Guests in our balcony

The purple sun birds were regular visitors at our third-floor balcony garden. Other avian visitors, like pigeons, mynahs and sparrows, also came but there was something special about the not-so-common sunbirds. Unmindful of the Delhi summer they would appear from nowhere tweet sweet nothings, steal nectar from the conical buttercups, nestaciums, nayantaras and then disappear. They were a couple, the female yellow and grey, and the male a deep iridescent blue that glistened like a gemstone in the sun. Their visits were fleeting as the sunbirds never sat in one place, more often hovering like hummingbirds as they sucked the nectar from flowers. Flitting from this flower to that they would disappear into the nearby neem and jacaranda trees as soon as we appeared on the balcony. It made me proud that these birds were regular visitors at our hanging garden.

Then one day I noticed the pair hovering in our balcony rather frequently. They had become bolder too, no longer fleeing on seeing me. “Are they looking for a nesting site,” I thought. The plants and creepers in the balcony-garden had formed a bower, a canopy of sorts, it was a micro forest, a tiny ecosystem in itself. It could be an ideal place for nesting. “But then why should the pair choose a concrete balcony when they had a mini forest right beside our building blocks?” I reasoned. For two full days the tweeting couple kept frequenting the balcony like prospecting tenants, unable to decide. By the third morning my fears were confirmed when I saw the female fixing tiny thread like materials on the bamboo bridge that held the ivy branches.

I was thrilled. This was the ultimate tribute to my garden. “The sun birds are building a nest in our balcony!” I announced to Sangita and the kids. My excitement was contagious and I had a hard time holding back the family from disturbing the winged visitors. Soon I declared the balcony out-of-bounds. “No one will disturb the birds,” I ordered firmly. Luckily for us, the netted doors ensured that we could watch the birds while they couldn’t see us. It became our new pastime, watching the birds building their nest. Sorry, not birds, it was just the female that made tireless sorties carrying tiny threads and shreds of cotton wool in her beak. I kept wondering, “What happened to the male? Had he abandoned his wife? Perhaps he was collecting the building materials at the other end…Worst, perhaps, he had found another female.” I felt sorry for the lady sun bird. Male sun birds were generally monogamous. Was this fellow an exception?

Then on the third afternoon the male suddenly appeared, inspected the balcony, then the half-built nest, twittered and vanished. Just like all other males, I thought. But it was some solace; the thought that when the kids came out of the eggs their father will be around. “Dad, where will she lay the eggs?” it was my kids asking, breaking into my reverie. Even after three days the nest was just a rag-tag blob hardly resembling a home. But seeing the hard working female I was sure there would soon be a proper nest where she would lay her eggs. “Had the pair cohabited or would they do so only after the nest was ready,” I asked Sangita. She laughed. By day four the nest had taken a bulbous shape. Days five, six and seven the female bird spent most of her time bringing small cotton-like feathers that she padded inside the nest. The newborns would have a soft comfy home!   

Then there was no sign of the birds for an entire day. Another day and they were still not visible. I hurled accusations at Sangita. She had this habit of hanging the wet clothes in the balcony despite my express orders not to disturb the birds. She felt guilty. I had a sinking feeling that the birds had abandoned the nest. That’s when I spotted them cohabiting in the neem tree. So they built home first before planning the children. ‘Smarter than us humans, what do you say?’ it was my wife looking at me sarcastically. The next day the female was back at the balcony, bringing us relief. From that day the female started spending time inside the nest. Only its small head and large beak would protrude out of the nest. Spying on whether she was present in the nest became a new pastime. Her tiny head holding a disproportionately long hooked beak always peeped out of the nest. “I think she’s laid the eggs,” Sangita gave her opinion. One afternoon while she was away I climbed onto a chair and peeped inside the nest. There were no eggs in sight. “Perhaps they are deep inside the hollow,” I tried to explain.

Several days went by and the children began to protest, being unable to visit the balcony without drawing their father’s ire. Sangita too resented the idea of not being able to have her evening tea under the ivy. I had a difficult time trying to convince them. “Why don’t you understand, your presence will scare the bird!” I tried to explain to the children. They mocked, “Why don’t you understand, this is our home.” In trying to help the sunbirds raise a family, I was alienating my own. I wondered how many more days it would take for the eggs to incubate. And then I had a flash; “Google it!” The answer was found, ‘14-15 days for a yellow breasted sunbird’. That meant we had another ten long days or so to go! Those were long and hot days. The female would spend most of the afternoons away from her nest as though she had lost interest in her eggs. It was only in the nights that she sat without break in the nest, warming the eggs.   

During those days the male was never seen, and just when we thought he had abandoned his wife he appeared one afternoon, tweeted raucously, announcing that he was still the master of the house.. er nest! “Just like all men,” the thought crossed my mind yet again. Meanwhile, it took so long for the eggs to hatch we nearly lost interest in the nest and its occupants. And then the torrid summer heat prompted us to take a weekend break in the hills. Friday night we talked and Saturday morning we were gone. In six hours we were in a different world, dodging clouds that had invaded the hills impairing my driving visibility from time to time. For two days we had forgotten all about our Delhi home including the sunbirds. When we returned on Monday night, tired, the birds were the last thing on our minds. When I woke late the next morning there was no sign of the birds. I looked at the forlorn nest and was convinced that the birds had abandoned it.

