From Courtyard to Cascades

Last October, a gentle nudge from my friend CR turned into one of those trips that quietly stay with you. The plan was simple. A relaxed birding getaway to Mango Mulch, a lovely homestay run by her friends Ashwini and Sudhakar.

We timed our arrival perfectly for breakfast. Ashwini had kindly offered to cook for us before they headed out on their own vacation, and that meal alone was worth the early start. Warm food, easy conversation, and that familiar excitement of what the day might bring.

The plan was to explore the eight-acre property and see what birds turned up. But sometimes, birding has other ideas. With our hosts getting ready to leave and the place in a bit of transition mode, the birds seemed to have taken the day off too.

But Mango Mulch didn’t leave us empty-handed.

If not birds, then butterflies. And not just any, but a fluttering gathering of Blue Tigers, drifting lazily through the garden like they had nowhere else to be. Add to that the burst of flowers around the property, and the morning found its own rhythm.

With the bird list still waiting to be written, we decided to move on and try our luck elsewhere.

Shivanasamudra was calling.

A short drive later, the twin waterfalls, Gaganachukki and Bharachukki, took over the day. The calm of the morning gave way to the thunder of water, drifting mist, and finally, some bird activity to reward the patience.

Here are some frames from that day. A mix of blue wings, bright blooms, and roaring falls.

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Like always, we started early for the 150 km drive and rolled into Mango Mulch just in time for breakfast.

The home itself was a highlight even before we stepped out with our cameras. A traditional Thotti Mane, built around a sunken central courtyard. The thotti, a stone-lined tank, sat quietly at the heart of the house, surrounded by wooden pillars and open light filtering in from above.

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Light bounced gently off the red oxide floors, giving the whole space a calm, lived-in warmth. It felt like stepping into a different pace of time.

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Breakfast turned out to be a proper introduction to the place. A plate of hand-pressed, delicate rice noodles, served two ways.

On one side, the savoury shavige bath, lightly tempered with mustard seeds, curry leaves, green chillies, coconut, and peanuts. Comforting, familiar, very much in the chitranna zone.

On the other, the softer, sweeter version paired with kayi haalu. Fragrant coconut milk, sweetened with jaggery and gently lifted with cardamom.

Same base. Two moods. Both equally good.

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We looked around the place. A lily pond, a ring of rain lilies around it, and a lot of quiet.

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And then, colour.

Patches of pink and white cosmos swaying lightly, catching just enough light to make you stop.

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Zinnias in soft pinks, layered and delicate. A lone sunflower standing out, bold and unapologetic.

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The eight-acre property had its share of interesting fruit trees. Ashwini pointed out a karonda, sitting quietly among the leaves, half blushing into ripeness.

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And then, finally, some wings.

A small patch of plants turned into a gathering spot for Blue Tigers. Not one or two, but a loose cluster, drifting in and out, settling just long enough before lifting again.

We bid our hosts goodbye as they headed out for their vacation and set off towards Shivanasamudra.

On the way, we pulled over for a bit. A lone hill rising gently beside the highway, framed by scattered clouds and that wide open sky. Nothing dramatic, just one of those views that makes you stop without overthinking it.

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And then, the sound.

The falls don’t arrive quietly. Water everywhere, spilling over rock, loud and relentless. Sheets splitting and rejoining, carving their way down through green. Gaganachukki and Bharachukki, each with their own character, but equally relentless.

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I checked a ficus tree for birds. Looked promising.

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And then, finally, a Black-naped Oriole.

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Next to show up was a Red-vented Bulbul, busy with breakfast.

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And then, a male Common Iora. Restless, bright, never quite staying still for long.

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The birds took their time that day. But between butterflies, flowers, food, and the falls, it never really felt like we were waiting. Hope you enjoyed the post, would love to hear your thoughts.

Blue-tailed Stories by the Kaveri

Early February gave us the Bar-headed Geese at Hadinaru, but we weren’t done yet. CR and I took a quick detour to a nearby Blue-tailed Bee-eater reserve, only to learn from the caretaker, Lokesh, that the migrants would arrive later, towards the end of February or March. CR, ever the planner, exchanged numbers with him and asked for updates. Sure enough, a message came a few weeks later. The bee-eaters had arrived.

