For my 14-year-old son, a visit to Mumbai not only means plenty of uninterrupted time with his doting grandparents, but it also offers a close look at the city’s wildlife.
My parents’ fourth-floor apartment, in a suburb far from the madding crowds, has a ringside view of the creatures living in the old mango and blackberry trees that twist around the building.
Every morning, Calvin trudges bleary-eyed into the kitchen, my dad’s domain, and eats breakfast with his grandfather on the balcony, waiting for signs of life in the thick foliage.
It’s usually the chittering squirrels, brown-striped and lightning-fast, that appear first. Together with the pretty black-crested bulbuls, who sing earnestly in tremulous voices, they make quite a din.
The afternoons are quieter, save for the occasional flock of green parrots that screech like noisy schoolgirls. Calvin, armed with a drawing book, sketches away furiously, stopping only to stare open-mouthed at the antics of the birds.
Once, he comes in to tell us about a new call he can’t identify. It turns out to be a cuckoo, which takes hours to spot, thanks to its grey-brown camouflage.
Calvin develops an interest in the ways of the crows, shameless scavengers that will do anything for food. My mum, who adores birds – she once kept 30 budgerigars when we lived in Oman, causing my sister and I to develop a permanent aversion to the chirpy species – has managed to tame a crow. The bird appears daily at lunch time, perching on a window sill to eat straight out of my mum’s hands. But it squawks and flees the minute Calvin shows up.
“Don’t make sudden movements, my little bear cub,” says my mum, who refuses to acknowledge that her grandson is nearly the size of a fully grown bear. But staying still is not one of Calvin’s strong points, so he must be content with watching enviously from afar.
Dusk brings bats. At sunset, they take flight, and sometimes get into the flat, causing panic as Calvin rushes to turn off ceiling fans and avert a bloodbath.
After dinner, we fetch torches and return to the balcony. My mum’s infinite patience begins to rub off on Calvin, who sits silently beside her, peering into the dark night. After 15 minutes of swinging our torches about, we’re rewarded: a brown owl reveals itself, untucking its head and staring unblinkingly back at us.
Satisfied with his day’s work – a book full of sketches – Calvin makes his way back to the living room for a game of Carrom with my dad, and he can barely wait until the next morning, when he gets to do it all over again.