Remembering Old Friends

I remember the day I had my first real "birding" experience. It was a merry Sunday morning (it is somewhat unfathomable to my "adult" self that Sundays were once anything apart from lazy) when my father called out to me excitedly from the balcony. It's a hazy memory, but I'm sure I was in the midst of a serious hair-pulling (or alternatively, tumbling-around-the-bed) session with my little sister. I am also sure that I instantly abandoned this indispensable duty of an elder sister, eager to find out some new exciting information that my father was always replete with (but I'm also sure that I secretly hoped it would be worth the "work" being left incomplete). I must have then trotted out to the balcony with my sister following closely (as usual) to find my father point toward the centre of the little park behind our building. "Whaaat?!" I must have cried in curiosity and a slight tinge of surfacing disappointment. "Look. Can you see something moving out there?" My father always knew how to catch my full attention (except for when he taught me math, but let's not go there). What I saw next has been etched into my memory and the image remains fresh as ever even today.

In the middle of the park which I considered the most normal place in the world, was an entirely abnormal creature that I wouldn't have ever imagined to exist even in my secret drawing books. It was a bird, my young brain told me, but it was a bird unlike any I had ever seen. From over fifteen feet away the only thing I could see clearly was its crazy "hair" - like a crown, or a crest, as I was later clued in on. Its head was orange, but its crazy hair was black and white - the same as its body. As it scurried around the ground it tapped the soil with its long beak - just as I do with small sticks, I must have thought. I was amazed - what even was this, this alien bird with crazy hair driving me crazy - and what amazed me even more was its crazy name - Hoopoe! "Hoopoe. Hoopoe. Hoopoe hoopoe hoopoe!" I'm sure I couldn't stop saying it. I can imagine myself watching my new crazy acquaintance tap the ground while my father explains to me that it is, in fact, feeding itself some worms. I can imagine myself squeal in a confusing feeling of joy and longing as it flies away - a longing to see it again, and as I realised much later, a longing to acquaint myself with many, many new flying alien friends.

My next crazy flying friend was less crazy and more majestic. A similar set of events occurred ending in another awesome sight - perched on the copper pod tree right outside my balcony was the avian embodiment of my favourite Power Ranger. With a yellow head and body and black wings, this enchanting bird had a black patch over its eyes - and a bright red-orange beak. Looking at this gorgeous bird made me want to kneel before it in awe. Nothing in that moment was more precious to me than this bird in front of me - the (you guessed it) Golden Oriole. When I thought the magnificence of the bird's plumage was enough, its song made me fall head over heels in love. The bird-watcher in me, whose seeds the crazy Hoopoe had laid, was thus born - and continues to grow even today.

I went absolutely nuts after that (though most of it in secrecy). My "imaginary friends" were "Maggie" the Magpie Robin and "Eggie" the egret. Bulbuls and herons and kites became people - with personalities and interests. The Lapwing to me was an old man frantically in search of his long-lost wife and child, calling to them longingly at dusk. The Coucal was a shy but wise introvert - a friend I often tried to invite closer to me, never to succeed. The Storks flying high up in the air were young college mates, gracefully flying about every day with their perfect formations as a sign of their lasting friendship. Birds to me became individuals, persons - not human persons, but persons deserving and eliciting emotional connection and care.

Some ten years later as I look back at the years spent befriending these beautiful creatures, I think gravely about how long it has been since I have seen some of my oldest friends. It has perhaps been more than five years since I saw a hoopoe, a friend which once visited me every year. The golden oriole has been kinder, but rarely do I hear its merry song. The coucal has only gotten shier and it seems to me that the once-unrelenting lapwing has given up his search. As I wait for my old friends to return, I only wonder if I, along with my fellow members of the human species, have been doing something wrong. I wonder if I will ever see them again. I wonder if to them I remain a friend, or if I am now a dangerous enemy, a serious offender, a growing pest.