I don’t stay indoors long. Especially in the spring. The golden-hued sunshine streaking past transparent curtains invites me outdoors. But the lawn is not my destination. I sit back against the compound wall to watch the red ants dart around on the sun-warmed cement path, or haul away a disproportionate prey. Butterflies are a familiar sight. Many a time I catch a couple in happy tango, waltzing their diaphanous white wings, or winging around the flowers in their magnificence. However, it is the birds which give the place its culture. Our colony being the pigeon haunt, the gentle fluffy birds dot the shiny tin roofs or hang from the window panes. Their soft presence is complemented by the shy shrill chirp of the tiny sparrows that materialise inconspicuously from under the eaves and fly overhead with a whir. The plaintive twitter of the starlings from high tension lines and the grouchy caw of the crows from compound walls fill in the silent interludes. And then comes the scary brown kite, spreading its large wings, hovering about and away in search of prey.

Time goes on. The day unveils its full spring charm when the sunlight is at its mellowest. The natural environment in all its visual and auditory distractions soaks into my consciousness. I love being just there, being one with creation, as an extension of nature. Only sounds echo. Then, retiring into the cool shade I again bask in the passage of time, an eternity of it in the small confines of the room, and doze off. That is, before the family members return and a grating knock on the door wakes me up.