New Life Amidst Lockdown

When a bulbul pair visits your backyard frequently, converse with each other incessantly, you get the feeling that you are about to witness something exciting. The fact that this was happening during a time when I apparently had a lot of free time to sit and take note of my surroundings was serendipitous. I decided to keep my camera handy. Although I try to take an observant position consciously, the animal rehabilitator in me compels me to intervene; especially when I saw that they had very carefully chosen the thin intersection of the clothesline and the overhead rod to start building their nest. They started bringing thin twigs, intertwining them with coconut fiber, sticking pieces of dried leaves to plug holes, their speed of construction and their single-mindedness was impressive and stood in stark contrast with the construction process of humans, that take ages to complete, and in this case, during the lockdown, was at a standstill. To see a natural dwelling getting erected was a welcome change to the constant sights of concrete and debris that my weary eyes had got accustomed to. However, I was still unsettled about the precarious location of the nest. It was high enough to keep the cats hungry yet perched on unstable ground (or wire in this case) increasing the risk of toppling.

At the end of the week, the female was spending long hours at the nest, flying out only briefly for feeding herself. The excitement of seeing the chicks coupled with the anxiety of the safety of the eggs was starting to become unbearable. The constant threat of predators, the onslaught of elements reminded me how vulnerable their lives are in comparison to the cushioned, cozy and yet insecure lives we choose to lead. The mother gave it her all. She took calculated risks, she exposed herself to dangers, to follow nothing but her instinct. She might have done this several times, some successful, some not so successful, or this might have been her first attempt, there was no way I could know. She would crouch, spread her wings across the tiny nest when someone would accidentally walk a little closer, I could imagine her say “mine!”. It took a good five to six days for the eggs to hatch. I counted two chicks. It was a new phase, she has passed one important hurdle. But this opened up a whole new set of activities, the associated risks and excitement of bringing up new life and continuing the cycle. Finally, something to cheer about for us in the midst of hearing grim news of virus, which somehow seemed to be the ominous topic.

Soon, to my horror, I realized, that we were not the only ones excited about the chicks. The cats started spending more time around our backyard, sometimes positioning themselves right below the nest, looking up lustfully towards their tasty snack. Before I knew, I had signed up as the security guard, sharing responsibility for successfully bringing up the chicks. A job that, I realized, raised my levels of anxiety, perhaps, sometimes even more than that of the bulbul parents. I had to now shoulder the blame, if something went wrong, which also meant that my new-found hostility towards cats started looking rather amusing to my family members and neighbors. The bulbul pair would fly in frequently, every few minutes to feed the eternally hungry chicks. I could sneak a quick peek at their large beaks, pink, opened wide for the mother to push regurgitated food down their throats. They would stay low the rest of the time. The mother would not directly fly in towards the nest, she would always perch on a nearby bush, call out to the chicks, survey the area for any dangers, then in a quick movement, before I realized what happened, she would feed them and be off, leaving greedy pink beaks wide open, begging for more food. This made my task of capturing this on lens more difficult. If I stayed around waiting for her to come back, she would hesitate and not come to the nest, so I had to camouflage my presence.

One day, I woke up to the shock of finding the nest tilted and resting on its edge at a precarious sixty degree angle, the insides of it, almost completely exposed. As I was figuring out how to create a cushioned landing in case they do fall off, a new fear dawned on me; what if they had already fallen off? I panicked. But there was nothing to do but wait till the mother got back. After what felt like an hour, she returned and fed the chicks, or, was it “chick”? Did I see one or two heads? Were they both safe? Or had we already lost one? The priority, however, was to save whatever was left. The question remained, as to how to go about this without intruding? There would always be the fear of abandoning the nest if the mother found it was handled by someone. After thinking for several minutes, the best solution under the given circumstances was found, of pulling the wire taut, so that the nest tilts back. This seemed like the easiest and least intrusive of ways, without the bulbuls even knowing what happened. And it worked beautifully. The nest was back to its original position securing the safety of the chicks for another day. I was taking this one day at a time, knowing fully of the dangers, their uncertain lives in their most vulnerable days.

There could not be a happier time than knowing that the chicks had started to explore what was outside, eager to leave the confines of their nest. However, with this also came the realization that they would soon fly away, and with it, we would be pushed back into the drudgery of our routines, which unfortunately did not change at the same pace. The regurgitated food was no longer needed, the chicks were ready for some live insects, the mother would hunt at an amazing frequency. That day, I sensed that they might soon be off, it was just a matter of hours. So I quickly got out my camera to record their progress. One of the chicks, I observed, was more active and restless. It would also be the one which got fed more frequently, as the mother would just feed the quickest. After sometime, my backyard got busy with a lot of action. One of the chicks decided that it was about time and jumped out of the nest, it landed softly, like a parachute, on a carpet. The parents were excited, trying their best to protect the chicks and encourage them to fly out in the direction they had decided, which was into the wild area of bushes and undergrowth just outside our immediate backyard. The other chick, took the cue and jumped out too, landing perfectly perched on a pile of twigs. Both were looking like fur-balls, weightless, bobbing and jumping around, raising my blood pressure every second. I struggled to keep the cats away, one of them sneaking in to join this party. The parents did not like my presence either, as I failed to explain my intention to them.

