The Vanished <i>Niltunis</i>
I first noticed the pair of niltunis several years ago perched on a high branch of a tall yellow-and-crimson hibiscus tree in our inner courtyard. I had never seen one before in my life, and did not know what they were called. It was only a year or so later that I came across a feature story, accompanied by photographs, in a Bengali newspaper, which described the life of niltunis, and thus got to know its name. There was no mistaking the similarity between the pair in the picture and the pair I had espied. To this day, I do not know them by any other name than 'niltuni.' They look like hummingbirds, with long, narrow and slightly curved beaks, but the niltunis are larger by comparison. Actually, initially I had thought them to be hummingbirds because of their colour - or, rather, the male's plumage. The feature story had informed me that while the female was rather a drab brown-and-white, the male was adorned with a brilliantly iridescent combination of predominantly dark blue and a contrasting (or, is it complementary?) shade of aquamarine. That contrast between the male and the female tends to be the norm in Nature. The morning sun had heightened the effect of iridescence on the male perched on the branch, and it had looked magical. Tiny fairies hovering around it would have made the picture perfect. The two used to flit in and out of the tree, until one day I noticed the beginnings of a nest on one of the slender branches, carefully shaded by a couple of large green leaves. From that day on, I noted that the nest grew as the birds wove it into a complete whole. When complete, it looked a modified, miniature version of a weaver bird's (babui) nest. Then the vigils began, as one or the other bird - mostly the male - would keep watch in and around the nest. I knew that it now nestled tiny eggs (I only got to see them later, after the birds had abandoned their temporary sanctuary). There was one particular activity, repeated on numerous occasions, that was absorbing. When any unwelcome object, ranging from crows to human beings, ventured into its vicinity, irrespective of the intention, the sentinel would break out into a frenzy of loud, incessant chirping and fly away to a tree (usually the venerable kamini) growing a fair distance away from, but close enough to be within sighting range of, the hibiscus tree, and perch on one of its branches, keeping up its screeches and usually frantically flapping its tiny pair of wings. Its intention was clear: Draw the attention of the nasty interloper away from the nest, and towards itself. And it worked! The big birds, bemused or maybe even scared at the belligerence exhibited, would fly away, probably wondering why the little thing was creating such ruckus. As for Homo sapiens, they were amused by it all. Not once were the nest and its precious contents disturbed, let alone harmed, by any external force. One morning, the silence struck me. No screeches, no fluttering of wings, and no niltunis. They had simply vanished. When it was the same the next day, and the day after that, I knew that they had gone, taking their chick or chicks with them. They were chicks, because, when, after a week or so, I had the nest inspected and then brought down, I saw the broken shells of two miniscule eggs, barely larger in size than those of the house lizard, the tiktiki. And so ended my first encounter with the niltunis. But there were more - three, in fact, over three successive years. Each year, at around the same time as the first, they returned, to renew the cycle of life all over. But not once did I get to see the chicks, or observe them fly off. I guess they would spread their wings at dawn, while the world was still sleeping. In the first two years of their return, the two (I assumed that the same pair had come back) would settle on the same hibiscus tree, which offered them a familiar sanctuary and tranquility. Towards the end of the second return, our neighbour's house was torn down to make way for the construction of a multi-storied apartment building. By the time the niltunis flew in a third time the construction of the ground floor had begun. This time they stayed away from the hibiscus tree, which was bearing the full brunt of the construction noise, and instead selected the kamini, presumably because the adjoining garage offered some sort of protection against the constant noise and bustle. Then, inevitably, the time arrived when the nest was abandoned, and I marveled at the birds' instinctive sense of being in harmony with their environment. Before the year was out, the building next door had gone up three more stories. And, by the time the birds were scheduled to return, another story had gone up. But the niltunis did not turn up that year. Or the next year. Or the year after that. Even if they had not come to the end of their normal life span, I too knew instinctively they would never return. Their sanctuary had been destroyed, sacrificed to the hollow gods of development and modernization, to the growth of Dhaka as a glitzy mega slum.
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