WINNERS: 12-18 years category
To Be or Not To Be (A Bird)
Are birds truly free? Or are they at the mercy of whimsical humans whose frivolous actions cost them their lives.
Text by: Anantika Muralee
On 2nd March 2023, we had a great fire at the Brahmapuram Garbage dump in Kochi. The flames were visible from my balcony, along with plumes of dark grey smoke. Every morning our apartment was blanketed with smog. It was difficult to breathe. Yet, the birds chirped. A brainfever bird called out in delight, and I wondered if they were affected by the smoke or if it was business as usual for them.
Schools shut before the annual exams, and we retreated to the pristine village of Ashtamichira, 50 km away. One pleasant evening we stepped out to see the sunset. Lush green paddy fields laden with fresh grain and surrounded by tinkling water channels greeted us. Suddenly we saw a flock of around 200 domesticated ducks rushing towards us, waddling in unison with their master herding them as he waded through the shallow waters. They entered the stream like obedient schoolchildren, making swirling patterns and zigzagging in synchrony like ballerinas — quite a contrast to the ducks that make the headlines. Every year the papers show horrific pictures of ducks being culled due to the threat of bird flu.
As we walked past the fishing nets, we spotted a white-breasted kingfisher badly entangled in the nylon threads. It sat still, exhausted, as if resigned to its fate. We gently cut through the net. Its wings were unharmed. It was silky soft, and weightless. It took off as soon as I put it on my open palm, as if nothing life-changing had just happened. Neither was its heart thumping wildly nor were its claws digging into my skin. It was the master of Zen.
I know a thing or two about sharp claws — my parents had gifted us budgies as pets during the lockdown. I witnessed the highs and lows of their lives, nurtured their chicks, and loved them all. But no matter how much you love a bird, the bird loves nothing more than its freedom.
We walk our dog around the marshy lands near home. One morning we were astonished to see dozens of black kites sitting on the ground. They were probably refugees from the Brahmapuram fire. Now they have become permanent residents of the coconut grove nearby. Then, suddenly one day in April, flocks of birds arrived — white ibises, adjutant storks, and grey herons. Where did they appear from, and why? Migratory birds usually disappear by the end of February. But a flock of whistling teals has joined them. It might be the heat wave in North India that drove them southwards.
When I was about two years old, my mother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. To her surprise, I said, “A bird”! Now I wonder if it would be a good idea to live as a bird at the mercy of whimsical humans whose frivolous actions cost them their lives and freedom. To be or not to be a bird — that is the question.
Never a Dull Moment in the Wetlands of Thalambur
Waltzes, orchestras, and nature’s showmanship are everyday entertainment that birds provide in the wetlands near Chennai
Text by: Harsha Prashanth
From my balcony, there are many things I can see and hear in the wetlands of Thalambur, Chennai . One of the most distinguished sights is a wide array of birds across the vast lands, welcoming the warm sunrise. Each of my avian friends marches to a different tune, yet their songs come together to make a beautiful symphony — nature’s orchestra.
The wetlands where I live are filled with pools of water most of the year around. Being on the thirteenth floor of my high-rise apartment, the watery patches seem like curved jigsaw puzzle pieces. The area is teeming with breakfast, lunch, and dinner for birds, buffaloes, and others (even fishermen). The wetlands are a great example of a symbiotic bond between their inhabitants. The egrets, for instance, common birds in the wetlands, are like sheep grazing around the buffaloes, who act as shepherds. The buffaloes allow egrets the privilege of a piggyback ride and eating off their backs.
Egrets and herons are not the only birds in the wetlands. One particular bird in black-and-white that caught my interest is the pied kingfisher. Hidden within its small body is a charged athlete. Its method of catching fish is quite entertaining. This bird can hover around one place like a drone for quite some time, flapping its wings ridiculously fast, so fast that I can hardly see. And then it dives into the water, its streamlined body like an arrow. Instead of dunking its head into the water to catch fish, as herons and egrets do, the kingfisher makes it more dramatic and fascinating. When it comes out bringing victory in its sharp long beak, it spins and waltzes like a graceful ballerina. This showmanship makes it stand out among the other birds in the wetlands. Put this monochromatic bird in a suit and sunglasses, and he is sure to make a great 007!
One thing I really like about living near the wetlands is that there is never a dull moment. When I was cycling around, I saw a bird that looked like a shikra. I hit the brakes hard and gaped at the bird with awe, nearly getting run over. Another time, I saw a man fishing at the edge of a well and right above him on a wire was a pied kingfisher. This made me think — is this what humans and birds have in common?
I have understood to respect the birds I see and not yell or point at them, remembering that this is their home and not a zoo. Taking up journaling to record my birdwatching in the form of pencil sketches has been rewarding. Drawing these birds helps me get to know them better and fires my curiosity.
