Death of a warbler

The Blyth's Reed Warbler makes a long winter journey from the temperate zones of Asia to the Indian subcontinent, and then returns when its northern breeding grounds warm up. This year, at least one of them isn't going back, thanks to a glass-and-steel high-rise that stood in its way. Who knows how many more have died like this?

Over the weekend I was in Kollam, Kerala and last Thursday I had left a Bangalore battered by rain. On Monday evening it was Kerala's turn to send us off with thundershowers. And this morning in Bangalore, leaning over the balcony to sniff at the new day, I noticed with delight that winter had arrived. 

Crisp and cool with a hint of haze, the wintry morning resounded with the faraway murmur of traffic. The migrants would be here, I thought as I listened for the chek of the Blyth's Reed Warbler (Acrocephalus dumetorum) and the scolding of the Brown Shrike. None could be heard. 

As a child I would listen for the warbler in my parents' garden. The precise, brief chek followed by another note repeated at a casual interval. My November Bird, as I called it, the warbler's reassuring presence accompanied me through so many winters that I marked time by it. It was an assurance of temporal certainty, the unimpeachable synchronicity of the seasons. The chek-chek in the garden would stay with us until the days lengthened in March, and the juggernaut of final exams thundered past. And suddenly, one day, no warblers. They had heeded the change in season and gone back home.

Yesterday morning the warbler, by its absence, occupied my thoughts on my way to work. And so it was surprising, as we headed out for lunch this afternoon, my colleague Nelson pointed to the lobby and cried, "There's a bird in here!"

Sure enough, fluttering about the Ferrari-red lounge chairs was a warbler. Desperately out of place. How had it penetrated the seventh floor of this fortress-like glass-and-steel citadel secured by doors that would part only at the flash of an access card? As it lurched against the cold, inhospitable -- and frightfully inorganic -- surroundings it toppled toward the ground. I scooped and cupped the trembling bird in my palms. It was breathing deeply and its tiny heart pounded against my palm. The crown looked scuffed, leaving a worryingly deep (but bloodless) gash that hinted at a tragic story -- it had probably struck the building's glass walls in flight, probably mistaking it for sky. Or perhaps it had been startled by a predator -- could a scuffle explain the wound on its head? -- and found its way mysteriously into the lobby. How long had it been there? When had it last fed? 

I had no answers, but I assume it must have sneaked in when one of the negligent janitors left a door open. 


Lunch had to be postponed. The presence of an unknown bird -- "Is it a sparrow?" queried most -- in an office bay commanded much excitement. Calls for a box were quickly answered. I left the bird in and covered the top lightly, allowing ample air. Leaving the troubled bird in peace, I thought I'd head downstairs for a lightning-quick bite when a colleague phoned saying the bird had flown its temporary coop. By the time I got back, someone had returned it to its lodgings, but the warbler appeared to be much weaker.





A call to Salim (who used to run the Bannerghatta Rescue Centre) made us gloomier. He advised us to feed the bird with a saline solution and release it at the earliest. But the bird looked considerably weaker. It tucked its head into its wings in a posture that birds adopt when they are roosting. Salim warned that these could be signs of morbidity. Small birds need to eat constantly to keep their metabolism going. Alarmingly, this battered warbler seemed not to want the rehydrating solution that I fed it with a straw. In fact, its eyes were now half-shut and it made no protest when handled, slumping forward in my palm.


Things didn't look good at all.


How far this agile and energetic bird had come, in the flight trails its ancestors had followed for millennia, to end up in a sorry mess here in this smog-choked city. How far from its summer haunts in the far east of Europe and the far west of Central Asia, now probably draped in snow, it had flown. All for this - to smash into a thoughtlessly built edifice.

Sympathy poured for the bird. As did counsel. Some folks offered to take it home, put it in a cage and feed it birdseed. That warblers, unlike finches and budgerigars with their seed-crushing bills, have no appetite for birdseed did not strike those hearts overflowing with kindness. 


As we watched, the bird stiffened, opened its eyes wide, stretched its wings and legs and then became absolutely still. Dead, just like that. Rigor mortis set in within an hour. I gave my November Bird an unceremonious funeral beside Bellandur Lake, leaving some opportunistic scavenger to perform its appointed role in the circle of life.


