Grand Slam at Hoskote

 I visited Hoskote Lake last weekend and spent the morning watching just one species, the Baya Weaver. Though I did spot a peafowl and a Common Jezebel butterfly, I chose to stay with the weavers as they went about their nest-building, playing their own version of a Grand Slam on grass, with no racket but plenty of high-stakes drama.

The males were busy collecting reed strands every ten minutes, returning to weave and then pausing to display and call whenever a female came by to inspect. It was a quiet morning, but full of detail if you stayed long enough, and in the end, one Baya Weaver finally scored the point that mattered most — a nod of approval from a visiting female. His nest was accepted and the match was his.

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The morning began with a distant glimpse of a peafowl, perched quietly among the treetops. It was barely visible through the foliage. It didn’t stay long, and neither did I linger.

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The male Baya Weavers were completely focused on their task, weaving strands of reed into intricately shaped nests. Each one followed a rhythm — fly out, collect material, return, weave.

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The nests were at various stages of construction, from fresh beginnings to the fully woven chambers. 

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This one was at the helmet stage, a crucial point in the process. Once the basic structure is ready, the male calls out loudly and often, fluttering below the nest to attract a female. If she’s interested, she’ll inspect the work. If not, it’s back to weaving or starting afresh.

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Now and then, a female would pass by, perching briefly on a nearby branch.

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The males would spring into action, fluttering, calling, and putting on their best display.

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She rarely stayed long. Just enough to inspect, judge, and move on. It was clear that in the world of weavers, the females hold all the power.

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Whether or not a female showed interest, the males didn’t slow down. This one kept going, collecting more strands and calling out between flights.

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At times, things got a bit tense. Competition between males could be fierce, especially when nests were clustered close together. 

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I decided to move to another weaver colony, curious to see if the action was any different there. On the way, a flutter of colour caught my eye. A Common Jezebel butterfly had settled briefly on a branch, offering a look at both its upper and underside.

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At the new location, I saw the paparazzi of the birding world. All lenses trained on the weavers. No red carpet, just reed strands and relentless action.

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Acrobatics to woo the female. The stakes are high, and so are the performances.

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A little later, a female was drawn in. She landed near one of the nests and began a thorough inspection, checking the weave, the entrance, and likely even the structural integrity and location safety. No detail was too small.

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The male hovered nearby, wings fluttering, eyes fixed on her. You could almost sense the tension. Was she impressed? Would she approve?

His posture had changed — wings spread just so, tail fanned, chest puffed. But his eyes said it all: “Please like my work.”

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She moved closer, head tilted, eyes scanning the weave. A gentle tap here, a peck there, as if checking how well the strands held together. The male clung to the bottom of the nest, beak slightly open, watching her every move like a student awaiting exam results.

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But just as she finished her inspection, she took off. No nod, no approval.

The male let out a cry, wings flared, clearly not taking it well.

Rejection in the world of Baya Weavers isn’t quiet. It’s loud. It’s flappy. It’s thoroughly undignified.

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And after a moment of protest… he went back to weaving.

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Soon, another female arrived with wings wide, eyes set on the nest.

The male perked up instantly, mid-weave, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

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Inspection continued.

She hovered, checking every angle. He clung upside down, mid-weave, probably wishing he had fingers to cross.

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She approved. No drama. Just moved in.

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With her approval secured, the male got right back to work. A fresh strand in his beak, a renewed sense of purpose in his posture.

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The entrance tunnel still needed shaping, and he wasn’t about to slack off now.

The hard part was done. Now it was just about finishing strong.

And so, on that happy note, with one nest accepted and a proud male back at work, I wrapped up my morning.

A single nest can take 500 to 1000 flights, each one carrying just a strand. A thousand tiny acts of hope, stitched into a home.

Thanks for reading. If it made you smile, I’d love to hear about it.

Surprise Ceasefire at Hoskote

I headed out recently for a birding walk around Hoskote Lake, even though it wasn’t the best time of year. Most of the migratory birds had already left, and even the resident ones were few and far between. Still, I took the northwest trail bordering the fields, stopping often to take in whatever turned up.

It was a quiet morning but not without moments. Bee-eaters bickered, an Ibis posed, a Swamphen strutted, and an Openbill waded into a salad. Then came a surprise ceasefire. Not many birds but plenty of stories.

