The Odisha Odyssey

Chapter - 1 : Rendezvous 

'Where are you, Danish?'

'I'm right outside the airport. Next to this SBI bank ATM.'

'Okay, see if you can find something to eat. We're coming.'

I took a huge breath of the clean air and stepped away from the entrance. Bhubaneshwar airport was tidy, not very crowded; and there was a fair bit of greenery in its vicinity. 

I walked to the canteen - it was dusty and abandoned. There were cab drivers standing in defensive formations, looking at me like I was a sign of the resurgence of the colonial period.

I plucked some tamarind pods and chewed on them for a while. The tang and acid dissolved whatever little drowsiness I had left, and I strolled towards the untended gardens. There were some schoolgirls sitting near the edge, making floral patterns out of blades of grass. I recalled how much talent and heritage this state had. And I was about to receive a week long reminder.

A tiny Indian myna landed on the ground, picking out some twigs. It flapped once and flew back to its nest, chirping along the way, as if telling me to return to mine.

Acridotheres tristis (locust-hunter, dull), the common myna, is an omnivorous open woodland bird with a strong territorial instinct, and has adapted extremely well to urban environments. They often use the nests of woodpeckers and parakeets, evicting their young ones. They roost in mixed flocks and display aerial maneuvers like starlings.

The Sankrit term shuksarika, which refers to the rose-ringed parakeet (shuk) and the common myna (saarika), is used to indicate a pair or a couple, probably because both birds are vocal and capable of mimicking human sound. In addition to saarika, the names for the common myna include kalahapriya, which means "one who is fond of arguments" referring to the quarrelsome nature of this bird; chitranetra, meaning "picturesque eyes"; peetanetra (one with yellow eyes) and peetapaad (one with yellow legs).

Your nest is where your parents are.

I ambled back to the airport. They would be here any minute.

A car turned into the road, and two blurry faces came into focus as my Mama and Papa, beaming at me.

"I have held my heart in my hand, 
 And am waiting for home to come..." 

Chapter - 2 : The White Mountain

'How are you, Danchu?'

'Here, we brought vadas for you.' 

'Why did you bring your clothes in a rucksack? They'll all look like origami figures now.'

'You've grown so thin. Are you trekking through grass and eating it too?'

'Since when have you not shaved or cut your hair? We'll turn you into an Egyptian priest.'

'We missed you, Danchu.'

I recovered from the onslaught of love and said my namaste's to my brother's in-laws. They smiled at me jovially, amused at seeing a working adult reduced to a sheepish toddler in seconds. 

'So, what's the itinerary?' I asked incoherently, gobbling vadais and taking huge sips from a juice bottle.

'We're on our way to Puri right now, from where a bus leaves for the Konark Art Festival.'

'On the way, we'll see the Shanti Stupa at Dhaulagiri. It's near the banks of the Daya River.'

'Is that the one which turned red after the Kalinga battle?'

'Yes,' Papa nodded approvingly. 'Right now we're driving through erstwhile Kalinga.'

I caught a glimpse of the Daya River as we turned right. I could imagine Ashoka standing at the shore, his thoughts running as torrentially as the water; the foundations of a religion laid down by a single remorseful thought.

Our car pulled up to the Stupa. I saw people thronging to it, chattering excitedly and taking photographs.

The white monument glowed like a sepulchre for a dove; a forgotten totem for peace and redemption. Something that was to serve as a reminder of what life's journey was about was now just a really nice background; another economic and social tool.

Spilopelia chinensis, the spotted dove. Because of the white-spotted black collar patch, it is also called the pearl-necked dove or lace-necked dove. It appears in moist regions, mostly found on the ground where they forage for seeds and grain or on low vegetation. The females are slightly smaller, and the juveniles do not have the neck band. In Japanese culture, the dove symbolizes longevity and respect and is dedicated to the god of war Hachimanu. The dove with a sword, heralds the end of the war. 

It is an important symbol in Native American culture too. The Blackfoot tribe associated it with protection and safe return from battle, and dove feathers were often carried by war leaders as talismans to help them bring their men back safely. In some Eastern Algonquian tribes, turtledoves were associated with the spirit world, and heard at certain times, their cries could be omens of death. To some California Indian tribes, they represent foolishness and naivete. The Cherokee associate mourning doves with acorns, and for a whimsical reason: the mourning dove's cooing cry sounds like the Cherokee word for acorn, 'gule'. The Aztecs and other Mexican Indian tribes saw the bird as a symbol of love; associated with the goddess Xochiquetzal and often depicted on wedding ornaments. 

