Restless Forest Of Land And Sea

By Priya Ranganathan

Twisting, curling roots dig into the loose soil, propping the trees out of the rising water. The rise and fall of the tide rules this land, creating a fine balance between saline and freshwater. Sometimes, there is a little too much push, and saltwater rushes into the little streams that meander through this maze of tangled roots. On other days, when the barrage operators are feeling kind, freshwater forces its way south, entering the same streams and forcing the sea to retreat, to pull back. There is a constant push-pull here, a constant sense of restlessness, of unease.

Seafront housing is selling at enormous rates; in fact, seaside land prices are soaring! Be it a new road, an airport, expensive hotels, or vast bungalows, development Mughals fight like dogs over repurposed land. While developers bid on pricey, unstable land, shantytowns rise like phantom shadows, claiming every square centimetre of space until they are forced to leave. The swamp forests slowly retreat, vanishing like the compassion that people once had for these stalwart trees. But the tide always turns. As the slums are knocked down, roots extend, reclaiming the land. Birds flock, fish lay eggs among the intricate root systems, and fishermen return to stake their claims as well. There is restlessness here too, you see.

When the soil slips under the foaming tide, the roots keep the particles from floating out to sea. Small fishes ricochet off these root systems, occasionally washing up in tiny pools that form in the arms of the sturdy trees that survive in this landscape. Fishing nets swoop down and seize them, yet the eggs remain, clinging to the roots. Survival is everyone’s priority, and it is fitting that the coastline of India’s most chaotic, ruthless city must fight for its survival as well. It has been this way, after all, ever since India’s commercial capital, Mumbai, was dredged out of the sea, seven maiden islands stitched together clumsily to create the heartland of the nation.

Nearly 100 million years ago, what is today known as the western coast of India split from Madagascar and floated northward on the Indian plate. On its northern journey, however, this plate encountered a hotspot of volcanic activity, known as the Reunion hotspot. The Indian plate was peppered by violent volcanic activity during its journey through this hotspot, creating what we know to be the Deccan Traps, a massive expanse of basaltic lava that has shaped the geological and ecological history of peninsular India. India began to consolidate, the lava acting like glue and pulling together fragments of land, until the Indian plate struck the larger Eurasian plate, giving birth to the Himalayas. India was docked, attached firmly to the rest of continental Asia, and the tectonic waves from this sudden coupling of lands created fissures. Off the west coast of peninsular India (though it was far too early to name this newborn land), seven islands were formed. These islands were rapidly colonized by hardy plants and small, sturdy trees known as mangroves.

Mangroves. The seven sister islands were primarily covered in mangrove swamp forest, now seen only along creeks and the city’s coastline. Mangroves are a group of shrubs and short trees that have an extraordinary tolerance towards saline water. They are born from the water; as soon as seeds germinate, they drop from the parent mangrove into the tumultuous tide, washing away and latching onto an empty patch of mud. There, they grow, the lenticels on their growing roots preventing salt from entering their systems. Mangroves are the only trees to grow solely in the upwards direction, their trunks rising out of the water even as their roots extend, propping the trees further out of the way of the tide. They are quick to adapt to their watery world. There is no room for slow growth on the edge of land and sea. Storms materialize at a whim, flooding the creeks and knocking down young trees. The front line of mangroves acts as a guardian, bending in the wind but firmly rooted. Together, the swamp forest acts as a sponge, preventing inland flooding and maintaining the balance of fresh and salt water.

These seven mangrove islands – Mumbai, Colaba, Old Woman’s Island, Mahim, Mazagaon, Parel, and Worli – existed within a shallow sea. To the north lay the larger Salsette Island, which was separated from peninsular India by Thane Creek and the Ulhas River. Mangroves had their strongholds on this larger island as well, especially in the northern expanses of Salsette and where brackish creeks cut inland. Sixty-six villages came to inhabit this land, bringing with them a variety of persons and livelihoods. Tectonic activity – the original ruler of these islands – began to fade as human power plays came into the forefront. First came the native populations, followed by the rise and fall of the Silhara dynasty and the Gujarat Sultanate. The Portuguese snatched control of these islands in the mid-1500s, and later ceded them to the British crown, then ruled by Charles II. The islands were leased to the East India Company, but the mangroves and native biodiversity were still relatively intact. Despite changing hands so many times, the mangrove swamp forests held their ground, creating livelihoods for countless local communities and protecting residents from severe storms.

But it is not in Mumbai’s nature to sit still, and the mangrove islands were dragged into the limelight in the 1800s as a series of land reclamation projects swept into action. Soil was dredged out of the shallow sea, connecting the islands to one another and, later, to the larger Salsette Island, forming the greater Mumbai region as we know it today. The seven mangrove-covered islands became the core city, while Salsette Island is the site of suburban Mumbai. As the fledgling city grew, the mangroves fringing the coastlines began to shrink in area, falling under the onslaught of sudden development. Nearly 70 percent of the original mangrove cover is lost, and the land where these trees once held court are now paved over in tar and concrete.

The world’s largest mangrove forest, the Sundarbans, attracts boatloads of tourists and researchers into its murky depths, but the mangroves of Mumbai are certainly treated as second-class citizens. Despite incredible species diversity with nearly 24 species of true mangroves identified around Mumbai’s creeks and coasts, these rainforests of the sea must fight for their right to survive. In a coastal city, mangroves are the sentries protecting residential neighbourhoods from flood events. Along the Mithi River, an 18-km stretch of shoreline has been steadily stripped of mangrove cover, leading to excessive floods during the monsoon rains, including the 2005 floods. This massive flood event served as a rude awakening to the perils of living on the coast in an era of rising sea levels. A dwindling mangrove cover increases the risk of inland flooding. The health of these unique forests also affects their ability to protect the coastline. If you come across a patch of mangroves in Mumbai, you will notice the garbage liberally strewn about the aerial roots. Slum dwellers use these roots as makeshift clotheslines and cut branches for building fires. In Navi Mumbai, an extension of the main city, hectares of mangroves are condemned to the axe to make way for a new airport. The building of walls to prevent floodwaters from entering the city have also cut off the lifeblood of these mangrove forests – salt water. This restless city is constantly pushing back at its coastline in a futile attempt to extend its horizons. Mumbai, in its haste to overcome its demons and fulfil its reputation as the city of dreams, is slowly choking its original citizens – the mangrove forests – to death in a never-ending push for development.

