This is a book for ornithologists, you think? Speciality stuff? Yes. And no. Even for people who are not interested in birds, who have no idea what a shrike looks like or the paddy bird or the Pied Wagtail, who cannot tell a hawk from a kite, either because they are city birds (ahem), or because they are short sighted, this book is a joy to read.
Most of it is made up of short articles, or middles, at once light and erudite, rising at times to poetry (as he writes about kingfishers, for instance), appealing equally to the serious bird lover, who strides out at sunrise with field glasses, as well as to the tolerant flat dweller who fixes a small feeder or the housewife who leaves out a saucer of water in the little balcony in the summer months.
What is truly enjoyable is the language of love for the Indian countryside, and alas, as many reviewers have observed, the growing loss of habitat means that many even of the now common species are slowly disappearing. The ubiquitous crow, for instance, has been all but replaced in urban surroundings by the pigeon. And now that telegrams are a thing of the past, where are the perches about which Krishnan writes so lovingly?
Whether he talks of cock fights, or Homer pigeons, one aspect of it strikes you more than anything: the total absorption and curiosity about what he sees about him, and the fact that he describes it all with no judgemental reproach, apart from being very critical of the government for some of its policies, or for failing to take wildlife into consideration while framing its conservation programmes.