“Twenty-five thousand rupees, sir,” the voice on the phone announced. “Actually, twenty-five thousand nine hundred, but I’ve given you a discount.”
The bill was for my Baleno, my trusty maroon hatchback, now seven years old.
Just last month, I took it on a longish drive. It climbed the steep hairpin bends of the Dhimmam ghats with a steady purr, trundled through the Satyamangalam forest—once the haunt of the vaunted bandit Veerappan—and held its own on Tamil Nadu’s highways at a respectable seventy to ninety kilometers per hour.
Closer home, in Bangalore’s nose-to-tail traffic, my car is my sanctuary of cool air and music, a buffer against the chaos outside. It’s a miracle it’s survived unscathed, dodging errant drivers for years.
Yellappa splashes water and hastily flings a towel over it whenever I emerge with my keys. “Ten minutes, Anna,” he says with professional courtesy. On days I’m home reading the paper and in no hurry to get anywhere, he cycles past my dusty car, resisting the urge to clean it.
Lately, though, my Baleno has started to creak and groan, much like its owner. The steering wheel moans on sharp rights. A faint rattle hums from the passenger window, vanishing when investigated. These quirks give it character, but they prompted me to commit the cardinal sin of handing it to the service center with a vague, “Please fix everything.”
The mechanic went to town on the car.
Over two days, I received photos of my car in various states of undress and dismantlement. “Brake pads are shot.” “Needs a buff and polish, sir.” Then: “Time to change the tires completely, sir.”
I braced myself for the bill, expecting to part with my meager savings. But it was worth it. Under the mango trees in front of my house, stands a gleaming maroon Baleno, now fitted with front and rear dashcams—a testament to my middle-class pride.
That day, I saw Yellappa cycling by, eyeing the polished car with suspicion and envy. The next morning, I was ready to ambush him again when I spotted something on a low branch under the mango blossoms: a Shikra.
Shikras rarely perch so low. This small raptor, with its sharp, hooked bill, blood-red eyes (yellow for females), and blue-gray wings, is nature’s hot-hatch. Compact and agile, it’s built for speed, diving with precision to snatch prey.
Spotting a perched Shikra is like stumbling across a parked Volkswagen Golf GTI—rare, sleek, and thrilling.
The Shikra darted from its perch, glided low, and banked sharply back to the branch with minimal fuss. Other birds—rock doves, crows—flap clumsily through similar maneuvers. Not the Shikra. It’s designed to zoom, grip, and vanish.
“Yellappa!” I yelled, running down the street, but he’d already cycled off. “Anna, did you call? I didn’t hear!” he’ll claim later. His standard evasion technique.
I turned back to the Shikra, but the branch was empty. I’d need sharper reflexes to track raptors and keep my car clean, I realized. This wasn’t like watching mynahs or coucals—the Shikra was a smooth operator, rare and elusive.
Mira flung her school bag at me as we stepped outside, debating why a Shikra would hunt so early. Then we heard desperate fluttering from the water canal under the mango tree. Peering down, we saw an injured white-cheeked barbet, its left wing broken, crawling beneath stone slabs. The Shikra’s target.
I’m never prepared for these encounters. Last June, at my in-laws’ farm near Mysore for Mira’s birthday, I spotted another Shikra. After a heavy lunch, while everyone lounged in a food coma, I saw a blue-brown blur streak from a coconut tree. The chickens were on high alert, the rooster strutting, the hens shielding their brood. Shikras are notorious for snatching chicks from under farmers’ noses. In Malayalam, they’re called Prappidiyan. In Tamil, Vairi. Farmers—and likely other birds—despise them.
Parked outside the farmhouse were sensible cars: my Baleno, a Grand Vitara, a Honda BR-V, a Tata Curvv, and a Volkswagen Taigun. But the Shikra makes me think of the Volkswagen Golf. I drive a Baleno because I’m a salaryman who takes pride in keeping it pristine. If I had more cash—and less sense—I’d be tempted by a Golf. Reviews rave about its nimble handling, how it roars to life with a tap of the pedal, and is an engineering marvel.
The Shikra isn’t endangered, but owning one is illegal in India, a nod to its falconry past. Similarly, the Volkswagen Golf is a rare sight, restricted by tariffs to a mere 200 units a year.
Personally, I am all for this exclusivity. Some birds and cars should be rare sightings. Unlike the painful ordeals that the beautiful VW Golf endures on Indian roads, the brisk Shikra rules the open skies, zipping, zooming, and diving – to its own and its viewer’s delight.
Whenever I feel too staid and want to add a little devilry into my life, I look for a Shikra and fantasize, “Someday I will!’
The Reluctant Book Worm 
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