As I approached the Stupa, I felt my pessimism melt away. Here, people were happy. Here, they weren't fighting, they weren't worried; they could just look away wistfully in any direction and be at peace with themselves. Maybe that was the ultimate aim of every religion.

We saw some strange Mandarin-esque inscriptions on a nearby pillar. Mama stared at it for a while, delving into the subtle imagery and trying to figure out what it could mean. She always held a fascination for languages and visual art. With a twinge of guilt, I remembered I still had to design a fictional language for her book.

Papa took a photo of a poster near the entrance, detailing the entire history of the Stupa with dates and names. I picked out whatever I remembered from my history textbook, correlating it with the timelines given in the information. I wished I had a bird's eye view of history; to see what had been happening anywhere in the world, at any given time in the past.

We climbed up, and instinctively started taking a parikrama of the sanctum sanctorum. With Mama, I observed the various motifs and engravings - some symbolic, and some pretty apparent.

'They had such amazing breasts in the past, man. Don't you guys ever regret not being born a few centuries earlier?' My mother asked me, immediately dissolving into a fit of giggles. I smiled sheepishly and shook my head. My mother said the most scandalous things in the most sanctimonious places.

The entire journey of Siddhartha and then Gautam Buddha was depicted in the walls. I saw a particularly interesting pictogram of him being revered by three planes of existence.

'Animals and birds, humans and the heavenly beings,' My mother explained, pointing to each level. 'All paid homage to his wisdom and enlightenment.'

'Are those apsaras?' I asked, looking closely.

'Yeah. Nothing gets the girls like nirvana.' And she dissolved into another fit of giggles. We chortled away to the edge.

There was a concrete, yellow lion staring out at the city. We looked at the same direction as it; looking for some distant cloud in the infinite blue.

'Is it safeguarding the peace?' I asked Ma.

'Peace is inside you. There is no bigger threat to it than yourself. Once you've protected it from your own individuality; it's untouchable. I think the lion represents this very struggle.'

This gem of wisdom, a minute after talking about ancient breasts - my mother, ladies and gentlemen.

Papa met us from the opposite side. 'What do these various positions mean?' I asked, pointing to the Reclining Buddha behind the meditating one.

'Their origin, I think, is from the various poses Buddha took in his life, in front of disciples and historians. Now they've come to mean different aspects of Buddhism itself - serenity, overcoming fear, acceptance, etc.'

'And the Laughing Buddha?'

'Oh, that's actually a Chinese monk.' Mama smiled, catching up to us. 'Nothing to do with Gautam Buddha. It's a common misconception - sort of a misnomer, actually.'

'Let's take a photo with the Stupa.' Aunty called, and we descended the steps, rushing to the centre.

'Camel's paw,' Papa pointed to a common tree, the leaves of which look like a camel's foot. He was forever on the lookout for flora and fauna, and travelling with him could rekindle your love for nature; or even cause it.

My parents hugged me tightly as the camera clicked. It finally sank in; this was my first trip with them since 1st year of college.

'Let's go on to Puri,' Uncle stated, smoothing out his mustache. 'The tour bus for Konark leaves at 3.'

On our way back to the car, we had some sugarcane elixir, and Papa urged me to try a starfruit. 'It's called kamrakh in Hindi,' he laughed as my mouth contorted at the incredible sourness. 'We used to eat it outside Aligarh Muslim University.' And then we had an extensive discussion on the effect of different organic acids on taste and nutrition. Chemistry was another one of my father's passions.

I spotted a Holly Blue butterfly as everyone sat in the car. I chased it for a while, and then went back to the vehicle.

"I have buried my fear in the land, 
 And am waiting for the rain to come..." 

Chapter - 3 : The King Fisher

'Ma, is that elephant grass?' I asked, looking out the window at some giant reed-like plants with white inflorescences.

'Me and Papa had the same confusion.' Mama turned to face him. 'These are estuarine mud-flats; aren't feather reeds more likely?'

'Maybe I can get a better photo from here.' Papa aimed his DSLR out the window. Our driver, Chintu, slowed down. Once he was done, Papa flashed him an appreciative smile, and he resumed his speed.

