Listening to the wetlands: Learning to see at Mangalajodi

Sometimes a place calls not through glossy photos or bold headlines, but through a quiet pull you can’t explain. That was Mangalajodi for me. Tucked beside Chilika Lake in Odisha, this wetland village isn’t just a haven for migratory birds—it’s a sanctuary for the soul. Mangalajodi moves slowly, gently teaching you to do the same. Each sunrise felt like a whispered invitation to just be. When asked what I did there, I say, “I watched.” And that was everything.

I arrived at Tangi, a quiet village that felt like the world had exhaled. Life moved slowly—mud paths winding past open fields, the scent of wet earth lingering in the breeze. Everything here was whispered instead of shouted. It wasn’t just a stop on the way to Mangalajodi—it was an invitation to slow down, to notice, to breathe. And without realising it, I did exactly that.

I checked in at Godwit Eco Cottage just before dusk—its mud walls glowing softly under the amber light. A warm, simple homestay, it asked nothing of me but presence. There was no rush here. Conversations with the host flowed without hurry, woven with stories of seasons shifting, birds arriving from distant lands, and how this village, once rooted in survival, had slowly transformed into one of protection and purpose.

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At dawn, I met Akash Behera. Barely thirty, soft-spoken, with eyes that scanned the wetlands like someone reading an old book, Akash was my guide and boatman. He had grown up on these waters; his father and grandfather were fishermen. But Akash had chosen a different tide—becoming a guide, a storyteller of the marsh.

We set off in a slender wooden boat, slicing silently through water still veiled in mist. The reeds brushed against the sides like breath. Great egrets stood poised like thoughts yet to form. Pond herons stirred softly as if waking late. And slowly, as the light unfolded, so did Mangalajodi.

There were godwits, pintails, ibises, herons—gliding beside me in flesh and feather. But Mangalajodi didn’t present its beauty with a flourish. It revealed it in layers, like a whisper you only catch when you’re still enough to listen.

I wasn’t here just to see birds. I was here to feel them.

Since 2017, I’d stepped away from sharp portraits and vibrant colours. My photography had turned inward, towards minimalism, abstraction, and the quiet tension of black and white. Mangalajodi was the perfect collaborator. Reeds tangled into repeating patterns. Birds melted into mist. Reflections fractured gently in the water’s surface. These weren’t scenes to be captured—they were scenes to let happen.

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Akash noticed I wasn’t reaching for my camera often. I could see the question in his eyes. On our third ride, I finally showed him some of my work—grey tones, soft blurs, absences that said more than presence. He nodded slowly, and from then on, he knew exactly what to point out—not the most dramatic moment, but the quietest one.

Later, I wandered through the village and nearby hamlets. Once, these wetlands had been hunting grounds. Generations survived by trapping the very birds we now watched in awe. But change had come—not in a wave, but like the tide, quietly persistent. Community-led conservation efforts had retrained hunters into guides, built pride where desperation once lived, and rethreaded the bond between people and place. Today, Mangalajodi’s transformation is not a headline—it’s a rhythm. You feel it in the way people speak, walk, and even in the silence they keep.

One morning, we drifted through waters barely touched by light. The sky had split open in hues of fire and rose, and in that reflection, a lone boatman rowed forward like a silhouette in prayer. Akash shared tales of floods that redrew the marshes, of rare species vanishing, of how everything here was delicately interconnected. The birds, the reeds, the water, the people—each thread holding the rest.

My last morning arrived wrapped in dense mist. Water and sky blurred into a single, breathless canvas. Birds appeared like brushstrokes—brief, soft, gone. I barely touched my camera. It felt enough to simply be.

I returned the next year. And the one after that. I now host small, personalised photography workshops here, yearly rituals that are less about clicking and more about noticing.

Because Mangalajodi isn’t just about birds or wetlands or even photography.

It’s about observing more, speaking less, and letting stillness become the story.

It’s about realizing that clarity isn’t always visual. Sometimes, it’s emotional.

Sometimes, the best frames are not captured, but felt!

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Here are a few images I made during my visit: