Bird’s the Word in Mangalajodi

About two hours outside Bhubaneswar, a narrow lane veers off the highway, marked by a small board that reads: “Important Bird Area”. The road leads to Mangalajodi, a small village on the northern edge of Odisha’s Chilika Lake. Only the most ardent birders make a beeline for this hamlet, lured by the promise of fantastic sightings on the marshy wetland that borders it.

Every year, winged visitors from the Siberian tundra, Central Asia, and the Far East fly thousands of kilometres to winter at Chilika Lake. Occupying a vast 1,165 sq km, Asia’s largest brackish water lagoon hosts lakhs of resident birds and migratory birds from September to March. In January 2021, more than 12 lakh birds belonging to 190 different species were recorded at Chilika Lake but spotting these visitors on an endless expanse of open water is not always easy.

Mangalajodi is a small part of Chilika Lake, but vastly different in its makeup. Narrow, reed-lined water channels connect the main Chilika Lake to a freshwater zone on its northern frontier. However, the habitat of Mangalajodi (shallow freshwater, reeds, marshes) is very different from the rest of Chilika Lake (brackish deep water, no vegetation on the water). The waters of Mangalajodi, are barely two feet deep, and a dramatic departure from Chilika Lake’s expansive greyscale panorama. Spread across roughly 60 sq km, marshes, reed beds, and patches of open water define the habitat. Glorious white and pink water lilies punctuate the scene, their colours blazing against the deep green of aquatic plants and the moss-like hydrilla that floats just beneath the surface.

Wooden country boats ply these shallow waters, and are named for the local birds Stilt, Pintail, Grebe. On a quiet afternoon in late November 2021, my guide Bhagyadhar Behera and I are aboard Tern, weaving our way between tight clumps of shaggy-topped nala grasses that sprout from the water. Behera informs me that the tall reeds are scientifically known as phragmites karka, and that fishing cats often dwell in their shelter. Many freshwater birds like the common coot (fulica atra), bitterns, and moorhens live within the reeds.

We’re on a quest to spot the many migrants that have already arrived to join their resident avian friends. Over the years, roughly 228 bird species have been recorded in Chilika during the winter, of which over a 100 are migrant visitors. The ecosystem is dynamic, and these numbers vary each year. I’m particularly interested in seeing birds of prey, perhaps the western marsh harrier (circus aeruginosus) or the peregrine falcon (falco peregrinus), but Behera looks doubtful, as these are rare sightings.

Within minutes, we spot visitors from Ladakh — a pair of orange-hued ruddy shelducks (tadorna ferruginea), the male sporting a distinct black collar. From afar, the skinny crimson legs of the black-winged stilt (himantopus himantopus) are the first things I notice about them. A sea of little heads concealed within the tall grass turns out to be a large gathering of northern pintails (Anas acuta), migratory ducks from Central Asia named for their sharp, pin-like tail feathers. The scene is a living, breathing poster of diversity, where inhabitants of every shape, colour, and size, from different corners of the globe coexist peacefully.

We spot squat little grebes (tachybaptus ruficollis) and slender darters (anhinga melanogaster); bronze-winged jacanas (metopidius indicus) with metallic green backs and snowy white egrets of different sizes swimming alongside tiny, yellow-faced lapwings and mahogany-hued glossy ibis (plegadis falcinellus). The flamboyant plumage is eye-catching, but the speckled, striped, and mottled birds in muted tones of sepia and sand are equally intriguing. Some, like the Eurasian curlew (numenius arquata) sport sharp, curved bills, while others like cotton teals (nettapus coromandelia) have short, stubby beaks.

Behera keeps up a steady supply of facts about the birds we see: ruddy shelducks always live in pairs and the loss of a mate is devastating for the other; black-winged stilts rest on one leg after feeding; the resident purple moorhen lays 21 eggs in as many days.

A piercing shriek interrupts the silence, announcing the first among hundreds of fluffy purple moorhens (porphyrio porphyrio) that we will spot that afternoon. A noisy bird sets off a series of curious sounds: guttural groans, deep rumbles, and mewling cries that Behera identifies as the call of the pheasant-tailed jacana (hydrophasianus chirurgus), a resident bird named for the long, sickle-shaped tail it sports during the breeding season.

Once my ears are tuned to the song of the habitat, the area comes alive with the symphony of life all around us: the splish-splosh of fish and frogs in the water, and the hum of deep blue damselflies hovering just above the surface. A furious flapping alerts me to a comical display as a flock of common coots run across the water to take flight, leaving a spray of water in their wake.

Every so often, a duck dives into the water as it searches for its next meal. An ebony-hued jungle crow perches within mere feet of our boat, a small egg the size of a table tennis ball clutched firmly in its sharp beak. “Turtle egg,” says Behera.

Even as the feeding frenzy unfolds, we come upon a mixed group of northern pintails, gadwalls, ruddy shelducks, and glossy ibis all hanging out together. “In a meeting”, as Behera says, indicating that there is no competition for food between the species.

The waters of Mangalajodi offer an open-air, all-you-can-eat buffet where every inhabitant is both predator and prey. For the lakhs of birds that arrive year after year, there is no dearth of food, even in such a limited area. Small prawns, fish, snakes, insects like the water skeeter, roots, fruits, and wild grass — all of it is on the menu.

Asian openbill storks (Anastomus oscitans) feed on snails while black-winged stilts eat small prawns and insects. While many birds feed on fish, there are in turn, catfish and other larger inhabitants of the water that hunt smaller birds and raid their nests.

“Not all birds are non-vegetarian though”, says Behera, telling me how black-tailed godwits (Limosa limosa) use their long, sharp bills to uproot water grasses locally known as pirudito feed on their sweet roots. “The most popular food is the fruit of the waterlily,” he continues as he pulls a green pod from the water and pops it open to reveal what looks like a miniature version of a pomegranate with tiny pink seeds inside.

Until the mid-1990s, poaching was rampant in Mangalajodi. Poachers would inject waterlily fruits with poison to hunt birds. Mangalajodi has come a long way since then, and its conservation story of a community of poachers turned protectors is well known. Now, former poachers work as naturalist guides and boatmen, taking tourists like me out on the water for close-up encounters with thriving avian life.

With poaching largely under control, the birds’ concern is other winged predators. For instance, Behera has spied a large form perched on a muddy embankment. His excitement is palpable as he directs me to train my binoculars on a regally poised, slate-grey figure with bright-yellow feet. “Peregrine falcon”, he whispers. The falcon has most likely arrived from northern Asia for the winter and is busy feeding. We are close enough to see it tear flesh from bone. For one of the fastest creatures on Earth, it takes its time with its kill, feeding slowly and deliberately. When it flies away, Behera, keen to inspect the remains of the day, hops out of the boat and shows me the severed head of a small duck amidst its entrails. “A garganey from Siberia,” he says. Even as the bird’s migration comes to an end, the cycle of nature carries on.