Life along a dusty trail: Thuds, shrieks and the occasional peehooo

The red-breasted coppersmith barbet is a persistent bird. Not as persistent as the lapwing perhaps, but persistent nevertheless. This morning it sits on the lowermost branch of the Siris (Albizia lebbeck) tree and begins its hammering metronomic call, which goes on for the better part of a minute, till it manages to bring back its mate that was busy scouting possible nesting options in the nearby branches.

The shikra, perched on one of the higher branches of the tamarind tree watches this relentless spurt of energy with the studied indifference that characterises similar birds of prey. A rat’s sudden squeak arrests its attention. Shifting its weight on its rufous belly, the muscular bird moves with the sun. An iridescent sunbird perched on the nearest cluster of flowers, its curved beak poised over a petal, is slightly taken aback by this sudden swoop of motion.

The green and yellow parakeets are not to be bothered. Every morning a large company descends on the nearest neem tree and creates a pandemonium that no other member of the avian family could possibly match. The important business of foraging and feeding takes a savage turn as squabbling birds rent the morning calm with their conflict-ridden shrieks. And then all of a sudden, as if seized by panic—much like a housewife who’s realised that she’s left her wallet back at the greengrocer’s—the group of birds take flight, creating an animated, viridescent arrow in the early morning sky.

The Spring Sonata

The wind picks up the leaves, creating swirls and eddies in the late afternoon sun. Butterflies flit through the garlic shoots, reflecting for a moment to stay. The crow, insistent on the tamarind branch, surveys the world with beady, supercilious eyes. Down below, cavorting squirrels lose themselves in an amorous game of loving and letting.

It's almost over—the slow, blurry days of winter. You can feel it: the season preparing reluctantly for its farewell, occasionally bringing in cold winds from the north, more as afterthought than rebound. Warm, dry days trumpet their arrival—the wind prodigiously shaking gnarled branches, littering red soil with tattered russet leaves.

And then there is the sky—the vast dome that stretches far and wide dipping gently into the horizon. As the afternoon sun completes its daily run and slowly fades out, smearing the western edge of the mountains with pastel hues, the sky above begins to put out its show. Hours pass, darkness envelopes the land. But above, constellations appear, one by one—their shimmering brilliance quietly drawing us away from ourselves, nudging us to reflect on life's provenance and inevitability.

The village is in the midst of harvesting the season's first crop. Days begin with men, women and children bundling themselves into any available transport that will drop them off to the fields. The soundscape crackles with improvised film songs and exuberance of children that promise to break the monotony. All through the day tractors ply back and forth carrying the day's labour to weighing stands, where produce and price will change hands. For many, it appears, this has been a bountiful year. 

Life along a dusty trail: Of russet tones and cattle-bell gossip

Another place, another existence. Here one finds the horizon layered with brilliant ochre tones, as  the line of vision slowly settles on the undulated mountain ranges. Rows of low mudwalled houses bounded by beige stones from the nearby river, cattle occupying the primary thoroughfare with nary a care in the world, air heavy with the scent of soil and its produce—all create snapshots in sepia of this ancient landmass.

It is a life primarily of sharing—sharing one’s space, one’s stories. The village gathers along the dusty path that brings in news and gossip, and the daily requirements of everyday life. Buses from the nearest city come in a few times during the day, bearing more noise and even more dust. To the fatigued city-bred ear, early morning tinkle of cattle bells is the only welcome note of harmony in this seemingly dissonant rural outpost.

When does a place start to feel like home? Will the itinerant soul ever pause here? Feel settled? Only time will tell.