After months away—across continents and climates, through the tempered quiet of New York/New Jersey and the restless, choking urgency of Delhi—my return to Bengaluru has been, above all else, a return to sound.
Not the sound of traffic or human industry, though those are never far, but something older, gentler, and far more enduring—the quiet, persistent music of birds.
In the tree-lined stillness of RT Nagar, the morning does not so much arrive as it unfolds. It begins in half-light, when the world is yet undecided, and then, almost imperceptibly, the first notes appear. The street itself seems to conspire in this awakening—its generous canopy of Gulmohar, Gliricidia, Rain Tree, and the occasional Copper Pod offering both shelter and stage to this unseen ensemble.
A soft cooing—measured, patient, like breath itself—announces the presence of the dove, most likely the Eurasian Collared Dove. Its call is not meant to astonish; it is meant to endure. There is something monastic about it, as though it belongs less to the tree than to time itself.
And then, as if summoned by some unseen conductor, the air is pierced by a liquid, rising melody—the unmistakable voice of the Asian Koel. If the dove is meditation, the koel is longing. Its call does not sit quietly in the air; it travels, stretches, insists. There is in it a note of yearning that has echoed through centuries, remembered in the poetry of Kalidasa, where the koel becomes the herald of desire and spring—“the koel has begun to sing…”—and with it, the world stirs once more.
Soon, the orchestra gathers texture. A burst of chatter, almost argumentative in tone, signals what might well be the Common Myna. Unlike the koel, the myna is unapologetically present. It does not sing to the air; it converses with it, negotiates with it, perhaps even scolds it. There is something deeply urban about it—adaptable, quick, and curiously unromantic. Yet, in its lack of lyrical pretension lies a certain charm. It reminds us that the city, too, is a habitat, and that survival here demands not just beauty, but wit.
And then, almost as an afterthought, a softer, more playful rhythm enters—what could well be the bubbling notes of the Red-vented Bulbul. Its song is less structured, more exploratory, as though it is discovering music even as it makes it—an improvisation rather than a performance.
What is remarkable about this daily concert is not merely its variety, but its anonymity. I hear far more than I can see. The koel, so vocally dominant, often remains hidden among leaves, a disembodied presence. The dove is glimpsed only occasionally, its stillness blending seamlessly with the branches it inhabits. The others flicker in and out of perception, never fully yielding themselves to sight.
There is a quiet lesson in this—the idea that beauty need not always reveal itself fully to be felt deeply. In an age that insists on visibility, on naming and knowing, these birds offer another way of engagement: to listen without possession, to experience without complete understanding. As Emily Dickinson so delicately reminds us, “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul…”—unseen, yet unmistakably present.
Perhaps that is why this morning orchestra feels so restorative. It asks nothing of us except attention. It does not demand expertise; it rewards curiosity. One need not be an ornithologist to be moved by the cadence of a koel’s call, or the gentle insistence of a dove’s cooing. Imagination does the rest—filling in what the eye cannot confirm, allowing the unseen artist to remain more enchanting than the seen.
In returning to Bengaluru, I find that the city has not merely welcomed me back; it has resumed a conversation that was only ever paused. And in that conversation, these birds—heard, glimpsed, or only imagined—are both the language and the music.
The day, of course, will gather its usual momentum. The orchestra will recede, not vanish but withdraw, making way for the more insistent and strident sounds of human life. Yet, for those few moments at dawn, there exists a different order of being—one in which the city remembers its older self, and we, briefly, remember ours.
scribo ad LX 