Summer has almost set in and yet the pigeons cannot stop nesting in almost every available inch of our building. The paucity of space is so great that one of them laid an egg on the top of our air conditioner box in the balcony. There was no twigs or cotton or leaves or anything else that constitutes a nest. Just the egg, precariously balanced on the flat surface of the box. Ma had put a cloth to cover the box from dust and that was all the egg had for a nest. Looked funny, almost as tiny as a naphthalene ball, sitting all by itself, looking almost alive. The mother would come once in a while to incubate it but if you observed carefully, you would see it sitting on the overhead wire just outside keeping constant vigil. It is rather warm but my parents, on being told by me, have decided not to switch on the a.c for the sake of the little one. I had a soft corner for it right from the beginning, wondering how small, a creature which hatched from a naphthalene ball would be. Last night I was given this great idea of building a nest around it. I had not thought about it earlier but claimed that I did. Either way, I forgot about the nest this morning.
The guilt really hit me when Ma told me that when she had gone to the balcony in the evening to get the laundry in, the mother, who was sitting on the egg, was startled when the balcony door was opened all of a sudden, flew out in a hurry which caused the egg to fall to the ground and shatter. She even told me the mother was sitting at the spot where the egg had been, for hours after that. I had a fondness because of the resilience the little one was showing right from the beginning but its all gone now. Maybe I should have built that nest.
At least my parents can use the air conditioner again.

going through Dada's post (http://myriadmind.blogspot.com/2009/02/ah-those-sunday-mornings.html) as soon as I remembered him mentioning an update, I have now decided to impose (whether you like it or not) my experiences from the Sundays of my childhood.
Saturdays are the best thing in school life. I got to sleep through the routine Havan in the auditorium of my school - DAV Boys, for two hours straight. Never mind the occasional cane that left intriguing designs on my back and little pieces of some shattered dream in my mind. But hey, I still know all the Hymns like the back of my hand. We then had only four periods on Saturdays as opposed to eight on weekdays (period - n. an interval of time between the ringing of a bell during which knowledge is imparted in schools. Sparingly used during middle school and considered an unrefined term in high school.) I would then get back home and was allowed to play gully cricket till almost half past six in the evening. I didn't really study on those days and even watched the film Doordarshan had to show in the evening!
The miseries began on Sunday though....one thinks he/she can sleep longer on a Sunday but not I. I had to go to my singing class by 10. Which meant I had to have a showdown with my mother at 9. I still wonder why I used to do that. We all knew I was going to go. On the one occasion that I got my way and did not end up going, I felt miserable the entire week after that. So once I was boiling with rage and ready to tear the world apart, Baba would drop me at my teacher's place. Never did he once show any sign of irritation. He would even give me my diary when I got off the car.
I am sure Ma used to call up Chaitali Aunty (my teacher) before I reached her place and tell her about my mood. I say this because she would be the sweetest person the moment I walked in and would sit me down on the sofa, switch on the television and make me watch Mahabharat. That always did the trick. I was ready for class. Needless to say I had not touched the harmonium since last Sunday. She would just smile and tell me 'Erokom korle ki kore hobe baba?' (how will you learn at this rate, dear?) The class began. I wouldn't know where 'sa' was and had to look at which note the student next to me was holding. I would then count the number of keys on my board to arrive at the right one. And this happened even after a year of learning. Chaitali Aunty would give me songs from her diary which she used in her childhood days. Funny thing was my teacher being a woman, had songs for a woman. It was only a year earlier that I realised, while singing to myself in the bathroom, that all I ever sang about in those days were how I was missing Krishna, how it felt like to be Shakuntala and how my 'piya' would come take me away from this unkind world. My genuine excuses of a back ache were never believed by my parents as I was playing cricket for the school team on all other days. You see, it hurt when I sat for a long time.
The end of class meant my detachment from Hindustani Classical Sangeet for the week. I was free to play cricket again and get burnt in the Chennai heat. Ma would always appear a little upset when she saw me toss my diary away and never touch the harmonium at home - the same on she used for her attempt at mastering the art. I still think its the Harmonium thats jinxed.