A New Day

The morning turns best by default when you wake up after eight hours of dreamless sleep. Even a semi-cloudy musty day appears as bright as it is on a full sunny morning. The flowers give you a better smile than you remember. Aren’t they the same flowers? But the eyes looking at their smiles are fresher today.

A butterfly, a common mormon to be precise, is resting on a sadabahar leaf. It’s a beautiful black butterfly with whitish spots running across the hindwings. Its wings are spread, not drawn taut together in an instinctive mode to fly away at the slightest danger. A resting butterfly with spread out wings is a great treat to the eyes. You get a chance to observe its colours and patterns more closely. While flying, it’s a teasing flirtatious speck of colours that titillates the heart but deprives the eyes of the beautiful patterns.

A small grass yellow eurema hecabe, drunk with youth, is all impatience and eagerness as it makes the most of its short life through airy dives and nectar sips. Probably, the resting common mormon is middle-aged like me and knows the importance of rest and repose after flying high.

The Indian silverbill, a cute little pale white bird, has redecorated the globular nest of the scaled munia, the previous occupier of the nest, and is happy with the proceedings so far. The monkeys have rarely allowed a successful hatching of these cute little birds so far. They are too restless for other’s peace. They just snatch away the nest. But all is well at least today and that’s more important. Tomorrow may have bright sunshine or a storm, that’s time’s problem.

A pair of angry tailorbirds darts in and sits on both sides of the refurbished silverbill house. They are angry over something and have a lot of complaints. They are too loud for their tiny size. The silverbill just trills feebly like the jingling anklet on the ankle of a little girl. Maybe it’s a bully pair of tailorbirds who are still angry because their well-hidden leafy nest was spotted by the monkey and torn away, throwing away the chicks. As I ran to turn its bum redder for the crime, I could see one chick in its hands. If it’s a rascal monkey, like they are without an exception, it will have its breakfast. If it’s a kind monkey—which is the most improbable thing on earth—it may raise the chick and create history like the wolves did in rearing Maugli, the jungle boy.

Well, the angry tailorbirds are too much for the meekly trilling silverbill. The bitter anguish and pain of losing one’s home and kids is understandable. Maybe they find the silverbill docile enough to vent out their anger.

This world is but full of bigger bullies. The tailorbirds’ pinching shrills attract a few babblers. There they arrive on the scene to settle the scores. Can anyone match a babbler’s boisterous anger? Not at all! They can give even the most querulous, cantankerous peasant woman in the neighbourhood a well-heeled run for her money.

The tailorbirds are outshouted immediately and they leave the field. The silverbill sneaks into its nest. The babblers sing the song of their victory for a few more moments, challenging any more mai-ka-lal to take panga with them before flying to arbitrate in some other quarrel among the lesser bullies on some other tree.

And thus picks up another fresh day on its slow march to speed up later to go slumberous again at the dusk.