The Art of Love Without Performance

In the mid-morning light, a Common myna flew above my head, shrieking.

- Neha Sinha

In the mid-morning light, a Common myna flew above my head, shrieking. Its beak was bright yellow and angled like a spear, intending to attack its cousin, a Brahminy myna. The reason for the avian commotion was an old, rusted pipe that stuck out from my building like a forgotten periscope.

Each year, around Mother’s Day, a Common myna pair claimed the pipe. A little later, as summer rose, they raised their brood. Each time they sensed their parents, the chicks would shriek with the abandon of a once-in-a-lifetime bounty—the rest of their lives would be spent with a quieter profile that didn’t attract attention. As chicks though, their ravenous hunger was their parent's problem. And ours. Their calls punctured mornings, noons and evenings.