For six months of the year, confined in my NCR flat like a Trappist monk, the only birds I get to see are pigeons, which have now become the ubiquitous symbol of urban avian life. But for the other six months, when I retire to my cottage in Puranikoti village near Shimla, it’s a completely different world.

The dozens of trees planted as a post-retirement penance over the years to atone for my large sarkari carbon footprint — weeping willows, horse chestnuts, oak, deodar, robinia, chinars, apple, plum, cherry, pears, kainth — have now come of age and are repaying our efforts in ample measure. They provide dense vegetation and fruits, seeds, flowers, which attract many varieties and species of birds. This is all the company one needs at this stage of one’s WhatsApp-dominated life. Their social media type chattering, the bird songs at dawn and in the evenings, has been very well expressed by a poet:

I sit in my garden, gazing upon a beauty that cannot gaze upon itself. And I find

sufficient purpose for my day.

My avian friends are of two types: the first are the permanent residents (‘bona fide Himachalis’ in government parlance!), who stay on my land throughout the year — sparrows, bulbuls, tits, blackbirds, whistling thrush. Because of their tenancy status, they assume a familiarity bordering on contempt, literally taking the food off my plate.

The seasonal visitors are more cautious, not sure of their welcome or of what they can expect. Among them are the swallow, swift, barbet, silver-winged blackbird, songbird, and the graceful, long-tailed Himalayan magpie.

Each species has its temporal slot and arrives when its fruit of choice is ripe for eating. They are not selfish and do not overstay their welcome — a sojourn of a few weeks and they depart, vacating the slot for the next species, having stripped the trees of whatever fruit was on the chef’s special. I don’t mind at all — what they give us in the short time they dwell with us is much, much more than what those fruits would have fetched in the local mandi.

  Last year, however, was a landmark year, for a pair of Himalayan magpies decided that they had had enough of globe-trotting and that it was time to start a family before the EMIs started piling up: they settled down and started nesting in a dense grove of trees on one corner of my land! This overt expression of trust in us was a quiet vindication of all our efforts to create a safe and secure environment for our feathered friends. In due course of time, they laid two eggs, just before we departed for the NCR for our six-month exile.

We returned this April, to the sight of four magpies — two adults and two offspring, their tenure in the grove now converted into adverse possession, if not deemed ownership like a retired politician in Lutyens’ Delhi, but without the sense of entitlement! It was a delight to see them flying around the whole day, like trundling helicopters — the Himalayan magpie is not a good flyer — picking up insects, earthworms and the cherries and apples from our trees. I feed them every morning: the smaller birds are happy with breadcrumbs and rice grains, but the magpies have a preference for Haldiram’s namkeens, which is what they get! In due course of time, unbeknownst to us, the female laid three more eggs on an oak tree in the grove.

We came to know of this only when, one day, a chick fell from the nest and was grabbed by a feral cat. Brutus, our indie dog, pounced on the cat, forcing it to drop the chick. We picked up the little bird, examined it for any injuries (there were none, but the poor thing was traumatised no end). We kept it in a warm room for two days, fed it rice and milk; all the while its parents staged a 24×7 dharna outside the room in the manner of Arvind Kejriwal, demanding the release of their little one.

Finally, on the third day, assured that the chick had recovered fully from its ordeal, we put it back in the nest, where the other two chicks were none too welcoming at the thought of having to share their snacks! The two adults were overjoyed, but quickly chased us away.

Tragedy struck the very next day. Taking our evening stroll, we found the half-eaten body of a magpie chick about 100 metres from the grove. A quick check of the nest confirmed what we feared — it was empty. It was clear what had happened: the cat which had discovered the nest had not forgotten it even though it had been thwarted by our dog the first time. The three chicks — still unable to fly — never stood a chance. Cats are ruthless predators of small animals, especially birds. A 2022 study estimated that cats kill 55 million birds in the UK every year!

Our magpie family was desolate. They repeatedly circled the grove without alighting on it, making plaintive cries. That night, they disappeared. It is clear they have abandoned our place; our hearts go out to them, rearing a family in the wild is a Herculean task, and to lose it all in a moment is so unfair.

But I am now haunted by a more disturbing question: were we at fault, somehow? Should we have put that third chick back in the nest or reared it ourselves? There are counter-questions too: how far can one go in meddling in the lives of essentially wild creatures? Should we intervene or let nature take its course? I am afraid there are no easy answers.

The question that haunts me most, however, is this: have the magpies left out of a sense of betrayal? Will they forgive us and return? Will they give us a second chance?