Ramsar Site of Odisha

Have you seen the Indian political map? Have you ever paused, not to trace borders or capitals but just to feel the land? If your fingers ever drifted gently along the eastern edge of India, where Odisha leans into the Bay of Bengal, you might have noticed a curious patch of blue, neither river nor sea. A shape both wild and tender, like a wound kissed by water. That… is Chilika Lake. The shape of Chilika on the map is iconic for Odisha, almost like the state’s signature, quietly stamped onto the Indian political map. It doesn’t scream for attention. But it’s there, sprawled like a sleeping poem, between Puri, Khordha, and Ganjam. On the map, it looks like the sky fell and forgot to rise again. Or like a bird mid-flight, frozen on paper. Sometimes, it even looks like an age-old banyan tree, grown with full vigour, standing there quietly and patiently, with all the wisdom and knowledge to bless the land. And somehow, in its stillness, it stirs something inside you. My very first encounter with Chilika Lake was when I was just five years old. During our journeys from Koraput to Cuttack, the buses would pass by the lake in the early hours of morning. Papa or Mom would gently wake us up, urging us not to miss the sunrise over Chilika, as seen through the dusty window of a moving bus.At that age, I didn’t yet have the vocabulary to name my feelings but I remember how it felt. It was beautiful. Simply, deeply beautiful to the eyes and to the heart. Even now, a silhouette of that memory lingers: from a misty, fog-laced horizon, a soft red ball would slowly emerge, the sun, sneaking through the veil of dawn. Below it, in half-awake villages, people began stirring to life. It was all a quiet kind of magic. I was around fifteen or sixteen when I finally visited Chilika Lake in person. And I was stunned. Its vastness overwhelmed me. Though I knew it was a lake, had heard it, read it, said it but my heart kept whispering, “Is it really not a sea?”

          Spread across the coastal stretch of Odisha, Chilika is not just a lake, it’s a living, breathing ecosystem. Spanning over 1,100 square kilometers at its peak during the monsoon, it is the largest brackish water lagoon in India and the second largest in the world. The lake stretches across the districts of Puri, Khordha, and Ganjam, opening into the Bay of Bengal through a narrow mouth at Satapada. What makes Chilika unique is its ever-changing character. During the rains, it swells like a sea, while in summer, it shrinks, bearing sandbars and mudflats. It hosts a delicate mix of freshwater from rivers like the Daya and Bhargavi, and saline water from the sea, creating a rare brackish environment that supports over 160 species of birds, countless fish, crabs, and the elusive Irrawaddy dolphins. The lake is dotted with small islands Nalabana, Kalijai, Breakfast Island, and Honeymoon Island, each holding its own myth and mystery.

             Chilika isn’t just water and land; it holds within its body small islands that house not only people, but wings. One of its most sacred sanctuaries is Nalabana Island, a haven for migratory birds, declared a Bird Sanctuary in 1987 under the Wildlife Protection Act. The island itself disappears during the monsoon, completely submerged under water only to reappear like a quiet miracle once the rains retreat. And with it, begins a wondrous rhythm: the arrival of birds from far-off lands. Each winter, approximately 1.2 to 1.2 million birds visit Chilika including migratory and resident species, about 180-196 species of birds make Chilika their temporary home. Among them are rare and graceful visitors like the Asian Dowitcher, Dalmatian Pelican, Pallas’s Fish-Eagle, Spoon-billed Sandpiper, Spot-billed Pelican, Pintail, Garganey, Black-tailed Godwit, Gadwall, Eurasian Wigeon, Brown-headed Gull, White-bellied Sea Eagle, Pariah Kite, Brahminy Kite, Kestrel, Marsh Harrier, and even the majestic Peregrine Falcon. They arrive from as far as Siberia, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and parts of Central Europe, following ancient migratory paths etched into their instincts. In 2002, a survey by the Bombay Natural History Society recorded an astonishing 540 nests of the Indian River Tern on one of Chilika’s islands, marking it as the largest nesting colony of this species in Southeast Asia. Each winter, as the chill settles in, thousands of tourists flock to Chilika to witness the breathtaking spectacle of migratory birds painting the sky and water with their graceful patterns. However, the Nalabana Bird Sanctuary, the heart of this avian wonderland remains a protected zone, off-limits to general visitors. Tourists can journey only as far as the boundary markers, watching and photographing the birds from boats drifting at a respectful distance. Yet, for passionate bird lovers and curious minds, there is a window of opportunity. But bird lovers, enthusiastic visitors, and photographers get a chance to witness the grand winter congregation of birds at Mangalajodi wetlands.

