Title: Living with Birds: The Memoir of One of India’s Greatest Ornithologists
Author: Asad Rahmani
Publisher: Juggernaut
Pages: 350
Price: ₹599
From the quiet towns of northern India to the desolate stretches of the Thar Desert and the bustling cityscapes of Riyadh, Living with Birds is an evocative chronicle of Asad Rahmani’s lifelong devotion to birds, biodiversity, and the human stories that make science personal. This memoir is more than a retelling of fieldwork; it’s a celebration of curiosity, companionship, and conservation—woven together with humour, grace, and an unwavering passion for the natural world.
The book opens with Rahmani’s early years, painting a vivid picture of his upbringing, which was shaped by frequent relocations due to his father’s work as a judge. Places like Mussoorie and Saharanpur come alive in their telling, not just as geographical locations but as memory-laden landscapes teeming with flora, fauna, and formative experiences.
His childhood fascination with animals—ranging from dogs and parakeets to a mountain goat—offers a glimpse into the innate inquisitiveness that would later define his scientific pursuits.
One of the book’s most captivating early moments recounts Rahmani’s childhood observations of bird behaviour during a solar eclipse. This seemingly innocent act of curiosity would prove pivotal, ultimately landing him a job with the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS).
The seeds of his scientific temperament were thus sown early—through keen observation, deep reflection, and an uncanny ability to notice the overlooked.
Rahmani’s writing is marked by precision and deep scientific rigour. He uses binomial nomenclature for every species he mentions—plants and animals alike—demonstrating both expertise and reverence for biodiversity. But far from being a dry academic account, the narrative is suffused with warmth, humour, and a deep humanity.
His recollections of college days at Aligarh Muslim University (AMU), for instance, are as rich in nostalgia as they are in detail, transporting the reader to a bygone era of campus camaraderie and youthful rebellion.
The 1972 Wildlife Protection Act emerges as a major turning point in the narrative, marking Rahmani’s formal initiation into conservation work. His early writings, including concerns about pollution from refineries near the Taj Mahal, show how far-sighted and environmentally conscious he was, even in the nascent stages of his career.
Cinematic Glimpse
From there, the book delves into the various field assignments that defined his journey—beginning with Point Calimere, where locals affectionately dubbed him paravai arvalar (bird lover). However, perhaps one of the most poignant chapters centres on the 1980s bustard-hunting crisis in the Thar Desert.
Rahmani recounts his fieldwork with remarkable clarity and intensity, offering readers an almost cinematic glimpse into both the beauty and fragility of India’s ecological heritage.
The 1984 Florican project not only advances the story of scientific pursuit but also introduces one of the memoir’s most touching relationships—Rahmani’s bond with his assistant Ravi. Described with affection and vivid detail, Ravi’s presence lingers long after his tragic passing in 2009.
A deeply moving section recounts Rahmani’s return to the same field station years later, where every detail remained unchanged except for Ravi’s absence—an absence that renders the place hauntingly hollow.
International adventures also pepper the memoir, including his first trip abroad to Morocco and later to Riyadh. A recurring theme that emerges here is the stark contrast between the grandiosity of urban development and the neglect of wildlife institutions.
For instance, the shabby condition of the National Commission for Wildlife Conservation & Development building in Riyadh becomes a symbol of governmental apathy—an issue Rahmani revisits throughout the book.
Following internal upheavals at BNHS in the 1980s, Rahmani returned to AMU as a teacher. His pedagogical style, unconventional yet effective, reflected his own thirst for authentic knowledge. This passion led him back to BNHS in 1996, this time as its Director. Now at the helm of the very institution that had launched his career, Rahmani took on the challenges of leadership, fundraising, and navigating bureaucratic hurdles. His admiration for colleagues like B.G. Deshmukh underscores his deep appreciation for those who shared his vision.
One interesting anecdote involves his brief contemplation of renaming the BNHS to reflect a post-colonial India—replacing "Bombay" with "Bharat" while retaining the iconic acronym. Ironically, arcane laws prevented even this minor change, and Rahmani ultimately found comfort in the continuity of the name.
Vulture Crisis
Later chapters spotlight a host of colleagues, including the legendary bird ringer Ali Hussain. Yet the tone shifts when Rahmani recalls the dramatic vulture crisis of the late 1990s, a pivotal ecological catastrophe marked by the mysterious 90% decline in vulture populations.
What begins as a scientific whodunit—complete with wrong turns and dead ends—unfolds into a scathing critique of India’s institutional apathy. Despite early theories about a virus, it was eventually discovered that diclofenac, a common veterinary drug, was the primary culprit. Ironically, after years of bureaucratic stalling, the government moved swiftly once the evidence became incontrovertible, banning the drug with surprising urgency.
The final chapters take a more philosophical turn. Rahmani reflects on his students—only eleven in number, yet all still in touch. He laments the decline of intellectual curiosity in the digital age, comparing his own youth spent falling asleep with books to today’s students who fall asleep clutching smartphones. He is sharply critical of superficial learning habits and mourns the erosion of the kind of deep, interdisciplinary knowledge that once defined academia.
Despite these laments, the memoir closes on an inspiring note. Living with Birds is not just the story of a man, but a guidebook for how to live with purpose, humility, and passion. Rahmani’s enduring dedication to nature, his capacity for lasting friendships, and his steady moral compass offer valuable lessons for scientists, students, and ordinary readers alike.
Above all, the book is a timely reminder that conservation is not just about protecting birds or forests—it’s about protecting our humanity. With warmth, wit, and unwavering honesty, Asad Rahmani has gifted us a memoir as rich and rewarding as the natural world he has spent his life defending.
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