The Tree of the Lion Tailed Macaque (Cullenia exarillata), endemic to the Western Ghats. | Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons

T.R. Shankar Raman is back to doing what he does best: chronicling the natural world with his incredible scientific knowledge, tempered by humility and awe. In his recently published book, The Trees of My Country: A Natural History of India in 50 Trees,Raman starts with this simple premise: “Trees are great storytellers and living historians of place. By paying attention to trees, you can begin to hear the stories they tell, the histories they document, and the places they describe.”

It is this quest that drives this book, one story, one geography, one tree at a time. Raman takes readers on an expansive journey documenting India’s rich diversity of tree species, spanning varied landscapes and lives across the subcontinent. The Trees of My Country offers an immersive, multi-sensory experience. Thanks to the skills of a botanical illustrator, the reader gains a more visceral sense of the tree and the landscape in which it is situated.

The chapters move fast, like a carousel of Instagram reels, giving you just what you need in a few pages—descriptions of the tree, the struggles of the habitat in which it is found, and Raman’s own engagement with the species—yet leaving you with more than the instant dopamine hit you may have got from social media. You learn about the Tree of the Lion Tailed Macaque (Cullenia exarillata) endemic to the Western Ghats, where Raman works, and where the enigmatic macaques still roam. You are introduced to the Tree of Uncertainty (Nicobariodendron sleumeri)of the Nicobar Islands, one that Raman claims he has not yet seen and which may vanish before one sets out to look for it. The tree has been notoriously difficult for botanists to locate, with very few recorded collections or sightings in recent decades. Raman pulls no punches in reminding us of the wave of development planned for these fragile islands, and the absurdity of planting trees in Haryana to compensate for the destruction of these ancient forests in the Nicobar.

There were moments when I wished the chapters were longer—but perhaps that goes beyond the ambit of this book, which is to document the natural history of 50 trees of India. It is in Chapter 25, aptly titled “Family Tree”, where Raman travels to Kerala with his mother in search of his ancestral home, that lingers longest. You want to know more: what happened to the jack tree that spanned generations, and why did it get destroyed? Raman walks us through the taxonomy of the tree and related scientific facts, but a sadness descends when he and his mother discover that the tree is dead. There is a melancholy to the book—whether or not the author intends it—of a world gone by, of trees still standing tall even if tectonic changes have swept the landscape in which they were found. Yet the author leaves us with hope, reminding us of new roots taking hold and the individuals who have rallied together to save a species.

In Chapter 12, writing about the Dhok tree (Terminalia pendula), Raman captures the obsession with the tigers in Ranthambore. The tigers lie in the shade of the Dhok, in whose shadow they may have thrived, yet no one notices the trees. In this one observation, Raman manages to capture the myopia of conservation policy, and the obsession with charismatic megafauna, often without credit to the habitat that supports it. And yet Raman is neither preachy nor moralistic; it is an observation made in passing that the tiger remains king while the trees are merely props in photographs.

In Chapter 50, we are once again reminded of the perilous future of another tree species: the Aeto-Bo (Tsuga dumosa), a shade-loving, slow-growing conifer of the Dibang Valley in Arunachal Pradesh. The biodiversity of this region is unparalleled. Raman spends time exploring the region with the Idu-Mishmi tribal community, a people for whom the forests, rivers and mountains are inhabited by the khinyu, or powerful spirits. Here, too, he reminds us that 17 dams have been planned, which will submerge these priceless forests. As chainsaws, bulldozers and heavy machinery take over Dibang, on either side lie the mutilated carcasses of the felled giants.

I enjoyed Manali Patil’s illustrations. They transport us to a time of our own childhood where slowing down and watching the gentle swaying of trees or ants climbing up their branches was entertainment enough on hot, sweltering afternoons. Patil sketches the trees in intricate brushstrokes, sometimes supplementing her drawings with the faunal species that live in close proximity, in tandem with Raman’s unhurried style of writing. Together they succeed in creating a visual feast, leaving the reader with a dull ache to press pause for these iconic giants.

The book’s emphasis on botany and taxonomy opens a unique window into the world of trees, and will hopefully also make the reader appreciate their connections to the places they inhabit, to other species, and to the local communities that have nurtured these trees for generations. Raman’s strength is his humility—he never presents himself as the mighty scientist who knows it all. Of course Raman is not the first to have written about India’s trees. Authors over the ages have attempted such documentation. The classic Trees of India by K.C. Sahni, published in 1998 by Oxford University Press, is an illustrated field guide to more than 150 tree species across the Indian subcontinent. Others, like Iconic Trees of India by S. Natesh and Jungle Trees of Central India by Pradip Kishen, are stellar examples of this genre. Add Raman’s gentle elegy, and you have a book that is easy on the eye yet yet substantial enough to send you back to the trees around you.

This book is a collector’s item that will, of course, expand your knowledge of trees, the birds that feed on their seeds, or the time when they flower. My only peeve, if I have one, is the price point, which puts it beyond the reach of the average reader. We need these books to be read by children and by policymakers alike—and critically, by politicians who think it is perfectly fine to uproot a rainforest in the Andamans and replant trees in the Aravallis. Every tree has a story, and Raman’s journey gives us a cogent, lyrical telling of them.

Bahar Dutt is a journalist and author of Rewilding: India’s Experiments in Saving Nature, published by Oxford University Press.

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