Finding Sanctuary

When I wrote to Asad Rahmani, a well-known birder, for suggestions on a birding spot in Kanpur, he said he could only think of one—the Nawabganj Bird Sanctuary.

The only sanctuary in the area? I found myself wondering if that was a good or bad thing. After years of working in such regions, I’ve observed that the construction of sanctuaries and protected areas is often marred with several issues including community displacement and human rights violations. But having spent my formative years in Kanpur, it sounded strange, and a bit sad, that there was only one green spot in such a large industrial city.

The word ‘sanctuary’ is derived from the old French word ‘sanctuaire’, which evolved from the Latin word ‘sanctuarium’, and which in turn came from ‘sanctus’ or holy. Fitting then that the Nawabganj Bird Sanctuary is a haven for avians, with 25,000 waterbirds regularly recorded, and 220 resident and migratory species documented. Among these are some globally endangered ones like the Egyptian vulture, Pallas’s fish eagle, Lesser adjutant, and the Woolly-necked stork.

Located 50 kms away from Lucknow city on the Lucknow-Kanpur highway, and only 18 kms away from Unnao, the small sanctuary did seem holy in its own way. I had to remind myself of this. When we are overwhelmed by past memories of a place, we tend to lose sight of its potential.

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People often make the mistake of calling Kanpur a small town, when it is actually a large, sprawling industrial city inhabited by approximately six million people. Located in the Gangetic plains, the British were the ones who first saw its potential for industry. And after India’s independence, these industries continued to boom. But while they provided plenty of employment, it came at a very high cost to the city’s natural environment as well as labour rights. In recent years, the labour movement has all but withered away. Having moved away from agriculture, people are now completely dependent on industrial jobs.

Kanpur is also home to a very complicated history of anti-imperial struggle and subsequently where caste, and religious politics, the stripping of natural resources, and the pollution of the Ganges all play a role. I was born in the city during one of its more challenging periods, in the midst of riots and conflicts between the Hindu and Muslim communities.

Growing up in Kanpur was a challenge, and being a girl in Kanpur was a bigger one. In hindsight, it’s unsurprising that my relationship with my body is a conflicted one. Places and landscapes that we are born and live in profoundly shape our presence in the world. Despite living in a cocoon created by my loving parents, I knew the world I lived in was harsh. Even a loving family couldn’t entirely protect me from the abuse, sexism, and teasing comments that were all too common on the city streets.

I began to associate my body with fear, caution, danger, and vigilance. Feeling shackled, and filled with silent rage, I would ask my younger brother to accompany me whenever I left the house. While his presence shielded me from the majority of the inappropriate behaviour, there were so many times I had to get somewhere alone and I would always feel unsure, fearful and on guard.

It was years later, after living in Bangalore and Pune, and eventually travelling abroad, that I realised how little freedom I had had as a child. In Bangalore, I would often go to parks alone and sit under trees with little care. In Pune, where I now reside, I have walked for hours, unafraid that bikers or passersby would do or say something nasty to me. I can’t delude myself into thinking that either of these cities are safe, and many of my friends and colleagues have had different experiences, but these cities offered me a taste of the freedom that I had longed for.

In truth, however, my journey to actually being free began when I started finding myself in nature. It was a new way of understanding self-hood; I wasn’t singularly defined as a woman, but as an interconnected being, linked inextricably with the more-than-human world. This opened up so many possibilities for self-knowledge, through my senses, cognition, and culture, all defined by a much larger and entangled biosphere.

One of my favourite nature writers and poets, Mary Oliver, says in her book Staying Alive, “You must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.” Oliver too had a difficult childhood, but allowed herself to be nurtured in and by nature, writing about the most ordinary moments in the most extraordinary ways, reminding us to keep our eyes open to the beauty around us.

If ten years ago, while walking through the Banni grasslands, I hadn’t experienced the inexplicable moment of looking through my binoculars at a weaver bird crafting an intricate nest, I don’t know who or where I would be today. That glimpse of its delicate work—taking a single strand, knotting it to a branch with its beak and claws, and repeating the action until it wove a beautiful shelter—changed my life irrevocably. Without it, I would’ve looked around at my surroundings—an arid grassland ecosystem on the marshy salt flats of Rann of Kutch—and thought it lifeless. Through that new lens, I saw life all around the weaver birds, thousands of flamingos, migratory cranes, and many other resident bird species. It gave me access to beauty and wisdom that had been far beyond my imagination.

In 2017, I was in Kolkata documenting the work of the late Dhrubajyoti Ghosh, a phenomenal ecologist, who worked tirelessly to protect the East Kolkata wetlands. He suggested that I make a trip to the Sundarbans to see some of the recent conservation efforts. These mangrove forests are some of the largest of their kind in the world, sprawling across 1,40,000 hectares. Lying at the delta of the Ganges, Brahmaputra, and Meghna rivers, flowing into the Bay of Bengal, it’s also home to some of the most magnificent landscapes.

