Features
Clara Heath meets Kewal Motwani in Kentucky
Excerpted from Goolbai Gunasekera’s Chosen Ground first published in 2006
(Continued from last week)
In Louisville, Kentucky, my mother, Clara Heath, was growing up meanwhile in what might be considered an unusually protected atmosphere for the average American child of her time. Her ambitious Southern reared mother was a kind of early 20th century Steel Magnolia, and intended that her daughters should have the finest education obtainable in the State of Kentucky.
Catholic schools in Louisville were believed to provide a better-than current education for girls, and though my poor grandfather was strongly against sending his two girls away (for one thing the family was not of the Catholic faith, and for another, he would miss them) what my grandmother said went!
Accordingly the two girls (eleven months apart, and treated virtually as twins) went to Presentation Academy in Louisville as boarders in a nun-run Catholic school.I wear Mother’s class ring to this very day. Boarding schools are not as common in the USA as they are in Britain and my grandmother’s decision to board her two daughters was unusual. Going to an American boarding school was the best thing that could have happened to Clara: without intending any such thing, my grandmother, Eva, was preparing her for a life in a more laid back country.
Mother loved the calm, unhurried life of the Convent, where her curricula included Latin, French and a smattering of Spanish. The gentle nuns were very much to her liking. Known only to God and the Fates, Mother was being well trained for her eventual career as Principal of a conservative Buddhist school in Ceylon. From the nuns at Presentation, Mother acquired a genuine love of study, a stern moral code, a strict sense of discipline and a lifelong abhorrence of a lady ever showing her knees.
When she became Principal of Visakha Vidyalaya in Colombo, one of the first things on her agenda was to make sure that hemlines were worn half way down the calf. Visakhians learnt, to their surprise, that no lady ever crossed her legs except at the ankle. Since the Queen of England was doing likewise on every Pathe Newsreel, they assumed that Mother knew what she was talking about.
Shortly after taking over the Principalship of Visakha, Mother was electrified by the newspaper picture of a girl from Bishop’s College (the secondary school to which I eventually went myself) taking a running jump over a high pole. Mother had a spasm at this ‘unladylike’ photograph which was, according to less biased accounts, an extremely modest one.
Nonetheless, Mother’s convent training had her banning athletics at Visakha and it was only after she left the school that Visakhians began winning honours in this line. Tennis, netball and table tennis were games that were acceptable to her Victorian code. Needless to say, while the girls of the fashionable missionary Schools wore `divided skirts’, Mother’s little Visakhians donned Greek robes and did Eurhythmics.
They were also encouraged to study Home Science — a subject introduced for the very first time into the curriculum of Ceylon’s schools. All this gave Visakhians a certain cachet. At last Buddhist girls’ education under Mother, and other school principals who had been trained in the West (such as Mrs. Hilda Kularatne in Panadura and Mrs. Doreen Wickremasinghe in Matara), began to give the older missionary schools a run for their money. Conservative Buddhist parents were well pleased with their young Principal from America — so highly qualified, so eminently tradition-minded, so totally sympathetic to the national aspirations of the Buddhist majority.
But more about Visakha later. As a schoolgirl herself, Mother’s life was delightfully serene and quite uneventful. She was a fine musician and took a Degree in music as well as Languages and Education. Her sister, my aunt Arline, was far more feisty, practical and pushy than the dreamy Clara. This polarization of personalities meant they got on very well together, although it also meant that Arline did all the housework while Mother drifted off to practise the piano for two to three hours every evening.
“Really,” Arline would explode, “Clara does NOTHING around the house, does she!”
Grandma Eva did not believe in household democracy. Each daughter did whatever she was good at doing, and Arline was a superlative cook and housekeeper. So gentle, so very appreciative was Clara each morning when she was handed perfectly laundered stockings and immaculately ironed clothes that Arline had so efficiently organized for her, that any words of protest from her sister died still-born.
Apparently Mother would get up feeling bright and perky, having completed all her homework the previous evening, to say nothing of those three hours of piano practice and say to her sister,
“Are my stockings on the bed or in my drawer, Arline?”
With a resigned air Arline would produce them neatly folded and ready to wear.
