Feathers

The garden is damp this morning. The snails seem gleeful, moss succulent and green on the brick ledge. It had rained hard the night before. I amble over to the front terrace, stare absentmindedly at the bed of gravel with a mug of Indonesian coffee in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

Something shifts amongst the branches of one of the Murraya trees. I squint at a clump of organic matter. Hadn’t noticed it there before. It is a nest. Must be new. There is a bird in the nest. It cocks its head here and there in jerky movements. Alert, awake; birds always look alert – they have no bedroom eyes, no Angelina Jolie eyes.

I am thrilled to the bone. Happy as a clam. A bird chooses to share its nest in my home, a simple terrace house with a tiny front yard. This home in the heart of sun-scorched, rat-infested, car-ruled, urban-as-you-can-get SS2, a bird actually thought it was decent real estate. I inch closer, but still five arm-spans away. Time dissolves away. Just the bird and I. Who are you, buddy?

The nest is small – about the size of my mug – made of dried grass and twigs, mostly from the yard. I don’t sweep away fallen leaves nor clear grass cuttings. There is even a stray raffia string woven in amongst the organic stuff with a ten-inch leftover trailing in the breeze. This bird doesn’t fight technology.

The Murrayas in the garden are not tall. I have three of them, and keep them pruned to about six feet high and they provide definition to the garden space. Also as a treat to the olfactory senses; when in bloom, the house smells awesome especially at night. The nest, built without too much finesse between two branches, is just about eye level. Strange that a bird would build here at this height. Strange. Maybe it has not been acquainted with the neighborhood stray cats which leap up 8-foot-high walls without blinking.

I stare at the bird. It cocks one eye my way. It has a white-feathered head the size of a bottle cap and a black beak that’s slender and curved. Its skin is black too. I do not know its species. Love nature, but bird-watching hadn't my cup of tea. The rest of its body is hidden inside the nest. I inch closer for a better look.

Whoosh! It darts off in flight. I spill coffee all over. I fail to catch its trail, still staring at the shaking leaves. I’m tempted to peek inside the nest but I remember an old wives’ tale about birds and nest – that once a bird realizes its home is invaded it’ll abandon it. I withdraw. This bird is more than welcome to stay.

In the shroud of deceit, cover-ups, bigotry, incompetence and stupidity that I abhor in government and that left me so pissed this past two weeks to even write, a little bird came by the tiny garden, built a nest, and for five minutes, collapsed the weariness of my world. Feathered tonic. Neat.

It is evening. I peer over my dusty balcony onto the Murraya bush. From the floor above, one can make out the profile of the nest amidst the leaves. I hold my breath. There is movement – that jerky movement of the head again. The bird has returned. It didn’t abandon the nest.

Good.