I reside in an apartment nestled next to the bustling mangroves of Mumbai. The street leading to my building spans a mere 50 meters and ends in a cul-de-sac, leaving my residence isolated from the city’s commotion while still being amidst it.

Amidst the intriguing incidents that unfold in and around the mangroves of Versova, some stem from the vanishing allure of being one with nature. When I first moved into this apartment over a decade ago, I found it difficult to sleep peacefully for several nights. No, there are no ghosts lurking here, only something far more peculiar!

In 2009, my wife and I would be roused from our slumber each day at the early hour of 4:30 a.m. by the uproar emanating from the mangroves across the street. The avian inhabitants of the mangroves seemed to be early risers and enjoyed quite a raucous party at that hour! Every day, without fail, we would find ourselves wide awake, gazing at the mangroves, questioning our decision to settle in this place. We attempted various tricks to soundproof our ears and our apartment, but to no avail. The avian symphony would commence precisely at 4:30 a.m., except during the winter when it would begin around 5 a.m.

Throughout history, humankind has learned to endure that which cannot be resolved. Over time, what we endure becomes the new normal, thus resolving the issue. Armed with this wisdom, we decided to persevere day after day. We mutually agreed that aligning ourselves with the routine of our feathered neighbors and rising alongside them would be the best course of action. It was a truce born out of necessity, where one party accepted the terms of the other due to a lack of alternatives.

Under this truce, we soon made the necessary adjustments to our lifestyle. We requested our cook to arrive early and serve breakfast by 6 a.m. Her initial reaction was evident in the twitch of her eyebrows, the dilation of her eyes, and the downturned corners of her lips, yet she ultimately agreed. Many mornings thereafter, we rose at 4:30 a.m., engaged in yoga and stretching exercises, prepared ourselves for the day, and awaited the breaking dawn while perched on our balcony. True to her word, the cook would arrive by 5:30 a.m., serving us a piping hot breakfast at the stroke of six. Some time later, we even acquired a garden table and two chairs that adorned our balcony for years to come. We savored our breakfast amidst the live symphony of cacophony, which would crescendo before gradually fading away as the sun emerged around 7 a.m. The norm had been established, and everything was going smoothly until one fateful morning…

…when our cook vanished after a few weeks of dedicated service. While we could have prepared breakfast ourselves, there is a distinct difference between “making” breakfast and having it “served” to you. We yearned for our early morning meals. Over time, our natural inclination to endure led us to a solution. We had grown so accustomed to the uproarious alarm that we barely noticed it anymore. We had rendered it inconspicuous by becoming so habituated to its presence that it ceased to affect or disturb us. Visitors who stepped into our abode were amazed that we could slumber through the morning mayhem. Given enough time, they too would acclimate.

Now, here comes the bizarre part. Allow me to elaborate.

Remarkably, Sundays are devoid of cacophony. The birds, it seems, take a day off! On Sundays, they make an exception, and only a few isolated calls can be heard, sans the raucous symphony! The reason? I have yet to uncover.

In homage to the generosity bestowed upon us by our vibrant feathered friends in the mangroves every Sunday, I present to you a poem titled “The Sound of Sunday.”