Life, as usual, got in the way. Days slipped, plans shuffled, and it was only towards the end of March that we finally made it back.

This post is from that return visit. The wait had been worth it. The Blue-tailed Bee-eaters were not just present, they were in full flow, perched, diving, calling, and deep in courtship, turning the reserve into a theatre of color and motion.

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We reached the reserve around 9 in the morning. The light was already getting a bit harsh, but the place had its own calm. The Kaveri flowed gently alongside, broken by small green islets, and the narrow mud path we walked in on felt like it was leading us into something quietly special.

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A simple gate, a fenced stretch, and a small watchtower marked the entrance. Nothing grand, nothing dramatic. Just a quiet setup meant to keep the nesting grounds undisturbed.

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A narrow path ran along the fence, separating us from the nesting banks by the river.

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And then you start noticing the ground.

Small, neat holes punctured the sandy bank. Easy to miss at first, but once you see one, you start seeing them everywhere. Each one a tunnel, dug patiently into the soft soil, leading to a nesting chamber deep inside.

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And then, every now and then, one would sit still.

Perched lightly on a thin twig, almost too delicate for its weight, scanning the air with quiet focus.

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And then came the interactions.

A sudden rush of wings, a sharp turn, and one would land beside another with purpose. Sometimes it was a quick exchange, sometimes a brief standoff.

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The riverbank here makes all the difference.

Soft, sandy, and just firm enough to hold, it is ideal for nesting. You can see it in the way they use it, burrows neatly carved into the slope, each one leading deep inside.

One bird sat low at the entrance, half in, half out, as if measuring the world outside against the safety within.

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Nothing here felt solitary.

Pairs stayed close, almost always within sight of each other. One watched while the other moved. One fed while the other guarded. There was a rhythm to it, an unspoken coordination.

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At the burrows, the vigilance was constant. A quick call, a sudden wingbeat, and both were alert. This was shared work, shared responsibility.

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Everything here revolved around that small opening in the ground.

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And in between all that, the courtship continued. Offers made, tested, accepted, sometimes refused.

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And then, brief pauses.

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And all around it, the place held its calm.

The Kaveri moved on, unhurried. Yellow flowers lined the edge, swaying lightly, almost indifferent to the frenzy playing out just a few meters away.

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A quiet perch on a wire, a bee held carefully at the tip of the bill.

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A Barn Swallow watched from the same wires.

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A Western Yellow Wagtail moved through the dry leaf litter, unhurried, picking its way carefully, finding what it needed without the drama above.

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And the work behind it all was relentless.

Both male and female took turns at the burrow, digging and clearing, shaping the tunnel bit by bit. What looks like a simple hole on the surface runs deep, often 5 to 7 feet in, ending in a chamber hidden from sight.

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And then came the courtship.

The male caught a dragonfly and carried it to the female, offering it carefully. This nuptial gift is part of their mating ritual, a way to signal fitness and intent.

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If she accepts, it often leads to pairing, a quiet agreement that this is the partner to build a nest, and a future, with.

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She accepted.

And then, in a fleeting moment of grace, they came together. Wings held wide, bodies aligned, the world around them fading into stillness.

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It lasted only a heartbeat.

But in that quiet union, a bond was sealed, and a story had begun.

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And all of it unfolded here, in this quiet patch of earth.

A simple reserve, sunlit and unassuming, holding within it moments of color, longing, and connection.

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Grey-bellied Cuckoo.

Away from all the colour and chaos, it sat quietly on the wire, an unassuming migrant, watching the season play out.

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On our way back, I paused for this.

The paddy fields that cradle the reserve, quiet and unassuming, yet full of life. Not just a backdrop, but a living larder. The surrounding irrigated fields teem with aquatic insects, sustaining these migrants and keeping the skies alive.

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We came looking for bee-eaters.

We left with something more.

The smallest places often hold the richest stories.

Would love to hear your thoughts.