Rosy pastors (Sturnus roseus)

On Sunday evening, watched a wheeling crowd of  rosy pastors or rosecoloured starlings, colouring the sky. Early in 2016, as one usually spotted them late February, on their way to breeding points in eastern Europe, western and central Asia, going by Salim Ali. Resting atop a dry gul mohur tree on Karuna Hospital Road, rosy pastors were being pecked by crows, the ruling, political class in the avian world; the rosy-pink birds resisted the crowy intrusion but one cannot keep crows away for long, like one cannot do away with politicians; bed bugs. Till around end-March, one can spot them in the LIC Colony area; golden orioles, warblers, drongos will pepper the air; silk cottons, laburnums, will flower; spring is a haiku; an Horlicks for walking. On the footpath, two elderly gentlemen were watching the action, one clicking another binoing. 'Yes, they are rosy pastors,' they confirmed to the Lady, keen to make friends with rosy pastors; the Lady is into bird phonetics to dialogue with birds and Dinesh, the donkey, at home; the gentlemen were surprised when the Lady whistled at a collection of rosy pastors; 'yes, they will respond,' she told them. On Karuna Hospital crowd there were no takers for the Lady, except the Old Man. He went by what the Lady said. Mornings, both are a trifle busy, reaching crows, sparrows, Dinesh the Donkey to the primary school run by the municipality, which did not mind, as they had few children on benches facing a broken black board; also, municipal schools were free - books, notebooks, pencils; private schools turned down the the Lady and her wierdness; also it was bad business with their rich wards sharing benches and books with birds and a donkey; afternoon, the Old Man reached them home; at the dining table they sat with the Lady serving a dietary lunch; snooze in the afternoon and then classes -- crows teaching the Lady their lingo. Neighbours are upset, but then the Lady has no dues to pay to the housing society. The Lady has bought a thick notebook, to put down her feelings (she never thought), of birds and humans. On Sunday evening, she waved out an invitation to rosy pastors -- 'their pink is wow', she said; they did not respond as in a few days they were scheduled to wing over oceans and lands to bring up a new generation. On the way home, the Lady and the Old Man stepped into Monginis for sanwiches and vegetable puffs; they ate a couple with tea at Bhagwan's tea shop; rest, became dinner for her many street dogs and the poor resting against the church wall. Sun was in bed; moon popped two anti-depressants; Sunday was over.