As cruel April broils the Deccan plateau, the Nilgiris are brimming with escapees. If weekends see city roads bereft of cars, you know where to find them — up near Sim’s Park in Coonoor or jostling for space near the Ooty Botanical Gardens. While the glens and vales of the Nilgiris cope with the torrent of tourists, the resident and endemic birds have the hills to themselves. Most of the migrants have returned to their northern homes, save a few lingering warblers.
Culpable I am, for I too was one among those that escaped the torrid plains to seek refuge in the Nilgiri summer where the higher you go, the cooler it gets. Three days I spent cocooned on a hillside noshing on farm-fresh cheese (at Acres Wild, Coonoor) in the company of friends — and when I tired of them, the birds that make their home here.
Mornings we rose to the singing of Oriental Magpie Robins (so soulful that one of my friends asked, “Is that a nightingale?”) while the crisp crowing of the Grey Junglefowl echoed in the valley. Blackbirds made every interlude a throwback to The Beatles, warbling and whistling and chirping ruminatively in the shrubbery. Crows and mynas were relatively uncommon thanks to the relative paucity of garbage in the neighbourhood, and when they did appear it was a joy to see them — imagine that! Hole-nesting hoopoes and barbets rent the air with their penetrating calls. Long-tailed Shrikes, ever vigilant, took charge of the lampposts. Dusky Crag Martins, swooping low, cleaned up even the remotest threat of pestilence from winged insects.
It was nesting time, feeding time and foraging time for birds in the Nilgiris. Hoopoes were busybodies, poking among the leaves picking out grubs from the earth. Pied Bushchats worked overtime at their nests in the gazebos, stuffing their bills with grubs and caterpillars. The Magpie Robins kept them company. Jungle Babblers and the occasional flock of Rufous Babblers patrolled the yard, raising one too many unnecessary alarms. In the eaves, Dusky Crag Martins brought mud from the streams to cement their nests. Occasionally, a pair of Little Swifts joined them — their shiny white rumps standing out in the crowd of sooty swoopers.
Besides the all-too-common Red-vented Bulbuls and Red-whiskered Bulbuls, I caught sight of a Grey-headed Bulbul (a lifer) and, on one occasion, a Yellow-browed Bulbul that had flown up from the lowland forests. Both were too quick for my camera. A small party of Common Rosefinches favoured the lantana bushes by the milking shed. At a bend in the road where the undergrowth offers plenty of good cover and escape hatches, a pair of Blue-breasted Quails (aka King Quails) hesitated at my approach and melted away before I could shoot them. A Black Eagle scouted the hillside, disappearing among the treetops in search of its meal.
The female rosefinch isn’t much to look at, and a novice can be forgiven for mistaking it for a female house sparrow. Yes, this is to underscore the point that I’m not a novice. I followed the female, and she showed me to the male. Quite a dodgy customer, he wouldn’t sit still for a minute. But here’s a very poor record shot.
Of House Sparrows there were quite a number. They, too, were nesting in the eaves. Most of the time they pecked about for seeds but every so often, a female was seen carrying a juicy green caterpillar — protein for her little ones.
A bulbul too many
In the early days of birding, the sight of a bulbul would get my blood up. I’m talking of age seven or eight. Sad to say, as I grew older, the ubiquity of bulbuls diminished their appeal. Birders find them quite annoying, actually, especially when they are busy in the field looking for other birds. Both the Red-vented Bulbul and the Red-whiskered Bulbul have become so abundant that birders rarely give them a second glance, and this after ignoring them the first time.
On this trip to the Nilgiris, I was feeling quite charitable. So I let my attention, and my camera, dwell a bit on these bulbuls. They are all over the Nilgiris in such great numbers that you can be forgiven for wanting to exchange your camera for a pea-shooter. Anyway, the effort paid off, as it was thanks to these pains in the butt that I discovered the Grey-headed Bulbul for the first time. Then again, I shouldn’t have been so large of heart, for the moment I had trained my lens on my lifer, a Red-whiskered Bulbul chased it into the shrubbery.
The Rufous Babbler showed up when I was cleaning my glasses. I’m extremely vulnerable to deception in this state and when I heard an unfamiliar call and saw a babbler-sized bird on a rock, I shot blindly. I identified the bird later from the photographs and felt a frisson of satisfaction. Learning to rely on one’s senses, made rusty and decadent by an overdose of civilization, is what half the joy of nature observation is about.
The old man of the Nilgiris
Of course, the birds didn’t steal all the thunder on my sojourn in the Nilgiris. My eye was drawn to a robust male Peninsular Rock Agama on the wall of the cheese-making hut. He sunned himself gloriously in the early part of the day. In the evening, I chanced upon the missus — a plump, probably gravid female.
While the birds brought up their young, and other creatures made the most of summer to increase their tribe, the bees made honey. And the occasional bee-eater did stop by for a bite.
Mama Bushchat steals the show
Despite gaudier distractions in the Nilgiris, my eye travelled always to the female Pied Bushchat that made so many trips to its nest up in the ceiling of the gazebo without as much as anyone noticing. Anyone but me, I guess. She would be seen foraging near the gazebo, keeping a low profile but all the while toiling industriously. I did see her mate occasionally but he was mostly strutting or primping and being all dandy in his black-and-white tux.
Here’s a series of pictures of the bushchat foraging for its nest. I did spot the nest but I took care not to disturb it or photograph it. I also saw the hoopoes and the dusky crag martins at their nests in the Nilgiris, but no photos of those. If you’re disappointed, here’s something you should know if you’re a nature photographer or inclined to be one: remember never to photograph or give away the location of nests — that kind of trophy-hunting is a no-no, tempting as it may seem (more information on ethical wildlife photography in this post on Conservation India). There’s a good reason for that.
No sign this time of the usual endemic species reported from the Nilgiris – the Black-chinned Laughingthrush, the Nilgiri Flycatcher or the Black-and-Orange Flycatcher. But then, these were the birds I saw without barely moving a muscle. Lazy birding does have its rewards.
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