'Danish, observe the telephone lines on your way. Apart from the usual fare of pigeons, crows and ravens, you'll invariably see drongos, bee-eaters, Indian rollers and kingfishers. Look, a white-throated one, on that tree stump.'

Halcyon smyrnensis, the white-throated kingfisher, can often be found well away from water where it feeds on a wide range of prey that includes small reptiles, amphibians, crabs, small rodents and even birds.  Their prominent perches include the tops of buildings in urban areas or wires. Halcyon is a name for a bird in Greek mythology generally associated with the kingfisher. The specific epithet smyrnensis is an adjective for the town of Izmir in Turkey. It is the state bird of West Bengal.

The first pair of the mythical-bird Halcyon (kingfishers) were created from a marriage of Alcyone and Ceyx. As gods, they lived the sacrilege of referring to themselves as Zeus and Hera. They died for this, but the other gods, in an act of compassion, made them into birds, thus restoring them to their original seaside habitat. The phrase 'Halcyon days' refers specifically to an idyllic time in the past, or in general to a peaceful time.

I looked at the tiny, inscrutable silhouette and stared at Papa, befuddled. 'That's like guessing the color of someone's underwear from their palm.'

'Well, yes, if you hang out your underwear on telephone lines,' Mama burst into laughter.

'Even I was baffled at first.' She explained. 'But it's not that hard; it just requires practice. After a while, a vague silhouette, or size, or call, or even posture is enough.'

'Goals,' I muttered to myself. 'That's a drongo, right?' I pointed to a shape in the distance. 'The tail is typical.'

'Shaabaash. See, you're getting it already,' Mama patted me on my back.

'We're here.' Uncle sat up straight, looking out the window at a very faint coastline. 'Puri.'

The air smelt fresher and saltier. Faint aromas of seafood rose up to welcome my senses. It had been so long.

We checked into Victoria Club, a plush hotel right at the beach. Me and Ma stood in the lobby, staring at the aquarium.

'The water looks dirtier than your clothes.' She commented dryly.

'Ma,' I started, but she waved away my feeble protests regally and walked off to our room.

'There's a sand sculpture in the garden.' I said excitedly.

'Kids are so easily impressed these days.' Mama smirked back. 'Wait till you see the sand art festival at Chandrabhaga Beach.'

After depositing our caravan of bags in our rooms, we hastened to Panthanivaas for lunch.

'So,' Uncle looked up and peeked at me from over the menu card. 'One of everything, or two?'

As Aunty chortled, I looked at my parents, who grinned sheepishly. 'We may have told them that everytime you sit down to eat something, UNESCO moves that species up from Least Concern to Jurassic Park.'

Scowling to myself as Mama pulled my cheeks, I ordered golden-fried prawns, catla fish curry and mangsha tarkari, as my Odiya friends Shreya and Nityasa had suggested.

'They'll take a lot of time,' Aunty said, smiling sadly. 'Here, service is pretty relaxed.'

I perused the menu again, silently crossing off items I would be trying and making a note of the ones I had to have later. Gurai roshogulla was definitely at the top.

The menagerie arrived sooner than expected, and I smiled widely, arranging three plates around me.

'Watch out marine life - the King Fisher is here.' My Papa joked, setting off everyone at the table.

"I have set my hunger at ease,
 And am waiting for spring to come..."

Chapter - 4 : Rufous, Green And Blue

We climbed into the Tempo Traveller that was to take us to Konark. Three geriatric couples got in with us, settling down into the seats behind us. I couldn't judge whether the creaking was coming from them or the vehicle. 

'Danish, we're stuck with oldies!' Mama whispered in mock horror, tugging at my sleeve. 'What do we do now?'

'I know the feeling,' I replied, staring pointedly at her. She rapped me on the back of my head in a swift move.

'We still have stamina, okay,' Mama crossed her arms and turned up her nose. 'We climbed that hill in Coorg last year, with you. Don't forget, I can still kick your ass.'

'Kung-fu Mama,' Papa whispered from her side, and we both lost it. 

'Namashkar,' a genial fellow entered, folding his hands, with a voice as silky as his suit. 'Myself good name Konark guide. We shall visit Chandrabhaga beach for sand art, followed by a visit to Konark Sun Temple, and the Konark Music and Dance Festival just in front of it. There will also be snakes.'

The vehicle panicked for a second before realizing he meant 'snacks'.

'Enjoy,' he smiled an incredibly toothy grin, the kind people give just before they hold you at gunpoint. 

