[Middle: Times of India: April 28, 1995]

Now the days grow longer, with golden dawns and crimson sunsets, with Spring in the air and in the pedestrians’ footsteps. Winter yet possesses a weapon. His final kick will be hard, the ancients murmur: yet, hearing the incredible tumult of sparrows each morning and seeing, at dusk, great formations of parrots winging their way northwards, it seems hard to believe.

Till one remembers Ruknuddin.

Never wrong in his weather predictions, Ruknuddin has yet to make his appearance. And that means, Spring is not yet come.

A quiet and unassuming fellow, Ruknuddin is nevertheless firm in his principles and will, when pushed to the wall, fight tooth and nail to defend his rights. He is essentially an outdoor person, and lists rock-climbing among his favourite pursuits. His scaly hide would put most public sector employees to shame; but no lounge-lizard is he! His ancestors ruled the earth for a hundred million years—and that, even on the geological scale, is a long time.

Ruknuddin now hibernates, deep within the stormwater pipe that leads from the terrace to the ground four storeys beneath. It must be pleasant in there…quiet, cool, with just a glimmer of light filtering in through the narrow vents above and below. For these past three months he has dreamed, sheltered from the biting winds of cruel Winter—though what, after all, would he care for cold! He, whose genes carry memory of the Ice Ages, of the great glaciers of yester-eon.

But there will soon come a day when Ruknuddin will awake, and stretch his cramped limbs, and wave his 18-inch tail about languidly. And presently he will glide up the drain, his taloned feet finding effortless purchase on the stone, and peer out through the iron grating at the broken-tiled expanse of the terrace.

And Ruknuddin will smile as he beholds the blazing sunlight; for he knows the time has come for him to break his fast. And while possessed of neither fork nor knife, he will carry in him a tremendous appetite, whetted by his fourteen-week-long penance; and there before him, the table is laid.

The service is simple, as befits an individual of his austerity—a flattish ceramic bowl filled with fresh water, resting on a stone flower pot. To this limpid pool come, each day, the sparrows, pigeons, mynahs, crows, transitory parrots, squirrels, and even the occasional kite and eagle. Ruknuddin will wait in silence while six sparrows finish their ritual immersions. Shy by nature, he is uncomfortable in the midst of strangers; and besides, he far prefers to arrive at lunch unannounced.

But hark! Five sparrows flutter  their wings, converse earnestly, and shoot off towards a neighbouring tree. Now the sixth is alone. It looks about, is reassured by the stillness of the landscape, and dips its little head into the pool for a final sip. A brown blur of movement, a flash of glistening scale, a millisecond-long glimpse of a rearing snakes-head…and then the sparrow is gone and Ruknuddin’s tail is vanishing down the stormwater drain.

For a while the golden sun will shine benignly upon the terrace; and soon, the sparrows will return to their pool to drink and frolic—but now there will be a new watchfulness about them. For they, too, will know that with the coming of Ruknuddin, Spring has returned.