Catching a buck bird in new Boro rice

The first threads of dawn were still shy, hesitant streaks of peach and gold smearing the eastern sky as Rono sloshed through the shallow water of the Boro field. The air was cool, carrying the earthy tang of wet soil and the fresh, green scent of the baby rice shoots, no taller than his thumb. An emerald carpet stretched to the horizon, a promise of plenty, but a promise constantly under threat.

His grandfather, Nanu, a man whose skin was as weathered and creased as the dried riverbeds in summer, moved with a quiet purpose ahead of him. Nanu carried a small, finely woven net, almost invisible in the dim light, stretched over a bamboo frame – a relic of old ways, passed down through generations.

“They’ll be here soon, Rono,” Nanu murmured, his voice a low rumble, blending with the whisper of the breeze through the nascent rice. “The buck birds. Bold, intelligent thieves.”

Rono knew the buck birds. These were not the common sparrows, but the weavers, with their distinctive yellow breasts and dark caps, their sharp beaks capable of stripping a young rice stalk bare in seconds. They came in chattering flocks, especially at this vulnerable stage of the Boro rice, when the grains were just beginning to form, sweet and tender.

Nanu knelt, his movements fluid despite his age, and strategically placed the net near a cluster of slightly taller rice stalks where the birds often landed first, testing the waters, so to speak. A few grains of puffed rice, soaked in a whisper of jaggery, were scattered meticulously beneath the net – an irresistible lure.

Then, they waited.

Rono sat cross-legged on the bund, his small frame hunched, trying to mimic Nanu’s stillness. The sun rose higher, painting the water-logged fields in liquid silver and vibrant green. The world woke around them – the splash of a fish, the distant call of a cuckoo, the rhythmic croak of frogs. But Rono’s senses were honed, his eyes fixed on the net.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. He felt the cool kiss of dew on his bare arms, the growing warmth of the sun on his back. A tiny dragonfly, iridescent blue, hovered near his nose before darting off.

Then, a flash of yellow.

A single buck bird, a vibrant male, detached itself from a distant flock wheeling low over the fields. It was a scout, Rono knew, sent to assess the pickings. It landed gracefully, its tiny claws gripping a rice stalk, its head cocked, sharp eyes scanning. It hopped, then flew, landing closer, then closer still, drawn inexorably by the sweet scent of the jaggery-laced rice.

Rono held his breath. His heart thrummed against his ribs. He could hear the bird’s tiny chirps now, a soft, curious sound. It hopped directly under the net, a tiny, feathered globe of focused intent. Its beak dipped, snatching a grain.

And that was the moment.

With a swift, practiced flick of his wrist, Nanu pulled a hidden string, and the net snapped shut, a soft, almost soundless capture.

The bird thrashed, a tiny whirlwind of panicked feathers and desperate chirps. Rono’s first instinct was a cry of triumph, but it quickly melted into a pang of pity. Its struggle was fierce, a testament to its wild spirit.

Nanu rose and carefully, gently, lifted the net. He reached in with slow, deliberate fingers, carefully disentangling the bird. It was smaller than Rono had imagined, its heart beating a frantic drum against his grandfather’s palm. Its eyes, bright and black, held a wild, untamed fire.

“See, Rono?” Nanu said softly, holding the bird up for his grandson to observe. “A dhan-chor. A rice thief. But also, a beautiful creature of God.”

He didn’t hurt it. He never did. The catching wasn’t about vengeance, but about a necessary, uncomfortable balance.

Nanu reached into his dhoti pocket and pulled out a small, dried gourd. He carefully dipped the bird’s tiny beak into the gourd, letting it sip a few drops of water. The bird’s struggles lessened, its breathing evening out.

“This one,” Nanu explained, his voice gentle, “will tell its friends. It will remember this field, and the taste of this fear. And perhaps, for a few days, they will pass us by for another, less troublesome feast.”

He held the bird for another moment, letting it calm, letting Rono see the intricate beauty of its plumage, the defiant glint in its eyes. Then, with a practiced motion, Nanu opened his palm.

The buck bird hesitated for a split second, then shot upwards, a blur of yellow against the cerulean sky, directly towards the rising sun. It flew without looking back, a tiny arrow of freedom.

Rono watched until it was just a speck, then vanished.

“Come,” Nanu said, already gathering his net. “The sun is fully awake now. And so must we be, to protect our rice, our life.”

As they walked back through the glistening field, the mud squelching softly under their feet, Rono understood. Catching the buck bird wasn’t just about protecting the rice. It was about respecting the cycle, understanding the delicate balance between man and nature, and learning that sometimes, even in the act of warding off a threat, there was a quiet, profound beauty. The fields, stretching out under the strengthening sun, seemed to shimmer with that understanding.