There were as many guests on my terrace as were the birds this morning, and the number could not be dismissed as a small one. These birds appear from nowhere, at the time the sun is rolling over from the other side of the world, happening to know it first. And all of them, in a unison, start all kinds of songs and chirps as if some invisible force forbade them to sing so far. In a jungle which surrounds me, mostly made of concrete, this terrace garden is a respite for both visitors and birds. As Keats started Endymion, a poem of mammoth proportions with, “a thing of beauty is a joy forever”.And for everyone too, I might like to add. And I find preen and joy in nothing more than to offer a reprieve to spiritless jaded city dwellers, along with securing an unremitting escape for myself, whenever I wish to go to nature and yet didn’t have circumstances conducive for travel. It is like a mini-vacation on short notice and even shorter travel, across a flight of stairs.

It was 6 AM and the birds were up and about for some time now, mostly looking skywards to get on with their day. They had long distances to cover and some couldn’t say where and how far they would fly to find food. But despite all, the infectious gusto in their chirps and tweets was hardly reflective of uncertainties of the day. They were joyous, ebullient and flitting first thing in the morning, unruffling themselves from slumberous nights rest, and getting ready to leave for their day at the office. To find food, far or near, for themselves and their loved ones. Simple animals .simple lives

“Why don’t you put up a feeder ” asked a fellow friend, as I was acquainting my friends with my reflection of the bird routine.

“Because it would make the birds slothful and workshy” As simply put and as true as possible”.he said after thinking for a while.

“You see Bird is a free animal. If we provide easy food to it, that might become like captivity for it and after some time the natural instincts of flying wide and high in the open sky becomes a ho-hum and a grievous burden, with them forgetting how to fly long and high, eventually, something for which we love the avian kingdom most for, something which sets them apart.”

Of course, the terrace has its shortfalls when expecting birds. One couldn’t expect Peacocks( regardless one strayed over one evening) or Macaws or Treepie or other exotic birds which prefer to stay in their designated geographical and ecological habitats. What my terrace had was an array of small native common birds. Birds which appeared common in appearance and could be seen commonly in nearby gardens. But their sojourn at my terrace was a matter of humble pride for me.

In that spring morning when we were greeted in the garden by a repertoire of bird sounds, I enthusiastically hopped from nest to nest to show these around to my curiously tended friends and their curiouser kids. Being a proud owner of a garden homing few common birds, which suddenly didn’t seem so common to me while my exposition, looked as if I am showing them through my trophies, gathered over time. All this while I distractedly kept an eye towards the sky, a much-needed precaution. These nests were mostly of small size and at all unsuitable places, places as inconceivable as sanitary pipe, and hanging basket or even wedged on a precarious ledge above the window. There were around 20 birdhouses on the terrace, all made of teak (better chances of being accepted by birds and so costlier than the ones made of board or ply) but out of these 20 only a few were occupied and all other still had, to my obvious discontent, a ‘to-let’ board hanging from them. But one thing I have learnt by observing the nesting behaviour of these birds is that I could not alter their free will to make their own nests and that too at places of their choices, even if I try to provide a safe, secure and strong place to them.

One curious kid asked me, “why so many birdhouses when there aren’t as many birds in them”, for which I had a small but gripping story to tell him, which had drama, suspense, horror and all the other elements of a thriller.

It started some two years back. My mornings were mostly consumed at the terrace, Eden, and I had erected a gazebo made of bamboo, which was neither too small nor big and lay on the rear side of the Eden. It had a cane sofa set, where I used to consume in my mornings by, reading, writing, meditation and most important of all to wallow in swell and pride by looking and smelling at fragrances from Jasmine and Plumerias.

