One of the places Swamini suggested I visit is an outstanding bird sanctuary near Vijayawada. For me, being in bountiful nature is a sure route to a peaceful mind and a connection with something other than my small self. Truly, I just love observing all the lovely creatures in our world. The myriad of manifestations in the creation is incredible; I do not want to miss anything.

Since the sanctuary is only an overnight journey, I decide to stop and check it out. However, when I arrive in Kaikalur, I am not at my best after a sleepless night from the loud clacking of the train wheels. In a semi-somnolent state, I approach the station master where I commence with the first step of frustration that I always seem to have to endure when I arrive in a new rural place. After explaining that I have come to visit the bird sanctuary, I ask if there is a tourist department here. No, he seems sure there is not. After some discussion in Telugu with the ticket seller and others who are hanging around, they decide I should go to the Forest Office. There I will be sure to find the information I want. One of the men kindly volunteers to tell the rickshaw driver where to take me, so I hop aboard.

After only a few blocks, we enter the main road. The driver looks back at me and gestures “which way.” I shrug—I thought he was supposed to know where we are going. So he chooses to make a left onto the main road. After a half block, he turns back again and says something that sounds exactly like “Post Office.”

Oh, dear—“Hold it,” I bark. Everyone understands those words. Then I flag down an intelligent looking, well-dressed gentleman passing on a bike. We clarify for the rickshaw driver that I want the Forest Office, not the Post Office. Problem is, as ascertained by the group who has suddenly gathered to consider the situation, there is no Forest Department in Kaikalur. To complicate things, a young police officer approaches me and demands, not asks for, but demands, my papers. As I am dragging out my Passport and Visa, which is a 9" x 12" flimsy piece of paper, everyone’s attention is diverted to looking it over. Meanwhile, I am still trying to get intelligent directions from the gentleman I flagged down because he is the only one who speaks English.

The policeman keeps asking me, “What are you doing here?”

I keep replying, “I am here to see the lake.”

He repeats my words, “I am here to see the lake”; then asks me again, “What are you doing here?”

While this parrot-act is going on, my only ally starts to take off.

“Sir, you don’t have any idea where I can get information about touring Kolleru Lake bird sanctuary?”

With that, everyone reconvenes and discusses the real issue, but, of course, I cannot understand their Telugu. On second thought, haven’t I learned by now? I better verify that I am in the right place because I have seen no indication of any lake anywhere. When I ask, “Just where is the lake?” they all point out a billboard, made of metal. It is so corroded by rust that not one word is legible. A streak of bright blue visible across the bottom gives me a faint hope that there may be water somewhere near.

Finally, the unanimous decision is made to send me over to the Irrigation Department. They will surely have information about the lake. I retrieve my papers from the policeman, who is still asking me, “What are you doing here?”

Is he a messenger from the gods trying to keep me on track? Nancy, what ARE you doing here?

With the new instructions, the driver turns around and takes off in the opposite direction. The Irrigation Department was a good suggestion, for there I meet Sri Venkateshwara Rao, Deputy Executive Engineer of Irrigation. I am quite amazed to find a high official sitting at his desk at 8:15 in the morning. My luck may be changing, for this is surely a once in a lifetime boon. A local joke is that during Indira’s Emergency, when everyone was compelled to appear for work, there weren’t enough chairs for all the government employees to sit down. As it turns out, Mr. Rao was on the same train that I arrived on this morning. He had come straight to the office—that explains the rare event.

A robust man with a bushy salt and pepper mustache, Mr. Rao immediately takes on the role of the perfect Indian host. A guest has arrived and the whole office will be at a standstill until my needs are met. Just like the people I encountered in the street, everyone has time to help a foreigner. First, he pays the rickshaw driver. Then tea appears, followed by breakfast wrapped in a banana leaf that doubles as a plate.

While I am eating breakfast, Mr. Rao and I discuss my situation. No, there is no suitable accommodation whatsoever in Kaikalur. Gradually, the room fills up with three engineers and four peons; all totally focused on my dilemma. When Mr. Rao orders another cup of tea for me, half of the peons bolt for the door to serve me.

