Knock knock! Who’s there?

It was a hot July afternoon, and Delhi felt like an oven. I went to the balcony, hoping to encounter something that could pass off as a breeze. I sipped my cold coffee and looked around me: The trees were still. The parking lots were empty. A few brave people were out on the streets. I could only see shades of brown — from tortilla and tawny to dust — and it all looked dismal to me.

A barren tree stood next to my balcony. It had been green and full of life some months earlier, and then had suddenly started shedding leaves. I scanned the horizon for something that promised joy. And then, unexpectedly, I heard a flutter of wings and a pecking sound.

It was a woodpecker! It bobbed its red head, perched on the leafless tree. Head bent, it jabbed at the trunk, as if trying to dig out mysterious tales from the tree. I stood enthralled, observing the keenness, balance, precision and determination with which it carried on pecking at the tree.

And then the door-bell rang.

My day suddenly became unusual. I shared the story about the new visitor with my little one when she returned from school. The seven-year-old ran excitedly to the balcony, but there was no sign of the bird.

The woodpecker was back the next day though. My daughter saw the bird, a streak-throated woodpecker, and we called it Woody. We also decided to create a nature journal. Saturday mornings were devoted to the journal.

Woody visited our tree almost every day. It would bob its head as it pecked, stopping once in a while to look around, as if waiting for a friend. Watching Woody helped us connect with nature intuitively. By experiencing the slanted rays of sun, the quality of the evening light, the coolness of the mornings, purple skies or fragrances of blooms, we unconsciously became aware of the elusive obvious.

One cold day in gloomy December triggered a craving for some hot and spicy rasam. A zesty aroma filled the kitchen as I stirred the sizzling rasam, dancing with curry leaves and crackling mustard seeds and asafoetida. Sipping rasam, I felt the icy but invigorating breeze on my face as I stood on the balcony. But it was too cold for Woody to visit.

The colours of the sky were mesmerising. It was not just blue or red; there were enthralling shades beyond our imagination. We started exploring words to describe the hues — ranging from the burnt golden brown of a pumpkin to tangerine, carrot orange and bronze, and the silver blue of mountain mist or shimmering traces of turquoise.

The tints of dawn and dusk were tan or sunlit corn. From canary and daffodil yellow to deep gold, the colours spattered the sky. Some days the sky had apricot, squash, honey or marmalade touches. There was the orange of fire, and of clay. The night sky was a sequin-studded stole in midnight blue. When overcast it was silver, smoky and flint or purple-flecked grey.

We grasped the unheard and unnoticed natural sounds. The pitter-patter of the rain — such a miserly description — was one day a downpour, another day a drizzle or shower, and sometimes a song with a distinct melody of lyrical resonance. Raindrops from the branches glided down delicately, resembling the sound of anklets on the feet of a toddler taking his first unsure and then bold steps. Sometimes the rain was like an impatient and uninvited visitor, demanding that it be allowed to enter the house.

Our wind encounters were glorious. A puff brushed past us, a waft wandered by, the zephyr was musical, a flurry was always in a hurry, while unrestrained gales, squalls and windstorms were riotous.

Nature enriched our life in remarkable ways. Patience, concentration, observation and introspection became a part of our daily life.

One day, in a sprinting gale, our tree gave up and fell at midnight with a loud thud. I rushed into the balcony. There it lay, having abandoned all hope. With a heavy heart, I came inside.

By the time my daughter came back from school, the tree was being gathered to be taken away. She looked up and saw me on the balcony. She came in running. Silently, we cried for all that the tree had been for us.

Did Woody come again? Yes, it did. It circled and flew away, bewildered. It visited us for a few days and then stopped.

In Native North American wisdom, a woodpecker is considered a messenger from the other world and a prophet. Our Woody was just that.

Today, when the wind whistles, a bird pecks and a colour palette gets spilled in the sky, we smile. Somewhere, our tree and Woody understand.

Nupur Roopa is a Delhi-based freelance writer

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