Ankasamudra Bird Conservation Reserve: A Sweet Symphony of Waterbirds

The moon hangs like a lantern in the late December sky, bathing the rocky landscape of Hampi in its pale, silvery glow. I consider rolling down the windows of the car, but I know it’s biting cold outside, so I content myself with being an observer. The roads are empty, the sky is vast, and the last full moon of the year is quietly taking her leave. I soak in the silence of the pre-dawn, let the stillness of the moment seep into my bones, slowing down the thoughts in my mind. The moon sinks behind a boulder just as the sky lightens, and as if on cue, a flock of birds appear in the sky, in perfect V-formation.

I’m on my way to the Ankasamudra Bird Conservation Reserve, about an hour from the entre of Hampi town, and a few minutes from the expansive Tungabhadra Reservoir. Unlike the rest of Hampi, Ankasamudra isn’t characterised by massive granite boulders and rocky wilderness. Instead, it has a lake dotted with half-submerged acacia trees, home to over 150 bird species. Most of these are waterbirds, like ducks, herons, and pelicans, and it boggles my mind that this wetland ecosystem lies so close to the arid geography of Hampi. It is a reminder of the myriad ways in which water shapes land and life at large.

At the reserve, my companion and I meet Ravi, a naturalist from the nearby village of Ankasamudra, who walks us up a machan, perched about 30 feet high. From this aerial lookout, we quietly absorb the vista before us: pearl grey skies, gnarly leafless trees, and thousands of birds, perfectly reflected in the calm waters of the lake. It’s like a painting come to life, and as the sky brightens, the din of the birds grows louder, until it is a full-on symphony.

Ankasamudra’s story is quite something. The lake has been around for 300 years and was fed from the overflow of the Tungabhadra River, via a little stream. Sometime in the 1980s, the government installed check dams and soakpits across the stream, cutting off the water supply, and rendering the lake a seasonal phenomenon. It would fill up in the monsoon and dry up in summer, and before long, farmers from the area began cultivating food crops around the space.

I learn this from an article by Samad Kottur, a naturalist, writer, photographer, and honorary president of North Karnataka Birders’ Network (NKBN), who is based in the nearby town of Hospet. “Sensing that they would lose the lake to cultivation, the Forest Department planted Acacia nilotica trees extensively in the dried lake,” Kottur writes, “and protected the plantation under the ‘Foreshore Plantation Project’.” As the trees matured, they attracted roosting birds, and the lake became a monsoon hotspot for avians in the area.

Still, the lake remained dry for much of the year until the local gram panchayat started pumping water into it. It was a decision taken to increase groundwater levels in the area, to aid the surrounding farmers, but it was a boon for the birds too. “Ankasamudra Lake probably succeeded because it met all the important criteria birds use to choose a nesting area: tall and thorny trees, shallow water, availability of food, and an area with less disturbance while still having some human activity which drives away predators like cats, snakes, or raptors.” Most significantly, Kottur writes, “It is the only such place for nesting waterbirds in the entire Hyderabad-Karnataka region”.

At the machan, I try to count the number of calls my ears detect, but I can’t tell the high-pitched twitters from the chirps, clucks, quacks, and trills. One call sounds uncannily like an alarm clock, another like a deep honk, and one sounds so melodious it feels like spring incarnate. Layer upon layer of life yielding a richness of sound that seems entirely perfect and imperfect all at once. Symphony or cacophony? It’s impossible to tell.

Ravi points out a grey-headed swamphen moving through the water near the lake’s edge, bobbing its head to an invisible beat. Its plumage is exquisite: a swirl of purple, blue, and silvery grey that reminds me of a tussar silk scarf in my cupboard. In the sky, I see bee-eaters swooping through the air, snapping up insects midflight, then perching on a tree to whack the prey against branches before eating them up. Further up, swallows careen through the air like daredevils, while flocks of glossy ibis fly in obedient lines, like black ants on a grey wall of sky.

We leave the machan to walk around the lake while Ravi tells us more about Ankasamudra. He’s young, excitable, and proud of the wealth of diversity in his backyard. Ever so often, he points at birds on electric wires, amidst aquatic plants, on fences between farmlands, urging us to look through binoculars to appreciate the colours of their plumage. At first, I try to commit their names to memory, but I give up pretty soon and simply bask in their beauty.

We walk around the lake’s periphery, dotted with farms of cabbage and sugarcane. One farmer, in particular, catches my eye. He’s driving a tractor through the field, sending clumps of mud and muck flying through the air. Trailing behind him is a motley crew of birds: egrets, pond herons, and mynah, waiting to snap up any worms or bugs the tractor unearths.

Like many wetlands, the diversity in Ankasamudra swells in winter, when migratory species such as the rosy pelican, bay-backed shrike, and pin-tailed duck can be spotted, but Ravi says the diversity varies with water levels. “This year, there’s been lots of rain, so the water level is deeper,” he explains in Kannada. “So many shallow-water species have not arrived. A few years ago, there was hardly any water, just some puddles, and barely any birds that year.”

Some of the birds we see, like the pelican and oriental darter, are elegant in stature, as if they belong in a calligraphy scroll in a monastery. Others, like the bunting, are small sparrow-like creatures but impressive in their own way: Ravi tells us they fly from Europe every year to winter in these parts. We watch black-shouldered kites play-fighting in the air, admire the handiwork on a colony of weaver bird nests, and chuckle at a raucous bunch of babblers that Ravi informs us are called the seven sisters because they always roam in groups.

All this bird-talk makes me wonder about the feathered friends in my backyard, back home in Kodaikanal: do they live in the hills around the year? Are they winter visitors? What do they eat? I find myself pondering these things, curious to observe them more closely upon my return home, maybe invest in a pair of binoculars.

Before I realise it, it’s 10am — four hours since we arrived. The sun has risen in the sky, sweat is snaking down my back, and the birds have started seeking shelter in the foliage around the lake. We thank Ravi for invaluable insights, give thanks to the people that created and nurture this wonderful birding haven, and set our sights on a nice, late breakfast. Maybe some hot idlis at a street-side stall near a waterbody? Who knows what we might spot.