Sound – 2
Forever building, never done. This city that never sleeps also never rests. Drilling, hammering, cutting – these are the sounds our babies are lulled to sleep by, that our dying hear in their last dreams.
We snatch at moments of silence. A cool morning brings the birds out into the sunlight. It is that magic hour – in Ranthambhore, the mist is rising over the lake, muffling the abandoned cries of a peacock; in Kanha, the barking deer call a warning as the tigress stretches and yawns. Here in the city, the construction workers next door are sleeping in late and the bird calls are wonderful to hear in the quiet. The golden orioles with their liquid notes are courting in the upper branches of the gulmohar. The yellow and black feathers flash from branch to air. They settle for a brief moment and a kingfisher, all snowy breast and sharp beak, lands next to them in a blue blur. Closer to the balcony, the sharp cries of the sunbirds welcome the hibiscus unfurling to the sun. Their metallic green and purple feathers shimmer as they hover, sipping from the flowers. The koels are quiet this morning and the parakeets too. The green fruit of the badam brings the Alexandrine parakeets flocking, the sound of their clicking beaks a pleasant rhythm as they carelessly feed on the bounty – one peck here, then to the next, dropping fruit as they go…the concrete that receives the fallen fruit cannot mulch it or allow it to grow into a sapling. It lies there, forgotten and rotting. The dry cold has rendered the koels silent for once. They need humidity and moisture for their fevered entreaties to ring out. This morning, with its haze and crackling air, is too dessicated for the koels to bother.
The golden orioles call again, this time an Oriental Magpie Robin answers. His repertoire is growing daily. I may be treated to a private concert soon. The squirrel baby that has recently discovered the bird feeder chirrups for his mom. A female koel calls now, in exasperation. The crows disturb the spotted koels constantly, divebombing them and chasing them from one hidden perch to the next. Then it occurs that the culprit is too glossy black – it is a male Asian koel, red eyed and bossy, that is probably defending its territory and harem. The female settles on another branch, stolid and smooth in the face of the bully. She turns her back on him and gazes into the far distance. I take my cue from her and forget about the call that never comes.
The sounds of the construction site gradually increase in volume. The calls of the birds are drowned out by the hoarse voices of the workers and the rumble of the trucks. The beat of the city takes over the morning. On my balcony though, the rose ringed parakeets have arrived, cackling and cooing, super excited to see a refilled feeder. The roses are blooming, the Mary Palmer bougainvillea is blushing all shades of pink, the Golden Lantern is finally favouring us with its beautiful flowers and the deep red hibiscus is a beacon calling the sunbirds back.
Far away, the coppersmith barbet has set up shop and sends its metronomic call ringing over the trees. It is to the rhythm of rusty cranes clanking and the coppersmith’s tinny notes that the day unfolds.