Sparrows and Society

I returned to my hometown for Dyavara, a community festival that anchors the families of our common descent. It was the festivities on my mother’s side; my father’s side had celebrated it only last year. I had taken a day’s leave, a small concession to ensure my presence - partly to honour the tradition, and partly to forestall the quiet disappointment of my mother and her siblings. My father had arranged a vehicle to take us to Vemagal, the ancestral seat of my mother’s side, where they gather to worship Beerappa - a form of Shiva known to us as Beeredevaru, or the Sanskritized Beereshwara. My father’s side worships him as Mylaralinga, a name that whispers of our forefathers’ migration from North Karnataka, following their sheep toward greener pastures.

Dyavara is a rare rhythm; it occurs only once in nearly a decade - every nine, eleven, or thirteen years - never on an even number. Invariably it happens right after Ugadi, the Kannada New Year, and just before the summer sets in. It is a vital congregation for the Kuruba community of Kolar and Bengaluru. It is a practice I haven't seen echoed in Mysore or beyond. It’s possible similar practices are followed in North Karnataka, but I am not aware of them. 

Vemagal used to be a small village. The landscape, however, is changing. It has matured into a sprawling urban settlement. Rapid industrialization has claimed the farmlands; soil has been traded for sites, and green horizons for commercial establishments. My uncle, Raja Mama, sent us a digital location pin - a modern necessity to navigate the maze of new constructions and kuchha (unpaved) roads.

After the exchange of pleasantries and a heavy breakfast, we visited the temple. Upon our return to the house my uncles had rented for the rites, I noticed something quiet and remarkable. In the corners of the house, the owners had fashioned nests out of paper and old book covers. Inside were hatchlings - tiny, noisy sparrows.

The photographer in me stirred. I captured the parent bird intermittently feeding the open-mouthed chicks. When I showed the footage to the family, a wave of nostalgia swept through the room. "I haven’t seen a sparrow in years," one remarked. My botanist aunt wondered if it were indeed a sparrow! Others reminisced about seeing them everywhere in Bengaluru decades ago. I was reminded of Dr. Sálim Ali’s autobiography, The Fall of a Sparrow. In my own childhood, sparrows were our housemates, nesting in the gaps of our tiled roofs. We woke to their chatter. But when we moved into our own home - a "better" house with a solid concrete roof - the sparrows vanished.

We only seem to notice things once they are no longer visible. Be it sparrows, or wildlife, or trees and plant biodiversity. We wake up when it’s too late, and wring our hands helplessly.  We lament the "concretization" of our lives, seldom realizing that we are the ones pouring the cement. 

As I began my early journey back to the city for work, the parallel between the birds and the Dyavara became clear. The festival was not well-attended. Several key members of the younger generation were conspicuous in their absence. Many of us didn’t know others participating in the festivities. What used to be a whole community living together for days under the skies with their carts and tents had now transformed to living in rented houses with their families, with little connect with others at the venue. With the shift away from agriculture and the pull of urban career paths, the congregation has thinned. Even the daughters of the lineage were few.

In our pursuit of material security, our relationships have become shaky - weathered by neglect. We find it easy to label others as "materialistic" while refusing to see our own reflection in the glass. We put every connection on the back burner because "attaining" something concrete feels more urgent than "being" someone present. If an event doesn't widen a professional network or bring in "moolah," it is often dismissed with a sharp, "What’s in it for me?"

In the old days, Dyavara was more than a ritual; it was a social architecture. It created networks, fostered alliances, and promoted a harmony born of staying together. Today, we come together perfunctorily to worship, but we no longer stay. We miss the warmth of connection when we face a crisis, yet we refuse to build the bridges necessary to sustain it.

What we have done to the habitat around us, we are doing to the habitat within us. We are letting our diversity - ecological and emotional - perish, all while wondering where the sparrows, and the people, have gone.

Outgrowing Perceptions

 

It began with a frantic phone call from an old friend.

“I need some help, Sudhir,” he said, his voice laced with that familiar parental anxiety. “Actually, it’s not for me—it’s for my daughter. She’s stuck on an assignment about ‘entitlement, privilege, and agency.’ It’s the eleventh hour, and she’s struggling to bring it all together.”

“When is the deadline?” I asked.

“This evening. She’s jotted down some points, and they seem fine, but I’m worried they aren’t hitting the mark. Can you step in?” He began to lecture me on what he thought the essay should say and the points she should avoid. I cut him short. “Just send me her notes,” I told him. “Let me see what she’s actually thinking.”

While I waited for the documents to hit my inbox, I decided to call the girl herself. When she answered, her voice was thick with sleep—bleary-eyed and exhausted. For a cynical moment, I wondered if she was even taking her studies seriously. I brushed the judgment aside and got to the point: “What exactly do you need from me?”

“I have all these notes, Uncle,” she said softly. “But I can’t seem to find the thread. I can’t turn them into a story. Will you help me make it coherent? I have to submit it by tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “We’ll get it done.”

A few minutes later, the file arrived. I opened it expecting to do the heavy lifting—prepared to redo the entire piece, rearrange her logic, and perhaps discard her amateur observations to start fresh. I settled into my chair and began to read.

Then, the world shifted.

I wasn't just reading a student's notes; I was being schooled. I realized instantly how profoundly I had underestimated her. Her observational skills were razor-sharp, cutting through the comforts of her own life with extraordinary clarity. She didn’t shy away from the truth. She dissected the privilege she carried—her parents’ status, her caste, her inheritance—with a merciless, matter-of-fact grace. She saw the clockwork of discrimination and the subtle, quiet ways women are disempowered every day.

The girl I had watched grow up had vanished. In her place was a beautiful, thinking adult.

I couldn’t wait. I called her back immediately, not to offer "help," but to tell her how proud I was. I told her how wise she sounded—far wiser than I had been at twenty-one. I was nowhere near that sensible or observant at her age.

I called my friend next to tell him how blessed he was. He took the kudos with a humbled laugh. “You know, Sudhir,” he admitted, “I wasn’t even aware of my own privilege until she pointed it out. She’s made me realize just how entitled my own life has been.”

We often look at the younger generation and see only the "cushy" lives they lead, the comforts we didn't have. But then, they turn around and shatter our perceptions, proving they see the world with a clarity we often lack.

It was a lesson I was terribly proud to learn.