“My dear,” Auntie Arline said to me on one of my trips to the USA to see my American grandparents, “there are two kinds of people in the world. There are those for whom someone is ALWAYS on hand to smooth things out, and there are those like you and me who have to do the humdrum work themselves. I leave you to work out to which group your dear Mother belongs.”
“Didn’t you ever have an American boyfriend at any time?” we would ask Mother in Auntie Arline’s presence. Mother would look vague and Arline would snort:
“Of course she had lots of admirers, but your Mother simply never got the message.”
Apparently one smitten young man would drop by ostensibly to practice the violin while Mother played the piano accompaniment. Grandma would have milk and cookies ready for the couple to enjoy
at the end of their labours. Mother gave the poor young swain no chance. The minute the last note had been played she shut the piano, shook hands with her fellow musician in the accepted convent-taught manner and said ‘Goodnight!’
“And another romance,” Auntie would continue, while Mother looked apprehensive, “was that young Professor who kept offering her a lift home from University. Your mother – ” and Auntie accented the word – “took many a detour so that their paths did not cross.”
The Motwanis in Bandarawela
My sister and I screamed.
“I do wish you wouldn’t repeat these highly exaggerated tales, Arline,” Mother would tell Arline in exasperation.
“Well, what happened when the dear Professor phoned, please tell?”
“I really can’t remember,” said Mother.
But of course, Mother remembered very well her first meeting with her future husband … and their eventual marriage illustrates that truth can often be more romantic than fiction. The tale as told by Mother was factual and lacked Father’s teasing sidelines.Sir Jamshed Mehra had met my American grandmother at a Theosophical conference in the USA. Learning that Mrs Heath had two teenage daughters at home, he suggested that one of them might like to write to his young ward who was just finishing his B.A and was probably going on to England for postgraduate study.
My Aunt Arline was not in the slightest bit interested in Theosophy, so the task of writing to a young Indian ten years her senior fell to Mother. The correspondence flourished although, given Mother’s convent training, those letters must have been models of decorous writing. Su and I have never been given so much as a glance at them, although Father kept them stored away in the go-downs he owned in Karachi. Until the Partition of India, those go-downs gave Father a comfortable income situated, as they were, near the docks.
When Father decided to register at Yale (having hated Oxford) the correspondence speeded up and my grandmother realized that this lonely young Indian, so far from home, would be spending a summer vacation all on his own. Returning to India was out of the question since those were not days of convenient air travel. Accordingly, she invited him to spend the summer in their home. She probably regretted doing so for Father fell instantly in love with the 17-year-old girl to whom he had been writing.
Their romance was complicated by the fact that Mother lived in Kentucky and an Asian, however fair his skin might be, was practically a Black to her relatives who lived south of the Mason-Dixon line. To say that her aunts, uncles and cousins were unhappy would be an understatement. They were aghast.
This unlikely union, strangely enough, did not encounter opposition from my grandparents. They had met many Indians and did not share in the feelings of horror that so many of their friends experienced when they were told that Clara was marrying a non-Caucasian and one from a barbaric Asian nation at that.
My grandmother spent many irate hours explaining to her near and dear that the culture and civilization of India was superior by far to any in the West. When Father heard the family views he laughed as he usually did whenever he encountered ignorance of the East.
When Mother went to say goodbye to the nuns of her old school she took Father with her. They were quite charmed by him but Reverend Mother’s last words to Clara were a heartfelt: “I shall pray for you my dear.”
When Mother was packing to leave her home in Kentucky for India she stood helplessly by while Father sorted out the clothes she would need for the tropics, ruthlessly discarding winter apparel. Mother looked expectantly at her sister, who resignedly set about packing what she hoped would be the last bag she ever packed for Clara. In point of fact, she was to do it whenever Mother visited the USA on later occasions.
“I can’t think WHAT you are going to do aboard that ship,” Arline told Mother worriedly.
Mother’s response was predictable. “Oh, I’ll get the steward or someone to help,” she said vaguely.
