A date with the summer breeding ground-dwelling waders of the Padma River
Accompanied by Babu, the birder and guide, I began searching for the ground nests that had drawn me to this island.
Into the realm of sandbar nesters
Our boat anchored barely a metre from the shoreline. The moment I jumped ashore, I was mobbed by half a dozen each of Small Pratincoles and Little Terns. Soon, a few Red-wattled Lapwings and Little Ringed Plovers joined the suite. Chaos erupted overhead. For a moment, it felt inevitable that one of these relentless bomb-divers would strike me.
Just a few metres away, several pratincoles began their broken-wing and injury-feigning displays. This is a classic distraction behaviour: when a predator approaches ground-nesting birds, their nests, or chicks, the parents pretend to be injured and dragging a wing or limping in a way to lure the predator away.
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As the predator follows the so-called injured bird, expecting an easy catch, the birds maintain a careful distance, always just out of reach, eventually drawing the threat far from the nest or chicks. It is a remarkable survival strategy.
Of course, the attacks directed at me were more ceremonial and defensive than truly harmful.
Accompanied by Babu, the birder and guide, I began searching for the ground nests that had drawn me to this island.
A night journey to the Padma
It was hot, humid, and relentlessly sweaty. The heat felt even more intense as I had sacrificed my sun-protection hat to shield my camera from overheating.
I was walking across freshly formed charlands a few kilometres south of the Rajshahi University campus, along a stretch of the Padma River that borders India.
The search required patience. Nearly 99% of the nests were in name's sake only. These mere shallow depressions and just a few centimetres deep.
These were pre-existing pits left by receding floodwaters from the last monsoon, slightly refined by the birds pressing their bodies against the edges. No nesting materials were used.
My journey had begun the previous night. I left Dhaka at midnight amid traffic chaos. With Kallyanpur effectively declared a "vehicle non grata" zone for interdistrict buses, I was forced to navigate through congested routes near Gabtoli.
The situation was confusing, with little direction available for passengers trying to locate their respective bus counters.
Eventually, I found my 11:45pm Rajshahi-bound AC bus, still waiting for delayed passengers.
Once it finally departed, the journey was smooth, and we reached Rajshahi around sunrise. From there, I made my way to a boat station near the Keshabpur area of the town.
A landscape between river and desert
By 6am, after a hurried breakfast, I boarded Babu's boat. A birding prodigy of Rajshahi, he is both an exceptional birder and a skilled guide.
As our noisy diesel engine pushed us downstream, we hoped for a rewarding encounter with breeding char-dwelling waders.
The morning was misty and overcast—hardly ideal for birding. But as we moved deeper into the field, the sky gradually cleared, offering manageable sunlight.
By the end of the day, the temperature would climb to nearly 37.8°C.
After about an hour's ride, we reached an island—more a large promontory, as its northern edge connected to land near Kazla. The central portion was slightly elevated, sloping gently southwards.
Toward the north, it flattened into vast sandy stretches merging with the bank. Looking eastward, the expanse resembled desert landscapes I had known in Dubai for decades.
The southern portion had a harder surface, softening near the waterline.
A clear gradient of vegetation was visible: dense, lush, and wet growth near the shoreline dominated by water hyacinth, gradually giving way to grasses, creeping plants, herbs, and scattered shrubs further inland.
Walking the ephemeral charlands
With the river flowing west to east, India lay to the south and Rajshahi town to the south. The terrain was uneven, marked by hardened mud projections like spikes and shallow depressions.
Walking barefoot was nearly impossible, forcing me back to the boat to retrieve my heavy-soled waterproof boots—a decision that proved invaluable during nearly ten hours of fieldwork across two islands.
Even before anchoring our boat the birds had begun their aerial assault. The island, temporary in nature, would likely disappear beneath metres of water in the next monsoon or re-emerge in an altered form.
Nests that are barely nests
Amid relentless alarm calls and dive-bombing, we soon located our first Small Pratincole nest—three eggs laid on bare ground, perfectly camouflaged. The nest was nothing more than a shallow scrape in sandy soil, devoid of any material.
The buff-coloured eggs, speckled with dark blotches, blended seamlessly with the surroundings.
This and four other nests measured approximately 7–10cm in diameter, with depths ranging from 1 to 2.5cm. Their irregular shapes further enhanced concealment against the earthy background.
Measuring life in fragile beginnings
We began measurements—egg length and breadth using a slide calliper, weight with a Pesola spring balance accurate to 1 gram, and nest dimensions.
As we leaned closer, we could hear faint pipping sounds from within the eggs indicating that chicks preparing to hatch. One egg, in particular, showed more frequent and louder pips, indicating imminent hatching.
Across two islands, we found five pratincole nests containing a total of nine eggs. Clutch sizes varied from one, two, and three eggs.
On average, the eggs weighed about 10 grams and measured 32 mm in length and 22.5 mm in breadth, slightly larger than some reported ranges in literature.
For Little Terns, average egg measurements were around 30 mm × 22 mm and 10 grams in weight. The largest eggs belonged to Red-wattled Lapwings (41mm × 31mm, 24g), while the smallest were those of Little Ringed Plovers (25.5mm × 19.5mm, 9.9g).
The second island: A breeding stronghold
After completing work on the first island—where hatching seemed imminent—we moved on.
The second island, about 3km downstream, was larger and had far more breeding bird activities. It stretched roughly 3km eastward and 1km westward.
Here, nesting density was significantly higher as we noted eggs, chicks and vigilant parents everywhere. The constant mobbing by dozens upon dozens of birds literally forced us to work quickly and discreetly.
Within the first hour, we located five Little Tern nests and four pratincole nests and one nest each of Little Ringed Plover and Red-wattled Lapwing.
After recording measurements, we installed several cameras to monitor parental behaviour and revisiting sites every two hours.
Witnessing the moment of birth
Later, as Babu and our companion dozed off, I continued photographing under the harsh sun until it dipped toward the western horizon.
It was time to revisit the first nest that had three pratincole eggs expected to hatch.
We hurried back. One egg had already cracked open—a centimetre-wide break revealing the chick struggling to emerge.
The other two continued their persistent pipping.
Return journey: Fieldwork fulfilled
It was the perfect moment to conclude the day.
We returned to the boat ghat, and I began my journey back—boarding an evening bus to Dhaka, aiming to reach the capital by midnight.
