In a recent piece, my favourite nature columnist reminded us that while the Red Lists continue to add to the growing number of species that are endangered, threatened and even close to extinction, there are many small ‘disappearances’ that are happening all around us, ones that we do not obviously notice on a day-today basis. The author, a reputed bird watcher and note-keeper realised this when he looked back over his old records of birds around his house, and found that many of these were no longer to be seen.
This led back to my own observations, jotted down over the years.
Before the first rays of the sun painted the sky pink, the echoing call of the majestic Sarus crane would wake me from deep sleep. I knew that the pair would be flying off to an unknown destination for the day, to return after sunset.
The summer heat was compensated by the brilliant scarlet of the gulmohar at our front gate and the molten golden blooms of the laburnum at the back. The melodious tunes of the magpie robin filled the dawn, while the metronomic tuk tuk tuk of the coppersmith echoed from the top of the raintree. The morning haze was often streaked with the dazzling blue of a kingfisher in flight, while the green bee-eaters lined neatly on the wires, made swift graceful swoops in search of a breakfast-insect or two. Our little patch of grass and the surrounding hedge was lively with the orchestra of calls from tailorbirds, sunbirds, bulbuls, doves, mynas, and babblers that co-existed harmoniously, each finding their own pockets for food and shelter. The same space also saw the raucous coucal proclaiming its territory from the champa tree, and the occasional visits by the Shikra that immediately silenced the rest of the avian crowd
When the first rains came, so did the jacanas, with their mewling cries, almost like that of babies. They would make their floating nests on leaves in the vacant ground across from our house which turned into a wetland in the monsoon. Once the water dried they would disappear, as quickly as they had appeared.
The stream of other seasonal guests to that water-filled depression in the ground across the road included buffaloes that spent the day wallowing in the mud, naktas or comb ducks that glided smoothly on the water, and an occasional water hen awkwardly crossing the road on its long yellow feet. As evening fell the air filled with the symphony of the frogs.
The first nip of winter brought back the single Yellow wagtail to our small lawn. It came from far away to spend the winter soaking up the golden sunshine that seemed to glow on the patch on its breast. Another familiar visitor was the Hoopoe. We would see it walking back and forth on the dusty roadside, with its pickaxe head bobbing constantly.
And then there was the monitor lizard which seemed to put in an appearance only on weekends. And the shy mongooses that streaked across the gravel, disappearing soundlessly into the undergrowth. The little turtle that we found one day in our garden may have been washed in with the rain. It adopted us before we adopted it. We named it Tortolla and no matter how early we awoke, it was up before us, taking its morning walk from one end of the courtyard to the other. Not to forget the adventures of discovering snakes in the house—once coiled in a corner of the kitchen, and once neatly tucked under the dining table.
These were some notes that I made of the life around me—not from a cottage in a beautiful forest, but from my windows in the dusty city of Ahmedabad that I made my home. The house that we made was at the time, in a slowly developing area of the city, close to a natural talavdi or small lake. There were still open spaces around; and the trees and shrubs that we planted when we moved in provided homes and shelter to many other fellow living beings—winged and tailed, with two, four, a hundred, or even, no feet. As a newly-minted environmental educator this was my private lab for observing, noting, researching, and discovering the excitement of seeing the little things from my windows. Little then did I imagine that things could change so much.
Circa 2022 (Same window different view)
The wetland that once was a soothing symphony of sound and sight has metamorphosed. My days (and often nights) are filled with the sound of concrete mixers, trucks offloading mountains of gravel and bricks, the incessant hum of machinery, and the clatter-bang of steel and iron. The Sarus cranes, long flown, have been replaced by the huge construction cranes. These swing their gigantic metal arms as they lift and drop the raw material from which begin to sprout the concrete blocks that will grow into the new jungle of high rise apartments. Where the jacanas and water hens stepped daintily, now the humungous metal claws of the JCBs dig ruthlessly, scooping out mountains of soil, and creating abysses to be filled with cement. Now the rains only bring waterlogging, floating litter, and swarms of mosquitoes.
I haven’t heard the nightly frog chorus in so many years. I am beginning to forget the cries of the jacanas. My morning wake-up call is no longer that of the magpie robin. The permanent dust haze has suffocated the gulmohar and the raintree to an untimely demise, and deprived so many feathered friends of perches and abodes. The wagtail no longer visits, and I miss the comforting sight of the neatly-groomed hoopoe on its regular march. A rare flash of kingfisher blue, remains just that, as also the aerial antics of the bee eaters in pursuit of prey. The incessant din of the traffic has drowned out even the strident call of the koel, the twitter of the little birds, the soothing murmurs of the doves, and the soft babble of the bulbuls.
Day after day, the concrete jungle closes in relentlessly, we are engulfed by dread and despair. And now a single flower that blossomed, or a simple bird call can uplift our spirits.