Towering presence: The sacred grove of fellowship at Dehradun’s Forest Research Institute

Last winter, I undertook a quiet pilgrimage to Dehradun, the cradle of Indian forestry. Nestled in the gentle embrace of the Shivalik foothills, where every breeze carries the resinous scent of sal, chir pine, and cedar, this city does not merely live in the present — it remembers. Time walks here with reverence, arm in arm with memory, and stories rustle gently like leaves in an old-growth forest.

My mission was personal and profound: to reconnect with Dr Jagdish Chander Nautiyal, a towering figure in global forestry, now in his mid-nineties but as sharp, spirited and luminous as a Himalayan spring morning. He is not merely a forester or a professor — he is a scholar-sage who is a bridge between ancient wisdom and modern science.

An alumnus of the first few batches of the Indian Forest College (Class of 1952), Dr Nautiyal served with distinction as a Divisional Forest Officer in the lush green hills of Kumaon during the 1950s, before moving on to pursue a PhD at the University of British Columbia in 1965. His doctoral research, published in Forest Science — the top international journal in its field — marked the first application of linear programming to forest management. It became a landmark contribution, inaugurating a new era of research in forest economics, and the model is still referred to by his name.

In his impactful academic career, primarily at the University of Toronto, he published over 100 refereed scientific articles. His seminal textbook, ‘Forest Economics: Principles and Applications’, published in 1994 by Natraj Publishers, continues to guide generations of foresters in India and abroad. His legacy isn’t just etched in research papers — it lives in policies, institutions, and the minds of scholars across continents.

At 65, most people begin the descent into comfortable retirement. Dr Nautiyal, however, climbed a new peak — learning Persian. He was driven by a seeker’s hunger, wanting to access the original mystic verses of Rumi. Since then, he has been translating ‘The Mathnawi of Jalaluddin Rumi’ into Hindi — line by line, spirit by spirit. Now in his nineties, his mornings are still immersed in metaphysical poetry and his afternoons in the timeless resonance of the Bhagvadagita.

I was joined in my journey by two of his former PhD students — Prof Shashi Kant, a leading light at the University of Toronto, and Dr JK Das, a respected name in Indian management education. Well into their own retirements, they still bear the unmistakable imprint of their mentor — rigor tempered by kindness, clarity anchored in compassion.

The grand old young man, as I fondly call him, received us with mountain warmth and scholarly mischief, clad in crisp blue jeans and a denim shirt that defied age and declared style eternal. Over a traditional Pahari lunch served in his hillside home, we were wrapped in the comforting embrace of old stories, gentle jokes, and rich silences.

But the true magic unfolded that evening at the stately Forest Research Institute Rest House — a colonial relic that still echoes with the footsteps of foresters past. To commemorate the occasion, two more stalwarts joined us: MC Ghildiyal (1962 batch) and Dr JK Rawat (1972 batch), whose contributions to Indian forestry have been profound.

No one spoke of retirement. No one lamented age. They spoke of trees, trails, timber auctions, and moments when conscience trumped convenience.

Prof Kant spoke with the gravity of a man who sees sustainability as a sacred balance. “To me, sustainability is the dynamic well-being of human beings,” he said, “a harmony that must be maintained not just with our environment, society, and economy, but also within our own body, mind and emotions. I believe a polluted heart is more dangerous than a polluted environment. Love, compassion and spiritual balance are the true foundations of sustainability.”

Dr Das, meanwhile, brought his trademark precision. “I see the world in black and white — zero or one,” he declared, with conviction. “There’s no room for grey in my book. This binary mindset allows me to stay objective and take clear, no-nonsense decisions.” For him, “science and sentiment must walk together. Our decisions must be rooted in ecology, but guided by empathy”.

Ghildiyal brought a quiet dignity. “I’ve always believed that leadership must be rooted in integrity,” he reflected. “I was humbled when the Supreme Court appointed me as the member secretary of the special committee on Mussoorie hills. It reaffirmed that honest service still holds value.” On fieldwork, he said: “It is not a posting, it’s a pilgrimage. Only those who live with the trees truly learn to serve them.”

Dr Rawat, ever the practical idealist, chimed in: “I believe in the strength of teamwork, the fairness of transparent administration, and addressing grievances promptly and justly.”

This wasn’t a party. This was a sacred grove of fellowship. Six men from the classes of 1952 to 1983, each shaped by the ethos of the forest — its patience, its quiet resolve, its generosity. And the resounding unanimity: it is not the number of trees we plant, but the roots we nurture in one another that will determine the true legacy of our lives.

— The writer is a retired Indian Forest Service officer

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