             It’s not just the vastness of Chilika Lake that will leave you awestruck, it’s the rare stillness it offers your mind, the space to breathe, to observe the quiet beauty of nature, and to witness the intricate harmony of an ecosystem alive in every ripple. Here, life unfolds in gentle layers: flocks of birds drawing fleeting arcs across the sky, foreign tourists soaking in its serenity, local fishermen rhythmically casting their nets, and bustling markets on the shores, alive with the colors, scents, and flavors of the day’s fresh catch. This vibrant coexistence of land, water, birds, people, and time is what makes Chilika more than a lake. It’s a living mosaic. And it was in recognition of this ecological richness that Chilika was designated a Ramsar Site in 1981. This was not just Odisha’s pride, but also India’s first wetland to be included in the prestigious Ramsar list of internationally important wetlands. Including Chilika, there are a total of six Ramsar sites or wetlands of international importance in Odisha. The Ramsar-designated wetlands of Odisha are Chilika Lake, Ansupa Lake, Bhitarkanika Mangroves, Hirakud Reservoir, Satkosia Gorge, and Tampara Lake.

            Upto reading this one might think instead of naming this piece of writing as the story of Chilika, why I’ve mentioned it as ‘Ramsar Sites of Odisha’. For that we have to understand about wetlands and what are Ramsar sites. Land that remains covered or surrounded by water for many months or most of the year due to rainfall, flooding, or natural waterlogging, and supports oxygen-deficient processes (anoxic processes) which give rise to a unique ecosystem, is known as a wetland. Wetlands may include saline and freshwater lakes, floodplains, artificial reservoirs, marshy and swampy areas, mangroves, coral reefs, and algae-rich regions. These wetlands are generally classified into five major types: Marine (coastal waters), Estuarine (river mouths), Riverine (river-fed areas), Lacustrine (lakes), and Palustrine (marshes and swamps). Though wetlands occupy only about 6% of the Earth’s land surface, they support around 40% of all plant and animal life, providing breeding grounds and habitats crucial for biodiversity. Wetlands play a vital role in the development, growth, social, and economic progress of human civilization. Not too long ago, due to their year-round swampy, muddy, or waterlogged nature, these lands were often undervalued. There were widespread efforts to drain, fill, and convert them into dry agricultural or residential land. In fact, a report published in 1990 by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service revealed that by the year 1700, most of the 221 million acres of wetlands across the 48 contiguous U.S. states had already been destroyed by human activity. However, in recent years, awareness has grown about the importance and necessity of wetlands for human survival. With this realization, continuous efforts are now being made for the conservation and protection of wetlands around the world. In this context, since 1997, under the support of the United Nations, February 2nd is observed each year as World Wetlands Day to promote the value and protection of these precious ecosystems. In fact, exactly 25 years before 1997, on February 2, 1971, in a small Iranian city named Ramsar, discussions and consensus were first established around a treaty focused on the conservation of wetlands. Among all the treaties introduced in the history of the United Nations concerning environmental protection and the conservation of natural resources, this stands as the very first. Since then, global efforts toward wetland conservation have been known as “The Ramsar Convention.” Any wetland designated as a protected site under this convention by the United Nations is referred to as a “Ramsar Site.” The primary objective of this convention is the protection, preservation, and prevention of degradation of wetlands, the proper management of fragile wetland ecosystems, the implementation of international guidelines and regulations, and the exchange of information and best practices related to wetland conservation. As of June 2025, there are a total of 2,538 Ramsar-designated sites across the globe. These sites collectively protect approximately 2,579,896 square kilometers (or about 637 million acres) of wetland areas. Among them, India has 91 Ramsar-designated wetlands, the highest number in South Asia.