The vehicle set off. I opened a window, and a familiar breeze brought back a familiar song. 'Baaro krishnaiyya, ninna bhaktara manegiga...'

The carrier pigeon I had sent in Bandaje had returned. 

Soon, we were out of the city, following the beach on our right, with a grove of dense forests on our left - a colour palette of rufous, green and blue.

Merops orientalis, the green bee-eaters, are mainly insect eaters and are found in grassland, thin scrub and forest often quite far from water. Several regional plumage variations are known and several subspecies have been named. The entire plumage is bright green and tinged with blue especially on the chin and throat. The crown and upper back are tinged with golden rufous. The flight feathers are rufous washed with green and tipped with blackish. A fine black line runs in front of and behind the eye. The iris is crimson and the bill is black while the legs are dark grey.

The little green bee-eater is also becoming common in urban and sub-urban neighborhoods, and has been observed perching on television antennae, only to launch into a brief, zig-zag flight formation to catch an insect, then return to the same perch and consume the meal. They show an ability to predict whether a human at a particular location is capable of spotting the nest entrance, and then behave appropriately to avoid giving away the nest location. The ability to look at a situation from another's point of view was previously believed to be possessed only by primates.

The swaying of the trees and the rhythmic, soft roar of the waves lulled me to a hypnagogic state. For a while, I stared out into the endless sea, until I felt motionless, suspended in a dream I couldn't wake up from. Another forest interrupted my trance, and now we were flanked by an endless sea of green. I fell asleep somewhere between the last line of Baaro Krishnaiyya and my last memory of such a road.

I awoke to the hustle-bustle of people and other vehicles, and the largest beach I had seen yet. We were here.

"I have hung my thoughts on the trees,

 And am waiting for the breeze to come..."

Chapter - 5 : Kingdom Of Dirt

There were tourists from all over the world, gawking at the intricate, yet soft sculptures on the coast. Even the participating artists spanned the globe - we could see their names and countries written on placards right in front of them, along with their exhibit numbers.

They were putting the finishing touches as we walked along. There were assistants spraying mist on the sand, while the artists patted it down with a trowel. They were using it to shape the major contours and planes too, while using their hands for the subtler ones.

Buddha seemed to be a common theme in all the artworks.

'Pain is certain, suffering is not...'

'Notice the variance in his smile, across all creations. I never knew there could be so many shades of peace. Even the curve of his eyelids, the degree of their openness; they're almost narrating the path to salvation.' Mama stated, as we dodged crowds and water, hopping along the ground like sandpipers.

Actitis hypoleucus (coast-dweller, white breast) has greyish-brown upperparts, white underparts, short dark-yellowish legs and feet, and a bill with a pale base and dark tip. Juveniles are more heavily barred above and have buff edges to the wing feathers. 

The common sandpiper forages by sight on the ground or in shallow water, picking up small food items such as insects, crustaceans and other invertebrates; it may even catch insects in flight. In the Nukumanu language of the Nukumanu Islands (Papua New Guinea), this species is usually called tiritavoi. Another Nukumanu name for it, matakakoni, exists, but this is considered somewhat taboo, since matakakoni means "bird that walks a little, then copulates", in reference to the pumping tail and thrusting head movements the Actitis species characteristically perform during foraging.

'Look at the foliage!' I exclaimed, pointing at the depiction of a Bodhi tree. 'How are they getting that texture with sand?'

The artist turned and smiled at me. I flashed her a thumbs up sign. I was definitely trying this when I went to Chennai for margazhi. 

'Well, this takes the cake.' Papa caught up to us, pointing at a miniature fort created by a local Odiya sculptor. 'There's windows, a proper jaali like in an actual jharokha. They're making holes in sand. Holes.'

I kept staring at the delicate structure, a frail design held together by rough water and runny sand, which the next gust of wind could bring down like a house of cards.

'I would give this one first prize simply for Buddha's expression.' Mama pointed to the second-last exhibit. 'I have not seen such contentment and empathy captured in even marble sculptures.'

'I liked that one best.' I pointed to the one in the middle.

'It has a slight agitation,' she commented. 'Like there's an inner turmoil which only subtly shows itself.'

I nodded. Maybe that was my favourite kind of peace; an acceptance of chaos.

We turned around and walked back, etching the depictions into our memories; the remembrances more fragile than the sculptures themselves. The smiles seemed to change as we passed them again, perhaps reflecting our state of mind.

