No Happy Holidays for me

There was a post on Facebook yesterday about Happy Holidays being the correct greeting at this time of year; I would have gladly replied to that, but comments had been closed off. It’s probably better anyway for me to make my own, lengthier, post.

The words “Happy Holidays” are empty to me so I would never greet others that way. It's so generic, so non-specific! I live in India, where there are many religious festivals in the year, and every time, I join in the greetings. At present, where I live Hindus are still celebrating Deepam – you can see the fire on the mountain, which will burn on, visible for miles around, into Christmas. On the main Deepam day last week, everyone, Hindus and non-Hindus, were greeting each other with Happy Deepam. It was the same for Diwali, in October, and in January, we have Pongal, and it will be Happy Pongal, to and from everyone. 

Nobody asks what religion a person is; it’s the happiness of the festival that we wish each other. It doesn’t matter which word follows. Happiness is universal. Next week, Hindus will be greeting me with Happy Christmas, and I’ll greet them back the same way.

A generic Happy Holidays, supposedly to include all possible religions, it absolutely meaningless to me. It’s a cop-out in my view, a way to avoid actually figuring out what is being celebrated, and excluding oneself from any religious connotations, and feeling good about oneself for being inclusive. I believe it is the preferred greeting of atheists, but I’m not an atheist, though I was raised as one.

But anyway: the very word “holiday” is wishy-washy to me. It carries no depth. I realise that the Happy Holidays greeting originated in the USA and there, “holiday” means religious celebration. It doesn’t in British English, which is the language I grew up with. Holiday, in British English regardless of its etymology, simply means a day off work and school. So happy holidays, strictly speaking, in Britsh English just means, happy time off work and school. That’s why in British English, the word is always specific: school holidays, bank holidays, summer holidays. And as I am retired, every day is a holiday!

Now, we have Christmas holidays. Because traditionally, holidays off work and school are granted for Christmas. Three days off work for Christmas and Boxing days, and a few weeks off school.

Back to being inclusive: in the USA in particular, it seems Hanukkah is the second biggest religious festival in December. While I know and have known several Jews, I have no idea how or what day Hanukkah is celebrated; if I did know, I would wish them Happy Hanukkah on that day. But in the UK – where I lived for many years –Hanukkah is not at all a public festivity, unlike Christmas. Nobody knows when it occurs; it’s a private, not a public celebration.

But at Christmastime, the entire British world goes berserk! Everything, music, decorations, gift giving etc is centred around Christmas in the month of December. The generic “the holidays” means nothing; that’s the American version. In British tradition, it’s specifically Christmas holidays at this time of year.
But: surely children of other faiths must feel left out, if they are not allowed to participate in the purely secular festivities of Christmastime? Because they ARE mostly secular. Jingle Bells and White Christmas are secular songs. Coloured lights, images and banners are secular decorations. Christmas trees are secular. Gift giving is secular. I remember once looking for a Christmas card with a nativity scene on it – not a single shop had one! Even digital Christmas cards are mostly secular: scenes of snow and Santa and glasses of wine.

The Birth of Christ, the only non-secular part of Christmas, has diminished so much it’s really just a tiny, private part of the whole festivity, and practiced in private within families and churches. Nobody need know you’re a Christian. Nativity scenes are even banned in some British communities. Certainly in communal buildings, and I assume in schools. Christmas has truly gone secular. It’s not religious. It’s for everyone. It’s inclusive, judging by the contemporary symbols of Christmas.

I grew up in Guyana, a British colony in South America, and I remember how we used to drive around in the week before Christmas Day, looking at the way houses were decorated, and admiring and counting Christmas trees in the windows, pointing and exclaiming at the most beautiful lights and decorations. Every house had a tree. It seems to me that Hindus and Muslims - half the population - also put up trees. It was wonderful for children to see those trees! Surely anyone, regardless of religion, can put one up, if only for the kids, and give them gifts in the name of Santa? Don’t they feel left out, if Santa doesn’t bring them anything?

As an adult, I don’t really celebrate Christmas any more. I wrote a short nativity play for my daughter’s children’s’ school, and that’s it. I’m in India, and it will be just another day. My Hindu cleaning-lady asked me today why I don’t have any Christmas decorations up (Hindus LOVE decorations! As colourful as possible!) I had to laugh. I showed her a little tea-light holder with a star on it:”That’s it!” I told her. But on the day itself, I’ll be saying Merry Christmas to everyone I see, whether they are Hindu or Christian or something else, and they’ll say it back to me. That’s how it’s done here. I think that’s the best way.

Merry Christmas all! From my heart to yours!

