Chapter 3: Professor Ka Lab (The Professor's Lab)

The Neeta Travels bus deposited Tarun at Swargate at 11:14 AM — fourteen minutes late, the fourteen-minutes being the particular punctuality of Indian interstate buses: late enough to be noticed, not late enough to be complained about, the not-complained-about being the tolerance that Indian commuters had developed through decades of public transportation that operated on its own temporal logic.

Savitribai Phule Pune University's campus was twenty minutes by auto from Swargate — the auto's driver taking the route through JM Road that was scenic and longer but that the scenic-and-longer was the driver's preference because the preference generated a higher fare and the higher-fare being the auto driver's particular entrepreneurship.

The Botany Department was a three-storey building — the building being the particular architecture of Indian university departments: concrete, functional, the functional-architecture that prioritised laboratory space over aesthetic and that the prioritising was visible in the building's exterior: plain, weathered, the kind of building that students passed without noticing and that the not-noticing was the building's anonymity and the anonymity being the camouflage of serious work.

Room 320 was on the third floor. The third floor reached by stairs — the stairs being the only option because the lift had been "under repair" since, according to the handwritten sign taped to its doors, "March 2019," the March-2019 being six years ago and the six-years being the particular duration of Indian institutional maintenance: once broken, forever broken, the forever-broken being the condition that the stairs accommodated.

Bhushan Kulkarni's office was — the office was the ecology professor's particular habitat: books covering every horizontal surface, papers stacked in columns that defied gravity, a desktop computer whose monitor displayed a spreadsheet of what appeared to be species population data, and the smell — the smell of old paper and fresh tea, the combination that Indian academic offices produced as their signature scent.

The professor himself was: fifties, greying at the temples, the temple-greying being the particular pattern of Indian men who aged well because the ageing was gradual and the gradual was genetic. Wire-rimmed glasses. A cotton kurta — the off-white cotton that Pune professors wore in monsoon season because the cotton breathed and the breathing was necessary and the necessary was the climate's demand.

"Tarun Gokhale?" Bhushan extended his hand. The handshake being firm — the firm-handshake of a man who worked with soil samples and field equipment and whose working-with produced the grip that desk-workers did not have.

"Ji. Aapka article padha — Herald mein. Achha likha hai." Bhushan — the acknowledgment that was the professor's greeting: I read your work, the reading being the respect.

Yes. I read your article — in the Herald. Well written.

"Thank you, sir. Lekin mujhe lagta hai maine surface hi touch kiya hai. Aap batayein — kya ho raha hai actually?" But I think I've only touched the surface. Tell me — what's actually happening?

Bhushan gestured to a chair — the chair being a plastic visitor's chair that had seen better decades, the better-decades being the chair's particular history in the Indian university system where furniture outlived its intended lifespan by factors of three.

"Chai?" The offering that preceded serious conversation in Indian academic settings — the offering being the ritual, the ritual being: chai first, information second.

"Please."

Bhushan called out the door: "Raju bhai, do chai!" The calling that was the department's particular communication system: shout the order, the peon would hear, the chai would arrive. The system being analog, efficient, Indian.

While waiting for chai, Bhushan turned his monitor toward Tarun. The monitor showing: a map. The map of the Western Ghats — the mountain range that ran 1,600 kilometres along India's west coast, the running being the geographic spine that supported one of the world's eight "hottest" biodiversity hotspots.

On the map: dots. Red dots marking locations of reported wildlife disappearances. The dots concentrated in Maharashtra's section of the Western Ghats — Pune district, Satara, Kolhapur, Ratnagiri, Sindhudurg.

"Yeh dekho," Bhushan said. "Teen din pehle — July 14 — fireflies stopped in Mulshi. Maine khud dekha. Mere ghar ke garden mein. Ek hazaar se zyada jugnu — sab ek saath band. Simultaneously."

Look at this. Three days ago — July 14 — fireflies stopped in Mulshi. I saw it myself. In my garden. More than a thousand fireflies — all stopped at once. Simultaneously.

"July 15 — frogs. Kolhapur aur Satara ke wetlands mein — amphibian activity zero. Mating calls band. Movement band. Reports from local farmers — 'mehndak gayab ho gaye.'"

July 15 — frogs. In Kolhapur and Satara wetlands — amphibian activity zero. Mating calls stopped. Movement stopped. Reports from local farmers — 'the frogs have disappeared.'

"July 16 — birds. Western Ghats ki resident species — Malabar Grey Hornbill, Indian Pitta, Nilgiri Flycatcher — sab absent from usual habitats. BNHS field observers ne confirm kiya — unprecedented absence."

"July 17 — marine mammals. Dolphins — Ratnagiri ke fishermen ne report kiya. Humpback dolphins jo har season dikhte hain — gone. Fishing boats report zero sightings."

Tarun wrote. The writing being: notes, rapid notes, the rapid-note-taking that was the reporter's muscle memory — hand moving across the notebook while eyes stayed on the source, the split-attention being the skill.

"Pattern?" Tarun asked. The one-word question that was the reporter's efficient inquiry.

"Taxonomic. Insects first. Then amphibians. Then birds. Then mammals. Yeh sequence coincidence nahi hai. Yeh sequence biological hierarchy follow kar raha hai — simpler organisms se complex organisms tak."

Taxonomic. Insects first. Then amphibians. Then birds. Then mammals. This sequence is not a coincidence. It follows biological hierarchy — from simpler organisms to more complex.

