Raptors

I remember the Grey-headed Fish Eagle one misty morning, waiting by the water body at Tadoba. Nothing moved, until it did—slicing the air and water in a single sweep, as if the world was designed for that one act. Both of us just froze—me fumbling to steady my lens, Umang grinning ear to ear, whispering “Did you see that?” as though either of us could have missed it.

The Western Marsh Harrier was different—gentle in appearance, gliding low over reeds at Bhandup Pumping Station, and glided to perch 100 ft from me, turning a wetland into its stage. And then, the Kestrel, hanging mid-air at Pench—wings quivering but body still, teaching us that patience and precision can defy gravity itself. We laughed because the bird held itself steadier than our cameras ever could.

Winters bring the Pallid Harrier (pics from Bhigwan & LRK), a fleeting, pale visitor who turns grasslands into poetry. In contrast, the Black-shouldered Kite announced itself with those burning red eyes—perched on tree stub, clutching prey, beautiful and ruthless in the same breath. We looked at each other after the click, and without words knew it was one of those rare shots where behaviour and beauty met perfectly. And towering above all, the Eastern Imperial Eagles – broad-winged, golden-naped sovereigns of the open sky. What we experienced at Tal Chappar will stay with us forever, the one who took bath and we waited for 45 minutes, the one which flew past us, Umang lowered his camera, saying, “Some things you don’t chase—you just watch.”

Some raptors live like dancers, like the Montagu’s Harrier, tracing elegant arcs over the plains (pics from Bhigwan). Others live like arrows—the Peregrine Falcon, known to be  streak faster than thought, never seen arriving, only remembered as a blur. But look at our luck, we had one pose for us for more than an hour at close proximity, fearless! And some carry an unmistakable voice, like the Crested Serpent Eagle, whose whistle rings like the anthem of every Indian forest—so familiar that we started calling it the soundtrack of our safaris.

Others surprised us by their quietness—the White-eyed Buzzard, modest in size but not in presence. Or the juveniles—the Changeable Hawk-Eagle / Crested Hawk-Eagle—half-grown but already defiant, as if daring the world to test them. They had our hearts, not just for their beauty but for that raw, unfinished wildness we rarely get to witness. And then there were moments etched forever: a Black-shouldered Kite eating mid-flight (I gasped, Umang muttered “unbelievable”), a Crested Goshawk ambushing from the shadows, or a Short-toed Snake Eagle holding the air still while searching for serpents.

I still cant identify most of them, but am learning! Ending with the tiny Amur Falcons, our annual guests at Lonavala lake—travellers from Mongolia to Africa. We stood quietly watching them, both of us humbled, knowing our safaris would end in a few days, but their journey stretched across continents.

Each one regal, each one fearless, each one a reminder: the skies are not shared. They are ruled. And as we looked up through our lenses, each click was as much about capturing them as it was about feeling small in their kingdom, together.