Birds of a feather

Whoever coined the phrase ‘bird-brained’ ought to have his head examined. It goes without saying that the person must be the male of the species Homo sapiens; women would never have dismissed the opposition so summarily, lulling us into a false sense of complacency as it were, about our superiority vis-à-vis the inhabitants of the sky. This last is written with considerable passion after having waged a futile war with the romantic pair of pigeons that came home to roost---only their idea of home and mine clashed horribly. My open and transparent admission of my feelings did not deter them one bit from cooing in tandem, all the while gazing unblinkingly at me with ruby-red eyes.

I always knew I was popular; friends are forever flocking to my home to enjoy evenings of merriment. But how magnetic a personality I am was, alas, never fully revealed till very recently. Every morning there were tell-tale signs of our nocturnal visitors who left their calling cards in the balcony. Initially, I airily referred to them as shy denizens of the neighbourhood who hesitate to strike a conversation in the bright light of day. It became less and less a laughing matter when the volume and frequency of their unannounced visits began to take a toll on the general upkeep of their favourite pecking place. Light laughter gave way to clenched jaw, till finally the lady of the house progressed from a frazzled bundle of nerves into a hard-eyed foe of the romancing pigeons.

My first strategy was the use of shock tactics. Without warning, I’d spring into the balcony, letting loose blood-curdling yells. But every such action had the same reaction. Emitting squawks of disapproval, my feathered unfriends would rise high and settle down in the near vicinity, to glare reproachfully at me from a respectful distance. Needless to add, they inevitably winged their way back the moment Enemy Number One was out of the picture. Scream I, II and III thus fell completely flat; in any case, the family was always more startled by these piercing screeches and the birds only warbled in appreciation of the shrill pitch of voice.

Stage Two of the war of nerves commenced. I now attempted to run them off my property by brandishing a pelmet rod above my head every time I declared war. And I did it silently, sans the warning battle cry. The result was the same to a‘t’. Except that I almost gave a nasty gash with the rear end of the aluminum rod to hubby dear and he had rather a lot to say on the matter in his habitually forceful tone. It made me quail while the undivided objects of my affection smirked from their perch on the window sill, to which they had fluttered away in deliberate slow motion.

By now the grey matter was fully occupied with the task of out-witting and out-maneuvering. One concerted attempt was made to get the maintenance guys to install a grill but they were unmoved. Finally I decided that warm winter afternoons and pleasant summer evenings must perforce be relegated to the past. Using the best innovative skills at my command, I got hold of a gaudy bedcover and blocked the entire balcony entrance with it, doing a veritable song and dance a la Anarkali in the bargain. Sadly, the audience didn't comprise an adoring Salim. Suffice to say, at the end of the exercise, I could empathise with her walled-in feelings.

The one thing I could now be smugly certain of, was victory; the birds were sure to die of embarrassment when spotted haunting a home which displayed such garish colours. But there’s no accounting for taste. My morale was shattered when I spotted a familiar figure trying to sidle in through the brick-high space between two horizontal slabs of the balcony wall. I have personally found the space neither an architectural marvel nor the answer to a housewife’s prayer, but obviously the contractor was a closet ornithologist and it was of great use to some living beings who I-do-not-wish-to-name-but- whose-identities-can-be-guessed.

Tiredly I told my chappie to block the space with bricks, so he stole down in the dead of night to do the needful. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I’d probably end up behind bars for appropriating public goods, but I was past caring by now. There was heavenly respite at last—and a halt to unwanted fly-by-night operations. I heaved a sigh of relief and since the thought didn’t seem to have struck anyone else, was lavish in praising myself for never giving up. The next morning I sailed into the balcony with a smile on the lips and cheer in the eye, to be greeted by a slumbering bird which flapped its wings in annoyance at this thoughtless intrusion. The selfsame creature then went unerringly to the edge of the violently pink bedcover and pulled it aside with its beak, finally exiting into the great blue yonder with a backward triumphant glance at me. In complete silence, I re-assessed my options and then put a brick on the edge of the bed-cover to fix it tight against the wall. I didn't bother to flash the Victory sign this time round.

Next thing I know is the patter of little feet on the false ceiling of my office chamber. I’m absolutely certain it’s the same dratted duo. After all, if they can carry Salman Khan’s love messages across hundreds of miles; why not fly a quarter of the distance to persecute the one who has hard-heartedly disrupted their lovey-dovey plans? I fancy I espied one of them yesterday, staring balefully at me from the office balcony, and am now waiting for the next close encounter with the featherweight champions. They will, undoubtedly, coo the last laugh!