Birdsong fell like golden sunbeams when the little Magpie Robin poured his heart out in spontaneous joy. Early morning it was, and it did much to lift up a listener’s spirit. My garden in Kegalla filled with rejoicing. What mellifluity! Their black and white vestments immediately associated them with death but that grave image vanished when two were present or even more together. We called them ‘One for sorrows’:
One for sorrow,Two for joy,Three for a wedding,Four for a boy!
Bulbuls, with their untidy crowns and glaringly red vents, made throaty calls, rather sombre-sounding, until a burst of spontaneity led to a cascading rattle, showing that they were free spirits after all. Bulbuls were always busy bringing up broods and there they were relishing the orange papaw or the yellow plantain left for them. A family picnic!
Returning to the kitchen to check on the chatty pots and saucepans simmering on the stove, I spied a black crow. This being rural Sri Lanka (Ceylon then) it was a Jungle Crow, jet-black and bearded like a fierce sergeant major. Perched on the back garden wall it looked almost comical, and I chuckled at the sight. The crow let out a harsh ‘Craak’, distinctive to the species and I remembered part of a childhood ditty that refers to the crow’s reputation for cunning:
Kapati kaak kaak kaak,
Goraka geneng geneng geneng
My amusement, though, turned to dismay when I discovered that the broom nearby was being steadily stripped of its fibres. Ideal nesting material.
During the drowsy hours of early afternoon, when my rice and curry lunch brings on the inevitable torpor, I repair to the easy chair overlooking the garden and watch the bird feeder. Peanuts, cashew fragments, fruit remnants draw in visitors; in quick succession they are all there.
I always look forward to the visit of the Common Babblers, the drab-brown, fat, 
grey, good-natured conversationalists that, owing to the female penchant for chatter, are universally known as the ‘seven sisters’. It is, of course, good that the sexes look alike but they are all vocal regardless of gender. They start with soft chit chat and lilting love talk and let everyone know of their arrival by ceaseless conversation pieces. A din of shrill chatter pierces the air with no warning. A disagreement, perhaps? A spontaneous chorus? A snake?
They crowd for their pickings at the feeder and take a quick dip at the birdbath to the accompaniment of peals of delight. Making short hops hither and thither on the lawn or on tree limbs and in bushes, the ‘seven sisters’ shake out the water. Some go back to bathe again and again. Some spreadeagle themselves in the dust, throwing sand into the feathers to void insect parasites. Dust-ups do occur amongst these happy birds. Feathers get fluffed out and voices are raised. The appearance of our cat evokes a round scolding; these are feathered alarm bells.
And comedians! I’ve seen them atop the back garden wall sitting all in a neat row, noisily chattering, pushing one way then the other, sending the whole row scattering in disorder. Once a whole sisterhood set upon a pair of mating Common Mynas in the lawn, perhaps trying to break up the perceived ‘scuffle’, breaking the love embrace and packing the hapless pair in disarray. Strength in numbers! All for one, one for all; even crows give it a second thought.
Now, a confession. As children we used to catch these trusting things with food scattered under a basket propped up by a stick tied to a rope that we held. We looked through the cane slats at the hapless little bird, then lifted the trap to send the poor thing away. No real harm done, I suppose, but that’s childhood. You do silly pranks like that.
Most evening I watch the drongo or kauda in the falling dusk, and that’s the hour that insects swarm out of their hiding places. Black it was from tip to tail with a dusting of white underneath and a distinctive notched swallowtail. This is the town and village drongo; a relative lives in Sri Lanka’s forests, in amongst those leopards, and bears, and elephants, the Racquet-tailed Drongo as opposed to our subject, the White-vented Drongo.
This is, to tell you the truth, a rather prosaic moniker for this diamond-eyed master mimic. Whistles, bicycle bells, car horns, are all par for the course for this bird but it creates even greater confusion by expertly imitating other species of birds. Sheer joie de vivre appears to be the motive and these calls are punctuated by smart sallies forth from its telephone wire perch. These forays are always successful; a dragonfly or beetle is thumped vigorously on the wire and then swallowed whole.
Birds. Watching their lives and antics can bring such joy to us human beings.
by Kamala Gunasekera
courtesy A.C (Chuli) Yapa