Romancing with small-time moments

 A wire-tailed swallow couple is seriously on a lookout for their mud nest. They make chipping sounds as if discussing the suitability of a little terrace porch facing this countryside writer's hideout-cum-writing den. Yesterday it rained a bit and they were quick to lay the foundations by ferrying mud from the street and sticking it to the wall. The swallows usually leave a heap of drops under the nest. So in order to avoid a stack of bird-drops in front of my writing table I just stand under the new muddy foundations, giving them a message that there are humans around, expecting them to abandon their ideas about the safety of this place. But they don’t seem to mind it too much. They sit quietly nearby on the cable network wire. They have learnt, I suppose, that to survive in this world they can’t afford to be too shy of we humans.

It’s a busy birdie world looking to set up families in anticipation of the upcoming monsoons. But opportunities have been diminishing for the birds. The walls are plastered making it harder for the little brown house sparrow to seek nesting holes. As the fissures open inwards leaving us trying to cover up the exteriors through swanky posh interiors and cozy homes, the holes vanish from the walls. There is a half-inch plastic pipe across the wall fitted as a passage for electricity wires. There are no wires leaving it as a miniscule tunnel of possibility. A sparrow is struggling at the opening, flapping wings to stay afloat as its probes its beak for any house-making possibilities there. But the opening is too small for a sparrow, or for any bird for that matter.

The village is full of peacocks. We have poisoned the farmlands beyond their sustenance, so here they swarm into the village, pee-hooing day and night. They are respected birds. Indirectly we may take away their habitat but directly we need to show them respect so that Lord Krishna would become happy and shower more and more material blessings on our head. In any case, beyond what, why, if and but theirs is a pleasant sight in the village.

Oh, the doves, the lousiest nest-makers! They did make a change at long last. Instead of laying eggs at the same famished nest on the tree that has seen so many tragedies, they put the twigs on a not-in-use ceiling fan in the barn porch. The wire is disconnected to ward off even accidental start of the fan. From this angle it seems a suitable choice. They put some sinews on the fan-wing. But there was a storm and the fan took a few circles and the eggs fell. Sadly, again a very poor nesting choice and an example of very dumb parenting.

The babblers are busy through the day because a huge rat snake has been spotted among the little cluster of keekars. The giloy creeper has acquired every inch of canopy to give it the feeling of a few square yards of a real pristine forest. In the thickly leafy tent warblers and tailorbirds have ideal nesting site. There must be many nests for a coucal, the brown-winged big jungle crow, is busy at the site for the last couple of days. They are usually heard with their loud coop-coop sounds outside the village along denser shrubbery by the canal bunds. But this one has taken up assignment inside the village. Where there are nests, there lie the possibilities: possibilities of raising successful hatchlings and chances of successful hunt.

Randhir is a smart man. A hardworking farmer he understands the value of each sweat-laden buck. He looks on top of this world. The old age pension is up by 250 rupees. He is freely eating my morning newspaper reading time. ‘I was going for a shave at the barber’s and thought of dropping for some time,’ he says. He has one 500 and two 10 rupee notes in the pocket of his kurta. It’s a great financial scheme to save 10 rupees. The shaving charges are 30 rupees. ‘I usually go in the morning when their box has hardly any change. So after the shave I push forward the 500 note. It gives them a nightmare at the idea of managing so much of change so early in the morning. Then I offer 20 rupees which feels like I have done them a favor even though I pay 10 rupee less,’ he explains his game plan.

Then he shares the latest update on an old distant relative of his. The concerned farmer is a big built fellow of nearly eighty. In the last five years he has fallen twice, once fracturing the hip and fracturing the leg the other time. ‘I asked his grandson to take care of their granddad but the young man appeared full of complain. “He won’t stop eating ghee like he was young,” the burly grandson complained. What has ghee to do with it, I asked. Ghee strengthens the bones. “You didn’t get me uncle. You eat ghee and you get energized beyond your years. You feel like you can jump around like a young colt with fun and frolics and you end up breaking your bones,” the boy explained. So according to him eating lots of ghee is the main reason for the old man’s broken bones,’ he is laughing.

Then the laughter vanishes. An angry babbler above in the parijat tree eases itself and the fluid drops on his pocket as he is spread out relaxed in the chair. It feels like a grenade has fallen. It’s not about the spoilt kurta. It’s always about the money. He looks flustered and in panic. He checks his bucks. A bit of tiny fudge on one of them but still workable. He is relieved. But that breaks his willpower to stay eating my time despite all my covert and overt signs and signals of wanting to be left alone. He gets up and leaves. I thank the entire population of babblers on earth.