We saw Uncle, Aunty and Papa walking up ahead. 'Papa, did you get good photographs?' I called out.

'I did, but they're really grainy.' He grinned. I slapped my forehead.

'Come. Let's go find some snakes.'

We went up ahead to a wooden cottage, right at the road leaving for the Konark Temple.

'What happens to these sculptures tomorrow?' I asked my father.

'There'll be high tide tonight, and next morning, they'll be washed away into the sea.' Papa smiled ruefully. He slapped me on the back, understanding my astonishment. 'Creating for the sake of creating. This is one of the pillars of Buddhism - letting go, resisting attachment, no matter how beautiful the object.'

I nodded. That was probably the wisest way to look at it. I always liked to think that when we made something heavenly, we were simply channeling the heavens; higher forces that worked through us. Letting go was simply returning it to them.

I looked back at the heavenly ocean; we were its artworks too, and one day we would return to it. I tore my eyes away from the kingdom of dirt and went inside.

"I have written my woes on the sand,
 And am waiting for the waves to come..."

Chapter - 6 : Highlights 

The vehicle stopped near a barricade, about 500 meters from the temple. 'They won't let us through,' the driver rumbled to our guide. 

'Aise kaise?' He bellowed indignantly, puffing up like a male bird during mating season. 'I've given them kharcha paani.'

'Silk Smitha's losing it.' Mama whispered, her eyes opening wider with alarm. 

He almost jumped out the window, dazzling us with a flash of silk, and landed right in front of the uniformed guards, like a matador about to perform his coup de grace. 

The policewoman there reduced him to tatters, and he came back with a sheepish smile and a visibly less shiny suit. 

'Would it be too much trouble if we got down and walked to the temple?' he asked through his teeth. 

Amid incoherent grumbling, everyone got down and started walking. 

There was a huge crowd, and a flock of pigeons hollered above us. My parents always needed peace and quiet near temples; everywhere, actually. I hoped they wouldn't be disappointed.

My mother immediately stopped near an insignia of a lion crushing an elephant, studying it intently, oblivious to the babble around her. 

Peace is inside you, she'd said. 

'This symbol depicts the victory of Hinduism over Buddhism in this region,' one guide explained. Papa looked at him skeptically. 

'The thing about history is,' my father started, coming up to me. 'Who really knows?' 

I nodded. 'Especially religion, symbolism and the likes. We extrapolate their society,  ethics and beliefs from ours, and fill in the blank spaces accordingly. This could change the very essence of the original.' 

'What were they trying to tell us?' Papa mused aloud, walking off to some quieter gardens. I walked around the temple, chasing the remnants of the dying sun as it cast blue shadows in its wake. The stone was cool to the touch, and it had an aura of serenity.

As dusk welcomed night, the lamps came on, rendering the temple a mosaic of umber and incandescent yellow highlights. I went inside the sanctum, humming to myself, trying to find its resonant frequency.

I descended the steps on the other side, landing near one of the giant stone wheels. All noise seemed to fade away around it. I looked at the engravings. Time had weathered away most details, but the concepts were immortal. We just had to uncover them.

"I have gathered a pile of stones, 
 And am waiting for God to come..." 

Mama beckoned to me from the exit. Me and Papa followed. It was time for the highlight of the day.

Since the Sun Temple is the backdrop for the Music and Dance festival, the event was pretty close by. There was an amphitheater, almost full by the time we reached. A camera drone flew overhead, projecting its live feed on two giant screens flanking the arena.

The stage lights came alive, and the full glory of the show hit me. After the inauguration and introductions, the event kicked off with a troupe of Kathak dancers, depicting Vrindavan - specifically Krishna's relationship with each Gopi and how he teased them and played hard to get. The central feature was him disappearing altogether, to teach the Gopis a lesson for fighting over him.

'Has his fun and then never calls them back. You males.' Mama quipped playfully as she handed me a packet of groundnuts.

The music transitioned seamlessly with the moods of the depiction. There was a female singer, who was also playing the flute. She, the sitarist and the other singers harmonized in most places, and there was even a beatboxer, who had a jugalbandi portion with the tabla and pakhawaj.

'The male dancers are really graceful,' Mama said, appreciatively. 'Do you have any in Raag?'

I shook my head, and immediately received a kantaap from Papa, who was using my shoulder as support to record the performance.

