Strange Summer

Winter and spring comprise our best birding season. Shatchori National Park in Habiganj is no exception to this rule, yet I am here on a summer's morning. I do not expect the avian bounty of winter, but I still hope to see a few birds. And I want to see the forest in summertime.

Birds might be gone, but the forest is very much alive. After I enter the park, I hear sounds of many insects interspersed with numerous bird calls. Butterflies are out in full regalia. They flutter right and left and distract me from birds. Nonetheless, some are magnificent. I chase a few, but they are constantly moving and the ones that sit still usually have tattered wings. Butterflies have short lives, and at the end of a few weeks their wings start coming apart.

I make my way to the watchtower. Most of spring's flowers are gone, but along the way I see tiny orange-coloured inedible fruits, called micromellum, which are the smallest of the seventy-eight citrus species that grow in Sylhet region. Further up the trail, a vine has bloomed with white flowers. A crimson sunbird, looking like it dipped in red paint, flits from flower to flower eating the nectar.

From the top of the watchtower I see a large assembly of jarul flower in the distance. If you take a close look at just one, jarul is not particularly beautiful or elegant. But an entire jarul tree in bloom can be breathtaking. The watchtower affords such a view.

Looking toward the horizon from high above, I am struck by the variety of the green that envelopes the forest. I was actually expecting a parched, dry forest in the peak of summer. Instead, there is dark and light green; reddish, yellowish and bluish green; dull and lively green; sparse and dense green. The premature, heavy rainfall has allowed the trees to essentially skip summer's dryness. They went straight from spring's colour show to monsoon's verdant riches. Nice, but it also feels strange.

Not too many birds are around, but when I am waiting at the top, a loud chik-chik call starts up nearby. I squint for a few seconds looking for it before I see it, a small speck shooting from left to right, about twenty feet from me. It perches and I point my binoculars at it. It is a pale-billed flowerpecker, at three inches the smallest bird in Bangladesh, half the size of a chorui – a drab bird, mostly grey. Its boisterous chik-chik makes up for its size, and presently its mate joins and they zip away chasing each other.

To the north of the tower, past the butterfly garden, among many magnificent trees stands a tall chapalish, a native of the Sylhet hills. Hundreds of fruits dangle from this tree: the edible cham kathal, coloured and structured like a small jackfruit but sour. This morning a pair of gorgeous orange-breasted green pigeons fly in from far away and land on the tree. They move from branch to branch checking the fruits before deciding to launch into another long flight. Perhaps the fruits are not ripe enough.

The sky which has looked ominous all morning now darkens with a real threat of rain. I descend the stairs and hasten back to my car. I have enjoyed the forest's beauty, but I can't help feeling uneasy how this summer is turning out.

www.facebook.com/ikabirphotographs or follow ihtishamkabir on Instagram