The busy crossing in front of the National College of Arts, Lahore, has been named Istanbul Chowk. It comprises a roundabout for which my colleague, Prof Atif Khan, was commissioned to build a ‘bird house.’ He made it with tiny boxes in which no bird is naïve enough to nestle. A large platform accommodates Zamzama, or roar of a lion, also called Kim’s Gun, the biggest gun of the time that took part in the third battle of Panipat in 1757. It is here that the biggest number of pigeons gather to feast on millet and lentils dropped by the citizens, while Prof Woolner’s statue cast in bronze looks on.

It reminds me of the pigeons that I feasted on during my long sojourn in Istanbul. This city can boast of the largest gatherings of birds in the world. Thus, Lahore and Istanbul can be said to be twin cities. Pigeons in beautiful shades of grey, in various hues and highlights in bluish tints, animated by taking off and fluttering suddenly at whim. Then a whole group would take round of the locality resembling a whirlwind and more of them landing. They were all over the city, especially in the open area in front of Istanbul University. (The pigeons in London’s Trafalgar Square are much smaller in number.) They like to perch over the domes of the adjoining mosque of Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent, or Qanuni (the law-giver), as the Turks call him. Sultan Ahmet’s Blue Mosque with its six minarets was particularly revered by them by offering constant aerial salutes. Caretakers of these monuments were never pleased to see these creatures invading the architectural features. For them these were rats with wings that caused much damage to the stone masonry and wooden elements through their acidic droppings. All wooden elements were covered with nails to prevent the birds from landing and residing there.

Pigeons are just the unavoidable, self-proclaimed citizens of Istanbul. They were to be found everywhere, even in my neighbourhood. Merrily, they would fly past my window while I helplessly watched that rich source of ‘protein.’ They would not enter the window that I kept open for them.

This flying menace could be controlled by harvesting them, I thought. But Turks had no liking for it. I devised a method to catch them. I placed a mirror and some feed for them inside my room. The birds, seeing their own images in the mirror, entered my room and began feasting while I gently pulled the string that closed the window. Some eleven of them caught on the first day created such a fluttering noise that I had to slaughter them all.

A bird once caught cannot be released because it would alert its companions. Two birds for breakfast and more for subsequent meals would be too much. Guvercin is the name for a pigeon in Turkish, buldercin is for a dove. Later, I treated my Turkish friends and colleagues with buldercins, a very expensive dish in restaurants.

Disposing of the feathers and other body parts was another big problem because of the stray cats found everywhere in the city. I had to pack these in some newspaper in those pre-shopper days and dump it in the Gezi Park while going to Istanbul Technical University. On my way back, I would find it all ripped open and the contents scattered around while a big motley gathering wondered as to whose doing it was. I too was obliged to join the bewildered crowd.

Back home, I overheard an old neighbour telling her friend how kind this stranger residing in the upper floor was. He even feeds the birds every morning, she said. “Helaal olsun” was her remark; it meant, “May your good deeds be accepted.” “Her gun helaal,” (Halal, every day) I replied. They thought that this stranger (myself) still had to learn the Turkish language.

Then, as I returned to my flat one evening, I heard someone tap lightly on my window pane. As I opened the room window, a brown pigeon with big feathers over its ankles landed inside. Feeding it with some crumbs of leftover bread, I allowed it to perch over the arm of my sofa. The following morning, as I was going to my university, I let it fly away. I had no heart to slaughter it because out of so many hundreds of thousands of houses, it had chosen to land only outside my window.

It was a special breed, domesticated type, different from the ones found by the million.

When I returned in the evening, he was again perched on the sill of my window, except that this time it was shivering in the cold. I opened the window for him, he just glided in and walked over the wooden floor and climbed over to the same sofa covered with some droppings of his from the previous night. He looked towards me as if asking for his feed. Again, he had to be content with some leftover crumbs. I marvelled at his ability to find out my house again.

The previous evening he had landed maybe only by chance. But this time he was confident enough to locate me. Pigeons carrying mail is a different story altogether. He had come specifically for me. When he turned up again for the third evening, he behaved more like a family member, exploring every corner of my humble dwelling and found himself a cozy corner so as not to soil my sofa with his droppings. After eating the leftover crumbs, casting a sleepy look at me he seemed to bid me a good night’s sleep. I too switched off the light and retired to the next room so as not to disturb his nocturnal dreaming.

Now I had a pet for a companion coming every evening and flying away the next morning. I brought for him choicest of feeds from the covered bazaar from the Byzantine era. I no more ogled the stray pigeons that I previously used to catch. Pets they say keep you mentally alert and happy. This winged pet amused me with its acrobatics and light singing. He moved around and even climbed over my books and papers but was cautious not to soil those with his droppings.

Every morning he would fly away and return towards the evening, come rain or snowfall. I contemplated finding and buying a mate for it even though I could not figure out its sex. One evening while I was away with my friends for a happy hour, not being able to find me to open the window for him, he must have tried to find refuge in the attic. The next morning, wondering if my friend had lost his way in the labyrinthine cityscape, as I descended the winding wooden stairs, I saw brown feathers strewn all over.

(This dispatch is dedicated to Prof Atif Khan)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk