Kallur Balan did not seek recognition. He did not write books, nor command the podium at international climate summits. His work was quieter, the slow and unglamorous toil of one man against the arid land. But when he died on Monday, aged 75, the forests he left behind spoke for him.
The hills of Palakkad, Thrissur, and Malappuram in Kerala, once barren and dry, now teem with life—palm and bamboo, tamarind and neem, birds, monkeys, and the occasional wild pig. The green tide spread by his hands, one sapling at a time, stretched over 100 acres of what was once wasteland. The task took decades. The tools were rudimentary: a bamboo staff, a green lungi, and a lifetime of stubborn devotion.
Balan had not been born to such work. The son of a toddy tapper, he spent his early years following his father’s trade. His future might have been much the same, had he not encountered the teachings of Sree Narayana Guru, whose words convinced him to renounce liquor and look elsewhere for purpose. He found it in the trees.
What began as a simple habit—planting saplings wherever he could—soon became an obsession. He planted by roadsides, in public spaces, across the hills. He did not merely plant but nurtured, returning to tend each tree like a child. And when he saw that wildlife suffered, he took to feeding them too. Every morning, he gathered castoff fruits from market traders and carried them to the forests, offering sustenance to monkeys, birds, and wild pigs that came to trust his voice calling across the trees.
If his work was at first unnoticed, that changed in 2011 when he was awarded the Vanamitra—Kerala’s “Friend of the Forest” prize. But the honor did not alter his way of life. He still rose with the sun, green-clad as always, and made his rounds. The trees and animals had come to expect him.
Conservationists often speak of grand strategies, of policy and global action. Balan had no use for such language. He worked with his hands, unwavering in the belief that his corner of the world could be saved with enough patience and care. In the face of indifference, he did not protest—he planted. Where others saw ruin, he saw the possibility of renewal.
He is survived by his wife and three sons, but his true legacy is measured in the forests that will outlive him. The shade-giving trees along the roads, the green expanse of the Chutiyanparamalai valley, the wildlife he sustained—all of it remains, a quiet testament to a life well spent.
