A rainy day – the sort of day that makes kids burst into a jig, and poets into a poetic tizzy. Louder, louder grows the rumbling, and the frogs gradually lose their croaks. The emergent sun, a pink ball of muted fire, probably intimidated by this cloudy bellicosity, hides behind a strip of lavender-tinted cloud.
Morning Meanderings is a popular musings column by Dr Santosh Bakaya. Enjoy her jottings with a hot cup of coffee 🙂
As I step out of my house with sleep laden eyes, I come face to face with the rain-drenched ground; there are ponds everywhere. My eyes immediately fall on a baby lapwing gingerly heading towards a small pond. Up on a telephone wire sits a pigeon, its yodels reined in. The sky is a classroom of rowdy kids, indulging in verbal dueling. Frogs croak, trying to prove their one-upmanship over the raucous clouds.
“I can bellow louder,” says one ominous clump of grey.
“I can shout down all of you,” says a belligerent looking one pushing his way into the centre of the cloudy conclave.
Louder, louder grows the rumbling, and the frogs gradually lose their croaks.
The emergent sun, a pink ball of muted fire, probably intimidated by this cloudy bellicosity, hides behind a strip of lavender-tinted cloud.
A sinewy man, with stiff bristly hair, and a rough-hewn appearance sitting on the low wall in front of the newly constructed concrete structure, is involved in a heated argument with a burly, mustachioed man, his moustache twitching angrily.
An early bird, with a worm in its beak, takes an ascending flight from the ground, and with the booty safely tucked in its beak, perches itself next to the silent pigeon, looking around with the triumphant air of a king who has just annexed some important territory.
“Good morning, madam.” It is the maid Kanchan heading towards me with a big smile on her face.
“How come you are early today?”
“Did not send the kids to school.”
“They have only one set of uniforms, and they got wet in the rain.”
“Oh! Get another set of uniforms for them. Take some money from me.”
“Yes, madam,” she says with a grateful smile.
“You know madam, rain and hail wreaks havoc on the birds. Last year there was a hailstorm in our village and many parakeets were found dead under the huge Peepal tree in front of our house. You have seen the tree, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I said absently, looking at the baby lapwing hopping around, its eyes frantically darting here and there. It suddenly starts drizzling and the tiny one, scurries for cover, but in its helter-skelter haste, almost slips on the ground, sheepishly gets up and vanishes behind a Peepul tree. Probably its mother is there.
But no, it is an egret that sails out from behind the clump, in all its elegant majesty, and on dainty feet crosses the road to the other side, where there is another egret. Probably its mate.
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