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.