After a climactic display of chakkars and relas, the dancers assembled one by one in a final formation; akin to a Rubix cube finally being completed. The music crescendoed and ended with a flash, timed perfectly with the lights; leaving silhouettes of the dancers emblazoned into the night - and my mind.

The next group was an Odissi ensemble from Bengaluru - amazingly synchronized, they made really good use of the stage space, making me wish we were sitting in the center. The Mangalacharan and the Aaravi Pallavi were the highlights.

Their unifying theme was dance itself - its history, evolution and modernization through the ages. The subtleties were lost on me, but I could relate to the differences in styles they were trying to portray. I wished I had an Odissi dancer with me.

The Pallavi picked up pace, and the dancers grew more energetic, while staying true to the inherent grace and fluidity of the art form - my favorite aspect of Odissi. I remembered the ending sequence from college - the final obeisance to the Guru, the Supreme Deity and the audience. I clapped along with the others, and didn't stop until the music had ended.

'Will we be able to catch the Gotipua performance tomorrow?' I asked Papa as the program wrapped up.

'Tomorrow we have a different itinerary. But you can catch this festival every year.'

We walked back under the dreamy LEDs, casting cerulean highlights on our faces, painting us like a flock of blue jays. I grinned from ear to ear as I climbed into the van. What a welcome to Odisha.

Picture credits: Wikipedia

Coracias benghalensis, the Indian roller or blue jay, is best known for the aerobatic displays of the male during the breeding season. They are very commonly seen perched along roadside trees and wires and in open grassland and scrub forest habitats. The largest populations of the species are within India.

The breast is brownish and not blue as in the European Roller. The crown and vent are blue. The primaries are deep purplish blue with a band of pale blue. The tail is sky blue with a terminal band of Prussian blue and the central feathers are dull green. The neck and throat are purplish lilac with white shaft streaks. The bare patch around the eye is ochre in colour. They have a long and compressed bill with a curved upper edge and a hooked tip. The bird bathes in open water by plunge-diving into it, a behaviour often interpreted as fishing. 

The Indian Roller is said to be sacred to Vishnu, and used to be caught and released during festivals such as Dussera or the last day of Durga Puja. A local Hindi name is neelkanth, meaning 'blue throat', a name associated with Shiva (who drank poison resulting in the blue throat). Adding its chopped feathers to grass and feeding them to cows was believed to increase their milk yield. It is the state bird of Odisha. 

"I have sung and danced to a poem,
 And am waiting for art to come..."

Chapter 7 - Black, Grey And Sapphire

We had our dinner in the same wooden cottage - a sumptuous meal of pulao, daal and dahi-baigon (brinjal with curd), topped off with buttermilk and roshogulla. Everyone ate silently, saturated by the palette of experiences in a single day. All the lights of Konark had winked out, save our restaurant, casting an eerie yellow amid the black landscape.

As we lumbered back to our van, the solitary light was gone too. We climbed into our minds and set off, back into the dreamscape.

The dark, sapphire blue washed over the inky trees and grey sand. I looked out as we passed through the barren stretch of road again. The beach was a different entity in the moonlit night; threatening with its infinite depths that could swallow you, yet soothing with its hymnal tide and ebb. 

My parents, Uncle and Aunty had fallen asleep, traces of moonlight illuminating their calm countenances. I glanced back out the window. The moon was full, and the waves were advancing onto the shore. The sand sculptures we'd seen were probably scattered dust in the water by now, returned to the heavens.

I flew along the shades of darkness, like a bird tinted with the hues of the night.

Nycticorax nycticorax, the black-crowned night heron stands still at the water's edge and waits to ambush prey, mainly at night or early morning. Notice the effective camouflage against its muddy habitat. 

They primarily eat small fish, crustaceans, frogs, aquatic insects, small mammals, and small birds. They are among the seven heron species observed to engage in bait fishing; luring or distracting fish by tossing buoyant objects into water within their striking range – a rare example of tool use among birds.

Giving in to the lullabies of Nidra, my eyes closed into the moon, and my last thought was, I'm here. 

"I have found my way back home,
 And am waiting for my heart to come..."

Photos, courtesy of Razi Abdi and Rupa Abdi.

Rupa Abdi's blog: https://travelnaama471249025.wordpress.com/
Anjana's Blog : https://anjlifeexperiences.wordpress.com

Vedant's YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_-wTP-OKAF6HskDOqSeREw
Vedant's Instagram Page: https://www.instagram.com/vedantsapra/