The day the magpies left

For six months of the year, confined in my NCR flat like a Trappist monk, the only birds I get to see are pigeons, which have now become the ubiquitous symbol of urban avian life. But for the other six months, when I repair to my cottage in Puranikoti village near Shimla, it's a completely different world. 

The dozens of trees my family and I have planted on my land as post-retirement penance over the years to atone for my large sarkari carbon footprint — weeping willow, horse chestnut, oak, deodar, robinia, chinar, apple, plum, cherry, pear, kainth — have now come of age and are repaying our efforts in ample measure.

They provide a dense vegetation and fruits/ seeds/ flowers which now attract many varieties and species of birds, which are all the company one needs at this stage of one's WhatsApp-dominated life. Their social media-type chattering, the birdsong at dawn and in the evenings, the ambience created by their happy presence alone, has been very well expressed by a poet: 'I sit in my garden, gazing upon a beauty that cannot gaze upon itself. And I find sufficient purpose for my day.'

My avian friends are of two types — the first are the permanent residents (termed 'bona fide Himachalis' in government parlance!) who stay on my land throughout the year — sparrows, bulbuls, tits, blackbirds, whistling thrush. Because of their established tenancy status on the land, they assume a familiarity with me bordering on contempt, literally taking the food off my plate! I have no choice but to grin and bear it.

The second type are the seasonal visitors, more cautious, not sure of their welcome or of what they can expect. Among them are the swallow, swift, barbet, silver-winged blackbird, songbird, and the graceful, long-tailed Himalayan magpie. Each species has its temporal slot and arrives when its fruit of choice is ripe for eating.

They are not selfish and do not overstay their welcome — a sojourn of a few weeks and they depart, vacating the slot for the next species, having stripped the trees of whatever fruit was the chef's special. I don't mind at all — what they give us in the short time they dwell with us is much, much more than what those fruits would have fetched me at the local mandi.

Last year, however, was a landmark year for me, for a pair of Himalayan magpies decided that they had had enough of globe-trotting and that it was time to start a family before the EMIs started piling up: they settled down and started nesting in a dense grove of trees on one corner of my land! This overt expression of trust in us was a quiet vindication of all our efforts over the years to create a safe and secure environment for our feathered friends. In due course, they built a nest and laid two eggs, just before we departed for the NCR for our six-month exile.

We returned this April, to the sight of FOUR magpies — two adults and two offspring — frolicking on our land, their tenure in the grove now converted to adverse possession, if not deemed ownership, like a retired politician in Lutyens' Delhi but without the sense of entitlement!

It was a delight to see them flying around the whole day, like trundling helicopters — the Himalayan magpie is not a good flyer — picking up insects, earthworms and the cherries and apples from our trees. I fed them every morning: the smaller birds were happy with bread crumbs and rice grains, but the magpies had a preference for Haldiram's namkeens, which is what they got! In course of time, unbeknownst to us, the female laid three more eggs in an oak tree in the grove.         

We came to know of this only when, one day, one chick fell from the nest and was grabbed by a feral cat. Brutus — our indie dog — spotted this immediately and pounced on the cat, forcing it to drop the chick. We picked up the little bird, examined it for any injuries (there were none, but the poor thing was traumatised no end, as can be expected). We kept it in a warm room for two days, fed it rice and milk; all the while its parents staged a 24x7 dharna outside the room in the manner of Arvind Kejriwal, demanding the release of their little one.

Finally, on the third day, assured that the chick had recovered fully from its ordeal and it was time again for its anxious parents to take over its nurturing, we carefully put it back in the nest, where the other two chicks were none too welcoming, of course, at the thought of having to share their snacks with another mouth! The two adults were overjoyed, but quickly chased us away.

Tragedy struck the very next day. Taking our evening stroll, we found the half-eaten body of a magpie chick about 100 m from the grove. A quick check of the nest confirmed what we feared but did not wish to acknowledge — it was empty.

It was clear what had happened: the cat which had discovered the nest had not forgotten it, even though it had been thwarted by our dog the first time. It had returned, and the three chicks — still unable to fly — never stood a chance. Cats are ruthless predators of small animals, especially birds. A 2022 study estimated that cats kill 55 million birds in the UK every year!

Our magpie family were desolate — they repeatedly circled the grove without alighting on it, issuing plaintive cries. That night, they disappeared and we have not seen them since, though it's been more than a week as I write this. It is clear that they have abandoned our place; our hearts go out to them, rearing a family in the wild is a Herculean task, and to have laboured so long at it and lose it all in a moment is so unfair.

But I am now haunted by a more disturbing question — were we at fault, somehow? Could we have been more proactive in protecting the nest and the chicks? Should we have put that third chick back in the nest or should we have reared it ourselves?

There are counter questions too: Could we have reared a wild creature without robbing it of its 'wildness'? Could we have taught it how to fly and forage for food?  How far can one go in meddling in the lives of essentially wild creatures? Should we intervene or let Nature take its course? I am afraid there are no easy answers.

The question that haunts me most, however, is this — have the magpies left out of a sense of betrayal, that we reneged on our implied promise of giving them security? Will they forgive us, and return some day? Will they give us a second chance?

Avay Shukla is a retired IAS officer and author of Holy Cows and Loose Cannons — the Duffer Zone Chronicles and other works. He blogs at avayshukla.blogspot.com

More of his writing can be read here