It was 1984. The second and last formal employment of my career was in the tea plantations in the Anamallai Hills in Coimbatore District of Tamilnadu. I worked there for seven years, one of the most enjoyable and instructive periods of my life. Fires and estates are companions. Not surprising given the combination of people who smoke and don’t always bother to put out their cigarettes, and forests with semi deciduous trees that regularly carpet the floor with their leaves every summer. A forest fire is easy to start. One cigarette butt is enough. But if it catches, then it can’t be put out until there’s nothing left to burn. In the end, all that is left is ash. We used to take a lot of preventive steps including clearing fire boundaries where we would clear a wide swathe of ground of all undergrowth and leaves and keep it swept clean so that even if a fire started it could be contained. We had also constructed water tanks and dammed streams to create small reservoirs, which would be useful if we needed water in a hurry to put out a fire. These reservoirs were also very useful as watering holes for wildlife in the summer and a source of endless delight for me to watch animals as they came down to drink.

One day late in the afternoon someone came running to the office (days without mobile phones or walky-talky radios) and said that a fire had started in the Murugalli coffee area. In the plantations, emergencies were everyone’s affair. News would go to all those who could be informed, and they all rushed to the aid of the estate which had the problem. All who could go would go, regardless of whose estate it was.

As soon as the runner caught his breath, I put him on the back of my motorcycle to guide me and we were off. When I reached the place, I realized that this was a fairly large forest fire. There were about thirty of our workers and two supervisors who had been working in the area. I marshaled them all and got them to clear a belt and start a counter fire. The idea was to burn an area across the direction of the fire and clear it of all inflammable material so that when the main fire reached this place it would simply starve to death. We started the counter fires and once the dry stuff was burnt, we beat out the flames with green leafy branches that we had previously cut and kept at hand. The main fire was moving very fast as it was being pushed by a tail wind. As the fire came up to us it was our task to ensure that it did not jump the cleared boundary. Every time a flame jumped the fire boundary, we beat it to death. There was no water available where we were. Otherwise, wetting as much area as possible is also a preventive measure.
It is interesting to reflect that not a single one of us there had been formally trained in firefighting. Yet we did all the right things. The result, in my case, of a lot of reading, some of it about forest fires. And in the case of the others, the result of listening to stories of fires of the past that others had fought. Story telling is an informal, but enormously powerful teaching tool in villages. This is how even great classics of literature are born, as stories to teach life lessons. Over centuries, they acquire a life of their own, get embellished with local color and imagination and are even believed to be real. Be that as it may, their teaching value remains.

There was huge excitement. People shouting instructions to each other, cheering as a small fire was put out, curses at the main fire and so on. But in all this excitement, we did not pay attention to one small, but critical detail. The effect of eddying currents of breeze, which given the hilly terrain, can do unexpected things. In this case, the main fire had sent a tail around a small hump in the land and while we were busy fighting the main head, its tail had all but surrounded us. I cannot remember who it was who first noticed the smoke and glow because it had become dark by now. We had been fighting the fire for more than four hours when suddenly one of the workers shouted that we were getting surrounded by the fire. All activity stopped and people looked to me for direction.

This is the kind of leadership challenge that the plantation career faced you with. Not every day, but certainly more than once in your career. And you had only one chance. I realized that the only way left for us was to go across the face of the main fire and down a very steep hillside which would take us down to the Parambikulam Lake. Then to run along the lake bank until we could find a track to take us back up the hill to the main Sheikalmudi road. All this had to be done in darkness without any torches. I called out the directions to the people and told them, ‘Go ahead, I will follow you.’ The reason for this was because the danger was behind us and so I wanted to be the last in the line. But the people of the estates form bonds that are hard to describe. The formal relationship is that of manager and subordinate with all its usual ways. The fact that we all lived together and shared in each other’s joys and sadness led to bonds that may not be visible in normal times, but they came to the fore in time of crisis. These bonds superseded all the dynamics of management/union politics. The workers were all members of different labor unions and I figuratively speaking, as the Manager was always on the other side of the table. But in emergencies in the plantations, all these differences were forgotten, and it was your personal relationship with people, which worked. Yet another reason to build good relationships.

The workers refused to obey me. They told me to go first. I refused. And we had a stalemate in the middle of the fire. Eventually one of them said to me, ‘Dorai, if something happens to you while we all get away, how will we face Amma?’ (Amma means Mother and is an honorific they used to refer to my wife). To this I replied, ‘If the father gets away and leaves the children to die, what do you have to say about such a father?’ That clinched the argument and we started out, the way I had ordered in the first place with one small change. Two of the biggest guys flanked me as bodyguards while the others ran ahead. A knowledge of the culture, tradition and the local language all play a strong role in leadership situations. As also does symbolism in a culture that is based on a strong mythological foundation. I loved those people and they loved me. We fought when we had to, but the bond of love rooted in respect only became stronger. They knew that no matter what, if they needed me, I would be there for them and they for me.

The forests of the Anamallais are evergreen rain forests and so are not susceptible to burning down completely like temperate forests of coniferous trees which exude oil that is itself inflammable. So, during a forest fire, there is no real danger to the trees apart from some temporary damage. Undergrowth burns down, and leaf litter converts into potash-rich ash. Fallen dry logs burn partially in every fire. Once the fire cools the forest regenerates. New grass, germinating seeds, and the ash itself attract all kinds of herbivores. During the day, Bee Eaters, Swallows, and other birds follow the fire and eat insects that the fire flushes. Snakes leave their holes and race to safety. At this time, they are harmless as they are too busy trying to get away. Larger animals are in no danger at all as they have plenty of time to get away. The real danger is to plantation crops that border the forests and that is why we planters are very concerned about fires. This time around, our tea was not damaged apart from some damage to the bushes on the boundaries.
So, it all ended rather well.

The whole logic of fighting forest fires is about preventing them from starting. And if they do start, then trying to prevent them from growing. If this is not done, then once a fire grows beyond a certain size, nothing can put it out until everything that can burn has been burnt. The fire will die only when everyone and everything is dead. And all that is left is ash.

Today, as I reflect on global politics as well as its local reflection in my country, I am reminded of forest fires and my own experience of fighting one in the Anamallais. It appears that none of the leaders either on the global stage or the even more critical local ones, has ever seen or fought a forest fire. That is why they so blithely ignite and stoke the fires of hatred. Racial hatred, communal hatred and religious hatred. They know not what they do but regardless, we, every single one of us, will burn if we allow this to go on unchallenged and unanswered. Fire can’t be fought with fire. It must be fought with something that is cool and which is not inflammable. So also, hatred can’t be fought with hatred, but with love. Loving someone who hates you is not easy. It seems impossible. But the alternative is to burn in the same fire.

As Reza Aslan put it very aptly, ‘Religion doesn’t make people bigots. People are bigots and they use religion to justify their ideology.’ The question each one of us needs to ask is, ‘Am I a bigot?’ I can imagine that in today’s world, the answer may well be, ‘Yes’, in all cases with a difference only in degree. As a starting point, I would say that it is enough to ask this question and then ask another one, even more painful. ‘Am I willing to do anything to change this?’