Birds of India

Outside my office window is a fire escape (cum-aviary, and I do apologize for the image -- though it's accurate) that has never been cleaned. At least I think so, but it's hard to tell, because my window is covered by a rusted metal grate. Not the sort of safety grate that can be unlocked, of course, but a hulking piece of metal that's permanently bolted an inch from the glass, putting an impasto of bird crap and other brown streaks between me and the world.

The crows like it well enough, and there're several huge, scruffy, diseased-looking black-and-gray individuals who strut up and down the sill all day and are fascinated by the grate -- to them, I must look like a particularly dangerous animal in a well-constructed cage -- and who occasionally plunge their head and neck through the holes and rap on the glass, startling the hell out of me. They especially enjoy that, I think.

My gray cityscape view has been intensified lately by a monsoon that refuses to quit, blanketing the city in a very untropical and, frankly, London-like damp dreariness.

This morning, there were no crows on the staircase rail. There was, instead, a single wild green parrot. I love these birds, with their bold chartreuse bodies and graceful long tailfeathers, but they're incredibly shy (I think I remember reading that in Mumbai they're descended from escaped pets -- and they certainly act as though they're still being pursued by jilted owners), and they're usually only seen in flight, in the distance. I stood stock-still and watched this one crane its neck around and check out my office. Then it was joined by a small, sleek companion. Then another came, and another, until there were five bright-green perfect birds visible through my crusted window, on the gray-and-dirt staircase, under a dense and dismal sky.

They looked like they were a long way from Brazil, and they also looked like they knew it. They flew in a tight little sphere around each other; the rustling and the beating of jungle-colored wings mesmerizing against the backdrop of discolored concrete. Then they abruptly scattered.

That's all. No great moral here. Mumbai seems like a city of bright colors at first -- and only at first -- until the sari stains become more prominent than the saris, and the inescapable shades of crumble and rot become oppressive. The birds provided a moment of beauty this morning, but it was also the kind of moment that makes one realize just how rare, in this city, beauty is.