The glass hopper

Why do you stand on that shiny door of glass?

Come join us in this patch of cool green grass

Said friends of the ‘hopper who foolishly stood

Open, unguarded as ‘hoppers never should



Come, be among us, among your own kind

Hopping and hiding, are you out of your mind?

Who ever saw a hopper standing out in the sun

On a glass door, mind you, in view of everyone



From there you’re visible as food from all sides

Known enemies will eat you as an aside

Don’t be victim to anonymous claws

A flash will change you from an ‘is’ to ‘was’



The glass hopper stood its ground resolute

It spoke aloud from where it shouldn’t have stood

“Obviously, you things haven’t read the book

‘Alternate Lifestyles – A Critical Look’



The author, a ‘hopper, advises on style

In keeping with looking and feeling fine

It talks about fashion and organized space

And the safety and joy of swinging in space



I’ve spent time in places that smell amiss

And attract strange creatures and things that hiss

And ants with objectionable burial rites

And appear from nowhere to nibble your sides



So, erudite and apart the ‘hopper preened

On a shining glass standing tall in the green

Come, I invite you all to my new find

Then we’ll know who’s really out of their mind


His friends shrugged, slowly giving vent

How could they help one so intent

On being seen by evil bird or rodent

They sighed ‘some book’, as they went



A crow on a nearby branch did caw

The glass hopper pretended to ignore

Though he’d gone quite cold with fright

He appeared heroic in the glinting sunlight



But the crow looked at him and grimaced

Green things on glass were not to his taste

Besides the glass panes of nowadays

Slide open and shut in unexpected ways



A big fat rat looked up from the floor

It wasn’t going anywhere near that door

It smarted at how it made the tail sore

As it scuttled past just the day before


The ‘hopper was peeved by the facial display

Relief gave way as deep Insult took sway

The 'hopper fell prey to this quagmire of feelings
But sudden changes had started occurring




His platform, his pedestal, the glass door shook

And before you could shout ‘ohmyGod! Look’

The door smoothly slid apart with the hopper in its nook

The poor ‘hopper was jammed like a page in a book



Wedged between door and jamb

As the door slid shut instead of banged

It lay there in a troublesome mess

Causing the cleaner much distress



The other ‘hoppers looked on in surprise

Taken aback by the untimely demise

They checked the referred book – an original edition

Doors only swung shut when that book was written



They scoured later editions on the topic to find

That the anon author had in fact been so kind

As to strongly suggest that hoppers avoid

Doors that instead of swinging shut, slide



So, the intrepid hopper now late

Had chanced upon this unfortunate fate

By reading a book of style fact, not fiction

Hardbound, shining but of previous edition

Lost and Found

Well, to return to the story of the 8 puppies of our building.

Despite my efforts to disapprove of the pups and disregard their presence, it was impossible not to fall in love with them. Sunny warm mornings would find the garden filled with pups tumbling over each other, sniffing the ground for nothing in particular, growling and snapping at their tails and checking the shoes of passers-by. The mother dog often played with the pups while father dog, well, he was too busy doing better things like chewing paper and tipping bags of garbage on the pathway.
The hot afternoon sun drove the pups under the bushes but rest evaded them. Young children took turns shaking the pups awake and patting them to sleep again. School bags lay strewn in the center of the park as the kids squabbled about rights of puppy care and shaking the sleeping puppy awake.

A series of complaints had started rumbling in the building – complaint 1: too many dogs, complaint 2: dogs are too noisy at night, complaint 3: dogs are messing about too much. A parallel series of complaints about people had started up among the dogs - complaint 1: too many people, complaint 2: people are too noisy all the time, complaint 3: people are messing about too much.

People stood in splintered groups and discussed ways to get rid of the dogs. The dogs stood in large congregations and growled their irritation about bipeds. We should get rid of them, only the tame ones should be allowed on the streets, said the first set. We should get rid of them, only the ones who bring food for us should be allowed on the streets, said the second set.

One fine morning the garden was empty – that’s it, empty. No puppy growls, no tumbling fights, no errant tails, no shoe checking – mummy and daddy dog sat quietly. Every once in a while the mother sniffed the ground and sat back while dad appeared quite nonchalant. I sent my almost-in-tears son to do some fact-finding and research.

Well, the complaints had reached the ears of the who’s who among the BMC and they sent the animal van (the revised version of the dog pound) to catch the grown-up animals. Daddy Dog (who earned the moniker James Bond after that), went deep into hiding. Mummy Dog was nowhere to be found. So-o-o-, what to do now with all those expert dog-catchers and their canine seeking missiles (read: sticks).

Not people who like to leave a job half-done, they picked up the eight puppies and silenced the complaining children with the assurance that they would bring the pups back. Puppies as you must know are VERY difficult to catch, one must bend down to the ground, wiggle a string and it will waddle over to investigate and get picked up. This was probably why one must be full of respect for the hard word and untiring effort of the dog squad.

Now what does the van do with a bunch of squealing pups? Well, they drop them off on entirely new ground, alien territory, so to speak, in the sincere hope that the existing canine mafia will wag its tail at the newcomer and welcome it into the group and all will be well. And that was what must have happened.

The next few days were tense some very troubled young souls in the garden. Stories of dog sightings did thr rounds but like all gossip, the stories died out in the face of cricket and hide and seek.

One school girl saw the pup Blackie and got off her school bus on the spot and quickly emptied her school bag. She walked from there, past the building security with a suspiciously moving bag and all books in hand. Once she reached the garden, she freed Blackie who leapt into the garden with visible relief. Mummy and Daddy Dog appeared from nowhere, (maybe the guy did care beneath that tough exterior) and welcomed their progeny back.

Another kid, let’s call him Adnan, saw Sweety in a horribly thin and hungry state near a temple. Sweety recognized him first and wrapped its forepaws around the kid in a silent, desperate plea to be rescued. It took a kind auto rickshaw driver, latent doggie talent to stay quiet at the entrance of the building to avoid being seen by the security and some kindness to return the pup back to its big garden home. Mummy and Daddy dog were overjoyed.

Sweety later turned out to be one of the girl dogs who turned out to be a boy. Blackie, just the opposite. 

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.