In all probability, pigeons were put on this planet to remind migrants how exactly they behave in public. Full of pomposity. Full of lust. Full of pirouette. Full of oneself. Full of homelessness. And oh yea, full of shit. But your perception about them changes the moment they decide to build a nest in your gallery on the very pot which once housed a suicidal rose plant. Although it takes two to build a home, you see a pair of pigeons basically doing none of the hardwork sparrows put into their shabby abode. These pigeons in our story barely move a twig. As if Mr. Pigeon is saying "Fuhget it, just lay those goddamn eggs into that dry carpet of grass there. It's warm enough." To which the Mrs. Pigeon retorts, "True that, love," before proceeding to spread her legs...well..contour for that final push. Boom! Out comes three eggs. In related news, Mrs P ain't getting laid anytime soon. This rule doesn't apply to Mr P though. From the very first day itself, it becomes apparent that she's a far better dedicated parent. The poor lady, however, took some time to realise that Mr P has ditched her. He's not coming back. Let's hope he got caught in an orgy instead of some electrical short circuit. So she has to hatch on her own every once in a while leaving her fruits of labour exposed to the crows. As misfortune would have it, she returns one afternoon to witness an egg missing. We can guess who did it but being weak in math, she remains ignorant. Being an arithmetically-challenged single mother had never proved more blissful. As we speak, she's on duty protecting her would-be-kids from invisible harm. My camera being one of them.