I have concluded that pigeons inspired the word birdbrain. They are most definitely the stupidest of birds.

I had nagging doubts about this when, in Pune, The Cat killed pigeon after pigeon by sitting in the exact spot on the terrace every day. All The Cat did was sit – not even hidden but in plain view – next to the terrace wall. Didn’t the pigeons realize – even after almost a third of their population had ended up as breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks for The Cat – that there was some danger lurking in that spot of the terrace? Apparently not.

Now, here in Bombay, my doubts have been confirmed. I put out a bowl of water outside the kitchen window for the birds – initially I thought only crows – to drink. The crows come along, take sharp quick glances at the water, drink and hop off. They have also learnt that my presence near the window is not a threat.

Pigeons, however, are a different story. They first eye the bowl from near-by trees. Then, after much deliberation, they noisily land on the grille. If I am around, the slightest movement on my part will send them keeling over – more noisy wing-flappings. If they find enough courage in the depths of their fat and feathers, then they proceed – one step a minute – towards the bowl. By then whatever I might have been cooking is proceeding fast towards getting char-grilled as have I frozen in motion.

For some unexplained reason, they find it necessary to climb – it’s not really a neat little hop but something far messier – onto the rim of the water-bowl to drink. If there is enough water to balance the bird’s weight, then, well, they get their drink in peace. If the bowl is half full, the bird does a little balancing to-and-fro on the rim, as the water splashes all around. If the bowl’s too empty it simply tips over, sending the pigeon keeling yet again, with further wing-flappings.

The water-bowl is also a fertile ground to hunt mates – well, at least trying to hunt mates. Just that while the male pigeon is busy strutting his stuff – chest thrust out and deep-throated gurglings coming forth – the female has had her drink and taken flight, leaving the oblivious male turning in circles.

And just when I thought I had seen enough of these dim-witted creatures, I found a fat pigeon sitting inside the water-bowl – it was a bit hot that day – cooling himself and refusing to get out to let the other birds drink.

The entertainment just doesn’t end.

Somewhere in my building lives a bathroom singer. A loud one.
No matter at what time of the day – am not there in the evenings really – that I go to the bathroom, I am more than likely to hear him exercising his vocal chords. The latest hits – or horrors – from the Hindi film industry are the usual favourites. A few months back it was Rock On! The singer had no clue about any of the words except ‘Socha haaay’, which he added with full throttle at the end of a string unintelligible nothings.
Sometimes, he is adventurous enough to take on an English number that results in unending mumbo-jumbos rising and falling on a roller-coaster pitch. Without any words to catch on it, or the most tenuous link with a familiar tune, I am left clueless as to what he is trying to sing.
Whatever he lacks in lyrics and tune, he makes up with volume and enthusiasm. What is also amazing, is the acoustics of the building (which I am sure was unintentional) that sends a voice travelling so far, so clear and so loud.
His hollering has ensured one thing: That I don’t hum a single note while in the loo!
Or maybe we should try a duet!

I read two accounts of relationships breaking up on Facebook. In one, a woman realized the man she thought she was seeing had claimed to be single on Facebook, in another a woman’s husband had a virtual affair and changed his relationship status (or some such thing). And in both the cases the women were lamenting how everything was out there, and spread like wild fire among friends and strangers (don’t know which is worse), and the consequences of such linen-washing on Facebook.

What exactly are the women crying hoarse about?

After putting their lives – and its definitely not just women here – on display, do they, by any chance, expect privacy? Don’t they vicariously go through the personal details of others and delight in them? So, it is but natural – isn’t it? – that others should delight in similar such details about them?

On a slightly different note – and yet still on the issue of Facebook – people seem to be living their lives more through their online profiles than in real life.

And now on a complete different note.

Read an Agatha Christie after ages – maybe even a decade. After a phase of pretty heavy-duty writing – complete with award-winning authors – reading an old-fashioned murder mystery was simply refreshing. It felt good. Like a lunch of dal-bhaat at home, after days of celebrated gourmet cuisine.