By now, we have made the minor orientations necessary to tune our ears to each other’s English accent, so Mr. Rao and I are communicating without difficulty. The sum of the predicament is that there are no hotels here. In addition, there are no boats available to see the lake. The Irrigation Department had some row boats, but they have all sunk.

“That’s the problem in India, no maintenance; they won’t spend the money,” he laments.

“But doesn’t it cost more to replace the equipment, than maintain it?” I somehow remain my naive, logical self, but many such encounters are surely whittling away at it.

“But this is the time-honored way in India. Everything is always going to rust, don’t disturb it,” he explains with a chuckle.

Since his foremost duty is to entertain the guest, Mr. Rao starts telling me of the importance of one British official in this region. The official had engineered a dam across the Godavari River with a complex irrigation project that converted this District into some of the richest agricultural land in Andhra Pradesh. A coconut palm from this area just made the news: almost one thousand coconuts on one tree! Now revered as a saint by the local populace, they even held a centennial celebration and invited the engineer’s family to come from England to attend. However, he did not fare so well with the British Government of his day. They thought he had spent too much money on the natives and sacked him.

Bountiful coconut palm

“As a result of his work, this District has always paid more taxes than all the adjoining Districts put together.”

“So I guess the government’s message was you don’t spend money to help the peons pay more taxes.”

“Of course, that was his idea: Make the people prosper; then everyone will benefit, even the tax collector. Before they had the irrigation project, this was a poverty-stricken area.”

Finally, one of the telephone calls pays off, for they have located a young man working with Kolleru Lake Development. Within ten minutes he arrives on his motorcycle. Anjaneyulu informs us that I am in luck, an important official from the Forest Department is arriving tomorrow and several graduate students are also coming from Hyderabad University. The officials are to be given the complete tour of the lake, so a boat will have to be available for them. Certainly, they will be able to accommodate me also—after all, I am the guest.

The problem of seeing the lake solved, we proceed to the difficulty of finding a place for me to stay. Again Mr. Rao and his staff take on the responsibility with gusto. After a couple of phone calls, he obtains permission for me to stay at the Irrigation Department guest house out on the main canal. However, that brings up a new challenge: transportation out to the site. Mr. Rao remains undaunted. Three or four phone calls later he has located an employee who has some work in that area. He agrees to carry me on the back of his motor scooter. (This was when I learn the difference between a motorcycle and a motor scooter.)

The journey was memorable. The term “road” is a generous one, as most of the asphalt has been washed away, leaving only a strip one or two feet wide for much of the journey. I am holding on for dear life, especially at the horrific bumps of six inches getting on and off the asphalt. So with avoiding chuckholes and passing vehicles, we spend most of our time on the bumpy gravel shoulder. To get a break, I signal for him to stop at a tea stall ahead where I spot a stalk of bananas dangling above the counter. My teeth chattering like automatic jackhammers, I try to catch my breath while I dig coins out of my bag with sticky, shaky fingers. After a cup of tea and fortifying myself with a banana, gritting my teeth and breathing deeply, I board the back of the scooter and am whisked off again. It was a trip not to repeat.

The guest house is truly a respite, complete with air conditioning. The British had interests in this area because of the lake for sport fishing and water for irrigation, so they had built this cottage some 100 years ago. It certainly contradicts the “no-maintenance-in-India” premise, for it is like new. Even the toilet flushes on the first try. I think that’s a first in rural India. Since all guest houses are equipped with a cook, my lunch is ready and waiting when I arrive even though it’s late afternoon.

A few days later when I get a chance, I go over to the Irrigation Department to thank Mr. Rao for arranging my stay at the comfortable guest house.

“Well, the Irrigation Department sure has not denied themselves on their guest house. I will have to eat my words about no maintenance in India,” I mention.

He chuckles and looks down, “Well, you see, it was a real dump, but last year a central government Minister came here for inspection. It was the only place we could accommodate him and his entourage. So they totally redid the whole house from top to bottom, including paint, light fixtures, tile in the bath, and all new furniture.”

