My apartment is on the fifth floor. High enough to touch the sky, low enough that I can still hear the earth’s noises. Three sides open—south, east, west. And that openness has become my little theater. On one side, I get the first crack of light, spilling into the rooms like liquid gold. From the other, I see the sun dissolve into orange dust, rooftops glowing as if they’ve caught fire. Honestly, in a city like this, not many people get to enjoy such a view. I know I’ve been lucky.

This all started in 2008. Seventeen years ago.

I didn’t call it an “affair” back then. It was just me tossing a handful of grains for the pigeons that loitered near my balcony. That’s all. A small act, not even thought through. But things escalated pretty quickly. One pigeon became two. Two became four. And before I knew it, the balcony had turned into a stage. Wings rehearsing dramas, beaks clattering, hunger answered by offering.

The pigeons, timid little diplomats of the bird world, hovered at the railing. Their necks shimmered greens and purples when the sun hit just right. Pacing in those short jerky steps, heads bobbing as if making calculations: Is it safe? How close can we get? 

But hunger, like trust, erases distance. They edged closer and closer until the line just vanished. One day, they weren’t just at the railing anymore. They were inside. On the sofas, the tables, and even the bookshelf where my stories sat in silence. They waited like old friends, expectant, sure that they belonged.

Of course, the pigeons didn’t keep the monopoly for long.

The common mynahs showed up after a few weeks—dark eyes, sharp bills, yellow patches glowing like slivers of sun. They were louder. Bolder. And soon after came their cousins, the Javan mynahs, with their rich, glossy plumage like dusk woven into silk. They didn’t feel like strangers. More like heirs to a tradition, as if they knew exactly what to do here.

They started waking me every morning. Their voices threaded into my dreams until I had no choice but to surface.

Gradually, they became my natural alarm clocks, relentless and punctual.

If I dared keep the windows shut, the mynahs pecked at the glass, impatient: Wake up. It’s morning. We’re here. Where’s breakfast? 

And what could I do but answer?

With time, the cast grew. Chestnut-tailed starlings, smaller than the rest, came in pairs. Their whistles, churring, and clicks nothing like the others. Brave little things, too. The boldest of the lot, honestly. They’d swoop right in and snatch food from my hand, their beaks brushing my skin like delicate pins that somehow missed their marks.

Then the rufous treepies made their entrance. No way to miss it. First came the metallic calls, slicing through the morning air. Then the flash of plumage—cinnamon, black, white, tails swaying like pendulums. They carried themselves with flair and flamboyance, like they knew they were rare. Pigeons, mynahs, starlings—they were routine. But the treepies? They were sudden sparks. Guests who made a racket, left, and stayed in memory long after.

Not every morning was peace and song. Some days, the balcony was an arena. Rivalries flaring, pigeons shoving against mynahs, starlings darting like bullets, the treepies screaming their dissatisfaction. Gang wars, I called them. Chaotic, feathers flying, claws stretched. Yet no one got hurt. Just survival. A balance hidden inside the noise.

In the evenings, the west dissolved into amber, and the same birds grew quiet. They perched, tucking beaks under wings. Their wars paused, cries hushed.

Of course, there were costs. The birds grew bolder, stepped deeper inside, and left their signatures everywhere. Droppings on sandals, on the floor, on books, even on the bed. Mess shadowing beauty. My mother lost patience often, scolding me for turning the house into a rookery.

But habits win. Years softened her too. The birds became part of the rhythm of family life—their untidiness inseparable from their presence, like two sides of one coin.

Seasons changed, years peeled away like feathers molting. Whole generations of birds passed through here. Parents brought their chicks to the balconies and windows, teaching them the ritual: here’s food, here’s safety, here’s the strange human who belongs to us. I watched them grow and return, season after season. Entire dynasties of wings.

Seventeen years and counting. That’s nearly two decades. For many of them, a lifetime. And yet the affair shows no signs of slowing down.

There’s something humbling about being a constant in their small, fast-moving lives. For them, time is light and hunger, instinct, and flight. No clocks, no calendars. Yet somehow, I have become a landmark for them.

Whenever I come back after being away for a few days, they don’t hesitate. They see me before I see them. They flock to the railing, the ledge, voices raised in complaint: Where were you? We waited. You owe us.

So I scatter food every morning. Some days it feels like worship. Other days, like companionship. And sometimes, yes, like a debt I’ll never fully repay. They remind me that love doesn’t only exist between humans. It can hide in rituals, in offerings of grain, in the sound of wings beating close by.

Seventeen years of wings. Seventeen years of noise and beauty and droppings. An affair without promises, and still unbroken.

I don’t know why I started. Or why I never stopped. Maybe it’s the joy of being chosen. Maybe it’s the comfort of continuity, knowing that even as my life bends and twists into new shapes, the birds are there, unchanged in their arrival.

Their beauty, their mess, their songs, their alarms — inseparable. To me, the droppings are signatures, the calls both alarm and music.

They are inconvenient, chaotic, unforgettable. And they have become an inseparable part of my life.

This is my avian affair.