The laburnum tree is dressing itself up. With all the care of a woman decking up for her beloved. Now that it has flung away its leaves in a show of deliberate haste, it has pulled on the ornaments. They shine in the morning light, the tiny flowers, half-bloomed still, little petals of beaten gold. On other branches the buds are gathering, ranged on slim green stalks that bend under their weight. In three days the hint of gold had become a certainty, a week more, and it will be a bounty for any treasure hunter, dripping down towards greedy hands but tantalisingly out of reach.
Every evening for the past month, two crows have been using the tree as a way station. Perching on the slimmest, outward most branch, which sways under their weight. They sit together, sometimes looking at each other, other times hopping about between other branches, then one flies off, and the other follows. It’s a ritual they follow at day’s end, before repairing to the nest they have obviously made in the palm tree behind the wall.
At night, the glowworms come; if there has been a hint of rain. They will flit about, their little lights flashing among the bushes. And from somewhere a single shower brings on the music, frogs in concert, high-pitched insects of unknown wing, and a cricket keeping the beat as it rasps along.
Each day the flowers on every bush and tree seem to have doubled, the branches bend luxurious under their weight. They have their own set of ardent fans... butterflies of many hues and sizes, dragon flies, wasps, bees; all busy in their appointed tasks of feeding, living, and leaving Nature richer for their having been around.
Far away, acknowledging the heat the gulmohar tree wears a crown of flames. Fruit ripens, the crows check out the papaya every day. If they get at it first, before it is taken off the tree, the crow will eat of it every single day, just enough to feel happy; leaving the rest for the morrow. Squirrels are less mindful. They bite into fruit, then leave it on the ground; perhaps they know there are smaller creatures that can feed of them, and their mindless waste is actually thoughtful sharing.
Birds come and go. You can set your clock by them. The mynahs, two noisy birds making enough chatter to put a school bus load of kids to shame, come at five. They hop about picking from the grass, before flying off to rest in some hidden branch. Evening time the little birds set up a musical show cheep-cheep, tweet-tweet, katrrr... parents calling children home? Or friends saying goodbyes before parting for the day?
Everything tells us, Nature has her timetable, and goes about her work industriously. Not caring for applause, nor worrying about censure. We are Nature’s creatures too. Why are we different?
Sathya Saran
saran.sathya@gmail.com
Author & Consulting Editor, Penguin Random House