Samata Agrawal

A Red-vented Bulbul has built a petit nest on the sleeping fig ficus bush that grows from a pot in the balcony. There are three or may be four babies of that bulbul lying like some chunks of meat in the nest. They vigilantly guard their home day and night long and feed the new-born from their beaks – which is all they pretty much do. Hard, soiled and pointed beak; it traps minute bugs which it transfers into the paper like beak of their infants.

They have built an artistic nest, half the size of your palm, in the core of the ficus where your eyes can barely reach. Feathery punk stars with a mohawk along the centre head-line, and bright red squarish block print at the tip of their tail on their silhouette like beautiful jet black existence, as they stand on the bannister with the sky and waters melting in the background.

Prior to them the pigeons had laid their eggs in the same plant. Sadly they did not get the chance to hatch them as they had been replaced by a ‘human’ hand to another plant, something that is unacceptable to the bird. Their inhabitancy was slightly perturbing than that of the discreet bulbul to dwell in our house in the balcony.

They speak of adaptability. Of survival in the insecure environment, much like us humans today. All of us creatures need a home. A space defined, enclosed, free and safe.
They also live their routine life, the same treadmill that I complain of.

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