An ominous beginning to winter, and one that whetted all over again my hatred for glass-and-steel high-rises.


Lead photo: Wikimedia Commons/ Shankar70
Photographs: Padma Swaminathan
Text: Beej


Also read: And swiftly fell the swift 

Encounter: Rufous Tailed Shrike

Often, the stupidest questions elicit the most enlightening answers. Such was my initiation to the little featherball known as the Rufous-tailed Shrike. I'm glad I asked, though...

I am responsible for one of the dumbest questions in Birdingdom. This is a belated confession.

One fine February evening we were happily maneuvering a pot-holed road in Rae Bareli as GS scanned the acacia bushes beside the road for birds. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Rufous-tailed Shrike!" (Beams with excitement, asks driver to stop.)

I saw the bird and inquired, “Why is this Rufous-tailed Shrike?” It was actually three questions:

Why is this bird a shrike?

Why is it a Rufous-tailed Shrike?

What are you so excited about?

You must have realized that I had figured it was a bird. I also had a passing familiarity with the color rufous.

Prickled by the question but managing to keep his composure (the sighting helped), GS snapped, “Observe.”

This I did.

Lanius isabellinus is a small shrike with a hooked bill adapted for tearing flesh. It has a grey or sandy-brown mantle, a prominent rufous tail and grey-brown ear coverts. The male has a white patch at the base of the primaries (this is absent in the female) and the female has faint dark scaling on the breast and flanks. The bird in the last picture seems to be a first winter specimen since it has the overall coloration of the female (including the faint dark scaling on the breast), lacks the white patch at the primaries, but has the dark black lore of the male. The bird in Sandeep's photo (the lead pic) is an adult female (lacks the white patch on the primaries).

In winters the bird frequents wooded country along canals, riparian tracts and acacia vegetation along small roads. It breeds in the highlands of Baluchistan, southern Siberia and the Daurian steppes of central Asia.

The Rufous-tailed Shrike eats smaller birds, lizards and rodents and has the gruesome habit of impaling its prey on thorns and barbed wires. It is usually found atop bushes and small trees – a prominent perch for hunting. The bird we saw flew down and picked up a large ant (see pic below).

Going by the field guide that we were using, the shrike had no business to be there. However, one cannot really fault the birding guides for this as the basic information regarding winter and summer ranges of migrants is quite archaic – some of it survives from the days of Salim Ali and the British ornithologists. Bird checklists for some districts in UP are last updated by the district collectors and amateur British naturalists (A O Hume was the Collector of Etawah and the district is an exception, thanks to Gopi’s fieldwork. The checklist is quite current with 400+ birds). Most siting data continues to be reported from IBAs and established sanctuaries but very few birders visit the offbeat places, which are not well-known or are simply off-track. This leads to over-reporting from certain parts while creating birding blind-spots at the same time.

The grand old man of Indian ornithology was wise enough to avoid bias and made sure that he birded in places like Bastar, Bahawalpur, Districts of United Provinces, Afghanistan, etc. where few people venture today. He had birded in Rae Bareli and has reported the Siberian Crane from there. In my multiple visits to Samaspur, a bird sanctuary in the district, I have never encountered birders. The sanctuary staff tells me that such visits are fewer than a dozen in a year.

Moreover, the migrants can shift the wintering range based on factors like temperature, cropping pattern and rainfall. This is both seasonal as well as gradual shifts over time. This makes it all the more necessary for the data gathering to be extensive and well-planned.

The shrike sighting turned out to be good birding education. The presence of this elegant little predator indicated that the migratory season was well underway. Moreover, migrants can often be found in areas in which they have not been recorded earlier either due to a shift in range or gaps in information. So it's good birding practice to keep looking for them. This is where initiatives like MigrantWatch are both welcome and necessary since they enrich our knowledge about these lovely avian tourists as well as track shifts in arrival times and geographical spread.

Incidentally (now that I am on serial confession mode), I am also responsible for one of the most stupid answers in all Birdingdom. More on that later. Patience, dear reader. Or patientez s’il vous plait, in case you are Francophone.

