Building dog

Our building has been adopted by a group of stray dogs. They are mild and well-mannered so long as we don't go about making undue demands about rent.

One is a young bitch who is openly polyandrous which would be scandalous in any other society, but we are an open and tolerant people. The other is a white long-legged dog, with a long gentle face. He looks philosophical and kind, though he goes by the misnomer Tiger. Once in a way, he surprises himself by letting out a startling loud bark which scares him more than the children around. The bitch and the philosopher are often seen in deep conversation about the state of the world and the difficulty in getting good food these days.

There’s a mysterious black dog who sends Tiger into hiding with a look. He makes an appearance at auspicious times and goes off to newer pastures.

Last year, the bitch revealed her sense of justice and fair play by giving birth to one black and one white pup. The building kids delved deep into their imagination and thought up suitable non-controversial names - Blackie and Whitie.

They insisted on taking care of the two pups since the mother was often away at work. With great luck and good fortune, the pups survived their ministrations and turned out tail-wagging healthy.

One day, the puppies disappeared. Rumours abounded, tempers ran high. The children decided that a much-hated pot-bellied watchman. They were sure he had thrown the pups from a height and let them die.

The youngest among them insisted he had poisoned them because they messed the parking lot for which the watchman got blamed. To which some kids insisted that the watchman couldn’t have been blamed for the ablutionary habits of the dogs. Surely, there’s a difference between human waste and dog waste?

The watchman turned out to be a gentler soul than the children portrayed. He had waited for the pups to grow independent and then transferred them to a nearby jogger’s park so that they could complete their research on shoes. This information came up when one of the children insisted that they talk to the watchman.

This year, again, there's much hue and cry in the building garden. Two more pups have been born. Food is being pilfered from homes to feed the poor mother who has grown so thin. Milk is disappearing from vessels as are some plastic cups. The mother is being nursed back to good health so that she can go off to look for food while the pups are cared for by the young caretakers.

This year, though, the philosopher has fallen out of favour. Both pups are black.

The children congregated right next to the tired mother and after much raucous consensus, agreed on the names - Blackie 1 and Blackie 2.

Calf and crow

We were not inching along the traffic on Powai link road, as usual, we were rock steady.

I was silently looking out to see any more animal plays being enacted to a blind, worrying crowd. Notice the word silent. When I asked my husband to look yonder at that crow somersaulting in mid-flight, he was moved to wonder whether I had sinister designs on his civilian freedom.

Maybe the yonder had an exclamatory tone to it. Maybe it distracted him from the interesting view of the back of the bus. I sat silently stricken while he growled out yet one reason why I should NEVER drive a car.

After a while, he had cooled down and I was silent, I looked out just in time to see a calf and crow making a pact.

Standing silently, at the corner where road meets dust, they stood in silent communion.

The calf eyed the crow for a moment, bent its head close to the crow and gave it a playful shove. The crow was eyeing the traffic as it stood there, unmoving. It was quite unprepared for the calf's antic. It steadied itself for a moment and looked around just to be sure that no one had seen this embarrassment.

The calf liked this sort of play and decided it was time for round 2. This time though, the crow was ready for it. It hopped away just in time. The calf, thinking this was part of the play, kept its head ready to deposit another shove. The crow decided to nip things in the bud without further ado. It moved close to that large baby head and gave it a slight peck near its eye.

The calf withdrew its head. It looked at the crow with a calculating look as it weighed its options.

It was time to see if the crow meant business. It slowly lowered its head, keeping a respectable distance from the bird and feinted. The crow’s reflexes were amazing. Eyes fixed on the traffic, it hopped away , just in time to avoid contact.

The calf raised its head, now viewing the crow with new eyes. A compromise was reached.

Now the traffic started mock inching its way ahead. Mock inching is the state when sounds of traffic reverberate all around but the surroundings that the passenger views remain unchanged.

When I last checked the situation, the calf was trying to salvage its hurt pride with small jabbing threats to the enemy, who had managed to conjure up an air of unconcern about himself.

Meanwhile, the ponderous, cud-chewing elders of the calf's joint family continued their morning discussion - in the middle of the traffic.

Stupid pigeons?

I’ve always viewed pigeons as dirty, noisy, careless birds that clearly lack merit. Their scramble of bramble nests can be easily seen in corners of pipes or precariously perched on ledges. Considering the din that the pigeons make from the moment of their birth, it’s hardly a wonder that they are easily found by predatory birds and animals. It’s a common sight to see their broken eggshells lying scattered on the ground.

Pigeons are just too scatter-brained to take care of their babies. Or so I thought. However, regular hobnobbing with them has forced me to concede - they have some merit.

The windowsill of our house was given on rent to a family of pigeons. They would alternate between waddling around and messing the sill. They hated water. Every time the windowsill was cleaned out, they would fly off to a nearby tree and wait until the sill was habitable again.

One end of the windowsill was hidden from the outside world, by means of a wall. There, safely ensconced, lay two eggs. The parents took turns keeping the eggs warm, until the yellowish-black chicks hatched. There was much joyous clamour and feather flying in the pigeon household as the parents planned their childcare strategy and the children demanded attention.

We had a huge tree a little away from our window. Crow visitors would often come to sing their anthem at food intervals. When the chicks were tiny, one parent would stay home while the other went out for food. One day, an old crow (who was part of the lunch-time anthem troupe) alighted on the sill to take a benign look at the newcomers. Not unlike a senile uncle who has come to bless a newborn. With an air of quiet interest, crow extended its neck and took a kind, avuncular look inside.

The pigeon family, normally noisy, became cacophonous. Both parents were home. They came out of their home and stood on the sill. The crow waited uncertainly, hoping to be welcomed.The pigeons would have none f it. They proceeded to peck the crow until it flew to the tree. This benign crow had an expressive countenance; he was clearly saddened by this treatment. He waited, in the faint hope that the parents would change their minds. But the parents were firm in their resolve. While one pigeon waited on the sill, the other flew to the tree and wrestled the crow off its perch. By all accounts, I would have expected the crow, with its stronger beak to fend off this pigeon fellow. But this was an angry pigeon parent; the crow knew it couldn’t fight.

My son was two at this time and loved to watch the crows come and eat the fresh food we kept on the windowsill. Now that the pigeons treated our windows as their territory, they watched suspiciously as my hand placed rice within view of the crows. The crows would uncertainly hop on to the windowsill and hop off at the sight of the unwelcoming reception party.

At days’ end, my culinary efforts were left untouched by the crows. Pigeons scorn the rice-eating habit. In the evenings, dried rice could be seen walking off the sill, escorted by a troop of ants.

So much for poor parenting.