A little over a 100 kilometres from Pune, on Solapur Road, is a little known place called Bhigwan. Here, spread over 180 square kilometres, a blue waterbody with blades of green grass peeping out of it, is home to a host of migratory birds that come all the way from Siberia, Canada, South America and East Europe.
This vast wetland unravels itself even before you reach the town of Bhigwan. As we stopped our car to take in the first glimpse of this wet paradise, a villager sensed that we were keen bird watchers and approached us with a disarming smile. Looking at our camera, he dug his hand into his jhola and took out an album. He slowly flipped through the leaves and showed us pictures of the stunning painted storks that we had last seen three years ago in Bharatpur Sanctuary. He promised us that he'll take us to their colony; and he was immediately appointed our guide for the day.
As we drove towards our first destination called Diksal, we saw the backwaters of Ujani Dam, built on the Bhima river. It stretched for miles on either side, reflecting the clouds and the blue sky above. There were thousands of water birds of over a hundred species: ducks, coots, cormorants, pochards, gadwalls. Migratory birds from various parts of Planet Earth; birds who happily travel from one country to the other across skies without borders.
At Diksal we drove along a bund from where you could watch the birds from close quarters. Undeterred by the men fishing next to them, they continued their feeding, preening themselves even as they floated. Nearby were women filling water in earthen pots. A truly peaceful co-existence of man and bird.
On our way to Kumbhargaon, we saw blue-green algae – the kind which flamingos feed on – hanging from ropes stretched across, as the water level had receded from its monsoon level.
Then we took a boat ride in the backwaters of Bhima, and floated close to the coots that had arrived all the way from China. They were bobbing in the ripples created by our boat. Interestingly they had a
clear comfort zone, and whenever our boat transgressed into that zone, they would move away slowly, keeping a safe distance from us.
When we got back to the shore, the sun was as its zenith, and we realized we were hungry and thirsty. We asked a small boy of eight if there was any eating place around. He nodded his head in the negative, and beat a shy retreat. After walking for 15 minutes, we took shelter under a tree that had more sun than shade.
As we were getting our breath back, we saw the same boy running towards us; and this time he had a bundle in his hand. He kept it down and opened it. Inside were steaming hot 'bhakris' and a dynamite called 'thechha' to go with it. To wash it down was a tumbler of chilled well water. After a hearty meal, we wanted to thank the boy. The only way we cityfolk know how to thank is by paying something. Looking into his beady, innocent eyes, I couldn't do it. I felt I would be reducing his wonderful gesture into something trivial. Telling him thanks would have been hollow and meaningless. I thought of the cream biscuits that were lying in the car. I fetched them and gave them to the boy. He opened one of the packets and gleefully took a bite. He seemed to have liked it; and then with a broad smile he ran away clutching the packets close to his chest. Probably he wanted to share it with his sister, or mother, or father, or all of them; I will never know. That incident remains the only one in my life when I 'bartered' something in exchange for something. And I realised the simplicity and the pristineness of the transactions of yesteryears.
After this incident, with a spring in our steps we started walking towards our undisclosed destination. Our guide was leading the way; and we were walking along the shores of a lake brimming with floating birds. Each species of bird formed a colony of their own in the tranquil waters. But we also chanced upon a few inquisitive birds that were 'accidentally' floating into colonies other than their own.
The path from the placid lake took us to a small hillock, and as we reached the top, we beheld a scene that left us gasping for breath. Ahead, among the forest of desi babool trees, were colonies after colonies of painted storks that were nesting there. Distinctive in their pink and white plumage, with bold black lines stretching along their wings, the adults were playing with fledglings creating a pleasant cacophony in that pink nursery. It was a sight I would have gone miles to see, and in fact, I had.
Unfortunately, this wonderful wetland teeming with exotic birds has preserved its sanctity only because the village folk of Bhigwan have accepted these visiting birds as their own; and their annual
migration is now an integral part of their village calendar. Efforts are on to declare this hotspot (or should I say, wetspot?) as a sanctuary; but red tape as always takes precedence over green belts.
