Of pigeons and sleep deprivation

Pigeons.

The word probably conjures images of cooing, gentle, pacifist birds, released during weddings.

Or the visa advert in which Richard Gere releases a number of pigeons from captivity, much to the joyous enthusiasm of a girl.

Or probably the flock that collects at Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Gardens, or closer home - Connaught Place.

Perhaps, you are reminded of homing pigeons, which have proven their importance during periods of unrest and war.

If movies are your cup of tea, I’m guessing that you would have also remembered a certain Bollywood movie from the ‘80s, in which the heroine made ample use of a pigeon to deliver letters.

Till last weekend, I too had quite a charitable view about pigeons.

Not any more....

It happened somewhat like this.

Saturday night, after a blissful day, what with watching a lovely movie (Happy Feet), eating, shopping, and partying, I returned home in the wee hours of the morning to catch-up on some much-needed shut-eye.

The quilt beckoned me, and I inched myself gratefully into it, looking forward to some hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Ha. Fat chance.

A family of pigeons, which had recently decided to make the top of the jutting air-conditioner their home, were in a major mood for some action and fun.

What I initially thought was gentle clip-clopping and pitter-pattering of pigeon-feet, soon increased to a regular fast-paced dance number, and showed no inclination to stop.

My patience ran out.

Teeth chattering, I made my way out on the verandah, clasping my woollens (read thermal, sweatshirt, jacket, and shawl) closer to my body, and switched on the bulb.

Bleary-eyed me tried a loud “Shush”(that would have earned me scowls from any ornithologist), but which only caused the over-familiar-with-humans pigeons to peep at me, but continue cooing and thumping their feet, LOUDLY.

When they saw that I meant business, they deigned to quieten down; much to my immense and obvious relief.

Giving one more look that would have scared any mortal, I switched off the bulb, and made my way to my warmly-inviting bed.

This was at 4 a.m.

5.15 a.m. – Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat was happening?

Some demons had descended outside my room, and were in the throes of an extremely enthusiastic foot-thumping session, with some strong cooing vocals thrown in for good measure.

Ohh, a belated realization dawned. These were no demons; just the blessed pigeons, which had probably slept their fill the day before, and were intent on keeping me up with their constant ruckus.

Resigned to my fate, and too lazy to either bellow at them in anger, or shush them again, I turned over, pulled the quilt over my head, and did my best to fall asleep.

All to no avail.

A grumpy, red-eyed me woke up on Sunday morning to the following phone call:

“Hey, do you wanna go to Connaught Place to feed pigeons? I've got bird-food.”

Can you blame me for issuing a blood-curdling scream and banging the phone on the poor, bewildered caller?