 

The Story of Gita, Part Three: A Bird in the Home

 If you haven't read Parts One and Two, here are links:

A Bird on the Wire: Part One

A Bird in the Hand: Part Two

 After Gita and her mate abandoned the fan,  I really believed that was it. No more bird visitors.  I still
saw them, and heard them, and  they still came occasionally for mango snacks. But I knew there'd be  no baby chicks in the ceiling fan -- which, quite honestly, was a bit of a relief.

But once again, I was wrong.

The pause lasted about a week, and then they were back, flying around the place, inspecting everything.
They were looking for a new place to build a new nest.

They finally made a decision:  a blender!

It was an old blender that doesn't work, belonging to my landlady, which I had put on the fridge to be out  of the way. As ever, it started with increased visits, hopping around, and then bits of dry grass lying on the ground next to the fridge.

Mama bulbul was very busy building her nest, and this time I could watch her from not too far away. I could see her little head bobbing, tucking in the twigs, wrestling with particularly stiff bits of grass. 
(Sorry for the shakey camera -- put it down to excitement!)

The evidence was, of course, left on the floor for others to sweep up!

When she was absent, I climbed on a chair, and took a photo.      This is what I saw.

I was rather concerned. I'd forgotten there was machinery inside the blender. It looked very uncomfortable. But what did I know? She surely knew what she was doing. And she did.

The next morning, we had this. A perfectly round, beautifully crafted nest.
All done with only a beak.

Then began the most important time the laying of eggs
. She sat in her nest, hour after hour after hour. Every now and then, when she flew out to eat or stretch her wings, I had a peek.
First I saw this.

An egg!

And, the next day, just like the last time:

Two eggs!

But this time was different. Because, two days later, there was this:

Three eggs!

During all this time, Gita was completely unflustered by any activity in the kitchen. I'd come and go, open the frisge below her, clatter around on the countertop, wash dishes, and so did Shanti, my claeaning lady. Here's Shanti in the kitchen, with Gita quite happy in her nest.

Once she had laid the eggs, which took place over a period of three or four days, a new era started.

At the time of writing, that era is ongoing. We are on Day Six of her laying the last egg. 

Bulbul eggs take 12-14 days to  hatch. So we are all waiting.

She sits on th eggs almost all day, with several very short pauses. She returns for the night at around six pm, and sleeps on the eggs. She sleeps without moving all night long (I checked) and flies out between 5:45  and 6:30 am, returning very soon.

A few days ago, I had the idea to set up a mini camera to watch the process of hatching, and marvelling at the birth of three baby bulbuls. But I'd need help for this, so I bought a simple mini camera and sent out a call to the local community here and soon I had the perfect helper, Vinod. 

Vinod is an ecologist and has studied orthinology. He's as excited as I am, and is helping me set things up.

We've got the software in the camera, but there wasn't a suitable place to fix the camera so I've had a new idea, bought a new gadget, and when it comes tomorrow we should be all set for live-cam.

Watch this space!

Part Four is coming soon.

The Story of Gita, Part Two: A Bird in the Hand

 If you haven't yet, you might want to first read Part One.

Short recap: a bulbul couple laid two eggs in a bush on my terrace, which had hatched.

Shortly after they flew the nest, I saw them fluttering around among the leaves. So checked it out,   and found this:

They had completely destroyed the nest! Which I thought a bit sad. It was such a perfect, beautifully crafted nest. A work of art,  considering it was made entirely with a beak.

And that seemed the absolute end to the story. I didn't see much of the birds after that, though they still came at least once a day for a mango snack, sometimes perched on a window bar, sometimes checking out the layout.

A few weeks after the birth, I noticed increased activitiy.  They were flying back and forth around the flat - which is open plan, with two bedrooms, three doors leading to a terrace and two balconies, and two windows which I opened during the day, for them to fly in and out. It seemed at first sort of a game. 
They'd perch on the window bars... 

...but they particularly liked to perch on the ceiling  fans, where they'd often just sit and chill, or else fly from fan to fan, as if checking out sofas for comfort.

Then one day, I noticed this beneath theceiling fan in the kitchen.

Bits of dried grass. On the left, around 9 am one morning.  On the right, a few  hours later.

Typical tenants, making a mess and not cleaning up afterwards!

 However, looking up, it was unmistakeable what was going on.

They were building a nest!

While delighted that they'd chosen my home, again, to build a nest, I was not as happy as with the terrace nest. Not only that it would not be possible to monitor what was going on in there, but they'd eventually leave behind a mess and I don't have a ladder to get up  there and clean it up. Not to mention not being able to use the fan  for a few weeks -- which doesn't matter, as I have other fans.

