As a child growing up in Manas National Park in the early to mid-eighties, my earliest memories of a bird from the owl family were of waking up terrified at night. A pair of barn owls had moved into the vacant space between the wooden rafters of our bungalow’s ceiling, and the sound of their heavy treading overhead was eerie enough to promptly launch me into a full-blown midnight aria. So much so that my father had to evict the poor birds to reclaim a good night’s sleep.
Yet, when I took up birdwatching decades later, owls went on to become my favourite birds to look out for. Almost like a superstition, it stuck with me that whenever we began our birding day, the chances of it being fruitful increased if the first bird we spotted was an owl.
Often, it turned out to be a spotted owlet.
A Full Circle
By the late eighties, we had shifted from our home in Manas to the concrete jungle of Guwahati city. Fortunately, our neighbourhood was still a vast stretch of barren land then, the hills visible a little distance away. I can barely recognise the area now — the hills seem to have vanished.
Deta, my father, soon set about transforming our compound into a green oasis filled with trees and flowering shrubs. Neem, mango, jackfruit, starfruit, and guava, among many others, happily spread their roots and shoots in our backyard.
One winter morning, as I sat reading a book in the garden while Deta pottered about, I happened to look up and saw a curious face peering down at us from the gap in the roof of our house. A spotted owlet!
Deta and I dropped our chores and gazed upwards in excitement at the unexpected guest. Suddenly, to our intense surprise, another head popped out from behind—it was a pair! In that moment, life had come full circle. Nature had recreated our life in the jungle, and this time, I was fascinated, not frightened.
“We are a family”
It soon became our habit to look up at the roof every time we stepped outdoors. Sometimes the space would be empty; at other times, they would be there — two pairs of round eyes following our every move. They would comically bob their heads up and down in a circular motion, which, for a long time, I believed was meant to scare us (partially true). In reality, they were mostly trying to maintain visual clarity, as owls can’t move their eyes much—hence the head movement. I found their antics utterly adorable.
Despite their being welcome to share our residence, my mother found it annoying that our front steps were stained white with their droppings, as the roof jutted out over the porch.
“How much do two little birds poop!” she would complain.
The mystery soon cleared.
Deta and I were out in the garden when our tenants appeared at their usual spot and began their head-bobbing routine.
“Yeah, you are so scary,” I laughed.
And just then, three tiny heads with the same big round eyes emerged from behind. My jaws dropped.
“They…they have babies!”
So, instead of two, we now had five heads bobbing at us….and staining our stairs. Our family had grown.
Changing Homes
I left Guwahati for higher studies in the early 2000s. By then, our trees had grown. The neem tree, in particular, had turned into a magnificent specimen.
Returning home for the holidays after months, I perceived a change. The owlet family was no longer in their usual space.
“Like you, they have moved away, too,” said mom. “But we always hear them at night,”
Sure enough, that night as I lay down on my bed, I heard their screeching calls reverberate through the stillness.
Later that morning, the ruckus raised by crows made me curious enough to look up into the neem tree. Two spotted owlets were resting amid the canopy, even as they were being mobbed by the cantankerous crows. Perhaps these owls were from our very own clan, for they were there almost every morning when I looked for them. Our neem tree had grown to become their preferred resting spot after a night of hectic activity.
It was comforting to think that our owlets had not left — they had become part of the ecosystem that Deta had created within our premises.
Changing Times
Decades passed in the blink of an eye, and from a carefree individual, I found myself fulfilling diverse roles—that of a mother, a wife, a daughter-in-law, and above all, an elder daughter to my ageing parents. Home was now Bengaluru, and Guwahati had become a once-a-year affair, limited to just a few days.
The dreaded COVID-19 pandemic struck, and I brought my parents to Bengaluru so we could stay closer together. They couldn’t refuse their daughter’s summons and left their own home to settle into a garden-less apartment. Yet fate could not be circumvented, and I lost my father to the pandemic in 2021. After that, our Guwahati home no longer held the same attraction for me.
I would still visit it with an aching heart, and it would pain me further to see the garden wilting without Deta’s love and care. Despite caretakers being present to look after his plants, it seemed as though they were missing his touch and were slowly taking their leave too.
Ma would relay the demise of our beautiful trees. It broke my heart to known that Amrapali, the mango tree that had travelled with us from Dehradun to Guwahati, fell during a thunderstorm. One day, the caretaker called to say that the neem tree had given up, too. Years of standing tall, and yet, like all living things, our trees had bade goodbye in the absence of the one who had nurtured them.
Had the spotted owlets left us, too?
Hope Springs Eternal
This November, I scheduled a whirlwind trip to Guwahati. My hometown now holds the status of “visit on need basis only”. I dreaded seeing my home shorn of its crowning glory – our magnificent trees and the bright winter blossoms. But the garden was still trying to put up a brave face. Deta’s favourite flowers – his orchids, were in bloom.
There were empty spaces where once the mango tree and the neem tree resided. I ignored the dull pain in my heart – change is the only constant, I told myself.
“Where do you think the owlets would have gone now, Ma?”
Mom had no answer.
But that night, I heard their familiar screeches. Our owlets were there somewhere – they had survived. Perhaps they had taken shelter in some under-construction buildings in the neighbourhood. They had adapted. That is all nature asks of them: to endure in the face of adversity, so that the community may persist.
I left my Guwahati home with hope in my heart. For the first time since my dad’s demise, it felt as if all was not over. Our spotted owlets had pulled through — their story had not ended; it had moved on.
Just as ours needs to, too.
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