<p>It was a hot summer afternoon when I entered my room and stepped on something squishy. My toes curled. I inspected my foot with disgust; it appeared like mucus, but it was very unlikely that it could be so. I washed my feet, mopped the floor, and sanitised it for good measure. In the meantime, a Bulbul was hopping frantically around the potted plants outside the open windows of the room.</p>.<p>I recognised the red-whiskered bird that lived in our garden. The bird always flew away at the sight of us. Her birdcalls registered her presence from time to time. However, that day, she perched herself resolutely and chirped persistently when our eyes met. I could sense anxiety and despair in her tone and demeanour.</p>.<p>After a brief silence, she called again, one long, loud "cheep," as if beckoning my attention. I decided to step out and look for what could possibly be troubling her. The shambled nest near the tangled Shankha Pushpa creeper, the two little nestlings huddling near their fallen home, and their father watching them from the creeper trailing along the wall seemed to be the causes of her melancholy. When I tried to have a closer look, he flew menacingly at me, so I left them alone and returned to the room.</p>.<p><strong>Also Read | <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/opinion/right-in-the-middle/symphony-of-the-night-1236437.html" target="_blank">Symphony of the night</a></strong></p>.<p>The mother bird was still there, looking at me in askance through the open window. She chirped again, softly but continuously, peep-peep-peep. I knew something was amiss, and when I looked again, I noticed a small, shivering little bird peeking out with half-closed eyes on the floor of the room just near the window. The mystery of the squelch on the floor was solved. I could hardly believe my eyes. Where was the young one when I cleaned the room? How and when did it come in? Was the little one hiding under the far end of the low Divan all this while? Then I looked up and saw the mother, and the puzzle fell into place. She had been calling out to her fledgling, who had flown in but could not figure out a way out!</p>.<p>I fetched a dustpan, gently placed the trembling bundle of feathers on it, and showed it to the mother. She flapped her wings violently and flew towards me as I gently decanted the little one into the garden. She swooped down on her baby and spent the next two hours walking the hurt, wingless, weak baby bird, step by step, to reach her family, which was about ten feet away. They stayed at ground zero, homeless but with a sense of security, for the next couple of days. Eventually, they flew away, but not before reiterating valuable life lessons. It is said that the teacher arrives when the student is ready. Finally, I found my friend, philosopher, and guide in the feathered soul.</p>
<p>It was a hot summer afternoon when I entered my room and stepped on something squishy. My toes curled. I inspected my foot with disgust; it appeared like mucus, but it was very unlikely that it could be so. I washed my feet, mopped the floor, and sanitised it for good measure. In the meantime, a Bulbul was hopping frantically around the potted plants outside the open windows of the room.</p>.<p>I recognised the red-whiskered bird that lived in our garden. The bird always flew away at the sight of us. Her birdcalls registered her presence from time to time. However, that day, she perched herself resolutely and chirped persistently when our eyes met. I could sense anxiety and despair in her tone and demeanour.</p>.<p>After a brief silence, she called again, one long, loud "cheep," as if beckoning my attention. I decided to step out and look for what could possibly be troubling her. The shambled nest near the tangled Shankha Pushpa creeper, the two little nestlings huddling near their fallen home, and their father watching them from the creeper trailing along the wall seemed to be the causes of her melancholy. When I tried to have a closer look, he flew menacingly at me, so I left them alone and returned to the room.</p>.<p><strong>Also Read | <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/opinion/right-in-the-middle/symphony-of-the-night-1236437.html" target="_blank">Symphony of the night</a></strong></p>.<p>The mother bird was still there, looking at me in askance through the open window. She chirped again, softly but continuously, peep-peep-peep. I knew something was amiss, and when I looked again, I noticed a small, shivering little bird peeking out with half-closed eyes on the floor of the room just near the window. The mystery of the squelch on the floor was solved. I could hardly believe my eyes. Where was the young one when I cleaned the room? How and when did it come in? Was the little one hiding under the far end of the low Divan all this while? Then I looked up and saw the mother, and the puzzle fell into place. She had been calling out to her fledgling, who had flown in but could not figure out a way out!</p>.<p>I fetched a dustpan, gently placed the trembling bundle of feathers on it, and showed it to the mother. She flapped her wings violently and flew towards me as I gently decanted the little one into the garden. She swooped down on her baby and spent the next two hours walking the hurt, wingless, weak baby bird, step by step, to reach her family, which was about ten feet away. They stayed at ground zero, homeless but with a sense of security, for the next couple of days. Eventually, they flew away, but not before reiterating valuable life lessons. It is said that the teacher arrives when the student is ready. Finally, I found my friend, philosopher, and guide in the feathered soul.</p>