I had been terrified of birds as a teenager. They seemed so sinister with their beady eyes, and sharp beaks, and why the hell could they fly? I was a self identified ornithophobe, and I made no attempts to confirm or deny this as I got older.
Then I became a travel writer.
In 2015 I was on an assignment for Lonely Planet and was accompanied by an accomplished wildlife photographer on a trip to Hampi.
I’d been to Hampi several times before: seen the temples, climbed the boulders to catch the sunset, biked through the paddy fields and paddled down the river in a coracle. On this particular visit, I had my sights quite literally on just one thing: wildlife.
On long walks with a naturalist at the lodge property, a drive to the sloth bear sanctuary and in several hot afternoon hours sheltering in a bamboo hide, I learned how to look out for birds for the very first time. My fear became replaced with awe.
That trip, though memorable, might have piqued by interest in birds but it’s an unlikely event that’s turned me into a real birdwatcher — lockdown. I never imagined my city apartment would become the place I became a birder, but it’s when doing my own dishes last April that I noticed a long forked tail dangling from a rustling branch.
I ran to the balcony and got a closer look. A black drongo!
I was mesmerised.
It made perfect sense. I live in the middle of a busy, polluted city but my street is lined with trees and filled with birdsong, amplified in the quiet solitude of lockdown. So whose songs were they?
Two days later, I saw two curious faces peeking out from the branches of a Indian almond tree. A pair of Indian grey hornbills moved branch by branch, one hop at a time each, and I craned my neck to follow their journey.
You ever learn a word and then see/hear/read it everywhere?
That’s birdwatching.
Once I learned to look into the trees, I couldn’t unsee them. From my desk, where I’ve sat day-after-day, for fourteen months, I’ve seen dozens of birds beyond the house crow, rock pigeon, and common myna (two for joy, please).
When I can’t name a bird, I mentally note its characteristics, and once it’s out of sight, I describe my suspect to Google so I can put it in my field notes:
Crow but with brown wings: greater coucal
India black bird with white stripe: oriental magpie robin
Daily birdwatching has made me more curious, more connected to nature and myself, and resting my eyes on the green provides much needed interludes from endless hours of screen time.
Six years from that first birdwatching trip, and I am a no longer a travel writer (who is?), and my main profession is as a mindfulness facilitator. I might meditate often, but birdwatching has become another teacher, providing daily lessons in presence and patience.
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