“And I suppose the minister stayed one night.”

“Yes, one night. But we just don’t have any decent hotels here. We had to put him up somewhere.”

Evidently this is a common scenario in democratic India that has never totally opted for socialism or capitalism. I doubt there will ever be a legitimate debate on the subject since the socialistic system serves the government officials so well. I recently read an informative article in a newspaper comparing expenditures in the public and private sector in coal mining in Bihar. The Tisco coal mines are held by a private firm, and give it a healthy annual profit. Last month when the owner, J.R.D. Tata, went for inspection, he arrived alone. Only the chief executive went to meet him. They held the necessary meetings, and Tata left the next day. Official business expenditure was under 3,000 rupees.

In contrast, the another coal mine in Bihar, publicly owned under the socialistic government control, continually operate at a loss. Last month when a Government Minister visited the mines, he arrived with his personal entourage (a hangover from the days of the kings), plus over a hundred clerks, officials and peons. At the factory, everyone from the stock boy to the top man had to be at the beck and call of the Minister and his staff; that is, absolutely no usual work was accomplished that week. Lavish lunches, dinners, teas were served up daily for the occasion. The total expenditure to taxpayers was estimated at 200,000 rupees. That’s socialism Indian-style.


Next morning, I take the bus back into town. Not a joy ride, but I know the alternative; I give thanks for every bump that I am not enduring on a motor scooter. As soon as I reach town I go directly to the Kolleru Development offices where I meet Anjaneyulu and Meerab, a graduate student from Hyderabad. Even though I was specifically told to be here early, the reason I was to arrive early never becomes apparent. It’s a repeat of yesterday’s scenario; everyone in the office just circles round and round the guest, intent on entertaining me and making me comfortable.

A couple of hours and four cups of tea later, progress is forthcoming. At 10:00 a.m., we go for breakfast at a local cafe. We leisurely consumed a special breakfast of delicious pancakes made of ground mung beans that I had never seen before—or after. So when we finally do make it to the lake, the scorching high noon sun is awaiting us. At the gate, we stop to talk to several Forest Officers from the surrounding areas who are standing out in the sweltering heat, awaiting the arrival of the Official—the one who is supposed to provide us with a boat. They may have to wait all day. These hierarchical customs are remnants of the kowtowing the natives were required to make during the British Raj and have nothing to do with caste. Why have the formalities continued after the British went home?—I am impertinent enough to wonder.

Although I arrived in what is normally the season to view the birds that annually migrate here for the winter, for no apparent reason, the majority took off for their Siberian homeland last week. I will miss several rarities like the great crested grebe, night heron, the painted stork and several rare ibises. Frankly, the lake is still so full of birds I am wondering where the migrants managed to squeeze in.

I am only viewing one small fork of the lake that is India’s largest fresh water lake. It is actually a series of canals, streams and rivulets, interspersed with some fifty islands. The three of us hike around the piece of lake nearest the proposed tourist area. Fortunately, a few sprawling trees give us some shade. Anjaneyulu (Anji, for short) has spent two years in Kolleru working on his doctorate, so he knows every bird and exactly where to find it. We see an abundance of small grebes, ducks, herons, egrets, janacas, and moor hens, including the colorful purple variety.
In the afternoon, someone did find a country boat. They are hollowed from the trunk of a toddy palm, the tree favored for nesting by the gray pelican. Presently, the trees are being depleted by the natives who cut them to make boats for the poaching of the birds for food, particularly the plump moor hens. The shortage of the nesting palms caused the pelicans to move elsewhere about a dozen years ago. One movement in an ever-present flux of adjustment for survival apparent in all the life forms here, whether animal or human.

The highlight of this jaunt is a huge flock of openbill storks. They happen to be the subject of Meerab’s doctorate studies. Here again there is an ecological problem due to depletion of resources. The stork’s bill was adapted for eating a certain type of fresh-water snail, which was plentiful in Kolleru. However, the local women have started raising ducks for eggs to be exported to China. Besides what the ducks forage, the children go out to hunt additional snails to feed them. We see piles of empty snail shells around several villages, a sign that the openbill storks will soon lose their food source at Kolleru and will have to move to another territory also.

