How an ancient Kerala forest is on the verge of drowning

It was the day that the monsoon hit India.

That day, over 25 days ago, with the rain furrowing into veins under the leaves, I decided to visit Kerala's rainforests.

Frogs argued from pools. With mist hanging in the rain, little toadstools had erupted on dripping pieces of wood. Butterflies with drops of water heavy on their wings, hung like jewels from branches.

From the outside, the forest looked like every romanticised notion of how a forest should be. Layers of leaves, with canopy-levels typical of rainforests looked like allure dressed in green, revealing some, hiding some. With trees taller than three-storeys, this could be the Amazonian forest of your LCD TV screen. And with paths disappearing into rushing, cobble-stoned frothy streams, this could be the setting for a love story. It looks like a wonderland.

Get closer, and you know that while the forest is stunningly beautiful, it has a mind of its own. When I walked the forest trail, leeches lurked in the undergrowth, their ravenous heads darting hungrily, latching on to any part of me they could find: between my toes, under the soles of my feet, between the nook of my sandals and my skin. The grass undergrowth grew thick and tough, impenetrable and unquenchable in many places. Forest trails disappeared into nothing.

The rain itself was everywhere, an entity dressed in difficulties. The waterfalls in the area were swollen to impressive size, turning from gentle wispy poetry to torrents so fast they looked like dissipating smoke.

The rain came down on luscious forest fruit, and on fleshy radiant flowers, threatening to unravel petals, tear open the forest floor and bring the sky down upon the earth. But it was all rain mostly seeping into the earth, and the old forest opened her mouth to gulp and swallow.

A day later, I learnt that the forests of Athirapally are to be submerged.

A dam on the river Chalakudy, which already has many dams, is proposed at Athirapally. Athirapally is a deafening waterfall, surrounded by deep, alluring forest. This proposed dam has had a tortuous relationship with those who want the waterfalls and river to keep its magnificence: two environmental impact assessments (EIAs) have been prepared for this project, environment clearance has been granted thrice, and twice the courts have intervened to suspend clearances.

Many argue that the Chalakudy river can't take more dams. And in the season where, as always, parts of India are flooded and other parts waiting for rain, it is important to reflect on what we are doing to flood sinks.

If Athirapally is submerged by a dam, that will skew forever the hydro-dynamics of a forest that each year replenishes the water table of Kerala. While dams in itself are not bad, they are usually bad news when made on rivers which have already been dammed (Chalakudy has six dams already). When the monsoon is gone, dammed rivers perish.

There is no agreement on what climate change is doing to monsoons in India, and the only agreement is that the variability of the rainfall regime will increase. This will mean new areas will get flooded, and rain-rich areas may get sparse rainfall. At the moment, consider this: mighty lions are unable to escape from floods in Gujarat, in areas that don't usually get flooded. Nine lions, and 500 Nilgais, have drowned in the floods. Like each year, the monsoon springs surprises. Kashmir wonders if it will flood again, Delhi waits for rain. Farmers wait for the right time for rain. Kaziranga wonders when poachers will strike under the cover of rain. There is no escaping floods when they do come, but forests and wetlands provide plasticity, and buffers. And nothing but forests can take water deep into the soil. They do this through the year, even when rain is not torrential or magnificently blinding. They do this when the monsoon comes with just a thunderclap.

For the ancient forests of Athirapally, monsoon or no monsoon, flood or drought, time should go on. Hopefully monsoon 2015 will not be the forest's last monsoon.