Then, magically, flying in short bursts, to a foot or two high at best, the chicks found a pathway, perching on lower rungs of bushes, fallen twigs, the rusted iron bar of the old gate, anything that would help them move in the direction their parents were taking them. They were no doubt excited to explore a new world, a world that was filled with wilderness, intrigue, perils and learning. The lessons would start right away, there was no time to waste. It was not something that could be taught in a school, in a simulated and controlled environment. It all had to be learnt on the go, as it was happening. I followed their trajectory for a few minutes; it became the cause of my anxiety to know that they were now out of their safety zone and have multiplied their dangers, of cats, predatory birds and what not. They were now easy prey. But the process of their teaching and learning was nothing short of awe. The mother would fly a short distance, expect the chick to mimic its action. The chick would try and sometimes succeed, most times fail to reach the destination, falling just short of it, landing on the ground, having to attempt all this from the start. The father would flap his wings in an attempt to motivate the chicks to fly, showing how it was done, but the chick would sometimes just sit still, indicating it was tired, it had enough for the day, wanted to rest. Sometimes it would open its beak wide and ask to be fed, the mother would fly away and fetch a quick snack of grasshopper or a large ant, leaving the chicks unguarded for a brief few seconds.

One fine morning, after two days of no activity around the house, when I had finally resigned to the fact that I have to get used to not seeing them around, I saw them on the high branches of the bamboo tree just outside my first floor window. The two chicks like fur-balls perched close to each other. I was overjoyed. They had made great progress of not just staying alive and out of danger but learning to fly higher with each passing day. I immediately got out my camera, thrilled with the opportunity of shooting them at such close range. The mother fed them large insects, which they greedily devoured in one gulp. They had grown in size and sprouted a tiny tail and a tuft, which started to make them look like bulbuls. A faint red vent had started to make its appearance as well. Sighting them at such height, infused me with confidence that they could make it, after all.

Just when I had started to think that it was the end of the bulbul chicks, the lockdown got extended, giving me the luxury of time to indulge in further observations. One morning when I stepped out into my backyard, without the caution exercised so far, that came with the knowledge that the chicks had flown from that place, I was surprised to notice that the bulbuls were trying to drive me away, flying overhead, close to me.
It then occurred to me that the chicks might be nearby. To my utter surprise, I found them both perched just next to their nest. Never had I expected that they would circle the house one full round to end up at their birthplace after about a week, to coolly sit next to their nest, inspecting the nest in curiosity while waiting for their food. They stayed there almost the whole day and just when I was beginning to get used to their presence again, just when the attachments had started to regrow, they flew away into wilderness. Whether they came there to look for something or just as a matter of habit, I am not sure. Even if I had a doubt that they had left their nest too early, they had jumped off it ahead of time, there was no way for them to climb back without having to spend a few days away, practicing the flying, increasing the ascent each day, to one day feel ready enough to attempt the flight to their birthplace. They could have never done it on the first day. But they did not stay around, it was time to explore further, for new lessons, maybe to start learning to feed themselves.

The chicks made good use of the time to learn life lessons, to fly, to hunt, to continue the circle of life, while I sat around, complaining about what I could not do, how pathetic my life was, disrupted completely due to a microscopic organism! Were the bulbuls with the dangers they faced, living in uncertainty, vulnerable to predators feeling threatened or was it me, with all the cozy comforts of my home, bank balance, intelligence and aided by technological advancement of humans feeling insecure? In comparison, they were better equipped with instincts on survival rather than myself who has moved away from my roots, forgotten life skills, who has lost my footing at the slightest disturbance in my perceived routine and accepted lifestyle. How in an instant they jumped off their nests, without a plan B, without a safety net, not knowing whether they would land safely, unhurt while I fussed about my backups, my reserves, feeling insecure even with all that I have accumulated, because I tended to hold on to familiar ground, I was looking for comfort in the known, without exploring what might lie beyond the peripheries of my existence. They did not think twice about leaving their nest, their only possession, the only home they knew so far. There was a lot to learn, only if I was willing to observe and think about it. How lucky I felt to have witnessed this wonderful circle of life, right in my backyard. After all, I had something to cheer about and cherish in these gloomy days of lockdown.