The ivy gourd vine sprouted lush green shoots. Soon, they were hanging down, touching the ground. For want of a trellis, I just rolled them loosely around the iron pipe. Hardly a week had passed before the tips touched the ground once more. Once again, I coiled them upon the pipe. A couple of young Bulbuls flew around, surveying the vine. With noisy clucks, and delighted cackle, they inspected the ivy gourd vine ring. It swayed with the wind, a living swing, a cozy sheltered spot amidst the cherry bush, the curry leaf bush, the grape guava tree and the mango tree. They perched on the ring, chirping and singing with enthusiasm. Soon, they were flying to and fro, bringing dry leaves, twigs and pieces of dead vines.
Lo! A beautiful nest was born. It was shaped like a bowl, the insides lined with the softest dry vines, carefully, painstakingly built. In between, they flew off, mating in glee, foraging for insects and ripe little fruits. A couple of days passed, and I found little mama Bulbul sitting in her nest, warming her eggs. Even when she found me watering the plants close by, she would sit there gazing at me in such absolute trust, in motherly love and helplessness, that it pierced my heart. Anxiously, we waited for the day the beautiful marbled eggs would hatch and the cute little babies, emerge. The mother would leave the nest only for a few minutes each day, that too when it was warm and sunny, to get her grub and a drink of water.
One morning, there was a hue and cry, the parents screaming and fluttering around the nest, terrified, not daring to go too close. There squatted a Crow Pheasant (Greater Coucal) on the vine near the nest, a gigantic intruder, preening himself in utter disdain of the little Bulbuls. Seeing me come running, the villain made an undignified exit, but for the Bulbuls, it was too late. The eggs were gone.
They flew around the empty nest for a few minutes, and soon left. An hour later, mama Bulbul was back again searching all around the nest. Finding nothing, she perched on the guava tree, her back to the nest, desolate, mourning, all her golden dreams broken. And with her, silently, I grieved.
The night passed, and then a day, without a sight of my feathered friends. The next morning, with a heavy heart, I went out to the compound, my eyes roving the trees, trying to spot them. As I neared the thickly entwined fava bean vines, poof! A flutter of wings, and who should fly out, but our mama Bulbul, with a sense of urgency in her flight. Soon, she was back, in her beak, four or five little twigs, and she disappeared into the thick foliage of the vine. Watching her, my heart skipped a beat, and raced in a flutter of joy! Here were my dear friends, working industriously, enthusiastically, their tragic trauma forgotten as though it had never happened. Life, every moment, a new dawn!
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