Shared Spaces: On the IISER Campus in Kerala

The night’s soundscape is a fine blend of chirps and clicks, an orchestra of calling frogs, stridulating crickets and humming cicadas. Following the sounds by torchlight, I notice a gleaming flash — the light jaw of a golden-backed frog. He sits among the wet browns and greens, his membranous throat bulging rhythmically with every croak. The rock face is carpeted with ferns, mosses and other wild plants, each hosting a range of tenants for the night. A signature spider has strung a temporary home across tendrils, waiting for unsuspecting prey. The setting sun would have seen her taking down her web and resting before stringing it up again, weaving in the iconic zig-zag pattern that gives her name. And tomorrow, she’ll repeat this saga all over again.

In this lush hilly landscape of the southern Western Ghats, a bumpy 40 km from Trivandrum (Thiruvananthapuram) city, lies IISER TVM (Indian Institute of Science Education and Research Thiruvananthapuram). Only a fraction of this 200-acre campus is occupied, leaving a major portion as moist deciduous forests contiguous with the Agasthyamalai Biosphere Reserve. Hemmed in by monoculture plantations of rubber and natural low-elevation forests, this campus sees a vast array of wild creatures who either call it home or are simply passing by.

In the relatively short time I have spent chasing wildlife, I’ve learnt that it’s quite an art, one that compounds joy with growing experience. Nature walks that were once about trying to spot as many birds as possible have gradually become about learning the trails I walk, even when there seems to be nothing new to find. I’ve learnt a lot on such walks: that the well-camouflaged flocks of grey-fronted green pigeons like to forage by the sports field; that the walkway leading to the academic block is a hub for common dotted skinks; that pond herons catch dragonflies by the reservoir during the wandering glider migration; and that a vine snake has taken up temporary residence in the foliage by the supermarket. These walks lend familiarity to the natural world — unconscious, habitual additions to a growing repertoire of knowledge about the landscape.

The railing along the road to the reservoir is a highway for Asian weaver ant traffic. Their leafy nests hang overhead; stepping too close is a recipe for throbbing bites all over. But a careful inspection of the ant stream on a morning walk reveals an eight-legged imposter. Lifting its forelegs antennae-like is an ant-mimicking spider moving about near the colony, absorbing with its scent, the ants’ foul reputation. As we walk further, mist rises over rolling hills, accompanied by the shrieks of treepies and kingfishers competing with the tumbling notes of an Asian fairy-bluebird. A sharp right at the medical centre brings us to an Indian coral tree standing tall behind the shopping complex. Blooming towards the end of February with deep red flowers, this tree attracts a throng of birdlife, from hornbills and hill mynahs to leafbirds and hanging parrots.

The rising sun heralds the activity of butterflies; grass yellows, Malabar rose swallowtails, Sahyadri birdwings, and blue mormons are fleeting companions on a walk to class. As the day progresses, however, the warmth of the sun disappears behind closing heavens. Rains lash against the hills, turning rivulets and ponds a slushy brown, and when the downpour slows to a mild drizzle, chattering bush frogs take over the night. I begin scanning the undergrowth for creatures flushed out by the rain when a disturbance down the road catches my attention — a sounder of wild boar heading into the forest. Besides wild boar, a host of mammals have been captured by camera traps set up along a forest trail — civets, mouse deer, porcupines, and mongooses, moving about in the dark. Footage of sambar deer is a near-nightly addition to our memory cards, and a pack of Indian wild dogs entertain us with their occasional antics.

Walks into the forest to check these traps — much-needed pauses in a hectic schedule — are marked by discoveries of scat and mud-puddling butterflies (pierrots, blues, and jays) and leeches clinging resolutely to our socks. Encounters with the forest’s residents are, naturally, a much-anticipated prospect. One such fortuitous encounter was with a south Indian flying lizard, its vivid dewlap contrasting its bark-hued body as it launched itself into the air. Far below, a hump-nosed pit viper lounged in a hollow carved by a network of roots, its scales vanishing seamlessly into the forest floor. Run-ins with snakes are commonplace, news of bronzeback tree snakes and wolf snakes being routine alerts in campus-wide groups. With the onset of summer, these sightings become more frequent; as temperatures rise, snakes search for shady hide-outs around human residences. Such inevitable human-wildlife interactions highlight the need for a more nuanced understanding of the life forms around us.

Past the guesthouse, by the stream, grows a Dillenia pentagyna tree, its bright yellow inflorescence attracting pollinators in swarms during the flowering season. A plant enthusiast pointed this out to me rather excitedly, giving me a peek into their vast knowledge about their chosen niche. Such eager elucidations have become integral to the learning process as I explore the landscape. The tree that I know is frequented by green-pigeons, my friend knows as the oriental trema, one of the oldest trees to have evolved in the Western Ghats. While I poke around rotting logs in search of snakes, someone else draws my attention to the fungi growing out of the sides. Such glimpses into other people’s perceptions help tune your mind to a broader view of your surroundings, steadily adding their visions to yours.

Over time, I’ve learnt to scan railings for jumping spiders, admire the green, white, and red gradient of blossoming Terminalia paniculata trees visible from my room, and notice the defensive shimmering effect seen in bee hives around the academic blocks. As the dichotomy of human civilisation and flourishing natural spaces continues to be proven a misconception, encouraging a personal awareness of people’s environments is crucial in nature-entwined communities.