In the heart of the Aravali hills, where ancient rocks whisper stories of resilience and the wind carries the scent of wild neem and kareel, a quiet revolution is taking root. It’s not led by politicians or scientists — but by children, mimicking birds in the forest, and by a man with a mission to preserve a living legacy.

Every weekend, the sleepy rhythms of Mangar Bani — a sacred forest nestled in Haryana’s rugged Aravali range — are stirred by the laughter of children and the rustle of wings, both real and imagined.

In a patch of clearing under the canopy, a group of young students flutter their arms like wings, dodge “predators,” and seek shelter from imaginary storms. They are participating in an unusual yet powerful activity called “Pakshi Jeevan Ek Sangharsh” — The Struggles of a Bird’s Life.

It’s no ordinary game.

Here, children step into the talons of birds, experiencing firsthand the threats of habitat loss, climate change, pesticides, and predators. And by the time they finish — dancing as “birds” who’ve made it home safely thanks to conservation — they aren’t just entertained. They’re transformed.

“It’s not just about learning,” says Sunil Harsana, the quiet force behind the initiative. “It’s about feeling — really feeling — what it’s like to lose your home, your safety, your sky. That’s when it clicks.”

A Classroom Beneath the Trees

Sunil isn’t your typical conservationist. Raised in the pastoral community of Mangar village, he grew up attuned to the rhythm of nature — the sounds of birds at dawn, the scent of rain-soaked earth, the instinctual knowledge of which plants heal and which protect.

When parts of Mangar Bani were earmarked for industrial development in 2011, something in him stirred. This forest — sacred not only to the region’s biodiversity but to the people who lived alongside it — was under threat. Bulldozers didn’t just mean trees lost; they meant culture lost, identity erased.

So, Sunil picked up where traditional schooling left off.

In 2015, he founded the Mangar Eco Club — a grassroots initiative that turned the forest itself into a classroom, and local children into its guardians. Through activities like birdwatching, nature painting, dam-building, and environmental games, the club bridges the chasm between theory and experience.

“We don’t talk about nature,” Sunil explains, “We play in it, feel it, breathe it.”

Learning to See

One of Sunil’s early students, Nikhil Gurjar, remembers his first day vividly.

“I used to call every bird I saw chidiya,” he laughs. “Now, I can tell you which ones are red-vented bulbuls, which are Indian robins, which vultures are endangered. Mangar taught me to see differently.”

Nikhil, now 23, continues to work alongside Sunil, organising awareness campaigns, assisting with check dams, and guiding new batches of children into the wild heart of the forest.

He still calls Sunil bhaiya — big brother — not just out of affection, but reverence.

“He showed us that cutting one tree can echo across generations,” Nikhil says. “That what we destroy, we can’t always rebuild.”

Guardians of an Ancient Forest

Mangar Bani is no ordinary patch of wilderness. Spread across 3,800 acres — with 1,700 protected as a sacred grove — it is one of the last remaining native forests of the Delhi-NCR region. Here, ancient trees like ronjh, kareel, and barna provide shelter to an astonishing range of life: leopards, hyenas, jackals, porcupines, and monitor lizards.

And then there are the birds — 245 recorded species, including the critically endangered red-headed vulture and Egyptian vulture.

For Sunil, each feathered creature is both a wonder and a warning. “They’re the indicators,” he says. “If they vanish, everything else follows.”

A Different Kind of Activist

Sunil’s journey isn’t confined to the forest. With a background in mass communication and a current degree pursuit in anthropology, he navigates both field and forum — organising local campaigns, filing petitions, and collaborating with forest departments.

His efforts have stalled illegal mining, curbed real estate encroachments, and sparked a public dialogue around the sacredness of gair mumkin pahar — the uncultivable hill tracts critical for ecosystem balance.

His approach is unapologetically anti-tokenism.

“I’m not a fan of plantation drives,” he says. “People plant a sapling, take a selfie, and forget about it. Protection comes before plantation. Forests don’t need decorating — they need defending.”

Instead, he focuses on preserving what already thrives. His team, many of them Eco Club alumni, build check dams before the monsoons, using boulders to prevent soil erosion and help water percolate back into the earth — a method drawn from ancestral wisdom.

Nature’s Pied Piper

Locals have taken to calling Sunil the ‘Pied Piper of Mangar Bani’, not because he leads with a flute, but because he leads with heart.

He doesn’t lure children away from the village — he brings them back to it. Back to their roots, their forests, their responsibility.

So far, he has mentored over 100 children — many of whom continue to champion his cause online, in schools, and within their communities. Slowly but surely, they are becoming stewards of a living legacy.

A Forest’s Future

To walk through Mangar Bani is to feel time slow down. Every rustling leaf, every birdcall is a whisper from the past — a reminder that this land once teemed with life, culture, and coexistence.

Thanks to Sunil Harsana and his army of young environmentalists, it still does.

“People ask why I didn’t take a city job,” he says. “But how could I? Every child who smiles after spotting a new bird, every check dam that holds back a flood, every protest that protects a tree — that’s my salary.”

As more children dance like birds beneath the Aravali sky, Mangar Bani remains — not just a forest, but a movement.

And in this movement, every flutter matters.