Forest Fugue: The Seasonal Sounds of Avalahalli

I first discovered the Avalahalli forest when I moved to Bangalore city over three years ago and needed to get away from the bustle for a while. Little did I know just how much of a refuge it would be — its ever-changing landscape and avian choruses would mark the seasons of my life in the years to come. Avalahalli State Forest lies just north of Bangalore, off the road towards Doddaballapura, barely 20 km from the city centre. It is a plantation of silver oak, eucalyptus, and acacia, with the occasional neem and tamarind tree that is considered a forest and is fringed by wetlands, farmlands and settlements.

Summer Symphonies

From late February to May, “thirsty” acacia and eucalyptus trees, known for their high water consumption, shelter a wilted undergrowth of lantana and bitter bush. Each summer, the forest department burns strips of undergrowth to counter fires in this parched landscape. The fire-slaked forest might seem almost desolate, yet birdsong improvisations bring it to life.

The sharp, sweet tunes of sunbirds and the trills of tailorbirds, tits, flowerpeckers, white-eyes and prinias herald the arrival of dawn. This musical mixed species flock moves hectically from thicket to thicket, making the most of the early hours. Other minstrels include: bulbuls with their five-note call; barbets — both coppersmith and white-cheeked, with their staccato calls; shrill drongos who often mimic other vocalists; coucals’ throaty notes as they skulk in the undergrowth; and the subdued coos of spotted and little doves. The less melodic songs issue from harsh-throated crows, raucous mynas, chuckling treepies, strident grey francolins. The shikra with its piercing notes becomes more jubilant if the morning hunt is successful. As the sun rises overhead, wheeling black kites command the skies, and the occasional Brahminy kite, honey buzzard, or greater steppe eagle join their ranks. Along the edges of the forest, black-shouldered kites and Indian rollers patrol the farmlands, uttering infrequent shrill cries, and the whistling bushchats and chirping pipits dart around in search of insects.

The afternoons are relatively quiet as birds continue foraging in the shade. Early evening, the Indian robins issue short, sweet notes or hurried songs as they flit across the forest paths. Cacophonous flocks of babblers make their way through the undergrowth and fluting bushlarks freewheel in parabolic arcs over the fields. The weathered trails of fine soil found along the forest fringes are perfect for dust-bathing green bee-eaters, their delighted trills forming the perfect backdrop for fiery sunsets. The plaintive cries of lapwings from nearby watering holes and the noisy vocalisations of parakeets heading back to their roosts mark the end of the day. At twilight, the silhouettes of trees melt away into darkness. That’s when you hear the first, irregular notes of nightjars — like marbles dropping on a stone floor. The occasional screech of a barn owl or the shrieks of spotted owlets set the stage for the mellow nightly choir. These feathered chorists add to the symphony all year round, with new musicians joining them in other seasons.

In late April and mid-May, pre-monsoon showers are celebrated by the ascending notes of brain-fever birds and the honking of peafowls. Late May, the cicadas begin their electric buzz, too well-camouflaged against eucalyptus barks to worry about adding impudently to the avian choir. If you stray into the farmlands adjacent to the forest, you may see baya weavers building nests of grass and leafy strips. These are all winged harbingers of the rain, promising much-needed respite for mixed deciduous patches like Avalahalli.

Monsoon Melodies

The arrival of the monsoons in the forest is marked by swarms of dragonflies, like the globe skimmers, butterflies, winged termites and other insects — providing bounty for its feathered residents. Drongos, bee-eaters, cuckoos, babblers, and nightjars gorge on the winged creatures, and shrikes lend an occasional chirp to the feasting orchestra. The “paa-on, paa-on” cries of peacocks echo from every corner as they frantically search for mates. When a drizzle begins, one can enjoy the occasional fanned display of their glorious trains. The cuckoos are more vocal too. Their mating season is still underway, and they need to ensure they surreptitiously deposit their eggs into another bird’s nest. Sometimes, the white-naped woodpecker can be glimpsed on its whistled sorties from tree to tree. As water accumulates in seasonal ponds and puddles, white-throated kingfishers stand sentinel — their fluting notes, sometimes musical, sometimes frantic, can be heard even at a distance.

As the last clouds gather at the horizon, the night is announced either by spectacular, blazing sunsets or burnished skyscapes as the sun’s embers are doused by sudden gloom. Nightjars flit out from the shadows, their notes punctuating the darkness. Hundreds of croaking frogs and toads provide an acoustic map of rainfed puddles. As crickets and cicadas take up the after-hour choir, flickering fireflies keep time with twinkling stars.

Winter Woodwinds

The transition from monsoon to winter is not stark in South India. Even in October, the days are quite balmy, though nights are pleasant. Rains often continue until December. Avalahalli forest doesn’t play host to many winter migrants. Most flighted creatures flock to nearby waterbodies or grasslands instead. Yet there’s some fresh acoustic talent in the winter symphony.

Ashy drongos are the most vocal of the winter visitors, with sharp-sweet tones that seem partly-chiding, partly-teasing. The golden oriole, often seen as a flash of gold as it skims across treetops, ventures the occasional “shrrrrr” note. An ardent birdwatcher may chance upon migrants like booted eagles, grey wagtails, Indian pittas, barn swallows, Blyth’s reed or greenish warblers, and perhaps even hear their winter songs. Often, a distant warbling note or a panicked flutter is the only sign of the secretive jungle bush-quail.

A keen eye can distinguish a blue-tailed bee-eater from flocks of bee-eaters and allow you to tune in to its sweet, clipped voice. These are the subtle notes added to the score at Avalahalli from October to mid-February, and the weather and cloud cover each day dictates how much the other resident choristers participate.

One often talks of finding quiet in the wilderness, yet healthy, wild spaces are rarely ever silent. Not too far from the usual city clamour, soundscapes in urban forests like Avalahalli can offer some peace and calm — all the more reason to zealously guard them against the overtures of discordant development.