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

Among 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 struggled to sleep peacefully for several nights. No, there were no ghosts haunting this place—only something far more peculiar!

Back in 2009, my wife and I would be roused from our slumber each day at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. by an uproar emanating from the mangroves across the street. The avian inhabitants of the mangroves were early risers, and their raucous dawn chorus was relentless! Every morning, without fail, we found ourselves wide awake, staring at the trees, questioning our decision to settle here. We tried every trick to soundproof our ears and our apartment, but nothing worked. The avian symphony would commence precisely at 4:30 a.m., except during winter when it mercifully began around 5:30 a.m.

Throughout history, humankind has learned to endure what cannot be changed. Over time, what we endure becomes the new normal, thus resolving the issue. Armed with this wisdom, we decided to persevere. Aligning ourselves with our feathered neighbors’ routine seemed the only logical choice. It was a truce born out of necessity—one in which we accepted the terms simply because we had no alternative.

Under this unspoken agreement, we made the necessary adjustments to our lifestyle. We requested our cook to arrive early and serve breakfast by 6 a.m. Her reaction was evident—arched eyebrows, widened eyes, lips slightly pursed—but she ultimately agreed. Many mornings thereafter, we woke at 4:30 a.m., engaged in yoga and stretching, prepared for the day, and awaited dawn on our balcony. True to her word, our cook arrived by 5:30 a.m., serving us a piping-hot breakfast at the stroke of six. Eventually, we even acquired a garden table and chairs for our balcony, where we savored our morning meal amid the live symphony of cacophony, which would crescendo before gradually fading as the sun emerged around 7 a.m. Life had found its rhythm. Everything was going smoothly—until one fateful morning.

Our cook vanished after weeks of dedicated service. While we could have prepared breakfast ourselves, there’s an undeniable difference between making breakfast and having it served. We missed our early morning ritual. But, as with all things, we adapted. The deafening alarm of nature that once startled us now barely registered. We had grown so accustomed to it that it became background noise, unnoticed and undisturbing. Visitors, however, were amazed that we could slumber through such morning mayhem. Given time, they too acclimated.

Now comes the truly bizarre part.

Remarkably, Sundays are devoid of this cacophony. The birds, it seems, take a day off! On Sundays, they break their routine, with only a few scattered calls echoing through the silence. The reason? I have yet to uncover.

In homage to the unexpected generosity of our vibrant feathered friends every Sunday, I present to you a poem titled The Sound of Sunday.