Coppersmith Barbet.
Photo by Shashank Dalvi
The metronomic “kuk-kuk” was intriguing. I scurried to my terrace to locate the source. It sounded so close yet so far, like a coppersmith hammering away at a distance. For a good week or so, it remained elusive, ghost-like. Finally, my persistence paid off, and I zoomed in on him.
Perched on the crown of the neem tree beyond my balcony was a teeny-weeny bird, leafy-green, sunning, perfectly camouflaged by the sparse canopy but for his flashy red forehead. But was the tiny one really the source of the prolonged, monotonous calls? I couldn’t decipher, for sure. His beak was tightly pursed, though his throat puffed up, his head bobbed, and his tail flicked comically, just like a blue-blooded ventriloquist to make those metallic calls, the cadence of which ranges between 108 and 121 times a minute in 204 notes! Phew!
I extricated Salim Ali’s The Book of Indian Birds, the bible for many birders. A coppersmith barbet, he turned out to be. With a well-patterned face, a striking crimson forehead, yellow highlighting his kohl-rimmed eyes, a red badge on the chest, and streaked underparts, he was quite a show-off!
The neem tree had a decaying branch, his point of interest, and, thankfully, within my vision field. He painstakingly began excavating the dead wood to make a cosy place for himself and his mate, whom he called out to while taking breaks. Expectedly, she, with a duller plumage, arrived on the scene. She would alight at a distance and wait for him to join her. He would eagerly hop by her side, she looking askance at him, both flitting from branch to branch, he following her, of course. She would customarily inspect the place he planned to call their home and fly away, dissatisfied, leaving the poor guy alone to work harder at it. His calls became insipid, his expressions morose, and her face turned sterner as days went by. He bid his time.
She relented, finally. His perseverance had paid off. She came, she saw, and he conquered. And thus began indulgent feeding, allo-preening, and all the foreplay essentials to start a family. Soon, little baby heads popped out periodically out of their cosy abode; the proud parents became ever-so-busy and a lot hassled, too.
I remembered the Circle of Life from the animated movie The Lion King: “From the day we arrive on the planet; And, blinking, step into the sun; There’s more to see than can ever be seen; More to do than can ever be done… But the sun rolling high through the sapphire sky; Keeps great and small on the endless round; It’s the circle of life; and it moves us all; Through despair and hope; Through faith and love; ‘Til we find our place… In the circle; The circle of life…”