To solve the no hotel dilemma, Anji invites Meerab and me to stay at his place. Ordinarily, he could not have invited Meerab. It would not be proper to have a young woman in his home, but now I can play the role of chaperon. Personally, I am delighted to stay with these intelligent, informed young people. Also, these encounters always give me a rare opportunity to get a closer inspection of their ideas and opinions about life. Usually when Meerab visits here, she has to sleep on the floor at the office. Mama, the cleaning woman, stays with her. I do not know how she got the name, since “Mama” means “uncle” in her native language, but she waits on Meerab and me as if she has nothing else to do.

Mama’s little mud shack is just across the street from the office. She and her husband came here from Kerala some years ago. Living quite happily on the proceeds of a small tea shop, they were even able to purchase a house. Then misfortune hit when her husband became gravely ill. With doctor and hospital bills, plus not being able to work to keep the cash flowing, they lost their home and shop. When he finally died, she had not a “pi” (a penny) to her name. She found the cleaning job, then friends helped her build a hut on the easement between the road and a walled compound.

“It was a nice little hut,” she tells us, “but the police came one night and tore it down. I was so frightened, and so distraught over losing my pretty little hut that I decided not to rebuild it. Now I don’t have to worry about them tearing down this crummy hut of sticks and mud. If they do, I can put it back up in a day.”

In spite of the presence of a chaperon and plenty of room, Anji still takes the precaution of sleeping at his neighbor’s home to allay any gossip. Throughout my travels even though I continually hear stories, I still find it hard to appreciate the man/woman rules in India. And they are numerous, for each area and caste has its differnt idiosyncrasy.

When Meerab and I question one of Anji’s cohorts about his prospects with women, Subir confesses that he is madly in love with one of the professors at Hyderabad University. So madly in love that he even got up his nerve and touched her—on the hand. She was so astonished, and so shamed, at this terrible act that she told her entire class what a terrible thing the student-teacher had done. She even threatened to report him to the authorities; he would have lost his job.
“You would have lost your job because you touched a woman's hand?” I beg Subir for clarification.

“Oh, yes, definitely; without question.”

“But was it just an accidental brush or did you actually plan to touch her hand?”

“Oh, yes. That was a well-planned hand touch, Nancyji, and don’t you doubt it,” he turns red with embarrassment, “but I made it look like an accidental brush.”

“I see. Now you have ruined all your chances with her?”

“I never had a chance with her, anyway. My mother will arrange my marriage with a village girl. She doesn’t want me to marry an educated woman who has a career. She will find a girl from the same village I grew up in, who can’t speak a word of English and only wants to cook and have children.”

“Your education will help you get the best girl in the village with the biggest dowry, yet having an education is held against a woman. Hardly seems fair, does it?” I venture to observe.

On the other hand, Anji has a “different” story for us. Until a few weeks ago, he had a roommate who had come to Kaikalur to make his fortune in the booming fish business. He ended up not making any money because he harvested too soon and the fish were too small. However, that was not his biggest problem: she was tall, dark and bright-eyed. He was madly in love with her, and they were actually cohabiting. He even introduced her to his best friend and business partner. Once while the fiancé was away in Hyderabad, “those two began to have some fun” as Anji put it. Well, finally the two male friends found out about each other’s escapades with the same woman. There was a terrible fight; they would never be friends again. And who got the girl? A third fellow, she married him within a month after the fight.

My intention has been to stick to the backroads of India where life remains simple and true to itself. Even though, Kaikalur is certainly off the beaten track, the conflicts between the old and new, and the impact of a capitalist economy is being played out here in living color.

The following afternoon, we drive over to the other side of the lake to have access to a motor boat, although the awaited Forest Department official never showed up. The only reason Meerab had here come was to support Anji in guiding the officer around the lake, so he can see some of the larger ecological problems here. Although for her it was a wasted trip, it is an advantage for me to have this vibrant intelligent young woman as a guide.

