I’m always perplexed by how oblivious to nature so many people have become, which is not good, especially if you are a child — that period of life where you see, smell and hear the most. For me, that’s like being blind and deaf to your surroundings. In the last few weeks, I’ve been back in Goa and here’s a list of what I’ve seen and heard, with, mind you, not making any special effort to do so. All you need to do is keep your ears and eyes open. Before dawn, there’s the soft clopping ‘whup-whup’ calls of what I think are scops owls (a lovely sound to break the dawn’s silence), from the trees, quickly followed by the ringing alarm-clock cackle of that old resident, the white-throated kingfisher and then the hysterical shrieking of the koels. The magpie robin is on leave these days, quieter but occasionally letting forth the occasional irritated ‘chrr!’ The black-rumped flameback cackle gleefully from the tall coconut palm, while the paradise flycatcher continues to coyly play hide and seek, indicating its presence by its short, succinct ‘chttr!’ Hidden in the foliage the crow-pheasant lets out its ghoulish ‘coup-coup-call’, while the rufous tree-pie regales you with a series of dulcet, contralto notes. Out on the beach at low tide, the ocean sighs and hushes as the breakers tiredly expend themselves on the shore as if relieved to have reached their destination, and over this background, you hear the soft, gentle squeaks of a flock of sand (I think) plovers taking flight. The ocean roar becomes louder and more thunderous as the tide sweeps in, but is still a soothing background refrain. At dusk these days, the great fruit bats are out and about, with their whopping one-metre wingspans, and crash heavily into the flowering areca palm outside your bedroom window. For a second they thrash about among the leaves, then silently — and somewhat malevolently — make their way hand over fist as it were towards the blooms, where presumably they drink deep and then soundlessly take off again. Every day, the squirrels dash back and forth across the balcony awnings like commuters hurrying back and forth from work. Two nights ago, a whirring sound like that of a small motor, right behind my head, made me quickly get up from my chair to check: a pair of dragonflies had decided to do the ‘globe of death’ motorcycle stunt, inside and around a large lampshade in front of which I was sitting. I had never known that dragonflies too — like demented moths — could be so attracted to the bright lights, but there you have it. Alas, one of them didn’t quite make it, lying spreadeagled on the tiles the following morning. There’s so much to see as well. For the last two mornings, the first thing I noticed in the pool was a tiny mole shrew (which has poor vision) frantically swimming lengths: on both occasions, the silly fellow had to be rescued by the pool boy. A spindly elongated black spider, with legs like fine wire, lives under the aluminium pool railings — evidently, a successful ambush spot for it — because there was one like it exactly here during my last visit. In the mornings, floating about in the pool, a butterfly’s wing — burnt orange and bordered in black and white, evidence that the dragonflies have had good hunting just above it. It pours one night and the pool crinkles into a broken blue glass; on sunny mornings, the sun spangles it silver, edged with dancing rainbows. In August, we found three or four fat green caterpillars demolishing a curry patta plant in the garden. On another plant next to it, another fuzzy white one, like a caterpillar, dressed for a punk rock night, is one I still haven’t managed to identify. We took one of the green caterpillars, home — it had begun curling itself up to form a chrysalis, which it promptly did. And while I kept a hawk’s eye on it for the following 10 days, it decided to protect its privacy and escape its cocoon, in the half-hour I was in the pool one morning. It must have been a swallowtail of some type — there are several around, as is another species with drab brown wings, attractively etched when folded up, but revealing a fiery orange when they open. It was too drunk deep and long from the areca palm blooms. You look casually over the balcony and there gleaming among the broad heliconia leaves below, a six-spotted jewel beetle, squatting like a neon sumo-wrestler, defying all comers. On the beach again, you can’t help but notice the vast squadrons of dragonflies whirring to and fro, protecting their private air corridors, some even landing on the sand just beyond the expiring wavelets. On the sand, clusters of fingernail-sized cockles, gleaming pearl white and intricately ridged. It’s strange; a section of the beach will be empty and then just ahead, like a constellation of fallen stars, are shards of shells like broken pottery, scattered everywhere. The sand itself is ridged and patterned differently in different sections of the beach, indicating the artistry of wind, water and the pull and push of the tides. You look out at sea — a lovely deep blue this morning — and there speeding across far in the distance, a flock of snow-white birds winging swiftly across. By the time you whip your bins to your eyes, they’ve gone! A golden-orange dragonfly hovers in front of your face its wings rustling, distracting you again; as I mentioned so much to hear and see, without even trying!
