A message to all my readers When I first began writing down my stories in this quiet space, it was nothing more than an open diary. A place to put memories that needed somewhere to rest, reflections gathered over a lifetime, and thoughts that felt too personal—or perhaps simply too ordinary—to share in conversation. Conventional wisdom often suggests that personal musings rarely accomplish much on the wider internet. There are no frameworks here, no quick advice, and no polished agendas. Just the raw textures of life as I have experienced it: the sudden turns, the quiet routines, the moments of doubt, and the steady work of beginning again. Recently, as a small corner quietly crossed 30,000 reads, I paused to look more closely at the numbers. What moved me was not just the milestone itself, but where those visits were coming from. While some readers join from home here in India, so many of you are reading from entirely different corners of the earth—from Singapore across the seas ...
The August rain had created a thrill, and early morning visits to our terrace garden had become very ritualistic. Often, we would sweep the terrace with a mop while it drizzled to remove the grime the pots created.
A pair of yellow-beaked common mynas fluttered their wings on the iron rails supporting the solar panels, basking in the shade they provided during a heavy rain. I wondered if they too felt the desire for a cup of coffee and pakoras, but I had nothing to offer. They were gone before I could think of their invincible spirit to soar in all weather.
The next day too, it rained heavily; the solitary visitor that took shelter today was a drenched, sick-looking flutterer that hid underneath the outdoor unit of the air conditioner. My husband moved it twice to protect it. Yet it had no energy left to move, and within minutes it passed away, leaving us behind to dispose of its corpse.
'One for sorrow, two for joy' crept into my mind. This was what we had always done with a flying kiss when we saw common mynas as school-going teenagers. When we missed our homework and felt scared to face the teacher, two for joy was indeed an omen we could swear by. Yet seeing the mate the next day, looking for its partner, brought sorrow as it flew away, never to return.
Though we welcome our migratory guests in the city every year and celebrate the 'Bird Festival' in their honor. These feathered guests engage us with their cool demeanor and keep us spellbound with their activities. Their lesser-known fraternities that have chirped in our gardens and woken us up every morning with their flutter are seemingly becoming extinct. Perhaps we may have tripped the delicate balance of interdependency: closed all our ventilators and planted trees that provide shade but do not attract birds.
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