Chai arrived. Raju bhai — a thin man in a faded blue shirt, the faded-blue being the peon's uniform that was not a uniform but that had become one through repetition — placed two glasses on Bhushan's desk. The glasses being cutting chai glasses — the small, thick-walled glasses that Pune's tea stalls used and that the university's canteen had adopted and that the adoption being the institutional acknowledgment that cutting chai was the correct serving size for working conversations.

Tarun sipped. The chai being: strong, ginger-heavy, the ginger-heavy being Pune's particular chai signature — heavier on ginger than Mumbai's chai, the heavy-ginger producing the warmth that the monsoon-damp air required.

"Sir, aap ek ecologist ho. Aapka hypothesis kya hai?" You're an ecologist. What's your hypothesis?

Bhushan removed his glasses. The removing being the gesture that professors made when they transitioned from data-presentation to speculation — the speculation requiring the glasses off because the glasses-off was the signal for "I am now speaking personally, not professionally."

"Hypothesis nahi hai. Observation hai. Aur observation yeh hai: kuch ho raha hai Western Ghats ki ecosystem mein jo unprecedented hai. Unprecedented matlab — mere 30 saal ke career mein, meri field ki literature mein, documented history mein — yeh pehle nahi hua. Species simultaneously disappear nahi hoti. Ek species disappear hoti hai — habitat loss, pollution, disease. Lekin multiple species, simultaneously, in taxonomic order? Yeh — yeh naya hai."

I don't have a hypothesis. I have an observation. And the observation is: something unprecedented is happening in the Western Ghats ecosystem. Unprecedented meaning — in my 30-year career, in my field's literature, in documented history — this hasn't happened before. Species don't simultaneously disappear. One species disappears — habitat loss, pollution, disease. But multiple species, simultaneously, in taxonomic order? This — this is new.

"Climate change?" Tarun offered. The offering being the obvious question — the obvious that needed to be asked and eliminated.

"Climate change gradual hota hai. Yeh simultaneous hai. Climate change ek region ko affect karta hai differently — some species adapt, some don't. Yeh sab species ko equally affect kar raha hai. Climate change taxonomic order follow nahi karta. Yeh karta hai."

Climate change is gradual. This is simultaneous. Climate change affects a region differently — some species adapt, some don't. This affects all species equally. Climate change doesn't follow taxonomic order. This does.

"Pollution? Industrial contamination?"

"Same argument. Pollution specific hota hai — air pollution, water pollution, soil contamination. Har pollution type specific species ko affect karta hai. Yeh generic hai. Yeh sab ko affect kar raha hai."

"Disease? Some kind of pathogen?"

"Pathogen species-specific hota hai. One pathogen — one species. Rarely cross-species. And never in taxonomic order. A pathogen that kills insects first, then amphibians, then birds, then mammals in sequence? That pathogen doesn't exist."

The elimination being: the scientific method's particular rigour — eliminate the known before proposing the unknown, the eliminating being the process that Bhushan had performed over three days and that the three-days had produced: nothing known explained what was happening.

"Toh kya hai?" Tarun asked. The question that was the reporter's bottom line — the bottom line that every source interview reached: what is the answer?

Then what is it?

"Mujhe nahi pata." Bhushan — the three words that an ecology professor said when the ecology professor's thirty years of knowledge could not answer. "But mujhe pata hai ki yeh investigate karna padega. Properly. Fieldwork. Data collection. Multiple sites. Long-term monitoring."

I don't know. But I know this needs investigation. Properly. Fieldwork. Data collection. Multiple sites. Long-term monitoring.

"Aap kar rahe ho?" Are you doing it?

"Main ek professor hoon. Mera budget limited hai. Meri team mein do PhD students hain. Main karna chahta hoon — lekin resources nahi hain."

I'm a professor. My budget is limited. I have two PhD students on my team. I want to — but the resources aren't there.

"Main help kar sakta hoon," Tarun said. The offering being — the reporter's particular offer: I cannot fund your research, but I can make people pay attention, the paying-attention being the currency that journalism provided and that the currency could unlock resources.

I can help.

"Kaise?" How?

"Main yeh story likhta rahunga. Har development. Har finding. Front page. Agar public attention aayegi, toh government funding aayegi. Agar government funding aayegi, toh research hogi."

I keep writing this story. Every development. Every finding. Front page. If public attention comes, government funding comes. If government funding comes, research happens.

The bargain being: the journalist writes, the professor provides information, the information becomes stories, the stories produce attention, the attention produces funding, the funding enables research. The cycle that Indian science often required — the cycle that connected academic knowledge to public attention through the media's particular amplification.

Bhushan considered. The considering being: the professor's evaluation of the journalist — the evaluation based on the chai-conversation, the questions asked, the notes taken, the particular quality of the listening. The listening-quality being: high. Tarun had listened well.

"Theek hai," Bhushan said. The two words that were the agreement — the agreement that formed the partnership, the partnership between the ecologist and the journalist that would investigate the anomalies.

They shook hands. The handshake being the second handshake — the first had been greeting, this one was commitment.

Tarun left the campus at 1:30 PM. The leaving being: the bus back to Mumbai, the bus that would carry him through the Ghats and that the Ghats would be visible through the window and that the visible-Ghats would be the subject of his investigation: the mountains where something unprecedented was happening.

He looked out the bus window. The Sahyadris — green, monsoon-draped, the mountains that had been green for millions of years and that the millions-of-years were the permanence that the anomalies were challenging.

Somewhere in those mountains, fireflies had gone dark. Frogs had gone silent. Birds had vanished. Dolphins had disappeared.

And the sequence was descending. Insects → amphibians → birds → mammals.

After mammals: what?

The question that Tarun carried from Pune to Mumbai. The question that would not let him sleep.

After mammals: what?