My Balcony Friends – A Bliss in the Middle of Chaos

       My Balcony Friends – A Bliss in the Middle                                   of Chaos 

The Balcony Ritual

Usually, if I’m working from home or it’s a weekend afternoon, you’ll find me in the same place after 12 noon — my balcony. It’s my little escape corner, where I lean on the railing, stretch a little, and say a quiet “hi.”

Now, you must be wondering — to whom?

Wait… why rush? If you’ve been following my blogs, you already know I don’t reveal everything at once. I like to take you along slowly, step by step, because my stories are never made-up. They’re pieces of my past, my present, and sometimes little glimpses of what I imagine my future to be.

So yes, I do say “hi” every afternoon, but not to humans. To a group of friends who never fail to show up, unless life throws them into trouble. Friends who bring a smile, lift my mood, and make me forget, even if just for a while, the invisible weight sitting inside my head.

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The Stress We Don’t Speak About

You see, being in IT is not always about long hours, laptops, or endless meetings. The real challenge is the invisible stress that creeps in. It’s not the physical tiredness — it’s the mental war.

Your brain turns into a battlefield, fighting nonstop like a lone soldier in some over-the-top masala movie. Only difference? In movies, the hero always wins, with a grand climax and background music. In real life, you’re just surviving. There are no claps, no happy endings, no cheering crowd.

Some days, you ask yourself questions you don’t have answers for. Your mind convinces you that everyone has abandoned you in this lonely battle. And because society expects us to “be normal,” we hide it well. On the outside, we smile, attend meetings, share jokes, and act like everything is fine. But inside? It’s chaos.

This mental stress is far more dangerous than any visible wound. A physical injury, at least, you can show and explain. But when it’s your mind that hurts, you silently bleed, pretending nothing’s wrong.

And that’s exactly why my balcony ritual means so much to me. Because my friends remind me that the world isn’t just chaos. There’s still music, there’s still colour, and there’s still joy in the tiniest of things.

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A Little Stage Called “Backyard”

Before I tell you who my friends are, let me describe the stage where they perform.

Imagine this: the corner of our apartment has a cascade of bougainvillea, in every shade you can think of. On the villa side, the neighbour has a pretty little garden. And on our side — banana plants with long green leaves, tall canopy trees providing shade, and clusters of bright ixora flowers lighting up the space.

By the time you step into my balcony and the tiny garden patch beneath it, you get this dense, mini-forest feel. It’s a mix of flowers, fruits, greenery, and shadows — the kind of place that naturally attracts little visitors.

And that’s when the real magic begins.

Please read this Blog to get the picture of my garden Link:- " When the Vine Bloomed and the Sunbird Came: A Balcony Story"

My Garden

The Arrival of Friends

They come with no invitation. A sudden burst of chirping fills the air. They hop from branch to branch, flutter from one flower to another, as if they’re here to conduct a full-blown concert just for me.

At that moment, the silence of noon breaks into a melody. Every note, every chirp feels like a reminder that life is still beautiful.

So, who are these friends? Let me introduce them one by one.

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Meet the Battalion

• Yellow-billed Babblers – Always in pairs, sometimes even two pairs together. They move across the garden like lieutenants, surveying every corner, as if in charge of discipline.

• Purple and Brown Sunbirds – The nectar inspectors. They dart around tirelessly, checking flowers one by one — from ixora to banana blossoms to roses. They’re tiny, restless, and curious, like officers making sure no flower is left unchecked.

• Red-vented Bulbuls – The real commanders. During breeding season, they build their nests in my garden trees. I’ve watched them lay eggs, feed their little ones, and teach them how to fly. And then one fine day, they vanish, leaving behind only the nest — a silent memory of their stay.

• Spotted Dove – Calm, dignified, and always grounded. Unlike the restless sunbirds, the dove carries itself with an air of seniority, like an air commander watching over the battalion.

• Tailorbirds – Tiny, secretive creatures that hide inside bushes, moving cautiously as if on a covert mission. Blink, and you’ll miss them.

• The Squirrel – The noisemaker, the disruptor. Always busy nibbling something, always creating chaos. I call it the soldier driving a tank through the field, unbothered by the melody around.

Together, they form what I call my “balcony battalion.” They stay for about 15 minutes, and in those minutes, they change the entire mood of my day. Then, just as suddenly, they disappear, off to their next mission.

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When Silence Took Over

But not every day is the same.

There are days when they don’t show up. The garden stays silent, the flowers sway quietly, but there’s no music. On those days, I lean against the railing a little longer, whispering a prayer for them. Because let’s not forget — this earth belongs as much to them as it does to us.

Without them, our biodiversity weakens. Without them, our mornings, afternoons, and evenings lose their rhythm. And when that balance breaks, it won’t just affect birds or squirrels. It will affect all of us.

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A Story I Can’t Forget

One particular memory still weighs heavy in my heart.

There was this spotted dove pair — regulars in my garden. They were inseparable, always together, always moving side by side. But one day, only one showed up. The other had been attacked by a stray cat in the garden below.

The surviving dove looked broken. It sat still, refusing to fly, its eyes dull and its feathers ruffled. For days, it lingered near the same spot, almost as if waiting for its partner to return.

But here’s the beautiful part: the other birds noticed. The babblers flew closer, patrolling around as if guarding the wounded soul. The bulbuls and sunbirds hovered lower than usual, their chatter filling the silence. Even the squirrel, in its noisy way, stayed around. It was as if the entire battalion had come together to say — you’re not alone.

And slowly, day by day, the lonely dove found courage again. First short flights, then longer ones, until one afternoon it soared high, reclaiming the sky.

