A Morning Walk in Kashmir: My Daily Rendezvous with the Birds

A Morning Walk in Kashmir: My Daily Rendezvous with the Birds
There’s something magical about waking up before the sun in Kashmir. The air is crisp, the mountains still wear their night caps of mist, and the world feels untouched. I slip out of the house around 5:30 in summer (a little later in winter when it’s too cold to feel my fingers), pull on a pheran or a light jacket, and head towards the boulevards, the old Mughal gardens, or simply along the bund by Dal Lake. What pulls me out every single day isn’t fitness or routine; it’s the birds.
Kashmir, tucked in the lap of the Himalayas, is a paradise people usually praise for its lakes and chinar trees, but for me, mornings belong to the winged residents. Here’s my usual roll-call on an ordinary walk between Nishat and Shalimar, or sometimes deeper into the Hariparbat side and Dachigam fringes.
1. The Early Choir – Bulbuls and Sparrows
The moment the first pale light touches the poplars, the Red-vented Bulbuls start. Their loud, cheerful “doctor-quick” calls bounce off the tin roofs. They are everywhere – hopping on compound walls, stealing crumbs from bakeries that are just firing up their ovens. Alongside them, hundreds of House Sparrows create that familiar electric chirping static. In Kashmir we still have sparrows in numbers that make Delhi-walas jealous.
2. The Drama Queens – Blackbirds and Mynas
As I cross the small wooden bridges over little streams, a Blackbird usually gives me a scolding whistle from the willow branches. The males, glossy black with orange beaks, are territorial rockstars. Common Mynas strut on the road like they own the place, flashing their yellow bandit masks. If I’m lucky, a Brahminy Myna (with its punk-rock tufted head) will join the parade.
3. The Royalty – Kashmir Flycatcher and Other Summer Visitors
Between May and September, if I walk quietly near chinar groves, I sometimes spot the tiny, gorgeous Kashmir Flycatcher – rust-orange breast, slate-grey back. It’s an endangered bird that breeds only here, and seeing one feels like receiving a private darshan. Once, near Shalimar Bagh, I stood frozen for ten minutes while a male flicked its tail and hawked insects in the dawn light.
4. Water Birds Along Dal and Nigeen
If my route takes me along the lakes, the morning belongs to the waterfowl. Kingfishers (both Common and White-throated) sit like blue-white jewels on lotus stems, waiting to dive. Little Grebes paddle silently, then vanish underwater like they were never there. Grey Herons stand motionless, meditating monks in grey robes. And overhead, flocks of Mallards and Common Teal slice the sky with their wings, returning from nighttime feeding grounds.
5. Raptors Waking Up
By 7 o’clock, when the sun finally clears the mountains, the raptors start thermalling. A Shikra might flash past low over the rooftops, scattering sparrows like confetti. Higher up, Black Kites circle lazily, and once in a while a Himalayan Griffon Vulture glides so high it looks like a slow-moving plane.
6. Winter Specials
Come November, the summer visitors leave and the cold brings its own guests. Rosy Starlings in thousands descend on saffron fields near Pampore, turning the sky into a pink cloud at dusk (and dawn). Flocks of Bramblings and Redpolls mix with local goldfinches under chinar trees, feeding on seeds. And if there’s fresh snow, you can hear the musical, bell-like calls of White-capped Redstarts near icy streams.
7. The One That Stops My Heart Every Time – The Paradise Flycatcher
On rare, perfect mornings in late spring, a male Paradise Flycatcher appears – long white ribbon-tail streaming behind an electric-blue head. It dances between mulberry branches like liquid moonlight. I once followed one for twenty minutes along the Shalimar canal, forgetting I was supposed to walk for exercise.
I don’t carry binoculars anymore; I did in the beginning and scared half the birds away with my clumsy excitement. Now I just walk slowly, breathe quietly, and let them come to me. The Kashmiri morning is generous that way.
People ask me why I bother waking up so early when I could sleep longer under a warm kangri. My answer is simple: for forty-five minutes every day, the valley belongs to the birds and to anyone willing to listen. The rest of the day can have its noise, its traffic, its politics. Dawn is sacred, and the birds are its priests.
If you ever visit Kashmir, do yourself a favour – set an alarm, wrap yourself in something warm, and step out. Walk slowly. Look up. The mountains will still be there at noon, the houseboats will still float, but the birds? They sing only for the early and the quiet.
And trust me, once you’ve heard a bulbul welcome the sun over Dal Lake, every other morning, anywhere else in the world, feels a little incomplete.

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