It was the time as well when I used to hear songs of birds from all around me, from neighbouring terraces and trees of neighbouring houses. The sheer presence of songs and calls was overwhelming but at the same, It offered me the opportunity and challenge to decode the incoherent songs and calls of the birds. Fretfully not making much grounds, I used to awkwardly nod and skulk. The birds were difficult to see through while I tried to hone my birding ears. You see initially, this momentous lapse of not fitting the sound to a character can be frustrating, especially if the bird doesn’t show up. All kind of songs, trills, chirps, alarm calls, tweets, and perhaps few of them as mating calls and contact calls, which I still was not able to characterize and for the untrained ear as mine, were incoherent. When a spring sunrise would serve up dozens of different species calling at once, picking out a single voice from the chorus felt hard enough, and trying to name each singer, downright overwhelming.

Nevertheless, howsoever inept I may self feel in identifying birds, the joy was always aplenty.

But over the course of time, With a little practice and patience, and some help from Google, birding by ears, though seemed daunting initially, I was decoding many of these songs and calls, which in turn gave me remarkable insights into the kind of few birds flitting around me.

I noticed one sunbird (purple rumped sunbird), a very small iridescent blue hopper, who by habit fed exclusively on the nectary orange Tecoma flowers, and never seen to bother itself for other brightly conspicuous blue morning glory flowers nearby. Such food fads are condoned only in the animal kingdom. Then there were the ubiquitous yet unintimidating pigeons making their presence in the large kit. Though big and beautiful in their own sense, they lost the charm because of being pervasive. And of course the unsavoury but always to be missed crows, which had disappeared with the ‘invasion’ of pigeons in the past few years. Their caw caw is now being systematically replaced by the cooing of pigeons. And the sparrows, the deemed vanishing bird from our terrace, are now being used as a litmus of changing fauna. As you can see them here now in abundance, but in those days it was occasional and rare and gave me a unique sense of satisfaction of being close to an endangered species. As such my knowledge was incomplete about endangered birds and animals and so wouldn’t recognise a bird or butterfly, even if it is one of the only few left in the world pays a visit to my terrace.

Well, the story is not about any of these though. It’s about a bird whose calls I heard consistently and clearly as if coming from close by, on a daily basis. On closer look, I could make out it was the Bulbul (Red Vented Bulbul) with bold vivacious chirp and small size, flitting from branch to branch, though preferred bamboo sticks projecting from the frame of the gazebo to perch. It made its presence regularly, two times a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. It did not appear to be a casual visitor, coming for nectar or insects or pests on the leaves and soil, or for some shade while passing over. Rather it looked as if it belonged here to his garden sharing the same address as mine- III floor, M6 sector 12 Pratap Vihar. But still, I couldn’t locate which part of the garden they nested. On retrospection I grasped why I couldn’t locate the guests was because they didn’t want me to. In fact, there were two of them, obviously in a pair as most of the small birds are, and they sat in diagonally opposite parts of the garden trying to communicate and making clever conspiracy calls against me so as not to divulge their whereabouts. They were indeed clever for their size and taxonomy, and I was much baffled by them for long despite my higher evolutionary rungs.

This continued for a few agonising days when I became restless and inanely curious. To find, I started watching and orienting myself with their positions closely. I was creating a spatial relationship between their calls to make a good guess.No luck. Then one fine day when I had given up on it and left my self-esteem in a lurch to make myself believe that perhaps they didn’t belong here and have a different address, I saw one of these birds, a male, by the look of dark patch on the throat, clutching on a hanging basket just in front and above my head, making high pitched calls, perhaps to his partner to indicate her that the coast is clear. Though I exalted, thinking this as a victory of my curious self, my alter ego telling me that I have been mercifully shown rather than finding it. Anyways then started a long journey of trust and the relationship between these birds and a human. Hitherto, me being considered inimical by these birds, now the things were changing rapidly. Daily they would come and flitter here and there for some time and then clutch on the basket and peck in it. That reminded me that perhaps this particular basket had not been watered for long as it falls slightly being out of the way. They were making a nest of straws and twigs and next few days I could see them bringing straw in their beak furiously throughout the day. At times they used to make more than 50 trips in a matter of one hour, and all this while, they were checking the safety and intrusion in the basket, and finding it dry for many days in succession, decided to make this as their habitat.