That day, I learned something powerful. Teamwork isn’t just a human concept. Compassion isn’t just our gift. Nature too has its way of healing, of lifting one another, of showing that even in loss, life must go on.

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The Gentle Moral

Whenever I step into my balcony now, I don’t just see birds and squirrels. I see reminders. Reminders that no matter how heavy the stress, no matter how lonely the battle inside your head feels — you are never truly alone.

Sometimes, healing requires a battalion. Not necessarily of people, but of little joys, tiny friends, and simple moments that remind you of life’s beauty.

My balcony friends may not know my name, may never shake my hand, but they’ve given me something priceless: hope.

And maybe that’s what we all need — a reminder that even in chaos, there’s always a melody waiting for us.

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Final Thought

So next time you step into your balcony, garden, or terrace — pause. Look around. Maybe you’ll find your own battalion of little friends. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll teach you the same lesson mine did:

Life is not meant to be fought alone.

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When a Firefly Took Me Back in Time

                     When a Firefly Took Me Back in Time

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Some evenings have a way of surprising you.

In Bangalore, especially in the middle of this concrete jungle, spotting something magical is rare. That’s why I feel lucky — at least my little patch of the city is still green. I’ve crammed every bit of space with fruit trees, flowering plants, and enough greenery to make you forget you’re in a city at all.

It was one of those evenings, about 7:30 PM. I was sitting on my swing chair. The power had gone out — not unusual — and our generator had finished its diesel. That meant a half-hour “cooling period” before the lights would come back. For most people, that’s annoying. For me, it’s an excuse to just… stop.

And then I saw it.

Something tiny. Moving. Not a streetlight, not a reflection. It hopped from branch to branch, pulsing with a soft yellow glow.

It came closer, hovering right next to my swing chair. Almost like it was saying,
"Hey… remember me?"

If you think the world is just about artificial light — the LED glare from billboards, the white flicker of tube lights — you’re wrong. Here was something that was the light. No wires. No switches. Just nature’s own little lantern.

Yes. I’m talking about the firefly — Minnapullu, Minchu Hulla… call it what you want.

It stayed for maybe ten minutes. Then it was gone. But in that short time, it took me somewhere I hadn’t been in years — my grandmother’s village.

Back to a Time Without Electricity

When I was a kid, until around 1992–94, my grandmother’s village had no electricity.
And I’ll tell you — those were some of the happiest years of my life.

No constant buzzing of machines. No traffic noise. No rush. Just me, nature, and the endless surprises the day brought.

Evenings were special. Around 6 PM, the kerosene lamp would be lit, filling the house with a warm, golden glow. The house itself sat on top of a hill, surrounded by areca nut trees, pepper vines, cocoa plants, banana trees — all framed by the Western Ghats.

When it rained, mist would roll in like a shy guest. Fog would drift across the valley. You could see smoke curling up from cooking fires on the opposite hill. It was the kind of view that made you just sit and watch, not because you had nothing to do, but because you didn’t want to miss a second of it.

And then, from the bushes, they would appear.

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The Night Parade of Tiny Lanterns

One by one at first. Then in twos and threes. Until the darkness outside was sprinkled with blinking dots of gold.

Some would float into our verandah, past the iron grills, as if checking who we were. A few landed on the mud roof. And then there were the brave ones — they’d come right up to the kerosene lamp, as if daring it to a contest.

Walking on the road outside was like stepping into a dream. Thousands of fireflies would light the path, guiding us without a word.

That’s the thing about childhood memories — they don’t fade. They just sit quietly in a corner of your mind, waiting for something, or someone, to switch them back on.

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The Treasure Hunt That Wasn’t

That evening in Bangalore, as I sat watching my lone visitor, I must have drifted into a dream.

In it, the firefly started moving ahead, pausing now and then for me to follow. We went through my balcony garden, then down the street… and then somehow into a thick forest that didn’t belong in Bangalore at all.

It led me to a massive banyan tree. Between its roots was an old, rusted box. My heart was pounding. I bent down, opened it — and—

“Wake up!”

My brother’s voice cut through everything. Just like that, the forest, the box, the firefly — all gone.

Apparently, in the real world, I’d just been sitting with my mouth half open.

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Why We See Less of Them Now

I don’t see fireflies as often anymore. Maybe it’s the city lights, maybe pollution, maybe just us humans forgetting to give nature her space.

Still, I try. In my Bangalore home, I’ve planted fruiting and flowering plants in my balcony and in the small bit of land I own. Maybe that’s why I still get rare visits from them.

Each sighting feels like a gift. A reminder that the most beautiful things often appear when we slow down.

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Firefly Facts: Your Mini Guide

🔆 What are they?
Beetles with built-in lanterns, glowing through a chemical reaction called bioluminescence.

🌍 Where are they found?
In warm, humid regions across the world, especially near water, forests, and fields.

⏳ When do they glow?
Mostly during summer evenings in the mating season.

💡 How do they make light?
By mixing luciferin (a chemical) with oxygen and an enzyme called luciferase.

⚠ Why are they disappearing?
Light pollution, pesticide use, habitat loss, and climate change.

🌱 How to help them?

• Reduce bright outdoor lighting

• Avoid pesticides

• Plant native greenery

• Keep small water sources like ponds

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A Little Light Before the Dark

A firefly’s glow doesn’t last forever. But maybe that’s the point.

The best things in life — the ones that stay with you — aren’t always the ones that last the longest. They’re the ones that arrive quietly, light up your world for a while, and then leave you smiling in the dark.

So if you ever see one, just stop. Watch it. And let it take you wherever it wants — whether that’s your own childhood verandah or, if you’re lucky, a treasure box hidden under a banyan tree.

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