The loudest songs often come from the smallest birds. I looked up into the branches of a cedar tree to trace the source of a piercing “pee pee pee piyooo” whistle. A black-and-orange bird was looking straight at me, head cocked to one side. With its spiky crest and dark face, the only way to describe it is to say that it was giving punk goth vibes. This orange-breasted bird, Rufous sibia, is native to the Himalayan forests. Judging by its clear, confident call, it knew that this was home.  

It was 6.30 am, and the sleepy cantonment town of Landour was reluctantly waking up. This settlement works at a slower pace than that of Mussoorie, the bustling hill station it’s perched above. Stray dogs, so quintessential to the mountains, were witness to the sunrise, to the pitter patter of locals going about their work and to the determined stride of tourists on their morning walk. I was one of those determined tourists, binoculars strung over my neck. 

An ‘infinity loop’ in the shape of an eight is carved into the ridge of the mountain, offering spectacular views over the Doon valley. In front of me stood the tree most characteristic of this area: the deodar or Himalayan cedar, showing off its new spring foliage. Thick curly branches of oak rose in between the deodars and pine trees. A Himalayan chestnut towered over me, its palmate leaves forming a ‘mushroom’ or ‘katora’ cut — I like to imagine them as mop tops on the Beatles’ heads.

Listen to the Rufous sibia’s call below 

Illustration of Rufous sibia, inspired by this photograph by Charles J Sharp (CC-BY-SA)

 

 

I had first heard of Landour in the book Landour Days by Ruskin Bond, over two decades ago. The cover illustration, beautiful watercolours by Ajanta Guhathakurta, had stayed with me for years after… and those colours were now coming to life. Landour was a place to visit for weary souls seeking peace and quiet. I was visiting with my parents: the three of us needed just that. 

I’d gone for a walk the previous day with my dad. A tree full of cicadas drowned out our conversation: a soundscape that was refreshing to us. A large bird circled in the evening sky: was that a vulture? A Himalayan griffon! I was ecstatic. I hadn’t seen vultures since I was in kindergarten: they’d perch in a row on top of the four-storey school building (we were told they would whisk away the naughty ones). It soared quietly and lazily above us, almost as if sizing us up. Later in the evening, from the terrace of our cottage at La Villa Bethany, I spotted another bird I’d never seen before. Bright blue, with a black eye stripe. It performed impressive aerial acrobatics like a bee-eater, catching insects mid-air. A Verditer Flycatcher. I noticed a duller blue bird not far from it, and realised that both male and female were perched on the same tree. I watched them loop and dart in circles, leaving their perch but always coming back.

 

The cicada symphony 

Landour is also famous for its winterline: a false horizon formed by the setting sun above the mountains. While it wasn’t clear in spring, the sunset we witnessed was still beautiful: hazy and dream-like. A perfect curtain call. 

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A walk through Jabarkhet Nature Reserve

The next day, the three of us set off on a walk in the privately-owned Jabarkhet nature reserve. Our guide Sushil met us at the entrance of the reserve. We chose to do the Ridge Trail, a narrow winding path that hugs the mountain and steeply drops into the valley on the other side. The route was wet from last night’s rain: Sushil took my mother’s hand and helped her walk over the slippery bits. She was amused, as Sushil is also my brother’s name.

The most striking sight was the rhododendron (buransh) trees in full bloom. They dotted the valley like giant shrubs of red roses, their petals carpeting the ground. Pine trees covered the hills: there are two species here, chir and blue. They’re easy to tell apart: blue pines look like your familiar “Christmas tree” shape and chir pines are shaped somewhat like a candle stand with branches, with a straight trunk and tiered arms. As we walked, something cast a dark shadow over us as it flew by silently. A black eagle! Though it was smaller than the vulture we saw the previous day, it seemed much bigger as it swooped down and disappeared into the canopy.  

I noticed that the path was covered in fine, brown pine needles. “They block the sunlight from reaching the ground and prevent things from growing,” Sushil said. “In the villages, they burn the pine leaves so that new vegetation can grow. But this happens every year, which isn’t good for the forest. Also, pine cones catch fire quickly, and now there are frequent forest fires in the area.”

