Manger Bani: Where Birds, Forests and Friends Meet

The road into Mangar Bani hard to believe this slice of wild exists so close to the city.

There’s something about Mangar Bani. It’s the kind of place that pulls you in, makes you forget you’re close to the city and leaves you grinning like a child spotting their first bird.

I woke up to a phone call that jolted me out of my dreams. “We’re on our way, we’ll be there in 30 minutes!” said the voice on the other end. Half-asleep but suddenly excited, I stretched and thought to myself, it’s a beautiful morning and maybe, just maybe we’ll get to see some amazing birds today.

This wasn’t just any trip. A few of my students-turned-friends from the Barefoot Birder course I conducted with WWF-India were picking me up. Over time, I’ve watched them grow as birders and it makes me quietly proud.

To those who joined us that morning and also to the ones who flaked at the last minute if you’re reading this, yes, I’m giving you that look!

We all piled into the car; Preetika was driving, expertly navigating every bump, I rode shotgun, already scanning the skies while Sera and Devendra settled into the back seats. Shubham and Tannu followed us on Shubham's bike.

We reached Mangar and assembled at Lalit hotel, our unofficial “start line.” Shubham and Tannu pulled up with wide grins. For them, it was their first time in Mangar. I smiled to myself as I thought to myself, wait till you see it.

I noticed their expressions: eyes wide, jaws slightly dropped. Every first-timer reacts the same way. “Wait…this is in Gurgaon?” they ask...There’s something about entering Mangar that catches first-timers off guard. The road dips sharply into the valley and suddenly you’re surrounded by dense trees and the kind of silence that feels alive.

Mangar Bani is one of the last remaining sacred groves in this region protected for centuries by local communities. Stories swirl about how cutting trees here brings bad luck and maybe it’s this belief that saved this patch of pristine forest from the axe. Today, it stands as a living reminder of how faith and ecology intertwine.

We decided to head straight to the Banni area a lush green patch leading to a famous temple. As we drove, the air seemed alive with sound. Grey-bellied Cuckoos called in their soft, bubbling tones, while the Brain-fever bird (Common Hawk-Cuckoo) screamed from somewhere deep in the foliage. If you’ve never heard a Brain-fever call echoing across a green valley, you’re missing out it’s loud, urgent and oddly comforting.

That little wetland patch everyone slows down here. Baya Weavers busy stitching, Lapwings parading with chicks, and Bee-eaters flashing emerald at eye level.

And then came that moment where as one goes ahead towards the village temple one passes by a little wetland on their right. If you’ve been there before, you know it. Almost like a reflex, everyone slows down. Smiles creep onto faces as Baya Weavers flit about, weaving their delicate hanging nests like tiny architects. Black-winged Stilts strut elegantly in the shallows and lapwings scurry with their wobbly chicks. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch Wire-tailed Swallows skimming low over the water or Green Bee-eaters perched like emeralds at eye level. It’s a little pocket of wonder before the real forest even begins.

We parked well before the jungle area. It's better to walk quietly than disturb the peace with an engine. Almost instantly, two drongos greeted us. A White-bellied Drongo and a Black Drongo sat side by side like old friends. In the dry deciduous forests of the Aravallis, the White-bellied Drongo is a common yet striking sight, its clean white belly contrasting sharply with its glossy black head and wings. Unlike its all-black cousin, it almost feels like it dressed up for a formal event.

The jewel of the forest: The Indian Pitta.

As we walked deeper, someone in the group said, “I hope we see something new today…maybe a nightjar maybe a scops owl?” And as if the forest heard us, a flash of blue and rufous darted past. A pitta! It perched briefly on a wire, then another appeared with insects stuffed in its beak, calling softly.

The Indian Pitta also called the Navrang (nine-colored bird) for its vibrant plumage is a summer migrant here. These thick forests serve as their breeding grounds. Their fluty, whistled calls two clear notes repeated endlessly add music to these green corridors. Watching 4–5 pittas dart around, we stood still, clicked a few photos and then decided to move on quietly, giving them their space.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of white like a delicate ribbon dancing in the air. “Paradise Flycatcher!” I whispered. Sure enough, it was a male Indian Paradise Flycatcher, its long tail streamers trailing gracefully. These birds are also summer visitors here, though a few individuals occasionally decide to winter. With their striking white or rufous morphs and flowing tails, they’re like ballerinas of the canopy.

A little ahead, a family of Spotted Owlets peered at us with sleepy eyes. They sat stoic on their branch, unbothered by our presence.

As we ventured deeper into the forest the prime habitat for nightjars the atmosphere changed. The air grew heavy with earthy scents and the only sounds were the soft gushing of wind, rustling leaves and an orchestra of insects. In a jungle so still, you begin to notice the quietest details: the creak of branches, distant calls and even your own heartbeat.

I checked the usual perches for nightjars, but recent rains had broken many branches. Just when I was about to give up, I spotted it perched like a cryptic lump of bark. The Jungle Nightjar. Its eyes were closed and its plumage blended perfectly with the branch.

The Jungle Nightjar so well camouflaged it’s almost unfair. That tiny beak? Don’t be fooled it opens wide like a bug net when hunting at night.

With their tiny beaks that open into gaping mouths like insect nets they’re master hunters of the night, catching moths mid-air. We admired it quietly, our faces lit up with delight.

Suddenly, a familiar call caught my attention. Asian Brown Flycatcher! We tried tracing it but couldn’t get a visual. Along the way, more pittas flashed by, a small flock of Minivets added splashes of orange and grey and a group of Petronias hopped about cheerfully.

Then we decided to head back to our vehicles. Our plan was to explore the other side of the village the area that every birder fondly calls Mohit Farms. Don’t ask me why it’s called that. Is it owned by some mysterious “Mohit Sir”? Or is it just one of those names that stuck? If you know, please enlighten me in the comments because I’m still scratching my head!