But not to worry. This went on for a few days, but then nothing happened. No more  vists to the  fan. Instead, they began showing interest in a second fan, in a bedroom I don't use., flying up there and hopping around, in and out the window etc. Then they stopped that as well.

They still came for snacks. They still flew around outside, still perched on the wires outside the house.

But they seemed to have completely lost interest in the fans, and the nest they had carefully built up there. 

One day around this time, I heard some screeching and when I checked the living room, I saw a small bird trapped inside the window. The glass was closed (it's often open) and the bird was flinging itself opelessly against it. I reaslied that it was a baby bird. And right outside, on the wire in the photo you see above, were both parents, clearly panicking, as they could not help the baby.

I managed to slide back the glass and the chick escaped on to the balcony beyond. However, the balcony has a glass balustrade, and it kept fluttering wildly, trying to fly out through the glass, bumping into it, and falling back onto the floor. It couldn't figure out how to fly up and over the top. 

Meanwhile, the poor parents were frantic, not knowing how to help, and probably more distraught at seeing me there, so close to their pracious little one. They were screeching and flying around, hopping about  in desperation. All three were clearly terrified.

Inside, looking out forlornly.

'Mama! Papa! I'm trapped! Help!'

'There's a monster lady and she's going to eat me up! Help!'

Eventually I decided on tough love. I picked up the bird and lifted it up above the balustrade, and it flew away to join the parents.

For a few seconds, I held her in my hand!

 Then they were all gone.

The interesting thing about this episode is that this baby bird seemed too big  to be  one of the ones which has hatched about two weeks previously. They grow so quickly -- quadrupled in size from birth to a week later. This one was bigger, but not nearly full size. Was it one of the two? If so, where was the other one? Mum and dad were clearly still in charge.

That bird in my hand, was it the original Gita, or Gita's son/daughter, or a new Gita altogether?

This young bird came to my home on July 3rd.

Gita's hatchlings flew the nest on June 14th. This little bird looks older than two weeks, to my very amateur eyes - based only on the growth rate I had noted in Part One.
Those chicks had both obviously flown away, unaided, that day. Surely by now they would know how to fly up more steeply, to cross over the balciony balustrade?

It's a mystery. If you know the answer, please leave a comment below.

I'll have to ask Vinod when I see him next. I'll introduce Vinod in the next episode.
Because the story might seem to have come to its natural end -- but it hasn't.

Part Three: A Bird in the Home

The Story of Gita, Part One: Bird on the Wire

 

At present, I'm sharing my home with a family of birds: red-vented bulbuls, to be exact, a common species in India, where I  now live. It's an ongoing journey and very fascinating. I've been  posting updates on my Facebook page, but I decided to collect them ,all together here so the stages of the journey can be read chronologically.

So. It all began  with a plant: a diffienbachia bush, which is almost a small tree. This  was given to me in February, and it became my first plant in what is to become, hopefully, a terrace garden.

Here it is, just as it was then:

Soon after installing it in a corner of the terrace, I noticed a pair of birds flattering around on it and in it. They were flapping  around on the railings of the terrace as well, flying back and forth between the trees outside and my terrace.

I was able to identify them as red-vented bulbuls.

Here's one of them. Isn't she a beauty? You can see the red patch on her underside, which gives this species its name.

I gave her the name Gita, which means Song in Sanskrit. Bulbuls are generally known for their beautiful voice; they are sometimes called the nightingales of India. I knew this, but never actually heard a live bulbul before  -- though I had mentioned them in some of my novels. I actually had When the Bulbul Calls as an alternative title to one of my novels, once!

By now I had downloaded the Merlin app on my phone, by which you can identify birds by their photos or their calls. And very soon, amid the cacophony of birdsong that greeted me every dawn, I occasionally heard the bulbul call. It's definitely not as beautiful as a nightingale's song -- which I have heard, live -- but it has a very distinctive tone. A purity, which seems to touch me in a very deep place. And it wasn't long before I could not only identify that call, but the moment I heard it in the medley of different calls, I'd feel a jolt of the heart - there! That's my Gita!

Although actually it could very well not be Gita. It could be her mate, whom I called Vayu, Wind. Bulbuls, I learned,  mate for life, and males and  females are so alike they are almost indistinguishable. The males might be slightly bigger, but you could only tell if you seem them both together.

Anyway, mine almost always came with her mate,  and I ended up calling them both Gita, if they were alone, because it is Gita who plays the star role in this story; and she was the friendllier of the two. I'd put pieces of mango on a stool for her and sit on the balcony, and she's come quite close, then fly down and eat. 