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The Black-headed Ibis, still and statuesque, soaking in the early sun.

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Morning light, open sky, and a stone wall quietly holding its breath.

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A Grey-headed Swamphen gave me the full catwalk, with strut, pose and a dramatic exit.

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Spotted one contemplative Asian Openbill stork, surrounded by way too much salad.

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Saw two Asian Bee-eaters on one branch with zero patience, obviously.

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Guess who caught the snack? This guy.

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“Wait… are you leaving with it?”

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“Bro you better come back with half!”

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In a shocking twist, Trump emerged like a self-appointed peacemaker from the treetops and declared: "Ceasefire achieved. Tremendous success. The conflict is over. I fixed it. You're welcome."

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Female Indian Robin taking a short break on a low perch.

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Catching the morning light, this Indian palm squirrel pauses mid-climb.

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The Bee-eaters are still unsure if they agreed. The Drongo’s already left. No one knows what just happened.

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Somewhere under the ceasefire zone, beauty fluttered on unnoticed. A Plain Tiger butterfly, blending into the hush.

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Not the birdiest morning at Hoskote, but certainly not a dull one. A bit of action, a splash of color, some mid-air drama, and a surprise ceasefire declaration—plenty to smile about. Sometimes, it’s not the number of birds but the stories they leave behind.

If you enjoyed the post, do leave a comment, I’d love to hear from you!

Back on the Trail, Gently

It’s been a while since my last post here. Life, as it often does, took the front seat. Some important personal commitments and my son’s college admission kept me occupied over the past few weeks. The good news is that he’s now settled into his engineering course, and things are finally beginning to ease up on the home front.

In between the whirlwind, I did manage a short birding visit to Muthanallur Lake with a friend. It wasn’t a particularly eventful outing, nothing spectacular to report, and honestly, I didn’t quite feel the pull to sit down and write about it then.

But with a bit more breathing room now, I thought it’s time to slowly return to the blogosphere. This post may not be the most exciting comeback, but consider it a warm-up lap. Thanks for sticking around and do bear with me while I find my rhythm again!

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The view that greeted us at 7:20 AM – calm, green, and quietly beautiful. A bit late by birding standards, but the place still felt like a gentle welcome back.

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A White-throated Kingfisher perched on a bare branch was calling into the morning stillness.

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The morning light filtered through the branches as a Baya Weaver hovered mid-air. Nesting season was in full swing, and the artistry already in progress.

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Perched on a wire under the open sky, this Red-rumped Swallow paused just long enough for a quick portrait. “Okay fine, one quick photo... but then I’ve got skies to slice!”

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The palm stood like a high-rise, dotted with Baya Weaver nests in various stages, some freshly woven, others still under construction.

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We watched the Baya Weaver males hard at work, meticulously weaving nests and putting on their best aerial displays to impress the choosy females.

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Some are just beginning. Wisps of grass, early loops, foundation laid.

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Before the moody adult look sets in, the Pied bushchat rocks a speckled outfit and innocent eyes. A brief but beautiful chapter in their journey to adulthood.

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Red-Wattled Lapwing flying in with its favorite question: “Did he do it?!” 

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Plain Prinia: small frame, big attitude, louder than your neighbour’s TV.

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If birds had job titles, this one was clearly site supervisor. Helmet on, feathers fluffed, and probably wondering why the younger weavers were slacking off.

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Black tie, chestnut vest, and a white undercoat. Clearly no one told this little munia it was a casual morning.

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Not flashy, not loud, the White-rumped Munia prefers a quiet perch in the shadows, blending in until you really start looking.

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Tiny, dusty, and a little unsure, but with those eyes, they already know how to pause hearts.

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For a bird that rarely sits still, this Red-rumped Swallow offered an unusually patient portrait.

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One half leafy, one half bare; a tree in quiet duality, standing somewhere between retreat and renewal.

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And that wraps up this slow return to the blog. Nothing too dramatic this time — just familiar birds, quiet corners, and a bit of space to pause and take it all in.

To my fellow bloggers and readers, I owe you a small apology. I’ve been away longer than intended, not just from writing, but also from reading, visiting, and engaging with your posts. Life pulled me offline for a while, but I hope to catch up gradually, and I truly appreciate your continued presence and patience.

Until next time, thank you for being here. Do leave a comment if something in this post resonated with you. It always means a lot.