As I reflect on my journey in ornithology and natural history, I should share the profound impact that Dr. Salim Ali, the Birdman of India, had on my life. It was a remarkable privilege to work under his guidance as his last student, a privilege I cherish deeply.
I first came to know Dr. Ali through my Dhaka University teacher, Dr. Ali Reza Khan, who was his first Bangladeshi student. In 1982, at the age of 86, Dr. Ali, at the recommendation of Dr Khan, agreed to accept me as his PhD student, a gesture that marked the beginning of an incredible mentorship. His initial letter to me, while somewhat hesitant, showed his willingness to support my project proposal on a comparative study of laughing thrushes in the Himalayas and the Western Ghats in India. I remember feeling both honored and intimidated by the opportunity.
Dr. Ali was not just a mentor; he was a hands-on supervisor, eagerly awaiting my field reports every month. He made it a point to visit my field stations, bringing with him a big basket of mangoes, which added a personal touch to our professional relationship. I can still recall the day I accompanied him to Kalona, near Nainital in the Himalayas, in March 1983, when I was able to study four species of laughing thrushes. As we trekked through the hills, his passion for nature was palpable, extending beyond birds to include butterflies, wildflowers, and the serene landscapes around us.
Despite his age, Dr. Ali was vibrant and engaged. I remember how he would call me at 5 am from his stay at the Royal Bombay Yacht Club to discuss my studies. I often arrived on time, but he was always already at work, driven by his insatiable curiosity and dedication. These early morning discussions were a blend of learning and laughter, often punctuated by his love for cold coffee and the mangoes he generously shared.
One of the qualities I admired most about Dr. Ali was his humility. He accepted new ideas gracefully, even when they challenged his long-held beliefs. During our fieldwork, I discovered that the laughing thrushes in southern Indian hills often lived in pairs, contrary to his assumption that they were gregarious. When I presented my findings, he visited my study areas, evaluated the evidence, and, once convinced, embraced my conclusions without hesitation.
Dr. Ali’s commitment to bird conservation extended beyond research. He believed deeply in the ecological importance of birds, arguing compellingly that their role in controlling insect populations was vital for sustaining plant life and, ultimately, all animal life, including humans. His passion for conservation resonated with influential figures like Jawaharlal Nehru and Indira Gandhi, who recognized his dedication to preserving India’s natural heritage.
Throughout our time together, Dr. Ali shared not just his knowledge, but also his life experiences. He often spoke fondly of his wife, Tehmina, who played an essential role in his success. I remember him reflecting on how she adapted to life in the forests, supporting him tirelessly during challenging times. This tribute to his partner underscored the importance of support and companionship in achieving one’s goals.
Dr. Ali’s sense of humor was another cherished aspect of our interactions. On his 86th birthday, surrounded by friends in Borivali National Park, later re-named Sanjay Gandhi National Park, in Bombay, he playfully requested extra candles on his cake, ensuring that no one would doubt his age. His laughter was contagious, and his anecdotes often left us in stitches, even when he was addressing serious topics.
