Sivaram Hariharan
King of the Windowsill
(Ah… Those Matunga-Mumbai days)
I still remember those days as if they were yesterday. Those lazy summer afternoons of 1983, just after my sister’s wedding, when I
used to stand in the verandah of my Matunga Mumbai flat and ogle at the voluptuous Ketki as she leant on the verandah railings
of her flat across the street. The swaying branches of the huge Jamboo tree in my building compound interrupted my view from
time to time and I used to silently mutter under my breath whenever she got temporarily invisible. Now and then I waved my
hands to get her attention, but she hardly even looked my way. Maybe she was inured to the attentions of crazy infatuated
adolescent males like me. I was around sixteen years of age at that time and Ketki would have been in her early twenties. It was
strange that I suddenly found her attractive that year even though I had seen her right through my boyhood days. Strange indeed
are the ways hormones worked in puberty. I could hear my late paternal grandma from inside the house calling out to me.
Anthamma (the other mother) as I used to lovingly call her, was in her seventies at that time. ‘Konthe, Konthe (Little child little
child), ulla vada… coffee thanukarathu… (Come in my child, the coffee is getting cold)… Enna Pannarano
('What is he doing?’)
‘Come in now…can’t you hear us….looks like you are going deaf as you are becoming older,’ my mom Meena also joined in.
But, I was oblivious to their calls. It was still mid afternoon and it would at least be another couple of hours before I would move from my post.
Around 4 PM it would be time to play underarm rubber ball cricket with my mates from my locality. Until then it would be Ketki that devoured
my attention. Even when she went into her flat from her verandah, I used to patiently wait for her to get back. This unrequited noon crush went
on for a long time before my attentions were diverted by a most unlikely source.
He was the king of the third floor kitchen windowsill of the very old and dilapidated opposite-building, Hazare Bhuvan, the entire third floor of
which housed a girl’s hostel. He first caught my attention with his deep resonating moans that emanated from his huge bulged up neck sac.
‘Hmmmmm…hmmmmm….Hmmmmmm…,’ he sounded very close even though he was about 30 feet far away on the building wall. A bull of a
male pigeon in his full prime, Pahi (as I named him a day) was black in colour with spots of gray. The reason I called him Pahi was pretty
queer. At that time I was attending Veda-classes at the nearby Shiva temple. This was the tradition among young Brahmin brahmacharis who
had started donning the sacred thread. My Guru, the late Vishwanata Ganapaadigal (Ganapaadigal is a title for a master of Vedas) had taught
me a complex gana-mantra on Vishnu, which went: Taa Vishno Pahi Pahi Yagnam Pahi Yagnapatim Pahi Maam Yagna Niyam. (Vishnu the
savior and hence pahi means to save. O great Lord Vishnu, the saviour of Yagnas and the Yagnapati, I offer my prostrations). I was practicing
this recital earnestly. In a strange way, I beheld my new pigeon friend with a certain degree of awe as he now sported a Vedic name. It was
Pahi that graduated me into bird watching of the feathered kind from the bird watching that I was then indulging in. For the next nine months or
so I watched him with absolute interest and I was rewarded with rich and interesting insights into pigeon life. And in many ways it was an eye
opener. At times I was so engrossed in my observations that some of my Hazare Bhuvan neighbours thought that I was busy ogling at the
hostel girls, an activity that in indulged in from time to time. But I did not let these innuendos interrupt my pigeon watching.
The entire kitchen windowsill and ventilators of the hostel were Pahi’s domain. Also included was the attic ventilator the wire mesh of which had
been chewed away by the rats. Pahi patrolled his territory with extreme vigour, constantly flying between the kitchen window frames and the
attic ventilator. And he had compelling reasons when it came to the attic. Inside the gloom were his recently hatched fledglings and his mate
whom I called Mrs. P. Mrs. P was the typical gray coloured pigeon with black stripes and much smaller in size than her mate. Pahi spent most
of the day in taking turns with his mate in guarding his hatchlings and protecting his territory from rival males. Trespassing males were evicted
immediately on sight with no mercy. All females other than his mate that landed in his area were treated to the typical male display dance:
guttar-goo-goo sounds with his neck sac pumped up to the maximum coupled with jumping and dancing in circles. If this failed, he would evict
them by trying to mount them. At other times he was busy courting Mrs. P. Sometimes he even ventured into the kitchen in search of some
tidbits whenever the hostel cook, Maharaj, had gone to some other room. He would eventually fly out in haste when the cook returned. In spite
of this nuisance, Maharaj ignored Pahi completely. Pahi had also flown into my unit a couple of times and had been chased by my disgruntled
mother for, on both occasions, the bird had defecated on her pet veena (musical instrument). Sometimes he would fly down to the ground with
his partner looking for small pebble, straws, and twigs. The pebbles he swallowed aided in the digestion of the hard grains that comprised most
of his food. He needed the straws and twigs for his shabby nest. After sun down each day, Pahi roosted on the hostel kitchen ventilator, leaving
his mate and his young ones in the safety of the attic.
