Samrudhdi Kerkar
In our backyard, beyond the lush green areca nut orchard, lies my favourite place—the Kalti River.
My childhood is filled with memories of this motherly river, a treasure trove of colourful, smooth stones and shimmering fish gliding through its crystal-clear waters. The surroundings echoed with the melodies of birds, the buzzing of bees, the whisper of the wind, the rustle of leaves and grass, and the immersive song of the river itself—soft as a lullaby in a mother’s comforting voice and as gentle as the ringing of anklets.
Though often bustling with life, this place offered a serenity that felt deeper than silence. Sitting on a sturdy black boulder, feet dipped in the cool water, I would watch a black cormorant gliding effortlessly or a water egret, poised like a statue, scanning for its next meal. And then there were the kingfishers—tiny miracles of speed and precision—swooping down to snatch a gleaming fish in a blink.
The river was a haven for birds—playful bulbuls, chattering water hens, majestic hornbills, glittering sunbirds, babbling babblers, elegant herons, and the soulful cuckoo, whose song felt like poetry. But one day, among them, I saw a bird that captivated me entirely.
It resembled a bulbul, with a glossy black crown, a striking crest, and rufous feathers reminiscent of the river stones I used to rub against rocks, watching their earthy pigment dissolve into the water. But what truly set it apart was its ribbon-like tail—graceful and impossibly long, stretching nearly 30 cm. I was entranced.
A few days later, as I wandered near the river, a distinct call caught my attention. Following the sound, I saw the same bird—this time, completely white, making it even more mesmerising. I tried countless times to capture a picture, but it always eluded me, disappearing into the canopy with effortless grace.
While chasing it, I discovered its female counterpart—a rufous-coloured bird with the same crest but an ordinary tail, making her resemble a bulbul. Curious to learn more, I searched my books at home and finally uncovered its identity: Terpsiphone paradisi, the Asian Paradise Flycatcher. Even its name felt enchanting.
In the Indian subcontinent, these birds breed from March to July. Like hornbills and sarus cranes, they are monogamous, symbolising lifelong commitment and devotion. They weave delicate, cup-like nests on tree branches, where both parents take turns feeding their chicks a diet of tiny insects, moths, and butterflies.
This bird holds a special place in Indian wildlife, recognised as the state bird of Madhya Pradesh, where it is locally known as Dudhraj or Sultan Bulbul—names that capture its celestial grace. As it flits through the air, its long tail trailing like a streaming waterfall against the deep greens, it truly looks like a nymph descending from paradise.
In English, it is also known as the ‘widow bird’, a name inspired by its striking contrast of colours and ethereal presence.
