Where Wild Meets Home

Most kingdoms have gates. Ours has a gap in the fence that opens into a wild, sunlit hill—and four mongooses who pop their heads in each morning, looking for me, their unlikely mom, food in hand. Yes, I am a mom to four beautiful children, three boys and a girl. Max, the eldest, has grown up and ventures into the world by himself. I rarely see him. Jeremy and Coco like their independence but when it is chow time, they are there, on the dot. As for my youngest and only daughter Millie, she’s still scared and shy of strangers. Over time, she has warmed up by closing the distance between us. There are days when she’s brave like her siblings and comes closer without hesitation.

They weren’t always this bold. When they first appeared, they were wary shadows darting through the tall grass—wild, twitchy, and unsure. I never imagined that over months of quiet observation and daily offerings of food, we would come to share something rare: trust without taming. In a world where fear often defines human-animal encounters, these four little beings remind me that coexistence doesn’t need to be loud or forced. Sometimes, it just needs patience—and respect.

Our garden offers them shelter — a haven with tall trees and damp grass to rub their bellies on. Millie entertains herself by hopping around, playing with whatever catches her eye: a drifting leaf, Cinnamon the squirrel perched on the Neem tree, or the birds who scold her by pecking on her back if she disturbs them. She loves digging too — tiny paws ransacking the neatly laid-out soil around the plants, her little head popping up between the shrubs. What a joy they are to watch.

They head home by about four or five in the evening. That’s when the other visitors arrive, sniffing out the last crumbs left behind by the mongooses. Their food bowl becomes a community bowl, shared by a variety of birds and the neighborhood cat who drops by often.

Unexpected Neighbors: The Other Backyard Visitors

It’s never quiet in this backyard kingdom. After the mongooses have had their fill and retreated into the tall grass, the second shift begins. The bulbuls arrive first, hopping around the now-empty food bowl with the urgency of latecomers at a buffet. They’re noisy, cheerful, and utterly unbothered by the watchful eyes of the humans who watch them eat with great enthusiasm.

Then there’s Crowbie, the crafty crow who has perfected the art of backyard mischief. He doesn’t wait his turn—he sneaks up behind Coco and gives his tail a quick, cheeky peck. This game of tag plays out almost every afternoon, with Coco tolerating it for a few minutes before whipping around in frustration to chase him off. But Crowbie is persistent. He never gives up until he gets his share of the food. He’s a regular now, and he seems to know I won’t shoo him away. In his sly way, he’s earned his seat at the table. Coco, however, will stare at me from a distance. Angry that I’m not chasing the crow. But he waits patiently, knowing that crowbie with this small beak, won’t eat much. And sure enough, he gets his food back.

Occasionally, the neighborhood cat slinks in like a velvet ghost. She acts like she owns the place—tail high, gaze unimpressed. She’s stubborn too. If Coco takes too long to show up, she helps herself to the entire plate of food, licking it clean with zero guilt. I don’t like her very much. She’s the only one who doesn’t seem to respect the unspoken rules of this backyard kingdom. But I let her be. After all, even trespassers have their place in wild tales.

And then there are the snakes.

Yes—snakes. Beautiful, silent, and deeply misunderstood. They don’t come often, but when they do, it’s a reminder that this is still their land too. There has been a regular rat snake that comes to quench his thirst. I’ve decided to call him Rex. He had graced us with his presence three times in the last month alone but seems to have found a new home and has disappeared once again.

I’ve learned not to panic. The snakes don’t want trouble. They glide through like whispers—elegant, efficient, and gone before you fully register they were there. Coexisting with creatures that many fear has taught me a new kind of calm. Wild isn’t always dangerous; sometimes, it’s just different.

Meet Rex!

That’s not all, folks! Did I tell you about the time a sunbird and her husband—whom I affectionately call Lucy and Cregg—visited our terrace not once, but six times to build a home and raise

their babies? The first two times, they chose our lemon tree. It felt like a safe place, tucked behind thorny leaves. But little did they know, disaster would strike, and they’d lose their nest.

After that, Cregg took charge, carefully surveying the area for a safer spot. The very next morning, I was surprised to see Lucy, all by herself, starting to build a new home—on our clothes rack. What a pleasure it was to watch her. All day, she worked—gathering twigs, weaving with purpose. Over three to four days, she built with full concentration and tireless effort. I even left a small piece of cotton for her to use in the interiors, which she neatly lined up in her new nest.

I stood by for hours, phone in hand, still as a statue, watching her. And then it was ready: a cozy little nest, gently hanging. She wasn’t scared of us. She would return after a long day, curl up inside, and slowly close her small eyes.

Lucy and Cregg welcomed two babies. Both parents took charge of feeding them. Cregg, with his shiny, shimmering blue feathers, was always close by—ready to protect his family with everything he had. It was soon time to say goodbye, the babies had grown up and off they went, taking on the big blue sky!

Lucy, feeding her baby on the lemon tree

Trust: A Two-Way Street

The true magic of this backyard isn’t just in the sightings—it’s in the space we’ve built together, however unintentionally. The animals don’t just visit for food. They come

because this patch of land honors their pace. There are no cages here. No expectations. Just an open invitation. A cool green grass, tall trees that are home to many birds, and the hill kissing the house just behind.

They’ve made me more aware. I notice things I didn’t before. We’re so wrapped up in our busy lives that many of us don’t stop to see the beauty that’s right in front of us. Recently, I lost my job. Yes, I was angry—angry at the people I once thought were friends. But I have something many people only dream of: a backyard full of happy children—my animals and birds. Over the last few months, we’ve grown to like each other, to not be scared at the sight of one another, but instead to look forward to the mornings when they come for breakfast, eyes searching for me, and looking longingly when there’s no plate of food.

The look they give me when I don’t lay their food out. (Coco & Millie)

It’s a relationship of equals, as wild and delicate as Millie’s first approach—the way she steps closer and closer to me and then scurries away, unsure but brave.

Their Kingdom: The Extended Family

I could go on and on, describing the many other visitors—like the parrots who come for the bajri, or the little bird that sits on my windowsill and knocks, surprised when she gets a response from the other side. Then we have the Bharadwaj brothers—Ray and Ruben—who spend their days waddling around the garden as they own it.

There’s the occasional dove and the seasonal kingfishers—Patrick and Patrishia—who swoop down to the water lily ponds. The fantail bird doesn’t seem too fond of Millie (my mongoose daughter) and often pecks at her with such force that she bolts away in a panic.

Then there are a variety of smaller birds, having their daily pool party at the water stand we’ve kept for them—splashing, chattering, and chasing one another like toddlers at recess. And now, our newest guests: a kestrel and a heron. They sit quietly in the lily pond, partially submerged, the heron helping himself to the guppies. Oh, how I love them all. I feel blessed and deeply grateful for a life that feels like heaven!

Their Kingdom, Our Lesson

We often think of wild animals as ‘others’—outsiders to be managed, fenced off, or kept at a distance. But I’ve learned that wildness isn’t something to be controlled. It’s something to be respected. The mongooses, the birds, the snakes—they don’t need us to fix or tame them. They just need space. And in offering them that, I’ve found more peace than I ever expected from a simple backyard.

So, yes, this is their kingdom. But if you sit still long enough, watch gently enough, and open your heart just a little, you might just be allowed to stay awhile.

(Note: All the photos are shot on a smartphone by me).

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