In many ways Pahi was a remarkable pigeon. He was big by pigeon standards and I sometimes used to jokingly call him Gundu-Pahi (Gundu
means fat in Tamil). He had the loudest moans of all the pigeons in the area. But what made him stand out from the rest of his kind was his
boldness and courage. He never flinched whenever there were any loud cracker bursts in the locality. The other pigeons immediately took to the
skies frightened by any loud sound, but Pahi stood his ground most of the time. Pahi rarely took cover whenever predatory kites (hawks)
hovered in the skies above the building and scanned the ground with their rapier sharp eyes for prey. And pigeons were high on their menu list.
Most of the other pigeons took to flight whenever a kite showed up in the area with their typical shrill calls but not Pahi. He rarely took a
backward step even to the local thugs, the common crows, when they came bullying in his domain. Once, when one of the neighbouring kids
hit Pahi with a pebble shot from a catapult, as he was perched near the attic ventilator, the pigeon did not even flinch.
Pahi flew with a very noisy and a heavy wing beat compared to most others of his kind. He was a slow flyer, especially when flying upwards. I
attributed this to his size. He was a devoted father to his hatchlings and spent a lot of time in gathering food for them. Every morning, he would
be off to the local Kabutar-Khana, a place where all the pigeons from the immediate area flocked to eat the grains showered on them by the
local people. This was located in the middle of the local vegetable market (Matunga Bazaar). There was a metal grilled fence surrounding the
Kabutar-Khana. A huge tree stood in the centre of the khana and its branches were thick with pigeons and thickly crusted with their droppings.
I had seen Pahi there on many occasions and was impressed by the way he held his own ground even in that feathery pandemonium. He
returned home laden with grain, which he promptly regurgitated to his hatchlings and wife.
When it came to courting females, Pahi was in his elements. Of course, almost all of this romance was directed at Mrs. P. But on more than
one occasion, I had seen Pahi court, impress, and successfully mount new females visiting his domain. Once I saw Mrs. P chase away an
amorous trespassing female as she was about to be mounted by Pahi. Of course, all her rage was directed on her rival and not her mate.
Almost immediately after chasing away her rival Mrs. P started to flirt with her mate and finally ended up being mounted. Mating is a ritualized
affair among pigeons. At first they circle each other, pecking on their own back feathers and ruffling them up so that they stick out. This is then
followed by what I call an intense beaking. The male clasps his partner’s beak by his own and the birds move their heads up and down in
synchrony. This is repeated two or three times and the female crouches down splaying her wings. The male then mounts her and constantly
beats his wings for balance as he struggles to grip himself on the female’s back. Once this is achieved, a brief mating takes place. After this,
the male dismounts and the two again circle each other. On some rare occasions, I have seen the female mount the male at this point of time. I
have also noted that this happens more when the female is of a very aggressive nature. I have also noted that beaking takes place for a much
longer time amongst young pigeon couples. Older couples go over this phase quickly. On an average mating takes place many times on any
given day regardless of the time of the year. But, in winter the frequency increases. I believe that this repeated mating could be a very important
aspect of bonding between the male and the female. Many a time, rival males or females interrupt the courtship. When this happens, the ritual
is broken off. Mating may or may not commence after the interruption.
Like most territorial males, Pahi spent a huge chunk of his time in chasing away trespassing pigeons from his domain. Pahi’s domain was an
enviable one by pigeon standards: It had good shelter from the elements and had lots of room and hence was eyed greedily by other males. But
on most occasions, Pahi managed to effortlessly chase them out without a fight. Fights resulted when the trespassing males were reluctant to
leave as they thought that they had a chance to win and male pigeon fights are really very intense. But Pahi could see off all his opponents just
by sheer physical display of his size. Consequently, rival males gave him a wide berth. But this dominance was soon to end with the advent of
the monsoon: the season in which shelter is very high on the pigeon agenda.
The challenger was a young grey male with black stripes whom I named Rahu and he possessed lots of vigour and speed. Indeed, it was his
speed and athleticism that gave the edge in his titanic clash with the domain master. The clash lasted almost a full day and the fighting was an
intense flurry of feathers and beaks. Most of the fighting took place on the windowsill and each tried to push the other out of the area. Initially it
appeared as if Pahi would hold his ground. But Rahu slowly gained the upper hand as the day wore on. By dusk, Pahi was dethroned and was
perching forlornly on a drainpipe that ran out of the hostel bathroom. He had no longer the luxury of the shelter provided by the window and was
now exposed to the lashing wind and rain. More importantly, he had injured his left wing and it hung out of its normal position and was to remain
that way as long as he lived. To add insult to injury, Mrs. P started yielding to the courting of the new domain master and allowed him to mount
her. Pahi had now effectively lost everything he had and I really felt sorry for him as he was getting drenched in the torrential rain. I had observed
other fights and almost all of the times the domain master that got ejected never regained his past glory. Pahi’s fate was now sealed and he
had to move on to other areas to find shelter.