Bruce Lee told us, “Be water, my friend”, or to be fluid like the water and not rigid. That, I believe, is the secret to the survival of the wetland’s inhabitants.
WINNERS: Above 18 years category
Forty-Three
The world according to oriental magpie robins
Text by: Sunil Rajagopal
Forty-Three. I don’t know why I counted this at all today. Perhaps because it is the lockdown and sitting out on the balcony and watching birds at leisure is a rare luxury. A pair of oriental magpie robins have made their nest in a hole in the wall on our balcony next to the banyan tree, just above our washing machine. The bold male is a frequent visitor to our birdbath. He sits out on the railing afterwards, cocked tail and glossy pied plumage flashing in the sun. The gentler, greyer female is happier perching closer to the hole, murmuring to herself. They aren’t the only ones raising families in a suddenly mellower human world. A yellow-fronted green pigeon is sitting on her eggs on a neem branch seven feet off the middle of the silent road.
Forty-Three. That is how many visits the dutiful male robin has made to his hole in an hour. Each time with a morsel for his brood and mate. Caterpillars, spiders, butterflies, berries, and once, half a Marie biscuit. The eggs have hatched, and the parents, especially the noisy male, are busy. He sings at dawn, dusk, and in the shade of the banyan at noon. The female ticks and churrs when mynahs or bulbuls approach.
Forty-Three. All that effort, and yet they mean nothing in nature’s relentless way. We awoke this morning to a commotion of alarm calls and the racket of flower-light wings. White eyes and tailorbirds are shouting from the shadows. The mother robin is crying from her perch on the washing machine while the agitated male is desperately flying in and out of the banyan’s foliage. His song today is tinged with grief. A raider has made off with one chick and left behind a dead sibling on the ground with the remnants of the demolished nest. Probably the spotted owlet who roosts amid the drooping leaves of the Ashok next door.
Forty-Three. I counted, and now I cannot forget. The robins have, though. They have moved house across the street to an unused letter box. They are building a new home. And they are singing again.
Dish of the Day: Mangoes in May
Among crows and humans, love and the joy of sharing mangoes
Text by: Nina Bhatt
A pair of jungle crows live and work from the copper pod tree in our backyard. Kaabhai and Kaaben, descendants of a fledgling rescued almost two decades ago, patronise the birdbaths all summer. They use the water dishes as their private larder. Safe from flies and other creatures, food softens and keeps longer in the cool water of the terracotta trays.
Since it’s my job to clean these trays, the Kaa family’s “dish of the day” is seldom a secret: a bird wing, dry roti, a scrap of this, a peel of that. Mangoes, too, overripe ones.
Kaabhai holds down a piece of keri with his claws. Sporting brilliant black, he’s a handsome blot in the white heat of the day. His hook-tip beak seems tailor-made to scoop flesh. The keri’s hues are set off against his dark cloak: saffron and jet. To my surprise, he doesn’t eat the mango right away. Instead, he carries a slice, in a series of sideways hops, to the water dish. There, he dips this already pulpy morsel into the water and begins to stir it into the stew he is cooking. Kaaben sidles up, immaculate in her glossy sheath, and looks askance at her mate.
He scoops a beakful of the smoothie and funnels it down her throat. Keri pulp. Rasa. A Gujju delicacy. A measure of affection, of love. If there’s rasa-puri for lunch and you’re invited, you must be very special to the Shahs, the Patels, the Parmars. And to this rasa is added a pinch of ginger powder and a spoonful of ghee to aid digestion. To balance the doshas. What can Kaabhai have added to the probiotic custard he’s cooking? Dare I enquire?
In our kitchen, shringara (love) rasa of a different kind plays out. The dining table is littered with pots and pans. Yellow gook stuck to every surface in sight.
“Mango rasa for lunch today”, announces Dad, “I’m adding water to the seeds to extract the last bit of juice. You all are going to love it.” Such joy in feeding others what you relish, a way to bond, to share. But who’s to tell my father that the kitchen now looks like the Stewmaker’s workshop, a scene from a crime series?
It all starts when our old mango tree yields a bumper crop. One has read about the mast year in trees (when they produce more fruit than normal), and perhaps the frequent rains this year bring about this largesse.
After several bands of monkeys, birds, and bats fail to finish off the fruit, we harvest the mangoes and bring them in to ripen.
An entire room is requisitioned. The scent of warm hay permeates. Every other day I fill a jhola, make sorties across town to deliver mangoes to friends and relatives. And crows. But for the first time today, I discover that we also share the aam rasa with the Kaa family—an aesthetic, a trick of trade, a recipe ripe for the picking.
Terms and Conditions for Bird Essays: A Writing Contest by Indian Pitta and Roundglass Sustain.
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