Comfortably Dumb

As it turns out Sudhir Shah and I do agree on one thing… our mutual contempt for pigeons.

(Digression: actually, I’m sure there is a whole lot more that Shah and I would have agreed on. If only most if not all of what he said was not entirely incomprehensible for me. If only he weren’t quite as formidably laconic and I wasn’t quite as much of a mouse. Eh… c’est la vie)

Pigeons are by far the most moronic beings in the panoply of God’s creatures. And they insist on displaying their idiocy with irritating regularity. Even their facial expressions convey “dumb”. They are so stupid, it scares me…

I suppose I should be more charitable, given that they are some of the few sentient beings that ever dare venture into or in the close vicinity of my room. But even in these misguided attempts at being sociable they reinstate my belief in their dim-wittedness.

They prove particularly painful during summer. I sleep with the balcony door slightly ajar (I’m a slave for the fumes from the Haryana Roadways depot my balcony faces, just can’t get enough of the stuff). This is interpreted as a desperate plea on my part to be one with nature, for in they come… flapping wildly... and park ass above the curtain, on my book-shelf, the bed, the tube light, Mona… Of course its only once they set wing into the dirty recesses of my abode that they realise that all is not well…

They come beak to beak with their arch nemesis- MY FAN. It spins menacingly, monopolising their flight space and messing up the aerodynamics. Faced by this intractable hurdle pigeons seek refuge in the most useless weapon in their arsenal: contemplation. While I peer nervously, out from under my sheet pondering a gruesome massacre, the vanes slicing and dicing them as they attempt escape, half wanting to do the dirty deed myself, putting the birds out of their misery and mine (though mostly mine). Most nights I go to sleep dreading the prospect of waking up bathed in pigeon’s blood and feathers. Sort of like that scene from the godfather, if you substitute poor Khartoum’s horsy head by that of a bird. A blissfully ignorant face and guileless beady eyes… ughh those eyes.

I’m more than certain that my balcony is listed as one of the top 5 destinations to visit in the “Lonely Pigeon Guide” (don’t leave the nest without it). My clothes line is like a ramp in some glamorous avian fashion show, they prance up and down strutting their stuff all day long. And they insist on setting up home and hearth on the premises. Last year, upon finding a nest in my waste paper basket I embraced the Gerald Durrel side of my personality and let them stay till the eggs hatched and the kids grew up and flowed the coop. Never again… the mess they made of the balcony dealt a lethal blow to my benevolence. Why, my efforts to painlessly evict the latest squatters met with disastrous consequences. I believe the exact sound the eggs made during the attempted eviction was “splatch”. Two of them hurtled toward the floor as I tried to relocate the nest, leaving only disgusting yellowy yolk. The guilt damn near killed me. And to this day I am still trying to erase signs of the egg-icide, very Lady M style (Out damn spot!)

And the shit… god bless me. It’s the shit that really pushes me over the edge. Now we all know that birds poop indiscriminately having been at the receiving end of their blessings at least once. But no, in this one regard I am indeed special. All of pigeon-dom seems to have singled my balcony out as prime location for public conveniences. I’m tempted to believe that it is some evil conspiracy hatched (look Ma, I made a pun!) by the pigeon underground. To send only the most constipated of their brethren over to my balcony to relieve themselves of days, nay, weeks worth of excrement. And always (and I mean always) aim for my freshly laundered towels.

But I’d never give the imbeciles credit for pulling off torture as systematic as the kind I have been subjected to. They’re just way too dumb.

(Digression: or are they? Hmm… I think I’ve just been really suspicious of all birds since I saw the Hitchcock movie. I’m sort of ashamed to admit it but that movie really scared me. It may have something to do with the fact that it was 3 am and I was all alone in the common room. Never a good time or place to watch a movie about flocks of murderous marauding birds.)

And at this juncture I think it is fair to ask… what do pigeons do anyway? Do they serve any purpose at all in the universe? Do they? Do they? At least Dr. No could use the “guano” (bird poop) produced by his exotic birds to fund the building of his evil empire and almost bring James Bond to his knees. These birds are of no good to me at all.

(Digression: Dr. No was part of my Ian Fleming phase. I humbly request the audience not to lose all respect for me… it was the first few months of Dschool and I was really and truly bored and incredibly jobless. Fortunately, the phase was shortlived, but of all the books I read, Dr. No would have to be the best. I mean the heroine’s name was Honey Rider…that’s really hard to beat. Unless of course you consider Kissy Suzuki from You Only Live Twice)

So there you have it. This diatribe has been a long time coming. I deliver an abridged version at dinner every night to those unfortunate enough to be called my friends. Of course I embellish the rendering with much wild gesticulating, animated forehead slapping, absurd arm flapping, clever voice modulation…anything for an audience. I’m sure most if not all of ya’ll skipped a few paragraphs and I won’t hold it against anyone. You can scarcely understand my woes, unless you’ve suffered similarly at the claws of these ignoramuses. Had to live with the drone of their cooing as a constant soundtrack to your existence.

Had to make them the object of guiltless complaints. Complaints that would be better aimed, though not quite as guiltless, at the rest of the world mired in unpleasantness and mistrust. Had to love to hate them… and hate to love them just the same.