Representative image of a road.
Credit: Pixabay Photo
Our little enclave, Sajjanpur, is not without its problems, but mostly the name seems appropriate. We do have some small issues in the matter of roads and garbage, but things aren’t too bad. Because even if Cauvery water is a bit deficient, borewells yield sweet and clear water piped via a separate pipe installed by each house owner. There are two small temples with tree-shaded platforms where residents sit, chatting, at different times of the day: women in the afternoons, men in the evenings, and the young blades after dark.
But this is not about residents, interesting as they are. This is about how other life forms inhabiting Sajjanpur live. Huge white barn owls inhabit the trees near the temple and emerge after dark. Bats flit about to feast on the badams and the fruits of the “gasagase” trees that grow wild at one end of the locality, visited by colourful butterflies.
The predawn quiet is first broken by birdsong, from the trees that dot the roads and the shrubs that grow along the rajakaluve (stormwater drains of the past) bisecting the area. Birds abound, from the tiny common tailorbird to mynahs, green bee-eaters, and even bulbuls, and in summer, koels cooing sweetly and evoking a sense of longing and melancholy, or romance, depending on how you’re feeling at the time. We even have the common tern visiting because of the wetlands in the area.
Then the roosters start crowing, reared by families that still grow their own chickens and range for food in the grass that grows on the verge, raiding trash bags flung by careless residents as they ride by on their scooters.
Then, as the dawn light creeps in, the local streeties start running around in gay abandon in the empty streets as early morning walkers step along briskly. There are some cats too, stray animals inhabiting the roofs, and several pet animals reared by doting families. Our beautiful all-white, blue-eyed Boris sits on the wall and enjoys interacting with passersby who stop to scratch his ears while he preens and head-buts them, mewing sweetly in response to their greetings. Soon, the silence is shattered by the noisy horn of the milkman, a relic of the village of yesteryear, bearing fresh milk still warm from the cow to one’s doorstep. The day begins with a hot cup of coffee laced with fresh milk.