Ruth Sequeira

I live as a paying guest in an apartment that has 19 birds, 2 Pomeranians and a 62 year old PG Aunty who has a special baby voice for each of her 21 animals. The apartment is in a quiet street lined with old deciduous trees, small kirana shops and a little temple at the end of the lane. I chose the place because the trees outside my window reminded me of my home in Goa and the distant sound of trains reminded me of Bombay. When I came inspecting the house, I saw myself enjoying a lazy Sunday morning breakfast at the balcony overlooking the trees. So, today, being my first Sunday here, I took my breakfast and the old jute chair to the balcony, just like I imagined it. I bit into my cheese sandwich and sipped my tea, thinking ‘ah! bliss”. But every now and then, life throws us a few surprises, in this case, it was 19 birds chirping and twittering ad infinitum.

I take a deep breath and try to block out the noise. I concentrate on a little squirrel darting about the Gulmohar tree. I envy him. He spends all his time scurrying from branch to branch, tree to tree. He has no plan and no appointments, does whatever comes to his cute little head. Such an explorer! He roams around tasting berries and flinging them away if he doesn’t enjoy them. He catches me staring at him every now and then and gives me a sheepish look. The little squirrel never sticks to one place for too long, unless there’s a strong gust of breeze, then he sits still but his eyes continue to dart about, surveying where he’ll head next. I tell myself, that I’m in this phase of sitting still & figuring out my next move. I start thinking of my next move but not for long, Coffee – the young female Pomeranian decides my mind should touch upon the topic – ‘Who is the stupidest dog on the planet?’ In a few seconds, I have my answer.

With the breeze, the thin Neem tree enters the balcony, swaying in and out. Whenever it enters Coffee jumps and tries to bite the invading branch. She begins to bark every time she fails and the Neem tree continues to tease her, coming ever so low but moving away a second before Coffee can clench her jaws. I keep count - Neem Tree -7, Coffee – 0.

The birds are at it again, chirping, fluttering and in general, doing everything they can to ruin my idyllic breakfast. The best way to settle a tantrum is to ignore it. So I play with Cocoa – the old Pomeranian, who can hardly see and suffers from Arthritis. Cocoa is the kind of dog who has given up on life, I don’t blame him. The chap has had to deal with a blonde daughter who chases Neem tree branches and starts barking every time the bathroom tap is turned on. Cocoa is also a little deaf, which I suspect is more of a conscious decision. I would do the same if I had to spend all my life in a house with 19 chirping birds and a woman who speaks constantly in a baby voice. Cocoa sits next to my chair and starts dozing off, as I pat his back with my foot.

The birds have gone silent; Cocoa and I have ignored them long enough. I gulp down my tea before it turns cold and try to spot my little tree explorer once more. Again I am disturbed by Coffee, who has finally caught hold of the Neem branch and refuses to let go. I try to pull her away, but the ruckus has disturbed the birds, who have started their chatter again. This madness wakes up poor old Cocoa, who glances at his daughter, then lets out what I can swear, was a sigh.

Photo by Ruth Sequeira 

While Noah found reassurance in spotting a dove carrying a twig, I knew tough times were heading my way when I spotted a twig carrying pigeon in my balcony. By reflex I shooed the pigeon away and decided to ignore the incident and act like it never happened. What’s the big deal you might ask, well allow me to explain. While it is no secret that I hate cats, only a few close friends and the security guards outside the Bombay Stock Exchange know of my immense disapproval of pigeons. I would rather read a Chetan Bhagat book than feed a pigeon, on second thought; ignore that last bit about me reading anything by Mr. Bhagat.

The next morning when I opened my balcony door to breathe in the new day, I was greeted by the unwelcoming sight of a couple of pigeons building a nest in my property. I spent the day disturbed by the dilemma before me. Should I continue being hostile or should I give the birds a chance? After all they were just parents looking out for a secure home for their innocent unborn bird-child. Me being me, you know, the good Christian that I am, I concluded that there was enough hatred in this world between the Blackberry boys and mandroids, Coffee lovers and tea-drinkers, Beliebers and non-Beliebers. I would end all hostilities and make my contribution towards a better world; I would find the strength in me to love these grotesque creatures and treat them as my own.

Unlike certain members of our Government who say they are working towards peaceful ties with Pakistan, I genuinely wanted to befriend the pigeons. We all know that relationships are built on trust and it was crucial that I make amends with the pigeons for all the previous unkindness, hoist the peace flags and reassure them that my sea-facing balcony was indeed the safest place for their little baby. I started off by sharing the same balcony space with them without scaring them away, you know trying to pull off the same trick like that guy we studied about in psychology who had a hungry dog and an electric bell. I did this several times a day but the dim witted birds never seemed to get the message and always seemed a little uneasy in my presence. 

The series of events that took place a few days later are still engraved clearly in my mind. It was a warm Sunday evening and I walked to the veranda to check on the well being of my feathered guests, seeing that they were all snug and happy, I went back in to pour myself a cup of cold milk and scrape out the remains of my Nutella bottle. Little did I know what was going through their sadistic minds, I walked back into my bedroom to witness an act so cheap that even Poonam Pandey would think lowly of it. A breach of trust, a betrayal of friendship, an act of shame – there right in the centre of my bedroom, caught red-handed; the bloody bird pooped. And not your ordinary white bird shit, but the greenish-yellow vile variety that makes one’s head fume and blood boil. After all my goodwill and efforts for peace, they had the gall to enter my sacred territory and poop! The phrase ‘all hell broke loose’ falls short of the wrath that followed. Running with the same rage that Thesues (Immortals) experienced on witnessing the murder of his mother by King Hyperion’s men, I went after those pigeons, arms flapping, veins bulging and abuses flowing in English, Hindi, and Parseltongue. Alas! I didn’t catch the bugger or else the next day, I would have had pigeon biryani in my dabba and PETA filing an unnecessary lawsuit against me! 

Bless the man who called pigeons the rats of the sky, because that is exactly what they are! I have tried in vain to find an explanation as to why I ever sympathised for those horrid creatures but I guess in a world where Chetan Bhagat is invited to literature festivals and Justin Beiber is considered hot, some things can never be explained.