Tiny pop-up art installations monsoon fungi in all their glory

As we walked back, the forest felt alive with calls, Pittas still singing their fluty tunes, Grey-bellied Cuckoos bubbling away. But soon our attention was hijacked by something completely different: fungi. The ground was dotted with them tiny umbrellas, fat toadstools and clusters like little fairy villages. It’s peak mushroom season after the rains and there’s something magical about these fleeting forest residents. They’re like nature’s pop-up art installations here today, gone tomorrow.

Back at the car, out came the breakfast. The rule had been clear from the day before: bring the unhealthiest, tastiest food possible. The spread did not disappoint. Idlis, sandwiches, fruits (so someone could claim they were “healthy”) and juicy kebabs pure joy in foil packets.

Just as we were polishing off the last bite, two woodpeckers surprised us by flitting right in front of the car like a final “see you later” from the jungle.

Now, before you reach Mohit Farms, there’s this gorgeous patch of Aravallis you have to cross. Rocky outcrops rise on either side and the road is more a suggestion than a promise. Word of advice: unless you’re driving an SUV, maybe just park and walk. This patch is famous among birders for Sirkeer Malkohas, Brown Rock Chats and Sulphur-bellied Warblers. And if you’re lucky, you might even spot a Kestrel or a White-eyed Buzzard perched on one of the rocky ledges.

Crested Bunting posing for the paps while the paps (us) clicked from inside the car.

We were joking about how bumpy the road was when suddenly Sera and Devendra shouted, “Stop the car!” Preetika hit the brakes and there, not two feet away, was a female Crested Bunting. Cameras clicked furiously from inside the car some shots came out crisp and National Geographic-worthy, others…well, let’s just say they were “abstract art.” Then, as if on cue, the male arrived, his glossy black and chestnut plumage glowing in the sun.

Just before that little bunting drama, we’d caught a glimpse of a Short-toed Snake Eagle soaring high above. We had planned to track it for a better view but got completely distracted by the buntings (classic birder problem). With a bit of hope left for the eagle, we continued towards Mohit Farms. We actually drove past it at first blame the scenic distractions and decided to stop and explore an area just beyond.

That’s where the White-browed Fantail greeted us. Flitting about, fanning its tail like a dancer and constantly wagging it’s one of those birds that never seems to sit still. This fanning isn’t just for show; it helps flush out insects from hiding, making hunting easier and also they use the same for communication as well.

Black-headed Cuckooshrike: Splashes of black, white...

Inside Mohit Farms, the trees were alive with Paradise Flycatchers both white and rufous morphs. Why two morphs, you ask? The rufous (rufous above, whitish below) is actually the first-year male or female, while the dazzling white with those long ribbon tails belongs to adult males. Females can be tricky, lacking the long tail streamers but carrying the same elegance. Watching them dart around was like being in a fairyland.

The air was filled with soft cooing sounds the Red Collared-Doves, common in these open scrubby areas, their gentle calls blending with the background hum of the forest. And then, a splash of black, white and lemon-yellow Black-headed Cuckooshrikes! These striking birds usually keep to the canopy, but today a pair obliged us with great views.

Not a Rusty-tailed Flycatcher after all but still a delight our confirmed Asian Brown Flycatcher

“Shhh…there!” I whispered, spotting a small bird flitting through the branches. It was the Asian Brown Flycatcher again the one we’d heard but missed earlier. This time we all got a proper look. I even noticed a faint rusty tinge on its tail. Could it be a Rusty-tailed Flycatcher, a passage migrant usually seen in September-October or again in April? We snapped photos, fingers crossed. Later, experts confirmed it was indeed just a young Asian Brown Flycatcher, but hey, no complaints it’s still a lovely little bird.

While heading back, we noticed a Golden Oriole’s nest swaying gently high up in a tree. Through the binoculars, we admired the artistry of its hanging basket, but didn’t linger long, better not to disturb them.

Then we all decided to step into Mohit Farms. The landscape had transformed after the monsoon. Thick vegetation, wildflowers bursting in every shade and creepers tumbling over rocks. The group couldn’t resist clicking pictures of themselves walking through this riot of green chatter and laughter echoing around us.

Near an open field, a flash of blue caught our eye an Indian Roller perched proudly on a Maha Neem tree. Also called Neelkanth, its electric blues never fail to mesmerize. In Indian culture, spotting one is considered auspicious and in that moment, it felt like a blessing from the forest.

Climbing up and down through thick undergrowth, we stumbled (literally some of us got acquainted with thorns) upon more surprises. Pied Cuckoos called from treetops these “harbingers of monsoon” have been revered in local lore as messengers of rain. Grey-breasted Prinias flitted low, their cheerful calls adding to the soundtrack of the morning.

As the sun climbed higher, insects took over. Butterflies dozens of them flickered around like living confetti. Cameras came out again: “We managed to see two Lemon pansy butterflies, lots of common and typical blues and even a beautiful Zebra blue and some swift species.

Baya Weaver the original master weaver, crafting intricate nests to woo the ladies.

At the end of our walk, back near the wetland, we saw Baya Weavers once again, busily weaving fresh nests. Did you know their intricate nests take about 18 days to build and the males often make several trips to collect grass that they string carefully together to impress choosy females? Truly, nature’s engineers.

All in all, we tallied 69 species of birds, a handful of butterflies and a whole lot of laughter. The breeze stayed cool the entire morning an unexpected luxury in July. As we finally headed back, soft drinks in hand, we couldn’t help but smile. Mangar Bani had, once again, worked its quiet magic.

If you’ve never been to Mangar Bani, add it to your list. And if you have, you know what I mean when I say there’s magic in these woods.