NATURE
Bird’s eyeview

Lieut-Gen Baljit Singh (retd) reminisces about the avian encounters
he had during a trip to Dharamsala

THE 19th and 20th century townships, which came to be associated with great names of the Indian ornithology, are a haven for bird enthusiasts. Among such places lies Dharamsala, where bird enthusiasts Capt RWG Hingston and Hugh Whistler were stationed during the first quarter of the last century.

Captain Hingston was stationed here briefly in the first decade of the 20th century. His field notes on the avian-habitat, together with a list of some 200 species of birds, were the first benchmark of the local avifauna. Hugh Whistler of the Imperial Police, when posted as the DSP Dharamsala from 1920 to 1924, went on to expand Hingston’s list to about 400 species covering the entire Kangra valley. All of it later figured in his book Popular Handbook of Indian birds that was published in 1928.

Now 80 years later, Hingston and Whistler will be glad that birds are still in plenty, both in terms of species and sheer numbers; in the visual joy of birds perched, birds in flight and birds scuttling among leaves on the ground. So also in the auditory pleasure of bird song from pre-dawn to dusk, reaching a crescendo by about 8 a.m. diminishing gradually to a few calls late in the afternoon and then again ascending to a voluble, rich repertoire by the evening. The nightjar, the owls, the ubiquitous call of the barbet, the fluid yoddle of the cuckoo and the urgent note of the brain-fever bird filter into the twilight and on into the night till it finally merges with the pre-dawn chorus.

We lived in the midst of this perfect cycle of bird life during out visit to Dharamsala. On my very first morning walk and barely 200 yards from the house into the tea bushes, I found to my joy five, full-blown male paradise flycatchers darting from tree to tree, giving chase to each other in playful abandon and weaving beautiful signatures in the air with rhythmic fluttering of their long tail-streamers.

The birds, which immobilised me for the longest periods in my walks, were the cuckoo, hawk-cuckoo and the blue-throated barbet. Perched on the albizzia trees or oak or deodar, they would announce their presence but remain tantalisingly camouflaged. It remained a perfect no-win game until the bird chose to move. Even though at times I followed the bird in flight, the instant it entered the foliage to alight, and before I could gather it in my vision, it melted away.

Approaching a small stream and willows growing on both its banks, the sun was hot and I was imagining the pleasure of wading through the cold water. Just then, there was the unmistakable chatter of the tree pie. A brief eye contact, then a loud agitated chuckle and there she was, the yellow-beaked blue magpie. My luck held out, for as I followed her flight, over a ripe wheat field in the near distance, a blue-jay moved into my vision, flying with its monumental leisurely wing beat. The only time I ever see the blue-jay fly vigorously is during aerial dives and aerobatics in the mating season.

The most voluble and conspicuous were the blossom-headed parakeets. They wee awfully pre-occupied raising families in the hollows of silver oaks. As though snatching a moment of rest from child-care, they would often perch on the top-most foliage of the tree. And what a contrast in colours, the green leaves and glistening blossom heads against the blue of a clear, evening Himalayan sky. But an exciting encounter was the sudden arrival of Mrs Goul’s sunbird, another colour cocktail of sparkling scarlet, deep blue and egg-yoke yellow. It alighted on a branch of a jacaranda directly above and looked intently down
at us.

The morning hour encounters were the most varied. If I did not take a walk, I joined our hosts for a cup of tea. It was always laid in the shadow of a giant magnolia tree on the lawn; its blossom at the peak and heady fragrance. There were half-a-dozen pine trees growing on the slope below, such that the canopy of some trees was at the eye level as we sat for tea. It was not uncommon to see flocks of long-tailed minivets on these pine trees. There were grey tits, verditer flycatchers, drongos and rufous turtle doves, red-vented bulbuls, tickles flycatchers and niltavas. One day as I shifted my focus from treetops to the lawn there was the hoopoe with its crown fully extended digging away for worms nonchalantly.

One afternoon, looking through the foliage, there was a tiny patch of flaming orange-red as riveting of attention as the red of the swirling skirts of the flamenco dancers. Out of nowhere, a drab-olive, female of the species flew straight into the make, and on impact they got entangled and momentarily thrown vertically upwards a few inches. Then began a spiralling free-fall, both grappling with each other, till barely a few feet above our heads and then in one flash they disengaged and were gone. We stood silently, each absorbing this most beautiful of encounters. Who cares about the mere identity of the species; the experience was the stuff of life. Most probably it was the fire-crested tit? Whatever, it was sublime.

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