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 the mopper while it drizzled to remove the grime that the pots created.
A pair of yellow beaked common mynas fluttered their wings on the iron rails that supported the solar panels basking in the comfort of shade it 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 weathers.
The next day too it rained heavily; the solitary visitor today that took shelter was a drenched, sick looking flutterer that hid underneath the outdoor unit of air conditioner. My husband changed its position twice to provide it protection. 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 on sighting 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. And yet the sighting of the mate the next day looking for its partner was one of 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 had 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, planted trees that provide shade but do not attract birds.
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