The Living Hedge: Bees, Bulbuls, and a Bengal Fox

 

The Living Hedge

Bees, Bulbuls, and a Bengal Fox

At 5.15 one morning, when I opened the window of my study on the first floor, I noticed an unfamiliar animal squatting on the road in front of our house. It seemed to be looking at me with anxiety and trepidation. Before I could reach for my smartphone, it vanished without a trace into the little shrub forest on the bank of the Laharpur stream.

That's a kuliha, my childhood memory whispered, recalling the choric howling at dusk from the sugarcane fields beyond our small village.

I didn't learn about the fox at school. During our excursions to Kumka—the village forest on the western bank of the Jira—my older and more knowledgeable friends showed me kuliha dooels (dooel pronounced like daya - दया), the little burrows foxes dug for shelter.

Our village had evocative names for different hours of the day. Early dawn was kukra-daka—when the cock crows. Soon after sunset came gai-dhuka—when the cattle returned home. Late dusk was kuliha-bhuka bel—the time when the foxes began to howl.

So, when I caught that fleeting glimpse of the little animal, childhood memory had already whispered its name.

"Hey Google, can you tell me the name of the small animal with a bushy tail that I sighted near our home this morning? I've sometimes heard them howl at dusk."

Google readily provided the answer: a small canid, most likely a Bengal fox, called kuliha in Sambalpuri, bilua in Odia, and lomdi in Hindi. It also displayed a photograph that matched my sighting.

When did we rescue a baby python near our home? My memory shrugged. Google Photos quietly produced the photograph—dated 2 December 2015. That encounter became the subject of an earlier blog, A Python's Plight.

In 2002, after completing our house, we planted a few white bougainvillea to form a hedge. Over the years they have grown sturdy and resilient, with thick foliage and flowers in every season—a delight to the eye. Getting the hedge trimmed twice a year irritates my spouse.

"Let's remove these—thorny plants aren't auspicious in front of the house," she says.

But I know the real reason. The hedge offers perfect nesting sites for sunbirds and other little birds. My spouse is wary of snakes, which are common in the area and are known to raid birds' nests for eggs.

Hornets and wasps have built nests in various nooks and corners of our house—even inside a hanging terracotta lamp. The pumpkin vines in my terrace pots produce flowers almost every day during summer. We relish makhan-phool bhaja, dipped in rice batter and lightly fried on the tawa; the hornets relish the nectar. When I pluck the blossoms each morning, they continue to dive into the flowers even after they have been harvested. Fortunately, I've never been stung. Perhaps they acknowledge my ownership rights over the flowers!

The other day, the gardener trimming the hedge heard an angry buzz. His shears had strayed perilously close to a small beehive under construction. That was a first. Bees usually built their hives high on trees, beyond the easy reach of honey-seeking humans. Why had they changed their ancient practice, I wondered.

Then I looked at the luxuriantly flowering madhu-malati on our porch. The hedge stood only a few metres away. The bees had chosen a secure site for their hive and the shortest commute to a dependable source of nectar. A masterclass in productivity planning.

One morning, I watched two bulbuls with their fledgling on the hedge. But no, this was not breakfast. It was kindergarten.

Dad flew to the nearby wire fence, about seven feet above the ground. Mom followed. The little one understood the signal, looked anxiously at its parents, and hesitated.

Do you really think I can fly that far? I've never tried before. What if I fall?

The parents answered with encouraging warbles. The fledgling took off, reached the fence, lost its balance immediately, clung desperately to the wire mesh with its tiny feet and beak, then clambered back to the top. First solo flight accomplished.

The little Bulbul - before its maiden flight!

Watching this little drama reminded me of another earlier blog, Dance of Life: Koels, Cobras, and Sparrows, in which I had marvelled at the courtship rituals of some of our other wild neighbours. The cast changes with the seasons, but the stage remains the same.

To my spouse, it is merely a thorny bougainvillea hedge that demands trimming twice a year. To me, it is a nursery, a pantry, a refuge, and a thoroughfare for lives that quietly intersect with ours. Beyond it lies the little stream where a Bengal fox slips into the undergrowth before dawn, just as the foxes of my childhood disappeared into their dooels by the banks of the Jira.

Bees, birds, reptiles, and foxes have called this planet home for millions of years longer than we have. We are the newcomers.

That's why I'll resist any attempt to destroy the hedge.

Postscript

Postscript

This is one of a series of essays on the surprising biodiversity around our home in Laharpur, Bhopal. Related posts:

·        A Python's Plight

·        Dance of Life: Koels, Cobras, and Sparrows

·        Avian Intelligence (AI): Nothing Artificial About It!

·        Birdsong: Nature’s Streaming Music

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