Under an Undecided Sky

Last Sunday, my wife and I wandered around Hoskote Lake, our own little French studio for the morning. She found the beauty, I captured the moment, and nature painted the rest.

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A soft shimmer stopped us. On closer look, eggs. Leaf beetle, most likely. So deliberate, they looked more placed than laid.

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We didn’t see it at first. Just a ripple in the leaves. Then it moved. Still as sculpture, the mantis watched us with monk-like calm, folded in focus.

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She noticed it before I did. This quiet lady beetle tracing the bamboo with careful steps. We watched together, saying nothing, just following her rhythm.

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A bloom like a blush. Mimosa pudica, the touch-me-not waiting for the world to get too close.

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Touch-me-not, they say. But no one told the jewel bugs, who found each other anyway, right there on the blushing stem.

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We saw a plain tiger butterfly. Wings aglow with the orange of old marigolds, white spots like stories kept for winter. Tattered edges told of travels and brushes with the world, yet it moved with unhurried grace, unburdened by imperfection.

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We followed quietly, careful not to disturb this wandering survivor. Each landing was gentle, almost reverent. Its torn wing trembled, but the butterfly paused anyway, gathering nectar and strength for the next flight.

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And then, the show-stealer, a Green Metallic Sweat Bee. Dressed in emerald, it wobbled across the wild cowpea bloom like it owned the place. It zipped in, dipped deep, pollen stuck everywhere like confetti after a parade.

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Even after the bloom fades and the world moves on, some embraces linger. This tendril never learned to let go and maybe, just maybe, it never wanted to.

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Excuse us.

Private moment happening here. Beetles don’t do dinner and a movie. Just brunch on bamboo and straight to the point.

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Hovering near a bamboo leaf, barely visible at first. We paused to watch an ichneumon wasp because something that precise deserved to be seen.

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It settled for a second, legs barely touching the surface. As if even rest was a calculation.

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We watched quietly as it adjusted its stance, its antennae tracing invisible signals in the air.

For a moment, it stood as still as we did, three creatures, none in a hurry.

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We paused for the customary photo. The camera perched awkwardly on a boulder, its timer blinking.

Behind us, the lake stretched out quietly.

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Ahead, the path curved back toward city sounds.

But for now, it was just us, under an undecided sky. The perfect kind of stillness.

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On our way back, the lilies held us still. One stood alone, serene in its purple bloom. 

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Nearby, a pair floated side by side, lilac and pink, like quiet companions sharing secrets across the water.

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Hoskote doesn’t try to impress, and that’s exactly why it does. If something in this post stayed with you, I’d love to hear it. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

The Colour Beneath the Clouds

The monsoon skies over Saul Kere last weekend were a soft, uninterrupted grey, like the first gentle wash on a watercolour canvas. Light was scarce, shadows were gentle, and everything seemed dipped in a dreamy hush. But the birds had other plans.

With every flutter and flash of colour, they turned the scene into a living painting. Blues, greens, rusts, and golds danced through the drizzle, making the dullest day come alive with vivid strokes of nature’s palette.

Here’s a glimpse of that moody, magical morning.

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The view that greeted me as I stepped onto the trail was classic monsoon Saul Kere: lush green wetlands under a soft overcast sky. Everything looked washed, refreshed, and brimming with life, even if the colours were held gently under a layer of grey. It was the perfect kind of morning where birds blend into the landscape until they don’t.

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Perched patiently on a low branch, this Indian Pond Heron looked almost sculpted into the scene. Typical of pond herons, it relied on stillness for stealth, waiting for just the right moment to strike or slip away unnoticed.

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Just the long neck and dagger-like bill of this Oriental Darter broke the surface, everything else was stealthily submerged. Often called the "snakebird" for obvious reasons, it glided through the water with barely a ripple, scanning for fish. 

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Just inside the curtain of reeds, a white-breasted waterhen stood alert in its crisp black, white and chestnut plumage. 

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Not far behind, its chick stepped cautiously through the duckweed. The chick was clearly still learning how to balance curiosity with caution. 

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Perched quietly on a bare branch, this Spotted Dove looked every bit the monsoon morning mood. Fluffed up, motionless and mildly disapproving of the chill, it sat wrapped in its speckled shawl.

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Always alert always ready. One moment perched with quiet intent, the next cutting through the air like a blade. The Black Drongo does not wait for drama, it writes it.

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No audience. No stage. Just a lone branch and an Oriental Magpie Robin with a morning song waiting to happen.

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And then, a blur of blue.

A blur of blue and intent. The White-throated Kingfisher launched into the air, focused and fast with breakfast on its mind.

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It came back victorious, a grasshopper gripped tight in its beak. One dive, one strike, no second chances needed.

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One toss, one gulp. The catch disappeared, and the kingfisher was ready to begin again.

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The rose-ringed parakeets erupted into the air with a flurry of motion and unmistakable chatter, their bright calls cutting through the quiet morning.

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One called from the hollow, the other circled in. Whether it was courtship or conversation, only the parakeets knew but the sky was briefly theirs.

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One peeked in. The other hung upside down to get a better look. Nest inspection or aerial mischief, the Rose-ringed Parakeets made it look effortless.

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The red-vented bulbul, crest up and eyes sharp, paused just long enough in the leafy maze before vanishing into green again. Always busy, always just out of reach.

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An Indian palm squirrel caught mid step, as if it suddenly remembered something urgent.

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Caught mid-scamper scaling a tree with agile grace.

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Among the ever-present residents, the Jungle Babbler moved in its characteristic fashion across the damp earth. Often seen in small, chattering groups, these 'seven sisters,' as they are sometimes called, are a familiar sight and sound in the Indian landscape. 

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A striking signature spider, with its bold yellow and black, patiently awaited its next meal, hiding behind its signature like a cleverly woven disguise.

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Even the tiny residents seemed to relish the monsoon's touch! This Ditch Jewel Dragonfly found its perfect perch, happy to let the gentle rain adorn its wings and the grass blade.

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The final sighting of the morning was this black drongo, motionless on a bare, bone-thin branch. Its inky silhouette stood out like the last brushstroke on a misty canvas.

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The light never really improved, and by 9:30 am, I called it a day. But even under that flat, persistent grey, the birds had done what they always do—filled the frame with colour, motion, and moments worth remembering. The canvas may have been subdued, but the brushstrokes were anything but.

Thanks for coming along. Let me know your favourite moment in the comments!