Just Like That: Amid Delhi's chaos, birds sing through smog and stone

Hindustan Times

18 hours ago

Outside my bedroom in Delhi is a platform on which water is kept in an earthen bowl for birds. To my surprise, a great many come to quench their thirst. Of course, the most common are the crows, pigeons and mynahs. But treepies come too, as do bulbuls—both the white-cheeked and red-vented variety—and flocks of parakeets. Among the more shy visitors is the elusive barbet, with the loudest call and least visibility, thanks to its scruffy rufous colour. On the higher branches of the peepal tree in front of my house, a pair of pariah kites—the common cheel—regularly build a nest every year. Green pigeons are often perched on the tree's lower branches. Delhi is among the greenest capitals in the world, with tree cover accounting for over 20% of its geographical area. (File photo)
In a city that heaves under the weight of its own contradictions, Delhi is a paradox that continues to fascinate, frustrate, and confound. It is a city of emperors and encroachments, of Lutyens' grandeur and slum tenements, of Mughal mausoleums and metastasizing malls. But amidst this chaotic sprawl, a quieter, often unnoticed miracle unfolds every morning: the birds still sing in Delhi.
That Delhi, a city choking on its own ambition and pollution, remains home to over 450 species of birds is not just a matter of ecological curiosity; it is, in fact, a testament to the fact that despite the dysfunction of governance, the apathy of its inhabitants, and the relentless concretisation of its spaces, Delhi is among the greenest capitals in the world, with tree cover accounting for over 20% of its geographical area.
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Across the Ridge—which is the northernmost extension of the Aravalli range—green spaces like the Asola Bhatti Wildlife Sanctuary, Sanjay Van, the Buddha Jayanti Park, the many sprawling parks—Lodhi Garden, Deer Park, the Aravali Biodiversity Park, and even the neglected Yamuna floodplains, offer corridors of refuge and sustenance to birds both common and rare. It is here, away from the ceaseless honking and the haze, that one finds the black drongo, the Indian grey hornbill, the shikra, and in winter and early spring, the Okhla Barrage is teeming with all kinds of ducks and migratory species.
Delhi is not just a stopover for migratory birds; for many, it is a home. The city is located at the crossroads of two migratory flyways—the Central Asian and East Asian-Australasian—and this geographical coincidence is part of the reason it receives such a rich diversity of seasonal visitors. But it is the year-round residents that are even more fascinating.
I am particularly happy that the ubiquitous house sparrow, once in decline due to mobile tower radiation and shrinking nesting spaces, has made a subtle comeback thanks to citizen-led conservation initiatives and increased awareness. The majestic peacock struts through colonies in South Delhi as if it were walking in the gardens of a forgotten raja.
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In the tangle of wires, glass façades, and cemented balconies, birds like the tailorbird and the purple sunbird have found unlikely perches. The former stitches together its nest from leaves and spider silk, often camouflaged in a garden hedge, while the latter, metallic blue and iridescent, hovers like a jewel beside hibiscus blooms in gated societies.
There is a quiet democracy in nature. Where the State often fails to deliver even the basics—clean air, potable water, liveable infrastructure—nature finds its own equilibrium. The birds of Delhi do not need permissions to gather, nor do they care for our zoning laws or property demarcations. Their only requirements are food, water, nesting space, and relative safety. And in this city, these can be found, sometimes in the most unlikely places: the neglected pond in a temple complex, a neem tree growing out of a railway platform, the thick shrubs that line the edges of a cremation ground. I have even found a lone cormorant living in an ugly concrete pond in Nehru Park.
But let us not romanticise blindly. The threats are real, and they are growing. Delhi's air pollution is not merely a health hazard for humans—it affects birds too, compromising their respiratory systems and impacting migratory timings. Water bodies are disappearing or being poisoned with effluents. Illegal construction eats into wooded areas. Noise pollution disrupts communication and mating patterns in certain bird species.
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And yet, resilience persists, thanks in part to growing citizen engagement. Birding groups—once the preserve of a few eccentric naturalists—are now robust communities with thousands of participants. Walks in the Yamuna Biodiversity Park, Okhla Bird Sanctuary, and Aravalli Biodiversity Park attract people of all ages, eager to document and preserve what still survives.
It is perhaps this reawakening of interest—however late—that gives some hope for the future. When a child learns to tell the difference between a koel and a crow, when a retired bureaucrat takes up photographing kingfishers, when a school installs nest boxes in its playgrounds—these are not minor gestures. They are acts of reclaiming a deeper connection to the land, of asserting that even in Delhi, a city of asphalt and ambition, there is space for birdsong, and that is the city's most enduring anthem.