“What was that?”
I had caught a fleeting glimpse of a middle-aged woman throwing something towards a dustbin during my morning walk. For a moment, it seemed as though the object had fluttered in the air. I was not sure what I had seen, so I continued walking. But something about that brief moment kept tugging at my mind. Curiosity would not let me move on.
I turned back and walked towards the dustbin. Looking carefully around it, I noticed a tiny black bird clinging to the wall nearby. My heart went out to the little creature. I hurried home, brought an empty box, and asked someone I knew to gently place the bird inside. I was hesitant to touch such a delicate little being myself, and I feared that if I left it there, a cat or a bird of prey might make it its meal.
I brought the little bird home and placed the box on my balcony. But a new question immediately arose: what kind of bird was it, and how could I care for it? I turned to bird-related groups on Facebook, asking people to identify it, tell me what to feed it, and guide me on how to look after it. Did it eat vegetarian food or insects? What did such a tiny bird need to survive? I had rescued a life, but I knew very little about how to protect it.
Several people responded, suggesting that it was a willow warbler or a swallow and explaining that it ate insects. However, two comments particularly caught my attention. One was from a friend who advised me to feed the little bird gently with a syringe or dropper, using suitable liquid food. His words gave me something precious: hope and a practical way to help.
The second comment came from a stranger, who wrote that whatever I did, the bird would eventually die because it could not survive without its mother. Those words saddened me. How could anyone be so certain that a little life had no chance? I felt sorry for the stranger, too, for looking at the situation with such hopelessness. I preferred to hold on to the possibility that my small efforts might make a difference.
As the saying goes, “While there is life, there is hope.” I decided to do whatever I could for my tiny guest. I offered it food and water and tried to make its little nest feel as natural as possible, coating it with mud to resemble its original surroundings. I wanted it to feel safe, as though it had found a small home away from home.
Later that evening, I went to check on it. My heart skipped a beat when I could not find it in the nest. Where had it gone? I searched behind every flowerpot on the balcony, looking into every possible hiding place, but the little bird was nowhere to be seen. My anxiety grew with every passing moment. Then, finally, I spotted it beneath a wooden slab where we kept our brooms. It had tucked itself away in that cool, dark corner, seeking shelter from the scorching heat. I felt relieved to have found my little friend safe.
The next day, I rushed to Gurgaon Bird Hospital. I wanted the bird to be examined properly, and I needed to learn what to feed it and how to feed it. The doctor examined the tiny creature and advised me to give it Cerelac baby food, sometimes mixing in dead insects or small pieces of paneer. Then he demonstrated how to feed it. Gently holding the bird’s neck and carefully pressing the front of its neck, he made it open its mouth. The little one responded as though its mother were feeding it. I watched in amazement. It looked so simple!
But the real challenge began when I returned home.
No matter how carefully I tried, the little bird refused to open its beak. The very technique that had worked so effortlessly for the doctor seemed impossible in my hands. What had looked like a simple task at the hospital turned into an exhausting exercise at home. Sometimes, it took me hours just to feed the little creature.
Looking after it reminded me of trying to feed a young child who would rather play than eat. At times, the bird would retreat into its little nest, as if telling me it wanted to be left alone. At other times, it seemed more interested in exploring or playing than accepting the food I offered. Every feeding session demanded patience, persistence, and a great deal of effort. I had never imagined that caring for such a tiny creature could be so challenging.
As the day drew to a close, I sat talking to my mother and told her about my new feathered friend. My mother has a wonderful gift for naming things, and she did not disappoint me this time either. After hearing about the little bird’s black feathers, she gave it a name: Shyama—the one who is dark or black in colour.
And that was how my little companion came to be called Shyama.
Pic : Shyama clinging to a wall near dustbin
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