Sparrows: Fall of the Little Birds

We’ve had them as non-paying guests in every house we have lived in over the decades, in Madras, Bombay (as they were then known), and Delhi. One preferred site for nest-building was in the little bowl above the ceiling fan – a dice-with-death location if ever there was one. (I often imagined the horror on their fledglings’ faces when confronted by their first flight from this location, but Bombay and Delhi were tough cities, so kids get used to it.) Sure enough, there were some tragic single-parent families. Today alas, they seemed to have upped sticks and left, at least from my neck of the woods in Delhi’s Civil Lines, which ought to be a darn sight more hospitable than high up in the Himalayas or deep underground in mines in Yorkshire (UK) where they’re found breeding.

In the 20th century, no one paid sparrows too much attention (except Salim Ali, when he shot his famous yellow-throated sparrow). They were just about everywhere, whirring down and strutting about, picking up dropped grain, chirruping away nonstop. They’ve been hanging around with us for the last 10,000 years and are now happy to pick up whatever kitchen scraps — and restaurant leftovers — come their way. Other items on their menu include small insects, caterpillars, and spiders — especially for the little ones who need protein. They’ve been called “avian rats” for their predation on ripening grain and shot (and even eaten) in their thousands, even if they do redress the balance somewhat by taking out insect pests. Salim Ali mentions the mass depredations of the migratory eastern Spanish sparrow on the ripening wheat fields around Bharatpur in the early 1960s. They are smart birds and are known to work open supermarket doors to get their favourite cereal.

Of the nine species of sparrows found in India (of 26 worldwide), the pugnacious little house sparrow (Passer domesticus) is the most familiar. The male has an ash-grey head, a body flaked in russet and black, a black bib he is inordinately proud of, and greyish-white underparts. The female is less marked and buffish all over. During courtship — in spring and summer — she calls the shots. Three or four prospective suitors will suddenly drop beside her and strut around, thrusting out their chests, depressing and shivering their wings and cocking their tails, their heads raised. She’ll make feints towards the one she chooses, uttering a soft “dee-dee-dee” call and pulling a feather or two. Then they’re good to go for a lifetime together, if you can wink at the occasional transgression. House sparrows have a reputation for being lusty (which is why men like to eat them!), and for this reason, the Greeks associated them with Aphrodite, the goddess of love. (Even Chaucer and Shakespeare threw their hats in the ring.)

They’ll build their home, an untidy bundle of rags and straw, lined with feathers stuffed into any suitable cavity, and lay four or five eggs. Incubation lasts 11-14 days. Amazingly, if both parents tragically perish, the screaming of hungry chicks will attract other adults who will take on the role of foster parents.

One estimate puts their worldwide population at 1.6 billion birds, and they’re of “Least Concern” on IUCN’s Red List. But their numbers are falling steeply, especially in cities like London (by 95 per cent) and in India. Several reasons have been suggested for this: sleek modern architecture in cities which have made our houses and apartments sparrow-unfriendly, massive use of pesticides/herbicides which have destroyed the insects that sparrow fledglings feed on, the introduction of lead-free petrol, where the substitute for lead, (benzene and methyl tertiary-butyl) has done much the same thing. The radiation from mobile towers is also considered a cause.

Sparrows are communal birds and will dust- or water-bathe together. They gather together in enormous numbers at dusk at favourite roosts in trees (with other birds such as mynas), chatter nonstop for a while and then all at once, tuck their heads into their wings and sleep: silence descends with startling suddenness. The same performance is repeated the following morning before they fly off to work.

A few years ago, two house sparrow couples nested at the two ends of my small balcony — and did they have a right royal soap opera going! The lady in one residence obviously took a liking for the gentleman in the neighbouring nest, except that naturally, his wife did not approve at all. One morning, I found the two ladies screaming insults at each other over the head of the gentleman who was sandwiched between them, looking very harassed. (Perhaps he had made all kinds of vainglorious promises to the girl-next-door, which he couldn’t keep.) He flew off to the nearby bottlebrush tree, chased by his screaming wife. His furious, jilted girlfriend began thrashing the couple’s home till the balcony floor looked a right mess.

Later I found that probable girlfriend’s husband got wind of what was going on and discovered the two gentlemen on the floor, beaks enmeshed, eyes glaring in the throes of mortal combat. Unfortunately, I had to leave then and didn’t know the outcome, but the battle had gone on from 11 am to 2 pm with no winner decided. That evening, it seemed as if the girlfriend’s husband had also been physical with her because there was one rather battered, downcast lady, sitting on the bottlebrush tree.

Even so, they did manage to raise young, and I was happy to be present at the first flight of one of the fledglings. The novice had hopped onto the balcony ledge and was looking around nervously while the father yelled encouragement. Eventually, the fledgling jumped off and, whirring his wings frantically, landed smack on the top of the garden hedge below. Then he was off again!

On another occasion, I discovered a frantically cheeping fledgling in my bedroom, trying valiantly to get into the closet. I placed it on the balcony in a shoebox and hoped its parents would take over. They did (so much for the belief that parent birds reject a baby touched by humans.) In spite of feeding it, the little thing died after a couple of days.

We celebrate World Sparrow Day on 20th March every year, and the house sparrow is Delhi’s state bird. But let us hope we begin to see more of this pugnacious, cheerful, randy little bird with its never-say-die attitude to life. Has it simply gone AWOL, or is it MIA? You’ll have to make up your mind about that.

Photo source (sparrow couple), Photo source (sparrows bathing)