            In the name of urbanization, modernization, and industrialization, you must have observed how lakes, ponds, canals, and marshy or swampy areas in your towns and villages are being rapidly drained, filled, and replaced with construction sites. Naturally, a question may arise in your mind: If local governments, departments, and officials themselves are converting wetlands into farmhouses, resorts, or residential areas, then why does the United Nations emphasize their conservation and protection? Wetlands are not just important for foreign migratory birds or tourism, they are deeply significant for our daily lives, livelihoods, and future. They act as natural water purifiers, filtering out pollutants through oxygen-free (anoxic) processes, and help recharge groundwater. Coastal wetlands and mangroves also act as natural shields, protecting us from storms and cyclones. You might recall that during Cyclone Bulbul, the landfall over the Sundarbans mangrove forest significantly reduced the damage that could have occurred further inland. Much like tributaries or small natural channels, wetlands absorb and distribute rainwater, helping mitigate floods. Even during intense cyclones and heavy rains, wetlands absorb excess water and soften the blow of sudden flooding. Their ability to hold monsoon and floodwaters for days and release it slowly ensures that rivers continue to flow steadily throughout the year, helping prevent drought-like conditions during dry seasons. Additionally, the dense arrangement of grasses, reeds, and vegetation in these marshy ecosystems prevents soil erosion and helps trap silt and sediments, stopping them from flowing directly into the sea with floodwaters. Wetlands do far more than just protect us from cyclones and floods, prevent soil erosion, or purify water. They also serve as crucial grazing grounds and breeding habitats for various species of vertebrates, mammals, reptiles, insects, birds, and fish. So far, around 100,000 species have been identified that inhabit freshwater wetlands. Among them, more than half are insect species, while around 20,000 are vertebrates. According to a report published in the United States, 70% of endangered species there depend on wetlands. Frogs, bugs, salamanders, fish, snakes, otters, turtles, prawns, crabs, crocodiles, and even various types of deer (such as elk) and bears thrive best in wetland environments. Additionally, migratory birds like flamingos, waterfowl, ducks, egrets, cranes, and others can be frequently observed in these areas. Nearly 30% of all known fish species are found in wetland habitats. These ecosystems also provide direct or indirect employment to around 200 million people worldwide. But it’s not just animals, wetlands also offer a nurturing environment for thousands of plant species. According to one report, the wetlands in the United States alone support around 7,000 species of trees and plants. From mangroves, vines, reeds, night-flowering jasmine (shiuli) to ferns and various lilies, wetlands host a spectacular range of flora. In Bhitarkanika, 62 species of mangroves have been recorded, along with bamboo, teak, palash, and babool. In Chilika Lake, there are 226 species of fish, 170 types of grasses and flowers, and over 350 species of plants. Similarly, in the Tampara Lake region, one can find 60 bird species, 46 fish species, 48 types of phytoplankton, and 7 tree species. This incredible biodiversity found in wetlands offers immense opportunities for research, education, and studies in life sciences. It also strengthens the tourism industry. But beyond tourism, fisheries, or academic research, wetlands are a vital source of drinking water in many parts of the world. They also play a significant role in agriculture and food supply. For instance, rice cultivated in wetlands is a staple food for approximately 3.5 billion people worldwide.

            I consider myself fortunate to have visited five out of the six Ramsar sites in Odisha. While this travelogue began with my reflections on Chilika, those interested can also read about the breathtaking Satkosia Gorge in my other piece titled ‘Dopamine Fasting Heaven: Satkosia’. The remaining three sites I’ve explored are no less captivating, each one unique, beautiful, and deeply enriching in its own way. Among the remaining three, Ansupa Lake is the closest to my residence and, in recent years, has become one of my favorite weekend getaways. Located just around 50 kilometers from Bhubaneswar and  40km from Cuttack, it offers a serene escape into nature without venturing too far from the city. Unlike Chilika’s majestic sprawl or Satakosia’s dramatic cliffs, Ansupa is more of a whisper, gentle, grounded, and deeply nourishing. The air here carries a softness, as if it has learned to breathe slowly. Bamboo groves rustle quietly along the banks, and old mango trees stretch their limbs like elders at ease, casting their kindness in shade. On certain mist-laced mornings, Ansupa appears less like a place and more like a feeling, half half memory, half dream. Cradled between the Saranda and Bishnupur hills of the Eastern Ghats, Ansupa is a horseshoe-shaped oxbow lake born from the meanderings of the Mahanadi River. Spanning around 231 hectares, it holds the title of Odisha’s largest freshwater lake and was declared a Ramsar Wetland in October 2021. But titles aside, its true richness lies in the vibrant ecosystem it silently shelters. Ansupa hums with life- 194 species of birds, 61 species of fish, 244 varieties of aquatic plants, 88 species of butterflies, and 26 mammals have made this serene wetland their home. Among its most treasured guests are endangered birds like the Indian Skimmer and Black-bellied Tern, and vulnerable species such as the River Tern and the elusive Helicopter Catfish (Wallago attu). Each winter, over 3,300 migratory birds from distant skies arrive here, resting briefly in this quiet cradle before the long journey ahead. Beneath the surface and along its edges, life moves gently, 33 species of fish, 3 species of prawns, 10 types of reptiles, and over 50 species of birds create a delicate web of harmony.

           Tucked near Chhatrapur, just off the NH‑16 highway, Tampara rests like a secret held close by the earth. This lake, sprawling across 300 hectares, was once a forgotten crater, born from colonial blasts, later filled by rain and the slow generosity of the Rushikulya basin. Over time, the wound became water. Life crept in, and a wetland bloomed.

          And what a bloom it is!

