BULBULNAMA

Ten year old piece meant for blog but forgotten.

Early in the morning of 9 April 2010, just before dawn, a bright and bubbly “Pleased to meet you” woke her up. It was the bulbul, now come to stay. All day he flew about the compounds, ‘hers’ and those of the neighbouring flats, singing whole sentences, varied with phrases and the occasional exclamation. He had only to speak and she must smile or laugh, so infectious was his blithesomeness.

And then she saw he had a mate. They inspected a tall shrub, almost a tree, within sight of her balcony, but it was a place where three cats patrolled the wall. Where the bulbuls finally nested she did not know, and that year saw no increase in their family.

The bulbul sang all day from 6 to 6 as if he had to relate the whole history of the world in a single day. She wondered if the female's was the voice with the more limited repertoire and unlike the irresistible round bobbing vibratoful voice of her mate, as fat, round and bobbing as he was. Oh, if they should succeed in raising a family and starting a colony - it would be bliss, sheer bliss this side of heaven. The picture he made one morning in the brilliant sunshine, perched on a leafless magenta-flowered branch of bougainvillea, up on the roof-garden in the neighbouring apartment block, was like a Japanese silk scroll painting. No camera could capture that image, only a painter using glowing colours on a piece of cream-gold silk might succeed.

She set out a bird-bath for them. The naughty birds ignored it, even in the scorching heat of May. Some days they went foraging quite far, so that she only heard them in the morning and at sunset. But on the best days – for her – they conversed as they darted from bush to shrub to tree, picking off insects. The female spoke in low tones, very plain; he sang his songs inside out and upside down, varying them like a little whiskery bird-Bach.

They nested quite late, in July the following year (2011). In a while another friendly flat-dweller reported seeing three or more bulbuls in a group but it was only in October that three were sighted from the spare bedroom’s balcony.  Papa bulbul had grown quite accustomed to her attending to the plants in the balconies, or to the washing on the line. He perched on the lamp-post opposite her, cocking his head to observe with bright beady eye, and sang to utterly distract her. But when he visited the music-room balcony, as her sister gave a piano lesson, he silently watched, listened – and investigated the shiny scarlet berries on the ‘squirrel-tail’ asparagus fern.

The youngster was quite well grown by October, and in due course flew away to be part of another family. The parent birds were now as much a part of her own family’s lives as the rising and setting of the sun. As for the bulbuls, they seemed to agree that these great monsters were quite harmless, even friendly.

For a while afterwards the bulbuls readily flew into the plant-crammed balconies, twittering, chirruping, singing, and swinging and bouncing on the sturdier plants, having a high old time. On one occasion they perched on a clothesline, either side of her shower-cap, highly excited as they poked at it and discussed whether it was edible or not. On another occasion, as she was watering the plants, one of them miscalculated its flight from the shrub outside to the grille and flew almost into her face, missing her nose by the thickness of a feather. It turned instantly in flight and perched on the grille, watching her. She murmured very low and carried on watering while it watched quite unafraid.

The family never squealed or made sudden movements, and there may have been some emanation of their good will that reached the bulbuls, because they seemed to trust them and like to drop in.

One day the black and white cat was harassing them, bent on catching one. And, unknown to the sisters, they had their sole surviving fledgling with them, a very young thing. She heard a lot of bird talk in the balcony of the spare bedroom while her sister was in its attached bathroom. Glancing in (without her glasses) she saw a bulbul fly right into the room seconds before her sister emerged, luckily facing her. She signalled to her and her sister signalled back for her camera which happened to be on the sideboard just next to her. In (human) silence she took pictures while the other two birds flew about distractedly from balcony to balcony, calling for the third.

Not having glasses on she had no idea that it was Baby bulbul who had flown in, and her sister only gave her a clue after the baby flew back across the room smack into the window, through whose glass the parents could be seen. Coaxing it gently, her sister opened the window, and the brave/ sensible little chap or chapess didn't waste energy flapping about in a tizzy, but sat quietly on the sill while the window was opened. Very slowly it made its way out on to a pot and, encouraged by the parents outside her sister speaking very low and gently within, flew on to the grille.

In a trice all three were gone. But they came by in the evening for their usual plant examination, which meant that they were not frightened at all by the adventure.

If the Queen of England or the President of India had come visiting they would be regarded as a nuisance but the bulbuls' visit was a great honour. Apparently only one little baby survives the cats and the crows each year. That's the price the bulbuls pay for living in a city.

From 4^th to 5^th April 2013, Emir Bulbuli & Lady Bulbulina scouted for a place to nest and decided on a set of dried bougainvillea branches often used at Christmas and otherwise stored in a pedestal cachepot at some height, in the balcony of the music room. They raided moss-sticks in the other balconies, picked wisps of cotton wool from a piece set out for them, and built the nest from 6^th to 10^th April. From the 11^th to the 13^th, Bulbulina laid 3 eggs, one each day, and began to hatch them. 

Istanbul was the first hatchling, emerging on the 23^rd. Bullion followed early on the 24^th, and BulDozer late the same day.

On 3 May: “Cheep chweep fweep! Don't we grow fast? Today we are an average of 10 days old." Turning their backs on the giant bipeds, are Istanbul (right), Bullion (left) and BulDozer (in the middle, squashed by the other two). The first-born is hogging half the nest. And the littlest was sat upon by his siblings, Now comes the really dangerous part. Istanbul will be the first to try his wings. May he not become a crow's snack.

Perished, 6 May.

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