Arline tch tched, and continued worrying. But she stopped this useless exercise after Mother’s happy letters home told her that Father was a whiz at getting a mountain of clothes into a tiny, tiny space. Later on two Sinhalese maids, Nimal and Cathleen, swam into Mother’s life. They took full charge of all household affairs — even to eventually regulating the day-to-day problem of looking after the physical needs of Clara’s two daughters. Cathleen remained with us all her life to become, not a maid but a friend.
She worked with us for 62 years — 30 of them in the USA, where (after bringing us up) she went to look after our Grandmother Eva. Auntie Arline was in the American Foreign Service. She never married, and so when Grandmother died Cathleen simply stayed on with Auntie Arline as a highly efficient maid. Cathleen also got to globe-trot with my aunt who was an inveterate travel bug. Whenever Auntie got a posting abroad Cathleen kept house for her in exotic places like Amman, Jaipur and South America.
Auntie Arline died in 2004, just after Khulsum (my daughter) and I had visited her in Arizona where she had retired. Cathleen died a few months later, following her return to Sri Lanka.
(To be continued)
In one of India’s coldest and most remote regions, a group of women have taken on an unlikely role: protecting one of Asia’s most elusive predators, the snow leopard.
Snow leopards are found in just 12 countries across Central and South Asia. India is home to one of the world’s largest populations, with a nationwide survey in 2023 – the first comprehensive count ever carried out in the country – estimating more than 700 animals, .
One of the places they roam is around Kibber village in Himachal Pradesh state’s Spiti Valley, a stark, high-altitude cold desert along the Himalayan belt. Here, snow leopards are often called the “ghosts of the mountains”, slipping silently across rocky slopes and rarely revealing themselves.
For generations, the animals were seen largely as a threat, for attacking livestock. But attitudes in Kibber and neighbouring villages are beginning to shift, as people increasingly recognise the snow leopard’s role as a top predator in the food chain and its importance in maintaining the region’s fragile mountain ecosystem.
Nearly a dozen local women are now working alongside the Himachal Pradesh forest department and conservationists to track and protect the species, playing a growing role in conservation efforts.
Locally, the snow leopard is known as Shen and the women call their group “Shenmo”. Trained to install and monitor camera traps, they handle devices fitted with unique IDs and memory cards that automatically photograph snow leopards as they pass.
“Earlier, men used to go and install the cameras and we kept wondering why couldn’t we do it too,” says Lobzang Yangchen, a local coordinator working with a small group supported by the non-profit Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF) in collaboration with the forest department.
Yangchen was among the women who helped collect data for Himachal Pradesh’s snow leopard survey in 2024, which found that the state was home to 83 snow leopards – up from 51 in 2021.
The survey documented snow leopards and 43 other species using camera traps spread across an area of nearly 26,000sq km (10,000sq miles). Individual leopards were identified by the unique rosette patterns on their fur, a standard technique used for spotted big cats. The findings are now feeding into wider conservation and habitat-management plans.
“Their contribution was critical to identifying individual animals,” says Goldy Chhabra, deputy conservator of forests with the Spiti Wildlife Division.
Collecting the data is demanding work. Most of it takes place in winter, when heavy snowfall pushes snow leopards and their prey to lower altitudes, making their routes easier to track.
On survey days, the women wake up early, finish household chores and gather at a base camp before travelling by vehicle as far as the terrain allows. From there, they trek several kilometres to reach camera sites, often at altitudes above 14,000ft (4,300m), where the thin air makes even simple movement exhausting.
The BBC accompanied the group on one such trek in December. After hours of walking in biting cold, the women suddenly stopped on a narrow trail.
Yangchen points to pugmarks in the dust: “This shows the snow leopard has been here recently. These pugmarks are fresh.”
Along with pugmarks, the team looks for other signs, including scrapes and scent‑marking spots, before carefully fixing a camera to a rock along the trail.
One woman then carries out a “walk test”, crawling along the path to check whether the camera’s height and angle will capture a clear image.
The group then moves on to older sites, retrieving memory cards and replacing batteries installed weeks earlier.
By mid-afternoon, they return to camp to log and analyse the images using specialised software – tools many had never encountered before.
“I studied only until grade five,” says Chhering Lanzom. “At first, I was scared to use the computer. But slowly, we learned how to use the keyboard and mouse.”
