Water
The sparrows are sulking. The water bath has been moved away from the feeder. They are a bit neurotic, these little birds, and they haven’t had time to get used to the new location, just two or three pots further away. The Magpie Robin is back, I heard his single note calling and went out to see him. He visits the balcony only for the water and he’s shy when he first arrives from parts unknown. The water bath was too close to the living room door so he sat on his usual perch in the far corner, complaining. Well, now he’s happy and the sparrows are momentarily sulking. Such water divas. They’ll be fine tomorrow. The heat is like a wall and the birds need the water. To drink and bathe in. The red vented bulbuls and the very shy and rarely seen mynas also visit the water bath. The parrots, who love the feeder, won’t ever come down to the water. I don’t know if they’re shy (with the racket and drama they are capable of, unlikely) or they just don’t need to drink water. That too seems unnatural. Maybe they have another water source in the neighbourhood that they prefer. They certainly don’t enjoy my water basin the way the sparrows do.
Then, there is a crow. Many crows periodically visit, keeping one beady eye out, chuckling and cackling at me. This one, though, is bigger and black all over. He isn’t a raven, and he is a rascal. He brings his food to dunk into the water bath. He softens it up before eating it straight out of the water. The food he brings is the stuff of nightmare feasts. Rat heads and entrails, bony claws and slimy fish tails. Naturally, the other birds fastidiously avoid any water into which these smelly bits have been washed. Having to dump out the water three or four times a day burns at my soul so we are at war, the large crow and I. I tell him he can drink as much as he likes but he can’t use the water bath as his personal soup bowl. He cocks his head at me and flaps a few feet away, listening to my colourful language. But he’s smart. A couple of days of throwing out the disgusting stuff along with the water and he retreats, lesson temporarily learnt, honour intact. He’ll be back after a month or so to try his luck again.
The plants on my balcony are long resigned to the erratic water supply and an eccentric gardener. In the monsoon, the rain only wets one part of the balcony. Though the air is heavy with moisture, I still need to water a few pots every other day otherwise their leaves droop. The wind also brings salt laden water from the sea which burns the leaves. So a little sprinkling of fresh water revives the plants. Now that the heat is back, the seasons are changing as the sun moves in the sky. The same plants that wilted in the rains now look fresh even without watering for a couple of days. The rest need a daily drink or it’s their turn to droop. It’s a daily Russian roulette game on my balcony. Will she remember who gets the water today? Will she check if the soil is too moist? Or will she spray with gay abandon? My plants survive in spite of my fickle care.
Water. Too little, too much. Absent when we need it the most. Or destroying everything in its way to the sea. You only need to spend a few minutes on my balcony to confirm its importance to all life. A freshly scrubbed and filled basin alerts the sparrows who gather around. First, they inspect the offering from a perch on the grill. Then, one or two flutter down, seemingly disinterested in the gleaming liquid. A couple of chirps to reassure each other, then a quick dip of the head to sip. The water’s great, you guys!!Come on in!! The message is magically transmitted to the flock. One or two dive straight in for their ablutions. Wing feathers fluffed, much waggling of the bottom, and the droplets fly far enough to wet my foot. As they flutter away, sleek feathers shining, another two or three take their place. The water bath becomes the social hot spot for the next few minutes. The feeder is abandoned, all their energies concentrated on these two inches of clean, cool life.