Arati Kumar-Rao’s ‘Marginlands: Indian Landscapes on the Brink’ is a chronicle of ecological wonders & human blunders

Manu Moudgil

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There are very few storytellers who can let go of their comforts and immerse themselves in the harsh environments they talk about. Arati Kumar-Rao is one of them, which is why her work never fails to inform and astound. Her first piece of journalism involved observing a landscape in the Thar desert in different seasons for one year. In the era of clickbait and desk/studio-based reporting, such an effort seems bizarre, even unnerving at first but tremendously inspiring afterwards.

What makes this book special is that it’s not an academic exercise on Indian landscapes. It is more about the lives, both human and wild, that are an intrinsic part of these ecosystems. Rao combines folklore, science, history, personal accounts and policy decisions to paint images through words that illuminate our understanding.

From the floodplains of Assam to the sand dunes of Thar, from the shores of Kerala to the artificial glaciers of Ladakh, dense forests of Arunachal Pradesh to the coasts of Goa, sandbar islands on Ganga, perilous Sunderbans, rivers of Punjab and the backyard of an urban settlement in Bengaluru, all these landscapes with varying soils, vegetation and skies become thriving habitats. Tigers, wolves, vultures, eels, egrets, black-necked cranes, limpet and many more creatures who make these places functional walk through the pages. Hunting with dolphins, hosting bees, fostering the non-glamorous plants, Rao allures us with the marvellous and then offers the bitter pill of how all these places and lives are under threat because of short-sighted government policies focussed on profiteering through dams and weirs, waterways, mining, deforestation, commercial fishing, concretisation and thrust on private transport. It’s a book that lays bare the ecological wonders and human blunders of India.

The stories of people living on the margins are told with empathy. Whether it’s a widow trying to raise money for her son’s exams by catching crabs in crocodile-infested waters or a man who has been displaced eight times by barrage-induced floods, or a Kerala family huddled in a small kitchen because rest of their house has turned into rubble, Rao gives a glimpse into their challenges and that of millions of others who are either forced to leave their homes or turned into paupers overnight. It is rare for such accounts to reach the urban audience, which is instead fed an overdose of positive news on governance and GDP.

Rao also introduces us to a few special people who inspire hope. The local guides, shepherds, fishers and farmers, who uphold the traditional wisdom and scientific temperament. They are the ones offering sustainable solutions and countering the onslaught of rot learning, which is alienating people from their ecosystems. What comes as a pleasant surprise is the spirituality in this book. It is made possible only because the author chose to tell the stories through people rather than the western concepts of conservation and environmentalism. Rao’s slow trek through these landscapes is itself a meditative practice. Whether it’s walking through the verdant forests, gazing into the starry skies of Himalayas, floating on the vast arms of the Brahmaputra, plodding through sand dunes or listening to the night through the window of her bedroom, she tunes into the universal heartbeat that connects everything.

The writing is supplemented by photographs and sketches which make the book part coffee table book, part travelogue and part socio-ecological research. A few portions can seem heavy for some, especially those not acquainted with environmental writing. But what’s the point of reading a book if you don’t get to learn something new?