When the Bees Came Calling

                           🐝 When the Bees Came Calling

                                               “A Weekend, A Memory, A Message from the Hive”

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🌤️ A Usual Weekend... Until It Wasn't

It was just past 2:30 in the afternoon. I was lounging on the couch, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling through the usual mix of news, memes, and randomness. Just another weekend. Nothing special.

Then I heard it—that soft, familiar buzz.

Three honeybees had flown into my living room. Hovering, darting, making that distinct “hummm” that’s hard to ignore if you’ve grown up close to nature.

Now, bees wandering into my home isn’t all that unusual. With a balcony full of plants and fruit trees all around the house, they’re regular visitors. But something about this visit… it tugged at a memory.

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⏪ Rewind: A Farm, a Summer, and a Box Full of Bees

I was maybe 13 or 14. Summer holidays. The kind where time slows down, and the only plan is to stay outdoors.

I was at my grandmother’s home—the place where mud meets memory, and every tree had a story. One afternoon, she mentioned casually,

“Near the gate… by that old tree… I think there’s a honeybee nest splitting. We should move them before they abscond.”

Soon enough, the village “bee man” arrived. I still remember the smell of the smoke, the way he moved with calm confidence. And me? I was wide-eyed. Curious. Buzzing with excitement.

I joined in, of course. First as a spectator. Then, slowly, as a participant.

“They’re calm when they’re together,” he said. “Especially Indian bees. You won’t get stung if you’re gentle.”

He handed me the smoke can, and soon, I was helping move a living swarm—my fingers trembling but heart racing. I even helped shift the queen.

Sure, a few bees stung me. But that sting? It was nothing compared to the thrill of being part of something so ancient and alive.

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⏩ Fast Forward: Silence Where Buzz Once Lived

Years passed. On another visit to the farm, I ran to check the hive boxes we had installed after those adventures. One, two, three…

But something was wrong.

One box—the liveliest one, always filled with the hum of life—was quiet. Too quiet.

I walked over, crouched, and saw them… dozens of bees lying still beneath the stand. Lifeless.
I opened the lid. Even the queen was gone.

I asked around. Researched. Pieced it together.
Nearby farms had sprayed chemicals. The bees, doing what they always do—collecting nectar—brought back poison instead.

That hive had been bursting with honey. Now it was a grave.

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🐝 When the Bees Spoke

As I sat on the sofa that weekend, watching the three little bees move around my hall, it was like something shifted. The hum became a conversation. A whisper.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe not.
But I heard them.

🐝 Bee 1: “It smells familiar… This used to be a safe zone. The garden still blossoms.”
🐝 Bee 2: “Let’s just rest a while. So many of our kind are gone. Lost to sprays and smoke.”
🐝 Bee 3: “But look! Guava flowers outside… Maybe there's still hope.”

And then the memories poured in.

🐝 Bee 1: “Do you remember the mango grove near the old well? Lush blooms, no sprays. Every flower welcomed us.”
🐝 Bee 2: “That land is barren now. Concrete has replaced trees. Where do bees go when there’s no home left?”
🐝 Bee 3: “I tried the sunflower fields. The nectar tasted wrong. We lost many sisters there.”

A quiet hum. A moment of mourning. And then—resolve.

🐝 Bee 1: “We’ve survived storms. Fires. Even floods. We’ll keep flying.”
🐝 Bee 2: “Do humans even know? Without us, their plates would be empty.”
🐝 Bee 3: “Let’s go. The guava blooms won’t last long.”

And just like that, they were gone. Out through the window, into the light, and onto the guava tree.
Back to work. Back to saving the world, one flower at a time.

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🌱 Why This Matters—To You, Me, and Everyone Who Eats

Bees don’t just make honey.
They make life happen.

Over 75% of the food we eat relies on pollinators like them. Fruits. Vegetables. Even coffee.

In India, we’re lucky to have native bees like the Indian honeybee (Apis cerana indica)—hardy, humble, and used to our ways.
Then there’s the stingless bee, tiny and gentle but mighty in pollination.
And the rock bee (Apis dorsata)—wild, strong, and fierce, nesting high on cliffs and tall trees.

But they’re disappearing. Quietly. Rapidly.

And the world is barely noticing.

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🌻 What Can We Do? (It’s Simpler Than You Think)

• 🌼 Plant more flowers. Native ones. Ones bees love.
• 🚫 Avoid harmful pesticides. Even better, go organic.
• 🍯 Buy local honey. Support your neighborhood beekeepers.
• 🐝 Teach kids about bees. Let them grow up buzzing with awareness.

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💛 A Final Thought

That day, I didn’t just meet three bees.
I reconnected with a part of myself.
A boy who once held a queen bee in his hand. A boy who watched life fly. And die.

Maybe those bees were messengers. Maybe memories. Maybe both.
But one thing I know for sure—
When bees come calling, listen. They carry stories, and warnings… and hope.

