Nandkumar M. Kamat
This article is a tribute to someone whom I had met in Goa twice- Maruti Bhujangrao Chitampalli, one of India’s most prolific and poetic nature writers, who passed away on June 18, 2025, in Solapur at the age of 93. I had to guide him to locate the nests of the White-bellied Sea-Eagle Icthyophaga leucogaster, information which he needed for his Marathi encyclopaedia on birds titled
‘Pakshikosh’.
In a career that spanned over six decades, he became not only a distinguished forest officer but also a singular literary voice whose writings bridged the scientific and the sacred. Revered in Maharashtra as “Aranya Rishi”—the Forest Sage—Chitampalli documented the natural world with a lyrical sensibility that made him a beloved figure among Marathi readers, while remaining nearly invisible to those outside that linguistic universe.
Born in 1932 in Nagpur, Chitampalli’s early life was modest. His father worked in a textile mill, and the family faced financial challenges. A failed attempt at college eventually became a turning point when he joined the Coimbatore Forest College, where he trained in forestry and graduated into government service. His professional life began in Mahabaleshwar and would stretch over 36 years across various forest regions of Maharashtra, including Melghat, Nagzira, and Navegaon.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, who approached forestry primarily through its commercial dimensions—calculating the volume and price of timber—Chitampalli brought to his work the sensitivity of a naturalist and the curiosity of a writer. He once said, “I have never killed an animal in my life. How can I kill myself?”
Throughout his life, Chitampalli kept meticulous diaries of his observations. Over time, these notes matured into essays, books, and encyclopedias. His first major work, ‘Pakshi Jay Digantara’ (1981), explored the phenomenon of bird migration. Written in accessible Marathi, it became a bestseller. The book introduced readers to the unseen, epic journeys of bar-headed geese, flycatchers, and starlings with both scientific accuracy and poetic rhythm. It was not merely a zoological treatise but an invitation to observe, feel, and revere.
In ‘Jangalacha Dene’ (1985), Chitampalli compiled short reflections drawn from his daily life in the forest. These included meditations on dew collected on a sal leaf, the alarm call of a langur, and the sound of dry leaves crackling under a porcupine’s weight. These seemingly small observations revealed a worldview in which nothing in the natural world was trivial. ‘Ranvata’ (1991), another important work, offered more expansive forest narratives, filled with vivid recollections of seasonal changes and animal behaviour, grounded in years of fieldwork.
Among his most debated books is ‘Nilavanti’ (2002), which blurred the lines between nature writing, folklore, and psychology. Ostensibly the story of a boy who begins to hear voices from animals and trees, it became a cultural sensation. Some readers interpreted it as a mystical or even supernatural narrative. Chitampalli clarified that the book was rooted in the emotional depth of environmental perception. It was, in his words, “a bond between psychology and nature.”
But perhaps his most ambitious contribution lies in his encyclopedic work. ‘Pakshikosh’ (2002), an encyclopedia of birds, documents over 450 species, detailing their behaviour, calls, and names across 18 Indian languages. It was followed by ‘Pranikosh’ (2004), covering over 500 mammals and other fauna. At the time of his passing, he was working on ‘Matsyakosh’, an encyclopedia of fish, and ‘Vrukshakosh’, a comprehensive record of trees. These works were based entirely on firsthand observation and fieldwork. He believed that naming things in regional languages was an act of preservation—of knowledge, memory, and respect.
Chitampalli was not content to rely solely on published scientific material. Noting the gap in Marathi vocabulary for many bird species, he began learning Sanskrit in his 40s, studying classical texts with Vedic scholars. He later taught himself German and Russian to access contemporary ornithological literature. When he could not find Marathi equivalents for sea birds, he travelled to the coastal districts of Maharashtra and Goa, meeting local fishermen, showing them illustrated field guides, and recording the names they used. Over time, his corpus grew to 21 books—each a synthesis of ecology, language, and experience. His writing style, deeply personal yet rooted in empirical detail, was unique among Indian nature writers. For readers who never stepped into a forest, his books opened portals.
His autobiography, ‘Chakvachandan: Ek Vanopnishad’ (2005), is subtitled ‘A Forest Upanishad’. It reflects both the chronology of his life and the metaphysical depth of his connection to nature. The title combines ‘chakva’, a bird known for its longing, and ‘chandan’, sandalwood, known for its fragrance. The book recounts incidents from his fieldwork—such as a night lost in the Melghat jungle, waiting silently until an owl call gave him his bearings—but also his spiritual discoveries. He describes how tribal knowledge systems, such as the Gond people’s ability to interpret animal droppings or bird migration patterns, deepened his understanding of ecology. One of his most remarkable achievements was resolving a long-standing debate in classical Sanskrit literature. The mythical bird ‘chakor’, often believed to be imaginary, was identified by Chitampalli as the chukar partridge, found in northern India.
During his service with the Government of India, he contributed significantly to the establishment of key wildlife sanctuaries, including Karnala Bird Sanctuary, Nagzira Wildlife Sanctuary, and the Melghat Tiger Reserve. He also helped create a bird museum in Navebandhgaon, Vidarbha. In recognition of his contributions, he was elected president of the 83rd Akhil Bharatiya Marathi Sahitya Sammelan in Solapur in 2006. In 2025, just months before his passing, he was awarded the Padma Shri by the Government of India.
Throughout his life, Chitampalli remained a solitary figure, content with a quiet existence. After losing his wife and daughter, he settled in Solapur, continuing to write well into his 90s. His final project—a nearly completed encyclopaedia of fish—remained unfinished at his death. He maintained that the forest was his real university and that he was always more student than scholar.
Chitampalli’s writings are not merely records of flora and fauna; they are testaments to how one can live with integrity, curiosity, and reverence in a world often viewed through exploitative lenses. His vision of nature was intimate yet expansive, local yet cosmopolitan. He drew from ancient Sanskrit texts and modern German ornithology, from tribal elders and his own field notes. He did not need a laboratory. His method was to observe, reflect, and write. What distinguishes Chitampalli is not just the volume of his work, but its originality. Long before the term ‘citizen science’ became fashionable, he was blending folk knowledge with classical learning and empirical observation.
For those unfamiliar with his work, Chitampalli may seem like a literary curiosity—an old man with notebooks in a world of spreadsheets. But for thousands of readers in Maharashtra and Goa who grew up with his books, he is the man who taught them to listen to frogs at dusk, to trace bird shadows on water, and to name what was once unnoticed.
In a sentence from his autobiography, he writes, “Every bird’s call carries its soul. If you learn to hear it, the forest begins to show you who you are.” That, more than any award or office, is his legacy. His death is a great personal loss for me.
