The other day something floated onto my social media timeline. It was a video of a leopard that had strayed into a toilet in some village in Karnataka. The beast had followed a mongrel into an Indian-style lavatory in the backyard. A woman spotted its tail sticking out of the door and bolted it from outside. Both dog and big cat stayed put for several hours until the latter escaped rescue efforts by the authorities, darting off into the nearby forest. Footage showed the poor dog, Bollu, reduced to a trembling mass, barely able to walk. Bollu, however, came to be regarded as quite a hero after that.
Of course, not all animal visits are cause for concern; some drop on you like sheer delight, a whiff of life.
It happened one day last summer, a time when most of the world remained indoors with hardly an encounter of the friendly kind. Near the large window in our dining space stands a small table. That’s where the bananas, apples, bottles, pickles and such sit. Watch closely and you’ll find fruit flies skimming the air, like tiny specks of nothing. No wonder the lizard — a lone one that appears furtively when no one’s looking — refuses to vacate that corner. Perhaps it makes a fine meal of the fruit flies. Anyway, that afternoon I found a couple of bees too, sitting pretty in a little bowl.
As I watched, in came more, dancing in and out of the curtain of wandering Jew and turtle vine. Eventually they settled on the nokuldana or sugar lumps in the bowl, all of it gooey and sticky in the heat, perfect for the wasp that just flew in. “They love to sit on the grapes and mangoes when we have them, so I thought they’d like some sugar too…” explained the woman who cooks and feeds us.
It’s not a bad idea actually to recognise the little big lives around us; in fact, we’d be doing ourselves a favour if we acknowledged their space. The gated community where I live also houses a small bird population, despite a few grumpy residents ruling against offering them biscuit crumbs in the morning sun. Rules are also in place asking residents not to feed the cats that sleep in the parking lot in winter, under the warmth of cars that have fumed all day.
That fine November day, it was business as usual — I was in my home-office, while the son was in virtual school. Suddenly, the mother rushed in. “Come quick, come quick!” she said, frantic. “There are two shalik pakhis down there... they are hurt. Some horrible person has tied their legs together, and they can’t fly.” Dropping all at hand, we ran to the balcony. On the ground were two Indian mynahs cawing, attacking each other and fluttering about. It was quite a show — other mynahs, equally garrulous, had formed a circle around them, jumping and flapping agitatedly. A few good minutes later, it emerged that the dramatis personae were actually engaged in a bitter quarrel, clutching at each other by the feet! “Pa-e pa lagiye jhogra korchhe... trying to trip each other up, quite literally,” observed the bemused mother.
Paromita Kar
Over the last painfully long year, I’ve found pleasure in many such goings-on. Not all can be said to be commonplace though, considering we live in a city. Looking out of the window, I once caught a fat cat teasing a snake, pawing its tail repeatedly. Perhaps miffed, the snake turned around swiftly, head raised. The cat backed off and the reptile glided over the wall and into the adjacent housing complex. This particular snake lives in the sewer drains around here and has been spotted at various times in various places. Water snakes, by the way, aren’t poisonous.
On a late evening walk the other day, I saw a pair of red eyes glowering at me from underneath a bush. Moving closer, I saw another pair. And yes, they had large ears too! Apparently, someone had let his pet rabbits into the lawn briefly. Very recently, a langur came and parked himself on the roof of the dhaba outside the main gate. He must have got separated from his gang, said the woman who mans the shop. A fine big fellow, he helped himself to all the bananas and oranges and biscuits passers-by offered. “He left after sundown,” said the shop owner the next day, adding devoutly, “He was Hanumanji himself.”
They’re pretty well-behaved usually, even the stray dogs around here. Except for the parliament, whose nightly sessions sometimes turn most undignified. Those hooting owls keep waking us up from sleep... but who is complaining?
