The soft chirp of the Katij once filled the air of rural Kashmir, signaling the arrival of spring. But as environmental changes take their toll, this beloved bird has become a fading memory.
By Manzoor Akash
There was a time when the Valley echoed with the vibrant songs of countless birds, their flocks gracing the skies during different seasons. Today, however, these once-familiar sights and sounds have become rare, casualties of socio-cultural shifts and climate change. In the past, as Son’th (spring) unfurled its tender blossoms, the Valley would come alive with the melodies and movements of various birds.
Parrots (Shoug) could be heard squawking as they darted through orchards in search of ripe fruit, while the cheerful chirps of the bulbul or nightingale (Bil Bechur) serenaded the mornings. The rhythmic drumming of the hoopoe (Satut) echoed through the woods, and the haunting hoot of the owl (Rahte Mongul) pierced the stillness of pitch-dark nights. Meanwhile, the gentle twittering of the barn swallow, fondly called Katij, resonated within the corridors of homes, binding human life with nature. These winged companions, once a source of immense joy, now seem to have vanished, leaving behind an aching void in the collective memory of the Valley.
Among these birds, Katij holds a special place in the hearts of Kashmiris. Known scientifically as Hirundo rustica and commonly known as barn swallow is the most widespread and abundant swallow species on Earth. It breeds across Eurasia and North America, deriving its name from its propensity to nest near human settlements. In Kashmir, it was more than just a bird—it was a harbinger of hope, a symbol of prosperity, and a silent witness to generations of life unfolding.
Every spring, the arrival of Katij marked a time of renewal. As snow melted and flowers burst into bloom, the bird’s cheerful chirping filled the air, imbuing homes with an almost magical sense of harmony and resilience. Its brown and grey plumage, flitting against the backdrop of vibrant spring landscapes, was a reassuring reminder of nature’s rhythm.
Katij’s significance extends beyond the Valley’s traditions. According to Islamic teachings, a flock of Ababeel birds—believed by many to resemble barn swallows—played a miraculous role in defending the Kaaba. As narrated in the Holy Quran (Surah Al-Fil, 105:1-5), these birds dropped small stones, Sijjeel, onto Abraha’s army, thwarting their attempt to demolish the sacred site in Makkah. This connection imbues Katij with spiritual reverence, linking its presence to divine intervention and resilience.
In rural Kashmir, Katij was like a cherished family member. Its return in the evenings was eagerly anticipated, and its absence from its nest would prompt genuine concern. If its young chirped too loudly, elders in the household would grow restless, often scolding others for inadvertently barring the bird’s entry by shutting windows and doors too early. Once reopened, the bird would quickly dart inside to tend to its hatchlings, and peace would return.
Harming or disturbing Katij was considered unthinkable—a moral transgression against nature. Its droppings, which occasionally marred walls or floors, were seen not as nuisances but as blessings. Many homes even placed a gunny sack, called Raeke, beneath its nests to collect the droppings, ensuring the bird’s habitat remained undisturbed.
Today, the absence of Katij in Kashmir tells a somber story of environmental neglect and human indifference. The Valley’s changing lifestyle, coupled with increased pollution and the replacement of traditional corridors (Wuzi) with modern lobbies, has deprived the bird of its natural nesting spaces. While it still survives in some remote villages, its numbers have dwindled, a poignant reminder of what has been lost.
The vanishing of Katij is a loss that goes beyond the ecological—it is a loss of culture, identity, and harmony with nature. Its disappearance symbolizes the growing chasm between humans and the environment, a disconnection that threatens not only the beauty of Kashmir but its soul.
May the memory of Katij stir us to action. Let it inspire us to preserve the simplicity and sanctity of Kashmir’s natural heritage for future generations. Let us hope for the return of what has flown away, and let its absence remind us to live in balance with nature’s holy plan. As we lament what man has made of man, let us also strive to restore what has been lost.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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