#5 a house for pigeons
some ramblings rambled
It’s been 4o(ish) days since a pigeon landed in my very busy, very full of plants balcony and decided that it’s the perfect place to raise a child.
Out of two eggs, only one hatched. And so in the last 20 days, I witnessed a yellow and grey hairy blob transform into an ‘almost there’ pigeon. I say almost, because while he (yes) now has the grey and black feathers that make for a signature pigeon look, if you notice very carefully, you can spot the remnants of some yellow hair on top of his head. That, and the fact that he refuses to come down from the planter which is his home and before him, was home to a now crushed creeper.
Each day, the pigeon’s mother visits a couple of times, imparting some flying lessons. It’s taught me a lot of things. Like pigeons teach their children to fly by pushing them towards the edge, yanking at their wings in the process. Also baby pigeons are terrrrified of flying/falling, or maybe just this one.
For a major part of the day now, my room is home to his yelping, signaling to his mother that he doesn’t want to learn. It was concerning at first, I’d even feel bad for the poor baby shrieking his lungs out. But I’ve slowly found myself taking the mother’s side, rolling my eyes at his tantrums like an elder sibling who knows he’s just being dramatic. No longer my personal way of passing a mundane day, pigeon-watching has now become a family affair.
We check on his progress a couple of times in the day. Sometimes a quiet audience, other times, desperate paparrazi taking pictures and videos from all angles. From trying to stop the parent pigeon from making a nest in our beautiful plant (RIP), to now talking about her child’s achievements, it’s been an interesting transition. Our conversations with relatives and friends also occasionally feature the tiny bird. Turns out, many of the people I know have had pigeon encounters of their own. My aunt, whose home has been the unwilling accomodation of many-a-pigeons back in the day, tells me the mother will soon propel the child up on herself and fly him around. Sounds ridiculous, utterly fake, and I cannot wait to witness it live.
Mom draws parallel between the pigeon flying and her granddaughter learning how to walk. Two minutes later, you can hear her scheming to shoo the birds away once the baby has learned how to fly. The beautiful, wooden aesthetics of our balcony are now full of shit, quite literally. But our househelp, too, has made her peace with the baby and clearly, he’s made peace with her too. From flapping away to a corner every time she would clean around him, to now being completely indifferent to her presence, I sense some intimacy between the two.
In a couple of days, when he’s perfected his flying, I suspect he will be off. The balcony will be clean again, our freedom to roam around, restored. My room will be quiet. We’ll replace the soil and grow a new plant in the pot (a trivia piece I’ve collected is this - if you don’t replace the soil, another pigeon will soon come and lay eggs in the same spot). I will go back to gazing outside in boredom, seeing only empty, sad balconies that their owners have seemingly stopped visiting.
Occasionally, I will see a pigeon fly down and wonder if it’s the same one paying us a visit. Mostly though, I would hope it doesn’t shit in my balcony.
Ironically, the song I want to share today is called Spotless. Y’know, unlike my balcony right now.
August makes me feel like the main character driving through the rains, this song’s been the perfect soundtrack.