A thick spiral of grey wisps rises through a canopy on the far hill as a hint of smoky odour wafts in through the open windows. There has been news of a forest fire at the edge of the Binsar wildlife sanctuary in the Kumaon hills of Uttarakhand, and one part of everybody’s senses is alert the way it gets every summer around the time of the annual forest fires. We call the caretaker, Ambu, who runs down to check and he confirms our fears. Sindhu, my husband, takes along two staff members and decides to go down to the main chowki . On the tiny square there stands a small forest department hut, and it is on fire. The three start to beat it out with the leafy branches of ayar and ultimately draw a counter fire to combat it. But while they are busy doing this, the fire, sly like a wily seductress, spreads its tongue from the other end. Our western slopes are on fire, and this is only the beginning of a 48-hour battle that will change the course of things.
Growing up in Uttarakhand with a forest department father and spending vacations in dak bungalows meant that forest fires and the routine duties that came with it were a part of my growing up years when everyone in the hills accepted them as an annual occurrence. They were usually started by the villagers just before the monsoons to encourage lush grass growth for their cattle after the rains. These were mostly on a small scale though, and never before do I remember anything on such an unprecedented scale. A lot of the older residents here are, however, drawing comparisons to a similar, pan-Uttaranchal fire that happened in the early 90s which, when later investigated, turned out to be orchestrated arson that was created to cover up for a multi-million rupee grant given to the State for a massive plantation drive. As the funding had been wolfed down, the fires were a cover-up to prove that a new plantation had been wiped out.
This time, too, several clues point towards arson, for it is near impossible for so many fires to start almost simultaneously, and not just in pockets but across the entire State. Suspicion has zeroed in on a mysterious timber mafia purported to have killed two birds with one stone — making huge profits from selling wood and clearing land for real estate. While there is little doubt that the disaster was manmade, the fire is a multi-layered issue and no one factor can be singled out. Indications were brewing that the disaster was imminent. Sadly, all warning signs were ignored by the authorities.
Mukti Dutta, my neighbour, spent the evenings organising food and water for the firefighters in the forests much before the media even got a whiff of Uttarakhand’s tragedy, and long before Binsar caught sight of the National Disaster Response Force (NDRF). Before they came, the situation had already been largely controlled by the residents. Wheezing and coughing, our eyes stinging with smoke, we still managed to crack a joke or two about the newly arrived NDRF jawans from Bihar, totally at sea about firefighting on mountain terrain. Mukti points to the waste of money in the rescue effort, funds that could ideally have been used for transporting better equipment, experienced manpower from nearby villages, and food and shelter for firefighters. In an open letter to the Prime Minister, Mukti has said: “With no offence meant to any of the individuals who comprise the behemoth called Government, the real culprit is the enemy within, whether in the form of antiquated rules, corruption, lethargy, or sheer stupidity.”
Asking questions can open a can of worms. For persistent people like my father, the questioning of authorities was rewarded with a transfer. In his service spanning over 40 years until his retirement four years ago, and continuing until today, fire fighters never had and still don’t have any proper gear to tackle emergencies.
In over 45 years, why has there been no progress in terms of equipment, technology and preventive measures? The entry fee for the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary was increased from Rs. 50 to Rs. 150 for Indians and from Rs. 300 to Rs. 600 for foreigners nearly six years ago. What have the increased fees gone into? Why are there less than ten forest guards on vigil for a 50 sq. km sanctuary? Why are precious resources wasted on creating silly ‘attractions’ like fountains and ponds when they should be used for making fire lines and clearing long overdue payments of villagers who have fought fires in the past but understandably refuse to join in the efforts anymore?
In February and March, what preventive work was done by the government to prevent the fires imminent every summer? Why is ‘pirul’ or fallen pine needles, the biggest cause of forest fires, not swept away on time and the fire lines kept clear? When will we implement the already invented technology that allows pine needles to be burnt and converted for electricity production? Why is everything in this country a damage control measure?
These burning questions are endless, and enough to anger any local resident or environment lover.
Anger, however, is not enough. Neither social media outrage, nor endless discussions in a television newsroom are enough. The need is for policymakers to implement stringent laws that will preserve this last bastion of oak and rhododendron. There is a need to start now on a long-term programme, the benefits of which we might not see today but which might stand the next generation in good stead.
Bringing back our original broad-leaf forests tops the must-do list. Pine, which plagues Uttarakhand today and is the single biggest cause of forest fires, was introduced at the cost of indigenous forests by the British purely for commercial gains. Strategic deforestation of pine and reintroduction of oak and other native trees to create natural forests needs to start today for it to bear results a hundred years hence. There is a need to introduce stringent laws that restrict the sale of land to non-residents, for it is this ridiculous need to have a ‘summer home’ in the hills that feeds the greed of real estate agents and subsequently the timber trade. There is a need for guidelines that will integrate the local villagers seamlessly into conservation programmes rather than alienate them, for it is they who have traditionally depended on and thus protected their forests from being ravaged.
It’s a clear morning today, and I put on my coat and head into the jungle to one of my favourite spots in the forest behind my home. We’ve had some good rainfall recently, so the last of the smoke has been washed out of the air. I walk past charred oaks and down blackened paths that were once ablaze with the brilliance of green moss and magnificent, swaying branches of rhododendron and deodar. A chestnut-bellied nuthatch flies out of the ruins, and I push down the lump in my throat and smile. Astonishingly, a barking deer jumps into a clearing and disappears into the still standing woods. The forest is back and, if left alone, will heal its wounds on its own. Nature does not need us; it is the other way around. But the forest, with its innumerable residents from the smallest of beetles to the most graceful of eagles, has healed us in times of our personal sorrows; it’s time for us to show it the humanity that befits our race.