          Tampara Lake was declared a Ramsar Wetland in 2021, but long before that, it was a living ecosystem, its own breathing world. The lake hosts over 60 bird species, 46 species of fish, 33 varieties of phytoplankton, and rare finds like the Helicopter Catfish. You might spot River Terns gliding just above the surface or watch the water ripple with the silent passing of a prawn beneath. The nearby fields and villages depend on it. It quenches thirst, grows rice, nourishes fishers, and still leaves enough peace to share. Even the town of Chhatrapur leans gently on it for its water needs. During winter, thousands of migratory birds gather here, as if returning to a place they once dreamt about. Yet, Tampara is not without its vulnerabilities. Concrete creeps in. Resorts rise at the edge. Motorboats cut through its calm. And yet, it endures, like an old song hummed quietly in the background, present, persistent. In recent years, Tampara has found new admirers. With the development of a landscaped park and refreshment center near the lake, it has become a vibrant weekend retreat for youngsters from Berhampur and Bhubaneswar, often seen filming reels, travel vlogs, or just soaking in its quiet charm. What adds a quiet thrill to Tampara’s location is its proximity, just 16 kilometers away from the Rushikulya river mouth, a globally acclaimed nesting and hatching ground for Olive Ridley sea turtles. Here, one ecosystem nods to another, reminding us how seamlessly nature stitches her stories together.

              A part of my mother’s childhood unfolded in Sambalpur. My Aja, her father, was posted at the Sambalpur Post Office, and many of her stories from those days carried the name “Hirakud” like a refrain. The majestic reservoir was more than just a place in her memories, it was a presence. So naturally, growing up, I too nurtured a quiet longing to visit the city and witness Hirakud with my own eyes. That wish came true in February 2015, when my elder sister and I planned a short trip to Sambalpur. It was a long-awaited journey—and finally, I stood before the vastness I had only heard about in stories. I still remember the view of Hirakud reservoir from the Nehru Minar. The vast, enormous expanse stretched endlessly under the sky, sparkling, blue, and impossibly calm. It was breathtaking. Unlike any other reservoir I had seen since childhood, Hirakud didn’t just hold water; it held stories. It felt like a quiet sea sleeping in the lap of the land. Unlike the whispering stillness of Ansupa or the tender embrace of Tampara, Hirakud spoke in silences that echoed. From the top of the Minar, the view felt humbling, like standing at the edge of something ancient and unshakable. The water gleamed under the afternoon sun, but there was weight in its calmness, a history submerged beneath its ripples. Built across the mighty Mahanadi in 1957, Hirakud is Asia’s longest earthen dam, and its reservoir is Odisha’s largest Ramsar site, sprawling over 65,400 hectares. But beyond these numbers lies something more intimate, an entire landscape reimagined. Nearly 294 villages, countless temples, lives and livelihoods, everything now sleeps under this vast sheet of blue.  And yet, from that stillness, life rises. Over 130 species of birds find refuge here, including thousands of migratory guests who arrive each winter, their wings etching patterns on the sky. Within the reservoir’s many hidden islands, ground-nesting birds like River Terns and Little Terns lay their eggs in safety. Cattle Island still echoes with the calls of wild cows, descendants of those left behind during the submergence, now completely adapted to the wilderness. Beneath the surface, 54 species of fish swim through forgotten forests and sunken temples. The lake feeds thousands of fishing families, nourishes distant fields, and holds the city of Sambalpur in its quiet care. It’s not just a reservoir, it’s a living, breathing pulse of western Odisha. But even this grandeur is not immune to time. Siltation has already stolen a quarter of its original water-holding capacity. Plastic waste now floats where prayers once whispered. Resorts and boats disturb its stillness. And yet, Hirakud endures, like an old banyan, scarred but rooted, majestic but familiar.

          Sometimes, I wonder how long these wetlands will continue to breathe. How long will Chilika echo with the flapping of wings? Will the whisper of Ansupa still linger after another decade of concrete? Will Tampara’s glassy silence survive the rush of reels, motors, and rising resorts? Will Hirakud, tired from silt and scars, still hold the dreams of the land beneath? Urbanisation comes dressed in convenience. In development. In promises of comfort. But at what cost? We are draining wetlands to fill our greed, not our need. The sponge-like land that once cushioned floods, recharged aquifers, filtered toxins, cradled life, now gasps under plastic and encroachment. The waters grow warmer. The birds fly farther. The fish disappear quietly, without protest. One by one, the lungs of our Earth collapse, not with a roar, but with a hush we refuse to hear. What we lose with every dying wetland is not just biodiversity, it is balance. It is breath. It is our ability to coexist with the rhythms of nature. And the consequences will not remain at the edges of lakes or estuaries. They will knock on the doors of our cities. In the form of heat, floods, scarcity, extinction. Still, a part of me clings to hope. Perhaps it’s the same part that sat quietly by Chilika’s mist, or watched the shadows move on Hirakud’s blue. A part that still wants to walk through the tangled grace of Bhitarkanika’s mangroves, to listen to the wind rustle through leaves soaked in salt and resilience. That place home to saltwater crocodiles, Olive Ridleys, and thousands of dreams rooted in tidal soil, awaits me. And maybe, by walking into what remains wild and sacred, I will remind myself and others: that saving a wetland is not about nostalgia or sentiment. It is about survival. Not just theirs. Ours.