But I had underestimated the wily veteran. He had just lost the battle and not the war. Within a few days of his recovery from the fight, Pahi
went about the business of reclaiming his lost domain. And for this he used guerrilla tactics in the dead of the night and I thought that was very
unusual for pigeons. Pahi’s method was very simple. One night, I observed him fly up to his opponent in the cover of darkness and blindside him
with his bulk. But Rahu was equal to the occasion and succeeded in thwarting off Pahi and sending him back to the drainpipe. But Pahi was
relentless and returned again and again till he himself tired out. The next day, the old master was again seen on the drainpipe recovering from
the excesses of the previous night. But again he was back the following night like a never-ending nightmare for his young opponent. This went
on for at least the next thirty nights or so. By the end of that period, Pahi had regained his domain and was proudly perched on the windowsill
with Mrs.P on his side. He was once again the king of the windowsill and he now reminded me of the proud former boxer Mohammad Ali. (In the
later stages of his stellar career the champion boxer had dispatched off swifter and stronger young opponents with wily grit and steely resolve in
spite of taking brutal punishment and pounding from them.) I was really impressed with the persistence and courage of this amazing pigeon. As
for Rahu, he was now perched on the drainpipe and looked lost. But he never again challenged Pahi. Indeed, in a few days time he had flown
away in search of fresher pastures and was never to return.
But it seemed to me in the coming days that this battle-scarred warrior had never recovered fully from his fight with Rahu. His movements were
more sluggish than before and his flight speed had palpably diminished. He had developed a considerable limp on his left leg. Rival males were
now sensing weakness and consequently, Pahi was challenged to more fights and his body took a heavy battering. In spite of this, Pahi held
sway over his domain all the way through to the next summer and successfully weaned his fledglings to independence before he met his end.
This happened during one morning when I observed him pecking on pebbles on the ground along with Mrs. P. Unbeknownst to the two birds, the
local stray tomcat Minu was stalking them from the cover of the nearby bushes and had crept within striking range. I could not see the tomcat
from my varendah. Only when he jumped out from his hiding with a snarl, did I comprehend the gravity of the situation. It all took place in a
flash. Mrs. P had somehow sensed the danger first and succeeded in getting airborne an instant before her heavy partner. Pahi also took off but
Minu jumped high and gashed Pahi on his neck with his sharp claws in midair and managed to ripp off a few of his feathers. Pahi stumbled in
his flight but somehow managed to get himself to the parapet of the first floor. I could see that the bird was severely wounded and had a big red
gash on his neck. But I was powerless to come to his aid. Pahi remained there for a long time before he slowly managed to hip-hop over the
drainpipes back to his windowsill on the third floor. There he was perched motionless for the rest of the day and I hoped that he would recover
from this rest. But the following morning, as I watched him, Pahi suddenly dropped like a heavy stone from his windowsill perch and crashed
dead on the ground. I immediately ran down and picked up his lifeless body. I could see that his left leg was heavily infected from an old wound
and that would have been the cause of his limp. I buried my feathery hero under the mango tree in the backyard of my building. Indeed, Pahi
was an ultimate warrior and he had lived and died a king. My eyes were a bit wet as I bid farewell to my fighter.
Epilogue
My bird watching days came to an end after Pahi’s demise. I was saddened that I could no longer spot my friend on his familiar perch. Even
Mrs.P was never to be seen again in the area. Presumably she had flown away or had been chased out by rivals. But nature abhors a vacuum
and very soon a handsome white male whom I named Hamsa and his white spotted gray mate, Mrs.H, occupied the windowsill. As for my other
bird watching: Ketki ran away with a very rich Gujarathi man and this anjaan deewana was heart broken for a day. Coming back to Pahi, my
short stint at pigeon watching had really left me with some deep impressions. Besides the fact that I gained a good knowledge on the behaviour
of these birds, I also took home a shining example of grit and determination from the manner in which Pahi regained his lost domain from his
opponent. Certain events leave an indelible impression in an individual’s life and Pahi’s fighting qualities and courage was one such for me. Even
today, here in Sydney, whenever I see any pigeon, my mind automatically switches to my pigeon hero. If I were to ever go back to my old
Matunga house, my eyes will still seek him on the windowsill even though he is no longer there. For me, Pahi will forever be the King of the
Windowsill: Taa Vishno Pahi Pahi Yagnam Pahi Yagnapatim Pahi Maam Yagna Niyam.
Copyright (C) Sivaram Hariharan, 2008. All rights reserved.