The Red Whiskered Bulbul

 The Peepal Tree and the Birds: Stories from an Urban Balcony

Story One: The Red Whiskered Bulbul

The Peepal tree stood tall in front of the balcony.

Its leaves had fallen for the season,

And its bare branches spread wide across the skyline.

People said the sacred fig was wise.

Some believed it whispered its knowledge

to the birds that came to feed on its fruits.

A red-whiskered bulbul perched on one of its solitary branches.

It was about to break into its morning raga—the four-note ginger-beer call—when the Peepal spoke,

grave and low,

“Whisky springs not here to stay.

Summer comes with a scorching ray.”

The bulbul tilted its crested head.

“Ah! But I love the summer,” it chirped.

“The hotter the sun, the better the day.”

One yellowing leaf of the Peepal fluttered in the early morning breeze.

“Hm,” the tree murmured.

The bulbul began its morning raga.

Clear notes bounced through the empty branches.

The Peepal listened.

The sun would be harsh this year.

The winds would be dry.

Yet the bird sang as if summer were a festival.

The old tree seemed to absorb the song as it spilled into the warm morning air.

Perhaps the bird was right.

Even in the harshest summer, someone must still sing.

Back to Start: The Peepal Tree and The Birds: Stories from an urban balcony

The Peepal Tree and the Birds: Stories from an Urban Balcony

Across the balcony stands a Peepal tree.

Most days it appears ordinary—its branches tangled against the skyline, its leaves trembling in the smallest breeze. People pass beneath it without looking up. Yet for those who pause long enough, the tree reveals a different world.

Birds arrive there every day.

Some come only for a moment, resting on the electric wires that cross the street. Others hop through the branches, pecking at the small figs hidden among the leaves. Some sing loudly, announcing the morning. Others remain silent, watching the sky.

From the balcony, I began to notice them.

What started as a way of passing the time slowly became a habit of attention. Each bird seemed to carry its own story, its own small way of living with the seasons, the wind, and the city.

At the center of it all stood the Peepal tree.

Old trees have a way of witnessing more than we realize. They stand through heat and rain, through the coming and going of birds, quietly absorbing the life that gathers around them.

These pages are a small record of those encounters—moments shared between a tree, its birds, and an observer on a balcony.

Story One: The Red Whiskered Bulbul

Story Two: The Purple Sunbird

Story Three: The Asian Green Bee-eater

Story Four: The Coppersmith Barbet

Story Five: The Red-vented Bulbul