One evening, accompanied by a local guide and another traveller, I set out to experience the mangroves by moonlight. With the promise of a full moon, we ventured out into the quiet backwaters on a small boat. Before we set out, I was filled with doubt. Should I be going out at night without friends? What if these men assaulted me? Was I being foolish even contemplating this adventure? I found myself spiralling, and on the cusp of cancelling the excursion.

But something Dhurbajyoti dada told me came to mind: “Nurture your deep love of nature with trust.” I concluded he was right, and decided to trust my instincts.

Night fell, and the moon lit up the sky. The oars were the only movement in the water as we navigated the mangroves. My guide tucked the boat close to the mudflat. We were heralded by sounds of water lapping, frogs gulping, insects singing, and trees whispering. We found ourselves breathing deeply, quietly, sharing a moment of tranquillity rare amongst strangers. The darkness was illuminated by a flash of fireflies, filling me with an intense sense of oneness with the world. The experience is now one of my most cherished memories.

For the first time in my life, I felt fearless as a woman in the wild, unafraid even in the company of unknown men. I experienced a deep sense of comfort in that moment, like I belonged to this world. It made me want to see more of it, to live unapologetically, and truly experience this planet.

In my early years, being a woman meant engaging in what felt like a perpetual fight to prove my worth, often quivering with barely contained rage. My importance was seemingly defined by the male gaze. While accompanying senior male colleagues to meetings, people would often assume I was their secretary, not an accomplished being in my own right. While travelling alone for work, I would get asked why I was travelling unaccompanied (without a male colleague or relative). Marriage was also frequently a topic of conversation: why wasn’t I married? When was I getting married? When would I settle down? Better still, I’d be told that my research would be a wonderful case study for grand theories created by men.

In 2017, I began working in Korchi, north Gadchiroli, in central India. I spent my time documenting the worldviews of Gond adivasi communities on development, wellbeing, and political autonomy. An older Gond woman I was interviewing said, “The forest is where we get our food, fruits, leaves, and flowers. This is where our ‘development’ will happen. If this forest is given to a mining company, we will become their slaves. Mining won’t bring development.”

These interactions changed my identity profoundly, and my liberal assertions of feminism to something deeper, intersectional, and spiritual. For women in central Indian forests, feminism was (and still is) about nurturing nature, land, and their ways of being. It made me realise how patriarchy is so intertwined with ecological destruction. The violence directed at women’s bodies, and to our land and rivers, can’t and shouldn’t be separated.

The fight is by no means over, but I no longer quiver with rage. There has been a shift in my viewpoint over the years. Being a woman has now become about nurturing my existence, finding a deep love for the world around me and the things that matter to me. I will wander through jungles, scale mountains, meander on long walks with no destination. I will just be.

Recently, my mother asked me, “What do you love so much about birds?” I told her it’s because they are beautiful, and remind me of freedom.

Later, I realised that birding, writing, researching, photography, exploring, these are my ways of making sense of this world. I will never stop fighting, but while I do, I must also find ways to have fun. It has given meaning to my everyday life, my relationships with others, and my own body. These days, surviving as a woman is about joy, and I find that in nature. My joy is my resistance, and it cannot be taken away.

My sister and I visited the Nawabganj Bird Sanctuary together. Our driver, Abdul bhai, turned up late because he couldn’t understand why we wanted to leave at 5am to look for birds! On our way, we passed through the old city, seemingly still trapped in time, taking timid steps towards transformation.

We soon found ourselves by the banks of the mighty Ganges. The early morning sunshine shimmered on the surface of the river, and we spotted a lone fisherman in his boat, angling for catch. As we stopped at the tracks, and waited for a train to pass, I spotted a Shikra sitting on a wire, looking for prey. Through my binoculars, I fascinatedly watched the raptor. As the train approached, whistle blowing, engine rumbling, the raptor flew away, and suddenly I felt a distinct sense of being home. Kanpur, which seemed so different, was not the only thing that had changed. For the first time, I saw my hometown through a woman’s eyes, as someone with her own vision and agency.

Entering the sanctuary, after so many years away from this region, felt like coming full circle. That moment was filled with possibilities. The cycle persisted. Birds continued to migrate long distances, now soaring over evidence of development and ambitious expansion. Yet, despite these realities, several birds, ducks and waders, including Indian spot-billed ducks, Northern shovelers, Common coots, Pheasant-tailed jacanas, Little cormorants, and more, had found their way to the shorelines and mudflats, burrowing, making homes amongst the natural beauty of the sanctuary.

Accompanied by a guide from the nearby village, my sister and I looked out at the blue expanse, where the sky and lake seemingly merged. Home was a feeling, I realised—it was familiarity, comfort, love and care. I wasn’t that angry young girl anymore, but a grown woman able to find sanctuary in a place that had once caused me pain. In this small spot of sanity amidst greedy destruction, I found myself mirroring the birds around me. I was in my body, unapologetic, and with nothing to prove. I was free.