The women joined the camera-trapping programme in 2023. Initially, conservation was not their motivation. But winters in the Spiti Valley are long and quiet, with little agricultural work to fall back on.
“At first, this work on snow leopards didn’t interest us,” Lobzang says. “We joined because we were curious and we could earn a small income.”
The women earn between 500 ($5.46; £4) and 700 rupees a day.
But beyond the money, the work has helped transform how the community views the animal.
“Earlier, we thought the snow leopard was our enemy,” says Dolma Zangmo, a local resident. “Now we think their conservation is important.”
Alongside survey work, the women help villagers access government insurance schemes for their livestock and promote the use of predator‑proof corrals – stone or mesh enclosures that protect animals at night.
Their efforts come at a time of growing recognition for the region. Spiti Valley has recently been included in the Cold Desert Biosphere Reserve, a Unesco-recognised network aimed at conserving fragile ecosystems while supporting local livelihoods.
As climate change reshapes the fragile trans-Himalayan landscape, conservationists say such community participation will be crucial to safeguarding species like the snow leopard.
“Once communities are involved, conservation becomes more sustainable,” says Deepshikha Sharma, programme manager with NCF’s High Altitudes initiative.
“These women are not just assisting, they are becoming practitioners of wildlife conservation and monitoring,” she adds.
As for the women, their work makes them feel closer to their home, the village and the mountains that raised them, they say.
“We were born here, this is all we know,” Lobzang says. “Sometimes we feel afraid because these snow leopards are after all predatory animals, but this is where we belong.”
[BBC]
If elephants are truly to be given “freedom” in Udawalawe, the solution is not simply to open gates or redraw park boundaries. The map itself tells the real story — a story of shrinking habitats, broken corridors, and more than a decade of silent but relentless ecological destruction.
“Look at Udawalawe today and compare it with satellite maps from ten years ago,” says Sameera Weerathunga, one of Sri Lanka’s most consistent and vocal elephant conservation activists. “You don’t need complicated science. You can literally see what we have done to them.”
What we commonly describe as the human–elephant conflict (HEC) is, in reality, a land-use conflict driven by development policies that ignore ecological realities. Elephants are not invading villages; villages, farms, highways and megaprojects have steadily invaded elephant landscapes.
Udawalawe: From Landscape to Island
Udawalawe National Park was once part of a vast ecological network connecting the southern dry zone to the central highlands and eastern forests. Elephants moved freely between Udawalawe, Lunugamvehera, Bundala, Gal Oya and even parts of the Walawe river basin, following seasonal water and food availability.
Today, Udawalawe appears on the map as a shrinking green island surrounded by human settlements, monoculture plantations, reservoirs, electric fences and asphalt.
“For elephants, Udawalawe is like a prison surrounded by invisible walls,” Sameera explains. “We expect animals that evolved to roam hundreds of square nationakilometres to survive inside a box created by humans.”
Elephants are ecosystem engineers. They shape forests by dispersing seeds, opening pathways, and regulating vegetation. Their survival depends on movement — not containment. But in Udawalawa, movement is precisely what has been taken away.
Over the past decade, ancient elephant corridors have been blocked or erased by:
Irrigation and agricultural expansion
Tourism resorts and safari infrastructure
New roads, highways and power lines
Human settlements inside former forest reserves
Sameera
“The destruction didn’t happen overnight,” Sameera says. “It happened project by project, fence by fence, without anyone looking at the cumulative impact.”
The Illusion of Protection
Sri Lanka prides itself on its protected area network. Yet most national parks function as ecological islands rather than connected systems.
“We think declaring land as a ‘national park’ is enough,” Sameera argues. “But protection without connectivity is just slow extinction.”
Udawalawe currently holds far more elephants than it can sustainably support. The result is habitat degradation inside the park, increased competition for resources, and escalating conflict along the boundaries.
“When elephants cannot move naturally, they turn to crops, tanks and villages,” Sameera says. “And then we blame the elephant for being a problem.”
The Other Side of the Map: Wanni and Hambantota
Sameera often points to the irony visible on the very same map. While elephants are squeezed into overcrowded parks in the south, large landscapes remain in the Wanni, parts of Hambantota and the eastern dry zone where elephant density is naturally lower and ecological space still exists.
