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.

Nine Colours and a Second Chance

There are some places that keep pulling you back, no matter how many times you have been there. Hoskote is one of those for me. And sometimes, it is not just about the birds, but also about the people you end up sharing those mornings with.

I had first run into CA at Hoskote on one of those chance birding mornings when strangers bond instantly over a distant silhouette. Since then, we have birded together at quite a few places, but oddly enough, we had never actually done Hoskote together again. Until this trip.

The lake did not disappoint. Waders, raptors, passerines, and the usual Hoskote chaos all showed up, keeping us happily busy and constantly scanning. It was one of those days where the checklist grows steadily and conversations keep getting interrupted with “wait, what is that?”

And then came the moment.

Towards the very end, when we were almost done and already talking about breakfast, a flash of impossible colour appeared and vanished just as quickly. The Indian Pitta. A bird that looks like it was painted with leftover festival colours. I managed a photo, but let us just say the bird deserved far better than what my camera captured that day.

That was enough motivation to return the very next weekend. Same place, same anticipation, but this time with a clear goal. And Hoskote obliged. The Pitta showed up again, along with a few more lovely sightings that made the second outing just as rewarding as the first.

Here are some moments from those two mornings at Hoskote.

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We reached just in time for the first light. The trees held their silhouettes, and the lake eased into the day.

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Among the first to greet us was this Wood Sandpiper, quietly moving through the greens.

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We made our way towards the water to look for waders, but a Greater Coucal had already spotted us and took off well before we were anywhere near.

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An old, burnt-out car in the middle of Hoskote, looking like it had a story to tell. The swallows did not wait to hear it. They just kept flying.

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By the water’s edge, a Common Greenshank stood in quiet symmetry.

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The Egret chose motion, the Stilt chose patience, and the water reflected both without picking sides.

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A Common Sandpiper moved along the shore, pausing briefly as a few drifting feathers caught its attention.

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This Little Ringed Plover would have gone unnoticed, if not for CA, who spotted it before I did.

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Further out, the scene opened up into a familiar Hoskote spread. Egrets, storks, and waders sharing space without much fuss.

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CA suggested we walk further into the grassland in search of raptors, and it did not take long for the first one to show up. A Black-shouldered Kite, watching us from a distance.

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As we walked on, a pair of Coppersmith Barbets caught our eye, perched side by side, but not quite seeing eye to eye.

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Among the scattered reflections and ripples, a Wood Sandpiper stood, quietly going about its routine.

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We found a Greater Coucal again, no longer in a hurry, sitting calmly in the morning light.

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Among the Rosy Starlings, one looked particularly worse for wear, as if it had just come out of an unexpected bath.

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And then, without much warning, it took off, still looking as ruffled as before.

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Paddyfield Pipit stood tall, scanning the open grassland.

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Another Paddyfield Pipit was hard at work, carrying nesting material across the dry ground.

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A Western Marsh Harrier drifted past, low and steady, scanning the ground below.

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A few Western Yellow Wagtails worked the grass, walking, pausing, and then moving again in that familiar restless rhythm.

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The ever-watchful Black Drongo made a quick pass, never missing a chance to keep an eye on things.

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There it stood, a lone Woolly-necked Stork, completely still and self-contained.

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A Black Kite descended and sat in the grass, calm and in control.

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On a bare branch, Barn Swallows gathered, watching, waiting, and occasionally shifting places.

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The Black Kite remained on its lookout, missing nothing.

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“Pitta,” CA said, excitement barely contained. I got one shot, and it vanished.

We waited for a while, hoping the Indian Pitta would return. It did not. That day, I had to be content with this blurry photo.

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A Blue-faced Malkoha made a quiet appearance instead.

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One week later…

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A week later, I returned to Hoskote, hoping for another chance with the Indian Pitta.

This time, it was just me.

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The day began with a Grey Francolin, steady and alert.

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Perched on the wire, a Hoopoe looked almost ornamental, as if placed there on purpose.

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Still no trace of the Pitta. I moved ahead, and then… a peacock in full display.

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The peacock took flight, climbed onto a vantage point, and called out, announcing its presence.

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The call rang out, almost like a pied piper’s tune. One by one, the peafowls came rushing in.

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A Black-headed Ibis sat quietly on a branch, unbothered by all the commotion.

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A Rosy Starling perched nearby, looking rather cute.

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One last attempt, more out of hope than belief.

And suddenly, there it was.

The Indian Pitta, glowing in impossible colours. They call it Navrang here… nine colours, all in one tiny bird.

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The day was not done yet.

A Blue-faced Malkoha, with that unreal blue gaze, like it knew something I did not.

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And then, as if to sign off the day, an Indian Robin appeared.

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And then, almost as an afterthought, came the final bird of the day.

A Sykes’s Warbler.

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In the end, it was not just about the Pitta.

It was about a morning shared, a week of waiting, and a quiet return that felt just as meaningful.

Hoskote, once again, gave me more than I went looking for.

Would love to hear your thoughts.