But these early colonizers of Mumbai are far more resilient than they appear. Despite a vanishing shoreline and encroaching concrete, these swamp forests welcome a variety of migratory birds, including the famed flamingos that arrive in the mangroves along Thane Creek each year. The Bombay Natural History Society has noted a rise in the number of these pink beauties flocking in the past decade, with over 1,50,000 flamingos recorded in the mangrove wetlands in 2020. As a wetland researcher from Mumbai, I hold a special fondness for these mangroves. Near the suburb of Goregaon, where my family lives, lies a large swath of untouched mangrove forest. This dense patch of trees is remarkably cool as compared to the surrounding heat island that is the metropolis. Even with the nearby cooling presence of Sanjay Gandhi National Park and Aarey Colony, two of the large remaining patches of forest in the suburbs, these mangroves play a critical role in purifying the water in the creeks that leave the national park. Nearly 70 sq. km. of creeks cut curving paths through Mumbai, each lined with mangroves. Thane Creek, one of Mumbai’s major waterways, has nearly 60 sq. km. mangrove cover on its banks. The grey mangrove, with its tiny fragrant blossoms, is by far the most widespread species here. Tiny critters call these swamp forests home, including fiddler crabs, mud lobsters, and horn snails. These energetic little creatures break down organic matter and turn the soil, bringing nutrients to the surface. In turn, mangroves are some of the most productive ecosystems in the world. They contribute 80 percent of global fish catch either directly or indirectly, according to a 2008 study. In 2013, a study placed the value of Mumbai’s mangrove cover at USD $7.73 million per year for the varied ecosystem services this city of over 18.5 million people receives from its mangrove forests. Yes, the city is restless, but its mangrove forests are restless and ever-active providers as well.

For a city with increasing population and puffing smokestacks galore, Mumbai is remarkably calm about destroying its remaining mangrove cover. Mangroves are the most valuable players in the fight against climate change, with studies indicating that they store nearly four to eight times as much carbon in their soil and roots than do regular forests. As my vibrant Mumbai faces imminent inundation given current climate change scenarios, it seems bizarre that developers would happily do away with the one protection that the city has from coastal erosion and flooding. But as the tides ebb and swell, so does the city stir. And when Mumbai stirs, it expands, even as it chokes its lungs to an early grave.

There is, however, a silver lining. As the restless city stirs, so do the youth who have flocked to Mumbai to conquer their dreams. These are the youth, like myself, who call Mumbai home. They stream into the streets, demanding awakening of a slumbering environmental consciousness. They wade among the choking mangroves and collect the garbage that threatens to clog their pores. They designate green spaces and nature parks and draw attention to the many ecosystem services provided by the city’s mangroves. Through their efforts, they urge actors and small-time politicians to support their petitions to save the last of Mumbai’s original citizens, the trees that spell the difference between the Mumbai of the present and a submerged city of ghosts. Alongside these youngsters are the tribal and fishing communities who have long worked in the mangrove swamp forests to secure their livelihoods. They have made their living based on the principle of need, not that of greed. For generations, these communities have fought to secure the rainforests of the sea and their traditional way of life. To lose the swamp forests is to lose the cultural significance and centuries of learnings that these communities hold dear. As a wetland ecologist, I study the rise and fall of wetlands, including Mumbai’s precious mangroves, even as I keep an eye on the rise and fall in the interest in the services that can be obtained from these unique ecosystems. Urban India is ever expanding, and in order to meet the needs of a growing city populace, rural India must expand as well. Agriculture is rapidly eroding away at inland wetlands, converting swamplands into paddy fields and plantations, while coastal wetlands face the axe or find themselves hosting the blooming aquaculture industry. People are restless here, constantly prodding at the many options to leach wetlands dry in the name of hyper-productivity.

As the island city grows, its dependence upon the stalwart mangroves grows as well, even as the government turns a blind eye to the need of the hour. As sea levels swell and rise, the mangroves find themselves trapped, unable to retreat from the increased salinity due to encroachment by the restless city. Mangrove species grow at specific distances inland depending on their salt tolerance in a process known as zonation. As sea levels around Mumbai rise, certain mangrove species choke on saline soils, doomed to wither and die. In their stead, more salt-tolerant species reproduce and hold their ground in a spectacular defence against the forces of nature by nature itself. They are caught in between the constant push and pull of the sea and the city. These mangroves owe their existence to the sea, and Mumbai owes its existence to the mangroves. It is a cycle of interdependence.

The mangrove swamps embody the Mumbaikar spirit – indomitable, spirited, steadfast, and resilient in the face of change and adversity. A Mumbaikar myself, I too carry the spirit of the mangroves in my blood, even as I uproot myself and find new soil. The city too must uproot its current approach to conservation and water the minds of its citizens with respect for nature and the services that its urban forests do for those who call this city home. Yet today, as Mumbai spreads its wings, its mangroves struggle to maintain ground, pointing out the inherent flaw in this model of development at the cost of nature.

If Mumbai loses her mangrove forests, she will slip back into the sea, her dreams cut off at the neck like the breath of the choking swamps that line her coasts.

By Priya Ranganathan