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Bird in the bush...no, in the house
HERE I am, newly settled in the rural environs of Thrikkakara, with an undulating expanse of grassland, tree and scrub on all sides, eager to fill in all those abysmal gaps in my environmental education. I'm newly retired too - I shall study flora, fauna, astronomy, good housekeeping, and poetry. My heart is quite ready to burst with expectation! But I have to start somewhere. The sight of a pair of golden orioles darting and flitting among the trees is an inspiration. Birds it shall be, to start with.
But I must go about it scientifically; there is no excuse any longer for half-baked, slipshod methods. Salim Ali! How can I even think of studying birds without the aid of `The Book of Indian Birds'! Stay where you are, I tell the little fellow with soft brown plumage and a red throat carolling on the telephone wire near my balcony, wait till I get the bird book. I do the round of the Ernakulam bookshops and find it isn't available in the city. Luckily I have to make a trip to Bangalore the next week and there it is, in the Strand. I lift it with eager, trembling hands and heave a sigh of relief.
Back in Thrikkakara, raring to go. Birds, here I come. Is it a dream or can I actually hear little cheeps near my bed? I jump up with a start and listen carefully. No mistake, the cheeps are coming from behind our curtains. I peer behind them and draw up with a start. There's a full-fledged nest of grass, thick lemon grass, a lot of field grass, and two little brown and red birds in flight, twittering reproachfully. I sniff the lemon grass appreciatively and wonder if we could perhaps let the birdies be, but my maid sweeps up the nest while I try to make up my mind, and I have a sneaking sense of relief.
For the next two weeks we find grasses of various varieties festooning our bedroom curtains. I show my husband the strands of fragrant lemon grass and explore the possibility of letting the determined little pair complete their valiant effort at building a perfumed nest, and am told in no uncertain terms that curtains weren't meant to be trees.
A suspicious bulge in the landing curtains makes me curious. I lift them tentatively, to be greeted by something warm and sticky on my arm and a flurry of ruby red and dark brown. It's a pair of bulbuls, and they have informed me in no uncertain terms that my interference is resented. The maid knocks down the twig and leaf nest with a sharp push of her long handled broom and mutters an imprecation as a noxious smell of broken bulbul egg fills the landing. We wipe up the mess, and she assures me that the nest couldn't have survived on the precarious space between window frame and curtain.
Salim Ali wouldn't have liked this one bit, I tell myself. I pick up my bird book with reverence and turn the pages. The little pests, oops, little birds with red throats and brown plumage must be very easy to identify I sift through pages on, `how to recognise birds in the field', gorgeous colour plates and explanatory notes.. . Are they tits or flower peckers or sunbirds? I have it, I tell myself jubilantly, and it's a Ruby throat! My jubilation is short-lived.
Salim Ali informs me that these are found in the Himalayas and foothills. I should first eliminate the obviously unlikely varieties, I decide. They're not pelicans or owls or eagles.. I pore over the pages. "Guess what ? There's a nest on the fan in your balcony,'' my son informs me gleefully. I rush up , switch on the fan , the grass comes tumbling down and I gather it up. The little pair is cheeping noisily on the wire .The routine for the next fortnight never varies. By midday the fan is draped with grass, I bring it down, by nightfall there's grass again, I bring it down. Their persistence is amazing. I shake a broom at them threateningly and they cheep in chorus from a safe perch on the laburnum next door. Meanwhile the bulbuls are permitted to nest on the lampshade in the front veranda, but before I have time to congratulate myself on my brotherhood with bulbuls another pair has decided that one lampshade is as good as another and invade my drawing room. The pretty cushion covers are splattered with droppings every time I surprise these enterprising parents to be. I yell and shout at them, to be greeted by a plaintive trill from the creeper outside. I wish I had a catapult, I tell myself. I am assailed by regret. Forgive me, good doctor, I murmur as I dust the cover of the bird book. These pests - no, birds who leave droppings on my new cushions can only be treated as pests - are Red whiskered Bulbuls I learn. I have at last recognised a bird other than the house crow and am rather pleased with myself.
I need binoculars, I guess. Salim Ali , you sly old thing , you're bent on teaching me, aren't you ? How else can I explain the sudden arrival of an unexpected nephew from the U.S. and the unexpected gift of a pair of binoculars? The spirit of Salim Ali must be at work. I am up early armed with the binoculars. For the time being the nesting season seems to be over and I am determined to find out the name of a species of yellow tailed, grey and brown birds that I have grown very fond of, because they have never invaded my house and have found ample space in Thrikkakara to nest, other than the fans and curtains and lamps of my house.
Warbler, pipit, chat. What an endless, what a bewildering variety! To compound my confusion the male and female are very unlike each other in many cases. Let me see, I must study the tail feathers in motion. I try to focus the binoculars and end up looking at a section of the gate. Dear, dear, now the birds have flown in a flurry of excited chatter and a bulbul, Red whiskered and impudent, sallies into the living room and I follow in haste, shaking my binoculars at it with loud threats. Now I understand how the terms `bird brained' and `bird witted ' were coined, as I switch on the fan in the bedroom balcony for the umpteenth time and throw away the grass of a nest in the making for the umpteenth time.
I think of the Chinese peasants who destroyed millions of birds to conserve crops, at the behest of Mao's minions, and wonder why I thought so harshly of the poor chaps. Salim Ali seems very far away. But I persevere. I buy a couple of nesting pots and get the boy who helps with the garden to fix them up invitingly in secluded corners. The birds swoop over them and make for a new fan, the one in the living room upstairs. I station myself below the fan, switch it on at an intimidating speed and pick up the bird book. The good doctor tells me that the actions of nesting birds are governed by instinct, and not by intelligence. Their actions and behaviour, he informs me sagely, are not to be judged solely by comparison with human standards. Sorry doc, I murmur exultantly, as Red whisker peeps into the room and wings away with a plaintive trill. "Go find a tree, you dumb bird," I call after it with a shake of my fist.
NIRMALA ARAVIND
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