The brief history of a moment in a little locality

 

An electric cable goes over the terrace. It dangles pretty low; precipitately close to my nose if I stand by it. It may be risky for my head but it has pleasant undulations for the birds that perch on it and jabber, prattle, babble and chirp. I requested my neighbors to do something about it a few times but they are a joyful family and don’t find it a serious issue. After much soul-searching and introspection, I learn from them that it really is not a serious issue. I also learn how to avoid getting a huge dent on one’s ego by little pot-shots of trivial issues. It also trains you in how to avoid downcast mood. Further, it’s training me in the art of alertness. I have to abandon my insufferably amateurish ways. Ever on the vigil, I duck down very carefully every time I pass through. It’s a nice stretching exercise. Further, one monkey in particular loves taking a quick, exhilarating swing on it as it passes over the roof.

Electricity fluctuates quite riskily at nine in the night; it’s a kind of sepulchral infraction upon the cold, limpid stream of darkness. Some problem with the lines, yes. It’s a monkey doing acrobatics, enjoying some mysterious cerebral delirium, on the electricity pole. They carry mammoth intrepidity in aerial acrobatics. The winter days are falling short in accommodating their profoundly bashing enthusiasm. They have an incontestable right for fun and frolics. So to compensate for short winter days, they have extended their work-hours into the nights.

By the dint of his special color, the blue-dyed monkey has a woman in his life. Maybe she is just curious or the type who wants an outstanding prince charming and be a part of the local simian folklore. In any case, love-rhymes have a lot of scope for experimentation.

Calmly carried by an inexorable sublimation of wits, the dove seems foolish in addition to being peaceful. Past lessons are of no avail. They are so lazy as if the God owes them amends. The very same little flimsy nest, a little step away from obliteration, and the scene of so many cat and eagle crunchy egg breakfasts and suppers, is again ready for another serving with a look of solicitude. Earlier it was the spotted dove, now it’s the turn of a laughing dove, with their delightful keynotes, to come and lay eggs in the house of tragedy. No wonder, the cat is in very good spirits. Lost in cold, warm and tepid dreams, he sleeps under the small curry-leaf tree. Let her lay the eggs, he will climb there as easily as one walks up the steps on a staircase. The doves are plainly lazy. There is hardly any plea in their defense.

Engulfed by the giddy immensity of childhood, little puppies just love barking. The days leavened with just fun and more fun before the chafings, gashes and bruises of growing young and then old take a firm grip on the wheel of life. Last night, this little puppy in the street didn’t feel sleepy at all. It led the chorus encored by at least ten to fifteen dogs. The moment they spent their lungpower and stopped to take a breather, the tiny puppy would again come with its lead lines. And the elders would again fall into the chorus. A very busy night in the paroxysm of restlessness. They carried the barking rigmarole well into the wee hours. The lead composer must have slept then, bringing an end to the orchestra.