Have you ever been slapped by a pigeon? Me neither – but I think about it and dread about the day I decide to scare the lost-in-deep-thought-about-the-meaning-of-life-and-the-attainment-of-nirvana-after-squeezing-it’s-butt-through-the-invisible-corner-of-the-yellow-walls pigeon outside the window. I envision the pigeon to make a very theatrical exit like in the old Hindi movies where the actor would clutch his heart, shut his eyes, make a very demonstratively futile attempt to stand still, and finally fall on his knees before passing out gloriously on the floor as the blaring background music finally climaxes.

Alas, pigeons can’t fall on their knees. They can’t worry about terrorism. They can’t worry about the next Game of Thrones character set to die. They can’t feel sorry for Brad Pitt. They can’t stalk crushes on facebook and twitter. They can’t check their phone and realise their obsession with the smart phone and keep it aside and pick it up again in a matter of few seconds to check a notification which isn’t even there.

This is your cue to realize how, of all the crazy things you have earned your reputation for, you have a reason to feel jealous about the wishful pigeonness of things you could do. Like listening to music you can bob your head to all day long without complaining about the prodigal kink in the neck. Feel a zen-like balance when you put your foot down and balance yourself on that one foot all day long. And then because you feel stupid about the pose – stand, and if possible sit on the person next to you for no apparent reason. Shit, like no one’s watching. Ignore Arnab Goswami like a pro. Forget you can fly and walk on the highway instead. Enter the eerily silent, lonely corner of the neighbourhood to discover the lost land of golden grains and then abandon your plans and flutter away to a state of non-existence leaving behind a pile of grey feathers when a royal enfield thrums 10 miles away. Live in a corner and dream of owning a human as its pet.

They are rebels who dare to live the gangsta life – slapping and flapping their way into our lives by merely existing in otherwise seemingly non-existent window corners softly cooing the secret meanings of life to the balmy afternoon wind.