The Fog Clears: Unwinding Under a Fig Tree

The thing about actions is that they determinately have consequences. Sooner or later, these consequences catch up with us in the most riveting ways. Centuries of deforestation and overexploitation of resources has increased the likelihood of zoonotic diseases reaching humans and subsequently turning into a devastating pandemic. Eating at a restaurant in the middle of a raging pandemic turned out to have its consequences. In April 2021, I was infected with the Delta variant of COVID-19. After a couple of weeks had passed, there were no remnant physical signs of illness. However, there was still one crucial thing that had not fully recovered — my mind. As I sat down to read or write, I would stare blankly at the computer for hours before labouring to take the simplest task to completion. I felt like I was languishing in a thick fog that had settled inside my head, with thoughts of reason or creativity seeming like hazy shapes drowned in grey. By September, it seemed like a good idea to stop looking for the solution to a foggy brain inside itself. In an unspoken effort to seek help from nature (and three dear friends), I travelled to the Liana Forest Farm in Karnataka. Not long after making plans to explore the wilderness around, I found myself facing a generously sized fig tree (Ficus racemosa). For nearly a week, I spent significant portions of my days (and some nights) in the company of this bountiful giant.

The fig tree sat quietly on the edge of one of the busiest paths on the farm. Stop and stare at the tree long enough, and its stillness fades; a bustling world of marching legs, fluttering wings and shimmering colours make their way into your brain. Even plants seemed keen on moving on this tree — a money plant grew generously upwards on its trunk. All-pervading weaver ants foraged at the base of the fig tree and built leafy nests with the money plant leaves. A metalmark moth (Brenthia sp.) hopped around on a leaf that was at head height. On the matter of why a moth with functional wings might need to hop, studies and observations have shown that this moth uses the markings on its wings to mimic a jumping spider. The hopping is behavioural mimicry to be extra convincing. The mimicry appears to be a defensive tactic to ward off curious jumping spiders that may have otherwise been quite excited at the prospect of a mothy brunch. Particularly helpful given the number of jumping spiders actively moving around on the tree! From jumping spiders like a Menemerus sp. that blended seamlessly with the bark to a male Asemonea sp. that shimmered iridescence onto leaves, the tree was stacked galore with jumping spiders. 

Amid this diversity of jumping spiders sat a jumping spider that took my breath away as slowly as it moved. A Portia spider had positioned herself on the trunk of the tree, carefully stalking a signature orb-weaver spider (Argiope sp.). Portia is a genus of jumping spiders that are “araneophagic”, i.e. their idea of a good meal is another spider! To be able to hunt everything from web-building spiders to other jumping spiders, Portia has evolved incredible predatory acumen. This has made Portia the posterchild of researchers attempting to better understand “intelligence” in spiders. After well over 30 minutes of stalking and what looked like a jumping spider trying to use mental math to work out the formula for trajectory, the Portia pounced. In a split second, it was sitting on the orb-weaver’s abandoned web, and the orb-weaver was dangling some three feet below on a single line of thread. The orb-weaver landed softly on a leaf and took a moment’s respite before looking for less treacherous pastures. The hungry Portia was not the only one left feeling a tad disappointed after the encounter. After all, for years, I had hyped up the intelligence and predatory prowess of the Portia to my wife, who was also watching the hunt unfold. Red-faced, I also noticed that a tiny male sat on his web just above the female’s abandoned web. Perhaps he was hoping to mate with the female that had just fled on account of a hungry web invader. You win some; you lose some.

A little less than two feet away from the site of Portia’s attempted hunt, another eight-legged couple sat uninterrupted in each other’s many-legged embrace. Two long-jawed orb-weavers from the genus Tylorida were mating — the male’s pedipalp (an appendage that stores sperm) finding its way to the female’s reproductory parts. After taking exactly two pictures, a mild sense of guilt crept in about sticking my camera right in the privacy of these two long-legged lovers. My efforts to let spider couples have their privacy was short-lived as I stumbled upon a male Asemonea jumping spider as he entered the retreat of a female. Further up, a pair of sac spiders sat unmoving inside a retreat. All three pairs had found safe spaces for their trysts at various heights on the underside of the money plant’s generously large leaves.

The thing about consequences is that they sometimes turn out rather pleasant. Watching an entire world of flora and fauna unfold on a single magnificent tree consistently overwhelmed my senses. As it turned out, being overwhelmed by spiders, ants, and moths was just what I needed. I felt like the air vents in my head had been unclogged. The fog began to clear. After months of trying to kickstart my brain like an old scooter, I found that it needed to heal instead. And it would only heal with help from family, friends, and nature.