen, and few produce seed. That would be species suicide! There must be more to it.
While The Family and the guides concentrated on looking for tigers, my attention was on bamboo flowers. The main flowering period must have been late September or early October, because I could only see the dry woody remnants of the flowers. My luck never turned. Right at the end of my last day in the jungle, more than twenty minutes after sunset, I finally saw the flowers. The photo that you see above could have been substantially better if I’d come on this clump half an hour earlier. Unfortunately, I’ve probably missed my chance to ever take a good photo of a flower of Bambusa balcooa.
A typical question that I get asked when a stranger finds out that I’m a birdwatcher is, “What is the difference between a dove and a pigeon?” I’ll usually give a facile answer, “They are closely related. Doves are generally smaller.” But the difference is actually more complicated. Take the spotted dove (now called the Spilopelia chinensis). Its name reflects the confusion. It was once thought to have been a dove, and was given the Latin binomial Streptopelia chinensis. Following a multi-species gene study at the beginning of this century, it is now thought to be a small pigeon. It has been placed in a different genus accordingly.
It is such an utterly common bird that I normally ignore it, but just before sunrise inside Tadoba’s buffer zone, the bird strutted in such a wonderful rosy light, that I clicked the two photos you see here. How common is it? I can see records of it being spotted (yes, I will avoid the bad pun) all across Asia, south of Mongolia and east of Aghanistan, except in Tibet and Xinjiang in China, Japan, and Korea. Since the 19th century it has been reported southwards everywhere in Australia from where it spread to New Zealand, into Fiji, and Hawaii.
It has now been reported across the Pacific in California, from as far north as Sacramento, and as far south as San Diego. Why has it not crossed state lines? Could that be because it is a recent arrival in the US? A little search led me to a claim by Audubon that they were introduced in 1917. I’m not sure whether I believe that date. They breed fast, fly well, and manage to avoid raptors in their native range. So in a hundred years I would have thought it would spread further. There’s a small mystery here.
Bright pink flowers are not something you would normally associate with a grass, but I’d been seeing fields of such a grass all the days that we’d driven around Tadoba. These chest-high flowers were just a bit too far away for me to get good photos. Until the last morning. Seconds before sunrise I got the shot that you see as the featured photo. The other photo was taken a minute later, when the sun had cleared the horizon.
I found that it is called Deenanath grass. That’s an odd name. It means the lord of the poor, or the saviour of the poor. Why such a name? It is used as animal feed in Ethiopia (where it is called Desho grass), but I could not find any references to its use by Indian farmers. In any case, it is a very literary construction, and I find it hard to imagine that the deen, the destitute, would think it up. Wouldn’t they just call it red grass, or something like that? There are more oddities. It has two Latin binomials: Cenchrus pedicellatus as well as Pennisetum pedicellatum.
It is a winter flowering grass, and like other winter flowering grasses like rice, wheat, and oats, possibly uses C3 photosynthesis. The Kew garden listing for this grass records its range as very wide: from the Cape Verde islands in the Atlantic, across tropical Africa, to Madagascar, India and Indo-China. The dense thickets that I saw led me to look a bit further into its habits. It is a perennial, and its roots form dense mats which prevent soil erosion. Perhaps that is the origin of the name. It can be used to prevent topsoil from blowing off. There were cycles of failure of the Indian monsoon in the 18th and 19th centuries CE, and earlier in the medieval and early modern eras. Could it be that during these hard times it was discovered that fields could be made productive by mixing this grass with crops? That is a technique used today in Ethiopia. Perhaps some historical digging into 19th century Indian records is called for.
Celery, raw Develops the jaw, But celery, stewed, Is more quietly chewed.
There is silence, broken only by the sound of a strong man eating
The Gaur (Bos gaurus) didn’t look at me as I fiddled with my camera. Should I correct for the fact that the light was not perfect? Which do you prefer, the photo out of the box, or the one which is corrected?
Late in the morning I found a nice spot in the hotel in Tadoba from which to do some butterfly photography. Since these flighty creatures are more active at this time, it helps to have a bright day. A common lime (Papilio demoleus) flitted along a straggly row of periwinkles at the edge of the road. In the mornings it prefers to fly low. The butterflies lay their eggs on citrus trees, and the caterpillars are considered to be great pests since they can munch their way through substantial amounts of leaves. Tadoba is close to Nagpur, which is a center of orange trade. So there could have been citrus trees in the neighbourhood. In any case, in there parts of India ber (Ziziphus mauritiana), another host plant for the caterpillars, is also common.
What I find interesting about this butterfly is that it is highly invasive, being found across the world. In the 21st century it managed to reach the Dominican Republic, and is currently spreading fast across the Americas. It has no natural toxins, and is an easy mark for predators. The caterpilar is also parasitized by several wasps, whose larvae eat it from the inside while it is alive. How does it manage to spread in spite of these natural barriers to growth? The answer seems to be that it breeds fast. In the region around Nagpur there are eight or nine generations in a year. In cooler places they may pupate through winter.
Later I found a potter wasp’s nest in the hotel. These wasps belong to the subfamily Eumeninae, and are parasitic. They catch larvae of beetles or spiders, paralyses them, and brings them to their mud nests. There they lay eggs inside the paralysed animal, so that their larvae can feed on them as they grow. I wonder what fraction of wasps have evolved such parasitic lifestyles.
Sometime the jungle is peaceful and quiet. The trail broke out from thickets into an open meadow. It was early morning. A golden sun. A small herd of chital (Axis axis, also called spotted deer) grazed in front of us. A sambar (Rusa unicolor) walked through the herd. Chital are easily spooked, but this herd did not mind us. Sambars are alert. It looked up at us briefly and went back to breakfast.
The scene before me was a very clear illustration of how these two species of deer manage to live in the same forest without conflict. The chital is largely a grazer, the sambar a browser. The chital is an under-rated ecosystem engineer. Its grazing keeps small plants from growing too high and smothering jungle seedlings before they can reach their full growth. They also keep the spaces under trees clear. A jungle looks very different from a garden gone wild because of these grazers.
This difference between the two kinds of deer is also reflected in their sizes. The small chital cannot possibly reach the lower canopy. I waited for the sambar to flick out its long tongue, as it does when it wants to reach a leaf too high even for its long neck. But this canopy hung low enough that it could just use its lips.
The little group fed peacefully. No smell or sound of a predator bothered them that morning. On a stump nearby I saw a black drongo (Dicrurus macrocercus). It is as dark as a crow, as intelligent and aggressive, and an incredibly good mimic. It is hard to get a good photo of a drongo because of its colour. I was lucky here. It sat in full sunlight for this portrait before it rushed off to its next appointment.