“We keep talking about Udawalawe as if it’s the only place elephants exist,” he says. “But the real question is why we are not restoring and reconnecting landscapes elsewhere.”
The Hambantota MER (Managed Elephant Reserve), for instance, was originally designed as a landscape-level solution. The idea was not to trap elephants inside fences, but to manage land use so that people and elephants could coexist through zoning, seasonal access, and corridor protection.
“But what happened?” Sameera asks. “Instead of managing land, we managed elephants. We translocated them, fenced them, chased them, tranquilised them. And the conflict only got worse.”
The Failure of Translocation
For decades, Sri Lanka relied heavily on elephant translocation as a conflict management tool. Hundreds of elephants were captured from conflict zones and released into national parks like Udawalawa, Yala and Wilpattu.
Elephant deaths
The logic was simple: remove the elephant, remove the problem.
The reality was tragic.
“Most translocated elephants try to return home,” Sameera explains. “They walk hundreds of kilometres, crossing highways, railway lines and villages. Many die from exhaustion, accidents or gunshots. Others become even more aggressive.”
Scientific studies now confirm what conservationists warned from the beginning: translocation increases stress, mortality, and conflict. Displaced elephants often lose social structures, familiar landscapes, and access to traditional water sources.
“You cannot solve a spatial problem with a transport solution,” Sameera says bluntly.
In many cases, the same elephant is captured and moved multiple times — a process that only deepens trauma and behavioural change.
Freedom Is Not About Removing Fences
The popular slogan “give elephants freedom” has become emotionally powerful but scientifically misleading. Elephants do not need symbolic freedom; they need functional landscapes.
Real solutions lie in:
Restoring elephant corridors
Preventing development in key migratory routes
Creating buffer zones with elephant-friendly crops
Community-based land-use planning
Landscape-level conservation instead of park-based thinking
“We must stop treating national parks like wildlife prisons and villages like war zones,” Sameera insists. “The real battlefield is land policy.”
Electric fences, for instance, are often promoted as a solution. But fences merely shift conflict from one village to another.
“A fence does not create peace,” Sameera says. “It just moves the problem down the line.”
A Crisis Created by Humans
Sri Lanka loses more than 400 elephants and nearly 100 humans every year due to HEC — one of the highest rates globally.
Yet Sameera refuses to call it a wildlife problem.
“This is a human-created crisis,” he says. “Elephants are only responding to what we’ve done to their world.”
From expressways cutting through forests to solar farms replacing scrublands, development continues without ecological memory or long-term planning.
“We plan five-year political cycles,” Sameera notes. “Elephants plan in centuries.”
The tragedy is not just ecological. It is moral.
“We are destroying a species that is central to our culture, religion, tourism and identity,” Sameera says. “And then we act surprised when they fight back.”
The Question We Avoid Asking
If Udawalawe is overcrowded, if Yala is saturated, if Wilpattu is bursting — then the real question is not where to put elephants.
The real question is: Where have we left space for wildness in Sri Lanka?
Sameera believes the future lies not in more fences or more parks, but in reimagining land itself.
“Conservation cannot survive as an island inside a development ocean,” he says. “Either we redesign Sri Lanka to include elephants, or one day we’ll only see them in logos, statues and children’s books.”
And the map will show nothing but empty green patches — places where giants once walked, and humans chose. roads instead.
By Ifham Nizam
SAARC or the South Asian Association for Regional Cooperation has been declared ‘dead’ by some sections in South Asia and the idea seems to be catching on. Over the years the evidence seems to have been building that this is so, but a matter that requires thorough probing is whether the media in South Asia, given the vital part it could play in fostering regional amity, has had a role too in bringing about SAARC’s apparent demise.
That South Asian governments have had a hand in the ‘SAARC debacle’ is plain to see. For example, it is beyond doubt that the India-Pakistan rivalry has invariably got in the way, particularly over the past 15 years or thereabouts, of the Indian and Pakistani governments sitting at the negotiating table and in a spirit of reconciliation resolving the vexatious issues growing out of the SAARC exercise. The inaction had a paralyzing effect on the organization.