“Tweet, tweet..” It was the mother bird! She was there, carrying a speck of food, a tiny green worm, in her tiny beak. And then she hopped onto her nest and clung to it, disgorging the food she was carrying. “The babies are born!” I screamed as wife and the kids huddled outside the verandah door to get a look. No we couldn’t see the newborns nor hear them. Perhaps they were too young even to squeak. But I was convinced they were born. Moreover, there was a perceptible change in the mother sunbird’s behaviour. Earlier she would “tweet-tweet-tweet…” a hundred times before entering the nest with a short “tit”. Now her tweets were more like a whisper, and she was more circumspect in entering the nest, making sure that the chick’s location was not revealed to predators such as us humans. There was another surprise confirming the addition(s) in the family. Like his wife, father sunbird too was ferrying tiny worms and insects for the little ones. “So he’s not exactly as uncaring as I thought,” I told myself. And he was no longer loud and raucous like earlier. Parenthood mellows you!

For the next few days we watched the parents disgorge food into the nest with unfailing regularity. It’s only on day four after our return that we noticed the open beaks of the young ones. There were two. Like a magic box they would spring into life, open mouthed, the moment one of the parents arrived. Food taken, they would disappear inside the nest. It was strange that the newborns were started on a high-protein non vegetarian diet when most of their adult life they would be living on the nectar from flowers. While mother sunbird spent the entire day foraging for food, in the evenings she would return to roost in the nest. It was a marvel how three birds, however tiny, could fit into that little bulb of a nest. Soon our interest in the routine of feeding the chicks began to wane; until they were exactly a week old.

It was Sunday. And to break the monotony of the week I made myself a screwdriver, vodka spiked with orange juice and ice. The heady feeling had just begun to soak in when I was jolted out of my wits. I sprang to my feet and screamed. The nest was being raided by a hawk! By the time I barged into the balcony shooing, the startled hawk had flown back into the cover of the neem and jacaranda trees across the small park in our housing society. I saw a few tender feathers floating down the air, a result of the scuffle as the hawks wings got caught in the clothesline. Then the defiant hawk began to scream furiously as though annoyed by my action. The nest was damaged but only slightly. I took a chair and peeped inside it. The chicks were not visible. Our family was visibly upset. The parent sunbirds meanwhile were at the neem tree screaming “tit.. tit.. tit….” The drama went on for several minutes until the hawk flew away. When the mother sunbird returned to the nest we saw the two baby-sunbirds popping out their open beaks. They were alive and unharmed.

“Guys I declare the balcony open once again, we have to keep vigil against the predator hawk,” I declared. My wife announced to the children, “Your father has gone mad.” The children laughed. Shaken, I wasn’t really surprised by the raid on the nest. I had been watching the hawk for the past few days and it actually did cross my mind, “What if it attacks the nest?” I had seen it create a flutter among the peaceful pigeons. The next few days were spent keeping a tab on the hawk. It wasn’t difficult. The moment it came on the neem or jacaranda tree the sunbirds would hover around the large bird as though challenging it, giving out loud warning calls “tit, tit, tit…tit, tit” until the hawk got irritated and flew away. The sun birds also had an ally in the form of a crow who also had a nest to defend in the neem tree. They, the crow and the hawk, would often spar on the branches of the tree until the hawk flew away. Looking out for the hawk became my new preoccupation. And as a precautionary measure, I slung a towel on the clothesline so it acted as a cover for the nest. Honestly, I was never too sure we could defend the fledglings from the preying hawk.   

Two days later I was woken by the alarm calls of the sunbirds in the distant jacaranda tree. When I woke up and got out of bed, I looked out for the hawk. It was there, surrounded by the paren sunbirds that raged ‘…tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet…!’ In the balcony I saw the female sitting motionless on the branch of a little tree on the balcony. Its breast was like a coat of fresh cream colour. But it looked different, I soon realized. ‘It’s the baby bird!’ In the same breath I asked, ‘Where was the boy?’ I looked towards the red jacaranda tree for an answer where the parent sunbirds were creating a racket around the hawk that was perched like a statue. Then I peeped into the nest and saw nothing. I hoped this time too I was wrong in thinking it was stolen. But there was something ominous about the unrelenting chaos in the Jacaranda tree where the sunbirds went,  “….tit, tit, tit….!” When the hawk flew away the parent sunbirds flew after it in hot pursuit. Much later the mother returned to our balcony.

Paying little heed to the female baby, she peeped into her nest. This time there was no magic-box appearance of the hungry, open beak. The mother peeped in several times but the young male was nowhere in sight. Then came the blue father bird. He too peeped into the lifeless nest and came back disappointed. Then both parents hopped around the living baby bird that suddenly whirred its wings and flew into the sky. The parents followed. And I thought I would see no more of the guests in our balcony. But a while later, the mother returned to her nest and called out to the baby boy. So did the father. They kept returning. There was something helpless and painful about their tweets now as if they were calling out to their lost child. On one or two occasions the birds came and sat silently on the clothesline. After that they were gone. “Forever..” I thought. But two days later, early morning the mother came again, inspected her nest hoping to see her stolen son.  The nest, that had until recently symbolized birth and life, dangled lifelessly.     

(The story doesn’t end there though. Next April, just before summer began, the pair returned again to our balcony looking for their old nest. Perhaps they wanted to inhabit it again. But the nest that had been dangling earlier was now lobbed on to the ivy bower. The birds discovered it; but finally chose not to nest it. Instead, they pecked away all the building material that was there in their old nest and used it in their new nest, nearby. “It was surprising, even birds reuse and recycle,” I told myself.)