In the solitary, quiet months of the first lockdown, my closest companion was a tree. That jungle jalebi tree danced outside my window all the 16 years I lived in this flat. But it had lived here much longer of course. Because it spanned the windows of two rooms, it often felt like living in a tree house. Through daydreaming hours I watched rain droplets shimmy and shimmer on its svelte leaves. Its fronds would grow through the grill like fingers and I could reach out and pluck its spongy, red jalebi-shaped fruit—if the birds left any. That tree was always full of birds. Phlegmatic crows glistened in the morning sun. 

Dozens of sparrows, busy, like cartoon housekeepers. Parrots would swing upside down, or whoosh past like arrows in mythological dramas. Golden orioles, dapper with their slick black stripe, could be spied through the web of dark green, their distinctive trill bouncing off the leaves. Red-eyed koyals drove me cuckoo with their metallic calls before dawn. Once I saw a white-throated kingfisher.