At the edge of a bubbly river, something moves. It resembles a blink a flash of orange-red, then gone, and then there again. It’s like a heartbeat, a pulse. This is a sprightly little bird, the Black Redstart. Bobbing his tail and his orange body, this visitor’s infectious energy belies his arduous, yearly journey, from Central Asia to India.
At the onset of each winter, millions of migratory birds come to India, to feed, take refuge, find stopover sites, and escape the harsh cold of the Arctic and Palearctic regions. In November, there are long-legged godwits on our coasts, noisy ruddy shelducks in our ponds, redstarts and flycatchers all over our woods, and sandpipers and redshanks poking marshy areas with their long beaks. Reeds braiding the sides of wetlands are full, occupied with waterbirds resting or hiding. Winter can be harsh and dreary as a season, but it is also alive with millions of avian visitors completing their life cycles in India.
When we want an international flavour, we watch movies with charming foreign accents. We order Mexican food studded with red and yellow peppers, not pepper powder, and Thai curries with lemongrass, not elaichi. We take out our British tweed or pieces of Oriental silk, we swan around in our costumes-for-a-day or immerse in special once-in-a-week meals. But the beginning of winter shows us what is truly international, in the natural way.
As a large landmass over the Indian Ocean, India has the fortune of being the destination of countless migratory birds every winter. Bar-headed geese fly over the Himalayas—in minus degree temperatures—to spend a clement winter in our country. Gulls come on the banks of the Yamuna (and other rivers) from Central Asian countries such as Kazakhstan. Amur falcons come in huge flocks from Mongolia and Russia to Nagaland. They seem to know the best paths to follow, and come to the same places year after year. Their journeys are long and they often can’t afford to rest until they have reached their safe spots.
Recently, a bar-tailed godwit, all of five months old, reached Tasmania from Alaska (more than 13,000 km) in all of 11 days. This was gleaned from a satellite-tracking device the bird was fitted with. Similarly, tagged Amur falcons have revealed an amazing 22,000-km-long journey each year—from Amur to India to Africa and back. As beings that cannot fly, we can only wonder at those that make long flights full of all kinds of things: displacement, teamwork and surprise. For the human onlooker, this is one of the greatest spectacles of the natural world.
So this winter, to enjoy an international display, head to your nearest shore or wetland and watch migratory birds. Revel in the sight of birds splashing about, filling the air with their cries and little victories in finding food. Each year, I observe them eagerly, taking notes of their joy and abandon, feeling a sweet sorrow as they leave in spring. As the earth warms, I hope we continue to conserve places for birds that fledged in the cold, but take to Indian waters like they were born in them; that we never stop being surprised at long journeys with happy endings.
Neha Sinha
Conservation biologist and author
Twitter: @nehaa_sinha