Mrs B has always been a busy bee from breakfast to bedtime—kids’ school, their coursework, husband’s tiffin, sabjiwalah, kaamwali, yoga, mom-in-law’s sugar check and medicines, phone-a-friend about niece’s wedding, nephew’s newborn, Facebook, Netflix dramas. Life was caught up in a monotonous whirr of chores and errands. No breaks. She never complained. C’est la vie, she would say. Well, until someone in China had a foul bat soup and didn’t take Mummyji’s after-dinner churan—the cure-all in the Delhi household Mrs B commandeers. Her busyness slowed down, like her husband’s business, since that skipped churan hustled the human race indoors. In this quarantined world, she has a little guest from a parallel realm that resides next to us; a sanctuary Mrs B hardly ever gave a sideways glance before. Every morning and late afternoon he drops by, without fail. He doesn’t need a travel pass, for he is a blithesome bulbul. After sundown, the guardian owl makes his nightly run, often bivouacing on her balcony. Mrs B never was a bird person. The caws and coos couldn’t be bothered when the washing machine’s ding and the pressure cooker’s whistle consumed her waking hours. But the clock is kind to her now and she can engage with Nature, which she thought didn’t exist in her concrete, gated society. She loves to entertain bulbul with chicku morsels. And be entertained herself. What about owly? His hoots and 360-degree neck turns are no longer overlooked.