Shut up Cuckoo!

Kathmandu night, rain has just

stopped. Unreasonably early

pre-monsoon, making things wet

when they should be dry. Which

makes the local koel feel like

bursting forth into song. Bird, do

you realise it is two in the

morning? And the hard-working

people of Paton would like a bit

of a respite from your koho koho

questioning? You have all

morning, midday and evening to

practise, so why do you disturb

the whole tole at this hour of

deep slumber? Your call has sent

poets of all cultures into

rhapsodies, but tonight all you

succeed at is preventing sleep.

As you keep at it from the

eucalyptus bough just outside my

window, I am unable to recollect

gurgling brooks, daffodils,

secluded grottos, or wide open

skies. The only association I can

draw to your koho koho is the

poop poop poop of rice mills in

the hills. They attach whistles in

the exhaust to alert surrounding

villages that husking is in

progress. I have no rice to husk

today, cuckoo. Don’t sing into

my window. At least, turn the

other way.