As we stand in the shade of a canopy, the boat slowly maneuvers up and down the deep canals that constitute the circulatory system of the lake. Many of the islands are nothing but mounds of mud covered with a type of reed that the natives use as thatch for roofs. Lots of weaver birds have picked these isolated reeds for their nests. We spot three varieties of kingfishers, including the little blue, which I rarely see.

We end up on the largest island that is supposed to have supported a small community since time immemorial. Traditionally, the lake dries up in the summer. During that time, archaeologists have found an interesting array of artifacts, indicating that the legends of ancient human life here are not just fiction. However, the Government has formed a new management program and is trying to make it a year-round lake. The villagers object to this because their best fishing season is when the lake dries up, for then they can just pluck the fish out of the mud puddles. I never figured out where the fish for the next year’s crop come from, but this is the tropics. . . creatures just proliferate here.

The principal supporters of keeping Kolleru’s water level high are the fish culture entrepreneurs. Everywhere we go we see huge fish ponds, some as large as fifty acres. Each pond has a pump to drain the lake into the self-contained reservoir. The fish are force fed something that looks like dried dog food, then harvested. Insulated, refrigerated trucks, the nicest trucks I have ever seen in India, make daily trips to Calcutta’s fish market. The majority of ponds are owned and operated by the local villages, with the remaining managed by the Government and private investors from Hyderabad.

In a business project where you get free water—and free land—the entrepreneurs can afford to put money into heavy equipment. We happen upon an operation where a bulldozer is clearing out a huge 200-acre pond on public wildlife sanctuary land—right in broad daylight. Since the water level is only a foot deep in this part of the lake, if that pond is filled, the existing water will be depleted. Anji takes photographs, but everyone seems sure nothing will be done.

Local village children

First chance, I take it upon myself to mention the operation to Mr. Rao at the Irrigation Department. He replies simply that they can do nothing. The Government has given them no authority or funds to prosecute these cases and everyone knows it. The villagers and investors can continue to do as they please.

This fish-culture income is actually transforming the life of the villagers. Many villages now have a village car, a TV, and portable radios. After our boat trip, we walk over to the nearby village to have a cup of tea. Strangely, it looks as if everyone in the village is gathered in front of one particular house.

“Well, this is the first time I’ve been in a village where there is something that is attracting more attention than the white lady,” I mention.

Meerab smiles, “You’d never guess what they are doing. There has been a family feud, so they are dividing up the household goods and family wealth. They have invited all their neighbors to serve as witnesses that everything is divided fairly, so there will be no bickering later.”

“Another change in the life of the village; families breaking up,” I comment.

“Things are changing too fast for them,” Meerab observes.


The next morning just as we are about to leave for a trip to the beach, a botanist arrives from Hyderabad with a type of beetle that kills water hyacinths by boring into their base. As the development office only has one jeep, we take him around the lake to release the beetles where the hyacinths are most prolific. They clog up the waterways so that neither human nor fowl can use the water. The villagers have been cajoled to gather the hyacinth plants as fuel for their gober gas mills, the rural self-contained gas plant that normally runs on cow manure. However, the villagers are not interested in such “dirty work.”

After releasing the beetles, it is practically noon before we head southeast, through mile after mile of coconut palm orchards and rice paddy. In every direction we are surrounded by vibrant green. This land is the rewards of irrigation from the Uppatero Canal that runs from Kolleru Lake to the sea. All along the way, we see a network of tributary canals that only have plank foot bridges. Then the road ends because of the main canal, so we have to leave the jeep behind, protected by the driver.

After a hike over sandy, barren terrain, we reach the wonderful Bay of Bengal. The sea is quite refreshing, and the beach is spotless. Of course, it is very isolated with no visible population in any direction. The Indians do not swim; they will take a dip in the sea only for the health benefits of a salt bath. In addition, everyone is sensitive about the dark skin that the sun produces.