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The Chew-Chew Alarm: A Sparrow's Whisper from the Past

 The Chew-Chew Alarm: A Sparrow's Whisper                                   from the Past

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Why does this fellow always go back to the past? Why can’t he just stick to the present?
Fair question. But if you’ve read my blogs, you already know—I believe in time-traveling through memories. The past gives meaning to the present and shows the way to the future. This is not just nostalgia—it's a preservation of soul.

So, let me take you back.

🌳 Flashback: Where Trees Had Names and Birds Had                        Appointments

In front of our small workshop stood two young trees—planted by my father and watered by time. One was a Sampige tree, the other a Copper Pod. Just like me, they grew tall and strong. Over the years, they became our shop's identity.

"Take a right and behind those two big trees is our shop"—that’s how everyone found our place.

Those trees weren't just green umbrellas—they were bird condominiums. Every branch, leaf, and nook housed little nests. And among all the chirping tenants, one little bird ruled the morning routine—the Sparrow.

Every morning, just before my father rolled up the shop shutter, a flurry of tiny wings and familiar chew-chew-chew echoed through the air. Sparrows—like clockwork—would arrive. Waiting. Chirping. Watching. And my father’s first duty? Not the customers, not the machines. It was placing a handful of rice or wheat at the threshold—his daily offering to the sparrow gods.

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🐦 The Bird That Became Background Noise… and Then Vanished

Before smartphones became alarms, sparrows were our natural timekeepers. At 8:30 AM sharp, they'd be there. At 5:30 PM, they'd quietly fade into the trees.

But where are they now?

Gone. Not completely, but barely here. Vanished into the cracks of our growing cities. Smothered by glass buildings, pesticides, and a life too fast for fragile wings.

What breaks me is—children today may grow up without ever hearing a real sparrow call.

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📍 A Sparrow’s Voice from the Sky

That moment—caught in slow traffic while heading to Isha Foundation, Chikkaballapur—I saw them.

Two sparrows. Hopping and fluttering near a roadside house, just left of the highway.

I slowed down. Time slowed down.

And then—I heard them speak.

Sparrow 1:
"Do you remember this place? I think we nested here once… before the wires and the noise."

Sparrow 2:
"I remember. That balcony had old rice grains, the kids used to giggle and run behind us."

Sparrow 1:
"Most of them have flown far—some gone forever. But today, the wind smells like home again."

Sparrow 2:
"Do you think anyone remembers us?"

Sparrow 1:
"Someone just looked at us like we were magic… maybe that’s enough."

Two little birds.
A small moment.
But for me—it was a time machine with wings.

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🏠 More Than Just Birds: A Part of Our Home

The sparrows weren’t just birds. They were unofficial members of our household. I remember sitting on the wooden bench in-front of the shop, wiping my school shoes while watching them hop between fallen leaves. Their sound wasn’t just noise—it was rhythm. Background music to my childhood.

When Amma brought out the rice to dry in the sun, it would become an open buffet for sparrows. No one shooed them away. It was as if they had a right. A tiny one—but respected nonetheless. Their presence meant life. Meant continuity.

🏫 A School Bell in Feathers

In those pre-digital days, there were no phones to check the time. The sun, the rooster, and the sparrow were our daily planners. I remember rushing through my breakfast when the morning chirps intensified—an unofficial signal that it was time to get ready. They were our chew-chew bell that echoed louder than any school siren.

Even at school, we saw them nesting under roof tiles or hidden behind the creaky blackboard in old classrooms. Sometimes, a sudden flutter during silent reading hour would bring a smile across the class. Little joys, unrecorded but unforgettable.

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🏙️ A Present Without Them

Today, in these glass-walled apartments and air-conditioned classrooms, their absence echoes louder than their calls ever did.

Kids now wake up to phone alarms, not feathered ones. They scroll videos of birds they've never seen outside a screen. A sparrow isn’t just vanishing from our cities—it’s slowly disappearing from our childhoods. From memory itself.

That scares me more than I can explain.

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🤝 A Chance for Coexistence

Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe if we plant the right bushes, leave a bowl of water, and stop spraying away every insect, they might return.

Sparrows don’t need five-star birdhouses. Just a crevice, a quiet corner, and a seed or two.

We’ve built towers for ourselves—maybe it’s time we left a branch for them.

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🔍 Know the Sparrow, Save the Sparrow

🐤 Sparrow Facts	📌 Details
Name	House Sparrow (Goraiya / Kuruvi / Chirya / Gubbachi)
Size	Around 16 cm, 30-40 grams
Appearance	Brown with grey/black (males), light brown (females)
Diet	Seeds, grains, insects
Habitat	Urban rooftops, trees, building crevices
Behavior	Social, chirpy, lives in small flocks
Why Disappearing?	Pesticides, urbanization, fewer nesting spots
Cultural Value	Symbol of joy, family, and simplicity

🌱 The Final Chirp

Sparrows, once a symbol of simplicity, warmth, and routine, are now missing characters from the story of our mornings.
But maybe, just maybe, if we listen closely… they’re still whispering.

In the branches.
In the breeze.
In the memories we carry forward.

Because sometimes, the smallest wings carry the heaviest stories.

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