When I step out of the house at around 5.30 am, it’s still dark and even the birds have not stirred. I wonder which will be the first to awaken this morning. Alas, the winner was a crow, who muttered a harsh caw as it flew from its roost, disgruntled, no doubt, at having to awaken so early. For many past mornings, the koels have been the first, rising with a hysterical bubbling call as if they have put a dastardly conspiracy into motion. A couple of mornings ago, tree-pies broke the silence with their musical if throaty calls, asking for “thocolate?” first thing in the morning. Idly you wonder what sense their name makes: tree pies as in apple pies? Who on earth thought of calling them that and why? From high above the still dark sky, the hunting call of the shikra rings alarm and danger – it’s already up and looking for the early (and sleepy) bird, no doubt. Generations of shikras have nested in the Nicholson Cemetery next door, and now the musically trilling bee-eaters skating about above better beware. The brown-faced barbets have already claimed some of the high positions on the tree tops and are declaring this to one another. As you make your way around the velvety, dew-drenched lawns, you are cheered by the raucous laughter of the big Alexandrine parakeets (who had been missing for a while). A little later, they are joined by the more common rose-ringed parakeets, green and sharp as chillies. Yet again, you wonder what’s happened to the lovely plum-headed parakeets that used to steak across, leaving their shrill “tooi-tooi?” questions unanswered in their wake. They haven’t been around for a long time and you wonder what’s changed. Were they simply bullied away by the other two? Or, was some vital dietary ingredient (and multivitamin) suddenly no longer available here? Speaking of bullies, you can hear the (oh so peace-loving!) blue rock doves shuffling noisily on the balcony awnings (they make an awful mess) as they thump each other with their wings and peck at one another. Their smaller cousins, the laughing dove (also called the mourning dove, which suits them better because it certainly does not sound as if they are laughing) are also up, though the beige-collared dove is another bird that has been missing in action. By now, the sky is a blushing pink – but will remain so for not more than a few minutes. You enter the larger of the two lawns and are amused to see the family of Indian mynas out on their traditional “morning walk” on the grass. The family comprises two adults (mama and papa) and an adolescent that clearly is a case of “failure to launch”! Of course, it can fly, but it prefers chasing its parents and begging for tidbits – which its mom duly shows it where to find. They land in the lawn well after dawn, so they can keep an eye out for the cats that crouch under the benches, all coiled up to charge out and pounce. One morning, madam pussycat was flushed from under a bench by a heckling mob of jungle babblers that hunched and ruffled their plumage up (to look larger and scarier) and bounced towards her threateningly. Frustrated beyond measure, the cat charged out at them, as they flew away laughing and calling her all sorts of names. One sleepy afternoon, as the babblers hop about in the hedges murmuring softly to themselves, she’s going to get one! You walk past the saptaparni trees and hear the soft jingling of the white-eyes, those cute (I don’t like this word but there’s nothing more suitable to describe them!) goggle-eyed yellow and off-white birds that keep together and preferably hidden. The tiny-tot tailorbirds are also greeting the new morning with their cheerful if shrill, “towich, towich, towich” calls as they hop around at the bottom of the hedges in search of chilled insects. Their handsome cousin, the ashy prinia, in russet and grey, is yet another absentee – and has been so for a while now. The ringing laugh of the black-rumped flameback (nee golden-backed woodpecker) startles you and you quickly glance at the trunks of all the surrounding trees, hoping for a glimpse: sometimes, the bird is clearly silhouetted as it corkscrews up the tree trunks or around the boughs, its eyes always bright and enquiring: but not this morning. What you do catch a glimpse of, however, is the flash of turquoise as the white-throated kingfisher (also an old timer here) flashes past, emitting its own raucous laugh, which can be sometimes confused with that of the woodpeckers. And then, from deep within a hedge, the misanthropic “chrrrr!” of the magpie-robin, apparently aggrieved at having to wake so early, but somehow managing a single long sweet whistle alongside it, too. It has no performances to give (the season for romance is over) and hopefully its family has grown and flown. By now, the black kites are wheeling about in circles, mewling in their usual peevish manner and as always you admire – and are envious of – the ease with which they circle about, with barely a wing-beat and a twitch of the tail. Up on the terraces, the peafowl have lined up – chiefly the shawl-coloured peahens; in moments, they will bluster down onto the lawns honking dismally like lorries going downhill without brakes, before sneaking into your garden for breakfast. I normally don’t count the number of species I hear or see during my walks, but recently, I did and the tally was 20: Morning’s Twenty!