Text and photographs by Sahastrarashmi (taken in Rae Bareli, Uttar Pradesh)

Lead photo by Sandeep Somasekharan (taken in Kutch)

Encounter: Brown Headed Gulls in the City of Light

One does not usually associate birding with Varanasi’s riverfront. This ancient and holy city, which is amongst the oldest continuously inhabited places on earth, is crowded, filthy, crassly commercial, oozes religiosity, garishly dressed up, loud, endlessly fascinating, photogenic, friendly, unpretentious and very often sublimely beautiful -- even spiritual. Bird life is limited to the commoners – Bank Mynas, Rock Pigeons, Black Kites, Rose-ringed Parakeets (both free and caged), Common Crows, Sparrows, an occasional Pond Heron, White-thoated Kingfishers (and sometimes it’s Pied cousin), Wagtails (a few Grey Wagtails in the winters) and an occasional Magpie Robin. The river front is over built and the entire 6 km long curve of the Ganga is choked with ghats, steps, temples, teashops and people. Successive generations of preachers and princes have all strived to leave behind a legacy and ghats are the scene of round-the-clock outpouring of humanity and its rituals. The entire spectrum of life’s chores, from deep meditation to sewage disposal, are carried out with the same fervour.

However, in winter this city is host to a beautiful migrant – the Brown-headed Gull (Larus brunnicephalus). On chilly and calm mornings, as the fog reluctantly rises above the languid river and the boats disgorge the lighted diyas on the frigid waters, one can notice skeins of dim white birds doing low passes on the river’s surface. Soon enough, as the day warms and visibility improves the cries of “aaaao – aaaao” are heard from the ghat steps and the boats. The gulls recognize it, in fact are waiting for it. They mob the source of the sound - boats in midriver, bathers on the banks and regular bird feeders – all are distributing food and a feeding orgy ensues. Residents love the birds for they break the monotony of the riverscape which has few waterbirds if any at all. The tourists are pleasantly surprised at this unexpected bounty from nature in a city where their purpose is mostly religious. Those who feed birds regularly at dawn and dusk relish this novel punya and for once the pigeons, monkeys and the sparrows take a backseat. The food offered to the birds is mostly fried savouries (namkeen), which are by no means suitable but the gulls seem to relish and fall over each other to get to the salty morsels. They are fed all through the day, every boat with tourists wants to experience this thrill and the fish and the turtles (introduced to help clean this stretch of Ganga, which carries a more than normal share of bio-waste) are the lucky beneficiaries of this largesse. The demand for gull feed has led to a seasonal occupation – a few boats in the river are there for the sole purpose of selling “bird namkeen” to the boaters and the enterprising boatmen advertise their wares by calling out “aaaao – aaaao”, getting the birds to fly in but hold back the food. The Brown-headed Gull breeds in the marshes and bogs of the Central Asian plateau and high-altitude lakes of Ladakh in India (among them Pangong Tso). It nests on the ground (usually a mound of grass on marshy terrain) in large colonies and is a gregarious species. It is migratory, wintering on the coasts, tidal creeks and large inland lakes of tropical southern Asia. In India it is found along the coasts, large lakes and river systems of northern India. I have seen it on the Ganga-Yamuna river system at several locations including the confluence (Sangam) at Allahabad. While wintering they often flock with other gulls and terns and we have seen them in large flocks with Caspian (Hydroprogne caspia, formerly Sterna caspia) , Greater Crested (Sterna bergii) and Lesser Crested terns (Sterna bengalensis), on a coastal sand bar near Marakkanam in Tamil Nadu (November 2010). It is a bold and opportunistic feeder. It scavenges and also eats small invertebrates and winged quarry. The dark brown hood is seen only in breeding plumage. In winter plumage, the head is white with a prominent dark spot behind the eye. The bill is dark red with a black tip. The legs are red and the eyes are white. It has a grey upper wing and broad white primary base, creating white half-moon against black wing-tip with prominent white mirrors (a diagnostic help). The tail is white and quite prominent in flight.

The residents love the birds and it is with a sense of pride that they tell the Indian tourists about this “safed kaowa” from Siberia (literally white crows) which is a regular visitor to the holy city. Bizarre as it may seem, this appellation is not such a farfetched one – for the gulls are numerous, mob the feeders like crows do, and for once they outnumber the crows ten to one. This is the only urban landscape where there are fewer crows than gulls or for that matter any other species of birds (mynas included). Text and photographs by Sahastrarashmi