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