I hadn't been paying much attention to what they were actually doing in the diffienbachia, though I did notice bits of dry grass around the pot. I wasn't aware of what this meant. And then, one day, I found this:

Hidden among the leaves, a perfect little nest! It was in the form of a small cup, very neatly built.

Meanwhile, the birds came and went. Bulbuls, I learned, are gregarious birds, and sometimes quite tame, and live comfortably with humans. 

 This  one at least seemed undaunted by my presence on on the terrace. We all lived together on the terrace, one big happy family.

 Ready and waiting...

...for, a few days later, this:

an egg!

And then, the following day:

Two eggs!

Gita and Vayu were parents! Well -- egg parents, parents-in-waiting. I was as thrilled as they were -- and they were thrilled. Both of them were in attendance; one of them (I always assumed it was Gita, but it seems the male also helps to hatch) was almost always sitting in the nest, keeping the eggs warm and cosy. Now and then neither of them was there, and that's when I  sneaked up to get a photo.  Day and night, they watched over the eggs. One of them was always there overnight, sleeping on the eggs. During the day, if one was on the eggs, the other was invariably nearby, perched on the terrace rail, or on anearby tree, watching, waiting. Day after day, they sat there, completely still, waiting, waiting

well hidden among the leaves.

And then one morning, I knew. I just knew! Such a fluttering and flattering, such a chattering and chirping, such a commotion. Both of them so excited! And so was I. I knew what had happened, but of course, I couldn't go near that nest to see inside.

And then, while both were away, I stealthily moved aside the leaves, and saw this:

Thus began the most exciting time of all. Back and forth they flew, bringing food for their chicks -- they are fed insicts, I learned, and the parents kill the insects before feeding the chicks. They also keep the nest clean by eating the droppings. They are most vigilant; never far from the nest, both of them coming and going and most concerned about their babies.

The babies grew. I was careful not to approach the nest from the front, but the diffienbachia was directly in front of a large window in my living room, and between me and the nest was really only a few leaves and a wire mesh. I cut away one of the bigger leaves so that I could see into the nest, watch the chicks developing. I'd see their little heads over the side of the nest, their tiny beaks open wide, the parent dropping bits of food into those hungry little throats. I could even hear a soft cheeping.

 But of course due to the mesh there wasn't a good view, and the photos I managed to take were unclear.

But when they were a few days old, I managed to get this, from the front:

And a few days later, this:

How quickly they were growing... In the photo above, they were barely a week old, yet fully feathered, and so big they filled that nest. I wondered what happened when there were three or more eggs -- how would they even fit? 

I began to dream. I imagined the hatchlings learning to fly, falling out of the nest, giving me the chance to feed them  by hand, even hold them in my hand. I had seen videos of this  happening, and was looking forward to the clumsy flapping of wings, the stumbling on the ground, that first feeble flight. 

But then, one morning I went out and this is what I found:

No, this is not the first "empty nest" photo I posted above. The nest was really empty. My chicks had flown the nest!

So this is what Empty Nest Syndrome feels like...

I have to admit, I felt bereft. Where was my bulbul family? How were they managing, out there in  the wild, wild world? How would they survive, with all the predators around - crows in the sky, chipmunks in  the trees, cats and dogs on the ground, if they fell? How would they cope with wind, and rain?  Where did they sleep at night? All the worries of a concerned grandmother.

But most of all, I missed Gita. I missed her fluttering around the terrace. She still came, but very occasionally. I was able to lure her and Vayu to hang around by placing snacks out for them -- slices of mango, and other fruit. I soon learned that they only liked mango -- they refused my offerings of banana and pawpaw, so in the end I only gave them mango. Gradually, they began to come back. I'd place  the stool in the doorway, and inside the living room, and they'd come and eat every day.

Here they are, enjoying a midday snack.

 Again, I noticed that one was less cautious than the other. Also, one chatters more than the other - the male, Vayu. He would sit on a wire outside and chatter, while Gita would be in the house enjoying her mango.

Maybe he disapproved. Maybe he thought it was dangerous. Gita didn't care. She kept coming, and I was happy. It was nice to have a pet who made no demands except a daily slice of mango. They didn't even leave droppings.  So once again, we were a happy family. I loved having them around. They were always together, sitting on the wire outside, or on the veranda railing. 

And every now and then I'd hear that wondrous voice, filtered out from the cacophony of birdcall every morning. Not very often, but the rarity of it was the great pleasure. Hearing it would lift my heart.

And that, I thought, was the end of the story.

But it wasn't.

Bird in the Hand:  Part Two