Bird brains

A pair of pigeons have been scouting my balcony for a place to make nest for the past two weeks . To discourage them , I planted petunias in my pots , and placed them directly in the path to their dreams of domestic bliss . 

I had rolled in pots inside wrought iron stands , like mounted cannons , ready for war . 

 But they out witted me . 

One night I heard lot of flurry of wings and feathers . I knew they were conducting nocturnal recon and attack stratagems . 

Next morning I found my beloved two toned petunia blossoms licking the floor , as their base had been flattened by avian diligence , splaying the green shoots , now wilted, and the purple and white fine petals , grazed the floor , pitifully . 

I removed the said pot .

The wounded warrior was replaced by a sturdy rose plant  , with little or no girth . The pot and the plant were both slim, like a ballistic missile  . The stem was sturdy , almost wooden , Trojan Horse fashion . The plant was armoured with thorns .

Hah .Beat this , birdbrains !! I exclaimed , in my mind , like a triumphant mammal  .

Next morning a flimsy , but sturdy bed of twigs emerged , balancing itself on two pots . One rose plant , two the fallen warrior , petunia . 

The twigs had been sourced from the dried branches of rose , de thorned , possibly by sharp beaks . The nest was taking shape , despite my best efforts . 

The maid refused to throw the nest and thereby " destroy someone's home " , an age old superstition in Hinduism ." Lest trouble befalls the thrower's home "

So the nest stayed . Precarious , and porous , and fragile . 

Next day  , two tiny eggs appeared .  Tiny , white , fragile hand  grenades . Not in the nest , but on the pristine , tiled , swept and mopped floor . The tiny circle of twigs had given away , under the weight of the next generation , and had parted . 

Loopholes . 

We both looked at it warily. 

My maid picked up the eggs, gingerly , and placed them gently back on the ressurected twig bed .

They promptly  fell through again , this time , with a tiny crack and splat .

The yolks run pitifully out .

The pigeon parents watched from the sunshade , red eyes locked onto the human balcony , cocking their heads , in disbelief and disappointment . 

They thought to themselves " Another one bites the dust, ehh, another one gone. " 

Together they flew away , never to appear again . At least , for now , they had surrendered . 

My maid , playing the Sherlock Holmes , rationally concluded that the eggs must have been laid on the floor itself . The twig nest having been demolished by a rival probably . 

In the end , in this war of wits , our birds had probably been betrayed by friendly fire . 

Billowing Curtains

 Billowing curtains have quite a story to tell. 

Billowing curtains  , as  my scaredy self learnt today evening , means simply , that I have left my  door open , while watering the plants outside . That the neighbour's cat has quietly slunk in through  the main door , and is busy sniffing my bedsheets in your bedroom , while my back was turned . It was a mild progression from the last time when she was found perched on my bed , licking her undersides . That , however , didn't imply that she remembers my hastily thrown bata chappal from the last time .

Billowing curtains throws me and unwary people like me , constantly , into hot water . 

I was , at a certain chaotic period of my life , constantly in and out of the house. Told a guest's wife on phone that no , he wasn't in yet . I was standing in the balcony , talking to her , happened to glance in the direction of the guest room . The curtains were , you guessed it , billowing . So , the ceiling fan had been switched on , (it was summer ) and  he was in . I told the caller so much and had to spend next half hour explaining and "apologising " for "lying " to her . She , most definitely , smelt a rat . Still does . Well , can't blame her . I would have too , in similar circumstances . The culprit , in my opinion , were the blissfully , gloriously , billowing curtains . 

On another occasion, I was video calling an elder , who saw my curtains billowing in carefree abandon of the summer breeze tempered with cool blasts from the AC . Commented on how shabby and faded and thin they looked . So , I was "gifted " a pair that has double layered protection against the sun , and has an outer layer resembling a tarp that had  been laid over a freshly cemented pathway , with workers stomping down it . Grey  ash , brown , thick and with criss cross pattern on them . They are called "Total blackout " curtains , and they do anything but billow . They now stand stolidly grey , in neat folds , staring down at me like nuns from my high school . 

In hospitals , it is a given that the wards should have cheerful cotton curtains . Cheerful , so as to cheer the inmates , who are in pain , obviously ; and cotton because of its breathable quality . So much other life saving and ailment relieving activities go on in the wards that little or no attention is paid to these linen fragments flapping pathetically , watching the ebb and flow of life from top of the window edges . 

Once upon a time , a VIP's better half fell sick . It was a minor ailment . Possibly food poisoning  at one of those gatherings , which the services are famous for . Well , a normal individual would have taken an antacid , laid in the bed , and would have gotten up ,next morning , fresh as a daisy . 

Not for our protagonist here . She had to be admitted into the hospital and all the big wigs ,came to see her , read her case sheet , fussed around  , and declared her gravely ill . Everyone took turns to take care of the lady , to their best possible ability , and servile subordinates slipped in and out of the room , bearing trays of succour . Looking grave and unctuous . 

The lady , during a gap  in her incredible and ceaseless care , took a breather and looked up . Possibly heavenwards . 

Somewhere in between the pristinely painted white clinical ceilings and the glory of a manicured garden, outside, lay a vast expanse of a fabric . A fabric that was possibly , as old as the hospital . The large maroon roses had turned an evil shade of brown and the fabric , almost threadbare , let in sunlight from in between its fibres . The thin , almost translucent cloth moved , and dust motes danced gleefully in the stream of a sunbeam cast upon crinkly white , new bedsheets on the bed . Someone had hastily pulled the curtain , that was so unused to being pulled , that it had practically disintegrated . One sunbeam danced on the patient's hastily moved legs and another smote her directly in the left eye , blinding her for an instant . A scream followed a madly ringing bedside bell , and an army of nursing staff raced to address whatever emergency lay unfolding in the VIP Room . 

Needless to say , the offending curtains were removed , trashed , replaced pronto , by grey and brown "total blackout " double layered curtains, that added to the grim efficiency of the hospital. They also blocked any cheerful view of the garden outside  . They didn't billow anymore .