The loud call of a bird interrupted our walk and I looked for it. “Indian cuckoo,” Sushil supplied. According to a folktale, the bird is thought to be singing, “Kaphal pak gaya (The bayberries are ripe),” in the spring. When the season is over and the berries are gone from the trees, the bird mischievously sings, “Maine nahi khaya (I didn’t eat them!)”. 

I asked Sushil what food is special to the region and what is specially prepared for festivals.  Tinole (or Timla, wild fig) is a delicacy and mandwa (a sweet made of ragi flour) is a treat. And, he added with relish, Badi halwa, makhan ke saath (with butter). The biggest festival in this part of Uttarakhand is Igas Bagwal, which is celebrated a few days after Diwali. Legend has it that the news of Rama’s return from exile took time to reach the hills of Uttarakhand, leading to this delayed celebration. How different to today’s times, where news — both real and fake — reaches remote corners in an instant.

Halfway into the trail, I spotted a Banj oak, also called paani ka ped (the water tree). “These trees have very deep roots,” Sushil said. “In the monsoons they collect and store water and slowly release it in the drier months. They keep the forest intact.” 

All the while, my dad was following quietly: walking is his meditation. The rhythm of our footsteps punctuated the silence. I picked up a buransh flower on the trail, as did Sushil. He casually popped a petal in his mouth – it reminded me of how my mother liked chewing on gulmohar flowers. These flowers are used to make juice, jam, chutneys and they’re very good for diabetes patients. But just make sure to get the one with no added sugar in the market, Sushil advised. 

I heard a familiar drumming sound. Ah, I knew this! A woodpecker. Merlin, the bird ID app, recognized it as a grey-headed woodpecker. I looked up into the trees trying to spot it, but as with woodpeckers on tall trees, it was much easier to hear than see it. A little bird suddenly darted between trees and joined its friend on a branch. I squinted to find a pair of black-throated bushtits. If the Rufous sibia was punk, these were definitely little gangsta birds, complete with eye-patch and all (see it to believe it!). 

Jabarkhet is closed at night because of the potential danger of leopards and black bears. I asked Sushil if he’s ever seen a leopard around here. “Leopards ka bahut bada territory hota hai. Bohot mushkil se nikalta hai, avoid hi karta hai. (Leopards have a big territory, they are elusive and mostly avoid people.)” How lucky I was then, to have come almost face-to-face with a leopard during a trip to Valparai many years ago (we were both startled and quickly went our separate ways). Sushil has seen the yellow-throated marten though, a species native to this region. He showed us recordings from camera traps that are placed around the forest.  

We came across lichen growing on a rock. “It’s a sign of forest health,” Sushil explained. “When sulphur-dioxide in the air is high, forest lichen disappears. The presence of lichen means the forest is healthy.” We walked further on, with a grey-hooded warbler twittering away in a merry soundtrack. The hills here support numerous edible and medicinal plants: Himalayan nettle and wild spinach are used regularly in cooking, and at higher altitudes, shilajit, the black resin from rocks is used in a variety of medicines. Sushil pointed out patthar chatta, a succulent used for the treatment of kidney stones.

Lichen – a sign of a healthy forest 

We approached a stone hut for refreshments. Sushil poured us three glasses of rhododendron juice from a large bottle. We sat on benches outside the cottage in a meadow dotted with daisies, sipping our cups. The forest was getting louder now, with the cicadas starting up their orchestra. 

Being surrounded by the fresh smell of conifers and walking in a forest that was bursting with life made my everyday, screen-filled routine seem distant and absurd. For my mother it was a new adventure, for my dad an extension of his morning walk, for me a way to truly listen. To find an abundance of species that were native to this land — birds and plants I’d be unlikely to find elsewhere in the world — was comforting. In some weird way, it seemed to restore order: everything was where it belonged.

As we slowly made our way back to the starting point, I heard that familiar sound again, resounding across the valley. The fierce, insistent call of a Rufous sibia – a bird at home, claiming its territory.