My eyes scanned the area. Where was it? It would never be late. All of a sudden, it arrived flapping its wings from a distant neem tree. I wondered how it had spotted its favourite dish placed atop the compound wall from such a distance. Soon the music began: Caw, caaaw, cawww. It was different from the usual. Two hungry baby crows eagerly flew in. They took turns, their heads darting around, lest someone else grabbed their feast.
There was plenty of competition atop the compound wall too. Within minutes, the vociferous mynah, a regular in our garden landed on the wall. It let out a call for its mate and crept close to the food pile but the crow looked threatening. It waited patiently a distance away, flapping its wings and bobbing its head. It seemed like it knew there would be some morsels left over after the sloppy crows finished pecking at the food.
Sometimes, when food is delayed, it beats me as I try to figure out how they manage to arrive from nowhere whatever be the time. I think it must be their sixth sense telling them or perhaps they know that on this particular compound wall, food is a surety.
Watching through the window, I notice a new entrant to this tale, a red-eyed koel, its black body glistening in the sunlight, darting near the crow and grabbing a quick bite. I hope I would be fortunate enough to hear its melodious notes soon. The cacophony from the nearby Golden Shower tree meant that a flock of yellow-billed babblers had arrived eager for their share. A baby squirrel continuously squeaked from under the oleander tree, waiting to scamper over the gate to reach the delicious tidbits atop the wall.
My eyes darted around hoping that the neighbourhood cat and the wandering flock of monkeys would not drop in to spoil this picture perfect scene. A shrill screech rent the air telling me that the peacocks occasionally seen in the neighbourhood were somewhere nearby but the crows did not seem to bother. Of course, those inevitable visitors too arrived, a long line of ants inching their way upward.
The meal in question was a small pile of rice, with a scoop of dhal and a bit of ghee.
On festive occasions, when rice would be delayed, I remember our regular Mr. Crow calling out non-stop from the sun ledge opposite the kitchen. Mother would look up and mutter that she had not forgotten him and he would get a share of the sweet pongal too. I remember dad seated on the verandah informing Mr. Crow who was venting his grievance from the nearby sapota tree, his music breaching all time decibel levels, that his share was being readied.
Spotting the white pile of rice on the brass plate on mother’s hand from afar, it would come flying at great speed and land on the wall. It was a lustreless small brass plate but it seemed to me that it had written on it one hundred invisible tales. A poignant scene that lingers in my mind is the crow arriving to peck grains of rice off the grass which had fallen there during rituals held as part of dad’s last journey and mother tearfully watching the crow.
A nondescript compound wall in a small lane in a distant suburb of the city, away from the hustle and bustle of the noisy highway, is witness to many such tales. On occasion, I have spotted the noisy woodpecker perched on a branch, waiting to dart in and grab a bite, the curious coucal on the drumstick tree eyeing the pile and a long tailed pair of rufous treepie perched atop the citron tree, calling out with their unique band of loud music, perhaps saying there’s some ‘must try’ morsels on offer here.
I think it is time to put down our mobile phones for a while and witness such tiny tales staged in our vicinity. It would add to our knowledge of local birds and their behaviour patterns.
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Published - February 02, 2025 04:30 am IST