Their laborious trips fill the small spare vacuous gaps I had in my mornings and it became part of my routine to watch them travail. There is some of the same fitness in a man’s building his own house that there is in a bird’s building its own nest. It reminded me of a few years back when I too was procuring building material to build my house, of course not in my beak. Mine procurement was bigger in size but these birds were definitely much more effortful. Apart from awe, I developed a reverence for them, for their cleverness, their hard work, respect which deepened as I spent more time watching them.Eventually, it was not only me who was showing changes of disposition towards the birds. These small birds too had changed their demeanour, their outlook against me. From confusing me on a war footing to allowing me to see their nest and now coming closer to me and chirping at an arms distance, I had apparently stopped being a threat to them. Whenever I neared them they didn’t flit away as was the case a few days before. But now, perhaps accepting me and my dog, Newton, as a part of the garden they stayed om me nearing them, though cautiously, turning their neck in all directions. Thoughtfully to enjoy their company, I had to stop paying obviously visible attention to them making them more comfortable in my presence. I tried to remain still, walking and talking less in their presence as to not intimidate them- In order to enjoy birds, it is necessary to become a part of the silence.

So much so that I would put aside my mobile mostly whenever I was sharing the terrace with. After all, they too were the proud, hard-worked owner of this address.

Then one day while they were pecking on the basket, in my opinion, to do detailed work on nest building, I saw a small beak along with the meek begging calls of the chic. The chick was craning its neck out to meet her mother’s mouth. These calls were continuous and sounded pretty darn pathetic. In fact, there were two of them. It was such a charmingly amusing sight-two chicks fluttering their small tender wings, necking themselves above each other, eagerly making feeding calls to take the fragile worm from their mother. These were vulnerable, slender, and adorable. The mother while feeding them was looking distrait as to avoid being noticed, as this was the only time that the chicks were exposed. I became quite centered to this feeding and found it quite delightful. I even took zoomed in a snap and used my binoculars to have a closer look, maintaining and respecting the distance between us. Beyond my understanding of bird behavior, by maintaining my distance, the assurance she showed in me increased to another level. She now started coming down to my table and picking up food crumbs from my recent snacking. I marvelled that if the things go this way then perhaps someday soon she would come and pick food from my open palms as happen with some of not so shy birds,suitably and amply trained, in bird parks under the supervision of park guides. But soon I had to learn this bitter lesson that she maintained her distance, never coming closer by few feet and that there was a limit as to how close she would come near me even if she trusted me fully(which I thought).But I was ok with her ‘social distancing’ after the initial few moments of disappointment, and my respect for the bird grew. She was not being greedy or gullible. Boundaries which have been sent over the course of thousands of years of evolutionary learning from experiences by the birds were being strictly observed.

Many a day, whenever I strayed on my Eden for basking in the lukewarm winter sun, with morbid curiosity, would crane my neck and guiltily try to peek inside the basket, in the absence of their parents. One particular day that I recall, an Eagle, flying on much higher rungs of taxonomy and the sky, was seen soaring well seventy-five metres above me. I wrapped up my curious peeking immediately and cautiously went back to my place.

And then I had to leave town for two days for an errand.On coming back, I noticed that the momma and papa birds were there but the act of feeding was not to be seen. I continued on a lookout for few days and still couldn’t see the chicks, which otherwise were keenly sticking their necks out of the nest and making weak sharp calls for their parents,while awaiting them to bring their food.

“where had the chicks gone?”.My heart skipped a few beats. Have they learned flying and gone away while I was gone?.

Two things prevented me from acknowledging this. First, the parent birds were still visible morning and evening doing the same routine calls and hopping around the hanging basket. And second, more profound was, that how could the chicks learnt to fly just like that. all of a sudden in a day or two and flew so unceremoniously, away from the nest. It hurt me badly because all these days , while I observed them diligently I had hoped to see them in a process of making first vainful attempts of flying and struggling to do so. It would have been a comical sight . But these birds spared me my share of entertainment. Their learning to fly could not have been possible without my empirically observing eyes to watch it.

