Birds of the Indian City

Peacocks may be the national bird, but the signature bird of Indian cities has to be the crow.

Crows are everywhere, with their scruffy gray collars, rumpled feathers and glossy, Cherry-blossomed beaks, scouring neighborhoods so they do not miss any interesting leftovers, sights or prey. Throw out something, and they alight in a minute, cocking their heads and commenting loudly on their find.

Hawks are secretive about their catch. They will take it to a safe height and look regally pleased. Crows are not circumspect. They’ll be practically dancing, doing a little victory hop from side to side. “Ka. Ka. Ka,” boastful and insistent. One crow outside my window even did some secret political campaigning every day: “O-ba-ma, O-baa-ma.”

There is little pride or honor in the code of conduct of crows. They will hijack the catch of other birds. Although physically smaller, they tease the hawks and swipe at them until the hawks have to defend their dignity by tearing after their tormenters. The crows give chase, then quickly dip down below roofs. There, they flap and catch their breaths with mirthful taunts as the hawks are forced to suddenly brake their swooping arc and cursingly flap their wings to a safer height. Crows are the cheeky urchins who rule our rooftops.

In Singapore, the common Indian crow is deplored as an illegal immigrant. The government pays rifle owners who shoot down crows, and yet has not been able to thin down its crow population significantly.

When I read about these efforts during my family’s time there, I was moved to show my solidarity for the birds who had been my childhood neighbors in Kolkata. I would tear up slices of bread and strew them over the little picnic mat-sized yard attached to our Singapore condominium. It was my way of thumbing my nose at the rigid control the local government tried to impose on what their citizens did, saw, ate, thought and imagined.

The crows would show up the moment my food scraps hit the grass. They would hop over, bully away the mynahs and scoop up the goodies. They looked better fed and glossier than their cousins in India. Sometimes, I had an ethnic treat for them – day-old chapatis. There was no outpouring of sentimental gratitude from my guests. They ate with the cockiness of local thugs collecting hafta. Still, I invited them. My baby daughter sang with them. Tropical humidity, rain and crows immediately made me feel at home.

Sparrows seem to have disappeared from the city sky. I remember dozens would be perched on electric poles, fidgeting and cheeping anxiously. Now, the trees and electric poles are themselves vanishing. There are fewer places to perch. Buildings have airconditioners belching hot air and noise and floor upon floor of dusty, tinted glass.

Then there are mynahs, stepping quick and dainty in funky yellow lipstick, flying off in a latte-whipped flurry of cocoa and white. In my Bangalore suburb, I also see dozens of black and white tuxedoed magpies, shy olive sunbirds, chattering parrots, and the occasional kingfisher. There is even a crow pheasant, which looks like a crow on steroids with a brown, droopy tail and red eyes, and lives in a strand of ficus nearby. In a few years, most of these birds will probably disappear from my neighborhood as the city’s leafy canopy recedes and the march of concrete and glass-fronted towers invades us.

I have not seen many pigeons around where I live, but along with crows, they are the infantry of the Indian metro. People love to throw broken wheat and grains to feed pigeons. When crows close in on the periphery of a mass pigeon feed, they shoo them away these uninvited guests. The cheek of these dark, uncouth intruders! The crows retreat nearby, protesting their banishment. They take safe little hops to be in the midst of these goodies. Until they’re shooed off again. The crows don’t stick around. They’ll happily zero in on an easy feed any time, but they’re not going to fake the servility of a pigeon or the cute hop of a mynah to get food out of humans. They’ve got standards.

I don’t see the charm of pigeons. They feed constantly, rest their double chins on their pillowy chests, crap and shed flaky feathers everywhere. I could ship them all to Trafalgar Square and let the old ladies sitting in their woolen coats feed them as much as they want to.

I like the raucous frankness, the unpretentiousness, the disarming ordinariness of crows. They know when to back off, but never quit. They keep coming back till they get what they want. They are determined to get the most of any situation. No wonder crows look so comfortable in our midst. They epitomize the spirit of all the migrants who flock to any Indian city.