The balcony is where my day begins, a time of stillness before the rush of life beckons. There was once a time when the world from my balcony stretched out to the eastern horizon over scattered dwellings and lush fields of corn. I could see the sun rise and follow its journey over the vast expanse of sky overhead. That world has shrunk – the fields are now gone, concrete high-rises have obscured the horizon and there remains but a tiny irregular patch of sky that I can call my very own. I must hasten to document my little universe before it too disappears forever.
The flora
The swimming pool with its perimeter of greenery comprises the entire world from my balcony. In the corner stands the flame tree whose brilliant blooms herald the onset of summer, and the Cassia (senna) whose long limbs tap insistently to be let in at the bedroom window. Then rise the tall Buddha or false Asoka trees – two of the original three siblings, one felled prematurely by a storm.
At right angles to them is a row of the Indian cork trees or the tree jasmine, heavy with their white scented flowers in the autumn. Across the pool is the vast spreading rain tree. A pink-blossomed frangipani overhangs the pool; two skeletal euphorbia stand sentinel at its entrance, and a palm spreads its fronds over the tiled roof of the pergola. I marvel how tall the trees have grown in the years we have been here, but they are dwarfed by the man-made monstrosity that rises next door.
Bird and birdsong
This canopy of green is alive and bustling with birdsong and fluttering wings. I am not much of a birder, but I do know many of my cheery morning companions. The bulbuls are my forever favourites – bright-eyed and inquisitive, with their musical warbles which never fail to lift my spirits. Occasionally, one hops on to the balcony, cocking a bemused head at me as I stretch and bend my stiff limbs. The tiny sunbirds visit often too, being partial to the Ixora blooms in my balcony; and one year the munias nested behind the air-conditioning unit on the wall, though sadly they never returned.
The drongos perch on the overhead wires, executing their aerial sorties with superb grace and precision. Sometimes the bee-eaters are there too, sallying forth in flashes of green and blue. In contrast, the white-breasted kingfisher is a study in watchful stillness.
Not all is serene and quiet though. A pandemonium of parakeets descends to feed on the Cassia pods. The empty pods flutter to the ground, a testimony to their noisy wasteful feast. The mynahs shriek, the pigeons flutter noisily, the hornbill utters its plaintive call and the caucus of crows meet yet again to debate on the roof top.
Much ado in the Buddha tree
Meanwhile , there is much ado in the Buddha or false Asoka tree! Its berries have ripened and are a much sought- and fought-after delicacy. There’s enough for everyone, but the resident Asian koel flaps its wing aggressively to keep off another. The Indian palm squirrel beats a hasty retreat, chattering excitedly as it executes death-defying leaps from the dangerously swaying branches. At dusk, the large fruit bats will gather to feed on them – those silent, shadowy, misunderstood creatures of the night.
I watch the world from my balcony change with the seasons. The trees shed their leaves and stand shamefacedly naked; then don their fresh and leafy garbs anew. I see the migratory birds fly across my patch of sky, and in time return home. There is a time for everything and a place for everyone. A time to grow, a time to bloom, a time to ripen. A place for both the clumsy hopping coucal and the powerful soaring kite; the exotic-looking hornbill and the common mynah; and the deceptively sweet-voiced koel and the raucous crow.
Meanwhile, closer home, the Red Pierrot dances among the flowers of the Rangoon creeper; the dragonfly hangs still, suspended in time and space. The potter wasp builds its nest and the spider spins its lacy web. Much is right in my little world – the world from my balcony. Only the little sparrow of my childhood days is missing.
