The Cat, the Snake, and a Memory from COVID Times

 

     The Cat, the Snake, and a Memory from 

                         COVID Times

                 Subtitle: A balcony morning, a farm flashback, and a standoff I still think about

During COVID, our world shrank to a few rooms—and suddenly small things became big stories. One morning on my balcony, a mother cat locked eyes with a snake. What happened next still lives in the rustle of those bushes.

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1) The Tiny World We Lived In

Early morning, before my kids woke up, I walked from my room to the hall. Just a few steps… and my mind went back to COVID times.

“OK! Don’t ask what new story I’m bringing now,” I told myself—because most of my stories begin before I start.

Back then, our world was small: bedroom → hall → balcony → kitchen. That was it.

Were those days good or bad? Health-wise, very tough. No one wants that again. But they also gave us silence, slow time, and a chance to notice things we used to miss. Metro cities went quiet. People went home. Villages came alive. And technology became our lifeline—work, school, life went virtual.

That bigger discussion is for another day. Today’s story is smaller—and closer.

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2) A Balcony Morning

One weekend I was busy with my balcony garden. In the base garden opposite, a mother cat lived with her kittens. She’d been around for more than two years. My wife and daughter adored her. She even slept on our swing chair sometimes.

Our apartment is a mini-biodiversity park—birds, cats, dogs, snakes, and sometimes a surprise monkey. Neighbours care for greenery and animals; someone even made a little couch for the cats.

That morning, the mother cat sat very still. Eyes fixed. Body tight.

At first, I thought she was watching a bird. But she didn’t blink.

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3) Eyes That Wouldn’t Blink

I followed her gaze.

Sunlight hit the bushes and something faintly shimmered.

A snake.

It was looking back with the same focus.

For a moment, time slowed.

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4) Flashback: Pepsi vs. the Snake

That sight pulled me back to my childhood farm—and to our dogs: Pinky, Pepsi, and Singiri.

Once, Pepsi—short, brown, friendly but fierce—got into a fight with a rat snake. We heard her unusual bark and ran. The snake coiled tight around her. Pepsi did not give up. She bit the tail first, then the neck. It was a long fight. In the end, Pepsi won and came back wagging, proud.

That day I learned: even a non-venomous snake fights hard to live; a loyal dog will fight harder to protect.

Please visit my other blog on Pinky "Where Are You Going, Pinky?"

Note: “Pepsi” here is the name of our childhood dog, not the soft drink. 🐾

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5) Back to the Balcony

Now I was watching a fresh standoff: mother cat vs. rat snake.

The cat sprang. The snake coiled. They circled, hissed, leapt. For a second the snake looped near the cat’s neck. My heart stopped. The cat held her ground.

The photographer in me woke up. I ran inside, grabbed my camera, clicked the blur of fur and scales.

And then… silence.

Leaves settled. A quick rustle. The snake slipped deeper into the bushes. The cat stood guard, tail twitching, eyes still glowing.

I waited.

Nothing.

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6) The Silence After the Rustle

Did the snake escape? Or was it waiting under the leaves for the next move?

I don’t know. I never saw it again.

Even now, when evening light hits those same bushes, I catch myself looking—just in case the story wants a different ending.

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7) What That Morning Taught Me

• Small things can be big wonders. In lockdown, a cat staring at a bush became a story I’ll never forget.

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• Territory matters. Whether cat, dog, or human—we rise when our space, family, or peace is threatened.

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• Survival is persistence. The snake was weaker, but it did not surrender. Strength isn’t everything; refusing to give up is.

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• Roots and belonging. Like Pepsi protecting us, like the mother cat holding her ground—COVID quietly reminded us to return to what matters: family, home, and nature.

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Sometimes, suspense is the lesson. Not knowing keeps us alert. Keeps us alive.

Closing Note

A balcony morning. A farm memory. A fight that still lives—not just in the bushes, but in my mind.

As the standoff unfolded, I did what I always do—the photographer in me took over, and I captured it all on camera. 👀📸

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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