I couldn’t possibly have rested until I posted some more pictures of some more birds. Since we’re not going to be in this neighbourhood for long, I must carry as many memories of it with me as I can. Will you join me for another walk? Continue reading
My parents came over to visit us for a week and a little more. During my occasional walks with them, I remembered I’d been wanting to take pictures of the numerous birds that inhabit our neighbourhood and show them to you. The desire is like that of a child saying, “Look, I can see that! Can you?”
A few days back, I did take the camera, but was able to manage only a few pictures that are postable here. Perhaps I’ll ‘win’ some more in the subsequent days and post them, too.
A family living close to us has placed these earthen vessels on their wall for the birds to feed and drink water from. Mornings and evenings, a huge flock of parrots comes and satiates itself. This picture is only of one of their kind, but you get the picture!
Right next to this parrot haunt, there’s a silver oak tree (it looks horrifically chopped because people chop off the tops in winter — it helps the tree, and provides firewood for homes). This big guy was looking down right at us, we thought. My mother told me to take a picture of him, too. I had my doubts that it’d come. Backlit setting and all. But she insisted, I took the picture and lo, we can even see his eyes!
Ready to move on, I saw this dried vine with its gourd-fruits. We use the dried up innards as loofah. Do you? I thought it’d be interesting to show you. My current loofah is about to say adieu, but then I have a spare one, otherwise I’d have been aching to climb up the electricity pole and get a couple of them. Climbing is such fun, I’d have done it without any fruit at the top. But then, sensible people would stop me. For all of these reasons, I took a picture instead.
This bird has been intriguing me for two years now. My internet search tells me it’s a magpie robin, but his call doesn’t match the recorded calls I downloaded. Whatever the bird, this one is elusive.
Isn’t it amazing how the most incongruous of things can flourish together? This never ceases to amaze me. Of course they don’t always succeed in coexisting, but whenever they do, it is nothing short of a miracle of effort, I feel.
I itch to know names of things. Animals, birds, people, flowers, plants, even microbes. I look at these blossoms and remember I don’t know what they will turn into. Pears? Plums? Peaches? Apricots? And then I remind myself that it doesn’t really matter.
As long as I can continue to look at their glory, and enjoy it, it probably doesn’t matter.
Especially when I go closer to the tree to take a close-up, and the family’s dog fails to feel welcoming.
Or these beautiful finches. They’re finches, I think. But then, what’s in a name? My father kept whispering “look at these pink ones here! Look! No here, on the hibiscus bush.” They were so far away and so difficult to see, I’d have missed them.
Some associations remain for life. Like this woodpecker. We’ve learnt to call him Woody Woodpecker because of the story my father used to tell us when we were children. Whenever we see this bird, it’s always, “Woody!”
Not just parrots, but a whole colony of them. Chattering, preening, jibing. These are a different variety. They have rosy heads. But they talk the same language. At least I think they do.
The sun was getting ready to set. But it would take at least an hour before it did. Thankfully, its light lit up the tree and the parrots just right to give us a beautiful picture.
Now that they have left, and I look back on those ‘walks’ I’ve walked with them, I feel grateful for all of those sights they’ve shown me. It is uncanny how parents have the power to show in the most tacit of ways. As I prepare for a little one of my own soon, I realise the baton is getting passed on. Or duplicated. For parents never really stop giving, do they?
A little while back, a beautiful black and white bird came unannounced. And stayed, much to my delight. We notice it everyday in the mornings and afternoons, flying to various corners of our garden and calling out in its sweet, oh so sweet voice. I don’t know its name. But I do know I wait for it everyday.
Among the chorus of several other birds, this one lets out a honey-coated whistle that permeates deep within. It is like a reminder of goodness in despair, path-finder in celebration. Simply put, I am in absolute love with this bird.
It first came at my home office window when I was struggling with a particularly dull piece of text for translation. Uncannily, it looked at me (or so I like to think) and whistled. As if telling me to get a move on already. I did manage to finish my work, drudgery forgotten. You could call me a silly fairy-chaser. Or an impractical fool because I look for symbols, preferably natural ones. This bird has come as a blessing. For I like to think of serendipity and angelic messages in the same breath as doing dishes.
Sure enough, the little whistler was there just a few minutes back, when I, for the umpteenth time, considered sacking my extremely unhelpful house help. (Unfortunately, this time I am not sure whether it is encouraging this decision or sending signs of warning that I am going over-the-board with my disapproval. More about that in another post).
So, regardless of dubious advice, I am quite fond of this little honey-stirrer. It livens up my daily life, giving it that extra bit of sweetness that is always appreciated.