Those were the days when we didn’t cover our windows and ventilators with wire mesh. In my childhood, we weren’t afraid of mosquitos and bugs. Humanity was yet to be afflicted by Dengue and Chikan Gunya. Malaria was rare in cities and a few rashes due to mosquito bites didn’t trouble us much. A ceiling fan or a mosquito net was all the protection we had and we were happy with those bounties.
One summer morning, mother switched off the ceiling fan to some discomfort to us young children, who were just about waking up. When I protested, she pointed out to a sparrow that was going in and out the window, briefly perching on the ventilator ledge between each trip. Mother told us that the sparrow was building a nest.
“A nest? Why inside the the house, why not in the trees?” Mother told us that sparrows liked to live with people and they looked for holes and burrows in walls to build nests. The small ledge on the ventilator was a perfect spot it found for the nest. A whirring ceiling fan would kill the poor bird that trusted us humans enough to let it live with us. So, there was no fan for us during mornings and evenings, when the sparrow was flitting in and out.
In a few days the sparrow laid eggs. I couldn’t see the eggs, but mother told us that they were lying in the nest since the mother sparrow would sit quietly for hours at a stretch incubating them. It was a clockwork routine. We could use the fan in the warm afternoons since the bird quietly lay in the nest. A few more days passed. Eggs hatched and chicks emerged. The sparrow’s short flights in and out through window bars resumed. Our fan stopped once again. We could always go to another room and use the fan there, but we preferred to watch the magic unfold. The mom-bird would flit out and come back in a few minutes holding tiny things in its beak - worms or seeds, we couldn’t tell. But the sweet incessant chirping of the chicks was what filled our home. A few more days passed and we could sight the upturned beaks of the chicks, permanently open, into which mom-bird would drop food, a little at a time. Chicks had grown quickly. I remember having counted at least three chicks, or maybe four.
Mother would wake up early morning before dawn and religiously switch off the fan for it was breakfast time for the nest-dwellers. Same routine was repeated in the evenings. I now marvel at the unspoken understanding between the two mothers. The chirping grew louder and noisier by the day and mom-bird was busy as ever. I could now see the chicks hop a little in the nest and would ask my mother what would happen if one of them fell down. Could we then keep it as a pet? Mother only smiled, a sad smile, but did not answer. Maybe she was struck by the grief she imagined such an event would bring to the mom-bird. No chick ever fell down.
We had to go out of town for a couple of weeks. Mother left a window open so that the mom-bird could feed its children unhindered. When we came back, I rushed to the bedroom to see if the chicks were alright. But, there was complete silence. I saw no activity, neither of the mom-bird nor of the chicks. They were all gone. The nest was deserted and silent. A few straws and twigs had fallen to the floor. I suddenly felt lonely and hollow. The birds, unknown to them, had become my friends. There were other rooms in the house, but the bird had decided to build its nest in our bedroom. They wanted our company as much as I came to like theirs. I was so happy to see them twitter and hop, and the mom-bird scoot in and out, that the discomfort of fanless mornings and evenings was almost welcome. But, it was all over.
Mother was sad too. But, she told me that the chicks had flown away to make their own nests. I wondered why they would make their own nests, when a nest was here already built for them. I now know why.
