It's a small potted fig. A stunted plant version of a tree with two stalks in the name of trunks and just one and half dozen leaves. But the leaves are big, heart shaped, enough for an ashy prinia to twist a single leaf and make it a funnel best by cupping with cotton and grass. There were four chocolate colored tiny eggs. They are hatchlings now. Always with their beaks open, forcing their parents to fetch soft worms day in and day out. They need lots of food to grow at a fast rate and cash on survival chances.
The little potted fig. A small house tiny warblers and beetles. My emotion planted it. My care gives it water. It can't survive without the continuity of my attachment. It has no ground under its roots to sap water and nourishment from mother earth of its own. So I have to be present in the picture for its journey. It even gives tiny figs which the bulbuls enjoy eating.
And will the nest survive if not for the camouflaging greenery in surrounding pots? It can't. So one's survival depends on a bigger ecosystem than one thinks.
Little Mama with a worm in its beak to feed the kids.
The ever hungry ashy prinia babies.
The funnel nest made of a heart shaped leaf of a potted fig hidden under the supportive ecosystem of neighbouring pots.
These little ones will need loads of luck to be safe from the rascals mentioned below:
The semi feral, semi domesticated lazy man named Poplaine by yours truly. He visits the garden many times in a day and now sleeps on the wall. Or pretending to sleep because he knows it's the preferred route of a squirrel. One of the ashy prinia parents has to draw him away by feigning to be an injured bird, cajoling him away repeatedly to the bushes outside the walls.
The wire walking lampoon who loves to snatch such soft little meaty dumplings from foliage of trees as starters for his breakfast. I chased him away and he nearly toppled from his cable walking.
The sharp witted agile squirrel who won't think twice before laying her smart handsome on such tiny cuisines. I allowed Poplaine to stay on the wall so that this striped hunter becomes hunted.
And beyond all this struggle for survival, the red blooms of peregrina plant kiss the monsoon air. As if wondering and musing over all this drama. Honeybees take nectar as well as get nice little swings on the swaying flowers.
And anong all this, a village poet wonder stuck at all this interplay of contradictory elements on the surface but a deep unity beneath all this segmentation on the surface.
Post-scritpt:
The human mended nest
It's a worrisome start of the morning. I see my sister busy around the potted fig bearing the nest. I walk to the place. Sleep inertia still with me. Then I'm jolted into awareness. A hard reality. The monkeys arrived early morning. And did what they do the best: unnecessary mischief leading to destruction of smaller life. They had plucked away the leafy nest. My sister found three hatchlings flung to the ground. Ants gathering around them. A piece of inner coating of the destroyed nest lying nearby. She reached just in time to save them from getting eaten alive. I see her standing helplessly holding the little wads of grass and cotton with three hatchlings in it in her palm. She looked sad and helpless. How to fix a broken ashy prinia nest. It's so feathery light and fragile. The life inside even more fragile. It's so so difficult to mend a broken warbler nest. I remember an abandoned tailor bird nest made of parijat leaf on the tree nearby. I cautiously break the branch bearing the little nest. Then with erring ginger hands we place the remnant of the original nest in this one and drape a few leaves around it, tying a thread around to keep it intact. Then we struggled to fix it to the potted fig branch where the original nest stood. A very bad tailoring work by us. We humans might make space ships but mending a broken nest is beyond our skills. Then we brought others plant pots around to give it better camouflage. The ashy prinia is a meek warbler. It makes just a slow preening sound even while in utter panic. The parents kept their low pitched protest as we fixed the nest. And after some time the parents start darting in with soft worms feeds. At least out effort gives them another meaningful day defined by parental duties. Coming to the monkey mischief. I think it's befitting that we have them as our ancestors. We are just more atrophied monkeys with more mischief. Monkeys break nests for sheer fun. And out superhuman monkey leaders unleashed unnecessary wars for mere sadistic pleasure destroying thousands of little nests, the homes of innocent people. So it makes sense that we share so many genes with monkeys.
Atoning for the sins of our ape ancestors, who tossed away the nest just for fun, we brother and sister tried to refurbish the broken nest. An ungainly contraption. But it has supported the hatchlings during these critical days. Three beaks ever hungry, always open, to eat more and more, and come out of the nest as soon as possible before some calamity strikes. Actually there were four baby peinias. When our simian ancestors tore away the nest, one was tossed away and lost in the shrubbery. Hundreds of ants had a heyday as they pulled away its dried up carcass in the evening.
Beyond this depressive episode, a wire tail swallow couple have made a mud nest on the verandah ceiling of my terrace writing room. There I read and write poems looking at the beautiful metallic blue, white and coffee colored birds darting in and out to feed their chicks. The nest is just a few feet away. And under my observation. Because I spend most of my time on my dest. So the monkeys have a lesser chance of doing mischief here
Post Post-scritpt:
From eggs, to hairless dumplings to dashing furred lads and ladies, it's been a week of positive human push for the cause of creation trying to survive from this little corner.
More funny patch-ups to keep the nest intact, a canopy of polythene (this piece of polythene paid back its quota of environmental hazard) to protect from relentless September drizzling, chasing away Poplaine the cat for some days whenever he is seen around, throwing pebbles at the sharp little hawk Shikra whenever he is seen snooping around.
And just awareness to go out and check whenever there is panicked preening by the parents. All this human touch adds to chirpy trills in a little garden. It's better than bursting bombs. Try it in your yard garden sometimes.
A reasonably happy ending from the standard of birdie families
There were September drizzles during the fastfast-growing stage of the chicks. We fixed a polythene bag on top of the potted fig's crown to provide a shelter to the make-shift nest. The parents fed the chicks day in and day out. The little ones developed fur. There ever-hungry, yellow-lined beaks always open to receive more worms and insects.
It was lucky that the monkeys arrived again when the chicks were ready to leave the nest. The mischief-monger sat on the garden wall, looked at the scene below and with sheer glee again tossed away the human-patched up nest. The chicks had little wings now. We could spot two chicks being taken care of among the clump of bigger plants in a corner in the garden yard. We never knew the fate of the third one.
They trained them in the low bushes for two-three days before drawing them out for further training among the larger clump of trees and bushes outside the wall.
Two chicks ready for training. Well, that is fifty percent till this stage. And if they manage even one of them to grow self-sufficient, keeping it safe from predators, they will fulfill the cause of creation trying to expand from their end.
