Brahminy Starlings Don’t Do Deadlines

In the sun-baked ruins of Hampi, where granite boulders and shattered temples still gossip about the glory days of Vijayanagara, a far more successful occupation force rules the roost: the Brahminy starling (Sturnia pagodarum).

These birds are not grand.

Ask a child to draw a stick figure of a bird, and she’ll most likely draw a mynah/starling.

They are roughly the size of a confident mango that learned to fly. Creamy-buff bodies, glossy black caps with a floppy crest that looks like it just rolled out of bed, yellow bills with a bluish base, and an expression of permanent mild judgment. Their scientific name literally means “of the pagodas.” The taxonomists saw them lounging on temple spires and simply told the truth.

So similar in shape and size are the Brahminy starlings to the common mynah that it took me a few minutes to realize they were different birds (although of the same stock).

Watching them move through the ruined empire without hurry made me think about the past twelve or so months I stepped away from work. No deadlines, no meetings—just space. That space let me be more present as a father: morning walks instead of rushed goodbyes, bedtime stories that actually reached the end. Talk time till we doze off in the night. Ritualistic infinite adjustments of the blankets – “too long that side; more this side; legs are sticking out below.”

The starlings hop across the stone chariot at Vittala Temple the same way, inspecting the musical pillars as if the only deadline is waiting for the next human to be disdained.

They treat the entire UNESCO site like private property. A starling perched on a toppled Nandi is not a cute photo; it is quiet ownership. In much the same way, the year off steadied our family—fewer frayed nerves, a calmer rhythm that settled into the days without effort. I found new interests unfolding in a similar unhurried fashion: birdwatching, swimming, and early, slow mornings.

The birds travel in small, chatty gangs, foraging for insects, fruit, nectar, and the occasional abandoned biscuit. Their calls mix whistles, clicks, and mimicry.

While tourists sweat and historians lecture, the Brahminy starlings simply live the dream—free real estate, excellent views, zero property tax (which reminds me, I have to file my taxes in two days).

The empire fell. The starlings stayed. And they look very pleased about it.

I head back to work next week carrying a quieter version of that same satisfaction.

Here is an excellent post that does much more justice to writing about this species.