Squirrels and Pigeons

This afternoon I basked in the park at Russell Square and watched as squirrels and pigeons made merry in their own idiosyncratic ways. There is a low hum that surrounds the park, that of automobiles grunting at idlers like me while encircling the park, but usually its quiet enough to hear the fountain, the dogs and the lady on the phone. I was lying on the grass, slightly wet, when I noticed the grey squirrel. It moves in such a staccato manner. You couldn't say if the squirrel was in such a hurry, as the white rabbit who was running late. The squirrel would always stop and ponder for a few seconds, before absolutely dashing off in the next few seconds. Like this nervous, frenetic worrywart who would dash off with the intention of doing something, and then stop and wonder why he was doing it. Like this capricious shopper, who just can't decide which top she wants, and who seems to like another as soon as she picks one. Like an obsessive professor who can't seem to get his mind off a math problem or puzzle, stops in the middle of whatever he is doing to quickly scribble something into his shabby pocket notebook.

Then I spotted the rather lackadaisical pigeon with its languid motion of the neck cocking to and fro to counter balance the movement of the body. It would careful tread on the grass like an arthritic lady, carrying a bag full of groceries to her monochromic and indistinguishable house abutting the park. Like the laconic man with bushy moustache, who hands you a gasping pen with his fat fingers at the entrance of a grey building, for you to sign his register, before slowly reaching out to hand you the visitor's pass. Time, this time, is an onlooker standing still. The pigeon has a poise and stateliness that is especially reassuring when it stands next to the squirrel. They are about the same height, two strangers waiting for bus numbers 68 and 188 respectively, ready to carry on with their respective lives in their own peculiar ways.