Unfortunately the rest of South Asian governments too have not seen it to be in the collective interest of the region to explore ways of jump-starting the SAARC process and sustaining it. That is, a lack of statesmanship on the part of the SAARC Eight is clearly in evidence. Narrow national interests have been allowed to hijack and derail the cooperative process that ought to be at the heart of the SAARC initiative.
However, a dimension that has hitherto gone comparatively unaddressed is the largely negative role sections of the media in the SAARC region could play in debilitating regional cooperation and amity. We had some thought-provoking ‘takes’ on this question recently from Roman Gautam, the editor of ‘Himal Southasian’.
Gautam was delivering the third of talks on February 2nd in the RCSS Strategic Dialogue Series under the aegis of the Regional Centre for Strategic Studies, Colombo, at the latter’s conference hall. The forum was ably presided over by RCSS Executive Director and Ambassador (Retd.) Ravinatha Aryasinha who, among other things, ensured lively participation on the part of the attendees at the Q&A which followed the main presentation. The talk was titled, ‘Where does the media stand in connecting (or dividing) Southasia?’.
Gautam singled out those sections of the Indian media that are tamely subservient to Indian governments, including those that are professedly independent, for the glaring lack of, among other things, regionalism or collective amity within South Asia. These sections of the media, it was pointed out, pander easily to the narratives framed by the Indian centre on developments in the region and fall easy prey, as it were, to the nationalist forces that are supportive of the latter. Consequently, divisive forces within the region receive a boost which is hugely detrimental to regional cooperation.
Two cases in point, Gautam pointed out, were the recent political upheavals in Nepal and Bangladesh. In each of these cases stray opinions favorable to India voiced by a few participants in the relevant protests were clung on to by sections of the Indian media covering these trouble spots. In the case of Nepal, to consider one example, a young protester’s single comment to the effect that Nepal too needed a firm leader like Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi was seized upon by the Indian media and fed to audiences at home in a sensational, exaggerated fashion. No effort was made by the Indian media to canvass more opinions on this matter or to extensively research the issue.
In the case of Bangladesh, widely held rumours that the Hindus in the country were being hunted and killed, pogrom fashion, and that the crisis was all about this was propagated by the relevant sections of the Indian media. This was a clear pandering to religious extremist sentiment in India. Once again, essentially hearsay stories were given prominence with hardly any effort at understanding what the crisis was really all about. There is no doubt that anti-Muslim sentiment in India would have been further fueled.
Gautam was of the view that, in the main, it is fear of victimization of the relevant sections of the media by the Indian centre and anxiety over financial reprisals and like punitive measures by the latter that prompted the media to frame their narratives in these terms. It is important to keep in mind these ‘structures’ within which the Indian media works, we were told. The issue in other words, is a question of the media completely subjugating themselves to the ruling powers.
Basically, the need for financial survival on the part of the Indian media, it was pointed out, prompted it to subscribe to the prejudices and partialities of the Indian centre. A failure to abide by the official line could spell financial ruin for the media.
A principal question that occurred to this columnist was whether the ‘Indian media’ referred to by Gautam referred to the totality of the Indian media or whether he had in mind some divisive, chauvinistic and narrow-based elements within it. If the latter is the case it would not be fair to generalize one’s comments to cover the entirety of the Indian media. Nevertheless, it is a matter for further research.
However, an overall point made by the speaker that as a result of the above referred to negative media practices South Asian regionalism has suffered badly needs to be taken. Certainly, as matters stand currently, there is a very real information gap about South Asian realities among South Asian publics and harmful media practices account considerably for such ignorance which gets in the way of South Asian cooperation and amity.
Moreover, divisive, chauvinistic media are widespread and active in South Asia. Sri Lanka has a fair share of this species of media and the latter are not doing the country any good, leave alone the region. All in all, the democratic spirit has gone well into decline all over the region.
The above is a huge problem that needs to be managed reflectively by democratic rulers and their allied publics in South Asia and the region’s more enlightened media could play a constructive role in taking up this challenge. The latter need to take the initiative to come together and deliberate on the questions at hand. To succeed in such efforts they do not need the backing of governments. What is of paramount importance is the vision and grit to go the extra mile.
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