“Then what?” It suddenly the Eagle which was hovering that day, flashed before my eyes. With her ‘Eagle eyes’ she could have seen me observing something conspicuously and keenly that afternoon and could have found my presence irregular and unexplained and would have deductively guessed about some nest. And in my absence swooped down and clasped its lunch unceremoniously.

“Oh my God! what have I done?”

“How can I be so careless and mindless of my doings?”

“Why did this has to happen, with me becoming the instrument?

“Will I be able to come out of this abject self-reproach soon?”

It was the hard and incessant one month’s labour for these two innocent birds. And now that they had started trusting me, will they ever come to know who took away their babies and even if they would by the smell of some instinctual basis, will they be ever able to find out who was the real culprit behind this misdoing”. Perhaps that’s why they are still coming over on this terrace, near to me, making calls to reveal me their story of grief and tragedy. Telling and trying to find sympathy from me. Me- who himself is perchance the culprit for them. Will I be able to face them, or be able to hear and enjoy their trills apparently sweet but now laden with grief.

I was overwhelmed with abysmal grief. It was too burdensome for me.

“Will I ever come out of this. It would take me a lifetime to forgive myself?”

After a few days, one morning while I sat on the terrace, in remorse, having my cup of tea, shying away from the birds which I had named Bulbul and Chulbul entirely for myself, I heard loud chirping and identified the sounds as coming from Bulbuls from more than two sources. Maybe more of their kind have hopped in on my terrace. And then what I saw, I could not take out of my mind my entire life. The sight was so remarkably exhilarating and breathtaking. Six ‘Red Vented Bulbuls’, all perched together on the panel of bamboo on the front wall of the gazebo facing me and their calls appeared to be addressed me. They appeared one happy family. If ever in my life I felt a need to learn a foreign language,(which I didn’t even felt even during my many foreign trips), it was this moment. I so very frantically wanted to understand what they said in unison, to me. All I heard was some peculiar song which was sounding something like chik-a-dee!chik-a-dee!. Apart from Bulbul and Chulbul, two were perhaps their kids who had quite grown in these few days to have an adult-like plumage yet smaller in size to their parents. And two more bulbuls who were the size of the kids. All in all, there were three pairs. Not only was I immediately lifted from my remorseful gloom, I found myself repeating chik-a-dee!chik-a-dee!, with my tongue and palate, without knowing the meaning.

Apparently they were saying ‘thank you’ to me for sharing my address with them, in a tone which couldn’t have been sweeter for my ears, or they wanted to take my permission to go away to some other place with their newly augmented family, in which case I was all eager to offer my terrace for few more of their nest if the case be.The pleasure of sharing my address was all mine. I don’t know what they were trying to convey, but whatever it was, it was very sweet to ears and to my soul. Then while I sat there watching them intently they all, perhaps after finishing what they wanted to say, fluttered away together, leaving me poignantly saddened.

To my sheer surprise next morning, I saw all of them back to my terrace hopping in and out of the basket nest. Maybe it was too small for them now.They needed at least a three-bedroom set. hat afternoon I went to the local kitchen garden store and bought five sturdy birdhouses, and mounted at different places on the terrace. To my dismay none of these bulbuls occupied any of these birdhouses. Maybe they were too colourful or too unnatural for them. Or that it was some kind of reverse phenomenon as brood parasitismThe cartoon image of our birdhouse is too discordant to what bird build and live in. These birdhouses stayed unoccupied for a long time but something strange happened next autumn. At least three or four more pairs of birds come from somewhere and added their name to my nameplate. One of them was a sparrow and another was common Myna.

“One particular bird I could not find in any of the bird pictionaries. It was small, and kept on humming over the flowers and could swim backwards as well as forwards in the air.”I came back from my reverie and addressed to the bunch of small kids gambolling nearby.

“Bunty blurted suddenly “hummingbird! ”

I smiled. “I was just checking whether you were paying attention.”

Dr. Narendra Goel