As a D****,, I have come to count the birds as I take part in any inter-house, run a change or just while I am strolling through the 70 or so acres of this campus. Today, let me share a glimpse through my kaleidoscopic student-eyes, with three feathered fauna who have painted Chandbagh with the brushstrokes of their flight and added a palette of colour to a somewhat monochromatic and tiring dosco life.
Each morning, as the sun peeks above the Main Field, I spot the sleek silhouette of the Indian Grey Hornbill gliding from one tree near the skinners to the other . Its bill curves—a clever hook—and its grey suit gleams in the gentle morning light. Often, my friends and I stand hushed below, awed by its uncanny calls that echo like hollow laughter as it watches us with wise, beady eyes, a symbol of the mysterious wild peering into our curious student hearts. It watches over us during morning PT and with these hollowed eyes gazes at the scene unfolding there.
Down by the grassy patch beyond Jaipur House and near the futsal and the greenhouse, the air vibrates with the busy notes of a much smaller marvel—the Purple Sunbird. Hardly larger than my thumb, this tiny, restless bird bobs from reed to reed like a sunlit thought. I try to mimic its frenetic “zitting” calls, making my friends laugh and the sunbird dart away, shyer than any classmate at their first assembly. Yet here, in the rush-grass, it is king, crowned not in gold but in bursts of song that fill our breaks with music.
By the music school and near Martyn House, a sudden flash of turquoise and chestnut makes me stop in my muddy tracks—the glorious Stork-billed Kingfisher perches, silent sentry by the water’s edge. Eyes fixed on the ripples, it dives with breathless grace, returning with a glistening trophy. For us Doscos, the kingfisher is the school’s spirit—bold, patient, and radiant. I sketch it in margins and daydream of flying as freely, painting my ambitions in its bold colors.
These birds—hornbill, cisticola, kingfisher—are my muses, my rivals in freedom, and the keepers of Chandbagh’s precious wild. Each day, as I toss my tie over my shoulder and step onto the green, it is their unpredictable, vivid lives that remind me: The true lessons at The D*** School are sometimes written not in ink, but in feathers.