Eravikulam at 50: Birth of India’s conservation ethic

Half a century after it was declared Kerala’s first national park, Eravikulam National Park remains one of the least dramatic yet most consequential conservation stories in India. Created to protect the highly endangered Nilgiri tahr and the rare Neelakurinji, the flowering spectacle that occurs once every 12 years, Eravikulam stands quietly above the famed hill station of Munnar as a reminder that ecological protection in India did not always begin with protest, marches or public campaigns. Sometimes, it began with persuasion, paperwork and political timing.

In many ways, Eravikulam was the country’s first successful ecological intervention, achieved years before the celebrated struggle to save Silent Valley National Park brought environmentalism into the public arena as a popular movement.

Until the early 1970s, Eravikulam’s high-altitude grasslands were officially classified as “wastelands”. Under Kerala’s ambitious land reform programme, these slopes were proposed for redistribution to the landless and for cattle grazing. From the desks of administrators in distant offices, the plateau appeared empty and underutilised. On the ground, forest officers and naturalists saw something very different — the last intact montane grassland system in southern India and the most critical refuge of the endangered Nilgiri tahr.

By then, the tahr had already vanished from large parts of the Western Ghats due to colonial hunting and habitat loss. British planters had once used Eravikulam as a game reserve, shooting tahr, sambar, wild buffalo and even tigers for sport and meat. By the 1960s, only a few hundred tahr survived across the Nilgiri and Anaimalai ranges, most of them clinging to the steep cliffs of Eravikulam.

A small and unlikely coalition began to resist the land redistribution plan. The naturalist EP Gee alerted the Indian Board for Wildlife. Senior forest officers in Munnar prepared technical notes on grassland ecology. Managers of the Tata Finlay tea estates, despite their plantation background, quietly supported protection, aware that these fragile slopes were unsuited for agriculture. “They knew these hills were the last chance for the tahr. If settlements came up, the grasslands would be cut, fenced and fragmented. That would have been the end of this ecosystem,” recalls James Zachariah, a retired Indian Forest Service officer who served as divisional forest officer and wildlife warden in the region.

The decisive moment came in 1973, when MK Ranjitsinh, the then Union Forest Secretary, visited Munnar. Watching herds of tahr move across sheer slopes, he became convinced that Eravikulam had to be protected at any cost. He briefed Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, whose interest in wildlife had already shaped the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972.

At the same time, Kerala was facing a severe food shortage. Chief Minister C Achutha Menon sent Revenue Minister Baby John to seek rice supplies from Union Food Minister Annasaheb Shinde. Ranjitsinh, who held additional charge as food secretary, suggested that the Eravikulam proposal be raised in the same meeting. Shinde agreed to release rice and reminded Kerala of the PM’s wish to see a sanctuary in Munnar. It was a political barter conducted quietly, without public debate.

Eravikulam becomes the stage for one of nature’s most spectacular events when the Neelakurinji blooms every 12 years. Istock

In 1975, the Eravikulam Rajamala Wildlife Sanctuary was notified. In 1978, it was upgraded to a national park.

Today, Eravikulam protects nearly 97 sq km of shola grassland mosaic, a landscape found nowhere else in the world. It holds the largest single population of Nilgiri tahr, with around 750 to 850 living in herds known locally as varayadu. Each herd occupies a defined home range across slopes and ridges that remain largely untouched by human presence.

The park also shelters remarkable biodiversity. There are over 50 species of mammals, around 170 species of birds, 30 reptiles, nearly 40 amphibians and close to 180 species of butterflies. Carnivores such as leopards and wild dogs patrol the interior ridges, while elephants and gaurs frequently cross into adjoining forests and tea estates.

Only about 1 per cent of the park is open to tourism. Battery-operated buses ferry visitors to Rajamala, while the remaining 99 per cent is left entirely for wildlife. During the tahr lambing season, the park is closed. Controlled burning is carried out in rotation to remove old grass and promote fresh growth. Much of the monitoring work is carried out by Muthuvan tribal watchers, whose knowledge comes from generations of living in these mountains.

Every 12 years, Eravikulam becomes the stage for one of nature’s most spectacular events. The Neelakurinji blooms in unison, turning entire hillsides violet. The last mass flowering in 2018 drew thousands of visitors. The next is expected around 2030, though scientists warn that climate stress may already be disturbing this ancient cycle.

Yet Eravikulam’s success story also carries its silences. The park was created without community consultation. It remains unclear how many landless families lost expected land rights, or how tribal access to forest resources changed after the notification. Conservation in the 1970s prioritised species and landscapes, not rights, livelihoods or participation.

That unresolved tension now defines Eravikulam’s future. Climate change is altering rainfall patterns and grass composition. Invasive species such as wattle and eucalyptus are spreading in the surrounding landscape. Fragmentation of adjacent grasslands threatens long-term ecological stability.

Conservationists argue that Eravikulam can no longer survive as an isolated island. It must be linked ecologically with neighbouring protected areas such as Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary, Mathikettan Shola and Anamudi Shola through corridors and landscape level planning.

— The writer is an independent journalist