A musty twilight in a village

 

As the day moves towards twilight on musty September evenings, and most of the birds already settled home with the setting sun, the wire-tail swallows go swiftly scouring the sky for midges, fleas, mosquitoes, dragonflies and other flying insects. The insects come carousing in the air in late evening. The swallow couple has successfully raised their chick. I see the three of them flying around. It has been a few weeks since it came out of the mud nest. In a bigger flock it might have started its independent life by this time. But the days of big flocks are gone. So in the grease and grime of survival, it sticks to its parents forming a perfect modern day nuclear family.

They have the word ‘wire’ in their name, so they have every right to consider the electricity wires and cables in front of the house as theirs. I usually see them perched on these cables. In late evenings a shikra also comes and takes a sniper-type patient stance on the wires as the tired day is slowly moving towards the twilight. It mostly looks for any casual gecko on the walls. But its presence is objectionable to the zealously roving swallows. ‘It’s our wire!’ they chip-chip angrily.

They can maneuver their flight like fighter jets, or rather fighter jets imitate them. They pester the small hawk, taking advantage of this aerial skill. They come chip-chipping in consternation, almost bang into him, take sharp turns, follow puzzling curves and fly away only to come suddenly with a big surprise and shock element— necessary for a dogfight midair—from another direction. They dash in from different angles, sometimes attack together in perfect dogfight formation.

Even their kid’s courage gets buoyed up as it sees the hawk perplexed and dozing to avoid collision with its parents. It also takes an attacking sortie and passes near the hunter’s head with reasonable accuracy for a beginner. The parents must be happy that their child is learning the art of life, which is basically survival at this level of existence.

They have botched the hunter’s crouching stance and hunting prospects. It leaves their wire petulantly letting off a shrill hawking sound and flies off to a place where it can hunt in peace.

As a sultry day hands over the ashy grey baton to the twilight, the swallow family is chipping away mosquitoes and fleas in swishy merriment. When they dive so effortlessly, dip easily, turn around and change directions it makes me feel as if they are in very jolly mood. A kind of merry and genial version of air itself. But of course the hawk would think them to be a nuisance.