Bird on a wire

(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera.)

Life According to Birds

Chapter 28: The Reunion by The Common Myna









(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera.)

Hearts and thoughts they fade away

(Photograph by Anvita Lakhera.)
I swear I recognize your breath
Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising
Me, you wouldn't recall for I'm not my former...
(Pearl Jam)

No one knows I'm gone

(All Photographs by Anvita Lakhera.)

Chintu

(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera.)

He is called Chintu. Ever since Cheeku’s sudden disappearance leaving behind only whispered rumours of death by accident, or was it illness, Chintu has been the lord of this dusty by lane in Gurgaon. He was named Chintu as an after thought by a nine year old on being asked, “Whose dog is this? What is his name?” And Chintu he has been for the past 3 years of his life.

Some dub him handsome, especially for the quiet, dignified manner in which he bears the scars of his eventful life – the missing tip of the right ear, the slight limp in the left fore foot. Others call him crazy and even at times snobbish for his gastronomical idiosyncrasies. Food that has been soaked in milk or smeared with yogurt and butter is the only kind he deems fit for consumption. He may reluctantly sniff at the stale bread but he’d much rather starve than put ‘that’ in his mouth.

Other than that he exhibits all the traits that have become part of the common history shared by humans and dogs. Yes, there are those stories about chasing pigs and robbers too but most of the time, if truth were told, he’d rather be chasing flies.

Home

You are home. You wake up with the sun in your eyes and the chirp of sparrows as they squabble over the bird feeder. Another year has gone by. Another candle has been added to the Birthday cake. But you are at home.

That was last year. Today the day hasn’t walked in from some foreign film. The cars parked on the road outside are as real as the dust laden leaves on the potted plant at the kitchen window. There are no deceptions except those conjured by over-active imaginations.

There are no epochal moments to be celebrated. Nothing exceptional to be wished for. For what more do you need when you are home? This is where you hang your head*. This is where it all comes together in peace. You open the window and the sparrow sitting on the ledge looks you straight in the eye. There is no escaping the facts. For this is home.

(*'Home is where you hang your head', attributed to Groucho Marx.)

Slip, slidin' away

(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera.)