There were many. They sat in the dry bunch of twigs that hung around the creeper. The summer had turned so many twigs in the garden into a golden hue. But these birds didn’t mind. They hopped in glee, and swung with pride like ardent trapeze artists while they called out to each other in small bursts.
I didn’t know these birds at first. “Sparrows”, I reckoned. Sure, they made silly noises, hopped around and made the garden floor dirty. But, it was a small price to pay for the ring side view I got every morning and sometimes even throughout the day.
As a dutiful host, I filled up tiny clay pots under the scattered vegetation so that these tiny beauties could freshen up every few minutes. Sure enough, their antics kept me entertained for long hours.
“Sid”, I called out to my teenager one morning, “these are not sparrows. They look different”, I pointed to at least fifteen of them taking refuge under a large tree. “Look at that beak”, Sid pointed out. “It is so finch like”, I told Sid. Sid took out our bird book and looked over all the pictures, “our birdie is not any of these”, he murmured thoughtfully as our little fella chirped happily outside.
The next couple of days I watched them with renewed interest. They were always in groups — jumping from branch to branch or chewing on strange twigs and seeds. Most of all, they were never still. “These bunch are so active”, Sid observed. “If only we knew what they are”, I sighed. I wanted to find out more about these birds who lined up the garden hedge in a pattern that could humble any artist. Two of them looked in, the next two looked away and the next couple of them alternated with in and out.
I stood inside the cool confines of the dining area as I watched their musical tweeting when something happened. A little fella landed just outside the glass door. He was so close that I could stretch my hand out and reach him but I stood still without moving when he tilted his head. I looked on. With a slight movement, he gazed in. I am certain that we locked our eyes, as he continued to stare.
I wonder if he knew I stood alarmingly close to his comfort. But, it didn’t seem to have any effect on that little fella as he stood there for five whole seconds. Then, in the most unexpected turn of events, his thick, stocky beak broke open a little bit and a voice crackled out. As the little tweet travelled through the glass door and made its way into my ears, it had the most magical effect because it brought a smile.
The next few moments I chuckled because, in the strangest of ways, we had connected. As if to prove my point, the next instant, the flock dispersed to the shrub nearby except this fella who flew towards me. He flew close to the door, buzzed around a bit when he was joined by a friend. They both buzzed, knocking on the glass door a few times. They did this for a couple of minutes before settling on the floor next to me.
“But who are you?”, I lamented before picking up my phone. There, staring at me in one of the messages was a picture with a caption that read “Indian Silver bill”. I laughed deliriously. It was my bird all right.
Yes. I would like to believe that the Indian Silverbill and I have a magical connection — not because the Universe conspired to give me an answer, but because, we locked eyes.
Today, as they line up the garden hedge, I call out to Sid, “the Silverbills are here” and I wait patiently for the magic to begin — all over again.
— Sudha Subramanian is an author and writer based in Dubai. Twitter: @sudhasubraman
