No English country garden

The house crows serenade me. Gargling with grit in their throats. Every tree occupied. A kite peers down at me from his palm tree perch. A sunbird belts out its tinny song and flees. Pigeons dash to and fro. For a while the koels are silent. The skinny cat pads nervously along the path. Grey patterned flanks. Piercing eyes, full of hesitation and wariness. The warm sun showers the garden and construction noise wrestles with traffic din to dominate the backdrop. I rest, replete from a lunchtime barbecue, contemplating the absurdity of my confinement. The garden walls bespiked. An occasional butterfly dashes haphazardly across the lawn, looking in vain for reason to settle. The crows chorus is louder now. The kites’ yelps lulled briefly and the traffic drone surges. I am drowsy. The breeze jiggles the palm frond fans and the kites thermal higher. It is Saturday afternoon in Karachi and I am at peace.


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