The people of Delhi have inherited from their Mogul ancestors a love for pigeons. As you drive along the roads of Delhi you will see areas where people come to feed these pesky birds.

Hundreds of them flock to these feeding areas but many also try to roost on our balcony too. A daily task for me is to go round with a damp cloth and wipe pigeon poo off all the outside surfaces. Often as I reach the end of one stretch of marble balustrade there are two or three of our feathered friends toileting themselves again behind me. The job must be done though otherwise we’d have a guano pit all round our house.

The cultural divide was never so wide as in my attitude to these cooing creatures versus the attitude of my Indian colleagues. I arrived at work one day to find the door to the office closed. This was puzzling as the heat of the Delhi summer was still with us. I pushed the door open and people at once indicated that I should close it behind me. The explanation?

The previous day two pigeons had flown in. They had visited the office several times but this time a tragic fate awaited one of the pair of love doves. The whirling ceiling fan caught the female and spun it round in a haze of feathers and pink pigeon bits. The male flew out in a panic but was still seen for several days sitting forlorn and alone mourning its mate. He kept trying to come into the office to find her; so it was thought best to keep the door closed.

How long did he remain faithful? Well it seemed like he was there on his own for about two weeks and then suddenly there were a pair of pigeons sitting on the ledge again. Widower and new love or two completely different birds? Who knows? At least that was one pair not using my balcony as a toilet.

The banging of drums attracted me out on to the balcony. There was also the clanging of a hammer on metal. Bang bang bang clang clang clang. What’s going on today!

There on the newly concreted street below was a woman in a grubby saree hammering a metal stake into the ground. “What new piece of municipal vandalism is this?” I thought. Metal poles were erected and a rope across them like the base for a tent.

Another puja blocking the side street? The drumming continued and eventually all became clear when the dirty unkempt child of the banging clanging couple positioned herself on the rope about six feet in the air. She proceeded to walk along the rope stepping delicately along inside an old bicycle wheel. Balanced on her head were three metal spheres. Such grace and poise from a small grimy urchin.

The itinerant workers watched and may have donated the odd rupee. Within a matter of minutes the drumming stopped and the structure was dismantled leaving only a few holes in the new concrete. The family drifted off, the child carrying the basket filled with the wheel, rope and thin mat. Mum had her hammer and dad had the poles and the drum.

I went back to my spreadsheet development. There are a lot of people in India who are struggling and very little I can do. –