When we arrive back to the tiny village where the jeep is parked, Anji heads for the tea stall. I announce that I have to have something cold to drink and head for the cold drink hut. Anji gives me such an icy stare that I know I blew something, somehow. What now? I wonder.

“Meerab, I made some serious error. You would not believe the look Anji gave me when I told him I was having a cold drink.”

She cannot figure it out either. When Anji comes over after finishing his tea, we find out what the misunderstanding was. I never noticed that the cold drink stand also served liquor. But he noticed, and thought that I was going to have an alcoholic drink, which would be a terrible blot on my character. He was sure that our driver, who does not miss a thing, would report it to everyone at the office.

We had packed a lunch for the trip, but had declined to carry the weight with us on the hike to the beach. On our return, we look for a nice picnic spot, but the coconut palms that line the road leave no space even to pull off the road. Finally, we give up and just stop by the side of the road to eat in the car. Within seconds, a local resident appears to find out if we need assistance. When the driver explains the situation, the man tells us to wait. In a couple of minutes, he comes running back to tell us that arrangements have been made. After all, we are guests—a guest in the home is like a visit from God himself. The Indians take this part of their religion seriously. I’ve never found such hospitality anywhere else on the planet. I benefit from their kindness wherever I go.

We have been invited to eat in the yard of one of the wealthier members of the community. A table and several very rickety chairs are brought out. Our hosts, in their early 70’s, are delighted to have us. Next, they fetch the water pitcher and towel for hand washing. However, when water glasses appear, I mentally balk. Most of the wells in Andhra are huge open pits; I think that I should not take the chance of drinking from them. Even Meerab does not drink any of the water.

In general, Andhra Pradesh is a desert. Water is so hard to come by here, that, for the first time in all my sojourns, I actually see men carrying water. They do not carry it like the women in pots on their heads or hips, but have a long flexible pole on which they hang two buckets. They then balance the pole over one shoulder. I also saw my first rat-catcher here. He has traps of bamboo, each attached to a long pole; so he can stick them underneath objects, I suppose.

That night Anji treats us to a local phenomenon—the indoor movie theater. Like many Western things, the Indians converted it into their own unique adaptation. It is open-seating. Everyone comes in, spreads their straw mats, and sits on the floor—no chairs provided. Children are running, babies are crawling, ladies are chatting, and dogs are winding back and forth through it all. I can hardly watch the screen for laughing at the tamaasha (melee) surrounding me. Not that the film is worth watching, since it is the typical, awful Hindi genera with lots of singing and dancing, with little or no plot. Rural Indians love these films. Contrary to the popular stereotype, they have a lot of leisure, except during the planting and harvesting seasons. I have seen the locals waiting for hours in the hot sun to get into the movies every day of the week wherever I travel.

My week in Kaikalur was an exercise in divine patience since no one seemed to know what was happening, or when. Yet everyone else seemed quite content in knowing that they would never know. Certainly, the birds were an unforgettable experience, but my real experience here was the people. When I remember Kaikalur, I will remember Meerab, Anjaneyulu, Mr. Rao, Mama and all the associates at the Irrigation and Lake Development Departments. These kind people with their dedication to making my stay comfortable. . . and meaningful. They openly shared their lives with me, their joys, sorrows, concerns, disappointments. Apart from my overall goal of having a silent mind, I love filling it with new ideas and different points of view. The open and honest Indians continue to make India alive for me.

The next morning, I take off at the crack of dawn to catch the early train for Rajamundry. I arrive at the station right on time to find out the train is two hours late. There is nothing to do but sit and watch the scenery. A lovely sunrise emerges over the horizon. Soon thousands of birds are flying in to feed at the lake, having roosted elsewhere during the night. It is an overwhelming sight as wave after wave of birds fly toward the station. Each shimmers with a glow of backlighting from the sun. I smile as I realize this is the only moment I have had any solitude during the entire visit. Even my encounter with nature has been more intellectual and informative than peaceful and connected. I relax and watch as the birds continue to fly overhead. A beautiful way to start the day—it certainly makes the waiting worthwhile.