Dusk
The tile cutting machine next door has finally, blessedly fallen silent. The only sounds now are of a broom sweeping the compound as our handy man cleans up before heading home. The faint tap tap of a basketball on the court next door – a solitary kid practicing his lay ups. My son’s voice from his room. He’ll be gone next week, heading back to college. I listen to the indistinct rumble of his words and miss him already. Four parrots and the sparrows gathered around the feeder, eating their last meal of the day. The squirrels haven’t been around lately. The feeder is full and the sparrows are enjoying having it to themselves. They flutter down to the water bath for a quick wash and ruffle of feathers before they head off to the badam tree for the night. One of the parrots, a young male, is impressing the ladies with cat calls. Literally. He has been imitating a cat meowing all day. I wonder where he picked that up from. There aren’t too many cats around our building. The females watch him curiously, heads cocked to the strange sounds.
The red hibiscus has two showy flowers. Their colour deepens in the grey light of the overcast sky. It hasn’t rained today – instead, the air has been heavy and oddly threatening. Are we heading into a stormy weekend? The breeze moves through the upper branches of the gulmohars and peepal but doesn’t make its way into my home.
Faintly now, I hear the kites calling plaintively as they soar high above the trees, watching for the last of the prey. Where are the squirrels? They are grown up and running wild without their mother. One of them would make a perfect evening meal for a kite or an owl…
The sky is brightening. The clouds must have thinned out over the setting sun. The sparrows, confused by the sudden light, head back for a final conference around the bougainvillea. The sun is setting fast. The temporary brightness gives up and the grey sky wins again. The sparrows chirp enquiringly, then fall silent.
In the dusty interiors of this country, this is the hour of the cow. The grazing animals slowly make their way back home, bells jingling, mooing and lowing, the dust kicked up by their hooves hanging in the air and obscuring the red sun. Here, in this coastal, monsoon wet city, it is the hour of the crow. He hops along the balcony, watching me with beady eyes. He lands on the water bath, takes a quick drink. One more dip of the head and then he too is gone.
Just as the final light fades and the sky turns purple, the squirrels arrive. I count them quickly. Yes, all four are there. They’ve been out on the town, not in some raptor’s stomach. Two run to the water, the others nose around for the fallen seeds in the pots.
I scowl at them for worrying me so. They flip their tails cheekily and take flying leaps into the darkness, taking the dusk with them.