Bird-watching with Bharat Raj
Three specific happenings confirm winter arrival:
one, the sale of semi-roasted, unshelled groundnut at street corners in the National Capital Region;
second, unbundling and dusting of the quilt at home for nights;
Last but not least is photographer-cum-family friend Sharad Varma sounding about visiting the Surajpur Bird Sanctuary_12km away from home.
I am no ornithologist but an avid bird watcher. I watch crows, sparrows, ducks, cranes, eagles, etc. I had been to bird sanctuaries of repute at Bharatpur, Rajasthan; Okhla Bird Sanctuary; Sultanpur, to mention a few. Saw hundreds of avians but failed if asked to name them.
But, of course, I am acquainted with King Fisher, thanks to the famous alcohol brand of the run-away or fugitive Indian business tycoon Vijay Mallya; and, Black Swan, not that I have seen one but made famous by Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s most popular book.
So, I was surprised when Bharat Raj, an old acquaintance of a quarter-century in the television industry where he served as Studio Director, began rattling birds’ names at Surajpur Bird Sanctuary effortlessly. How was it possible because he had confessed that he was not a bird expert? He demystified, stating that he clicks photos of birds and uses Google’s Lens app!
I overheard Sharad and Bharat talking at the tank bund inside the Sanctuary, mentioning “Siberian Crane.” The onset of winter in India attracts these birds from Siberia to escape from the harsh winter in their hometown! Bharat was countering Sharad that these European feathery gods’ creations stopped winging to India, particularly the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary after the water bodies dried up.
The weather was supine. Barring we, the threesome, and another elderly gentleman with a shorter tripod and a camera hung over his shoulders and taking a diametrically opposite route to ours, the Sanctuary was empty. Leaving the Bharat-Sharad duo at the tank bund to remain to survey the landscape for the winged species, I moved out to walk in the sylvan surroundings: huge waterbody on the one side and thick foliage on the other separated by a walking path.
Amidst unseen birds chirping from treetops or wherever and the cut pondweed or algae on the path side, the stories my mother shared with the tiny 3-year old Vidhya about sparrows came rushing back. Vidhya, then my neighbor’s daughter in the mid-1980s and now settled in Singapore with two creative kids and a global banker spouse, brings up the sparrow story during our WhatsApp exchanges. A bird connect, yes.
Over the past seven years, Mittoo, parrot, has given company to us and the recently departed Rambo, pet dog. So that is another bird link in my life. Unfortunately, the urban jungle we inhabit these days has deprived us of seeing an ordinary crow even. Feeding crows daily was a custom down south. Until a solitary crow or more descend from nowhere and eat the rice ball, we don’t eat. Today, I eat without the daily feed for crow. Luckily, I spotted a crow for a few seconds before they flew away.
Seeing a full-dark or black crow is not good is the childhood belief. Double black crows together is a good omen. My maternal grandmother insisted on bathing if a crow touched your head while in motion. “Not good,” she used to say. Know not why.
Another colleague, Rajiv Sharma, has done TV capsules featuring him playing cards with crows on his terrace 25 years ago. So that was the kind of bird bonding he had. Amazing.
“You spoke about sparrows. In our compound tree in Meerut, I had seen at least 20 sparrows nesting,” said Bharat when we boarded his car for the return journey.
One sparrow itself is capable of creating noise pollution. Twenty? Oh My God!
Watching The Sopranos, the six season-lengthy Mafia serial on Netflix recently, one-shot remains etched in memory.
The Boss, Anthony Soprano, gets agitated when a school of ducks flies away from his swimming pool in the first episode of Season 1. It never returns. But that incident keeps recurring in his interaction with the Jewish lady psychiatrist he regularly meets for psycho-therapy. Bird, again.
Birds bring many memories — no end to it. Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds, remember? I rest my case.
