Of Wrath and Timidity

I hadn't heard it from that direction and with that tone, not before.
I pushed open the bathroom door.
God.... What a mess! The body wash was out of its prestigious seat and lay pitifully on the floor. The shampoo bottle in a corner, and the Dove soap (you shall discover the irony later) on the toilet seat. The soap dish and the toothpaste hadn't been spared either.

The strangest of all, there was a twig in the basin. One twig.

That bathroom was seldom used. It was a spare and came in handy when four people had to rush off in twenty minutes.

My cousin had come over the previous day. No, she couldn't have because we usually solve our conflicts through direct physical violence, pillows and all.

My mom came and so did the explanation. The maid had spotted this bunch of twigs, around ten of them, on the ventilator sill, when she was cleaning up the place. And wanting no pigeon, fiercely guarding its eggs or kids, to hurt or scare a bathroom vistor, she'd disloged the bird's nascent architecture.

It was not all that easy to assimilate. They were the most timid creatures I'd known after little rabbits. They'd become a part of my home, hanging around the balcony and sometimes venturing as far as the door, and we wouldn't shoo them away unless they entered the room. I woke to their coos emanating from the air conditioner vents; gave them tit-bits and grains once in a while. Their noise could be disquiteing at times; I liked them anyway.

Mom closed the ventilator shaft leaving a gap big enough for air but small enough to prevent a pigeon from coming in. She had a point too.

For all I could do, I left a palmful of rice on the sill.