In these days of a Bengaluru characterised by disappearing lakes, concrete towers and depleted greenery, I am fortunate to have a small garden around my house and a clutch of roadside trees sheltering the pavement in front. The garden comprises a motley mix of fruit trees, a postage-sized lawn and shrubs that burst into bloom according to the season.
I like to spend drowsy afternoons draped in an armchair in the verandah, idly gazing at this verdure and watching the interplay of light and shade as occasional whiffs of breeze stir the leaves and branches. Imparting a colourful tinge to this are the visiting butterflies, flirting with different flowers in their search for nectar. In contrast, a pair of dusty brown common mynahs, their dowdy appearance enlivened by large Madurai Meenakshi eyes, glide silently on to the lawn and start pecking away at the bugs proliferating in the grass.
The buzzing drone of a large black beetle hunting for its sustenance adds to the languor and my eyelids droop slowly in response—only to fly open the next moment as the long-drawn staccato of a copper-coated barbet shatters the silence. He is ensconced in his favourite perch amidst the dense greenery of the Pongame tree on the roadside. His raucous cry draws a high pitched response rising to a crescendo from a black koel. A trilling whistle informs me that a crested bulbul is nearby.
Like in the circuses of yesteryear, when a resounding drum roll was a prelude to the entrance of the star artistes who performed hair-raising stunts, this lively chorus from my feathered afternoon companions heralds the entrance of the stars of the garden matinee—the squirrels.
Suddenly the somnolent garden is transformed to an exciting and enthralling arena as these black-striped furry, long-tailed acrobats burst in on the scene squeaking and squealing loudly as they chase each other uninhibitedly, jumping fearlessly like monkeys from tree branch to tree branch, barrelling down high street light poles, streaking nonchalantly across optical fibre cables strung 20 feet above the ground and darting across the tiles of the steep gables forming the roof of my house.
It is indeed a grand finale to the afternoon. Soon the shadows lengthen as the sun scurries to its bed and the denizens of the garden retire to theirs. As I rise from the armchair to go inside I thank my stars for the umpteenth time that I opted to set aside this green patch while building the house three decades ago.
Email: nnsachi@yahoo.com